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.•.■*AJv 






Scribner's Magazine 

Edward Livermore Burlingame, 

Robert Bridges, Alfred Dashiell, Harlan Logan 



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o 



SCRIBNER'S 
MAGAZINE 

PUBLISHED MONTHLY 
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



VOLUME Ln 
JUIY-DECEMBER- 




CHARLES SCRIW^ERS S(3iS NEW^TORK 

Gn«ABl£ &OOMRWY UMniD U)ND(» 



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Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



±"78229 



• • •."• 



• • •• • 




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CONTENTS 



OP 



SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 

Volume LII July^December, 1912 



PAGE 

AMERICANS AND THEIR PLAYS. Point of View 761 

AMERICAN LANDSCAPE. SUBJECTS FOR THE 

PAINTER IN (Birge Harrison). Field of Art 766 

ANDRRSON VICTOR C ^ ^'** Business Centre 340 

ANDERSON. VICTOR C. \ j^ chHstmos Dream, Facing page 760 

ANDREWS. MARY R. S. The Scarlet Ibis 204 

ANGEL UNAWARES. AN Gerald Chittenden. ... 751 

lUustrationB by Armand Both. 

ANONYMOUS LETTERS. A PLEA FOR. Point of View 249 

ARCTIC MOUNTAINEERING BY A flY^MAN. • ••• Dora Keen 64 

Mount Blackburn. s^ * " ' ^ *• 

lUustrationa from photographs by the author. 

ARMY POST. THE. Point of View 250 

AS TO HAVING AN "AIR." Point of View 380 

ASHLEY. CLIFFORD W. The Old Clipper 618 

ATTERBURY. GROSVENOR. Model Toums in AmeHca 20 

BASHPORD. H. H. His Own Country 553 

BELLOC LOWNDES. MRS. Why They Afarried 733 

BENEPIELD. BARRY. The Little Colonel of Lost Hill 93 

BLACKBURN. MOUNT. S^-f Arctic Mountaineering. 

BLOOD WILL TELL Richard Harding Davis. . 130 

Illustrations by Wallace Morgan. 

BOURGEOIS FAMILY. STANDARDS OF A Elizabeth Shepley Ser- 

A Fbencrwoman's Lessons to American Girls. qeant. 98 

BRINTON. CHRISTIAN. Scandinavian Painters of To-day, 647 

BROWN. ALICE. 1 ^(l! L'.^',^ f T''^ ^ 

( The Mid-Victorian 706 

BROWN. KATHARINE HOLLAND. "Crabbed Age and 

Youth," 108 

BUSINESS CENTRE. THE. Drawing by Victor C. Anderson. ... 340 



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iv CONTENTS 

PAOB 

CHAIRMAN OF THE MEETING, THE Fbudbrick Landis. ... 500 

CHASE. SIDNEY M. Sailormen of the Maine Coast 193 

CHITTENDEN, GERALD. An Angel Unatoares 761 

CHRISTMAS DREAM, A. Drawing by Victob C. ANDEBaoN, 

Reproduced in color. Facing page 760 

CITY AND CIVILIZATION. THE Bband Whitlock 623 

CLIPPER. THE OLD. Drawn by Clipfobd W. Abhlst. . . . 618 

COLLEGE LIFE Paul vak Dyke 619 

A WoBD TO Fathers Who Hayb Not Been to 
College, but Whose Sons Want to Go. 

COLLIER. PRICE. Oermany and the Germans from an 

American Point of View, . . . 513. 662 

COLVIN. SIR SIDNEY. Slevensoniana 593 

CONVENTIONS AT CHICAGO, THE TWO, .... Richard Harding Davis, . 259 
Illustrations by Wallace Morgan. 

COUNTERSIGN OF THE CRADLE. THE Henry van Dyke 469 

"CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH." Katharine Holland Bbown 108 

Illustrations by Alonzo Kimball. 

CROSSING THE STREET. ON. Point of View 636 

DASH. THE. Point of View. 122 

I Blood Will Tell 130 

DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING. < The Two Conventions 

( at Chicago 259 

DICKENS'S CHILDREN. Drawings by Jessie Willcox Smith, . . 160 

Reproduced in colors. 

DUNN, SAMUEL O. The Problem of the Modern Terminal 416 

EFFECTUAL FERVENT PRAYER, THE Henry van Dyke 165 

Illustration by Paul Julien Meylan. 

FAMILY AND THE PANAMA CANAL, THE, . . . Mary Gay Humphreys, . . 370 

FIELD OF ART. THE. 

French, Daniel C. Some Later Work of (William 

Walton), 637 

Jarves Collection of Italian Pictures In the Galleries 
of the Yale Art School, The (Anne C. Bunner). 
lUustrated 263 

Landscape, American, Subjects for the Painter in 

(Birge Harrison). lUustrated 705 

Painter-Etching, American: A Revival (Frank Wei- 

tenkampf). Illustrated 381 

Teaching of Art in the Public Schools. The Musuem 

and the (Kenyon Cox). . . 124 

TwoWaysof Patathig (KenyonCox). Illustrated 509 

FINLEY. JOHN. The French in the Heart of America 293. 453. 579 

FOREIGN FINERY. OF. Pofait of View 252 

FOSTER. WILLIAM HARNDEN. The On-Shore Oale Facing page 513 

FOX. JR.. JOHN. The Heart of the Hills 53.181,341.492.570.697 

FRENCH, DANIEL C. SOME LATER WORK OF. Field 

of Art William Walton 637 



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CONTENTS V 

PAGE 

FRENCH IN THE HEART OP AMERICA, THE. . . John Pinl»t. 
niustrated. 

I.— IN THE WAKE OP THE "GRIPPIN," , . . 293 

II.— "THE RIVER COLBERT," 453 

III.— IN THE TRAILS OP THE COUREURS 

DE BOIS 679 

FBOEBELIZINO OUR MORALS. Point of View 635 

GALSWORTHY, JOHN. That Old-Time Place 191 

GARDEN CITIES OP ENGLAND. THE Pruderic C. Howb. ... 1 

niustrated. 

GERMANY AND THE GERMANS PROM AN AMERI- 
CAN POINT OP VIEW Price Collier. 

Author of "England and'the 
English IVom an Ameri- 
can Point of View." 

I.— THE INDISCREET 513 

With a reproduction of the portrait of the Em- . 
peror William 11 by P. A. Laszlo. 

II.— GERMAN POLITICAL PARTIES^ AND 

THE PRESS. . . .' 662 

GREY. ELMER. The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast, 36 

HACIENDA. THE Molly Elliot Sea well, . . 443 

Illustrations by David Robinson. 

HEART OP THE HILLS. THE John Pox. Jr.. 

Chapters XI-XXX. {To be continued.) 53. 181. 341. 492. 570. 697 

Illustrations by P. C. Yohn. 

HILU MARION. In the Wake of William Tell 221 

HIS OWN COUNTRY H. H. Bashford 553 

Illustrations by Charles E. Chambers. 

HORNUNG. E. W. The Locked Room 349 

HOWE. PREDERIC C. The Garden Cities of England 1 

HUARD. PRANCES WILSON. Parisian Cafis 629 

HUMPHREYS. MARY GAY. The Family and the Panama 

Canal, 370 

IN THE WAKE OP WILLIAM TELL, Marion Hill 221 

Illustrations by Worth Brehm. 

JARVES COLLECTION OP ITALIAN PICTURES IN 
THE GALLERIES OP THE YALE ART SCHOOL 

(Anne C. Bunner). Pield of Art. 253 

Illustrated. 

KEEN. DORA. Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman ... 64 

KINROSS. ALBERT. The Winged Hussar 677 

LANDIS. PRBDERICK. The Chairman of the Meeting 500 

LANG. ANDREW. Point of View 505 

LAST FRONTIER. THE E. Alexander Powell. . . 325 

niustratloDs f^om photographs. 

UTTLE COLONEL OP LOST HILL. THE Barry Benefield 93 

Illustration by E. L. Blumenschein. 

LODGE. HENRY CABOT. Some Early Memories, . 309, 474. 541 



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vi CONTENTS 

PAOB 

MAIDSTONE, A WOMAN OF Robert Shacklkton, . . . 116 

MEMORIES. SOME EARLY.— I. 11, III Hknrt Cabot Lodob, 309. 474. 541 

{To be continued.) Senator from Massachusetto. 

MEREDITH. GEORGE. LETTERS OF Georqb Mbredith. 145.275,385 

MII>-VICTORIAN. THE Alice Brown 706 

Illustrations by F. Graham Coot«6. 

MODEL TOWNS IN AMERICA Grobvenor Atterbdbt. . . 20 

Illustrated from photographs, and with a drawing by 
Jules Gu6Hn and diagrams and plans by Mr. Atter> 
bury. 

MOOSE HUNTER, THE. Drawing by N. C. Wteth. Facing pagt 468 

A Moonlight Night. 
Reproduced in colors. 

MOUNTAINEERING. See Keen, Dora. 

MUSEUM. THE. AND THE TEACHING OF ART IN 
THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS (Kenyon Cox). Field 
of Art ^ 124 

NORTH COUNTRY. STORIES OF THE. See SjTion. Mary. 

ON-SHORE GALE. THE. Drawing by William Harnden Foster. 

Reproduced in colors. Facing page 513 

PACIFIC COAST. THE NEW SUBURB OF THE. . . Elmeb Gbbt 36 

Illustrated. 

PAGE. THOMAS NELSON. The Stable of the Inn 641 

PAINTER-ETCHING. AMERICAN: A REVIVAL (Frank 

Weitenkampf). Field of Art 381 

Illustrated. 

PANAMA CANAL. See FamUy and the. 

PARISIAN CAFfes Frances Wilson Huard. . 529 

Illustrated with four drawings in colors and reproduc- 
tions ftom the Sketch Book of Maud Squires. 

POINT OF VIEW. THE. 

Americans and Their Playv. 761. Lang. Andrew. 505. 

Anonymous Letters. A Plea for. 249. Reading-Books. In the Old. 762 

Army Post. The. 250. Rhig Symbolism, 607. 

As to Having an " Air." 380. Rings. A Collection of. 506. 

Crossing the Street. On. 636. Sword and Ploughshare. 378. 

Dash. The. 122. Welcome Home I 6.34. 

Foreign Finery. Of. 252. What Every Housewife Knows. 121. 

Froebelizing Our Morals. 635. 

POWELL. E. ALEXANDER. The Last Frontier 325 

READING-BOOKS. IN THE OLD. PoUit of View 762 

RICHARDSON, W. SYMMES. The Terminal— The Gate 

of the City 401 

RING SYMBOLISM. PoUit of View 507 

RINGS, A COLLECTION OF. Point of View 506 

SAFE AND SANE FOURTH OF JULY. A. Drawing by Allen Trie.*. Faring page 80 
Reproduced in tints. 

SAILORMEN OF THE MAINE COAST Sidnkv M. Chakk 193 

Illustrations by the author. 



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CONTENTS vii 

PAQE 

SCANDINAVIAN PAINTERS OP TO-DAY Christian Brinton. ... 647 

Illustrated with reproductions of paintings by contem- 
porary Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian artists. 

SCARLET IBIS. THE Mary R. S. Andrews. . . 204 

Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin. 

SBAWELL. MOLLY ELLIOT. The Hacienda 443 

Standards of a 
Bourgeois Family 
SERGEANT, ELIZABETH 8HEPLEY. —A Frenchwom- 
an's Lessons to 
American Girls 98 

SHACKLETON, ROBERT. A Woman of Maidstone 115 

SIX SONS OP OSSIAN Mary Synon 81 

A Story of the North Country. 
Illustration by N. C. Wyeth. 

SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR. A Young Man's Fancy 721 

SMITH. JESSIE WILLCOX. Dickens's Children 160 

STABLE OP THE INN, THE Thomas Nelson Page, . . 641 

Illustrations by N. C. Wyeth, reproduced in colors. 

8TEVENSONIANA. Sir Sidney Colvin, . . . 693 

SUBURB. THE NEW. 

THE GARDEN CITIES OP ENGLAND, . . . Frederic C. Howe. ... 1 
Illustrated. 

MODEL TOWNS IN AMERICA Grosvbnor Atterbury. . . 20 

Illustrated from photographs, and with a draw- 
ing by Jules Gudrin and diagrams and plans 
by Mr. Atterbury. 

THE NEW SUBURB OP THE PACIFIC COAST. Elmer Grey 36 

lUustrated. 

SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE. Pohit of View. . 378 

SYNON. MARY. Six Sons of Ossian 81 

(See also Vol. LI.) 

TERMINAL. THE MODERN. 

THE TERMINAL— THE GATE OP THE CITY, . W. Symmes Richardson, . . 401 
Illustrations fh>m photographs. 

THE PROBLEM OP THE MODERN TERMINAL. Samuel O. Dunn 416 

Illustrations trom photographs and drawings by 
ThomUm Oaldey. 

THANKSGIVING MATIN4e. THE Virginia Tracy 607 

Illustrations by P. Graham Cootes. 

THAT OLD-TIME PLACE John Galsworthy, . . . 191 

TBACY. VIRGINIA. The Thanksgiving Maiinte 607 

TRIAL AT RAVELLO, THE Alice Brown 231 

Illustrations by Fred Pegram. 

TRUE. ALLEN. A Safe and Sane Fourth of July Facing page 80 

TWO WAYS OF PAINTING (Kenyon Cox). Field of Art 509 

niusta^ted. 

C The Effectual Fervent Prayer 166 

VAN DYKE, HENRY. < The Wedding-Ring 361 

( The Countersign of the Cradle 469 

VAN DYKE. PAUL. College Life 619 

WEDDING-RING. THE Henry van Dyke, .... 361 

Illustrations by Charles S. Chapman. 

WELCOME HOMEI! Pohit of View 634 

WHAT EVERY HOUSEWIFE KNOWS. Pohit of View 121 



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vui CONTENTS 

PAQB 

WHITLOCK. BRAND. The City and Civilization 623 

WHY THEY MARRIED. Mas. Belloc Lowndks, . . 733 

Illustration by Frod Pegram. 

WINGED HUSSAR, THE Albert Kinross 677 

lUufitrations by W. T. Benda. 

WITCHING HILL STORIES E. W. Hornung 349 

VI. — The Locked Room. 
CSff also Vol. LI.) 

WYETH, N. O. The Moose Hunter— A Moonlight Night Facing page 468 

YOUNG MAN'S FANCY, A Gordon Arthur Smith, . . 721 

Ilkistrations by Alonzo Kimball. 



POETRY 

PAGE 

ALASKAN CATHEDRAL, AN John Warren Harper. . . 274 

BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL G. E. Woodbbrrt. ... 246 

COWARD. THE. Sonnet, . .* William Hervet Woods. . 192 

CRUISING IN AUGUST M. A. DeWolfb Howe. . . 289 

Pictures by W. J. Aylward. reproduced in colors. 

DRAGONFLIES Madison Cawein 91 

EARLY DIVE, THE Alice Blaine Damrosch, . 324 

BMBARKMENT FOR CYTHERA. THE Thomas Walsh 144 

FOG WRAITHS Mildred Howblls. . . . 462 

Illustration by G. A. Sliiploy. 

FORGOTTEN SOUL, THE Margaret Widdbmer, . . 661 

HUMORESQUE Antoinette De Courset 

Patterson 633 

IN THE MANSION YARD William Hebvey Woods. . 120 

LAST FAVOR, A Martha G. D. Bianchi. . . 190 

LAST LABOR, THE Arthur Davison Fickb. . . 527 

LEAVES GIVE THANKS. THE Georgia Wood Pangborn. . 400 

MAKE-BELIEVE Rosamund Marriott Wat- 
son 129 

MASTER BEGGAR. THE Edith Rickbbt 504 

MOONLIGHT Frank Dempster Sherman, 592 

With an illustration by Victor C. Anderson. 

MOTHER, THE John Hall Whbelock, . . 172 

OLD NIAGARA, THE. A Ballad Arthur Guiterman, ... 173 

Drawings by John Wolcott Adams. 

PICTURE, A, Alice E. Allen, .... 540 

With an iUustration by Oliver Herford. 

REST Maxwell Struthers Burt, 491 

RIDDLE, THE Charles F. Lummis. ... 107 

SEEKER IN THE NIGHT. A Florence Earle Coatbb, . 360 

SONG Sara Teasdale 339 

THREE SONGS IN A GARDEN Thbodosia Garrison, ... 695 

Illustration by F. Walter Taylor. 

TITANIC, THE. Three Poems. . Corinne Roosevelt Robin- 
son 308 

TO LITTLE REN^E William Aspenwall Bbad- 

let 158 



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Iha-i'r: hy Jnli's Ciicnfi 

SlAlloN ^(Jl■AKl, iuKL.^1 1111. l.s eiAkl'l \>, In\(; I>1 \M. 

-" M...lcl lowiib in AuiLi.. a," \K 



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ScRiBNER's Magazine 



VOL. LII 



JULY, 1912 



•ND. 1 



THE GARDEN CITIES OF ENGLAND 
By Frederic C. Howe 




ELATED transit facilities 
made the city what it is. 
The 'bus, horse-car, electric 
trolley, and suburban train 
failed to keep pace with ur- 
ban growth. Men had to 
live near their work. The city grew in 
the only direction open to it. toward the 
heavens. It assumed a perpendicular in- 
stead of a horizontal form. Inadequate 
transit intensified high land values. Bad 
means of transit and high land values made 
the slum. The city would have been a very 
different thing had transportation permitted 
it. It would have spread over a wide. area. 
Transit has begun to catch up with the 
city. It has opened up the country. In 
consequence the city is again being trans- 
formed: in this country by the suburban 
communities which encircle it; in Belgium 
by the sale of cheap workingmen's tickets 
on state-owned railroad lines which enable 
the workingman to travel twenty-four miles 
for two cents and live on the farms and in 
the far outlying villages. 

In England improved transit has given 
birth to the garden suburb. It has made 
possible the garden city. This is England's 
latest, possibly her greatest, contribution to 
the city problem, to the housing of the 
workingman, the clerk, and the moderately 
well-to-do classes of the great cities. The 
discovery came none too soon. For the 
city is sapping the vitality of Great Britain. 
In that country four people out of five live 
under urban conditions. And statesmen 
and reformers have stood aghast at the de- 
cay in the physical and moral fibre of the 
nation, due to the disease-breeding condi- 
tion of the tenements and slums. London, 
Liverpool, Glasgow, Sheffield, all the large 



cities of Great Britain, have vainly strug- 
gled with the housing problem. They have 
built mimicipal dwellings, have tried to con- 
trol private tenements, but the inrush of 
people swamped their most ambitious ef- 
forts. 

The garden city made its appearance 
about eight years ago. It marks the begin- 
ning of a change in the industrial, social, 
and domestic relations of society. It means 
that cities are to be rebuilt, that civiliza- 
tion is to change its forms, that the city of 
the future will be a far different thing from 
what it is to-day. It will occupy a ver>' \side 
area. It will be beautiful, healthy, com- 
fortable. It will urbanize the country. This 
in turn will ruralize the city. 

The garden city, too, is a shifting of em- 
phasis from property to people, from the 
individual to the community. The motive 
which inspires it is the maximum of com- 
fort, convenience, and happiness at the 
minimum of financial and personal cost. 
It marks a widening of community rights 
and an enlargement of communit>' ser- 
vices. It means the building of the city by 
the city itself, from the foundations up- 
ward and from centre to circumference. 

The garden-city idea has developed with 
great rapidity. It has not yet solved the 
city problem, nor has it stamped out the 
slum. It has shown how this can be done 
however. And that is the first step to the 
solution of the problem. Birmingham is 
planning a suburb of three thousand seven 
hundred acres. Manchester has offered 
prizes for the best plans for developing a 
large oudying area and the building of cot- 
tages to rent from seven and one-half to 
ten dollars a month. Forty architects and 
landscape gardeners submitteil plans to this 



Copyright, 191a, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. 



Vol. LII 



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The Garden Cities of England 



compeddohff Suburban-building and gar- 
den-vi^Si^ projects are being carried out at 
Romfofd^'a suburb of London, at York, 
livefp^, Bristol, Hull, Rochdale, Ilford, 
Hai^lne, Ealing, Earlsworth, and else- 
jyhere*. These projects are being pro- 
mbled by cities, co-operative companies, 
/aqtfprivate individuals. They have been 
•\*4(iade possible by the success of the garden 
-'•;J|jfty and the enactment of a national town- 
** ••planning law in 1909, [which empowers 
*/•** local authorities to develop the territory 
•/ surrounding a dty as a comprehensive 
whole. The helplessness of the English 
cities, baffled for years by the tenement 
problem, by high disease and mortality 
rates and increasing poor taxes, has been 
changed to hope and enthusiasm. In a 
few years' time a score of public and semi- 
public garden developments have sprung 
up in various parts of the country. Most 
of these undertakings are tributary to a 
city. But all of them mark an abandon- 
ment of the barrack-like tenements and 
monotonous cottages of a few years ago 
and the substitution of beautifully planned 
suburbs, designed by landscape artists, out 
in the country where land is cheap and gen- 
erous provision for health, recreation, and 
beauty is possible. For the housing of a 
people is a land as well as a transportation 
problem. A recognition of these economic 
foundations underlies all of the new hous- 
ing projects. 

The garden communities of Letchworth, 
Hampstead, Boumville, and Port Sunlight 
have demonstrated that clean, wholesome, 
comfortable cottages are possible for every- 
body and at the very low rent of from five 
dollars a month upward. They have de- 
monstrated too that life is lengthened, the 
death and infant mortality rate is reduced, 
and labor is more efficient in these open-air 
communities than in the cities, and that 
working people gladly follow their employ- 
ers to these more attractive surr(nmdings. 

In the building of garden villages three 
things are recognized as fundamental: one, 
the purchase of a large area of low-priced 
agricultural land in advance of any devel- 
opment; two, the permanent control of the 
whole area, as well as of streets, open spaces, 
and building regulations by the corporation 
or the city; and three, the reservation by the 
commimity, through the private corpora- 
tion promoting the enterprise, of the in- 



creasing land values which the building of 
the community creates. The garden dty 
is in effect its own ground landlord. In- 
directly it is a house-builder and house- 
owner. It operates through a private cor- 
poration which owns the land, pledged by 
its charter to limit its dividends to five per 
cent on the capital actually invested, and 
to use the speculative increase of land val- 
ues for the conununity. 

These are the physical foundations of the 
garden dty. To these are added, where 
necessary, the adjustment of transit to 
near-by cities so that rapid commimication 
will be possible, as well as the ownership or 
a close working arrangement with the water, 
gas, and dectridty supply. These form the 
plumbing of the dty. They are essential 
to the life, comfort, and convenience of the 
people and the promotion of industry. 

The main difference between the ordi- 
nary dty and the garden dty is this: the 
former is left to the unrestrained license of 
speculators, builders, owners, to a constant 
conflict of public and private interests; the 
latter treats the community as a imit, with 
rights superior to those of any of its indi- 
vidual members. One is a dty of imre- 
lated, and for the most part imcontrolled, 
private property rights; the other is a com- 
mimity intelligentiy planned and harmoni- 
ously adjusted, with the emphasis always on 
the rights to the conununity rather than on 
the rights of the individual property owner. 

There are three types of garden cities: 
one, the self-contained industrial conununi- 
ty like Letchworth ; two, the garden suburb, 
like Hampstead; and three, the factory vil- 
lage built about a manuf actimng plant by 
some large employer. Port Sunlight and 
Boumville are the best examples of the lat- 
ter. All have the same underlying features 
of control by some superior community au- 
thority. 

The idea originated with Mr. Ebenezer 
Howard, who published a book on garden 
dties in 1898 entitled "To-Morrow." 
From this dream the garden dty took form, 
and finally, in 1903, Letchworth was incor- 
porated. It differs from the other garden 
dties in being an independent dty with a 
complete municipal life of its own. It is 
an industrial dty like Gary, Ind., with all 
the functions and activities of a self-con- 
tained community. And just as Gary was 
built by the United States Steel Corporation 



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The Garden Cities of England 



as a convenient place for the making of iron 
and steel products, just as it was planned in 
detail with reference to water and rail trans- 
portation, with provision for the needs of 
mills and furnaces, so Letchworth was 
planned as the home of all kinds of in- 
dustries, with provision for the needs of 
workingmen, so that they would be healthy, 
and in consequence, efficient, so that well- 
to-do people would want to live there, so 
that manufacturers would find cheap build- 
ing sites with cheap light, power, water, 
and fuel. Unlike Gary, Letchworth was 
planned for all its people, for the factory- 
worker as well as the factory-owner; for 
dividends in human health and happiness 
as well as on property. There was this 
difference, however. In Gary all the land 
values created by the city went to the pro- 
moters of the dty. In Letchworth they 
go to the city itself. 

Letchworth lies thirty-four miles to the 
north-west of London. It is but fifty min- 
utes from the dty by train. It was pro- 
moted by a private corporation, like any 
other land company. Shares of stock were 
sold, but with the provision that the returns 
of shareholders should be limited to five 
per cent on the capital outlay. Three 
thousand dght hundred and eighteen acres 
of farming land were acquired, of which 
one thousand two hundred acres were laid 
out as a town. The remaining two thou- 
sand six himdred acres are for small agri- 
cultural holdings. 

The entire area of Letchworth was 
planned by expert architects and land- 
scape artists. It was designed as L' Enfant 
planned Washington before a house was 
erected or a road was built. It was planned 
as German dties lay out thdr suburbs, as 
Louis XIV and Napoleon III planned the 
outskirts of Paris. The railway stadon 
opens into a plaza which opens again into a 
broad roadway, with the town square and 
dty hall in the distance. Shops, hotels, 
churches, and clubs are located near the 
dty^s centre on streets planned for the pur- 
pose. Out from the town square broad 
roadways radiate each with a vista of the 
public buildings. 

Factories are located by the railway 
tracks. They are distant from the residen- 
tial area and are shut off from the rest of the 
town by the contour of the grotmd. They 
are located away from the direction of pre- 



vailing winds so that the dust and smoke 
will be carried away from the dty, while gas 
and electricity are furnished at such a low 
cost as almost to dispense with coal as a 
fuel. Electridty for power is sold at a flat 
rate of three cents per unit and at two cents 
after the first hundred hours of maximum 
demand has been reached. The price for 
light is sixteen cents per imit for the first 
hundred hours and three cents thereafter. 
Gas is sold for domestic purposes at sev- 
enty-two cents per thousand cubic feet, and 
for fuel at from sixty-six to forty-eight cents, 
according to the amoimt used. 

Manufacturers are lured to Letchworth 
by cheap land. Factory sites are leased 
rather than sold, the leases running for 
ninety-nine or nine himdred and ninety- 
nine years and at from fifty dollars a year 
per acre upward. This enables one-story 
factories to be erected with ample light. 
The annual groimd rent for factories in Lon- 
don frequentiy amounts to five thousand 
dollars an acre, with taxes amounting to 
from thirty to fifty per cent of the annual 
assessed value of the factory. Four thou- 
sand dollars a year ground rent per acre is 
moderate in London, while in some sections 
it rises to twenty-five thousand dollars a 
year. Here is an economic motive of the 
most potent kind to attract manufacturers 
to Letchworth. In four years' time thirty 
acres have been built upon by factories, 
many of which have been brought from 
London. The industries established are 
for the most part printing and publishing, 
the manufacture of hardware tools and 
agricultural implements. There are some 
potteries and engineering contractors. 

Letchworth has grown with great rapid- 
ity. In seven years' time the population has 
increased from four hundred to seven thou- 
sand. There are fifty shops and over twelve 
hundred houses, with hotels, clubs, churches, 
banks, etc. Many persons have adopted 
Letchworth as a retired place of residence, 
while a few conunute back and forth to 
London each day. Rents are cheap, while 
houses include die charm and beauty of a 
country estate. 

Town-planners \mite in treating the 
streets as fundamental to proper dty build- 
ing. And the roadways of Letchworth 
(there are no streets) are comfortable, 
tree-lined, and of the greatest variety. Open 
spaces greet one at intervals. Not as arti- 



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4 



The Garden Cities of England 



fidal afterthoughts, but as perfectly natural 
places of rest, recreation, and play. Many 
of the cottage streets are narrow. They are 
not designed for traffic; they are planned 
rather for quiet, retired living. There is gen- 
erous provision for play. There is a golf 
course of sixty-nine acres and half a dozen 
greens, suggestive of the village greens of old. 
There are tennis-courts, cricket-fields and 
commodioxis sites for school-houses. There 
is an open-air swimming-pool, while or- 
chestras, choral societies, dramatic and de- 
bating societies have been formed. 

Building restrictions are imposed by the 
corporation on the style of houses that may 
be erected. Their distance from the street 
is also fixed. This is not done arbitrarily; 
there is no real interference with personal 
liberty. But each house must conform to 
the whole. It must harmonize with its sur- 
roimdings, must be an integral part of the 
town rather than architecturally at war with 
it. This protects property instead of in- 
juring it. It prevents the intrusion of alien 
business, the erection of barracks or mo- 
notonous speculative houses designed only 
for sale or rent. There can be no slums 
or overcrowding in Letch worth, for the 
maximum number of houses is limited to 
twelve to the acre, while the larger houses 
have from one-half to two and one-half acres 
about them. In the industrial cities houses 
are built thirty, forty, and even fifty to the 
acre. 

Surrounding the to\^Ti are two thousand 
six himdred acres of land owned by the 
corporation, to be rented for truck garden- 
ing, poultry and fruit farms, and agricul- 
tural purposes. This, as the builders say, 
is "a limg around the town." It will serve 
to keep down the cost of living; it will offer 
small farms to those who desire them. 
This is the only conscious attempt by any 
of the garden cities to co-ordinate rural life 
and agriculture with the city. 

Provision is made for workingmen's 
houses, which are erected by the corpora- 
tion or by co-operative tenant societies. 
These cottages, which are wonderfully artis- 
tic, rent at from $4.64 to $10 a month. 
Each cottage has a garden and is supplied 
with plumbing and other conveniences. 
They are far different from the working- 
men's cottages of the industrial city, far 
different even from the model dwellings 
erected by the municipal authorities. It is 



amazing how cheaply and how well people 
can be housed where land is cheap and con- 
struction work is done at wholesale by per- 
sons interested in good workmanship and 
the building of homes rather than in specu- 
lation. 

So rapid has been the growth of Letch - 
worth that men are now dreaming of the 
possibility of a tax-free city, the expenses 
of the town to be paid out of the increasing 
value of the land. The land cost but two 
hundred dollars an acre, or seven hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars for the total 
estate. In seven years the value of the 
land has increased by one million one hun- 
dred and forty thousand dollars. And 
after deducting the cost of road building, 
water plant, sewers, and all other capital 
expeniitures, there is still an unearned in- 
crement of six hundred and sixty thousand, 
dollars, and only a small part of the land is 
developed. This increase does not go to 
the corporation, it does not go to private 
stockholders at all ; it goes to the community 
for the reduction of rates or the promotion 
of various conununity undertakings. 

Hampstead Garden Suburb, another gar- 
den city, is not an industrial community. 
It is a suburb not unlike Brookline, Mass., 
Germantown, Pa., Evanston, HI., or any 
one of the exclusive residential suburbs 
which surround our larger cities. It is 
neither an exclusive suburb nor a housing 
experiment for the very p>oor. It is a resi- 
dential community designed for govern- 
ment employees, clerks, mechanics, car- 
penters, and persons of substantial means. 
The suburb is located close by Hampstead 
Heath, an easy half -hour's ride by the tube 
from the centre of London. Train service 
is frequent and rapid, so that the conmiu- 
nity is in fact a part of London. 

Mrs. Canon Bamett conceived of the 
Hampstead suburb in 1 905 . She interested 
as incorporators Earl Grey, the Earl of 
Crewe, the Bishop of London, Sir John 
Gorst, Sir Robert Hunter, and others in the 
project. They acquired two hundred and 
forty-three acres of land from Eton College 
for a garden suburb "to preserve .for Lon- 
don, unspoiled by vulgar houses and mean 
streets, the foreground of the beautiful coun- 
try that forms the western boundary of the 
heath, and to create a residential quarter 
for Londoners where the comfort of the in- 
habitants and the beauty of their surround- 



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Leys Avenue, a typical shopping street, Letchworth. 
Old English village type preserved. 



ings should not be sacrificed to the greed of 
the land-owner or the necessities of the spec- 
ulative builders." 

Two thousand two himdred dollars an 
acre was paid for the undeveloped land. It 
was planned by expert landscape gardeners 
and architects for a community of from ten 
to twelve thousand people. The village has 
grown so rapidly that in 1909, one himdred 
and twelve adcfitional acres were secured, 
and now the whole territory lying about 
the historic Heath is being developed into 
a model garden community. 

A visit to Hampstead is a challenge to 
our ideas of city building and architecture. 
It is a commentary on our intelligence in 
the most important of all industries, the 
building and making of homes. The pro- 
moters were not actuated by the desire for 
commercial profits, although there is no 
charity, no philanthropy about the enter- 
prise. Nor is there any interference with 
the free life of the people. The Garden 
Suburb is the substitution of a commimity 
for a property sense, of a city interested in 
comfort, convenience, beauty, and happiness 
rather than in the industrial license of in- 
dividual builders. Hampstead is an ex- 
VoL. LI I. —2 



ample of co-operation as opposed to indi- 
vidualism in city building. 

It is amazing what a beautiful thing a city 
can be made, amazing how the sixteenth- 
century village can be brought back to life 
and its charm reproduced. The roadways 
in Hampstead ignore right angles. They 
avoid regularity in every way. They me- 
ander about aimlessly, comfortably, follow- 
ing the natural contour and advantages 
of the land. Nor are they of equal width. 
The residential streets are narrow. They 
are designed to discourage traffic and keep 
it on the main thoroughfares. The road- 
ways curve or come to a sudden stop . Th ey 
open into unexpected places, and are so ar- 
ranged that one always secures a vista of 
some attractive cottage or garden. Many 
of the streets are closed. They come to an 
abrupt end in a little enclosed square. 
They are all lined with shade trees — cherry, 
acacia, maple, and birch. There are no 
fences or back walls in front or in the rear. 
The gardens are surrounded by hedge-rows 
of sweet briar, yew, holly, and wild rose. 
Every garden in the place is filled with the 
greatest variety and profusion of flowers. 
The owners all seem to be in competition 



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The Garden Cities of England 



with one another. The name garden city 
is no exaggeration. 

The architecture is an abrupt change 
from the monotonous rows of close-built 
barrack-like cottages of the north of Lon- 
don. The variety, the color eflfects, the 
beauty of the individual cottage and of the 
group are all a commentary on the assump- 
tion that architecture is bound up with in- 
dividual freedom. Cottages costing from 



There is the greatest variety in styles of cot- 
tages as well as in building material. Some 
of the cottages are connected. Others are 
semi-detached, while others are isolated vil- 
las. All are in harmony, just as are the 
flowers which grow in greatest profusion in 
the rear gardens and the front yards. 

Building restrictions are fixed in perpe- 
tuity by the corporation. It retains tide to 
the land so as to be able to control the nature 




NN'orkmen's cottages, Tylton Avenue, Letchworth. 



one thousand five hundred dollars and up- 
ward and that rent for eight dollarsa month 
compare in beauty and comfort with those 
that rent for fifty or sixty dollars a month 
ynih us. They are designed with the ut- 
most care by the best of architects and in 
harmony with the village idea. The beauty 
of these garden cottages with their stuccoed 
walls and gray and orange tiles, with porches 
and projecting eaves, compels one to ques- 
tion if ordinary house-building is not a neg- 
lected art and whether we are not on the 
threshold of a new development in domestic 
architecture. It may be that architecture is 
by nature a public rather than a purely 
private function and that some sort of State 
supervision or public direction of buildings 
may do for it what it does for music, the op- 
era, the drama, and the fine arts in Europe. 
Each street is diflferent from the other. 



and style of building. This would be diffi- 
cult if it parted with the title. Permanent 
tenure, however, is secured to builders by 
leases which run from ninety-nine to nine 
hundred and ninety-nine years. Rentals 
are very reasonable. All of the street-plan- 
ning and street-building work, including 
sewers, pavements, sidewalks, water, gas, 
and electric-light connections, is done by the 
corporation when the streets are originally 
built. In this way the cost is kept at a mini- 
mum and the nature of the construction is 
controlled. The width of roadways is fixed 
in harmony with the general plan. So is 
the location of business and possible factory 
sites. Provision is made for out-of-door rec- 
reation and play, while every natural beauty 
or vista is preserved for the community itself. 
There is an open-air natatorium in the centre 
of the town. It is banked on all sides by 



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Workmen's cuttnges, Gix Ruad, Letchworth. 



masses of flowers. There is a community 
club, with opportunity for all kinds of indoor 
and outdoor sports. An institute for lectures, 
classes, and educational purposes is being 
constructed, while a beautiful village inn is 
planned for the near future. These are treat- 



ed as part of the city, to be done by itas a mat- 
ter of course. Shops are located on the main 
highway. They are detached from the vil- 
lage proper. All of these provisions are made 
by the garden city in advance of any building 
and in contemplation of future growth. 




Girl's club, Letchworth. 



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8 



The Garden Cities of England 



Hampstead has grown rapidly. It is but 
six years old, but already has a population 
of five thousand people. The value of the 
improvements amount to three million dol- 
lars, while the land has advanced in value 
from five himdred and thirty-four thousand 
dollars to seven hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars. As in Letch worth and Port Sun- 




Hampstead Way and Finchly Ruad, Garden City, Hampstead. 



light, the death rate is very low, being but 
4.2 per 1,000, while the infant mortality 
rate is but 66 per i,ooo as compared with 
140 per 1, 000 in the near-by London tene- 
ment suburbs. 

The garden cUy is planned to make the 
most of all the natural advantages of the 
site. The best views are retained as com- 
mon views. Lots and streets are planned 
so that each house will command the great- 
est amount of sunlight, while sites for parks, 
playgrounds, the locations of schools, public 
buildings, clubs, etc., are selected so that 
the whole community can enjoy them. 

Just as the garden city corporation pro- 



tects the community from the land specu- 
lator, so a similar kind of co-operative 
corporation, the "copartnership tenants," 
so-called, protects the community from bad 
buildings and imdesirable tenants. Ex- 
perience shows that some individual on a 
street or in a community will sell or lease 
his property to undesirable people. He 
will permit it to decay, or, 
as frequently happens, he 
builds an apartment 
house, a garage, stable, 
or factory which ruins 
the neighborhood. 
Home owners would be 
glad to pay for insurance 
against this sort of thing, 
against a slovenly or in- 
different tenant, against 
unfair use. The loss in 
values in every American 
city due to changes of 
this kind are incalculable. 
It is this that keeps resi- 
dential values in a con- 
stant state of transition. 
Protection from this sort 
of thing is a commimity 
concern. 

Individuals too, espe- 
cially workingmen, are 
deterred from becoming 
home owners because of 
the uncertainty of em- 
ployment and residence. 
Individual architecture, 
building, and financing is 
difficult and costly. 
Even in America we have 
become a nation of city 
tenants. 
The copartnership tenants corporation 
is a device for making home owTiership 
easy, for protecting the tenant as well as the 
community, for securing the highest talent 
and most economical method of build- 
ing and for insuring the workman, when 
he moves to another town, that he will not 
lose his investment. It u also a guarantee 
against depreciation and changing use. For 
the copartnership tenants is a house-build- 
ing and house-owning and house-managing 
corporation. It buiUls houses by wholesale. 
It can employ the best of talent and plan its 
building ^^nth the same vision of the rip:ht.> 
of the community that the garden city docs. 



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The Haven of Resi. 
niiadrangle designed by Parker & Unwin for attcd poor. Built by Hampstead tenants. Rent of small apartment 78 cents pier week. 



The values of its houses are community 
values. Tenants do not own the particular 
house they happen to live in, but a share 
in the entire group. They are tenants irf 
a copartnership series of houses, in which 
their rent is fixed and their stockholdings 



are salable the same as in any other corpo- 
ration. This gives the tenant-owner a pe- 
cuniary interest in the whole village. 

These tenant corporations sell stock to 
tenants, who must subscribe for at least 
two hundred and fifty dollars, which is pay- 




Linncl Close, (I.irden City, Hampstead. 
Shi>Hing cmpha>>is on \illai:c >;rccn idea and generous provUioii of open sjm 



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Words\^orth Walk, Garden City, Hampstead. 



able in instalments. Stock is also sold to 
outsiders. The houses rent at a price suflS- 
cient to yield five per cent on their cost, 
while any surplus earned goes back, not to 
the stockholders, but to the tenants in pro- 
portion to their rent. These earnings are 



credited on the tenants* stock subscription 
until it is paid up. 

By this arrangement the tenant enjoys 
every advantage of ownership, and at the 
same time is protected from many risks. 
Capital is obtained at low cost. So is pro- 




Cuy Dawber's houses on Willigied Way, Garden City. Hampstead. 



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Fn*nl gardrns, Bournvillc. 
Gardens cveryi*here, 

fessional, managerial, and building skDl. 
Investment in a house becomes like stocks 
or bonds. In addition, the interest of the 
tenant in the whole corporation leads to a 
watchful care of the entire community. 

The first copartnership tenants was that 
of Ealing Tenants Limited, organized in 
1903, with sixty acres of land and fifty 
thousand dollars capital. In seven years' 



time the movement has 
grown until in 19 10 there 
were fourteen such so- 
cieties, owning six thou- 
sand six hundred houses 
with an investment of 
four million dollars. 
When the presenl estates 
are completed the com- 
panies will have an in- 
vestment of ten million 
dollars. 

Many of the dwellings 
of llampstead Garden 
city were built by tenant 
companies. In three 
years four hundred and 
fourteen cottages had 
been erected at a cost of 
one million two hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars. The demand for houses cannot be 
satisfied. Tenant investors are compelled 
to wait as much as six months for houses. 
Fromtheoutset the number of houses has 
been limited to not more than twelve to the 
acre, or from one-half to one-fourth the num- 
ber usually built by speculators. WTiere 
possible, houses are built with a southern 



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exposure so as to insure 
every bit of winter sun- 
shine. This is also fol- 
lowed in the arrangement 
of rooms. Cottages rent 
at from five dollars a 
month upward, while 
some expensive villas are 
planned to rent for as high 
as six hundred and fifty 
dollars a year. In 1910 
the tenants of the Hamp- 
stead Tenants Corpo- 
ration received back as 
co-operative dividends 
about seven per cent on 
their rental. This was 
after the payment of all 
dividends, provision for 
depreciation, and maintenance, and the 
setting aside of a substantial reserve fund. 
Tenancy is permanent at the rent fixed on 
entrance, but the management reserve the 
right to exclude any tenant who is disor- 
derly or otherwise mismanages the estate. 

Port Sunlight diflfers from Letchworth or 
Hampstead in being a purely private busi- 
ness enterprise. It is an expression of no- 



Small semi-detached cottages, Bournville. 



blesse obligCy of benevolent industrial feu- 
dalism on the part of Lever Brothers, 
manufacturers of soap. The village, which 
has a population of three thousand, lies 
about five miles from Liverpool, across the 
river Mersey, near the city of Birkenhead. 
The company loses one hundred and 
twenty-five thousand dollars a year upon 
the undertaking. The cost of the village 

«3 



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" The Triangle," Bournville. 



was about two million five hundred thousand 
dollars, upon which investment the company 
receives no return, the rents being only suf- 
ficient to maintain the cottages, streets, 
grounds, and activities of the village. This 
loss is a contribution by the company to 



efficiency; for the improved health and 
condition of the employees, due to better 
homes and the open-air life, yields a return 
that of itself pays for the investment. 

Port Sunlight is in some ways the most 
beautiful of all the garden cities. Possibly 




Sh 'pping centre, Bournville. 



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The Garden Cities of England 



15 



it is the contrast with the tenements of 
the near-by cities of Liverpool and Birken- 
head that makes it appear so. The effect 
of the village is apparent in the men, the 
women, and the children, and especially in 
the children. The people of Port Sunlight 
are clean, healthy, strong, and happy. The 
cottages are surrounded by gardens and 
hedges; the streets are rambling and tree- 
lined. Every few hundred feet one comes 



velopment of his own, his wife's, and chil- 
dren's faculties, so as to make them healthy 
and strong and long-lived." 

He also appreciates the relation of proper 
living conditions to industrial efficiency. 
He says: " Business cannot be carried on by 
physically deficient employees any more than 
war can be successfully waged by physically 
deficient soldiers. Business efficiency, there- 
fore, demands better housing conditions for 





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Park Road, Port Sunlight. 



on a school, an institute, a playground 
or some other provision for the education 
and amusement of the people. There are 
bowling-greens, rifle-ranges, foot-ball en- 
closures, and open-air baths, a technical 
institute, auditorium, band-stand, gymna- 
siimi, hospital, and library. The most 
beautiful building of all is the art gallery, 
one of the most attractive and well-selected 
small galleries I have ever seen. Both the 
architecture and the interior are restful and 
inviting. They suggest very general use 
and a sense of the community itself. 

Sir William H. Lever has a high ideal of 
what his employees are entitled to. He says 
*'as a matter of principle all would admit 
that every diligent employee has a moral 
and indisputable right to live in a decent 
home, to possess the opportimity to bring 
up his children in decent environment, to 
enjoy the best possible facilities for the de- 



employees, apart from the principle of the 
employees' own unquestionable right to the 
same." As a result of his investigations he 
said that the loss of time through sickness 
was over ten per cent out of a possible year's 
work under ordinary housing conditions; 
that the death rate is over 25 per i ,000 where 
houses are crowded fifty to the acre. If 
houses are built as in Port Sunlight, at not 
more than twelve to the acre, the death rate 
will be under 14 per 1,000, while the loss of 
time from sickness will be a negligible quan- 
tity. This is all aside from the mental and 
moral deterioration of the slum-dweller as 
compared with those of the garden cities. 

"Surround a home," he says, **with 
slums and you produce moral and physical 
weeds and stinging nettles. Surround a 
home with a garden and you produce the 
moral and physical beauty and strength of 
the flower and the oak." 



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A Port Sunlight comer. 



The Lever Brothers* "prosperity-sharing 
plans, '' as they describe their efforts, has had 
a remarkable effect upon the health and 
well-being of the people. This is quite ob- 
vious to a casual visitor, but careful statis- 
tical investigation by experts is even more 
convincing. The height of Port Sunlight 
school children at fourteen years of age was 
62.2 inches, while those 
of the public schools 
of Liverpool range from 
$$.2 inches to 61.7 
inches. The weight of 
the same children was 
108 pounds in Port Sun- 
light and from 71.1 to 
94.5inthepublicschools. 

The statistics of the 
death rate are quite as 
remarkable. In the 
average industrial cities 
of England it ranges 
from 14 to 19 per 1,000, 
while in Port Sunlight it 
ranged during seven 
years from 5.55 to 12.87 
per 1,000. 

Port Sunlight is not 
an exception. The com- 
parison between Boum- 
ville (another propri- 
etary garden city) and the near-by city of 
Birmingham, and of Port Sunlight and the 
neighboring city of Liverpool, is as follows: 

Death rate in Bourn ville for 6 years, 7.5 per i,cxx) 
Death rate in Birmingham for 6 years, 

17.9 per 1,000 
Infant mortality in Boumville for 6 years, 

78.8 per 1,000 
Infant mortality in Birmingham for 6 years, 

170.0 per 1,000 
\6 



Average height of Boumville boy of 1 1 years, 

4 feet 9 inches 
Average height of Birmingham slum boy of 1 1 

years 4 feet 2 inches 

Average weight of Boumville boy of 11 years, 

4 stone 13 pounds 
Average weight of Birmingham slum boy of 1 1 

years 3 stone 11 pounds 

Greater chest measurement of Boumville boy 

over Birmingham boy 3 inches 




First houses built in l\>rt Sunlight with tablet rccordiiii; th.it their facsimile 
took grand prix at i>rus?els Kxhibitiun, 1910. 



Average height of 14-year-old children in 

Port Sunlight schools .... 62.2 inches 
Average height of 14-year-old children in 

Liverpool Council schools . . . 55.2 inches 
Average weight of 14-year-old children in 

Port Sunlight schools .... 108 pounds 
Average weight of 14-year-old children in 

Liverpool Council schools . . . 7 i.i pounds 

Letchworth claims to be England's 
healthiest town. The mortality rate in Eng- 



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The Garden Cities of England 



17 



land and Wales in 1907 was 15.4 per 1,000. iedin Germany, where the apartment house 
The infantile mortality rate in five large is the prevalent type of dwelling for all 
cities ranges from 107.9 to 157.8 per 1,000. classes. A score of suburban communities 




A back garden in Port Sunlight. 

The comparison of Letchworth and the hav^ been started imder municipal and co- 
leading English cities in this respect b as operative support. Near Dresden the beau- 
follows: tiful suburb of Hellerau was opened in 
ITo'r'SJi" ""^SSin 1909 with one hundred and fifty cottages. 
OTY r,^^Zls .JiTooo The, suburb grew so rapidly that one 

London 107.9 140 hundred and fifty more cottages are m 

Birmingham 134.3 15.4 process of construction. It is a garden 

Manchester 134.0 17.9 home for artists, musicians, persons of 

Middi^roug!/. : : : : Itl ll'^i moderate means, and artisans. Housing 

Letchworth 31.7 5.2 authorities have welcomed it as a great ad- 
vance on all previous experiments. Here, 

The garden-city idea is being widely cop- as in England, the community idea of land 

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Open-air swimming bath, Port Sunlight. 



ownership and house-building has been fol- 
lowed. 

Just outside of New York dty, the Rus- 
sell Sage Foundation is making a garden- 
city experiment at Forest Hills, Long Isl- 
and. A large area of land was purchased 
which was platted like a 
private estate by expert 
landscape artists and 
architects, Frederick 
Law Olmsted, Jr., and 
Grosvenor Atterbury, 
upon which a suburban 
community has been 
built with every provi- 
sion for a self-contained 
life. 

Out of these widely sep- 
arated experiments a 
new type of city will come 
— a city that will open up 
possibilities for the town- 
planner, the landscape 
artist, the engineer, and 
the expert in transporta- 
tion, that, once, intel- 
ligently co-ordinated,will 
x8 



turn back again to the country the tide of 
population from the city. The new city \vi\\ 
cover a very wide area. It will have a ra- 
dius of twenty, thirty, possibly fifty miles. 
For the area of a city is merely a matter of 
rapid transit. The intelligence of the world 



rn^^M 


iBl /^^m 




i^^^Ml^-' '■ 


^fi^ i- ^ ^ .. 






UV^ -^^H^^^^^^^^ 


n 



Aitcnhof c.l., 
ISuilt ill 



of the Krupp Works. 
, I sscii, (.cmiaiiy. 



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The Garden Cities of England 



19 



is at the command of the 
nation for the building of 
dreadnaughts, the per- 
fection of aeroplanes, the 
digging of the Panama 
Canal. Surely the talent 
of the city, if set to work 
on the building of houses, 
the improvement of 
transportation, the con- 
trol of the land, and the 
designing of cities will 
put an end to the housing 
problem and bring about 
a revolution in life for 
well to do and poor alike 
in a few years' time. 
Everywhere poli tics isbe- 
ing co-ordinated with the 
social problem, with the 





Sime of the more pretentious houses in one of the Krupp colonies at 
Essen, Ciermany. 



problem of living, as it now is co-ordinated 
with war, diplomacy, and business. We are 
rapidly acquiring a city sense in the matter 
of education, in the care of children, in health 
administration, in provision for recreation 
and amusement. And the cramped apart- 
ment, with only an occasional glimpse of the 
sun, at from one thousand five hundred to 
three thousand dollars a year for the well 
to do is such a travesty on the idea of home 



One-family houses. 
AUr^iKhof ci>1ony of the Knipp Works, built 1899. Hsscn. Geniidiiy. 



that it will not long con- 
tinue. A one or two room 
tenement, sunless, almost 
airless, and at a cost that 
would pay for a com- 
fortable home in an at- 
tractive suburb, is worse 
than a travesty. It is al- 
most a crime. Yet this 
is the condition of mil- 
lions of well to do and poor 
alike in our large cities. 
They pay from twenty to 
thirty per cent of their in- 
come for what is at best a 
makeshift of a home. 

The garden city is the 
first suggestion of escape 
from all this. It shows 
that the living problem 
can be solved by intel- 
community action. Within another 



ligent 

generation public opinion will no more tol- 
orate the slum and the tenement than it does 
the plagues which were prevalent a generation 
ago. Through the garden city a way has been 
found to reunite man with the land, from 
which he has been forcibly divorced for a 
generation by inadequate transit and the pro- 
hibitive urban land values which inadequate 
transportation facilities have created. 



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Hopedale, Massachusetts. 

Oritfiually a socialistic coroinuiiity ; now a towu of z.cxx) inhabitants, dereloped and controlled for many years 
alonij^ model lines by an industrial corporation. 



MODEL TOWNS IN AMERICA 



By Grosvenor Atterbury 



AT first glance it would appear that 
/A any article on model towns in Amer- 
ica must closely resemble the re- 
nowned chapter on snakes in Iceland ; for, 
with but one or two exceptions, there are 
none. 

Loosely used, the words may be applied 
to a rapidly increasing number of more 
or less attractive and successful housing 
developments, largely of a commercial 
nature, that stand out in marked relief — 
conspicuous not so much from their in- 
trinsic merit as by contrast — among the 
ordinary towns and suburbs of Topsy-like 
growth and hopeless aspect. But it is not 
of these that I have been asked to write; 
though there are many that in one phase 
or other are well worth study and com- 
ment. 

And to the difficulty arising from the 
absence of examples is to be added the fact 
that while in a general way our concep- 
tion of the subject may be based on the 
recent examples of model towns and gar- 
den cities in England and Germany, it must 
at best be largely tentative; for as a mat- 
ter of fact we are engaged to-day in the 



first serious attempt in America to formu- 
late the subject of city and town planning 
under our native conditions and to meet 
our own distinctive problems. 

As in most subjects, the study of town 
planning and model towns begins and 
ends in a definition. At the beginning 
stands a theoretic statement, and at the 
end a visualized or concrete example that 
makes the original conception under- 
standable. If in these few pages the 
writer can roughly bridge this gap he will 
have accomplished as much as he dare 
hope; for the subject is one of surprising 
scope and an importance as yet but little 
understood in this country, and this mat- 
ter of definition correspondingly diflScult. 
While I can give you at once a neat label 
with which to docket the package, it will 
tell you about as little of what is inside as 
the title of a patent medicine. If you 
really care to know what the label means 
we shall have to open the wrapper and 
roughly analyze its contents. 

At the outset it will be well to eliminate 
some prevalent misconceptions, and state 
clearly certain things which a model town 



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Model Towns in America 



21 



is not. Let us at once, for example, disen- 
tangle the " Model Town '' from the " City 
Beautiful " — that fateful euphemism 
which, like Helen of Troy, has brought 
such tribulation upon those who would 
|>ossess themselves of beauty without due 
process of law — who would deck out our 
modest villages in Paris finery and ruin 
their complexions with architectural cos- 
metics. 

Evidently something must be said, 
moreover, to lay the ghosts of " Spotless 



Now, the conditions that have at last 
brought this about are largely economic. 
As in the case of the increase in the cost of 
living — or the high cost of high living, as 
it has been aptly put — the high cost of 
model housing is due not only to higher 
standards, but to the cimiulative profits 
of production and distribution common 
to any retail business. The individual can 
escape the penalties of the situation only 
by going without or by combining for col- 
lective action, by means of which the 




Roland Park. 
An example of collective design as applied to a commercial block. 



Town'* and "Pullman," not of course in 
answer to the facetious paragrapher who 
calls attention to the fact that a real model 
town must have shade on both sides of 
the street, and no telephone, gas, or elec- 
tric companies; but rather to meet such 
honestly felt criticisms as point to inev- 
itable failures, such as Brook Farm, Zion 
City, and Helicon Hall. 

While any town, whatever its birth and 
family history, may aspire to set such a 
high standard of living that it may be 
called in a general sense "model," the 
word is now taking a new and special 
meaning, following the beginning of 
organized attempts to apply scientific, 
aesthetic, and economic principles and 
methods to the problem of housing civ- 
ilized humanity. 
Vol, LI I.— 3 



profits of the speculator — the middleman 
in this instance — can be largely eliminated. 
Such combined action must be, I think, 
the most distinctive feature of a model 
town ; and therefore its theoretic definition 
should be based on the essential element 
of collectivism. Practically stated, this 
means collective purchase, design, develop- 
ment, and control. 

In a broad sense, as has been said, any 
town becomes model by raising its stand- 
ard sufl5ciently high. But it is a wellnigh 
hopeless fight when the forces of short- 
sighted selfishness and inertia barricade 
themselves in a place whose physical 
growth has been utterly neglected from 
the start, or later deformed through our 
customary short-sighted planning — cus- 
tomary largely because the American habit 



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Model Towns in America 



of striking debit and credit balances for 
the month or year instead of the decade or 
generation (as is more often done in the 
older and in many ways wiser countries of 
Europe) is all against the kind of foresight 
which constitutes the first essential of 
good town and city planning. For — to re- 
turn to our package — the main wrapper 
that metaphorically holds its various con- 
tents together is foresight. This is of 
course the vital essence that produces the 



Little wonder then that one definition 
for "Model Towns" suggested to the 
writer was "Failures.** 



II 

What, then, is the function of a model 
town? What, for example, does the Rus- 
sell Sage Foundation hope to accomplish 
by its demonstration at Forest Hills Gar- 
dens? What is this new architectural 




Gar>', Indiana. 
A purely commercial development of the United States Steel Corporation. 



concrete thing we call a plan. In the case 
of a building it is designed to determine a 
state of permanent and happy equilibrium 
between the force of gravity and that ap- 
palling collection of stone, brick, steel, 
wood, and plaster — not to mention the 
ubiquitous and irresponsible plumbing 
pipes — that go to make the simplest mod- 
ern house. Once having coaxed, jammed, 
and twisted these obstreperous elements 
into a happy family group they are pre- 
sumed to stay put, and the architect and 
his plan are happily forgotten — or ought 
to be — for their proper function is ended. 

But in town-planning the case is more 
difficult. General impressions to the con- 
trary, a town is not a static proposition, 
but of the nature of a growing organism. 
Therefore its plan requires other qualities 
than foresight — above all, a certain flexi- 
bility of control. 

And it must also be remembered that 
we are not certain as yet what is really 
wanted or what we can actually do. 



species calling themselves city and town 
planners? Our good citizens have been 
harangued ad natiseatn oh the " city beau- 
tiful " — and too much of their good money 
already spent on monumental boulevards, 
public fountains, and impossible statues. 
Why, then, must we now suffer an inva- 
sion of "town-planners" preaching "gar- 
den cities" and "model towns"? 

The answer, unfortunately, in the pres- 
ent state of the public knowledge of the 
subject involves an apparent digression 
from our subject. Whether it was six or 
ten thousand years ago that the first cave- 
dweller drove the workmen out of his un- 
finished house and took possession of the 
kitchen and sleeping-quarters is perhaps 
immaterial. But in either case the im- 
portant fact is to be noted that until 
very recently through all the intervening 
centuries astonishingly little progress has 
been made in the business of housing the 
human species. As a science it has 
scarcely existed ; and as an art has been 



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Whidnsville, Massachusetts. 

An ezuuple of gradual derelopment. Nearly a century a^ a cotton settlement ; now an industrial town in many 
respects entitled to l>e called model. 



confined almost entirely to the individual 
unit — the single dwelling-house. It is fair 
to say, of course, that the conditions 
which have created the housing problem 
in its present acute form are more or less 
modern. They are still in process of for- 
mation and growth — with the centraliz- 
ing process which is making such startling 
and, from many points of view, regretta- 
ble progress. 

The causes of this widespread move- 
ment from the farm to the city do not 
come under the scope of this article. Suf- 
fice it to say that our rapid urbanization 



is probably symptomatic of normal though 
extremely rapid growth. The upward 
progress of society has been contempora- 
neous with the increase of urban popula- 
tion. The concomitant evils of conges- 
tion are merely the national growing-pains 
which we, as a somewhat overgrown coim- 
try, are feeling with particular acuteness. 
But the very pertinent fact remains, that 
according to the last census nearly forty 
per cent of our entire population is already 
concentrated in large towns or cities, as 
compared with three per cent at the close 
of the Civil War, and that this urbaniza- 




A street in Whitinsvillc. 
An example of considerable architectural harmony and charm. 



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Model Towns in America 



tion is still rapidly increasing. It is ex- 
tremely doubtful if it can be stopped, no 
matter how loudly we raise the cry of 
"back to the farm." It is certain that it 
has already created conditions and con- 
sequences that must be reckoned with. 

Under the best of circumstances such 
rapid city growth would involve danger. 
Even where the city or town has been 
carefully and scientifically planned so as 
to provide for rapid increase, it is diflScult 
to avoid unhealthy congestion, not to men- 



and purpose. "The foimdation of beauty," 
says a gentleman named Philebus, "is a 
reasonable order addressed to the imagi- 
nation through the senses," from which I 
gather that he must have given some 
thought to city planning and the subject 
of model towns. Even the coimtry circus 
to-day has its itinerary and printed pro- 
gramme. But the proud city of New 
York scorns a city plan. While the poor- 
est negro plants his kitchen garden with 
some semblance of order in the sepa- 




Roland Park, near Baltimore. 
Illustrating the advantages of collective planning from a social and arsthetic stand-point. 



tion the economic waste of various kinds 
consequent upon improper distribution of 
a city's inhabitants with respect to their 
different activities. What is to be ex- 
pected, then, where all the. conflicting 
forces of vigorous growth are allowed to 
run riot? The marvel is that our towns 
are not even worse than they are. Of 
course, between villagehood and citydom 
one expects an awkward age. But that 
need by no means signify the chaotic dis- 
order, the squalor, and pretentious show 
of our bombastic "Centres," "Junc- 
tions," and "Cities." 

Now, I have not made myself clear if 
the reader thinks I am here lamenting the 
absence of kiosks, monuments, and tri- 
umphal arches. What we decry in the 
American town is the ugliness of discord, 
waste, and unhealthfulness. What we ask 
is only that which is suitable to its place 



ration of his com and cabbage, our great 
centres of population, for the most part, 
grow wild, one thing choking and starving 
out the other— the factory, the home, the 
office building, and tenement— in a jostling 
disorderly crowd, fighting for air and light. 
Yet with proper provision and control 
the centralization of population has great 
advantages. As in the concentration of 
large industries with the accompanying 
aggregation of capital, it means the pos- 
sibility of increased economy and effi- 
ciency in government. Especially is this 
true now that the scope of mimicipal rule 
is being so greatly extended. In the minds 
of many it has already ceased to denote 
merely a means of control. In numerous 
instances it has already advanced to the 
middle ground of protective fimctions — 
attempting to guard against disease, vice, 
and destitution ; while in certain others it 



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Model Towns in America 



25 



is being made to assume the frankly pa- 
teraalistic functions of prevention and 
provision as seen in the social if not social- 
istic conception of government to be 
foimd to-day in a number of German 
towns and dties. There you find the 
municipal government not only guaran- 
teeing property rights, but attempting to 
protect the individual citizen against the 
land speculator and assuming to guaran- 
tee the poor man an economic opportu- 
nity; not only providing facilities for 
education and recreation and overseeing 
conditions of labor, but furnishing both 
amusement and employment; not only 
controlling the housing conditions of the 
masses, but providing municipal dwell- 
ings. 

It would be strange indeed if here in 
America we did not hanker after some of 
these tempting and apparently most de- 
sirable thmgsl It woiild not be charac- 
teristic of our national temperament to 
be satisfied until we had "gone the limit" 
and, having out-Heroded Herod, sat down 
to reckon up the cost. That the impulse 
of our people, when they have realized 
the possibilities of the situation, will be 
along this line I have no doubt. To pre- 
vent such misguided experiments by 
showing that the best and wisest of these 
results may be attained without paying 
the price of paternalism or socialism is, to 
my mind, one of the most important func- 
tions of the so-called model town and 
subiu-b. 

Instances of attempts to create model 
industrial settlements in this country can 
be cited as early as 1836; and the list of 
subsequent undertakings, though com- 
paratively short, includes what might be 
termed approximations to each of the va- 
rious distinct types imder which present- 
day model towns and garden cities may 
be classified. By far the greater num- 
ber of such undertakings in America have 
been "proprietary"' — organized by indus- 
trial concerns primarily for the accommo- 
dation of their employees. Such, for ex- 
ample, are Pullman, III., Vandergrift, Pa., 
Gary, Ind., Ludlow, Mass., Corey, Ala., 
and Leclaire, near St. Louis; the last 
named, though a village of only six hun- 
dred and fifty inhabitants, being in its eco- 
nomic and social aspects perhaps the most 
advanced and interesting of all. A cer- 
VoL. LIL— 4 



tain number of essentially commercial de- 
velopments, usually of high-grade prop- 
erty, as exemplified at Garden City, L. I., 
and Roland Park, in the suburbs of Balti- 
more, have been laid out and developed 
along aesthetic and social lines that justify 
their being called in a general sense 
"model.** The govtmmental type, as 
might be expected, is only represented on 
a negligible scale. Co-operative and so- 
cialistic developments, though more nu- 
merous, have been of little greater signifi- 
cance. Hopedale, to be sure, apparently 
one of the best examples of the model 
town now existing in this country, was 
founded in 1841 as a co-operative com- 
munity. But in the course of a dozen 
years it shed its socialistic garb and now, 
like its charming neighbor Whitinsville, is 
a thriving commercial town on a substan- 
tially proprietary basis. From among all 
these, however, as well as a score of other 
undertakings of a similar kind, the writer 
has been imable to select any one which 
answers completely to the definition of a 
model town as understood abroad to-day. 

The failures, it must be confessed, have 
come nearer doing so than the successes. 
But, on the other hand, it is safe to say 
that the failures have been caused, not 
by the objects sought but by the mistakes 
in the means and methods employed for 
their attainment. In most cases the at- 
tempt has been to eliminate the evil by- 
products of unrestrained competitive de- 
velopment by means of paternalism. And 
anything of that character, whether it be 
philanthropic or proprietary, people in 
this country resent and reject. 

But this does not mean that they will 
not accept eagerly any betterment in liv- 
ing conditions which they can obtain on 
a fair commercial basis, through higher 
standards and more efficient handling of 
land development and distribution, the 
application of collective or co-operative 
principles, and the science and art of 
town-planning and good housing. 

And this, I take it, is what the model 
town of to-day must aim to make possi- 
ble. Just how this is to be accomplished 
practically is manifestly a question to be 
answered only by actual demonstration. 
But it is safe to say that the problem is 
to be solved along three lines — the aes- 
thetic, the social, and the ecomonic — 



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Model Towns in America 



and that the practical .meaning of our 
subject will be most readily defined and 
understood if it be viewed in turn from 
these three different points of vnew. 

Ill 

''De gustibus non est disputandum," 
arid the writer has no intention of discuss- 
ing fashions in taste or architectural style. 
But there are certain phenomena that, 
even considered from an aesthetic point 
of view, provoke no discussion — ^just as 
there are certain odors that are almost 
imiversally abhorrent to the civilized 
nostril. The strange thing about it is 
that while the public sense of smell is 
pretty generally protected against soap 
factories, tanneries, and a score of other 
malodorous affairs, rightly regarded as 
being unconstitutional hindrances to the 
pursuit of happiness, the sense of sight 
is not considered as yet except as an in- 
strument for such practical purposes as 
the pursuit of the mighty dollar. So 
visual stenches are given the freedom of 
our cities. 

Now, collective or co-operative plan- 
ning and control can operate chiefly in two 
ways to better this curiously illogical 
situation. Negatively, on the principle of 
the smoke ordinance, it may preserve a 
reasonably harmless aesthetic atmosphere 
by putting some limit upon the architect- 
ural anarchy and lawless bad taste that 
runs riot in even the best governed of our 
cities to-day; while at the same time giv- 
ing the most misguided architectural 
efforts a better chance to show such poor 
merit as they may possess. 

To show a mob the effectiveness of 
discipline may seem dangerously like giv- 
ing them arms. But the truth is that 
with any kind of control anarchy ceases. 
And so bad taste, however brutal it may 
be, at once becomes capable of better 
things if it be ordered. The leavening 
element of design and purpose appears. 
The noise becomes music, however crude. 

With the elimination of lawless ec- 
centricity and disregard of architectural 
decency the good elements in the situa- 
tion begin to count. However bad in- 
dividually, a series of houses that exhibit 
some mutual acknowledgment of each 
other's right of existence has at once some 



aesthetic value. That such primitive 
good manners must be the result to-day 
of rigid restrictions instead of instinct is 
not surprising when one realizes that the 
majority of people in this coimtry have 
never — architecturally speaking — moved 
in polite society, or even realized that there 
is such a thing. 

To demonstrate the advantage to the 
indi\ndual of a reasonable self-restraint 
in the subordination of his own architect- 
ural impulses to a general aesthetic scheme 
is one of the functions of the model de- 
velopment. Its successful accomplish- 
ment will depend, I feel sure, solely on 
the education of the sense of beauty, al- 
ready nascent in this country. For the 
correctness of the principle and the value 
of the actual results of its application in 
collective planning is without question. 
Yet I am inclined to think that its public 
recognition will be largely brought about 
indirectly through the appeal to our keen 
commercial sense, which I believe good 
town-planning is sure to make. 

To explain the various ways in which 
the actual economy and commercial value 
of good taste and design may be taught 
would lead to a much too technical dis- 
cussion. Suffice it to say that the list in- 
cludes the demonstration of the value of 
ornamental construction instead of con- 
structive ornament, of the intelligent use 
of common inexpensive materials whose 
decorative value, because of their rough- 
ness, their very cheapness of previous 
association, ordinarily goes unrecognized, 
and of the surprising effectiveness of sim- 
ple, honest, and straightforward structures 
when designed and placed with regard to 
general harmony of color and mass. And 
with these must inevitably come a crusade 
against the wasteful shams which, like the 
signs on our streets and road-sides, we have 
come to tolerate from force of habit — the 
tin cornice that rears its imitation stone 
surface a story-height above the tinder-box 
frame beneath, and the pretentious fronts 
and sordid rears between which even our 
better educated citizens are content to live. 

But all this teaching, it may be said, 
necessarily involves expert services and 
expense. The adnuxture of a dollar's 
worth of brains to every dollar's worth of 
cheap material must come pretty near 
spoiling the demonstration from an eco- 



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Model Towns in America 



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nomic point of view. But co-operative de- 
sign and development make possible the 
employment of experts in all departments 
by distributing the greater part of the first 

AAA A AAA 



I 


I 


1 


I 


I 


■ 


■ 



Diagram Na i. 

cost of their services over a large area of 
development. Such services, moreover, 
if really efficient, will actually result in 
ultimate, if not inmiediate, savings. It is 
precisely because of the poor man's ina- 
bility to avail himself as an individual of 
wise technical advice that his home is so 
often a far more expensive investment, 
comparatively speaking, than the rich 
man's. Insurance against wasteful bad 
taste and poor construction is even more 
of a luxury than that against fire loss, from 
which the poorman isordinarily the heavi- 
est sufferer. 

On the other hand, collective planning 
and control should produce conditions 
under which good aesthetic results may 
be secured far more easily and inexpen- 
sively, whether the designing be individual 
or collective. Bad as is the taste displayed 
in the average small-lot subiu-ban devel- 
opment, it is fair to say that there is no 
problem in architectural design more diffi- 
cult than that presented by Uie small and 
cheap dwelling. The irreducible mini- 
mum of size and cost demands the maxi- 
mum of skill and study if it is to be made 
to succeed from an architectural stand- 
point. Careful consideration of the prob- 
lem of the individual house for the skilled 
laborer, mechanic, and clerk leads to the 
conclusion that even with the most expert 
designing the best that can be attained 
architecturally under the s}rstem of de- 
tached dwellings on narrow lot^ is but a 
negative result — ^the elimination of the 
gratuitously bad and the mitigation of 
what is necessarily so. 

For the trouble really lies in the funda- 
mentally bad requisites as to their propor- 
tions, mass, and relative position, made 



necessary by the current system of lot sizes 
and their individual development. The 
difference between theconditionsconf ront- 
ing the architect where each little house, 
being placed independently, must present, 
by reason of the shape of the lot, its narrow 
side to the street, as indicated in Diagram 
No. I, and the situation resulting from the 
application of group planning to the same 
sized units on identical land areas shown 
on Diagram No. 2 is a sufficient illustra- 
tion of what I mean in thus speaking of the 
aesthetic advantages of collective design. 
But in addition to certain economies in 
construction cost and the far greater 
architectural effectiveness obtained by 
thus erecting small dwellings in groups, 
this example at once illustrates another 
and more ob\4ous kind of saving, and at 
the same time serves to throw some light 
on the economic aspect of our subject. 

IV 

For, besides demonstrating the fallacy 
of certain conventional ideas as to gen- 
eral layout, proper street wddths, and the 
size and distribution of free spaces for 
public use, and many other matters which 
we may not here stop to consider, town- 
planning makes possible certain specific 
economies in the use of the building lots 
themselves. And these economies result 
in a distinct gain rather than a sac^fice in 
living conditions, as compared with even ' 
the best results obtainable under indi- 
vidual treatment. 

To illustrate, let us consider the results 
of individual and collective planning as 



A 



A 



A 



D 



Plan 
Diagram No. 2. 



applied to an entire block. The preceding 
diagram (No. i) shows the conventional 
arrangement of small houses such as is 
pretty sure to result from the develof>- 
ment of a street by a series of owners 



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Model Towns in America 



under the customary restrictions imposed 
on almost all suburban building properties. 
The restrictions on each lot are of course 
alike, and if is not unjust to American 
buyers of small lots to assume that each 
lot will be used to the limit of its restric- 
tions. The first purchaser to build places 
his house as near the street as the restric- 
tions permit, for fear his neighbors may cut 
off some of the asphalt view from his par- 
lor windows. Being the first in the field — 
a literal simile oftep enough — and decid- 
ing to put his kitchen on the north side 
and as near to his neighbor's lot line as 
possible, every succeeding builder must 
follow suit. The result — a familiar sight 
in coimtless miles of our suburban streets 
— is what is indicated by the diagram — a 
rather neat example of "liberty, equality, 
and fraternity" as "she" is practised — 
an arrangement assuring an absolutely 
equal and neighborly sharing of all the 
disadvantages of individual planning, 
whereby each owner is secure against any 
suspicion that his neighbor has gotten the 
best of him, for the simple reason that 
they have all made equally poor use of 
their lots. It represents pure democracy 
in town-planning. 

On the other hand, in the diagram (No. 
2) is shown what may happen where 
a beneficent monarchy, working unde 
identical conditions, has foreordained an 
arrangement in which each building is 
located with some consideration for its 
neighbor. It assumes, of course, a certain 
individuality in taste — that not every 
owner wishes to live on the sidewalk, that 
some would like a garden space at the 



live in a street where even though the 
individual houses must all be reduced to 
the lowest possible terms of comfort and 
decency, their homely monotony is, at 




Diagram No. 3, 

front and some at the side, that most 
people would enjoy looking past instead 
of into their neighbor's walls and win- 
dows, and that many would be glad to 




Diagram No. 4. 

least, relieved by a certain amount of 
variety in their arrangement. 

But quite apart from all such advan- 
tages, and leaving out of consideration the 
aesthetic aspects of the matter, both of 
architecture and landscape design, let us 
see what practical economies lie in this 
latter arrangement. In the first place it 
must be explained that in determining re- 
strictions on real estate of this type, now 
recognized as essential for commercial if 
for no other reasons, it is in the very 
nature of the case necessary to assume the 
worst conditions that can be brought 
about under them. Otherwise they do 
not protect, and to protect is of course 
the function of restrictions. But like any 
other mandatory and inflexible rule which 
must apply equally to all men and con- 
ditions it is very costly in an economic 
sense. An obvious and pertinent ex- 
ample is the city building law. In order 
to protect the general public against the 
dishonest owner and builder, rules are 
required that penalize the honest man 
and result in the waste of millions of 
dollars annually. Could we assume in 
every case absolute integrity of workman- 
ship and material, the cost of many items 
of construction could be surprisingly re- 
duced. Though by no means so obvious, 
the case is similar in the matter of prop- 
erty restrictions; and the extent of the 
wastage involved in the ordinary indi- 
vidualistic development is the measure of 
the economy secured by good collective 
planning. This may be seen by a com- 
parison of the two diagrams. No. 3 and 
No. 4. The former shows the minimum 



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Model Towns in America 



29 



width of lot which experience has shown 
may be sold with a proper regard for the 
protection of individual purchasers and 
the successful development of a certain 
type of property as a whole. The sale of 
any narrower lot will under ordinary in- 
di\idualistic planning and development re- 
sult in detriment to the value of the lots in 
question, as well as to the neighboring 



required in building construction to in- 
sure against imperfect work and which is 
technically called the "factor of safety." 
In both cases this is a heavy tax on the 
owner or tenant of the property. While it 
is clearly recognized by all experts in con- 
struction, I doubt if it has ever been recog- 
nized as such — in this country at least — 
in the case of real-estate development. 







Bird's-eye view of Forest Hills Gardens, Long Island. 
An example of collective plani)iii(r, development, and control. 



property. But as will be seen from 
Diagram No. 4, if instead of having to 
insure against the worst possible use of 
the property by individual owners it were 
possible to assume that the buildings 
would all be intelligently planned as one 
group, the average width of the lot might 
be reduced twenty per cent and the con- 
ditions be really better for each individual 
house. 

In other words, collective planning by 
means of mutual adjustment in each 
specific case does away with the costly 
blanket restrictions, which cause in real- 
estate development of this type a very 
considerable waste in the use of land — 
the counterpart of that material which is 
Vol. LII.— 5 



And here again is a specific instance where 
the demonstration of this fact in a model 
town may have a great educational value. 
There is, moreover, another develop- 
ment of this group-planning principle 
which, although as yet exp>erimental, may 
lead to a practical solution of one of the 
greatest difficulties in any attempt to 
secure a decent suburban development 
which shall at the same time meet the 
necessities of the ** small buyers'' — who 
constitute perhaps the largest, and in some 
respects the most desirable, class among 
the seekers for small suburban homes. A 
certain number of these are able to buy, 
on easy terms, a lot with a house already 
built upon it, and can therefore be ac- 



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30 



Model Towns in America 



commodated by the erection and sale of 
groups such as already illustrated. But 
a far greater number, and those in fact 
to whom economy is most necessary, can- 
not afford to undertake the building of a 
house imtil three or four years after the 
purchase of their lots, even assuming the 
easiest terms which are possible on any 
commercial basis. 

On the other hand, to sell such small 
units as this class can afford to buy — lots 
of twelve or fifteen 
feet in width, for ex- 
ample — subject t o 
independent de- 
velopment by such 
individual owners, 
however careful the 
restrictions, is cer- 
tain to give results 
detrimental to the 
value of the prop- 
erty as a whole, 
quite aside from any 
aesthetic considera- 
tions or that of the 
additional expense 
involved in the sep- 
arate erection of 
such small indi- 
vidual houses. Unless some means be 
found, therefore, by which these difficul- 
ties can be met, the home-seekers of this 
class must be relegated to such undesir- 
able property as may have already lost 
caste by reason of similar disorderly 
growth, or may be for some other reason 
so undesirable as to make its proper de- 
velopment of no import. 

It is necessary again to cite Forest Hills 
Gardens for an example of any practical 
attempt to solve this problem. Under the 
'*Sage Group-building Plan" portions of 
the property are set apart for division into 
groups of lots of a width of thirteen feet 
each and upward, and for each group of 
lots a group of buildings is designed. 
Briefly stated, the plan provides for the 
purchase of individual plots forming parts 
of such a group upon terms of payment 
similar to those for ordinary vacant lots, 
and such modifications as are approved 
by the company will be made in the plans 
of individual houses of the group to suit 
the ideas of purchasers. As soon as ac- 
ceptable applications have been received 




for all the plots in a given group, formal 
contracts will be entered into between the 
company and the various purchasers, mak- 
ing the plan operative as to that group. 
The company will agree to build the whole 
group as soon as payments amoimting to 
approximately ten per cent of the com- 
bined price of house and plot, together 
with interest, taxes, and assessments, shall 
have been made on every plot in the group, 
provided all the terms of the contracts 
have been observed. 
Under the ordinary 
system of payments 
this amoimt will 
have been paid in 
about four years; 
but if at any time 
before that period 
each of the pur- 
chasers in the group 
shall have paid the 
required ten per 
cent, and, under cer- 
tain conditions, 
even though all the 
members of the 
entire group have 
not qualified, the 
company agrees to 
build the group forthwith. 

While preserving the forty- or fifty-foot 
plot, and its regular restrictions in all 
cases where lots are sold under ordinary 
conditions, the company hopes by this 
group-building plan to meet the need of 
those who want smaller plots for future 
building in a manner that secures the ad- 
vantage of large combined operations, 
both as to design and construction, with- 
out requiring as large a cash payment as is 
necessary to purchase a house in a group al- 
ready built and without too great sacrifice 
of individual preference as to house plans. 
By collective planning and control it 
thus hopes to save for the small pur- 
chaser the twenty per cent which, as we 
have seen, under the guise of its general 
restrictions, constitutes the ** factor of 
safety" necessary for the general protec- 
tion of its purchasers. 



But this is illustrative of only one type 
of burden which our ''model town," like 



Diagram No. 5. 



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Model Towns in America 



31 




a willing pack-animal, is expected to carry. 
Along with the more or less handily tied- 
up economic and aesthetic problems, like 
the foregoing, are a lot of loosely bound 
and awkwardly shaped sociological and 
social experiments which must sooner or 
later be added to the pack; the art of the 
business lying in so packing them that 
those proving too awkward for even a 
model pack-horse to carry can be slipped 
off before the animal goes down with the 
entire load on its 
back. While the 
field of co-operative 
possibilities in this 
connection is too 
large to permit in 
this article anything 
more than the most 
superficial glance, 
we may consider one 
example illustrating 
at once both the 
type of problem and 
the kind of precau- 
tion against failure 
which ought to be 
taken in all such 
demonstrations. 

In certain of the blocks at Forest Hills 
Gardens, provision has been made for 
small private parks in the interior of the 
blocks. But such parks, if increased in 
size beyond the very limited extent by 
which the depth of the abutting lots can 
be shortened, must correspondingly in- 
crease the normal price of the surrounding 
lots. Such additional cost, moreover, rep- 
resenting land permanently unavailable 
for anything but park purposes, would be 
a questionable investment for the small 
purchaser. To meet this difficulty, one 
section of property at Forest Hills Gardens 
has been especially subdivided as shown 
in the diagram (No. 5) so as to make it 
possible for the company to lease this in- 
terior property at a rental based on the 
wholesale price of the land to the abutting 
owners for co-operative development and 
control with the right of purchase. Under 
this plan an exceptionally large area is here 
reserved in the middle of the block with 
the expectation that it will be used in part 
as a private park for all the people in the 
block, with tennis-courts and such other 
provisions for recreation as they may de- 



Diagram No. 6. 



cide to have, and in part for private allot- 
ment gardens attached to those houses on 
the surrounding lots whose owners desire 
to lease additional garden space at a fair 
rental. 

There are many people who want to ex- 
periment with a garden — more of a garden 
than is possible on the ordinary house plot 
— but who either are unable to buy the 
necessary area or feel too uncertain of 
their gardening success to risk the addi- 
tional investment. 
To such as these the 
plan in contempla- 
tion offers the op- 
portunity of hiring 
garden space outside 
their lots and of in- 
creasing or decreas- 
ing this space, or 
finally giving it up, 
just as their experi- 
ence may dictate, 
instead of being 
definitely committed 
to what they might 
unwisely choose at 
the start. If as 
large a piece of land 
as that here reserved could never be used 
in other ways, in case the demand for 
garden space grew slack and the people 
in the block no longer cared to keep up a 
private park, the company would have 
to make itself safe against such a con- 
tingency by charging an extra price for 
the lots which carried with them the privi- 
leges of the reserved space. But the area 
enclosed in this case is designed so as to 
permit its conversion into a cross street 
flanked by building lots of marketable 
size, as is shown by the diagram (No. 6), 
which makes it commercially possible for 
the company to lease this area to the sur- 
rounding lot owners to acquire its use from 
the company at a rental unusually small, 
because based on the wholesale price of 
this land. They may thus decide for them- 
selves at the end of every year whether 
the park and gardens have shown them- 
selves to be worth their keep or whether 
on the whole they do not pay. If the 
owners of a majority of the lots in the 
block as now laid out should vote to give 
up the lease of the interior land, but only 
in such case, the company would resume 



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Treatment of entire street, showing collective desi|;n. 



Third Development — 
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its occupation thereof, construct a street 
through it. and sell the remaining land in 
lots. It would, however, first give the 
opportunity to each of the surrounding 
lot owners to purchase the piece in the 
rear of his own lot before selling it to an 
outsider; and at any time during the con- 
tinuance of the lease the surrounding lot 
owners would have the option of buying 
the interior land as a whole on joint ac- 
count. Thus it is happily arranged so 
that neither purchaser nor company can 
lose much of anything — a plan which com- 
bines the *' golden rule" and the principle 
of "heads I win and tails you lose," with 
what, it is hoped will prove beneficent 
results. 

VI 

And this characteristic is a very impor- 
tant one; for it means that, if successful 
others may safely try similar schemes 
without financial risk. Obviously, no ex- 
periment or demonstration should be made 
in a *' model town" such that could only 
be duplicated with the aid of philanthropy, 
charity, or paternalism, or in which the 
collective action might not be equally pos- 
sible and safe, whether the capital and 
direction be supplied by one proprietor, a 
great number of individuals in co-opera- 
tion, or, as is the case in the demonstra- 
tion by the Russell Sage Foundation at 
Forest Hills, a kind of educational oli- 
garchy whose control will gradually give 
place to a lot owner's democracy. 
32 



If for no other reason, therefore, the 
model town must be considered, organized 
and developed on a business basis; and 
the value of the experience acquired or 
any success achieved will depend first and 
last on obtaining results in the face of con- 
ditions no more favorable than ordinarily 
met with in other land developments, and 
by the use of means ordinarily available 
in other instances. In fact the future of 
town-planning in America depends on 
whether it can be shown to pay. The so- 
called model town must succeed on a com- 
mercial basis. It must even do better in 
this respect than the ordinary commer- 
cial or speculative development. Its edu- 
cational, architectural, and sociological 
possibilities, therefore, in the last analysis 
depend on its economic success. The 
equation is fundamentally an economic 
one, however aesthetically it may be put 
upon the slate, and its solution must be 
found in terms of dollars and cents. 

Thus, in spite of being called "garden 
cities," the real genesis and the most im- 
portant function of the European " model 
town" — usually developed on some kind 
of co-operative basis — has been an eco- 
nomic one, practically a matter of self- 
defence. Whereas the mediaeval walled 
town was a refuge for marauding barons, 
the co-operative town of to-day is prima- 
rily a means of protection against our 
modern land speculators. And the value 
of the model town in this respect should 
be even greater here in America, where 
one of the fundamental difficulties in the 



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Forest Hills Gardens 

mJu-1 L>lock bouses ili&ptised with a view to land economy und avoidance of monotony. 



solution of the housing problem lies in 
the uncertain and rapid changes in land 
prices and usage, and the speculative ex- 
ploitation of an increment very much 
** unearned*' by those who ordinarily 
profit most by it. 

While stimulated by a number of 
causes, these conditions are made possi- 
ble largely by reason of the lack of town- 
planning — that collective design and con- 
trol of which we have been speaking. 
Nor is it by any means confined to large 
cities and their suburbs. Economically, 
the problem exists long before the town 
grows to be a city. The trouble becomes 
tangible with the building of the first 
multiple dwellings and tenement houses. 
There is no more dangerous fallacy than 
the comfortable belief that sinister liv- 
ing conditions exist only in large cities. 

The efifect of bad housing on the poorer 
classes, and indirectly on the public in 
general, is now being constantly demon- 
strated; so that it is unnecessary further 
to emphasize it here. But it is doubtful 
if even the intelligent and interested por- 
tion of the public realizes that many of 
the w^orst housing conditions are directly 
due to bad city planning — improper street 
layout and lot units — and that unhygienic 
dwellings are oftentimes but symptomatic 
of unhealthy economic conditions. That 
what appears a problem in house and tene- 
ment design is at bottom really a question 
of street plan, lotting, restrictions, and city 
ordinances — in other words, town-plan- 
ning. 



To distinguish between the results of 
greed and neglect on the part of the builder 
and landlord, and the evils that are due to 
general causes for which they are in nowise 
responsible — systems of land distribution, 
sale, tenure, and taxation — is a most dif- 
ficult task. But it is the first step toward 
any permanent solution of the hydra- 
headed questions generally spoken of as 
the " housing problem. " And to any one 
who has first-hand knowledge of the living 
conditions under which the country breeds 
a great part of its workers and citizens, 
this "housing problem" must appear no 
inconsiderable factor in what is commonly 
spoken of as the "social unrest" through- 
out the country. 

But whether or not it be a directly con- 
tributing cause of strikes and other labor 
disturbances, this question of proper 
homes for laboring men should be rec- 
ognized as one of those grave problems 
that are coming to the surface in al^ parts 
of the United States as the flood of our sur- 
plus material wealth recedes; and which, 
like rocks in a harbor, are really most dan- 
gerous when still concealed, just before 
the ebbing tide bares them to plain view. 

To claim that garden suburbs and model 
towns will cure all such ills would be carry- 
ing our simile of the patent-medicine label 
a little too far. There is some danger that 
the power for good manifestly inherent in 
this world-wide awakening to the social 
meaning and importance of living con- 
ditions may be seriously hampered by a 
too thoughtless acceptance of its first 



33 



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34 



Model Towns in America 



manifestations in the shape of so-called 
" model " towns and demonstrations of va- 
rious kinds — proprietary, governmental, 
co-operative, or socialistic — as a cure-all 
for the body politic. 

Very evidently the success of all such 
experiments presupposes a supply of more 
or less ideal citizens, which is likely 
enough to prove difficult to obtain. Yet 
it is more than probable that this is due to 
the fact that while we have been build- 
ing model stock and poultry farms for a 



tical, may very properly stand for ideals 
higher than those of its inhabitants; for it 
is nothing more or less than a department 
of that most powerful of all educational 
institutions, " the school of environment." 
It is safe to say that to the majority of 
the readers of this magazine closely packed 
Manhattan represents a magnetic pole of 
social attraction — or distraction — of pro- 
fessional or business opportunity, toward 
which the needle of their compass is more 
or less strongly drawn — a place of monu- 




Children's Gardens, Dayton, Ohio. 
An example ot industrial social welfare work, in which the National Cash Register Cn. has l>eeu especially prominent. 



decade or two in which to breed blooded 
cows and prize hens, we are only now be- 
ginning the attempt to provide similarly 
well for the breeding of "blooded" citi- 
zens. Naturally no town can long remain 
"model" without "model" inhabitants. 
It will surely not rise above the level of 
its citizenship. That basic principle of 
hydraulics is an apt enough simile. But 
it is equally evident that water will not 
rise even to its own level unless the walls 
of the containing vessel are carried up to 
that height. So in spite of the fact that 
garden cities and suburbs must earn their 
living in just the same work-a-day fash- 
ion as the people who live in them, one 
should not forget that the town, even 
though it must be so essentially prac- 



mental hotels and private palaces, great 
enterprises, splendid amusements. The 
suburb, on the other hand, stands for the 
enforced economy of young married life — 
the martyrdom of commutation — largely 
" for the sake of the children." But to the 
masses that congest our tenements, streets, 
and subways, the city can rarely appear in 
such a light; far oftener a labyrinth of 
brick, stone, and steel — a place of uncer- 
tain work and little pay, of struggle for 
life, or even for existence — while the sub- 
urbs and smaller towns, if they but know 
it, may well be a haven of refuge. For it 
has been truly said that the one vital 
point in which the suburb differs from the 
city slums is in its possession of happiness. 
How far the dweller in the model town or 



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A recently developed group in Garden City, Long Island. 
A pioneer amont; comprehensively planned towns and suburbs in America. 



suburb partakes of this priceless posses- 
sion must largely depend upon himself; 
but the study of such problems, both here 
and abroad, leads, I think, to the convic- 
tion that for the great masses their oppor- 
tunity lies that way. 

And it is from this point of view that 
the study of suburban development in all 
its phases — as factory centre, model town, 
or garden city, commercial, philanthropic, 
educational — makes its strongest appeal. 
It has to do with the greatest conserva- 
tion problem of to-day — that of our race 
— and one that has been neglected with a 
recklessness that can only be described as 
American. 



So the model town, whether it serves 
to retard still further centralization in 
vast cities or to draw some portion of 
city dwellers back into purer environ- 
ment, as have the garden suburbs of Lon- 
don, has for its supreme function the 
making of healthier, happier, and better 
citizens. 

As for its practical definition, if the 
reader has not — by reason of this cata- 
logue of virtues — already written it down 
a "municipal prig," let him conceive it a 
place whose citizens are models of happi- 
ness. Or let him define it, as Maeterlinck 
might, "A model town is a collection of 
homes where bluebirds dwell." 




Pullmai). Illiiiuis. 
The most ambitious of earlier " model " devcl<»pmeiit.s. I-Omicrly under paternal control, lately •il>surbc<l by the i.it> of Chi>. t-^n. 



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From (t /hi>lt>^raph, io/>)n^kt iy Frtdenck /f'. Martin, Pasadena. 

Home of Henr>' E. Huntington, Pasadena. 



THE NEW SUBURB OF THE PACIFIC COAST 



By Elmer Grey 



TEERE are on the Pacific Coast many 
examples of suburbs that have been 
laid out with rare forethought. The 
best of these are residence districts of such 
surpassing beauty as to make it difficult to 
convey to the unfamiliar mind an idea of 
their charm. The difficulty lies in that 
words and photographs do not give an 
adequate impression. Photographs show 
partial views of what should be seen in 
entirety. Words are associated too often 
with the fiction of the printed page. 

The East has been an experimental sta- 
tion for the West in the matter of suburb 
planning; and this is fortunate. For it 
would have been a pity to mar the beauty 
of some of the most beautiful scener>' in 
the world by the introduction of roads and 
houses in a hap-hazard manner. Some of 
the natural advantages of the West have 
been desecrated, but enough have been 
a[)preciated and so well treated as to shine 
36 



as glowing examples of what nature when 
combined with intelligent art can accom- 
plish. In the suburb people desire above 
all else beauty of surroundings, and they 
are willing frequently to put up with con- 
siderable inconvenience in order to ob- 
tain it. They will leave the apartment- 
house or small city lot and travel an hour 
or more, morning and evening, in order to 
live in the suburb. They will climb hills 
when they get there in order to build their 
homes where is the finest view. They do 
require comfort, but they must have 
beauty also if at all possible. 

The far West has realized this fact, and 
applied it with courage. In Oak Knoll, 
Pasadena, an oak tree is valued at a 
thousand dollars, some at more than that. 
In this most beautiful residence district 
nature was lavish with her gifts, and man 
took advantage of it. The country is 
rolling and dotted with live oaks. Toward 



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The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



37 



the north is a mag- 
nificent background 
of mountains, to- 
ward the south a 
I>anorama of the en- 
tire San Gabriel Val- 
ley. With this good 
start roads were 
planned along the 
natural contours, 
wound through the 
bottoms of ravines 
and canyons, and 
thoroughly im- 
proved. In cases 
where trees or 
groups of trees 
came in the path 
of roads, the roads 
were deflected; and 
in some instances 

inMnensely valuable pieces of property 
were given over as parks to save a 
group of oaks or enhance the beauty of 
the whole. Along some of the winding 
drives tall eucalypti stand as sentries. 
Adorning many of the hills are full-grown 
orange orchards. Scattered in among 
them are beautiful villas, some of light 
hue reminiscent of Spain and Italy, others 
darker in tone and of a local style unique 
in its suitability to California sunshine 
and flowers. As I write the yellow fruit 
hangs upon the trees, the distant hills of 





A residence, Oak Knoll, Pasadena. 
A Mitrgestioii of the architecture ot Japan has l>cen used v 



A winding street in Oak Knoll, Pasadena. 



the valley, green from recent rains, stand 
out with remarkable distinctness, the 
mountains a few miles away are white with 
snow. There is no more delightful place 
in the world to live. 

Backed up against the mountains, north 
of Pasadena, lies Altadena. Recently 
there has been opened up there the Foot- 
hill Boulevard. Until a short while ago 
most of this drive consisted of but sage- 
brush, cacti, and boulders. Intelligent 
planning and ready money worked a 
transformation. It is now the favorite 
automobile drive 
for Pasadena and 
Los Angeles motor- 
ists. The topog- 
raphy of the coun- 
try is that of a deep 
wooded canyon 
running parallel 
with the base of the 
mountains. The 
drive for a consider- 
able distance has 
been planned to 
skirt the edge of the 
canyon, so that in 
riding along one 
looks across a 
chasm at the almost 
sheer and rocky face 
of the mountains. 
Always in another 
direction is the wide 



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Residence of G. W. Wattles, Hollywood, California. 
Oriifina!Iy th« property was bare save a covering of sat^e-brush. 



panorama of San Gabriel Valley. One of 
the finest features of this boulevard might 
have been irremediably spoiled if building 
lots and houses had been interposed be- 
tween the canyon and the drive. 



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Across a great arroyo, on another side 
of Pasadena, is San Rafael Heights with 
its quota of beautiful homes. It has all 
the natural advantages possessed by Oak 
Knoll minus the fine roads and walks. 
Besides an un- 
obstructed view of 
the mountains, it 
commands a pano- 
ramic view up and 
down the Arroyo 
Seco, which prom- 
ises to be preserved 
in its natural aspect 
as a public park. 

All around Pasa- 
dena and Los An- 
geles much of the 
architecture is 
beautiful by reason 
of its ha\dng a char- 
acter of its own. 
The local architects 
have frequently 
considered the oaks 
in designing their 



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Terraced garden, residence of G. W. Wattles, Hollywood, California. 
Now it is an ensemble of luxuriant semi-tropical fuliatje and flowers. 



buildings; and in many instances have 
built a porch, pergola, or balustrade around 
a spreading tree, forming a patio or terrace 
of unusual beauty. A number have also 
succeeded in instilling into their work 
a suggestion of the 
architecture of the 
Mediterranean 
countries; and 
whether because of 
the similar climate, 
or of the Spanish 
influence of the mis- 
sions and near-by 
Mexico, at any rate, 
the result harmo- 
nizes exceedingly 
well with the Cali- 
fornia landscape. 
The buildings are 
not Spanish in style, 
nor are they Italian ; 
they are distinctly 
Califomian, but the 
foreign influence 
pervades them and 



lends an additional charm. A suggestion 
of the architecture of Japan has also been 
widely used with good effect, and the two 
adaptations go far toward giving Southern 
California a distinctive architectural style. 




' niinK«*l"W Land" Ht^llywood. 



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40 



The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



Bungalow 
.It Pasadc- 




Bun|;aluw 
at Pasacic- 





From Los Angeles to the ocean, a dis- 
tance of about twenty miles, a magnificent 
boulevard skirts the foot-hills, connecting 
several suburbs on the way. The first of 
these is Hollywood, a district recently an- 
nexed to Los Angeles. It has beauti- 
fully shaded streets, but is conspicuous in 
a more unusual way for the manner in 
which the sides of its hills and canyons 
have been utilized for building purposes. 
Out of two of these hills and an interven- 
ing canyon, which at one time may have 
seemed to many like almost worthless 
property, was made one of the show places 
of California. It consists of an extensive 
terraced garden backing upward into the 
canyon. The lower portions around the 
house are surrounded by walls and are 
connected to the upper levels by many 
flights of balustraded steps. Originally 
the property was bare save a covering of 
sage-brush; now it is an ensemble of 
luxuriant semi-tropical foliage and flowers, 
half-hidden architectural features, mir- 
rored water eflFects and beautiful foot-hill 
background. 

In another of Hollywood's many can- 
yons is "Bungalow Land," where those of 
more modest means build their eyries. 
In many instances the ground floor of one 
part of a Hollywood house opens upon the 
second floor level of another portion built 
lower dow^n. 

Beverly Hills, situated a few miles near- 
er the ocean and midway between Los 
Angeles and the sea, is also built among 
the foot-hills and extends down from them 
over a wide stretch of sloping country. 
Nowhere in Southern California has there 
been a more consistent attempt to plan a 
suburb in the right way from the start. 
The business portion was established 
w here is the least view, at the lower end of 
the slope. The residence section extends 
from there northward, up, on and into the 
foot-hills. The main trolley lines from 
the city run through the business portion 
and also along the base of the hills. Ad- 
joining the principal station a consider- 
able piece of property was set aside as a 
park, planted with trees and shrubbery, 
and an extensive water-garden put in at 
the time the tract was laid out. The 
streets were planned in great sweeping 
curves having in mind the main lines of 
travel, and shade- trees were set out. Ow- 



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The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



41 



ing to the location of the town between 
the city and the sea, its fine situation along 
the hills, and its proximity to the golf links 
of the Los Angeles Country Club, it was 
foreseen that it would be a convenient and 
delightful resort for tourists. So u[)on a 
sightly knoll a site was established for a 
future hotel with another park in front of 



another, thus forming a most beautiful 
bay. Interj>osed between the mountains 
and the lower country is a wocxlcd canyon 
a mile wide and two hundred feet deep. 
The Palisades of Santa Monica overl(K)k 
this canyon, kx)k out u|)()n the bay, and 
also u|>on a beautiful mc*sa opposite and 
several ranges of mountains. A road 




I'ur xa 



'/w court Id 1 



it to fweserve its valley view. This was 
all several years ago. To-day a large 
tourist hostelry occupies the hotel site, 
the park opjx^ite has l^een still further im- 
proved, the street trees have attained siz<% 
and the entire place is building u[) ju^t as 
was first contemplated. How rnuc h bet- 
ter than to have had it grow haj>-hazard. 
Santa Monica, the ocean terminus of the 
lxiule\'ard from I>os Angeles, has a sit ua- 
tion similar to that of some of the beauti- 
ful seafXMt towns of Southern Italy. Here 
ail the mountain ranges I have menliorxcl 
asMfmbie to make their final Ujw. They 
do this with the utmost grace. Their 
rugged bhore^ are usually fringed with surf 
and jut out as j^omontories one beyond 



running from them follows up the coast 
and, skirting the shore for miles, consti- 
tutes a magnificent scenic autuinobile 
drive. 

In lakinj^ the train north from I><>s 
Anjreles, and after leaving San Franc isco, 
the character of the country begins to 
chan^'e. At Pc^rlland the chan;^e i^ very 
marked. At Seattle it is a transformation. 
Instead of the ((jnijiaratiNrly bare hills 
and tlie •'pr<'adin<i^ oaks of llje v>uth, vast 
forests of tall fjrs growing thickly to- 
geth^-r are the dominant note. Instead 
of the rjry canyons and arroyos oi South- 
ern California, many rivers and inlar** 
lakes appear. And these two fca** 



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42 



The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



the great forests of firs and other ever- 
greens and the plenitude of rivers and 
lakes, are the distinguishing character- 
istics of the north-western landscape. 
This distinction should be held in mind, 
because it marks a great difference be- 
tween the two sections of country as re- 
gards the treatment of their suburbs. It 
changes the material best adapted to 
landscaping and should change the style 
of architecture. The north-west has not 
yet found itself as regards a character- 
istic style of architecture, but this is more 






't<^J|J*C-j'' » 



>^^^^: 



Bungalow atCudahy Station, near Los Angeles. 



a great park system, the various units of 
which are connected by boulevards that 
wind along the shores of beautiful Lake 
Washington and Puget Sound. On the 
opposite shores of both of these bodies of 
water are snow-covered peaks; the 
Olympics on the west, the Cascades on the 
east. The parks are remnants of ancient 
forests (thus has Seattle conserved her 
natural resources) and, unlike the south- 
em country, the ground between the trees 
is covered thickly with an undergrowth of 
trailing plants, low-growing shrubs, and 
beautiful ferns. 
The effect of all 
these features in 
combination must 
be seen to be appre- 
ciated; and when 
you do see it, if you 
have a particle of 
love for the beauti- 
ful within you, you 
will come away with 
a sense of sorrow, 
not only because 
you have to leave 
so lovely a place, but 
also because you 
cannot convey an 
impression of its real 
character to your 
friends who have 
not seen it. The 
camera would need 






than made up by the 
way much of its 
landscaping has 
been done. I am 
writing now after 
having just seen 
Seattle, and my pen 
falters in con- 
sequence. For I 
know not how to ex- 
press all the wonder- 
ful beauty seen in 
one day^s automo- 
bilingover the wind- 
ing drives and ram- 
bling afoot through 
the dark-green 
forest parks of Se- 
attle's suburbs. 

They have distrib- 
uted through them 









^ ^M i 




•' i' .-% 



Bungalow Land, Hollywood. 



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Bungalow Land, Hollywood. 
In many instances the ground floor of one part of a Hollywood house opens upon the second floor level. 



to take one continuous panorama of your 
drive and walk to show but a fraction of 
it; words tell much less. I came away 
with a vision which I cannot transmit, of 
majestic firs towering in the air, of a 
maze of wonderful undergrowth beneath, 
of blue waters glistening between the trees 
and of snow-covered mountains beyond. 

It is to the very great credit of the peo- 
ple of Seattle that they appreciated the 
beauty of their city's unusual situation, 
and the remaining portions of forest in 
their midst and, before the latter had been 
cut do^Ti, employed an able firm of land- 
scape architects to make the best disposi- 
tion of them. It has been done in such 
ways as to provide every portion of the 
future residence section of the city as it 
expands with a forest park, a playground, 
and a drive along the water. The value 
of such foresight is never immediately 
apparent to all, and it is the more amaz- 
ing that Seattle should have done what 
it has done in so splendid a way. 

East of Seattle, some four hundred 
and forty miles, is the inland city of Spo- 
kane with a rushing river fed by moun- 
tain streams coursing through its midst. 



Twenty-three years ago Spokane had 
seven thousand inhabitants. To-day it 
has one hundred and thirty-two thousand. 
It also has a few men who have watched it 
grow, who realize that it will continue to 
grow, and who have secured for its suburbs 
a system of distributed parks and play- 
grounds which, considering lesser possi- 
bilities, is quite as fine as that of Seattle. 
Here as there expert advice was employed 
for the planning. The park lands ob- 
tained have not all been improved, but 
were secured by the city for park pur- 
poses while it was still possible to secure 
them at a reasonable figure, and before 
they had been denuded of trees or built 
upon. Many of them were given to the 
city by realty firms or others who realized 
that their use as parks would enhance the 
value of adjoining property. The con- 
necting parkways are likewise not all yet 
developed, but the roads have been se- 
cured for the purpose and are so laid out 
as to insure a drive thirty-seven miles 
long, with a commanding view on one side 
and residential property on the other. 

Much interesting development has been 
done in the Spokane suburbs. In Rock- 

43 



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44 



The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 




Photografh by Seattle Pjtblicity Bureau. 
Ml Baker Boulevard, on shore of Lake Washington. 

wood, streets have been laid out on the 
curvilinear plan following the natural 
contours, the trolley tracks have been 
placed in strips of 
parking, sometimes 
m the centre, some- 
times at the side of 
the street, and the 
ties have been 
lowered and grass 
grown between the 
rails. A number of 
fine old pines grow- 
ing in the street have 
been preserved. 
Some of the resi- 
dence sites embrace 
valley, river, and 
mountain views 
that are unsur- 
passed, and a num- 
ber of residences 
have been built of 
which any city 
might well be proud. 

Tacoma is worth visiting in connection 
with the suburb beautiful; but what it 
has in this line is mostly what nature has 
given it, while what it has not is due either 
to what man has done, or to what he has 
left undone. Much of the residence dis- 



trict has been denuded of trees in a 
shameful manner, and in the midst of it 
there are several magnificent gulches over- 
grown with firs, balsam, and madrona, one 
or two of which have been secured for 
parks, while the others overlooking Puget 
Sound and commanding wonderful views 
have been left to the disposition of fate. 

But what the city lacks in all-cast feat- 
ures, it makes up for in star attractions. 
Its Point Defiance Park is a primeval 
forest. The firs in it grow two hundred 
feet high. They rise like a myriad of 
gigantic gray columns, their tops and 
shafts adorned with great masses of grace- 
ful tuft-like foliage. As I rode through 
I could think only of "cathedral aisles." 
The undergrowth is an impenetrable 
jungle of Oregon grape, alder, madrona, 
huckleberries, and the like. The ground 
at the sides of the road is carpeted solid 
with moss. 

The "prairie'' lying north-west of the 
city is a tract of as yet undeveloped land, 
perhaps ten or fifteen miles square, as re- 
markable as it is beautiful. The peculiar 
constituency of the ground in it is such 
that, although unusually rich under culti- 




JVioto^ra/h by Seattle Pttblitity Bureau. 

Olympics from Golden Gardens, Seattle. 



vation for miles upon miles, the automo- 
bile glides over smooth hard roads that 
are virgin soil, while on either side, where 
the surface has not been disturbed, it is 
like a well-kept lawn. Dotted all over 
this sward are groups and groves of mag- 



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A -g^rifflre Kjc-^.'si H^'_-4.-d*, >ca-: c 

nincent firs, growing in some places as Portland has made such rapid progress 
thickly together as in a forest, essew^iKre along commercial lines that until recently 

little attention was paid to the manner of 
its growth. This is ver>- apparent to the 
str^nzer- It has now. however, a compre- 
htnsive citv i \in :>rei»ared r^y an e\t>crt, 
ini Li'^-.'ie- an e\*er--:ve p^-Tk :tnc t» u.e- 
V2irc rvrt-rr. : vr the ^u'-urvs. M -:h irvtrl- 



openin^ out to expose *ocg \-:slas oc tieau- 
tiful country. It is a nyj^t wic-derfui 
piece of natural ian-dsc^pcnz. 

The American Lake ci>tr>ct i? a s-.h-Tj 
laid out in three ar.d fc-'-r acre j.-ts an-d 
larsrer, a nd eticocipiaisijix .\ir>en:2Ji- Griv- 
elly, and SteLacx-c: Lii^^. It is r^,-iih 
like the "prairie c>-.jitrv. V.-: i^r ->^?^ 
developed slzA 't:-«I.t --z»:c ::.or-tirrt'.'y. 
It cootaii^ ocic :< ti>t '>?rt :j^:rt»ri. rij< 
pretcntixis, ar.i s^'-.T-r'j^rr iM,*_.-li.:* r^.' 
examples oc S'-V-r~^Lz: ii.r.-i,^ ir'jzir.^' ^^t 
in tins cc-urtr^" — rjiir r^-^i jtti'.*: .r 11' 
Chester Tl>>nft. Tjllit ir Mit Tii.rt ti r.*- 
woTLhy bcca--:=e r:t>r r -jh^ i.^n>r-.'* 
of the T^'jczh-'w-^z ^ i ^r-.it r ^ -r^^- :. - r. 
Ail f-tj^l-cs setn t- i^ *: t*-^^. '-'1^1 '-" 
see hiT"^ ir**ty -r :»..«t r' Tt^r* <i '►»'- '•• 
some rr.-te ti'j^^r:* »ir. n t^'t-i r- v • 
that 7>ir: < tz*t i .u:---7 ^ :»^. ^ •^- " 
and :^;p:«i-i-i.<:. I ▼ nrj^-r^. v-r--^ ' 
mizht ir.c i-T*i— ■' ir.r,rrLr n .:f '^' :: ' '- 
fl'jtrnce x iraLT-*"' . i-'L***'!-*- *^ '^i : 
p»i<rcc-s -jt ir :''€ n --'I -*r: ■-! -ir- -. :j - 

iCca. "» i^ 1 <:.ir-TTr:rt. ^i^* : - - 
lar.1-^'^' 






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46 



The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 




A Spokane residence. 

The suburbs around San Francisco are 
difficult to include in an article of this 
length, not only because there are so many 
of them, but also 
because in many 
cases their essen- 
tial character 
and difference 
from other places 
lie in qualities 
which must be 
seen and lived 
with in order io 
be understood. 
Many of them are 
quite old as com- 
pared with the 
places that have 
been described, 
and they have a 
certain charm in 
consequence 
which only age 
can give. They 
might be divided 
according to loca- 
tion into three 
classes: Those on 
the peninsula, 
those on the north 
side of the bay 

around the foot of Mount Tamalpais, and 
those west of the bay facing the Golden 
Gate. Mention of some must necessarily 
be omitted. On the peninsula a range of 




Automobile road winding throuKh the big timber in Point 
Defiance Park, Tacoma. 



hills runs north and 
south parallel with 
the shore of the Pa- 
cific. These hills 
become higher and 
more wooded as 
they run farther 
south. Fifteen or 
twenty miles from 
the city they are 
quite high and in 
the valley east of 
them, protected 
from the winds and 
fpgs of the ocean, 
are the suburbs of 
Burlingame, San 
Mateo,Menlo Park, 
and others. The 
three named are 
noteworthy as con- 
taining the homes of many of San Fran- 
cisco's people of wealth. From the road 
one sees only high hedges and fences sur- 
rounding large 
estates. Inside, 
many of the 
places are very 
beautiful. In 
one at San Ma- 
teo is a formal 
garden designed 
by Le NAtre, 
which has on a 
smaller scale 
much of the char- 
acter of the main 
garden of Ver- 
sailles. In anoth- 
er place is a most 
beautiful Japan- 
ese garden built 
adjacent to some 
bay-trees of enor- 
mous size and 
great age. The 
house in this 
place looks like 
a veritable old 
English manor 
overgrown with 
vines and ripened 
with age. Many more places of a like 
nature would doubtless be found if one 
had the time and the opportunity to enter 
and inspect them. 



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The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



47 



On the north side 
of the bay, facing an 
inlet about a mile 
wide and protected 
from the ocean's 
winds by the hills 
at the foot of Mount 
Tamalpais, is Sau- 
salito. " Sausalito 
the Beautiful" is 
here an appropriate 
term. For again 
one's enthusiasm 
wells up and there is 
a lack of words to 
express all the 





Garden in San Nfateo, in the 

Santa Clara Valley, 

California. 



of the streets are zig- 
zagged up the sides of 
steep hills, and there are 
three other streets which 
run parallel with the 
shore in tiers, one above 
the other. From the 
two upper levels one 
looks completely over 
the tops of the houses 
built on the one below. 
In going from the busi- 
ness portion of the town 
along the water front to 



Japanese earden in 
San Mateo. 



charm. It over- 
looks San Francisco 
Bay, the suburb of 
Belvidere across 
the inlet, and Angel 
Island, a govern- 
ment possession. 
It has the advan- 
tage of the other 
suburbs around San 
Francisco in having 
a sheltered harbor 
for yachts, and is 
also the official ren- 
dezvous for the 
United States rev- 
enue cutters. Most 




Reinforced concre'e arf h bridge. 
Constructed by the town of Ross. .Maiiii County, California. 



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Chester Thome residence, American Lake, Tacoma. 
The house is in the Tudor style and seems welded to the landscape. 



the residence section above, one passes 
many stone fences beautifully built in a 
natural manner by a local "Arbor So- 
ciety," which has also planted flowers and 
ferns along the way to be enjoyed or 
plucked by the passer-by. This means 
more in Sausalito than it would elsewhere, 
because the flowers there are exception- 
ally luxuriant and profuse in their bloom. 
In one spot commanding a particularly 
fine view, a beautiful granite seat has been 
erected by the Bohemian Club of San 
Francisco, in memory of the poet, Daniel 
O'Connell, who lived there. The homes 
of Sausalito and the paths leading to them 
are charming. In looking for one, we were 
told to climb a certain road, then a flight 
of steps, and then *' follow the trail." We 
did so, and after wending our way through 
a mass of low growing oaks, finally found 
the house embowered among the trees 
and called "Peter Pan's Cottage," be- 
cause the livable part of it, looking over a 
great stretch of oaks, seemed to be built 
almost among their tops. 

Farther north in a valley, and among 

the hills surrounding Mount Tamalpais, 

are the suburbs of Ross, San Anselmo, 

and others. The two named contain 

48 



many more homes of the well-to-do and 
have the same indefinable charm that 
only age and much attention can give. 
The trees are particularly high and beau- 
tiful. Many of the houses have wonder- 
ful hill-top sites, and these have often been 
taken advantage of in producing unusually 
beautiful landscape effects in the way of 
terraces, flights of winding steps, and the 
like. One of the features of Ross consists 
of a number of unusually well-designed 
concrete bridges adorned with beautiful 
electric light standards. The public and 
semi-public buildings are also unusually 
good looking. Here, as at Sausalito, the 
flowers, trees, and shrubs grow with re- 
markable luxuriance. 

On the east side of the bay are Oakland, 
Piedmont, and Berkeley, cities in them- 
selves. A large percentage of Berkeley 
residents, however, carry on their busi- 
ness in San Francisco. The most attrac- 
tive residence section of Berkeley extends 
along a wide stretch of territory lying 
among the hills overlooking San Fran- 
cisco Bay. The district is newer than the 
places on thepeninsula and around Tamal- 
pais, and, although continuous in devel- 
opment, is so extensive as to be known 



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Garden at the Chester Thome residence. 



locally by different names. Claremont, 
North Berkeley, Northbrae, and Thou- 
sand Oaks are some of the most attractive 
sections. A peculiar characteristic of the 
entire district lies in the fact that, al- 
though the building restrictions are quite 
low, the class of houses, both as to cost 
and beauty of design, is much higher. 
Whether the influence of the University of 
California is responsible for this or not is 
hard to say, but it gives Berkeley the dis- 
tinction of being one place near San Fran- 
cisco, where those of modest means may 
live in an accessible spot, amidst beauti- 
ful surroundings, and in the best of archi- 
tectural company. In Northbrae and 
Thousand Oaks, the newer sections, are 
found some of the most interesting feat- 
ures. Both are places of great natural 
beauty, occasioned not only by their posi- 
tion among the hills overlooking the bay, 
but by an unusual combination of oaks 
and eucalypti interspersed with great 
masses of glacial deposit rock jutting out 
of the ground. Here, as at Oak Knoll, 
Pasadena, trees have been preserved 
whenever possible and their beauty em- 
phasized. Also in Thousand Oaks huge 
rocks have in some instances been left in 



the middle of the street and the latter de- 
flected around them. In the same place, 
walls and steps have been built out of 
local stone, and one of the unique and 
beautiful features is the foot trails built 
in this way and connecting higher with 
lower levels where the grade was too 
steep for a street to follow. In Northbrae, 
in order to preserve the beauty of a spot 
where several streets come together, the 
trolley tracks have been run beneath it 
through a tunnel. The place, above which 
otherwise would have been less sightly, 
has been turned into a point of beauty or- 
namented with a well-designed fountain 
and surrounded by balustrades. 

Santa Barbara is famed afar. Its repu- 
tation rests largely upon the beauty of the 
country around about it. The most note- 
worthy portion of this outlying district is 
Montecito, a large area of hills and vales 
dotted with oaks, backed by the moun- 
tains, and commanding a magnificent 
view^ of the ocean. It is divided into 
twenty or thirty acre estates owned by 
wealthy people, who occupy their homes 
a few months in the year, and can afford 
to travel or live elsewhere the rest of the 

49 



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50 



The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 




A residence at Thousand Oak«, Berkeley, California. 




One of the "Thousand Oaks," V'oscmite Avenue, Berkeley. 




kcidcijcc^ near Indian Keck I'ark, Northbrac, Berkeley. 



time. Many of these houses, 
and the scheme of landscape 
gardening around them, are 
so palatial in scale that 
another article would be re- 
quired toadequately describe 
them. 

As with Santa Barbara, 
so with San Diego, the 
country around about is 
largely what has given it 
a wide reputation. Charles 
Dudley Warner once de- 
clared that there are three 
incomparable views in the 
world: one in Salzburg, one 
the Bay of Naples, the third 
Point Loma, California. As 
I stood at the latter place 
recently, and with some ex- 
perience in travel, I could 
well believe this to be true. 
San Diego lies in the middle 
of a semicircular bay, per- 
haps twenty miles wide. To- 
ward the south-east are four 
ranges of mountains, reced- 
ing one above the other. In 
the middle of the bay is Co- 
ronado Beach, virtually an 
island, since it is connected 
to the mainland only by a 
narrow spit of land. On it, 
beside the city of Coronado, 
is a training school for avi- 
ators, and almost any time 
hydroplanes and aeroplanes 
may be seen skimming the 
surface of the water or cir- 
cling overhead. North of 
Coronado is the channel en- 
trance to San Diego harbor, 
through which United States 
war vessels and other sea- 
going craft are continually 
coming and going. North 
of this and overlooking the 
panorama of the city of San 
Diego, the bay, Coronado, 
and the four ranges of moun- 
tains is Point Loma, extend- 
ing as a high peninsula 
several miles into the sea. 
The extreme end of it, com- 
prising thirteen hundred 
acres, is a government reser- 



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The New Suburb of the Pacific Coast 



5> 



vation open to the public as a park. Of the 
remaining portion, twelve hundred acres 
is now being laid out in roads following 
the natural contours, subdivided into 
large lots and provided with utilities. The 
inspiring thing about it is 
not only the remarkable sit- 
uation of Point Loma, but 
the fact that both it and other 
suburbs of San Diego are in 
the hands of men who, ap- 
parently, are alive to the 
transformation the city will 
probably undergo through 
the opening of the Panama 
Canal and a new cross-coun- 
try railway now under con- 
struction, and are making 
wise preparations to antici- 
pate this growth. 

Below Point Loma are 
small areas of tide-land flats 
which it is possible to re- 
claim by the construction 
of a sea-wall similar to that 
of Rio de Janeiro. This is 
seriously talked of, and if it 
is done and a projected bou- 
levard built along the edge 
of the bay connecting the 
city with the government 
park, San Diego will have 
one of the finest scenic drives 
in the world. 

A public park of fourteen 
hundred acres lying above 
and adjacent to the business centre of San 
Diego is ^equally interesting. It com- 
mands magnificent views of the bay, has a 
beautiful canyon running through it, and 
is now being further beautified by per- 
manent and extensive architectural feat- 
ures erected for first use in connection with 
the coming exposition. 

It should not be forgotten that much 
of the far West is now in the process of 



making. Many districts which are now 
new and somewhat bare will, within a few 
years, undergo an entire change of aspect. 
Especially is this true in California where 
irrigation applied to trees, flowers, and 




Bordering Indian Rock Park, Northbrae, Berkeley. 

shrubbery in a short time works wonders. 
All who are interested in this transforma- 
tion of a rapidly growing and a very 
beautiful country will watch the develop- 
ment of Pacific Coast cities during the 
next few years with interest. Commer- 
cial activity in all is proceeding hand in 
hand with the beautification of the sub- 
urbs; and therein lies incalculable future 
benefits. 




y%^^'^^MC}'^ 



§iiiiii 



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THE HEART OF THE HILLS 

BY JOHN FOX, JR. 

I I. I. r ST R A T I <» X BY K. C. V O H N' . 




XI 

IE last sunset had been 
clear and Jack Frost had 
got busy. All day the 
clouds had hung low and 
kept the air chill so that the 
night was good for that 
archimp of Satan who has got himself 
enshrined in the hearts of little children. 
By dawn the little magician had ^un a 
robe of pure white and drawn it close to 
the breast of the earth. The first light 
turned it silver and showed it decked with 
flowers and jewels, that the old mother 
might mistake it, perhaps, for a wedding- 
gown instead of a winding sheet; but the 
sun, knowing better, lifted, let loose his 
tiny warriors, and from pure loveof beauty 
smote it with one stroke gold, and the bat- 
tle ended with the blades of grass and the 
leaves in their scarlet finery sparkling with 
the joy of another day^s deliverance and 
the fields grown gray and aged in a single 
night. Before the fight was quite over 
that morning, saddle-horses were step- 
ping from big white bams and being led 
to old-fashioned stiles; buggies, phaetons, 
and rockaways were emerging from turn- 
pike gates; and the rabbit-hunters moved, 
shouting, laughing, running races, singing, 
pastfields sober with autumn, woodsdingy 
with oaks and streaked with the fire of su- 
mac and maple. On each side of the road 
new hemp lay in shining swaths, while 
bales of last year's crop were on the way 
to market alppg the road. The farmers 
were turning over the soil for the autumn 
sowing of wheat, corn-shucking was over, 
and ragged darkies were straggling from 
the fields back to town. From every point 
the hunters came, turning in where a big 
square brick house with a Grecian portico 
stood far back in a wooded yard, with a 
fish-pond on one side and a great smooth 
lawn on the other. On the steps between 
the columns stood Colonel Pendleton 
Vol. LII.— 7 



and Gray and Marjorie welcoming the 
guests; the men, sturdy country youths, 
good t3rpes of the beef-eating young Eng- 
lish squire — sun-burned fellows with big 
frames, open faces, fearless eyes, and a 
manner that was easy, cordial, kindly, 
independent; the girls midway between 
the tjrpes of brunette and blonde, with a 
leaning toward the latter type, with hair 
that had caught the light of the sun, 
radiant with freshness and good health 
and strength; round of figure, clear of 
eye and skin, spirited, soft of voice, and 
slow of speech. Soon a cavalcade moved 
through a side-gate of the yard, through 
a blue-grass woodland, greening with a 
second spring, and into a sweep of stubble 
and ragweed; and far up the road on top 
of a little hill a boy on an old mare stopped 
and watdied a strange sight in a strange 
land— a hunt without dog, stick, or gun. 
A high ringing voice reached his ears 
clearly, even that far away: 

"FormaUne!" 

And the wondering lad saw man and 
woman aligning themselves like cavalry 
fifteen feet apart and moving across the 
field — the men in leggings or high boots, 
riding with the heel low and the toes 
turned according to temperament; the 
girls with a cap, a Derby, or a beaver with 
a white veil, and the lad's eye caught one 
of them quickly, for a red tam-o'-shanter 
had slipped from her shining hair and a 
broad white girth ran around both her 
saddle and her horse. There was one man 
on a sorrel mule and he was the host at the 
big house, for Colonel Pendleton had sur- 
rendered every horse he had to a guest. 
Suddenly there came a yell — the rebel 
yell — and a horse leaped forward. Other 
horses leaped too, and everybody yelled 
in answer and the cavalcade swept for- 
ward. There was a massing of horses, 
the white girth flashing in the midst of the 
m^l^e, a great crash and much turning, 
twisting, and sawing of bits, and then all 

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The Heart of the Hills 



dashed the other way, the white girth in 
the lead, and the boy's lips fell apart in 
wonder. A black thoroughbred was mak- 
ing a wide sweep, an iron-gray was cutting 
in behind, and all were sweeping toward 
him. Far ahead of them he saw a fright- 
ened rabbit streaking through the weeds, 
and as it passed him the lad gave a yell, 
dug his heels into the old mare, and him- 
self swept down the pike, drawing his re- 
volver and firing as he rode. Five times 
the pistol spoke to the wondering hunters 
in pursuit and at the fifth the rabbit tmn- 
bled heels over head and a little later the 
hunters pulled their horses in around a 
boy holding a rabbit high in one hand, a 
pistol in the other, and his eager face 
flushed with pride in his marksmanship 
and the comradeship of the hunt. But 
the flush died into quick paleness so hos- 
tile were the faces, so hostile were the 
voices that assailed him, and he dropped 
the rabbit quickly and began shoving 
fresh cartridges into the chambers of his 
gun. 

"What do you mean, boy," shouted an 
angry voice, "shooting that rabbit?" 

The boy looked dazed. 

"Why, wasn't you atter him?" 

He looked around and in a moment he 
knew several of them, but nobody, it was 
plain, remembered him. 

The girl with the white girth was Mar- 
jorie, the boy on the black thoroughbred 
was Gray, and coming in an awkward 
gallop on the sorrel mule was Colonel 
PencUeton. None of these people could 
mean to do him harm, and Jason dropped 
his pistol in his holster and, with a curious 
dignity for so ragged an atom, turned in 
silence away, and only the girl with the 
white girth noticed the quiver of his lips 
and the angry starting of tears. 

As he started to mount the old mare, 
the excited yells coming from the fields 
were too much for him, and he climbed 
back on the fence to watch. The hunters 
had parted in twain, the black thorough- 
bred leading one wing, the iron-gray 
the other — both after a scurrying rabbit. 
Close behind the black horse was the 
white girth and close behind was a pony 
in full run. Under the brow of the hill 
they swept and parallel with the fence, 
and as they went by the boy strained 
eager widening eyes, for on the pony was 



his cousin Mavis Hawn, bending over 
her saddle and yelling like mad. This 
way and that poor Mollie swerved, but 
every way her big startled eyes turned, 
that way she saw a huge beast and a yell- 
ing demon bearing down on her. Again 
the horses crashed, the pony in the very 
midst. Gray threw himself from his sad- 
dle and was after her on foot. Two 
others swung from their saddles, Mollie 
made several helpless hops, and the three 
scrambled for her. The riders in front 
cried for those behind to hold their horses 
back, but they crowded on and Jason rose 
upright on the fence to see who should be 
trampled down. Poor Mollie was quite 
hemmed in now, there was no way of es- 
cape, and instinctively she shrank fright- 
ened to the earth. That was the crucial 
instant, and down went Gray on top of 
her as though she were a foot-ball, and the 
quarry was his. Jason saw him give her 
one blow behind her long ears and then, 
holding a little puff of down aloft, look 
about him, past Marjorie to Mavis, and 
a moment later he saw that rabbit's tail 
pinned to Mavis's cap, and sudden rage 
of jealousy nearly shook him from the 
fence. He was too far away to see Mar- 
jorie's smile, but he did see her eyes rove 
about the field and apparently catch sight 
of him, for as the rest turned to the himt 
she rode straight for him, for she remem- 
bered the distress of his face and he looked 
very lonely. 

"Little boy," she called, and the boy 
stared with amazement and rage, but the 
joke was too much for him and he laughed 
scornfully. 

"Little gal," he mimicked, "air you 
a-talkin' to me? " 

The girl gasped, reddened, lifted her 
chin haughtily, and raised her riding- 
whip to whirl away from the rude little 
stranger, but his steady eyes held hers 
until a flash of recognition came — and she 
smiled. 

"Well, I never— Uncle Bobl" she cried 
excitedly and imperiously, and as the 
colonel lumbered toward her on his sorrel 
mount, she called with sparkling eyes, 
"Don't you know him?" 

The puzzled face of the colonel broke 
into a hearty smile. 

" Well, bless my soul, it's Jason. You've 
come up to see your folks?" 



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55 



And then he explained what Marjorie 
meant to explain. 

"We're not hunting Tsith guns — we 
just chase 'em. Hang your artillery on a 
fence-rail, bring your horse through that 
gate, and join us." 

He turned and Marjorie, with him, 
called back over her shoulder: "Hurry 
up now, Jason." 

Little Jason sat still, but he saw Mar- 
jorie ride straight for the pony, he heard 
her cry to Mavis, and saw her wave her 
hand toward him, and then Mavis rode 
for him at a gallop, waving her whip to 
him as she came; but the boy gave no 
answering signal, but sat still, hard-eyed, 
cool. Before she was within twenty yards 
of him he had taken in every detail of the 
changes in her and the level look of his 
eyes stopped her happy cry, and made 
her grow quite pale with the old terror of 
giving him offence. Her hair looked dif- 
ferent, her clothes were different, she 
wore gloves, and she had a stick in one 
hand with a head like a cane and a loop 
of leather at the other end, and for these 
drawbacks, the old light in her eyes and 
face failed to make up, for while Jason 
looked, Mavis was looking, too, and the 
boy saw her eyes travelling him down 
from head to foot, and somehow he was 
reminded of the way Marjorie had looked 
at him back in the mountains and some- 
how he felt that the change that he re- 
sented in Mavis went deeper than her 
clothes. The morbidly sensitive spirit 
of the mountaineer in him was hurt, the 
chasm yawned instead of closing, and all 
he said shortly was: 

"Whar'd you git them new-fangled 
things?" 

"Marjorie give 'em to me. She said 
fer you to bring yo' hoss in — hit's more 
fun than I ever knowed in my life up 
here." 

" Hit is? " he half sneered. " Well, you 
git back to yo' high-falutin' friends an' 
tell 'em I don't hunt nothin' that-a-way." 

" I'll stop right now an' go home with ye. 
I guess you've come to see yo' mammy." 

"Well, I hain't ridin' aroun' just fer my 
health exactly." 

He had suddenly risen on the fence as 
the cries in the field swelled in a chorus, 
and she saw how strong the temptation 
within him was, and so, when he repeated 



for her to "go on back," the old habit of 
obedience turned her, but she knew he 
would soon follow. 

The field was going mad now, horses 
were dashing and crashing together, the 
men were swinging to the groxmd and 
were pushed and trampled in a wild 
clutch for Mollie's long ears, and Jason 
could see that the contest between them 
was who should get the most game. The 
big mule was threshing the weeds like a 
tornado, and crossing the field at a heavy 
gallop he stopped suddenly at a ditch, the 
girth broke, and the colonel went over the 
long ears. There was a shriek of laugh- 
ter, in which Jason from his perch joined, 
and with a bray of freedom the mule 
made for home. Apparently that field 
was hunted out now, and when the himt- 
ers crossed another pike and went into 
another field too far away for the boy to 
see the fun, he mounted his old mare and 
rode slowly after them, and a little later 
Mavis heard a familiar yell, and Jason 
flew by her with his pistol flopping on his 
hip, his hat in his hand, and his face fren- 
zied and gone wild. The thoroughbred 
passed him like a swallow, but the rabbit 
twisted back on his trail and Mavis saw 
Marjorie leap lightly from her saddle, 
Jason fling himself from his, and then 
both were hidden by the crush of horses 
around them, and from the midst rose 
sharp cries of warning and fear. 

She saw Gray's face white with terror, 
and then she saw Marjorie picking herself 
up from the grotmd and Jason swaying 
dizzily on his feet with a rabbit in his 
hand. 

" 'Tam't nothin'," he said stoutly, and 
he grinned his admiration openly for Mar- 
jorie, who looked such anxiety for him. 
"You ain't afeerd o' nothin', air ye, an' 
I reckon this rabbit tail is a-goin' to you," 
and he handed it to her and tinned to his 
horse. The boy had jerked Marjorie 
from under the thoroughbred's hoofs and 
then gone on recklessly after the rabbit, 
getting a glancing blow from one of those 
hoofs himself. 

Marjorie smiled. 

"Thank you, little — man," and Jason 
grinned again, but his head was dizzy and 
he did not ride after the crowd. 

" I'm afeerd fer this ole nag," he lied to 
Colonel Pendleton, for he was faint at the 



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The Heart of the Hills 



stomach and the world had begun to turn 
around. Then he made one clutch for the 
old nag's mane, missed it, and rolled sense- 
less to the ground. 

Not long afterward he opened his eyes 
to find his head in the colonel's lap, Mar- 
jorie bathing his forehead with a wet 
handkerchief, and Gray near by, still a 
little pale from remorse for his careless- 
ness and Marjorie's narrow escape, and 
Mavis the most unconcerned of all — and he 
was much ashamed. Rudely he brushed 
Marjorie's consoling hand away and wrig- 
gled away from the colonel to his knees. 

"Shucks!" he said, \\'ith great disgust. 

The shadows were stretching fast, it 
was too late to try another field, so back 
they started through the radiant air, 
laughing, talking, bantering, living over 
the incidents of the day, the men with one 
leg swimg for rest over the pommel of the 
their saddles, the girls with habits dis- 
ordered and torn, hair down, and all tired, 
but all flushed, clear-eyed, happy. The 
leaves — ^russet, gold, and crimson — were 
dropping to the autunm-greening earth, 
the sunlight was as yellow as the wings of 
a butterfly and on the horizon was a faint 
haze that shadowed the coming Indian 
summer. But still it was warm enough 
for a great spread on the lawn, and what 
a feast for mountain eyes — chicken, tur- 
key, cold ham, pickles, croquettes, creams, 
jellies, beaten biscuits. And what happy 
laughter and thoughtful courtesy and 
mellow kindness — ^particularly to the lit- 
tle mountain pair, for in the mountains 
they had given the Pendletons the best 
they had and now the best was theirs. 
Inside fires were being lighted in the big 
fireplaces and quiet, solid, old-fashioned 
English comfort everywhere the blaze 
brought out. 

Already two darkey fiddlers were wait- 
ing on the back porch for a dram, and 
when the darkness settled the fiddles were 
talking old tunes and nimble feet were 
busy. And little Jason did his wonderful 
dancing and Gray did his, and rotmd about, 
the window seats and the tall colimms of 
the porch heard again from lovers what 
they had been listening to for so long. 
And at midnight the hunters rode forth 
again in pairs into the crisp, brilliant air 
xnd under the kindly moon. Mavis jogging 



along beside Jason on Marjorie's pony, 
for Marjorie would not have it other- 
wise. No wonder that Mavis loved the 
land. 

**I jerked the gal outen the way," ex- 
plained Jason, " 'cause she was a gal an' 
had no business messin' with men folks." 

**0f co'se," Mavis agreed, for she was 
just as contemptuous as he over the fuss 
that had been made of the incident. 

"But she ain't afeerd o' nuthin'." 

This was a little too much. 

"lain't nuther." 

"Co'se you ain't" 

There was no credit for Mavis — her 
courage was a matter of course; but with 
the stranger-girl, a "furriner" — that was 
different. There was silence for a while. 

"Wasn't it lots o' fun, Jasie?" 

"Bully," was the absent-minded an- 
swer, for Jason was looking at the strange- 
ness of the night. It was^ curious not to 
see the big bulks of the mountains and to 
see so many stars. In the mountains he 
had to look straight up to see stars at 
all and now they hung almost to the level 
of his eyes. 

"How's the folks?" asked Mavis. 

"Stirrin'. Air ye goin' to school up 
here?" 

"Yes, an' who you reckon the school- 
teacher is?" 

Jason shook his head. 

"Thejologist." 

"WeU,byHeck." 

"An' he's always axin' me about you 
an' if you air goin' to school." 

For a while more they rode in silence. 

" I went to that new furrin school down 
in the mountains," yawned the boy, "fer 
'bout two hours. They're gittin' teo 
high-falutin' to suit me. They tried to 
git me to wear gal's stockin's like they do 
up here an' I jes' laughed at 'em. Then 
they tried to git me to make up beds an' I 
tol' 'em I wasn't goin' to wear gal's clothes 
ner do a gal's work an' so I run away." 

He did not tell his reason for leaving the 
mountains altogether, for Mavis, too, was 
a girl, and he did not confide in women — 
not yet. 

But the girl was woman enough to re- 
member that the last time she had seen 
him he had said that he was going to come 
for her some day. There was no sign 
of that resolution, however, in either his 



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manner or his words now, and for some 
reason she was rather glad. 

".Every boy wears clothes like that up 
here. They calls 'em knickerbockers." 

"Huh! " grunted Jason, "Hit sounds 
like 'em." 

"Air ye still shootin' at that ole tree?" 

"Yep, an' I kin hit the belly-band two 
shots out o' three." 

Mavis raised her dark eyes with a look 
of apprehension, for she knew what that 
meant; when he could hit it three times 
running he was going after the man who 
had killed his father. But she asked no 
more questions, for while the boy could 
not forbear to boast about his marksman^ 
ship, further information was beyond her 
sphere and she knew it. 

When they came to the lane leading to 
her home, Jason turned down it of his own 
accord. 

"How'd you know whar we live?" 

"I was here this momin' an' I seed my 
mammy. Yo' daddy wasn't thar." 

Mavis smiled silently to herself; he 
had foimd out thus where she was and 
he had followed her. At the little stable 
Jason imsaddled the horses and turned 
both out in the yard while Mavis went 
within and Steve Hawn appeared at the 
door in his underclothes when Jason 
stepped upon the porch. 

"HeUo, Jason I" 

"Hello, Steve!" answered the boy, but 
they did not shake hands, not because of 
the hard feeling between them, but be- 
cause it was not mountain custom. 

"Come on in an' lay down." 

Mavis had gone upstairs, but she could 
hear the voices below her. If Mavis had 
been hesitant about asking questions, as 
had been the boy's mother as well, Steve 
was not. 

"Whut'd you come up here fer?" 

" Same reason as you once left the moun- 
tains — I got inter trouble." 

Steve was startled and he frowned, but 
the boy gazed coolly back into his angry 
eyes. 

"Whut kind o' trouble?" 

" Same as you — I shot a feller," said the 
boy imperturbably. 

Little Mavis heard a groan from her 
stepmother, an angry oath from her fa- 
ther, and a curious pang of horror pierced 
her. 



Silence followed below and the girl lay 
awake and trembling in her bed. 

"Who was it?" Steve asked at last. 

" That's my business," said little Jason, 
and the silence was broken no more, and 
Mavis lay with new thoughts and fedings 
racking her brain and her heart. Once 
she had driven to town with Marjorie 
and Gray, and a man had come to the 
carriage and cheerily shaken hands with 
them both, and after he was gone Gray 
looked very grave and Marjorie was half 
unconsciously wiping her right hand with 
her handkerchief. 

"He killed a man," was Marjorie's hor- 
rified whisper of explanation, and now 
if they should hear what she had heard 
they would feel the same way toward her 
own cousin, Jason Hawn. She had never 
had such a feeling in the mountains, but 
she had it now, and she wondered whether 
she coiild ever be quite the same toward 
Jason again. 

xu 

Christmas was approaching and no 
greater wonder had ever dawned on the 
lives of Mavis and Jason than the way 
these people in the settlements made ready 
for it. In the mountains many had never 
heard of Christmas and none of Christ- 
mas stockings, Santa Claus, and catching 
Christmas ^ts — ^not even the Hawns. 
But Mavis and Jason had known of 
Christmas, had celebrated it after the 
mountain way, and knew, moreover, what 
the blue-grass children did not know, of 
old Christmas as well, which came just 
twelve days after the new. At mid- 
night of old Christmas, so the old folks 
in the mountains said, the elders bloomed 
and the beasts of the field and the cattle 
in the bam kneeled lowing and moaning, 
and once the two children had slipped 
out of their grandfather's house to the 
bam and waited to watch the cattle and 
to listen to them, but they suffered from 
the cold, and when they told what they 
had done next morning, their grandfather 
said they had not waited long enough, 
for it happened just at midnight; and 
when Mavis and Jason told Marjorie and 
Gray of old Christmas they all agreed 
they would wait up this time till mid- 
night sure. 



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As for new Christmas in the hills, the 
women paid little attention to it, and to 
the men it meant ** a jug of liquor, a pistol 
in each hand, and a galloping nag." Al- 
ways, indeed, it meant dnnking, and tar- 
get-shooting to see " who should drink and 
who should smell," for the man who made 
a bad shot got nothing but a smell from 
the jug until he had redeemed himself. 
So, Steve Hawn and Jason got ready in 
their own way and Mavis and Martha 
Hawn accepted their rude preparations 
as a matter of course. 

At four o'clock in the afternoon before 
Christmas Eve darkies began springing 
around the comers of the twin houses, and 
from closets and from behind doors, upon 
the white folks and shouting 'Christmas 
gift," for to the one who said the greet- 
ing first the gift came, and it is safe to 
say that no darkey in the blue-grass was 
caught that day. And the Pendleton clan 
made ready to make merry. Kinspeople 
gathered at the old general's ancient home 
and at the twin houses on either side 
of the road. Stockings were hung up 
and eager-eyed children went to rest- 
less dreams of their holiday king. Steve 
Hawn, too, had made ready with.boxes of 
cartridges and two jugs of red liquor, and 
he and Jason did not wait for the mor- 
row to make merry. And Uncle Arch 
Hawn happened to come in that night, 
but he was chary of the cup, and he 
frowned with displeasure at Jason, who 
was taking his dram with Steve like a 
man, and he showed displeasure before he 
rode away that night by planting a thorn 
in the very heart of Jason's sensitive soul. 
When he had climbed on his horse he 
turned to Jason. 

"Jason," he drawled, "you can come 
back home now when you git good an' 
ready. Thar ain't no trouble down thar 
just now, an' Babe Honeycutt ain't lookin' 
fer you." 

Jason gasped. He had not dared to ask 
a single question about the one thing that 
had been torturing his curiosity and his 
soul, and Arch was bringing it out before 
them all as though it were the most casual 
and imimportant matter in the world. 
Steve and his wife looked amazed and 
Mavis's heart quickened. 

"Babe ain't lookin' fer ye," Arch 
drawled on, " he's laughin' at ye. I reck- 



on you thought you'd killed him, but he 
stumbled over a root an' fell down just as 
you shot. He says you missed him a mile. 
He says you couldn't hit a bam in plain 
daylight." And he started away. 

A furious oath broke from Jason's gap- 
ing mouth, Steve laughed, and if the lK)y*s 
pistol had been in his hand, he might in 
his rage have shown Arch as he rode away 
what his marksmanship could be even in 
the dark, but even with his imcle's laugh, 
too, coming back to him he had to turn 
quickly into the house and let his wrath 
bite silently inward. 

But Mavis's eyes were like moist stars. 
. "Oh, Jasie, I'm so glad," she said, but 
he only stared and tumed roughly on 
toward the jug in the comer. 

Before day next morning the children 
in the big houses were making the walls 
ring with laughter and shouts of joy. 
Rockets whizzed against the dawn and 
firecrackers popped unceasingly and now 
and then a loaded anvil boomed through 
the crackling air, but there was no happy 
awakening for little Jason. All night his 
pride had smarted like a hornet sting, his 
sleep was restless and bitter with dreams 
of revenge, and the hot current in his 
veins surged back and forth in the old 
channel of hate for the slayer of his fa- 
ther. Next morning his blood-shot eyes 
opened fierce and sullen and he started 
the day with a visit to the whiskey jug 
and then he filled his belt and pockets 
with cartridges. 

Early in the aftemoon Marjorie and 
Gray drove over with Christmas greetings 
and little presents. Mavis went out to 
meet them, and when Jason half staggered 
out to the gate, the visitors called to him 
merrily and became instantiv grave and 
still . Mavis flushed, Marjone paled with 
horror and disgust, and Gray flamed 
with wonder and contempt and quickly 
whipped up his horse — the mountain 
boy was dmnk. 

Jason stared after them, knowing some- 
thing had suddenly gone wrong, and while 
he said nothing, hisfacegot all the angrier, 
and he mshed in for his belt and pistol, 
and shaking his head from side to side, 
swaggered out to the stable and began 
saddling his old mare. Mavis stood in 
the doorway frightened and ashamed, the 
boy's mother plead with him to come into 



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the house and lie down, but without a 
word to either he mounted with difficulty 
and rode down the road. Steve Hawn, 
who had been silently watching him, 
laughed. 

"Let him alone — he ain't goin' to do 
nothm'.^' 

Down the road the boy rode with more 
drunken swagger than his years in the 
wake of Marjorie and Gray — xmconscious- 
ly in the wake of anything that was even 
critical, much less hostile, and in front of 
Gray's house he pulled up and gazed long 
at the pillars and the broad open door, 
but not a soul was in sight and he paced 
slowly on. A few hundred yards down 
the turnpike he pulled up again and long 
and critically surveyed a woodland. His 
eye caught one lone tree in the centre of 
an amphitheatrical hoUow just visible over 
the slope of a hill. The look of the tree in- 
ter^ted him, for its growth was strange, 
and he opened the gate and rode across 
the thick turf towani it. The bark was 
smooth and the tree was the size of a man 's 
body, and he dismounted, nodding his 
head up and down with mudi satisfaction. 
Standing dose to the tree, he pulled out 
his knife and cut out a square of the bark 
as high as the first button of his coat and 
moving around the tnmk cut out several 
more squares at the same level. 

"I reckon," he muttered, "that's whar 
his heart is yit, if / ain't growed too much. " 

Then he led the old mare to higher 
ground, came back, levelled his pistol, and 
moving in a circle around the tree, pulled 
the trigger opposite each square, and with 
every shot he grunted: 

"Can't hit a bam, can't I, by Heck!" 

In each square a bullet went home. 
Then he reloaded and walked rapidly 
around the tree, still firing. 

"An' I reckon that's a-makin' some 
nail-holes fer his galluses!" 

And reloading again he ran around the 
tree, firing. 

"An' mebbe I couldn't still git him if I 
was hikin' fer the comer of a house an' was 
in a leelle grain of a hiury to git out o' 
kis range." 

Examining results at a close range, the 
bay was quite satisfied — hardly a shot had 
struck without a band three inches in 
width around the tree. There was one 
further test that he had not yet made; but 



he felt sober now and he drew a bottle from 
his hip^pocket and puUedat it hard and 
long. The old nag grazing above him had 
paid no more attention to the fusillade 
than to the buzzing of flies. He moimted 
her, and Gray, riding at a gallop to make 
out what the unearthly racket going on in 
the hollow was, saw the boy going at full 
speed in a circle about the tree, finng and 
yelling, and as Gray himself in a moment 
more would be in range, he shouted a warn- 
ing. Jason stopped and waited with bel- 
ligerent eyes as Gray rode toward him. 

"I say, Jason," Gray smiled, "I'm 
afraid my father wouldn't like that — 
you've pretty near killed that tree." 

Jason stared, amazed. 

" Fust time I ever heerd of anybody not 
wantin' a feller to shoot at a tree." 

Gray saw that he was in earnest and he 
kept on, smiling. 

"Well, we haven't got as many trees 
here as you have down in the mountains, 
and up here they're more valuable." 

The last words were imfortunate. 

"Looks like you keer a heep fer yo' 
trees," sneered the motmtain boy with a 
wave of his pistol toward a demolished 
woodland; "an' if our trees.air so wuth- 
less, whut do you furriners come down 
thar and rob us of 'em fer?" 

The sneer, the tone, and the bitter em- 
phasis on the one ugly word tumed Gray's 
face quite red. 

"You mustn't say anything like that 
to me," was his answer, and the self- 
control in his voice but helped make the 
mountain boy lose his at once and com- 
pletely. He rode straight for Gray and 
pulled in, waving his pistol crazily before 
the latter's face, and Gray could actually 
hear the grinding of his teeth. 

"Go git yo' gun! Git yo' gun!" 

Gray turned very pale, but he showed 
no fear. 

"I don't know what's the matter with 
you," he said steadily, "but you must be 
drunk." 

"Go git yo' gim!" was the furious 
answer. "Go git yo' gun!" 

"Boys don't fight i^ith guns in this 
country, but " 

"You're a d — d coward," yelled Jason. 

Gray's fist shot through the mist of 
rage that suddenly blinded him, catching 
Jason on the point of the chin, and as the 



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60 



The Heart of the Hills 



mountain boy spun, half around in his 
saddle, Gray caught the pistol in both 
hands and in the struggle both rolled, still 
clutching the weapon, to the ground, 
Gray saying with quiet fury: 

"Drop that pistol and I'll lick hdl out 
of you!" 

There was no answer but the twist of 
Jason's wrist, and the bullet went harm- 
lessly upward. Before he could pull the 
trigger again, the sinewy fingers of a man's 
hand closed over the weapon and pushed 
it flat with the earth, and Jason's upturned 
eyes looked into the grave face of the 
school-master. That face was stem and 
shamed Jason instantly. The two boys 
rose to their feet, and the mountain boy 
turned away from the school-master and 
saw Marjorie standing ten yards away 
white and terror-stricken, and her eyes 
when he met them blazed at him with a 
light that no human eye had ever turned 
on him before. The boy knew anger, 
rage, hate, revenge, but contempt was 
new to him, and his soul was filled with 
sudden shame that was no less strange, 
but the spirit in him was undaunted, and 
like a challenged young buck his head 
went up as he turned again to face his 
accuser. 

** Were you going to shoot an unarmed 
boy?" asked John Bumham gravely. 

"He hit me." 

"You called him a coward." 

"He hit me." 

" He offered to fight you fist and skull." 

" He had the same chance to git the gun 
that I had." 

"He wasn't trying to get it in order to 
shoot you." 

Jason made no answer and the school- 
master repeated: 

" He offered to fight you fist and skull." 

"I was too mad — but I'll fight him 
now." 

"Boys don't fight in the presence of 
young ladies." 

Gray spoke up and in his tone was the 
contempt that was in Marjorie's eyes, 
and it made the mountain boy writhe. 

"I wouldn't soil my hands on you — 
now." 

The school-master rebuked 'Gray with 
a gesture, but Jason was confused and 
sick now and he held out his hand for his 
pistol. 



"I better be goin' now — this ain't no 
place fer me." 

The school-master gravely handed the 
weapon to him. 

"I'm coming over to have a talk with 
you, Jason," he said. 

The boy made no answer. He climbed 
on his horse slowly. His face was very 
pale, and once only he swept the group 
with eyes that were badgered but no longer 
angry, and as they rested on Marjorie, 
there was a pitiful, lonely something in 
them that instantly melted her and almost 
started her tears. Then he rode silently 
and slowly away. 

XIII 

Slowly the lad rode westward, for the 
reason that he was not yet quite ready to 
pass between those two big-pillared houses 
again, and because just then whatever.his 
way — no matter. His anger was all gone 
now and his brain was clear, but he was 
bewildered. Throughout the day he had 
done nothing that he thought was wrong, 
and yet throughout the day he had done 
nothing that seemed to be right. This 
land was not for him — he did not under- 
stand the ways of it and the people and 
they did not understand him. Even the 
rock-pecker had gone back on him, and 
though that hurt him deeply, the lad loy- 
ally knew that the school-master must 
have his own good reasons. The memory 
of Marjorie's look still hiut, and somehow 
he felt that even Mavis was vaguely on 
their side against him, and of a sudden the 
pang of loneliness that Marjorie saw in 
his eyes so pierced him that he pulled 
his old nag in and stood motionless in 
the middle of the road. The sky was 
overcast and the air was bitter and chill ; 
through the gray curtain that hung to 
the rim of the earth, the low sun swimg 
like a cooling ball of fire and under it the 
gray fields stretched with such desolation 
for him that he dared ride no further 
into them. And then as the lad looked 
across the level stillness that encircled 
him, the mountains loomed suddenly 
from it — big, still, peaceful, beckoning — 
and made him faint with homesickness. 
Those mountains were behind him — his 
mountains and his home that was his no 
longer — but, after all, any home back 



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The Heart of the Hills 



61 



there was his, and that thought so filled 
his heart with a rush of gladness that 
with one long breath of exultation he 
turned in his saddle to face those distant 
unseen hills, and the old mare, following 
the movement of his body, turned, too, 
as though she, too, suddenly wanted to 
go home. The chill air actually seemed 
to grow warmer as he trotted back, the 
fields looked less desolate, and then across 
them he saw flashing toward him the hos- 
tile fire of a scarlet tam-o'-shanter. He 
was nearing the yard gate of the big house 
on the right, and from the other big house 
on the left the spot of shaking crimson 
was galloping toward the turnpike. He 
could wait until Marjorie crossed the road 
ahead of him, or he could gallop ahead 
and pass before she could reach the gate, 
but his sullen pride forbade either course, 
and so he rode straight on, and his dogged 
eyes met hers as she swimg the gate to 
and turned her pony across the road. 
Marjorie flushed, her lips half parted to 
speak, and Jason sullenly drew in, but as 
she said nothing, he clucked and dug his 
heels viciously into the old mare's sides. 

Then the little girl raised one hand to 
check him and spoke hurriedly: 

"Jason, we've been talking about you, 
and my Uncle Bob says you kept me from 
getting killed." 

Jason stared. 

"And the school-teacher says we don't 
understand you — you people down in the 
mountains — and that we mustn't blame 
you for — ," she paused in helpless em- 
barrassment, for still the mountain boy 
stared. 

" You know," she went on finally, " boys 
here don't do things that you boys do 
down there " 

She stopped again, the tears started 
suddenly in her earnest eyes, and a miracle 
happened to little Jason. Something 
quite new surged within him, his own 
eyes swam suddenly, and he cleared his 
throat huskily. 

" I hain't a-goin' to bother you folks no 
more," he said, and he tried to be surly, 
but couldn't. "I'm a-goin' away." The 
little girl's tears ceased. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish you'd 
stay here and go to school. The school- 
teacher said he wanted you to do that, 
and he says such nice things about you. 



and so does my Uncle Bob, and Gray is 
sorry, and he says he' is coming over to 
see you to-morrow." 

"I'm a-goin' home," repeated Jason 
stubbornly. 

"Home?" repeated the girl, and her 
tone did what her look had done a mo- 
ment before, for she knew he had no home, 
and again the lad was filled with a throb- 
bing imeasiness. Her eyes dropped to 
her pony's mane, and in a moment more 
she looked up with shy earnestness. 

"Will you do something for me?" 

Again Jason started and of its own ac- 
cord* his tongue spoke words that to his 
own ears were very strange. 

"Thar hain't nothin.' I won't do fer 
ye," he said, and his Sturdy sincerity curi- 
ously distiu'bed Marjorie i||i tiun, so that 
her flush came back, and she went on with 
slow hesitation and with her eyes again 
fixed on her pony's neck. 

" I want you to promise me not — not to 
shoot anybody — imless you have to in self- 
defence — and never to take another drink 
until — until you see me again." 

She could not have bewildered the boy 
more had she asked him never to go bare- 
foot again, but his eyes were solemn when 
she looked up and solemnly he nodded 
assent. 

"I give ye my hand." 

The words were not literal, but merely 
the way the mountaineer phrases the giv- 
ing of a promise, but the little girl took 
them literally and she rode up to him with 
slim fingers outstretched and a warm 
friendly smile on her little red mouth. 
Awkwardly the lad thrust out his dirty, 
strong little hand. 

"(jood-by, Jason," she said. 

"Good-by— ," he faltered, and still 
smiling, she finished the words for him. 

"Marjorie," she said, and unsmilingly 
he repeated: 

"Marjorie." 

While she passed through the gate he 
sat still and watched her, and he kept on 
watching her as she galloped toward home, 
twisting in his saddle to follow her course 
around the winding road. He saw a ne- 
gro boy come out to the stile to take her 
pony, and there Marjorie, dismounting, 
saw in turn the lad still motionless where 
she had left him, and looking after her: 
She waved her whip to him and went on 



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62 



The Heart of the Hills 



toward thehouse, and when .she reached 
the top of the steps, she turned and waved 
to him again, but he made no answering 
gesture, and only when the front door 
closed behind her, did the boy waken 
from his trance and jog slowly up the 
road. Only the rim of the red fire ball 
was arched over the horizon behind him 
now. Winter dusk was engulfing the 
fields and through it belated crows were 
skurrying silently for protecting woods. 
For a little while Jason rode with his 
hands folded man- wise on the ponmiel of 
his saddle and with manlike emotions in 
his heart, for, while the mountains still 
beckoned, this land had somehow grown 
more friendly, and there was a curious 
something after all that he would leave be- 
hind. What it was he hardly knew, but 
a pair of blue ^yes, misty with mysterious 
tears, had sown memories in his confused 
brain that he would not soon lose. He did 
not forget the contempt that had blazed 
from those eyes, but he wondered now at 
the reason for the contempt. Was there 
something that ruled this land — some- 
thing better than the code that ruled his 
hills? He had remembered every word 
the geologist had ever said, for he loved 
the man, but it had remained for a strange 
girl — a girl — to revive them, to give them 
actual life and plant within him a sudden 
resolve to learn for himself what it all 
meant, and to practise it, if he found it 
good. A cold wind sprang up now and 
cutting through his thin clothes drove him 
in a lope toward his mother's home. 

Apparently Mavis was watching for 
him through the window of the cottage, 
for she ran out on the porch to meet him, 
but something in the boy's manner 
checked her, and she neither spoke nor 
asked a question while the boy took off 
his saddle and tossed it on the steps. Nor 
did Jason give her but one glance, for the 
eagerness of her face and the trust and 
tenderness in her eyes were an uncon- 
scious reproach and made him feel guilty 
and faithless, so that he changed his 
mind about turning the old mare out in 
the yard and led her to the stable, merely 
to get away from the little girl. 

Mavis was in the kitchen when he en- 
tered the house, and while they all were 
eating supper, the lad could feel his little 
cousin's eyes on him all the time — watch- 



ing and wondering and troubled and 
hurt. And when thefour were seated 
abqut the fire, he did not look at her 
when he announced that he was going 
back home, but he saw her body start 
and shrink. His stepfather yawned and 
said nothing, and his mother looked on 
into the fire. 

" When you goin', Jasie? " she asked at 
last. 

"Daylight," he answered shortly. 

There was a long silence. 

" Whut you goin' to do down thar?" 

The lad lifted his head fiercely and 
looked from the woman to the man and 
back again. 

"I'm a-goin' to git that land back," he 
snapped; and as there was no question, 
no comment, he settled back brooding in 
his chair. 

"Hit wasn't right— hit couldnH 'a' been 
right," he muttered, and then as though 
he were answering his mother's unspoken 
question: 

"I don't know haw I'm goin' to git it 
back, but if it wasn't right, thar must be 
some way, an' I'm a-goin' to find out if 
hit takes me all my life." 

His mother was still silent, though she 
had lifted a comer of her apron to her 
eyes, and the lad rose and without a word 
of good-night climbed the stairs to go to 
bed. Then the mother spoke to her hus- 
band angrily. 

"You oughtn't to let the boy put all 
the blatne on me, Steve — you made me 
sell that land." 

Steve's answer was another yawn, and 
he rose to get ready for bed, and Mavis, 
too, turned indignant eyes on him, for 
she had heard enough &om the two to 
know that her stepmother spoke tiie truth. 
Her father opened the door and she heard 
the creak of his heavy footsteps across the 
freezing porch. Her stepmother went 
into the kitchen and Mavis climbed the 
stairs softly and opened Jason's door. 

"Jasie!" she called. 

"Whut you want?" 

"Jasie, take me back home with ye, 
won't you?" 

A rough denial was on his lips, but her 
voice broke into a little sob and the boy 
lay for a moment without answering. 

"Whut on earth would you do dowTi 
thar, Mavis?" 



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The Heart of the Hills 



63 



And then he remembered how he had 
told her that he would come for her some 
day, and he remembered the Hawn boast 
that a Hawn's word was as good as his 
bond and he added kindly: "Wait till 
momin', Mavis. I'll take ye if ye want 
to gd." 

The door dosed instantly and she was 
gone. When the lad came down before 
day next morning Mavis had finished ty- 
ing a few things in a bimdle and was push- 
ing it out of sight under a bed, and Jason 
knew what that meant. 

"You hain't told 'em?" 

Mavis shook her head. 

"Mebbe yo' pap won't let ye." 

"He ain't hyeh," sdd the little girl. 

"Wharishe?" 

"I don't know." 

"Mavis," said the boy seriously, "I'm 
a boy an' hit don't^ make no difference 
whar I go, but you're a gal an' hit looks 
like you ought to stay with yo' daddy." 

The girl shook her head stubbornly, but 
he paid no attention. 

"I tell ye, I'm a-goin' back to that 
new-fangled school when I git to grand- 
pap's, an' whut'll you do?" 

"I'll go with ye." 

" I've thought o' that," said the boy pa- 
tiently, "but they mought not have room 
fer neither one of us — an' I can take keer 
o' myself anywhar." 

" Yes," said the little girl proudly, " an' 
111 trust ye to take keer o' me — any- 
whar." 

The boy looked at her long and hard, 
but there was no feminine cunning in her 
eyes — nothing but simple trust — and his 
sUence was a despairing assent. From 
the kitchen his mother called them to 
breakfast. 

"Whar's Steve?" asked the boy. 

The mother gave the same answer as 
had Mavis, but she looked anxious and 
worried. 

"Mavis is a-goin' back to the moun- 
tains with me," said the boy, and the girl 
looked up in defiant expectation, but the 
mother did not even look around from 
the stove. 

" Mebbe yo' pap won't let ye," she said 
quietly. 



"How's he goin' to help hisself," asked 
the girl, "when he ain't hyeh?" 

"He'll blame me fer it, but I ain't a- 
blamin' you." 

The words surprised and puzzled both 
and touched both with sympathy and a 
little shame. The mother looked at her 
son,opened her lips again, but closed them 
with a glance at Mavis that made her go 
out and leave them alone. 

" Jasie," she said then, "I reckon when 
Babe was a-playin' possum in the bushes 
that day, he could 'a' shot ye when you 
run down the hill." 

She took his silence for assent and went 
on: 

"That shows he don't hold no grudge 
agin you fer shootin' at him." 

Still Jason was silent, and a line of stern 
justice straightened the woman's lips. 

"I hain't got no right to say a word, 
just because Babe air my own brother. 
Mebbe Babe knows who the man was, 
but I don't believe Babe done it. Hit 
hain'tenoughthathewasjes'5cerfa-comin' 
outen the bushes, an' afore you go a-Iayin' 
fer Babe, all I axe ye is to make plumb 
dead shore J^ 

It was a strange new note to come from 
his mother's voice, and it kept the boy 
still silent from helplessness and shame. 
She had spoken calnily, but now there was 
a little break in her voice. 

"I want ye to go back an' I'd go 
blind fer the rest o' my days if that land 
was yours an' was a-waitin' down thar 
fer ye." 

From the next room came the sound 
of Mavis's restless feet, and the boy 
rose. 

"I hain't a-goin' to lay fer Babe, mam- 
my," he said huskily; "I hain't a-goin' to 
lay fer nobody — now. An' don't you 
worry no more about that land." 

Half an hour later, just when day was 
breaking, Mavis sat behind Jason with her 
bundle in her lap, and the mother looked 
up at them. 

**I wish I was a-goin' with ye," she 
said. 

.\nd when they had passed out of sight 
down the lane, she turned back into the 
house — weeping. 



(To be continued.) 



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ARCTIC MOUNTAINEERING BY A WOMAN 

MOUNT BLACKBURN 
By Dora Keen 

With rnoTocRArns by the Atthor 





! 



E\'ER had Mount Black- 
burn been so bare of snow 
as on August 15, 191 1, when 
our little party of seven set 
out to clunb it. We were 
starting up from Blackburn 
Road House, thirty-five miles to the south, 
to make the first attempt that had ever 
been made to ascend it. No one had ever 
been even to its base, for no one in Alaska 
climbs mountains except for gold, and to 
reach this mountain meant travel up the 
Kennecott Glacier all the way from mile 
192 of the Coflfer River Railway, in all 
more than two hundred miles from the 
coast. Yet I had selected Mount Black- 
bum because the completion of the rail- 
way, in April, made it the most accessible 
of Alaska's dozen great snow peaks. 

Distance from any base of supplies, very 
low timber and snow lines, extreme cold 
in winter, and the long days of summer — 
these are the problems of mountaineering 
in Alaska which give to it, in all but diu'a- 
tion, the character of an Arctic expedition. 
To reach any one of its 14,000-foot 
peaks requires days or weeks of the hard- 
est kind of travel. All of the high moun- 
tains are relatively near to the south-west 
coast of Alaska, but to reach any of them 
from any port requires travel through a 
wilderness in which glaciers and railway 
tracks are accounted the "easiest'' lines 
of travel. 

The timber line is at 2,500 feet, the 
snow line at 3,000 to 6,000 feet, accord- 
ing to location and season. The Arctic 
Circle is near. Winter's cold is intense and 
its days short. The mass of snow is enor- 
mous. Then come the long, warm days of 
summer, so long that there is little time 
for freezing at night. The south sides of 
the mountains are steep. The result, as 
might be anticipated, is glaciers that be- 
come contracted by the sun, seamed ^^ith 
64 



a succession of crevasses, and swept by 
avalanches. The only difficult high moun- 
tain that has yet been ascended is Mount 
Saint Elias, and that by its north-east side. 
It is quite possible that the northern 
slopes of Alaska's high mountains, which 
are gradual and are protected from the 
Sim, are the only ones by which a success- 
ful ascent can be made, but the southern 
slopes are nearer to civili^tion, and my 
leader believed that Mount Blackburn 
could be climbed by its south-east side, 
the side nearest to the railway. 

Mr. R. F. McClellan, of Sawtelle, Cal., 
was the trusted leader who had consented 
to organize and lead my expedition. He 
had been the superintendent of the Bo- 
nanza Mine, at Kennecott, four miles 
above the Road House from which we 
were to start. He w*as familiar with the 
mountain from the mine, and believed that 
.the whole expedition could be made with- 
in ten or twelve days, if at all. Our hope 
for a safe ascent was to find a route by 
which we might rise fast enough to get 
above the altitude of the avalanches be- 
fore the hour when they would begin. On 
the mountains of 6,000 to 9,000 feet along 
the two hundred miles of the railway, the 
months of "slides" were May and June. 
Although the season was late and hot, 
surely, he thought, the danger from slides 
was now past, except perhaps for the late 
afternoons, during which we could keep 
from under. 

I had not come to Alaska to climb 
mountains. I had come merely as a tour- 
ist, to see what I might, by boats and 
trains, of the wonderful glaciers and 
mountains of its south-west coast, and to 
see the last pioneer region of America. 
My expectations had been far exceeded. 
Glaciers the largest outside the Antarctic, 
high snow mountains, many of them ris- 
ing directly from the sea, neither Norway 



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Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman 



05 



nor even the beautiful Chilean archipela- 
go had compared with the scenery of 
south-west Alaska. Letters of introduc- 
tion had brought about camping trips on 
the Kenai Penmsula, in search of a big 
Xadiak bear, and there in the woods, in 
the cabin of a prospector, I had chanced 
upon my first detailed knowledge of the 
high mountains. There, in a report of the 
United States Geological Survey, I had 
read of Mount Blackburn, "never ascend- 
ed," and "worthy of the hardiest moun- 
taineer"; 16,140 feet high, it was within 
sixty feet of the highest of the Wrangel 
Mountains, of which I had expected to 
have only distant views from the railway. 

Knowing that there would be no Swiss 
guides in Alaska, I had had no idea of 
serious climbing and had brought only my 
personal Al()ine equipment. In Seattle, 
and again in Cordova, I had been told 
that probably I might find prospectors 
who would take me up to 8,000 feet or 
more. I had expected no more. But now 
I returned at once to Cordova, the port for 
the railway, determined to try the ascent 
of Mount Blackburn, provided that suit- 
able arrangements could be made. 

The way had opened — as it always does 
if we will but have the courage to start. 
On the boat I had heard of Mr. McClellan 
as the safest and best leader I could have. 
I had found him en route to the mountain, 
had secured his consent, and together we 
had planned and completed the outfit at 
Cordova and at the Road House. Seattle 
was four days away, with boats only once 
a week. There was no time to secure any- 
thing from such a distance, nor does the 
prospector consider anything necessary, 
merely "handy." Necessity and emer- 
gency have taught him to "get along." 
He knows to an ounce what he needs for 
a "trip" as he calls an expedition. "Any 
one that can't 'pack' ninety pounds 
would better not come to Alaska, " they 
say, "for this is the least with which he 
can get along out *in the hills.'" His 
motto k " Never stuck. " His is the land 
of hope. He is always "going to make a 
strike next year, sure," therefore always 
ready to endure and to smile, whatever 
happens. 

All of my men had been prospectors, all 
had been in the country between seven 
and sixteen years. Americans all, Mr. 



McClellan knew them all. He had wanted 
men "whom he could count on to put a 
hundred pounds on their backs and go 
where he told them," and he had found 
them, not far from the Road House, as 
likewise two pack horses. John E. Bar- 
rett and Frank Buell were from Seattle, 
Ralph Felterolf from Philadelphia. "If 
you tell Johnnie Barrett you want to go 
to the top of Mount Blackburn," I had 
been told at the mine, " he'll get you there 
if he has to pack you on his back. " To 
these men I added a German painter from 
Cordova, Walter Wolf, recommended to 
me because of his experience in the Alps. 
I thought it a great acquisition to have 
one man who was ex-perienced in the recog- 
nized technique of cutting steps in ice, the 
use of the rope, etc., all the more because 
my other men were not mountaineers. No 
one ropes in Alaska, nor are ice axes 
known. When a man perishes in a cre- 
vasse, the glacier is named for him. So 
anxious was Wolf to go that he had said, 
**If they turn back, I will go to the top 
anyway. " 

The Alaskan prepares for a "trip" by 
preparing his mind to do without every 
article of comfort. " If you tell a pros- 
pector there's gold at the top of Mount 
McKinley, he'll put a couple of flapjacks 
in his pocket and step up," they had said 
to me. Mr. McClellan had landed wdth 
the first on the Valdez Glazier and had led 
a party through to Dawson by compass, 
some five hundred miles through the wil- 
derness. "I would trust my life to Mr. 
McClellan," the late able and courteous 
chief engineer of the railway. Mr. E. C. 
Hawkins, had said to me. To my every 
inquiry his reply was, "We've thought of 
all that," or "Don't you worry about the 
men. They can take care of themselves." 
None of them had been above 10,000 feet, 
but all knew what it was to travel in winter 
at sixty degrees below zero, for the pros- 
pector needs the short summers for pros- 
pecting, and he has learned that to travel 
with a dog-sled in winter is easier than to 
"pack" ninety pounds through the bogs, 
streams, alders, and fallen logs of Alaskan 
"trails" in summer. "You can't freeze to 
death at this season," they assured me. 
"Why how cold do you suppose it's going 
to be up there? It ain't going to be more 
than ten degrees below. ' ' So they refused 



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66 



Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman 



to take more for protection than parkas 
and jumpers. The Alaskan parka is a sort 
of overshirt. It is put on over the head 
and comes to the knees. It is made of 
khaki with a bit of fur aroimd face and 
wrists, and as this tickles them they pull 
it off. It keeps heat in and wind out, but 
has no warmth in itself. 

From the Road House a rough mining 
trail gave fairly good going for ten miles. 
We might even make fifteen miles with 
the horses before the last grass would be 
reached. From there they must be sent 
back by an extra man. From there we 
would load our outfit on a sled that Mr. 
Barrett had cached the winter before and 
his dogs would pull the sled up the glacier 
to the foot of the mountain. There were 
to be four dogs, but the hand-car that 
brought my baggage ran over the best dog, 
crippling him beyond use — so unused 
were the dogs to the new railway. "The 
dogs can climb an3rwhere you can go,^' 
Mr. Barrett had assured me, "and if I 
have to, I can just drop them down a cliff 
by the tail." 

Our "Alaska-style'' outfit consisted of 
two tents and a lean-to, the least possible 
extra clothing, two small alcohol-stoves, 
ropes, ice-creepers made in Cordova, and 
ice-axes forged at the mine. Bacon and 
beans, flour and coffee, the prospector's 
stand-bys, were the chief food. Canvas 
strips with poles through the sides were to 
serve as " cots '* that would raise us off the 
ice by resting the poles onpiled-uprocksor 
blocks of ice. Food, fuel, and shelter had 
to be taken for the entire trip, for here at 
the Road House, at only 1,500 feet, we 
were leaving civilization behind. To 
reach the foot of the mountain would take 
at least two days, to climb it at least a 
week, and the entire time would be spent 
on ice and snow. An Arctic expedition in- 
deed it seemed to me, and the Kenai Pen- 
insula had been my first experience in 
rough camping. There at least there had 
always been wood, water, and game. 
None of them should we have on Mount 
Blackburn. 

A beautiful glistening mass of purest 
white, its distant simimit rose above 
the hideous desolation of the moraine of 
Kennecott Glacier as we started around 
its end. The temperature was sixty-five 
degrees at 8 a. m., a hot day for Alaska. 



Never had I dreamt that a moraine could 
be so crushing in its domination of the 
scene. 

Great cracks and fallen blocks the size 
of a house left no doubt that ice underlay 
those miles of rocks that were to lie at our 
right for hours as we followed the trail be- 
side the glacier. In hope of game for food 
or perhaps even a bear, Mr. Barrett with 
his gun and I kept ahead. The dogs fol- 
lowed closely, dragging the poles for tents 
and cots. The poles caught in projecting 
roots and the little dogs would whimper 
for us to free them. Slowly the heavily 
laden horses followed. By noon, in the 
marshes beside the glacier, we came on 
huge bear tracks. "Why didn't you tell 
me you wanted some water, Mr. McClel- 
lan?'' said Felterolf, as our leader fetched 
up some at lunch time. "I could have 
given you a couple of boots full." No 
further word did I ever hear of wet feet 
on a trip during which they were the rule. 

Here at 2,500 feet, the first day, was our 
last timber. Soon the trail lay along the 
top of the lateral moraine. Timber had 
given place to castellated-rock pinnacles 
that towered above us on the left. On 
the right was the glacier. Groimd-hogs 
mocked us with their shrill cries, but the 
dogs were encumbered by the poles and 
could not go after them, while of the 
many ptarmigan, all but two took care to 
appear only after the man with the gun 
was past. 

At 4 o'clock a lateral valley could be 
crossed only by taking to the glacier at 
which the trail ended. To find and make 
a trail for the clumsy tired horses took 
time. To cross the crevasses here was 
easy for us, but for the horses bridges of 
ice and rock must be built and steps 
chopped, for never once must they be 
taken on to any slanting slope. We were 
nearing Mr. Barrett's cache, a "hole in 
the wall" of the mountain-side. Two 
men were despatched thither for a Yukon 
stove. With difficulty a way back to 
"dry land" was found over the marginal 
ice, and at half-past six we camped on 
grass. Willows waist-high offered the only 
fuel. Pitching only my tent, for them- 
selves the men were content to throw their 
bedding on the ground under canvas. At 
midnight it rained. Quietly Mr. McClel- 
lan rose to tuck up the sleepers, so quietly 



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that Mr. Buell jumped as he felt the hand, 
sure that a big bear had him. 

Early the next morning two men went 
in search of the sled. Evidently a snow- 
slide had carried it down, for it was badly 
jammed and required much repair. We 
had come only fifteen miles, but from here 
on there would be no more grass, so the 
horses were saddled for return. Mean- 
time a dog was missed. It was Jack, one 
of our two malamutes, labor saving and 
clever at short cuts. "Do you see that 
dog?" said Mr. Barrett, pointing far back 
on our trail. " He's sized up the situation 
pretty well. He sees there ain't going to 
be much to eat and pretty hard work and 
he's going back witii the horses." Two 
men had to help to get the horses back 
over the glacier and continued down for 
timber, which they packed up. 

All day it had rained, hopelessly wetting 
the willow bushes with which and the 
stove we were trying to cook twenty-five 
pounds of beans and fifteen pans of bis- 
cuits; for here at 3,000 feet was to be our 
last fire for ten days. On Chimborazo, in 
the Andes of the equator, the last fire is 
lighted at 14,000 feet, with only 5,900 feet 
still to dimb. On the Mexican volcanoes 
17,000 feet high, vegetation is found up to 
13,000 feet. On Mount Whitney at 11,- 
000 feet, with only 3,000 feet left to climb. 
In the tropics the snow line may be as high 
as 18,000 feet. On Mont Blanc, the high- 
est of the Alps, wood, water, food, and 
shelter are foimd in a comfortable hut at 
10,000 feet in the midst of a glacier, with 
less than 6,000 feet of an established route 
still to climb. In Alaska all is reversed, 
and herein lie the difficulties of mountain 
climbing in Alaska; here, too, its interest 
and adventure. To dimb Mount Saint 
Elias, 18,100 feet, on which four previous 
expeditions had failed, the Duke of the 
Abruzzi had to travel more than fifty 
miles from the forest and to climb some 
14,000 feet above the snow line. To 
dimb Moimt Blackburn we had to travel 
some twenty-five miles from the timber 
and to dimb 10,000 feet above the snow 
line. 

The willows at least served for flag-poles. 
The y ear b^ore at Chamonix I had noticed 
the flsqgs of M. Vallot placed in the course 
of mapjping the Glader du G^ant. I had 
noted their utility and had brought red 



flannel for a similar use on the way up, in 
case blizzards should make it difficult to 
find the way down again. 

Thus was our second day busily occu- 
pied with necessary preparations, yet no 
advance made. A glorious sunset raised 
our hopes for the morrow. At daybreak 
we were up. Sled and supplies were 
packed over the marginal ice, the load 
lashed onto the sled, the dogs harnessed, 
and the march up the glader begim. Even 
in siunmer enough snow usually remained 
on Kennecott Glader to cover the ice-way 
below this point, so the men left promising 
that soon we should strike smooth going. 
Instead, occasional ribbons of bare white 
ice were all that now appeared between 
the great moraines that streaked the gla- 
der. It was three miles wide. To find 
ice on which progress could be made was 
all that could be hoped for. The abnor- 
mal heat of the smnmer had removed the 
snow, had contracted the ice and seamed 
it with crevasses so coimtiess that for the 
next two days we seemed to encounter 
them every five to twenty minutes. Wide 
and deep and long as they were, it was a 
difficult task to find a trail, still more diffi- 
cult to get the sled over or around the 
crevasses. The men had to work as hard 
as the dogs. I alone was free to "pros- 
pect" ahead. The dogs too required less 
direction when they could follow a leader. 
Travelling as fast as I could to keep ahead 
in order to gain time to watch to right and 
left for the crevasses ahead, still my task 
was too difficult for any good success. 
Often formidable crevasses were invisible 
until I was within ten feet of them, for the 
upward slope was perceptible. Even be- 
tween crevasses the ice was rough, its sur- 
face all rills, ridges, hillocks, puddles, 
streams, and gravel. Every moment the 
men were pidling or pushmg, lifting or 
lowering, righting or repairing a sled 
loaded with seven hundred and fifty 
pounds, and yet I never heard them swear. 
The only way I could help was by leading 
and at times carrying the heavy ice-picks. 
They might cut hands or ropes if placed 
on the sl«l. At the least provocation the 
top-heavy sled would tip over. At every 
stop down would lie all three dogs until 
Mr. Barrett's "All right, dogs," or "Go 
ahead, dogs," was heard, when instantly 
they were off again. For right or left we 



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had only to call to Bigelow, the wise little 
malamute leader, "Gee a little, Biggie," 
or "Biggie, go haw." To the black dog, 
Nigger, it was more often, "Nig, git into 
it," or "Nig, I'll take a lung out o' you 
yet." The dogs knew their master, but 
they knew him to be kind too, and in 
camp they were petted and played with. 

Presently we made out three mountain 
goats grazing high up at our left. The ice 
began to rise in great frozen billows, 
with broad and deep crevasses in the 
trough of the waves. The angles up which 
the sled must be coaxed became so steep 
that it was better to try an entirely differ- 
ent part of the glacier. To do so involved 
packing over a great moraine. We could 
not hope to reach the foot of the moun- 
tain that night, and the moraine offered 
protection for a camp. 

The wind was right for a goat hunt and 
we needed the goats for the dogs. For 
my pleasure, Mr. Barrett proposed that I 
should go along. Stopping only for a bite 
of chocolate, and leaving three men to 
pitch camp, off we went, Mr. Barrett, 
VVolf , and I. It was already 5 o'clock, and 
between us and the goats lay a mile of 
crevasses and some 700 feet of steep climb- 
ing. Hard and fast we travelled, jumping 
crevasses, crawling up and down marginal 
ice ridges, climbing straight up shale 
slopes and across precipitous snow. " Go 
on all fours," whispered Mr. Barrett as 
we neared our w^ary game, "so if they see 
you they'll think it an animal." But the 
shale would slide, and just as we were 
within shot, the sentinel goat heard and 
gave warning. Up they started. They 
could climb faster than we. Darkness was 
approaching, and we had still to return. 
At least I had won the confidence of my 
men. "If you can follow them goats, I 
guess you can climb Mount Blackburn," 
was their greeting, as empty-handed and 
overheated, just at dark, we came in to 
the cheerless prospect of sleeping on the 
ice. I had to break three-eighths of an 
inch of ice on the water of the crevasse 
where I went to wash, and it was dark and 
chill as at half-past nine we ate our first 
real meal since daybreak. 

It was my first goat hunt. It had been 
good sport, reward enough indeed to feel 
that I was actually able to do it. A new 
feeling of confidence, new zest came over 



me each day as I realized what a woman 
might do in America. Sure of respect and 
of every assistance, in Alaska at least, her 
limitations need be only those within her- 
self, her measure that of which she is ca- 
pable, her development in her own hands 
to make or to mar. I had come to Alaska 
on a voyage of discovery. Being alone had 
seemed to put every limitation in my way, 
and now, on the contrary, my love of 
adventure and sport could be satisfied 
as never before, because of the character 
of the men of Alaska. I was actually 
launched on an expedition of my own, the 
most adventurous and hazardous I could 
desire, yet sure of being cared for in safety 
with consideration and respect. 

An Arctic expedition indeed it seemed 
as I crawled into my sleeping-bag. The 
aneroid showed 4,500 feet. There was 
only the sun to warm us — when it shone. 
The only way to dry anything was to 
sleep on it, and when the nights were not 
very long, the clothes were not very dry 
in the morning. The malamutes had 
curled up on a rock. It was warmer than 
the ice. Wolf could not get warm. He 
paced the ice, made coffee, and rolled 
rocks into the crevasses. Thus disturbed 
and raised just too little above the ice to 
be warm, the rest of us had not slept 
either when at half-past four we emerged 
from our tents to survey Mount Black- 
bum. This first near view did indeed 
make every visible route look hopeless to 
me as I scanned each possible route in 
turn with my glasses for a way up. Not 
one of us could find a route all the way to 
the top. But the Alaskans are no "quit- 
ters." We intended to try. All iut Wolf. 
At half-past six our Alpinist turned back, 
"just because it was a bit chilly," as the 
men put it. One of my friends has said 
that he was the only sensible member of 
the party. 

The fourth day was as hard as the third, 
the ice just as bad, with one less man to 
help. We had cached one hundred and 
twenty pounds of food for the return. At 
last, in the early afternoon, hope rose as 
we descried snow in the ice ahead. Even 
this hot summer the snow line was at 
6,000 feet. The surface became more 
level. Then the snow cover gave smooth 
going for just an hour. Then the sun grew 
hot. The snow grew slushy and wet us. 



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Soon great ice terraces loomed on either 
side with chasm-like crevasses between. 
The only hope was to keep to the trough 
in the centre. Soon this too became a 
questionable course, for deep drifts of 
snow only partially filled the crevasses, 
often merely concealed them. The sun 
was so hot that the snow commenced to 
give way under our weight. The crevasses 
were as many as before, only now much 
more dangerous because often invisible. 
We began to step through into them. I 
insisted that Mr. McClellan take the snow- 
shoes as he went ahead prospecting. I 



kept me awake, but it was now chilly, for 
at 5 o^clock the sun had disappeared be- 
hind the mountain. It was snowing as we 
got supper, and there was slush on the 
half-inch ice of the crevasses below, 
whither we must go for water. 

Steep and badly broken glaciers, steep- 
er ridges all crested with ice, and a fairly 
smooth snow summit, such was the sight 
that Mount Blackburn presented to our 
view. It was the fifth day, with food for 
only eight days more and every route 
looking hopelessly diflicult and dangerous 
for men with heavy packs. The sled and 




Mount Blackburn and Kennecott Glacier. 
From Bonanza Mountain thirty miles away. 



followed. For my own safety and for those 
behind I sounded every step with my ice- 
axe. Thinking we should soon get to camp, 
Mr. Barrett had gone off after another 
goat far up on the right, leaving only two 
men for the sled. Several times the trail 
proved false and we had to wait in the 
burning reflection of the melting snow for 
fifteen minutes or more while a new lead 
was tried. It began to look serious, as if 
we never should reach that protected rocky t 
point at the end of a rock ridge at the head 
of this glacier upon which we had deter- 
mined to place our base camp. At last a 
way was found, a bad one, but it held us. 
Four and a half hours of this most dan- 
gerous going had we had when at six- 
thirty we reached safety. Each man had 
fallen in twice to the waist. To our relief 
Mr. Barrett soon came in. He was empty- 
handed but safe. It had taken us four 
days to reach the base of Mount Black- 
bum, which lay three miles across from 
us, four days to make thirty-five miles 
and to rise 5,000 feet up Kennecott Gla- 
cier. My hands were so burnt that they 
Vol. LI I.— 8 



all else possible would have to be left at 
this base camp, and from here, at 6,500 
feet, food, fuel, and shelter would have to 
be carried by men and dogs nearly to the 
top. Progress would be so slow and the 
liability to blizzards so great that it would 
never be safe to be far from food and shel- 
ter, and this very necessity for heavy packs 
would compel the choice of a route that 
should be neither too steep nor too diffi- 
cult if we were to advance at all. Nearly 
10,000 feet of snow and ice remained to 
be climbed, with the certainty of such fre- 
quent snowfalls that the snow would have 
no time to harden, would make the ascent 
laborious, and would slide with the first 
hot sun. To climb at night was impossible. 
Such routes could not be attempted in the 
dark. Indeed, one of the best gauges of 
the difficulty of a mountain ascent is the 
elevation remaining to be climbed above 
the snow line. It is chiefly the 10,000 or 
15,000 feet that have to be climbed above 
the snow line that make the high moun- 
tains of Alaska among the most difficult 
of mountain expeditions. 



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Above 12,000 feet the ascent would be 
easy. This was one reason why I had 
chosen to try this mountain by this side. 
Experience in the Alps and the Andes had 
taught me to avoid diflScult work above 
15,000 feet, and I had never been above 
16,000 feet. The maps of the United 
States Geological Survey — made from near 
our first camp — 
showed the con- 
tour lines to be 
gradual above 12, 

000 feet, but how 
to reach 1 2 ,000 feet 
there was the prob- 
lem. With all routes 
alike looking hope- 
less, the shortest 
seemed the best to 
try first. 

OflfwentMr.Mc- 
Clellan and Mr. 
Barrett to try to 
find a way up what 

1 later named Bar- 
rett Glacier, while 
the other two went 
back to relay up the 
supplies we had 
cached. Clearly 
we should need 
them all and we 
might get a goat for 
the retiun. Sin(^e 
the men when "empty" — as they call it 
to travel without a pack — could travel 
faster than I, to save time I remained in 
camp, keeping house. This time I saw to 
it that both sets of men were roped. So 
the siege of Mount Blackburn began. For 
the first time human foot was set on its 
beautiful glaciers. 

It was after six when the relay party 
came in, just as I was beginning to worry 
about them, and 9 o'clock, dusk, when 
the men from Barrett Glacier returned. 
Their report was not encouraging. It had 
taken three hours to reach the foot of the 
glacier and as much more to rise 1,600 
feet on it. There was danger from ava- 
lanches, but a safe way might be found; 
another day would tell. At daybreak 
they would return to the attack with a 
third man, while the fourth should go in 
the other direction after the elusive goat. 
This time they took snow-shoes. 




Too dangerous to stop under such walls, in a hot 
sun, to chop a way up. 



Again I was alone in the great silence of 
this wonder world. The better to behold 
and to photograph the great amphitheatre 
of ice, snow, and rock at the foot of which 
we were camped, cautiously I climbed the 
rock ridge above me, climbed till the tents 
were specks, till they disappeared from 
view. A panorama secured, I sat down 
to drink in forever 
the glory and 
beauty about me. 
Already I was re- 
paid for coming. 
A world without 
limitations was 
unfolded to me, 
a world in which I 
felt as if the bonds 
that held me to 
earth were loosed, 
a world of purity 
the sight of which 
ennobled a world of 
power, of majesty, 
a vision to inspire, 
to uplift, to give 
peace and strength, 
to beget reverence 
and humility. 
The struggles to 
achieve, the yearn- 
ing to attain on the 
mountain, are they 
not symbolic of life? 
We need strength 
Is it not in itself 



Life demands courage. 

to endure and to suffer. 

worth while to climb if in so doing we lose 

all sense of fear? 

From such contemplation there was 
only an occasional sound as of thunder to 
arouse me. Mount Blackburn at the left, 
Mount Reynolds at the right, below me 
the Kennecott Glacier hemmed in by the 
lower slopes of the great mountains, half 
way between Mount Reynolds and the 
distant mine. Mount Regal, 13,000 feet — 
such was the view unfolded to me. Now 
and again a mighty roar led my eye to 
the cliffs across the Reynolds Glacier. 
Great ice masses crowned them. Loosened 
by the sun they were breaking off and 
pouring like gentle waterfalls down the 
gullies all the way to the glaciers fifteen 
hundred feet below. Would the goat-hunt- 
er over there take warning? Would he 
keep off and from under those cliffs? I 



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Sounding for hidden crevasses. 
Such as that iu the foreground. 



could not once find him with my glasses. 
Whenever I could make out the others 
they seemed to be in difficulty, making slow 
progress. 

Hardly was I back at camp when the 
others also returned, Felterolf without his 
goat, the others because it had been un- 
safe to remain on that cascading glacier at 
that time of day. Avalanches and falling 
stones had warned them off. Only five 
hundred feet had been gained. Their 
plan now was for Mr. Barrett and Mr. 
Felterolf to return that night, to camp at 
the foot of Barrett Glacier, and to make 
a last determined elTort the next day. To 
find a trail on unknown glaciers of such a 
character by lantern was dangerous. The 
Swiss plan of a start at night when all is 
72 



hard could not be followed. The best 
they could do would be to be there and at 
work at daybreak. When I had first ar- 
rived in Cordova, on July 5, there had 
been no night at all, merely twilight from 
10.30 p. M. until 1.30 A. M. Now it was 
dark from 9.30 p. m. until 3 a. m., and the 
ice did not begin to break off much before 
9 A. M. Between 3 and 9 a. m. were the 
only safe hours to be at work on such gla- 
ciers at this time of year. A little later 
there would be new snow sliding. If the 
ascent could not be made now, probably 
winter, January or February, or perhaps 
spring, would be the only time. 

They reported precipitous walls of ice 
seventy-five and one hundred feet in 
height under and on which they must 



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work. Ever since 1 1 that morning the av- 
alanches had been incessant. At 5.30 the 
two men left to spend one or two nights 
on the glacier. For sleeping on snow, a 
lean-to, a canvas, a sleeping-bag, and an 
eiderdown were their protection. Tea, ba- 
con, sandwiches, chocolate, and beef ex- 
tract in smallest quantities were the only 
food. For cooking, 
melting water, heat, 
light, and signals, 
six candles and two 
tin cans were to 
suffice. Ropes, 
socks, and mitts 
completed the 
outfit. 

Mr.McClellan 
and Mr. Buell were 
to leave at day- 
break to try a sec- 
ond alternative 
route, for the days 
were passing, food 
and fuel was going. 
We turned in early, 
Ito watch thehours 
and call the men at 
midnight. At 8.45 
p. M., at 10.15, at 
I A. M. came ava- 
lanches loud enough 
to waken us. All 
night they never 
ceased. What of 

those two men? Would the spot they had 
selected prove as safe as they believed? 
By the first streaks of dawn Mr. McClel- 
lan and Mr. Buell were oflF. They were to 
try the ridge that I had rejected because 
of its bad snow saddle. Not once could I 
see them all day long. 

Again I was alone, and the evening and 
the morning were the seventh day. In 
vain I tried to sleep, took pictures, washed 
dishes, clothes, even bathed in the icy 
water of a choked crevasse. The sun was 
so hot that I shed what clothes I could, 
and finally sat mending in the shade of my 
tent. Ever and anon I scanned the gla- 
ciers for my men. At 5 a. m. I had seen 
the two on Barrett Glacier, and again at 
7. This time they were working in a new 
direction, but no higher up. At 8 came a 
roar from an avalanche that seemed as if 
it would never cease. For full five minutes 




No quick way up and no time to chop a way. 
of ice ready to fall and all holes 
under foot. 



I could see only a cloud of falling snow 
on that part of theglacier for which my men 
had been heading an hour before ! Search 
as I would, I could not find them. My anx- 
iety was intense. At 11 I found them, 
but had no way to call them in. Only for 
this signal had we not provided. They 
were back at the same place as at 5 a. m. 
The slides were 
fewer to-day. The 
dogsslept. "What- 
ever you do, don't 
let the dogs loose," 
Mr. Barrett had 
said, "for Bigelow 
is liable to miss me 
and might take my 
trail even after two 
days." 

Never was I so 
glad to see two men 
as when, at 6 p. m., 
Mr. McClellan and 
Mr. Buell suddenly 
appeared amid the 
crevasses below me. 
I told them of my 
fears for the other 
two, of the inces- 
sant avalanches on 
that glacier. "Oh, 
they're all right," 
Mr. McClellan as- 
suredme. "They're 
just waiting until 
it's hard enough to travel. They'll be in in 
themoming." Good news he brought, too. 
His route was possible and safe. They 
had climbed my ridge all the way to the 
saddle, and believed that either this ridge 
or the glacier to the left of it — McClellan 
Glacier I named it — would offer a way 
to the top. 

At last we had a way to signal to the 
others. "Route possible" — the signal 
that we had expected from them — was 
indicated by two candles in tin-can re- 
flectors. Whatever their success, I was 
unwilling that they or any one should 
longer risk his life amid the beautiful but 
terrible avalanches of Barrett Glacier. 
Wearied and blistered by their long day in 
heat that they estimated at one hundred 
and twenty degrees in the sun, I urged the 
men to sleep while I should watch. The 
night was calm and warm. I placed my 



Tons 



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sleeping-bag on the rocks and had only to 
open my eyes once a half hour in order to 
look for lights on the mountain, if by 
chance I could see them so far, if indeed 
my men were alive. Never had the stars 
seemed more beautiful, but two answering 
candles were all that I wanted to see. One 
of my candles wasted and its can rolled off 
into a crevasse. We had only one more 
can. Both candles burned out and I re- 
placed them, but still no answer came 
from the glacier. At 3 I called to Mr. 
McClellan, suggesting that" they go in 
search. " It ain't no use now," he replied. 
"If anything's happened, it's too late 
now. You'll see. They'll be in as soon 
as it's light." Yet before 6 he and Mr. 
Buell started in search, just because of my 
anxiety. 

A half hour later I saw the two men on 
Barrett Glacier. They were in the same 
place as the day before, still laboring 
among the huge crevasses. Never had I 
been more thankful. I lost not a moment 
in placing the day signals, two canvases, 



on the rock ridge. The others likewise 
had seen them, signalled, and returned. 
By 10 o'clock all were in, but the snow was 
already too soft below us to start for the 
new route. The men needed sleep and food . 
They had been safely at their camp while 
I had been so worried. Mr. Felterolf 
thought that he must have slept four hours, 
*' for there were four hours there I didn't 
feel Johnnie shake." Clothes were dried in 
the sun and all made ready for moving 
camp at an early hour on the morrow. 

Again the night was warm and calm. 
At II Mr. McClellan called me to be- 
hold a sight of which I had never seen the 
like. In changing colors and forms, the 
aurora borealis streaked the sky. It was 
perhaps four times as wide as the Milky 
Way, and nearer to the aurora of the 
Arctic explorers than I had ever expected 
to see. Again I was glad that I had come. 

The snow was hard and the going good 
as at 5 A. M. of the ninth day of " this ex- 
hibition," as Mr. Buell always called it, 
we set off for McClellan Glacier or the 




(letting ta M(/unt I'.l.u kinirn. 
Out of ihc Ix'f.iiiilC'S I rcv.i sc> thai iiiusi l^ t ri.sNcd c\ en tut- t<> l«i.-iit\ iiniiults (hiriii>i ^»^)<la)^. I'auc 67. 



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Slow climbing up McClellan Glacier. 



ridge adjoining it. Each man was pack- 
ing seventy pounds, each dog twenty 
pounds. Since I could pack no more than 
fourteen pounds, including my camera, I 
asked to take two dogs; for each dog must 
be chained to some one or led by the hand, 
lest he break through into a crevasse. 
Presently my camera was all that I could 
manage. I had to give up the dogs. Even 
my "little bundle," as they called my 
pack, would mysteriously disappear into 
that of one of my overladen men so soon 
as I unshipped it. My safety, my success, 
and my comfort were still their only 
thought. Men could not have worked 
harder, more cheerfully, nor more unself- 
ishly. 

By 6 we had reached McClellan Gla- 
cier and began to rise fast, so fast that it 



seemed better to continue here, where the 
dogs could certainly carry their packs, 
rather than to risk the balancing of heavy 
packs up the loose bowlders and limestone 
of which the ridge was composed. We 
had not risen far when difficulties began 
to delay us. Crevasses presented real 
problems. We roped. Cher or around 
them, down, up and on we went — we were 
rising, but so was the sun, and our only 
hope was to get to a safe altitude before 
the sun should start the avalanches. This 
glacier was less steep than Barrett Glacier, 
less liable to be swept by avalanches, but 
still it was broken enough to be dangerous 
at its lower levels at mid-day. Ice walls of 
formidable dimensions began to rise in our 
path. On both sides the whole surface was 
Lrol-cn tv ^reat chasm-like crevasses fif- 



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Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman 



teen to twenty-five feet across. Only in 
the middle was advance possible, and even 
here the way grew so puzzling, the loss of 
time so great, as one point after another 
delayed us, that we began to doubt of 



more broken and difficult the glacier be- 
came. 

By half-past eight, leaving packs and 
dogs with two men, Mr. McClellan, Mr. 
Barrett, and I started up in order to see 




The fifteen foot crevasses of McClellan Glacier among which we had been. Taken from 
700 feet above. 



success. The snowy mantle that had given 
the only security to our footing began to 
thaw, and we to step into holes. I pound- 
ed each step with my foot, as I had been 
taught in the Alps. My men, on the con- 
trary, trod quickly and lightly and fell in 
only half as often. They rallied me. Again 
the dogs caused delays, necessitated easier 
routes, and again had to be thrown across 
crevasses. They could not sound their 
footing. To have a dog drag back just 
as one was jumping, with insecure foot- 
ing, was trying. The higher we rose the 



whether it was worth while to go any far- 
ther. Up, down, over and into canyons 
of ice we worked. Now to right, now to 
left we tried to find a way. Over loosely 
wedged masses, under walls and pinnacles 
that towxred straight above us, over huge 
blocks, on we went. Twenty times I was 
sure there was no way to continue. Swiss 
guides would not have ventured to go on. 
I was enraptured with the fantastic beauty 
of the shapes about and beneath me, an- 
noyed past consolation that it was not 
safe to stop anywhere long enough to pull 



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Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman 



77 



out my camera. It was the most wonder- 
fully fantastic and beautiful sight I had 
ever seen and I wished it to be indelibly 
impressed on my memory. I wanted time 
to drink in the marvellous scenes of this 



from a chasm into which he had been let 
down, *' I could chop a trail. " At this hour 
to do so would be to risk that the whole 
threatening mass would collapse, or at 
least that walls or blocks would fall on us. 




Odc of the ten-foot crevasses on McClellan Glacier. Looking down Kennecott Glacier. 



frozen inferno, but time there was not. 
To linger was not safe at this hour. If 
we could not get up quickly we must get 
ashore or go down. Thrilling beyond 
words was it to be in such places. Each 
time that I had given up all hope and was 
wondering how my men could hope to find 
a way up some hopeless place, from above 
or below or aroimd a comer would come 
Mr. Barrett's cheery voice, " I think I can 
make it, Mac." But after an hour even he 
began to give up hope. ** If only I had an 
hour of freezing now, " he lamented finally 



In Switzerland they do not go on such 
glaciers, but the only concern of these men 
was for me. At times they insisted on 
my remaining above some forty-foot wall 
under which they were going to have a 
look. They returned to take me through 
a labyrinth of crevasses into which they 
had been. On all fours and quickly must 
I go, for the blocks that choked these bot- 
tomless abysses and over which we were 
climbing had sharp edges and comers and 
had no snow coating. They must have 
fallen very lately, and more might fall to- 



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78 



Arctic Mountaineering by a Woman 



day. We could find no way to advance, 
no way "ashore'* even, to the ridge which 
offered our last hope, and to gain it we 
must now descend a thousand feet from 
the 7,500-foot level that we had reached. 



the loose stones sliding. There were no 
sure holds. Climbing was difficult, espe- 
cially with packs and tent-p)oles to impede 
The rocks hurt the dogs' feet. Nig 



us. 



tried to cross an ice slide, slipped, fell 




Just over the gravel from worse ice. 



It was 10.30 when we turned down and 
two hours later when we had climbed to 
the ridge. Here at last we were safe from 
avalanches, safe from crevasses, but a new 
series of difficulties was to begin. The 
ridge offered the last hope for the ascent 
of the mountain. The crumbling lime- 
stone made the dogs slide and slip as much 
as we did, for their packs pulled them 
back. We roped them. Then we took 
their packs off, "and then we was the 
dogs," as Mr. Felterolf put it. At times 
we had to wait for each other, because of 



fifty feet, and struck with a thud, yet up 
he scrambled, and the next day tried it 
again. Two of the men had to cut their 
packs in half, and preferred the "grub" 
to the bedding. At 7 we had barely 
reached the snow saddle. We could not 
cross it without too great risk. To climb 
seven hundred feet perpendicularly down 
onto the glacier and up the ridge again 
beyond it would therefore be necessary on 
the morrow. Here we must sleep, on the 
bowlders, with no room for a tent and two 
men without bedding. We had to melt ice 



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Arctic Mountaineering- by a Woman 



79 



for water, and choose between drinking it 
or using it for coffee. We could not spare 
alcohol enough for more. The aneroid 
showed 8,700 feet. Already, at 8,000 feet, 
we had had superb views of the whole 



the weather. Most of the hard work of 
the ascent was over. With good weather 
we could be sure of reaching the top in 
two more days, for we could see our route 
now all the way and had just enough food 




Leaving 8,700 feet, highest point reached. 
Men and dog at the left of the picture. 



beautiful mass of Mount Logan, 19,000 
feet high, and beyond }l of Mount Saint 
Elias, 18,100 feet, both nearly one hun- 
dred and fifty miles away, the latter close 
to the sea. To reach 8,700 feet on a peak 
only 360 feet higher than Mt. Blanc had 
cost me as much time and effort as to 
climb Mt. Blanc, two high snow passes, 
three of the less difficult and three of the 
most difficult of the famous Aiguilles at 
Chamonix the summer before. 

The night was not cold fcr that alti- 
tude. The men even feared a change in 



and fuel left to go to the top and back on 
short rations. Working as hard as possi- 
ble, with days eighteen hours long, it had 
still taken nine days to reach the moun- 
tain and to find a safe way up it. A bliz- 
zard now would be fatal to success, for 
after weathering it there would not re- 
main enough rations with which to com- 
plete the ascent. Goats, ptarmigan, and 
timber were two days below us now. 

At 4.30 A. M. we wakened in a snow- 
storm. The wind had changed. The 
men recognized the signs of a three-day 



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Over a glacial stream on a bridge built of rocks. 



Storm. We waited a while to be sure. Mr. 
McClellan and Mr. Barrett climbed down 
to the glacier below and returned with a 
verdict of " perfectly feasible," although to 
me it looked nearly as hopeless and broken 
as its lower section had proved to be the 
day before. The clouds lifted, shifted, then 
settled. Silently, at 10.30 we turned down 
from what they had termed Keen Ridge. 
Unknown tome, Mr. Felterolf had scratched 
my name on a rock at our highest point. 
" You never will know quite how hard it 
was for me to turn back," writes my leader. 
** It's the first journey lever started on that 
I didn't get to the end of," writes Mr. Bar- 
rett, "and, believe me, if ever I start for 
the top of Mount Blackburn again, I'll 
get there, and I bet you will too." 



If when the way up Mount Blackburn 
bad been found, more supplies had been 
attainable, we should have reached the 
summit, but moxmtaineering in Alaska is 
mountaineering in the Arctic. In moun- 
tain climbing, perhaps more than in any 
other sp)ort, we appreciate each difficult 
point gained in proportion to what its at- 
tainment has cost us. In difficulties, in 
thrilling experiences, in a view of the beau- 
tiful ice world on a new scale, in the re- 
ward of a new vision of life, Alaskan 
mountaineering may take first rank with 
the high peaks of the Himalayas. The 
reason that my leader had consented to go 
was that if I wished to undertake so big a 
task, he wished to help me. Such is the 
spirit of Alaska. 



A'OT/i. — A/iss AWfi's second attempt to climb Mount Blackburn has been successful. She 
left CordiK'a^ A/aska, on April iSy this springy with six men to attack the mountain 
ai^ain from the south-east. She telegraphed on May 2 j^, from Kennecott, Alaska: 
^' After thirteen djys^ snow-stormy spent in caves y made the summit of Mount Black- 
burn on May ig.'^ 



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SIX SONS OF OSSIAN 



A STORY OF THE NORTH COUNTRY 



By Mary Synon 



Illustration by N. C. Wyeth 




|H£N six men dwell together 
for three years in a North 
Country residency they 
either hate each other with 
infinite scorn or they cher- 
ish a comradeship that en- 
dures through time and circumstance. 
Kenyon and O'Hara, Randall and Fergu- 
son, Steve MacDonald and little Jean 
Feroux had come through misxmderstand- 
ings and separations, bickerings and com- 
bats, into the friendships that made Resi- 
dency Nimiber Eight famous along the 
Transcontinental Right-of-Way from Que- 
bec to Winnipeg. So glittering were the 
bands of steel that boxmd their compan- 
ionship that when Duncan of Number Ten 
received the appointment to the chieftain- 
ship of the Kapuskasing River residency 
the builders of the railroad through the 
Bush waited the wrath of the men of Eight. 
It came. For Steve MacDonald had won 
his right to the coveted post by hard work, 
and Duncan had won the p)ost because his 
father was in the Dominion Parliament. 
Steve MacDonald was at the Kapuska- 
sing residency when the news of Dun- 
can *s appointment was telephoned out to 
the latter from the Groundhog tower sta- 
tion. The ringing of the telephone bell by 
the Groundhog operator sounded in twen- 
ty-one oflSces along the construction track 
and brought every man within ear-shot of 
the jingle to the entertainment the eaves- 
dropping promised. Randall, tapping the 
wire with nineteen other men, according to 
the custom of Bush telephoning, shouted 
his indignation at the Groundhog operator 
as soon as that official finished his reading of 
Duncan's telegram to twenty other listen- 
ing ears. 

Scotty, the operator, hastily disclaimed 

any personal responsibility for the choice 

of Duncan. " Bannister doesn't know, but 

it's joost a shame," he condoled in broad 

Vol. LII.— g 



Scotch. " What's a shame? " came Dun- 
can's thin voice. "It's an outrage that 
you get the Kapuskasing," Randall broke 
in, "when Steve's whipped that section 
into shape. That residency was the tough- 
est job on the whole grade — and you know 
why — and Steve's made it the best piece 
of work. If you didn't keep on smug- 
gling your vile whiskey to his section men, 
he'd have had his chance to prove up. 
Haven't you any honor, Duncan? If you 
were a man, instead of a little, intriguing 
whipper-snapper, you'd never even have 
applied for a place that belongs by every 
moral right to another man, to say noth- 
ing of breaking laws just so that you could 
discredit him with the chief." 

"Well, I have the place now," Duncan 
snarled, "and what are you going to do 
about it?" 

The chuckle of the operator came over 
the wire. Randall sensed the tension 
that held nineteen silent men to their in- 
struments on the string from Groundhog 
to the Missinaibi. Number Eight was on 
trial for courage. "I'll show you what 
we'll do," he yelled. 

"Play the broom, me bonnie lad, "Scotty 
called encouragingly as Randall banged 
up the receiver. 

That day there assembled a council of 
war in the dining shack of Number Eight. 
Randall flung his news at the other four 
as they came in from the Right-of-Way. 
Through their dinner hour the five men 
heaped abuseon Duncan, and on Duncan's 
father, and on the men of authority whom 
Duncan's father knew. Even Kenyon for- 
sook his Nestorian caution in his anger at 
the wrong done to Steve MacDonald. 

"Steve has really earned that place," 
he drawled with decision. " If Duncan's 
crowd had played fair, he'd have had it, 
too. It's not right that Duncan should 
be given the Kapuskasing." 

8i 



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82 



Six Sons of Ossian 



"And Duncan of all the fellows in the 
service!" Randall pounded on the table 
in emphasis of his disgust with the gov- 
ernment's choice. "Why, there isn't a 
man on the grade who doesn't know Dim- 
can for what he is, the 'soldier-smuggler' 
of the line." 

"And the kind of whiskey he smuggles," 
groaned Ferguson. 

" I think it's ridiculous for the govern- 
ment to make a law prohibiting the sale of 
whiskey along the Right-of-Way," Jean 
Feroux atinounced, " if men who have vio- 
lated that law ever since they came to the 
Bush are to be made resident engineers." 

"Well, the government doesn't know 
what Dxmcan's doing." Ferguson's de- 
clared political opinions always forced 
him into defence of the administration. 

" If Duncan had played fair with Steve," 
Kenyon said with judicial consideration, 
"I think that no one of us would think 
it his business to object to the * soldier- 
smuggling,' although it is law-breaking. 
But we all know that Duncan was one of 
the men who made that section a disgrace 
to the division; and we all know that ever 
since Steve went out to the Kapuskasing, 
Duncan has been smuggling case after 
case out to the section, not as much for 
the money he makes as for the trouble 
it gives the man in charge. Isn't that 
right, Brian? " He turned to O'Hara for 
counsel. 

"I know nothing about it," O'Hara 
answered curtly. 

Kenyon bit his lip at the rebuff. '* And 
the worst of it is," he continued, " that the 
Kapuskasing is a permanent residency." 

"That's why Duncan has it," said 
Donald Ferguson. 

"And Steve wanted it §.0," lamented 
Jean Feroux. 

"Steve thought that if he'd get the 
Kapuskasing place, he'd — " Donald Fer- 
guson halted his words with a sudden 
glance at O'Hara. The Irishman had 
spoken only in answer to Kenyon 's di- 
rect question. Usually the quickest of 
them to speech, he had been strangely si- 
lent through the excited conference. Now 
he scowled at Ferguson. "He'd what?" 
he asked sharply. "I mean, he thought 
he'd like to stay up here in the Bush 
when the road's finished, " Ferguson ended 
lamely. 



"What '11 we do to Duncan?" Randall 
demanded. 

Four of them turned to O'Hara. He 
shrugged his shoulders. " Well, what can 
I do?" he asked petulantly without tak- 
ing his pipe from his mouth. 

Donald Ferguson frowned. "Even if 
you don't like Steve as well as the rest of 
us do," he said, "you know he's one of us, 
and we're going to stand by him. When 
any fellow strikes one of the men of Eight, 
he fights us all." 

" Right-0 ! " said Kenyon. Randall and 
Feroux nodded solemnly. 

"Besides," Ferguson continued, push- 
ing back his chair from the table and 
reaching the door-way with one stride, 
" this is the time for all of us to prove up." 
He turned to O'Hara directly. "Steve's 
losing more than the residency with this," 
he said, "and you know it." With the 
cryptic utterance ringing behind him he 
stepped out of the shack to the brilliant 
sunshine of the northern May. 

O'Hara stared after him consideringly. 
Then he laughed. Kenyon and Randall 
and Jean Feroux watched him disapprov- 
ingly. "Having fired the shot, he de- 
parted," he annoimced. "Does any one 
of ye know what he meant?" 

No one of them answered. O'Hara set 
down his pipe, stretched himself, and 
arose. "I won't be back to supper," he 
said. "I've an engagement in Ground- 
hog. ' ' At the door of the shack he paused , 
peering down the path toward the bridge 
over the Frederick House River. "Our 
old friend Eraser, the meanest man who 
ever worked on a railroad, has just de- 
scended from the steel train. He's com- 
ing to crow over us. I think I'll stay." 
He went back to his place at the table and 
had resumed his pipe when a tall, sandy- 
haired man in shabby khaki filled the 
door- way. " Girding for the war-path? " 
asked the stranger. 

"Waiting to welcome ye," said O'Hara 
smoothly. 

"Have dinner with us," Kenyon gave 
invitation, but Eraser declined. "Had 
my dinner with the trainmen." His ex- 
planations snapped jerkily. "Just ran in 
to take your congratulations on to Dun- 
can," lie taunted. "Lucky chap, Dun- 
can." 

"Very," said Kenyon dryly. 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



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" SurprisedMacDonaW failed. Thought 
he was doing wonders/* 

"He did well," Kenyon said. 

"Front thought otherwise." 

" We know he did well," said Randall. 

"Too bad youVe not running all of the 
National Transcontinental," Fraser ob- 
served. 

" It is unfortunate," said Jean Feroux. 
"In this instance we could right an in- 
justice." 

" By the way," said Fraser, " I hear one 
of you threatened Duncan over the wire 
this morning. He's upset a bit, I fancy, 
for he telegraphed his father to have the 
sergeant of provincial police instructed to 
keep an eye on Number Eight." 

"He did!" Five voices chorused the 
exclamation in varying degrees of surprise 
and anger. 

"Oh, he's wise," said Fraser. "He 
knows the reputation of the Six Sons of 
Ossian." 

"He'll know it better before we're 
through with him," said Randall. 

" I told him when he spokeof theplace," 
Fraser continued, watching O'Hara nar- 
rowly, "that if the six of you held to- 
gether he might as well resign from the 
service before he even asked for the Ka- 
puskasing residency. But he suggested 
the possibility of a break in your ranks." 

"What does he think could cause it?" 
demanded Jean Feroux. 

"Hard to say." Fraser scratched his 
head reflectively. " Association hasn't and 
ambition hasn't. You're that thick now 
that a knife couldn't come between any 
two of you. But a woman may." 

" Rot ! " Kenyon and Feroux and Ran- 
dall yelled the word at their guest. But 
O'Hara kept his mouth closed tightly over 
his pipe. Fraser's eyes never left him. 
The unappeased hatred of three years — 
his feud with O'Hara began the day they 
met — dripped into his speech. "I'm 
sorry MacDonald's lost the place," he 
said. "I suppose he coxmted on it so 
that he could marry Molly Law. That's 
why he came back to the Bush, isn't it?" 

"That is MacDonald's own affair," 
Kenyon told him. 

"Oh, no offence," said Fraser easily, al- 
though he rose to go. "Fun on the T. 
C. R. if you take up the cudgels for Steve. 
Don't forget the sergeant." 



"We'll not," promised Randall, follow- 
ing him. 

Feroux and Randall went up to the 
grade with Fraser. " He'd steal the blue- 
prints if they didn't watch him," Kenyon 
said. He cleared his throat nervously be- 
fore he spoke directly to O'Hara. "Fra- 
ser coached Duncan to ask for that place," 
he assured him. 

"Our enemies have combined against 
us," said O'Hara in a tone that mocked 
the words. 

" Are you going to join them? " Kenyon 
tried to make his voice as unemotional as 
the other man's. " Going to desert? " 

"Is there any desertion about it?" 

" Yes, there is," said Kenyon decidedly. 
" You'd be the first to see it if it concerned 
any other man. Why don't you help 
Steve? You've used your wit and clever- 
ness for every other man you've half-way 
liked oh the Transcontinental. Why 
won't you use it for him?" 

"How can I do that in honesty to my- 
self?" 

"What's Steve done to you, other than 
loving Molly Law before you did?" 

" But he didn't ! " O'Hara banged his 
fist on the table. " He doesn't even now. 
Steve never said anything or did anything 
to make Molly believe he cared for her. 
'Twas when he was away that I started 
going to see her. 'Twas loyalty to Steve 
that took me. I was sorry for her and I 
was hoping all the time that Steve'd come 
back and marry her. And Steve came 
back and he dSdn't marry her. There 
were weeks and weeks when he never went 
near her. And just to make her feel 
that the men of Eight hadn't altogether 
forgotten her, I fell into the habit of go- 
ing to see her oftener. I saw how she 
struggled to make a comfortable home up 
here in a Bush shack for that good-for- 
nothing old father of hers and I began to 
think of what home might be like. I 
hadn't had a home since I left Connemara. 

" I knew that some day we'd break up 
this band of the six of us," he went on. 
He was not the O'Hara of whimsical 
humor Kenyon had long known, and the 
chief of the residency listened to him with 
the wonder he would have given a stranger 
telling him an impassioned tale. "Ye'll 
be marrying soon. Ken, and settling here. 
And Jean '11 be going to the west and Ran'll 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



drift with him. Don '11 go back home. 
He's not made for the wandering. And 
Steve — well, it seemed to me that Steve 
would be going up and down the worid, re- 
joicing and revelling, laughing that great 
joyous laugh of his, taking the best and 
never knowing it. And I saw meself 
driven like a leaf before every wind of ad- 
venture till one day I crumbled into dust 
with no one to care, no one to grieve. And 
thinking of it all, I grew weary of the way 
I'd lived. And Molly came to mean all 
the things I'd missed, home and happi- 
ness and love. And just when she was 
beginning to forget Steve MacDonald, he 
woke up to the fact that some one else 
appreciated her, and he's selfish enough 
to want to be first with her. And now 
it's come to this: If Steve gets the Ka- 
puskasing, he gets Molly. For he'll tell 
her that he had nothing to offer her before 
and she'll forget the long months he gave 
no thought to her. That's the woman of 
it. But if he doesn't get it, he'll say noth- 
ing, and after a time she'll think kindly 
of me again. And now ye're asking me 
to help Steve MacDonald!" His laugh 
came harsh. 

"It's for yourself that I'm asking it," 
Kenyon said. "You don't need to have 
me tell you that you and I are such 
friends as Steve and I could never be. 
And that's why I want you to work as 
we're doing, shoulder to shoulder for 
Steve. Don't take your happiness over 
the faith of the man who's been our com- 
rade." He paused in sudden conscious- 
ness of the unwonted sentiment in his 
words. 

O'Hara considered the problem a mo- 
ment. " 'Tis all between the three of us," 
he said, "Steve and Molly and meself." 

"In the end," said Kenyon, "it will be 
up to you." 

The decision pressed closer to O'Hara 
late that afternoon when he answered the 
ringing of the telephone bell in the ofiice 
just before he went to Groundhog. The 
call came from Steve MacDonald at Num- 
ber Eleven, and even over the wire the 
weariness and discouragement in hisyoung 
voice struck cold on O'Hara's sensitized 
ear. "That you, Brian?" said the boy. 
"I'm ordered in, you know. I'm finish- 
ing my reports to-night. I'll be home 
to-morrow." 



"And we'll be glad to see ye," O'Hara 
assured him impulsively. 

" I knew you would," said Steve. There 
was a vibrant chord in the hurt courage of 
his voice that echoed in the other man's 
consciousness all the time he was pump- 
ing the hand-car toward Groundhog and 
Molly Law. The golden evening of the 
Bush seemed flooded with memories of 
those glorious times when he and Steve 
MacDonald had gone together to the lit- 
tle town that had been the scene of their 
most joyous revels. 

He could not put the happier memories 
of Steve from his mind even when he 
came to the little shack on the other side 
of Groundhog where Molly Law held her 
courts. The girl welcomed him with a 
little restraint. Through the supper to 
which she had invited him she spoke 
seldom, leaving the conversation to her 
father's gamilous gabbling of youthful 
exploits and her guest's polite inquiries. 
After supper was over and she had cleared 
the dishes from the table she came into 
the parlor and without request played the 
piano fervently in butchery of a Cham- 
inade reverie. Her father, impatient of 
the interruption to his tales, went out. 
O'Hara, sitting in the shadow, watched 
the gleam of the girl's bright hair under 
the red shaded lamp. His eyes shone 
with the content of the home feeling the 
little shack always gave him. Through 
the open window rushed the fragrance of 
the May time buds of the balsams. Dark- 
ness had not quite come and the silver of 
a northern twilight hung over the Bush to 
the westward. It was a time for dreams 
of young love, and Brian O'Hara, who 
had loved many women in many ways 
and who knew that Molly Law was the 
woman he loved so well that he regretted 
all the others, drifted into them as the 
reverie trickled on to an end. 

He had come to the time of dreaming, 
when dreams slip into words as impalpably 
as dusk drifts into moonlight. "Molly, 
dear," he began. 

Molly Law turned on the piano-stool. 
Her eager girlishness seemed glazed with 
an anxiety so visible that O'Hara won- 
dered if she could have heard him. Then, 
"Did Duncan get Number Eleven?" she 
asked. 

"Yes," O'Hara answered her. 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



85 



"Did Fraser help him get it?'' 

"I don't know." 

" Fraser doesn't like you, does he? " she 
continued the exammation. 

"As well as we like him," the guest ad- 
mitted. 

"Why does he call you the Six Sons of 
Ossian?" 

"To show off his book-learning," said 
O'Hara. 

"Well, I have none." Her laugh ac- 
cented her nervousness of questioning. 
"You might tell me what he means." 

O'Hara grinned. The tender light 
had gone from his gray eyes with Molly 
Law's query of the Kapuskasing appoint- 
ment, but a flash of humor went across 
them as he said, " Fraser means that we're 
an imregenerate crew of pirates, maraud- 
ers, and highwaymen, and that he'd fight 
any one of us to the finish if he weren't 
afraid of the others. Y'see, Fraser knows 
enough of his poetry and enough of us to 
remember that the Sons of Ossian were 
the six in love and war akin." 

"I never saw anything like the way 

Siu boys at Eight have held together," 
oUy Law went on. " Do you remember 
the first winter I was here when the six of 
you always came together to all the dances? 
That was the year you raided Fraser's 
residency, wasn't it? And Steve and Don 
and Jean wouldn't go home for Christmas 
because the rest of you had to stay?" 

"I remember," said O'Hara. 

"And the time Steve threw the Chi- 
nese cook in the river when he saw him 
drawing the knife on you, and then you 
had to fisJi him out for fear that China- 
man would just drown himself for spite? " 
She rambled on through reminiscence 
without heeding O'Hara's curt interjec- 
tions, without seeing the shadows Uiat 
lingered in his eyes. For every remem- 
brance revealed the closeness of the bond 
between the men of Eight and tightened 
that bond into a pressure that demanded 
that he help Steve MacDonald to win the 
place back from Duncan. Quite suddenly 
he understood that Molly Law was talk- 
ing of the comradeship of the six because 
she wanted to talk of MacDonald and 
couldn't speak of him directly. He took 
a long breath, looking around the room 
with the gaze a swimmer into strong 
waters gives the shore before he takes the 



plunge. " Did ye know that Steve comes 
to-morrow?" he asked her. 

The quick color rushed to Molly Law's 
cheeks, but her voice was quiet as his own 
when she parried, "I'm sorry that Steve 
didn't make the grade. But you needn't 
tell him so." 

" I'm thinking," said O'Hara," that he's 
the one to be told." 

"Oh, well, if you want to," she said, 
and went back to her Chaminade with 
staccato emphasis. She had hardly come 
to the final bars when O'Hara rose to go. 
"I've work to do," he told her. "What 
is it?" she asked, made curious by the 
earnestness of his tone. " My duty to the 
boys," he answered. 

"It sounds like a pledge," said Molly 
Law. 

"I'mnotsurethatit'snot,"saidO'Hara. 

The misty white moonlight of the 
North Country transfigured the Bush as 
he stepped out of the shack. The little 
twinkling lights of Groxmdhog lay under 
it with softened radiance. From the 
Widow's hotel floated the sound of a vio- 
lin, played upon by some boy on his way 
to the camps who was sending out his 
soul speech to the mystic loveliness of 
the night. Listening to it, Brian O'Hara 
paused. From melody to melody the 
strains of the music drifted, coming to the 
man who heard them across the eerie 
space of the clearing as if they were in- 
spired for the accompaniment of his mood. 
All the loneliness he had known came back 
with the sound of those notes of simple 
ballads. All the longing that had driven 
him from continent to continent, seeking 
something that he could never define but 
that he came so close to finding in the red 
glow of Molly Law's lamp, cried to him 
in those poignant reverberations. Under 
the spell of moonlight and music he 
turned back to where the square of the 
window still revealed the rosy glow. A 
bar, more familiar than those that had 
gone before it, fell on his listening and he 
murmured the words of a song that many 
a man of his people had sung before him, 

" For there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream." 

Brian O'Hara had come out of the shack 
without telling Molly Law of the love he 
held for her. The knowledge that she 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



would care for Steve MacDonald, sbould 
he come back to her, had frozen the 
thought in his heart and resolved his de- 
cision to wait his pleadings till he and 
Steve should be on equal terms. But 
with the magic of the night, when the 
lulled winds brought their message of love 
and of loving that transcended all other 
thought, there came to him rebellion 
against the chains he was forging. He 
turned back toward the shack. **Why 
not?" he asked himself. 

With the question came the answer, no 
theory now, but a memory of a time when 
Kenyon had taken his word in a matter 
of work. " I'll believe in you, Brian," he 
had said, '*till you testify against your- 
self—and a little after that." The joy 
of that moment came warmly over him 
again, only to grow cold with quick con- 
trast. And after it rushed other mem- 
ories he would gladly have driven out, not 
of MacDonald and of Ferguson, but of 
Randairs friendship, of Jean Feroux's 
idealistic devotion, of Kenyon's faith in 
him. Elusive and embracing as the 
moonbeams, they flooded his brain, strug- 
gling with the shadows of his desires. 
There, in a white world of mist, while the 
music welled from pensive sadness to tri- 
umphant assertiveness, he stood alone, 
fighting his battle between love for a girl 
and a standard of honor in the friendship 
of men. 

The music, vibrant with the thrill of 
youth in a land that is young, ended in 
that rising note that forever questions the 
one who hears. Just as it died the lighted 
square of the window of Molly Law's shack 
went into soft darkness. Brian O'Hara 
sighed. " Ye may be right, Tom Moore," 
he admitted, "but just to prove that ye're 
not, I'm going to do the meanest thing 
I ever did in all the bad days of me life." 

He did not look behind him as he 
walked swiftly past the lower lights of 
Groundhog, hastening to the tower where 
Scotty held sway over the dispatch board 
to the westward residencies. From the 
windows above bright beams of light 
streamed, but the door was locked. 
O'Hara tried the window beside it, founcj 
it yielding to his touch, opened it noise- 
lessly, and crept up the stairs. 

At Scotty's desk a man, not the dis- 
patcher, was seated. He was reading 



construction reports, scanning them care- 
fully, and tossing them aside afterward 
with the impatience of a person in au- 
thority. O'Hara chuckled. The man at 
the desk whirled toward him with bel- 
ligerent abruptness. 

"I knew I'd find ye here," said O'Hara 
calmly. His host laughed. "There's 
not another man on the Transcontinental 
who'd have the courage to interrupt me 
when I'm trying to straighten this tangle," 
he said. "They didn't know ye in the 
west," O'Hara said, seating himself on 
the only other chair in the tower room. 
" Except when I meet ye on an inspection 
tour where ye have 'Chief Engineer' pla- 
carded in the front of your engine, I can 
never think of ye in any way but Neddie 
Bannister." 

"What's the scrape now?" Bannister 
inquired. 

"I'm in none — yet," said O'Hara. 

Bannister went back to the reports, 
scowling over them fiercely while O'Hara 
watched him in silence. For a long time 
there was no sound, except the occasional 
scratching of a pen over heavy paper. 
Then Bannister, raising his eyes from his 
work, smiled at his guest. "Say it," he 
told him. 

"I don't know how to begin," O'Hara 
said earnestly. " Y'know, Ned, don't ye, 
that I was never one to spy or tattle on 
me fellow workers in the vineyard of the 
railroad building?" 

"There have been times enough when I 
wished you would," Bannister encouraged 
him. 

"Then let me say with the Walrus that 
the time has come." He drew his chair 
closer to the Chief's. " In the long run," he 
asked, "isn't it yourself who's responsible 
for the entire conduct of this division?" 
Bannister nodded, watching O'Hara with 
unconcealed amusement. " 'Tis not that 
I'm puzzled over the way to say this to 
ye," the Irishman continued, "but I'm 
doing something I don't like to do be- 
cause there's no other way of righting a 
wrong. I'm informing on Duncan, that's 
what I'm doing, and I'm doing it not for 
the good of the service, nor because the 
blame might come on ye some time, but 
just because I want Steve MacDonald to 
go back to the Kapuskasing. Do y ' know, 
Ned, why Steve MacDonald had the 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



87 



diwie to pay with the section men out 
there? 'Twas because every mother's 
son of them was soaked in the bad whiskey 
Duncan had been smuggling in to them. 
'Tis safe to say that every *bad soldier' 
ye'll find along the grade for those ten 
miles came in a case that was addressed 
to Duncan." 

" Not surprising," was Bannister's com- 
ment. "Boys who know their fathers 
have influence are the most demoralizing 
element in the service." 

"If 'twere just deviltry, I'd condone 
it," O'Hara went on, " but, sure, I know 
'tis Eraser's meanness back of it. I don't 
need to be told that Fraser and Duncan 
thought out the plan to discredit Steve's 
work at Eleven, knowing ye so well that 
they were sure ye'd fight for the keeping 
of the man who could hold down that sec- 
tion after the discreditable pass Duncan's 
own crowd brought it to. Wasn't it be- 
cause of the 'soldier-smuggling' that ye 
didn't fight for Steve?" 

" It was," said Bannister. The amuse- 
ment had flickered out of his eyes and his 
jaw had set into its more characteristic 
hard lines. O'Hara saw the signs of the 
sense of justice he had been trying to 
reach. " And if ye'd find proof that what 
I'm telling ye is true," he demanded, 
"wouldn't ye defy Duncan's influence 
long enough to send him out of the ser- 
vice?" 

"Where's the proof?" demanded Ban- 
nister. 

"'Tis yours for the asking," O'Hara 
told him. " The sergeant of police has it. 
The Groundhog agent has it in his bills 
of lading. Every section man on Eleven 
can be made to tell you that he's been 
buying whiskey from Duncan. 'Tis the 
joke of the line that the son of one of the 
men who made the prohibition law is the 
leading smuggler of the North." 

"Why didn't you tell me this before 
Duncan was appointed?" Bannister 
asked. 

"I wouldn't be telling ye at all," said 
O'Hara, "if something hadn't made me 
see that I'd never be able to shake hands 
with meself again if I didn't show ye the 
truth now. Will ye do something about 
it, Ned?" 

Some of the old gleam of fun had come 
back to Bannister's eyes. O'Hara was 



one of the few men left in his circle of 
friendship out of a breezier time of life. 
"I'll do something," he promised. "I 
think I'll give all of you a surpriise." 

The sense of jubilation that came to 
him with Bannister's words was all gone 
before he had set his hand-car on the 
tracks. As he sped through the dark- 
ness of the Bush — for the moon had gone 
down and a colder breeze had dispelled 
the mists — he chilled in the dreariness of 
sacrifice. Self-disgust at his report to 
Bannister of Duncan's misdeeds alter- 
nated with faint hope that Steve would 
profit by his act. He knew that if Ban- 
nister made inquiry he would find the 
truth of his story, and that finding it the 
Chief would make every effort to right the 
injustice. And then MacDonald would 
be back at Eleven. After that — but Brian 
O'Hara refused to go beyond that point of 
thought. He had crossed Jean Feroux's 
bridge over the Frederick House when he 
saw that the only light in the shacks came 
from the oflSce where Kenyon would be at 
work. O'Hara stopped before it, speaking 
to Kenyon through the open window. 
"I've started a little conspiracy against 
Duncan," he informed him. 

Kenyon came to the door. "You're 
the real diamond, Brian," he said fer- 
vently. 

"I'm not," dissented O'Hara with 
anger. "But d'ye think I'd let any two 
men from beyond the Firth of Clyde 
think they can outwit me?" 

He refused to tell Kenyon what he had 
done, assuring him that he'd know soon 
enough if anything came of it. With the 
others he was silent, but when Steve Mac- 
Donald came back to Eight the next day 
he greeted him with more than usual cord- 
iality. As soon as he found him alone 
he gave him Molly Law's message. Steve 
laughed uncertainly. The big fellow had 
a way of laughing when he was glad and 
when he was sad; but a world of emotion 
swung between the two, and O'Hara could 
not fail to recognize that this was a laugh 
of discouraged weariness. "Tell her 
when you see her that I'm grateful for the 
sympathy," said Steve. 

"Tell her yourself," said O'Hara. " I 
don't know when I'll see her again." 

He had not seen her a week afterward 
when he met Bannister on the grade. 



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Six Sons of Ossian 



"You were right, Brian," the Chief told 
him. " I Ve all the necessary evidence in 
that case and IVe forwarded it down to 
head-quarters with a recommendation." 

"Then all we need do is wait for the 
fireworks?" 

"That's all," said Bannister. "The 
evidence is conclusive. But it doesn't 
implicate Fraser." 

"Of course not," said O'Hara. " Era- 
ser's the craftier of the two." He waved 
aside Bannister's thanks to him for the in- 
formation that had led to the Chief's dis- 
covery of the law-breaking on his work. 
"I'm ashamed of that," he said, "and I 
feel that some day I'll pay the price for 
the doing of it." 

Bannister laughed at him and he went 
back to the residency with a lighter heart 
than he had felt since the day Steve Mac- 
Donald had been superseded at Eleven. 
To Kenyon and Feroux he confided that 
Bannister was making an investigation 
and that the results of it might be made 
evident at anytime. " Fraser '11 be along," 
he prophesied, "before the lightning 
strikes. But let none of ye say anything 
to MacDonald of the fact that Bannister 
told me of this." 

Fraser did not come, but the lightning 
struck Eight less than a week from the 
day O'Hara had talked with the Chief. 
Scotty telephoned in haste to the Fred- 
erick House River residency. All of the 
men but MacDonald were in the office 
when Randall answered the summoning 
belL "Duncan's fired," the dispatcher 
told Randall and all the other listeners 
out to the Missinaibi. "Head-quarters 
sustains Bannister's suspension. And, 
Randall, tell O'Hara that there's a young 
lady in Groundhog who was asking for 
news of him to-day. He'll know who. 
And, Randall, I've a special message for 
Kenyon. Bannister's sending it from 
here." 

Kenyon took the receiver from Randall 
as Steve MacDonald entered the office. 
"Duncan's fired," they cried to him, joy- 
fully watching the glow spread over his 
clean cut face. O'Hara held out his hand 
to the boy. " I am glad," he said. " Keep 
still, I can't hear," Kenyon ordered them. 
In the silence that followed Scotty 's voice 
burred on, "Are you there? Here it is: 
Kenyon, Number Eight — Send Brian 



O'Hara to take charge of Number Eleven. 
Permanent appointment follows. Ban- 
nister." 

Kenyon hung up the receiver without 
comment. He turned to the five who 
were watching him with aroused curi- 
osity. "Bannister orders O'Hara to 
Eleven," he said tensely. 

Steve MacDonald went white. Then 
he laughed foolishly. Ferguson clenched 
his fists. Randall tried to whistle. Jean 
Feroux drew breath sharply. They all 
looked at O'Hara, all but Kenyon, who 
went back to the desk where he had been 
at work. O'Hara arose as if to stand sen- 
tence. 

"Where's Bannister?" he asked. 
"Groundhog," said Randall. O'Hara 
stared at him as if he had not heard. " I 
knew him in Calgary," he said. Then he 
left them. 

No word went after him. The little 
clock on Kenyon 's desk threw its ticking 
against the silence. Down the grade 
rushed the shriek of an engine wUstle, 
trumpeting the coming of the train from 
the west on its way to Groundhog. Steve 
MacDonald rose wearily, stumbling across 
the bare floor in his heavy boots till he 
reached the door. Then just as wearily 
he went up the path to the grade. 

Jean Feroux was the one to speak. "I 
would never have believed," he said bit- 
terly, " that Brian O'Hara would be trai- 
tor to any one of us." 

The silenceof the others judgedO'Hara. 
After a time that seemed hours to Ken- 
yon, although the little clock counted but 
minutes, Ferguson and Randall and Jean 
Feroux went out while the train from the 
west grew vibrant on the rails. Kenyon 
waited till he saw them going, Indian file, 
on the path MacDonald had taken. Then 
he crossed to the shack that he had shared 
for three years with Brian O'Hara. 

O'Hara was packing. He had set his 
trunk in the middle of the floor and was 
throwing his possessions into it with fine 
abandon of care. The while he flung his 
scanty toll of many lands into the worn 
box he crooned an old song. He did not 
cease from it when Kenyon came in and 
seated himself on his cot. Only when he 
was nearly done his task did he pause to 
speak. "Ye'll send this after me?" he 
asked of Kenyon. 



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Drn'.vn l>y A'. C Mycth. 
1 here, in a white world of mist, , 



he stood alone, fi>;htin>; his battle between love for a girl and a standard of hojior 
in the friendship of men, — Page 86. 



Vol. LI I.— 10 



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90 



Six Sons of Ossian 



"Oh, yes," said Kenyon scornfully. 
" You Ve plenty of time," he assured him. 
"The train to the Kapuskasing doesn't 
leave till to-morrow." 

O'Hara was tying a tag on the trunk 
handle. Kenyon looked at it to keep his 
eyes from meeting the other man's. He 
had read only half of it when he voiced 
his amazement. "Brian,^' he cried, 
"youVe not going there?" For the tag 
was addressed: 

Brian O'Hara, 

The Bund, Shanghai, China, 

via Vancouver. 

Hold till sent for. 

"Why not? " asked O'Hara. " Tis the 
only country I Ve never seen the inside of, 
and I won't be happy till I do. * Free to 
love, free to hope, and free to wander,'" 
he quoted. "Sure, the wandering's the 
only thing worth while in all the wide 
world, Ken, ye auld fool, though 'tis 
yourself who's giving it up." 

A sudden doubt assailed Kenyon. 
"Then, after all," he asked, "you don't 
love Molly as well as the open road?" 
An ink-well in O'Hara's hand fell noisily 
to the floor. "I wish to God I didn't," 
he said. 

The whistle of the train on the grade 
above the shack sounded groaningly near. 
O'Hara tried to bang down the trunk 
cover. "Do it any time when I'm gone. 
Ken," he said, looking at his watch. " It 
has a way of finding me wherever I go. 
Give me the kit-pack." He stuffed 
clothes into the khaki bag hastily. "I'll 
catch the train at the siding," he said. 
"I'll say good-by to no one. I'll see 
Bannister to-night. 'Twas for the sake 
of the auld days in Calgary he gave me 
the place. Now for the sake of the same 
he'll give it back to MacDonald or me 
name's not O'Hara." The grinding of 
brakes warned him. "I'll write ye," he 
said, flinging his kit-pack upon his back. 

"With me bundle on me shoulder, 
Faith, there's no one could be bolder," 

he sang. 

He was singing as he took his way to the 
siding. Once, at the beginning of the 
path through the sun-flecked greenness of 
the jack-pines, he looked back at the man 
who stood watching him. His song fell 



to a sudden husky quaver. "Cheer up. 
Ken," he tried to laugh. " 'Tis but a lit- 
tle bit of an auld world and I won't be far 
across it." 

It was Brian O'Hara's farewell to Resi- 
dency Number Eight. 

Only once again did the Six Sons of 
Ossian come together. On the next 
morning, ten minutes before the southern 
express from Groundhog was due to leave, 
ahand-carpoundedfuriouslypastScotty's 
tower, almost telescoping the last car of 
the train as it swung around the curve 
and rocked up to the platform. Five 
men sprang from it, seeking O'Hara. 
They found him in the dim day coach. 

"Did you think we'd let you go with- 
out a hand shake?" demanded Randall 
unsteadily. He and Ferguson and Jean 
Feroux shook their comrade's hand has- 
tily, grippingly. "I want to thank you 
for the job-— and all," said Steve Mac- 
Donald when his hand met O'Hara's. 
"Bannister telephoned last night after 
you saw him." Kenyon came last. "I 
want to thank you, Brian," he said, "for 
the faith you've given us in each other 
and in ourselves." 

"Go to the diwle!" said O'Hara. 

They were trying to sing, " For he's a 
jolly good fellow ! " when Fraser's face apn 
peared at one of the car windows. " If ye 
believe me your friend," said O'Hara, " I 
bequeath to ye Fraser's punishment." 
He nodded to him gayly. "Where are 
you going? " Fraser called. " To China," 
O'Hara told him. "The Viceroy's sent 
for me genius to aid him." 

"Who gets the Kapuskasing?" 

"MacDonald," five of them told him, 
routing him to flight. 

On the hand-car, when the train to the 
southward noisily pulled away, Kenyon 
and Randall and Ferguson, Steve Mac- 
Donald and little Jean Feroux essayed a 
shout that died in their throats. Brian 
O'Hara was standing on the platform of 
the last coach, gazing past them to the 
clearing of the Right-of-Way. They 
thought he was bidding good-by to the 
old days of his joyous reign along the rail- 
road to the westward. But his gaze went 
farther. For the west-going road was 
bright and beyond the Pacific lay untold 
miles of railroad Rights-of-Way. And 
O'Hara was young, and it was to that 



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Dragonflies 91 

world that he was going, free to love, free swung around the bend, speeding its way 

to hope and free to wander. Even as the to the Height of Land, Brian O^Hara saw 

train passed the shack on the other side of five men on a hand-car, growing pigmies in 

Groundhog, where a bright-haired girl the widening distance, waving tiny specks 

stood framed in the logs of the doorway, of white to him as he went out of the 

he did not look that way. But as the car North Country. 



DRAGONFLIES 

By Madison Cawein 

You, who put oflf the water-worm, to rise. 
Reborn, with wings; who change, without ado, 
Your larval bodies to invade the skies, 
What Merlin magic disenchanted you, 
And made you beautiful for mortal eyes? 

Shuttles of Summer, where the lilies sway 
Their languid leaves and sleepy pods and flowers, 
Weaving your colored threads into the day. 
Knitting with light the tapestry of hours. 
You come and go in needle-like array. 

Now on a blade of grass or pod, as still 
As some th^n shred of heaven, motionless, 
A point, an azure streak; you poise, until 
You seem a figment Summer would express 
But fails through utter indolence of will. 

Then suddenly, as if the air had news, 
And flashed intelligence of fairy things. 
You vibrate into motion, instant hues, 
Searching the sunlight with diaphanous wings, 
Gathering together many filmy clues. 

Clues, that the subject mind, in part, divines. 

Invisible but evidenced through these: 

The mote, that goldens down the sun's long lines. 

The web, that trails its silver to the breeze. 

And the slow musk that some dim flower untwines. 

Could one but follow! and the threads unwind. 
Haply through them again he might perceive 
That land of Fairy, youth left far behind, 
Lost in the shadow world of Make Believe, 
Where Childhood dwells and Happiness of Mind. 

And, undelayed, far, far beyond this field 
And quiet water, on the dream-road trail. 
Come on that realm of fancy, soul-concealed. 
Where he should find, as in the fairy tale, 
The cap through which all Elfland is revealed. 



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Drawn by E. L. BiHn.tnscfititt 



He fiUcd his pipe and leaned back against the cvpress tree behind him. He seemed lu be listening, pride and modestv 

in his blurred black eyes,— Page 95. or , 



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THE LITTLE COLONEL OF LOST HILL 
By BaiT)' Benefield 

Illustration by E . L . B l u m k n s c h k i x 




' was my turn to go over and 
be Colonel Bascom's unseen 
guardian while he fought 
over once again the only fight 
the "Arkansas HelUons" 
had lost forty years before. 
The three boys in our family had assumed 
this annual duty in rotation. The colonel's 
farm and my mother's touched, and when 
Old Bailey brought the news that Marse 
Jack's mind seemed about to enter his elev- 
enth mental eclipse I was ready to ride. 

Coming up through the dim-shaded 
woods-lot, I saw him sitting on the right end 
of his long front gallery. The lifting of the 
oak latch at the yard gate did not bring him 
bujnying to the front steps to say how much 
an old bachelor appreciated a visit from his 
yoimg friends of a Simday afternoon, so I 
knew that his mind had already entered the 
twenty-day shadow that had always been so 
sad. 

Tdling Old Bailey to find the two yoimg- 
er negroes on the backsliding sandy land 
farm and attend to the usual preparations 
for the campaign leading up to Lost Hill, as 
we bad come to call it, I seated myself at the 
left end of die gallery and watched the red 
sun slide down behind the blue-green corn- 
field. 

Old Bailey drawing water from the well 
with the creaking windlass woke me the 
next morning. From my cot at the foot of 
the colonel's bed I saw him watering two 
horses and a mule. Out beyond, a white, 
steaming mist himg over the cotton field. 
With a new day's energy the chickens were 
scratching at the grassless ground near the 
tottering, weather-bleached bee gums. The 
cool, wettish breeze that came through the 
door from the other side of the house was 
heavy with the thick, sweet odor of flower- 
ing com tassels. 

The colonel sat up in bed, yawning. The 

treacherous, buttonless night-shirt flared 

open at the top to show a sunken, bone- 

nffled chest and slipped down over his poor 

Vol. LIL— II 



little dead-brown arms to betray what sixty- 
odd years had done to them. I wished 
then that his niind might suddenly realize 
how many years had passed since the lost 
fight, and that it was irrevocably lost; for 
he was very weak, and I knew that since he 
had begun trying to change the issue of that 
June 14, 1864, he had fought more and more 
desperately on the quiet hill-side upon which 
he had always fallen just this side of the 
hill's crest, defeated. The silent suffering 
of the succeeding fortnight, while he recov- 
ered from the imaginary wound, had in- 
creased year after year, so that now it was 
next to impossible for my mother to bear it. 
She had always taken charge of him and his 
household until his mind came out of the 
shadow. 

But the colonel did not look toward the 
chair that held his every-day suit of rusty 
blacks. Going on past that to the closet, 
he took down his war things and put them 
all on. He was breathing hard by the time 
he buckled on the silver spurs on which were 
engraved, "Never turn back." The huge, 
curved sabre that he had picked up early in 
the war and carried ever jJterward dragged 
the belt far down on his waist, and I knew 
that this year he would have to use both 
hands to wield it. 

Then he strode out into the hall, down 
the front steps and to the moss-green gate 
where Old Bailey stood holding the horses 
and his mule. Mounting his decrepit little 
bay, the colonel fox-trotted easily down 
through the woods-lot to the big gate, which 
a young negro held open. 

With Old Bailey and myself a few yards 
behind, the aged little planter who had be- 
come a young soldier overnight cantered 
down to the comer of his field, turned into 
the blurred white road across the fenceless 
Shangi field, passed over the timbered hill 
and descended into the dim, damp bottom 
land by Big Cypress Bayou. Two miles 
brought us to Veal's Landing. The colonel 
trotted up to the tent that had been made 

93 



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The Little Colonel of Lost Hill 



ready for him the night before on the hard, 
high ground overlooking the water. Dis- 
mounting, he walked in, laid his coat, hat 
and belt on the cot and came out hurriedly. 

"Well, what about breakfast?" he de- 
manded fiercely of an imaginary figure that 
was Old Bailey at the age of eighteen. 

**He gits fearsomer an' fearsomer ever' 
time he come down heah," mourned the 
real Old Bailey, shaking his head. "I bet 
he gwine to 'sault me next yeah — ef he 
live." 

Cosey, one of the younger negroes from 
the colonel's farm who had been watching 
the wagon and tent through the night, al- 
ready had a fire going, and presently the 
stooped and gray old negro carried to Marse 
Jack bacon, eggs, corn-bread and a pot of 
parched-corn coflFee. 

After breakfast the colonel came out in 
front of his tent and sat on a stump, smok- 
ing. From time to time he said ** Yes" or 
** No," frowning. 

'*De young orficers is makin' a call on 
him," explained Old Bailey. "He was 
mighty pop'lar. Dey is funnin' wif him 
'bout de name of his regiment, but he ain't 
studyin' dem young gent'men dis mawnin'. 
He got somethin' on his mind." 

"I never named the regiment the Ar- 
kansas Hellions," the colonel stated after 
awhile. "The enemy did that." 

"Oh, glory, look I" cried Old Bailey. 

The colonel had smiled. 

About nine o'clock he mounted the spav- 
ined little bay and moved off up into the 
woods. That was for the officers' confer- 
ence; and, knowing that he would sit there 
in the shade listening and talking to the gray 
old oaks till nearly noon, I started away 
to inspect the hill of the ten lost fights. 

Carrying an axe, and accompanied by 
Old Bailey, I went down the Bayou a half a 
mile and then walked eastward back to- 
ward the fallow Shangi field, following the 
course of a small branch that went singing 
insanely along to be swallowed up in the si- 
lent big water beyond. The huge-footed, 
spindle-waisted cypress trees came in from 
the Bayou's bank a himdred feet or so, giv- 
ing way then to the great, heavy-headed 
oaks that shaded the ground underneath 
black. 

For a quarter of a mile the land was low 
and level, and all alwut here long, funereal 
wreaths of gray mo^s hung despondently 



from the still, boding trees. Then the 
ground began rising- slowly. A dogwood 
or struggling hickory sapling mixed in with 
the oaks, which commenced shaking off 
their noiseless moss. The boles of the trees 
kept getting more and more slender and 
shapely, their heads rising higher and high- 
er into the air. The sifted sim speckled the 
vast black velvet of ancient leaf mold with 
spots of new gold. Ahead, where the 
ground rose sharply, the pines sighed and 
whispered over the hill of the ten lost fights. 

My mother's orders were to smooth the 
way before the colonel, as well as to watch 
over and provide for him. Old Bailey 
kept talking about how the lay of this land 
in north-west Louisiana resembled that in 
Virginia where the " Hellions" had suffered 
their only defeat. He pointed out the way 
of the charge up the hill, and we labored up 
it, throwing aside stones, fallen limbs, and 
patches of dry pine straw upon which the 
colonel might slip. 

Just this side of the hill's crest, about 
where the end had come on the Virginia hill. 
Old Bailey stopped to coimt the hacks oa 
the pine tree with which the colonel had al- 
ways battled desperately and against which, 
at the last, he had always fallen fighting. 
There were something over a himdred res- 
ined gashes, but the triumphant tree had 
grown larger as the colonel had grown 
weaker. 

"Sometime he gwine to th'ow hisself 
'gainst dat pine so hahd he break his heart," 
said Old Bailey. "Marse Jack gittin' 
mighty po'ly dese days." 

So I chopped down the hacked pine tree 
close to the ground, cut its body into four- 
foot lengths that could be easily rolled aside, 
and cleared away the top. I cautioned Old 
Bailey that we must keep very near him the 
next morning when he got up to the site of 
the tree — if indeed he should be able to 
climb that far this year — so that if he still 
thought it was there we could catch him as 
he fell toward it. 

We got back to the camp in time to hear 
the colonel speak to his regimental officers 
the invitation to the great dinner. 

"Gentlemen, a certain black rascal with 
no morals and a wonderful memory has got- 
ten together a goose, a guinea-hen, a turkey, 
and a ham, he tells me, this being the twenty- 
fourth anniversary of my birth. Won't you 
help me with it?" 



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Then he walked out to the improvised 
table in the shade in front of the tent and 
went through with that marvellous dinner 
with his dear familiar shadows. He would 
not have noticed it if none of the things he 
had mentioned had been before him; his 
mind would have put them there; but my 
mother had always insisted on providing 
for just the dinner that Old Bailey had de- 
scribed. 

The fierceness of the morning was still 
with the colonel, but now he was fiercely hap- 
py. Occasionally his red-brown face flamed 
a smile. He nodded and shook his head, 
carrying on a tense, gay conversation while 
be helped the plates Old Bailey passed. 
Wlien the parched-com coflFee had come he 
filled his pipe and leaned back against the 
cypress tree behind him. He seemed to be 
listening, pride and modesty in his blurred 
black eyes. Once or twice he waved his 
hand impatiently, crying out, "It was the 
Hellions, not I." 

**Dat wuz Cap'n Frank's speech *bout 
him," explained Old Bailey. 

Sitting ten feet away on a log, I could al- 
most hear the songs that he then heard. All 
the tenseness and fierceness were smoothed 
and sweetened out of hb face; he clapped 
his hands, shouting out heartily, as if to 
make himself heard above a babel of voices, 
"Good, Joe, good ; you can sing." Then the 
whole table must have joined together after 
the soloist had done. The colonel laughed 
out loudly, shooting snatches of song about 
"My Bonnie lies over the ocean" into a 
riot of discord that was raging about him. 
After a while, his face gentle and shining, 
he rose and lifted his tin cup to his lips. 

" It's only tin cups and parched-com cof- 
fee, gentlemen, but it's the best we've got. 
They never ask more; we never give less." 
"Sf)ceches 'bout de ladies back home," 
explained Old Bailey. 

After having risen and touched the cup 
to his lips eight or ten times, the colonel 
stood straight, hesitated a moment and then 
said: 
"To the sweetest rebel I know." 
"Miss Lucy," moaned Old Bailey. 
Presently, when all the things had been 
cleared from the table, the colonel leaned 
forward, his thin old face tense and fierce 
again. 

"I believe all of us here are Hellions ex- 
cept Joe," began the colonel, "and he ought 



to be one. Gentlemen, there is a certain 
pine hill that the general wants before mak- 
ing any move. Ah, I see you know it. He 
is uncertain whether there are one or two 
Yankee regiments up there. He wanted to 
send along one of Jackson's old regiments 
also. I asked him to permit the Hellions 
to present him with the pine hill to-morrow 
morning to go with his breakfast. He in- 
quired if I thought the Hellions could do 
it." 

He waited, twisting at his mustaches that 
fifty odd years had thinned and grayed and 
grizzled, until the clamor that he heard had 
died down. Old Bailey groaned. 

"I thought so," the colonel said, smiling. 
He hesitated a moment as if not sure about 
making another statement. 

" Gentlemen, the Hellions have never yet 
turned back, but if in the morning they 
should come back down that hill — well, I 
am imderpromise never to turn back. Oh, 
no, not to the general." 

A tender smile lighted his face for a sec- 
ond, and the dinner was over. 

At two o'clock he began the letter. The 
peculiar calm of the simimer afternoon set- 
tled down over the woods. The birds and 
squirrels, when they moved at all, seemed 
more to be playing than waging their little 
battles for food. Cosey was out across the 
Bayou in a bateau fishing in the shade of an 
overhanging tree. Old Bailey sat dozing 
near the front of the tent, inside of which 
the colonel was writing. From time to 
time he stopped, stared ahead of him, 
rubbed his chin, went on writing again. 
After a while I went down to the edge of 
the clear black water to fish for perch and 
to try to think if anything more could be 
done for the colonel's eleventh fight on Lost 
Hill. A little gasolene boat came cough- 
ing down the Bayou from Touraine, twenty 
miles up, on its way to Mooringsport, ten 
miles below. 

At five o'clock Old Bailey, holding his 
head to one side, brought me the letter, 
folded and sealed in the fashion of the six- 
ties. Saying nothing, he turned and crawled 
slowly back up the bank. The letter, as I 
knew without looking at it, bore the name 
of my mother's sister who had died shortly 
after Appomattox. Wrapping it in a hand- 
kerchief, I put it in my inside pocket to car- 
ry home, where the other ten, unopened, lay 
at the bottom of my mother*s cedar chest. 



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The Little Colonel of Lost Hill 



Night came on with its owls and wet 
odors and multitudinous little bodiless 
sounds back in the woods. Thirty minutes 
after supper Cosey was asleep imder the 
wagon. Old Bailey was at his usual place 
l>efore the tent dozing. The fire had been 
doused with water so as not to attract to the 
camp the few mosquitoes of the season. I 
wished hopelessly that the colonel might 
this year forego the walk on the bluff over- 
looking the water, for he was in need of all 
the rest he could get. 

On leaving the tent he said tenderly to 
that Joe Castle that had sung so well at 
dinner, "Joe, if you don't mind, I'd like 
to he alone now. You understand, don't 
you?" 

For over an hour he paced back and 
forth on the hard, high ground, his silhou- 
ette against the white moonlight a wrinkled 
line of gray. Now he sighed profoundly, 
again he went humming some old tune that 
was so blurred and low that I could not 
make it out. 

Then he came back to the tent for the 
prayer. His prayer had always seemed very 
private to me, and so I strolled down the 
Bayou a piece and stood watching where 
a school of minnows flashed and played be- 
tween the water and the light. When I 
thought the colonel mu^t have finished his 
annual prayer, I walked toward his tent. 
As I neared it I heard him raise his voice 
sharply. 

**Why, damn it, sir. General Lee wants 
the hill, and I have written Miss Lucy that 
I will take it." 

But it had the sound of furious reverence. 

When he had gone to bed I was free to lie 
down at the foot of his cot. I think my un- 
spoken prayer was that he be given strength 
to fight once more on Lost Hill. The in- 
tense after-midnight stillness was in the 
woods. I fell asleep imeasily. 

A groan woke me, and I wondered if the 
time had come to rise. Shoving my watch 
out under the tent's side wall, 1 saw by the 
paling moonlight that it was only 1.30 
o'clock. Two or three times after that these 
unprecedented groans dragged me into a 
distressed wakefulness. 

I was only dozing when I heard the thin, 
acid voice saying, "My God, what's the 
matter with me?" The front and back 
flaps of the tent had been left open for the 
breeze; the night outside, the moon gone 



down, had turned black. Lighting a lan- 
tern, I saw the colonel struggling to rise to a 
sitting posture. By the time I got to him 
he was sitting up, and there was a pained, 
puzzled, ferocious expression on his face. 

But he got off the cot, slowly, and stood 
up unsteadily. Old Baile/s head, with its 
red-shot eyes and white side whiskers, came 
from the blackness outside into the dim, 
melancholy yellow light of the lantern. 

"He ain't able to-day," he muttered, 
shaking his he^d. "Marse Jack jes' ain't 
able dis time." 

The colonel slipped on his trousers, and 
that touch of passionate gray sent the fire of 
a great day flaming through him. Quickly 
he threw on the rest of his clothes, buckled 
on the belt and the silver spurs and walked 
briskly out in front of the tent. Hesitat- 
ing a second, while his eyes accommodated 
themselves to the darkness, he went out 
among the loyal old oaks standing waiting 
anxiously for him. 

While he gave the usual orders I roused 
Cosey, the little bay was saddled, and the 
negroes got out for use once again the 
stretcher that had borne him back ten tim^ 
from Lost Hill. 

Now he was striding in from the regiment, 
the darkness opening before his blazing 
eyes. Getting into the saddle, he rod^ 
carefully down the path by the Bayou, and 
I could almost see the great old oaks falling 
in behind him. It was sacrilege to intrude 
imnecessarily into that aged, ever-fighting 
regiment, and the two negroes and I started 
out two hundred yards behind. 

The path was broad and safe; the colo- 
nel and the little bay did not rise high 
enough to strike the limbs of the cypress 
trees. When he had come to the branch 
he dismounted, tied his horse to a hanging 
limb and struck out eastward through the 
woods. The further he got in, the slower 
and more noiselessly he made his way. 

Now he stopped, facing back toward us. 
I thought the dear silent regiment of faith- 
ful oaks drew up closer to him to fed the 
mighty thrill of his pounding, passionate 
heart. A thin, whitish powder of light was 
sifting through the trees. Old Bailey stood 
staring breathlessly at his master's flaming 
face. The wind stirred stealthily. A sweet, 
fiery smell of decaying things came creeping 
along the black ground. On our right a red 
bird hopped nervously about in a tree, a 



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The Little Colonel of Lost Hill 



97 



stream of blood pulsing on a field of gray. 
Out ahead of us the pines whispered and 
sobbed on Lost Hill. 

The regiment was moving. The colonel, 
crouching low, went forward hanging in an- 
guish between a run and a walk. We kept 
dose to him now ; he was panting hard. 

We were at the foot of Lost Hill. The 
white light was thick in the woods. A blue 
jay shrieked the signal of discovery. 

"Yeah! HelUons!" 

One little man could not have yelled that. 
The pines up at the top of the hill started 
back affrighted. 

The colonel went scrambling up the ris- 
ing ground. The oaks came streaming 
after him. The huge, curved sabre, in two 
hands, whin'ed and hissed through the air. 

Now the colonel fell to his knees. He 
dodged his head to one side and pushed the 
black blade upward in a tremendous burst 
of strength, and staggered to his feet, smil- 
ing terribly. 

"That's for you. Mister Picket," he 
breathed hoarsely. 

He suddenly found that he could not 
move forward. Hack, hack, hack, and 
every time the sabre fell a pine tree gaped a 
piteous wound. 

And the way upward was clear to his 
eyes again. He started steadily ahead, 
turned and cried out, "My God, they're 
falling back." 

He ran stumbling down the hill ten or 
fiftee.1 feet. He beat at a dozen trees with 
the flat of his sabre. 

"Yeahl Hellions!" 

He was charging up the hill again, his 
eyes flashing victory, his mouth twitching at 
a smile. Unexpectedly, unprecedentedly 
he fell forward on his face. 

"Here with the stretcher," I l>ellowed to 
Old Bailey and Cosey, who were not ten 
feet away, bellowing because it seemed that 
the air was thick and greasy with screaming 
bullets. 



But the colonel was dragging himself 
upright. His breath was tearing itself out 
of his chest. The sabre trailed on the 
ground. 

"Yeah! Hellions!" 

Up and up and up the hill he went, bent 
half over. Slowly — oh, how slowly! He. 
could. hardly walk; some invisible weight 
was crushing down upon his poor little 
wasted shoulders. He was approaching the 
spot where he had always fallen, defeated. 

"Yeah! Hellions!" 

There was no breath in him now. Only 
a blazing whisper . came out of his lips, 
but it was a battle cry. 

"Yeah! Hellions!" 

The sobbing pines cried louder than -he. 
His charge was the pace of a funeral, but 
it was a charge.. 

He was there! Before him the obstruc- 
tion where he had always lost the fight! 
Here the blue giant that had ever struck 
him down! Gripping the sabre with both 
hands, he raised it tremulously and with 
a tremendous groan swung at the air. 

The sabre wrenched itself free and slid 
rattling down the hill. The colonel did not 
fall. He stood with his hands pressed to 
his head, puzzled, groping in his mind. 
His face cleared suddenly. 

"Cut him through and through," he 
whispered triumphantly. 

He charged on past the place where he 
had always fallen. 

Hatless, he stood on the very crest of the 
hill, and the sun striking his face was 
dimmed. 

"My boy," he whispered to an imagi- 
nary orderly. "Tell General Lee the Hel- 
lions have the honor to present him pine 
hill for breakfast." 

But in all the five years that he lived after 
that his mind remained as it was on that 
morning, and there was always with him in 
his house a figure he called Lucy ; so we knew 
why he had fought so long on Lost Hill. 



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STANDARDS OF A BOURGEOIS FAMILY 

A FRENCHWOMAN'S LESSONS TO AMERICAN GIRLS 
By Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant 




Plus me plaist le sijour qu'ont basly mes ayettx 
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux. 



ADAME RAVIGNAC 
would be called in Maine 
"a plain family woman"; 
in Paris I have heard her 
labelled^ by the more intel- 
lectual of her acquaint- 
ance, " the true type of a bourgeois house- 
wife." For all that, when I received, a 
few days ago, a letter announcing that 
she had decided to sell the fine old house 
and garden above the Seine, and move to 
a flat where there would be no place for 
pensionnaires, the news came like an in- 
ternational calamity. 

Who now, I wonder, will help Ameri- 
can girls to catch a glimmer of the signifi- 
cance that a commonplace surface may 
conceal? By living out her busy, self- 
forgetful days before their eyes, Madame 
Ravignac somehow invested simplicity 
and the dull domestic round with a new 
meaning and an unaccustomed charm. 
It was not merely that economy bloomed 
in her hands into a subtly creative art; 
more important was the sense, which she 
imconsciously conveyed, that the roots 
of her average family were nourished, in 
this supposedly inconstant Paris, too, by 
the rich soil of a consistent and nobly 
serious theory of life. An impersonal 
theory, it seemed, which tested the pas- 
sions and aims of mere individuals by 
their conformity to the established laws 
of a great civilized society. Yet it ob- 
viously yielded such deep personal sat- 
isfactions that the most empty-headed 
of pensionnaires y who began by pitying 
Madame Ravignac's limitations, found 
herself, sooner or later, exantiining in 
their light the foundations and rewards 
of her own restless and uncharted ac- 
tivities. 

What ** theory" or system could ix)s- 
sibly underlie the kaleidoscopic existence 
q8 



of the daughters of liberty to whom they 
have opened their doors so generously in 
the last few years has, I know, been a 
constant puzzle to the logical minds of 
the Ravignacs, and I fear that Monsieur 
Ravignac, poor man, was summing up his 
final conclusions on the occasion of his 
naming it, as he rose from the lunch table, 
^^uneidSecolossaledepique-nique" A huge 
picnic ! The moment was one of supreme 
exasperation, when logic will out, and it 
struck me at the time as portentous. 
Madame Ravignac, though she thorough- 
ly agreed with him, hastened to take the 
part of the picnickers. But indeed she al- 
ways foimd excuses for them — they had 
not been taught as French girls are from 
early childhood, she used to tell her hus- 
band, to consider every day as a link to 
be carefully wrought into the chain of 
the years — and she spoiled them, dear 
madame, quite too much. 

How many times I have seen her mend- 
ing the clothes of the heedless! "Why, 
it^s just a stitch," she would defend her- 
self, "and I can't let a good frock go to 
pieces." How many times I have heard 
her explain American customs to friends 
who dropped in on purpose to remark 
that Mademoiselle Smith seemed to be a 
charming girl, but what a pity she should 
go motoring alone with young men ! The 
extravagant had only to express an in- 
tention of patronizing one of the Immor- 
tals on the rue de la Paix, and madame 
bestirred herself to secure a discoimt, by 
the influence, perhaps, of an acquaint- 
ance who had a cousin in the cloth busi- 
ness. "No use in spending more than 
you need, my dear, " she would say, and 
sit down to write several notes. But she 
was even more ready to help the eco- 
nomical to bargain for a "model," or a 
bit of old lace, and summoned an infi- 
nite variety of petits faurnisseurs to their 
service. At Madame Ravignac's the belle 
always found a rose on her table when she 



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99 



was dining out; the invalid always had a 
special dish ; the literary aspirant was taken 
to distinguished salons on Simday after- 
noon. Monsieur Ravignac himself not 
infrequently left his sculptor's studio to 
escort deputations of the "artistic" to 
private views, or make a pM tour with 
them in the Louvre or the Climy. 

That none of these privil^es were 
^'nominated in the bond" — for in prin- 
ciple the Ravignacs merely offered a home 
to girls who were old enough to be learn- 
ing their Paris independently — makes 
one regret the more that the picnickers 
have proved unworthy of them. It was 
not hard to read between the discreet 
lines oi Madame Ravignac's letter. " You 
may not be surprised," it ran, "though 
I know you will grieve with me about the 
change. Mais, que voulez-vousl My hus- 
band feels that not only the material but 
the spiritual education of our daughters 
demands a quiet place by ourselves. Their 
future and their dots will, moreover, be 
secured by the sacrifice of the house. 
This does not mean, however," the letter 
ended, "that there will not always be a 
room for our friends. How long it seems 
since you, ckire amie, ceased to be a pen- 
sionnairel We imderstood one anoUier, 
I believe, from the moment when I foimd 
you in that triste place, and decided to 
make you our first guest. " 

"That triste place" — the words recall 
the involuntary exclamation wnmg from 
Madame Ravignac by the asp>ect of my 
sanitarium room. I can see her standing 
there in the middle of the floor, a slight 
figure in heavy mourning, holding the 
hand of a solemn small daughter, dressed 
likewise in black, and hear her cry, as her 
penetrating glance turned dubiously from 
the green caldmined blankness to the 
young American, "Mais — €*est lugubreT' 
Lugid>re — that single adjective was a final 
appraisement. 

"Dkmal indeed, my strange young 
lady from over the sea, " repeated Bette — 
though in silence, for even at three years 
old she was well disciplined to polite 
usage — drinking in my strangeness from 
under the stiffly rolled brim of her patent- 
leather hat, whose shiny surface, broken 
only by a ribbon that himg straight down 
behind, struck me as mirroring inflexi- 



bly the general dreariness of my abode. 
Betters great brown eyes were relentless 
mirrors too, and I remember just how she 
looked, to the last detail of her plump red 
cheeks, her long black lashes, and the 
curls arranged with such glossy coquetry 
over her shoulders. But it is significant 
— since even now her mother's spirit is 
more vivid to me than her features — that 
I should have kept no such definite first 
impression of Madame Ravignac beyond 
her general air of capacity and the light 
in her gray eyes. It was a soft light as 
well as a keen one that flashed at me from 
their oddly tilted comers, and an impulse 
of generous devotion, which I was soon 
to recogmze as her dominant character- 
istic, sounded in her next words: 

"You may come to-morrow — do come 
to-morrow ! I must, of course, speak with 
my husband first" — this phrase became 
as {amiliar as the imselfishness — " but I 
am sure he will agree with me. // faul 
s^ arranger: one must take life as it comes. 
The house is too expensive for us with 
our small family; and besides, it is so 
vast, so solitary since my father's death! 
And I have so much the habit of illness 
that i can massagb your knee myself, and 
give you a regime which will set you up 
at once. My poor father" — her narrow 
eyes grew misty — "was often tempted 
by my little dishes. You must tell your 
relatives, " she concluded, with the smile 
at once caustic and tender in which one 
seemed to detect the p)erpetual struggle of 
her heart to modify the native dr)aiess of 
her judgment, "that I shall take great 
care of you. Chez moi, let me say in pass- 
ing, only the best materials are used. It 
is a home we offer, and the tradition of 
our food, inherited, of course, from my 
mother, cannot injure the mpst delicate 
stomach. VienSf majiUe, ' ' she said, turn- 
ing to Bette, "tell mademoiselle that she 
wiU be welcome in your parents' house. " 

The Ravignacs, looking facts in the 
face, had accepted in theory the necessity 
of pensionnaireSy and my semi-invalidism 
went far to make the first practical ap- 
plication of the theory endurable to Ma- 
dame Ravignac. But neither I nor the 
two or three other American girls who 
soon made their appearance at the old 
house can have realized, at the time, the 
cost to a family of this type — a family of 



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Standards of a Bourgeois Family 



bourgeois and intellectual inheritance — 
of taking strangers into their midst. What 
is customary in Germany and not un- 
known in England and America, violates 
in France an intimacy prized above any- 
thing in life. But the Ravignacs' deli- 
cate hospitality, once their decision was 
made, gave no hint of intrusion. Madame 
made light of the criticism of her friends: 
*^Cela m'est Men igalf How, pray, can 
I give up the house that my father built, 
the house where I was married, the house, 
too, where my own children were bom? 
You will notice," she continued, as she 
showed me about, on the first day, through 
the four stately, high-ceiled apartments 
on the ground-floor, "that these rooms 
are all connected? It was for my sake, 
mademoiselle. *It's for the day of your 
marriage, my child, that I have built the 
house thus, ' my father used to say to me, 
when I was quite a little girl, *so that all 
our friends may celebrate with us the 
consummation of your happiness.' Ah, 
mademoiselle, that was a beautiful day 
when it came — as yours will be,'^ she 
added inevitably. "The studio had al- 
ready been built, dowij there in the gar- 
den, for my husband was glad to help me 
not to desert papa.'' 

We had been standing at a long win- 
dow which opened on a narrow balcony. 
The front windows faced a quiet avenue 
where chestnut trees bloomed in the 
spring; but from those at the back, one 
looked far over the intimate enclosure of 
the garden and down upon the Seine, as 
it flowed under its arching bridges: the 
eye could follow its silver windings all the 
way from the close-built, towered region 
of the town's gray heart, on the one hand, 
to where, in the other distance, beyond 
I)ale reaches, the blurred outlines of wood- 
ed heights announced the park of St. 
Cloud. No pensionnaire could help bless- 
ing madame's father for remaining cam- 
pagnard de cceur, as she put it, in spite of 
his laboratory, and choosing such a site 
in memory of Burgundy. Everybody en- 
joyed the spacious rooms, with their solid, 
carved furniture, their hangings which 
madame had herself embroidered in her 
jeune file days, and their polished floors 
which reflected so brightly the gleam of 
the open fires. 

It was tradition again that gave us our 



polished floors. The family purse might 
be slim, but a meek little personage known 
as le froUeur never failed to glide in with 
his heavy brush on Saturday, to rub them 
into a state of waxed perfection over which 
high "American" heels must pick their 
way with care. If the heels, as the yoimg 
ladies asserted, were "French" rather 
than "American," then America, madame 
declared, was perpetuating the outworn 
absurdities of Queen Marie Antoinette, 
which the ancestors of her good shoe- 
maker, down there on the Quai^ had dis- 
carded at the time of the Revolution. 
Madame Ravignac had never displayed 
a heel above two inches high in her life, 
and obviously considered those of her 
pensionnaires unbecoming to the sim- 
plicity that nature and society demanded 
of young girls. 

The theory of the jeune fiUe as a creat- 
ure altogether innocent and obliterated 
was, however, far from being that of 
Madame Ravignac. Her father, a good 
Catholic bourgeois citizen, turned scien- 
tist and professor, had married, as she 
said, "the sort of woman such a man 
chooses," so that conventions which pre- 
vail alike in less cultivated and in smarter 
circles had not narrowed her upbringing: 
she had read a great deal, and gone out 
alone, as a matter of course, after the a^e 
of eighteen. In her father's set greater 
"protection" would have seemed prudish 
affectation. 

"You foreigners," she once exclaimed*, 
"have indeed an odd conception of well- 
brought-up girlhood in France. I know 
what you say: *Poor little French girls, 
never allowed to amuse themselves, never 
free to make use of their own leg» and 
eyes!' It's no more true of our friends 
than the martcge de convenance, " 

Madame Ravignac herself, as she often 
told us, had made, rather late, a maria^ 
d* amour y after having freely refused several 
unimpeachable pariisy and this marriage 
was undoubtedly tending to emphasize 
more and more her temperamental bent 
toward an absorbed and circumscribed 
domesticity. For her children were ex- 
acting, her husband was not an '^intel- 
lectual," and since her father's death 
there was little to bind her to his worid^of 
ideas but ties of long-established use and 
affection. Yet her liberal youth had re- 



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vealed to her the meaning of intellectual 
curiosity and artistic ambition; she could 
understand very well what called young 
America to cross the sea. But for a nice 
giri of twenty to wear rustling silk linings, 
striking furs, a red coat, or pearl ear-rings 
— this was incomprehensible, this seemed 
to her almost disreputable. 
. ^'Ahy vous Hes belie, mademoiselle, U tie 
faut pas fair e iatU defrais pour turns — ^you 
must not be so formal with us simple 
folk/' was her greeting to Mademoiselle 
Jones, of New York, when that pretty 
yoimg person appeared at dinner in a ver>' 
elaborate evening gown. It was lightly 
and graciously spoken, but Mademoiselle 
Jones looked down, as with new eyes, on 
her frills, and from them to madame s 
plain, tight-fitting black. And she was 
not long in discovering that in the authen- 
tic Paris, as the Ra\ignacs understood it, 
the boulevards and the cafe concerts were 
no less banal and factitious than the frills. 

One of madame's favorite stories, in- 
deed, related how, at a scientific congress, 
an American professor of physics had 
asked her father to show him ** Maxim's. '' 
'^Pensez done, mon ami,'' she would say 
to her husband across the table, laughing 
heartily for the thousandth time at the 
incomparable humor of the suggestion, 
''lust think, papa at Maxim's! Papa 
Wno had to be dca^^^ from his test-tubes 
to his meals, and even resented the time 
he gave to his lectures at the College de 
Francel" 

" But don't painters and poets go to the 
cafes, monsieur?" asked one bold young 
woman. - 

** Not to those commercialized boulevard 
places, mademoiselle, you* may be sure,'' 
replied Monsieur Ra\ignac with finality. 
"They have something better to do," he 
ended, proceeding to replenish Betters 
plate, and mix her wine and water, and 
looking up, surprised, at the general laugh. 

"You don't make much of a bohemian, 
my poor Jean," said madame, happily 
accepting her ^x>use anew — his stout 
awkward figure, his square-cut black 
beard, his honest black eyes, which held 
no shadow of humor or irony — >^'ith her 
smile of cherishing devotion. 

Monsieur Raxignac might be a sculp- 
tor, but family affection and bourgeois 
conviction were indeed written large on 



his every feature and attitude. Un hre^. 
homme — a fine sort, you would call hiia< 
on sight: industrious and hard-working 
to the point of bustle, and fundamentally ' 
kind and good in spite of a hot temper. 
When one read his favorite journal, Le 
Temps, his ver>' words seemed to repeat 
themselves dowTi the page, and I doubt 
whether he would have admitted the 
validity of any political or social theory 
not summed up in those wejl-bred, con- 
servative columns. If socialism was ab- 
horrent to his soul, so also was any revo- 
lutionary principle in art; he preferred 
the Frangais to the.Th6&tre Antoine, 
and, as regards the Salon, stood vdth 
the old Society against the new. Ma- 
dame echoed his con\ictions with the 
intellectual submission that is entirely 
sincere in the French \i'ife, even though 
her more flexible intelligence very e\i- 
dently made her not only the practical 
administrator of her husband's daily life, 
but an infallible counsellor in his own 
pro\ince, as well. 

A new conception of the relation of the 
sexes, founded on a new definition of 
equality, was, then, one of the ideas that 
took shape in the heads of the pension- 
naires during those long slow meals in 
the panelled dining-room, which proved 
their chief hours of illumination. Against 
this sombre background, the changing 
shades of comment and criticism in Ala- 
dame Ravignac's colorless mobile face, 
the quick sure movements of her slender 
hands, became peculiarly impressive, and 
not one of her unrelenting analytical 
phrases missed fire, even if she seemed, 
when she let it fall, very much en- 
gaged with her youhgest, the mischievous 
Jacqueline, whose high-chair touched her 
elbow. Her husband, on the other side 
of the table, was flanked by the high-chair 
of his adored Bette; and as this delicious 
plat succeeded that, imder madame's 
watchful eye, and monsieur, for his part, 
pressed red ^ine upon his guests — the 
wine, like the cherries in May, came from 
a rustic Burgundian estate of which one 
heard a great deal — there was much time 
for mutual understanding. 

Too much! complained those of the 
young ladies who were above interna- 
tional comparisons, and did not relish the 
familiar flavor of these pleasant, leisurely 



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•/jlyccasions. Of course, the most interest- 
'•. ii&g revelation, to some of us, was the one 
which proved the compatibility of econ- 
'• omy and generosity: diishes tempting and 
, • bountiful beyond the dreams of gourmands 
were here achieved, it was evident, by an 
art which took exact account of every 
cheese paring, and calculated the value 
of a lettuce leaf; the lights were extin- 
guished there during dinner, but the salon 
was always gay with fresh flowers; and 
though a white blouse might seem a 
luxury to our hostess, there was no doubt 
that she considered real lace a necessity. 

The presence of the admirable Bette 
and her more vivid younger sister was a 
grievance, to Mademoiselle Jones, who 
felt ill-used if they spilled wine on their 
bibs, and failed to understand that 
French manners are acquired, precisely, 
by a long familiarity with the uses of good 
society. Her nerves were upset by the con- 
stant jumping up and down ; her sensibili- 
ties were shocked by the French habit of 
calling a spade a spade. And as for hear- 
ing over and over again that madame's 
mother used only the best butter, or that 
monsieur son pire preferred a cutlet to a 
steak ! " It's Uke living with ghosts, " she 
grumbled. 

When remarks of this sort were ex- 
changed, under the breath, perhaps, and 
in a language which she was supposed not 
to understand, Madame Ravignac made 
no comment whatever. The language 
of la poliUsse was to her the universal 
tongue, so she kept those narrow tilted 
eyes of hers firmly fixed on her plate, 
knowing full well that if her husband, 
fimmig in his chair, caught the least re- 
sponse in them, he would more likely 
than not jump to his feet and order the 
young woman incontinently out of the 
house. But though the lines about her 
mouth tightened, Madame Ravignac 
never lifted her eyes till the danger point 
was past. 

Then, with the quaint smile which, be- 
cause it brought out such tender sparkles 
of light in their opaque gray, seemed to 
defy one to find a hint of criticism there, 
she would begin to tell us still another 
anecdote of her dear ghosts. Most of us 
had a great affection not only for hers, 
but for monsieur's ghosts, too; we felt 
them as much our intimates as madame*s 



brother the witty journalist, or any other 
of the artistic and scientific familiars who 
were always dropping in to lunch. No 
wonder their friends Uked to come to the 
Ravignacs', for even if we were half-way 
through a meal, they were greeted with 
shrieks of joy from the little girls, mon- 
sieur reinforced his exclamatory welcome 
by pumping their arms up and down, 
and madame, after kissing them on both 
cheeks, would hurry off, enchanted, to 
make them another omelet with her own 
hands. 

The cook was used to these frequent in- 
vasions of her domain. Madame Ravign- 
ac could not be called an easy mistress; 
she would teach her servants to faire des 
iconomies, or nurse them if they were ill; 
but they did not stay long under her roof 
imless they proved themselves as nimble 
and executive and self-forgetful as her- 
self. Work, not idleness, was the end of 
life, so she told her household and her 
children. Bette, at a very early age, was 
trained to be a petite mhe de famille. 
And as for Madame Ravignac, she was 
never too tired to spend her whole being 
in generous service; the more she could 
do for you, the better she loved you, as I 
who have been ill under her roof have 
reason to know. Her heart and will re- 
sponded to every new obligation as to a 
trumpet blast, although, between her 
household and social duties, and the les- 
sons and pleasures of the pensionnaires, 
there was not a moment she could call 
her own from nine in the morning, when 
she started off so gayly to do her market- 
ing, wheeling Jacqueline in the go-cart, 
with Bette trudging alongside under the 
patent-leather hat, till she came down to 
dinner at seven, an imusual color in her 
long pale face, her straight brown hair 
falling down a little over her eyes, after 
bathing her pair and tucking them up for 
the night. 

In the evening, if Mademoiselle Robin- 
son did not have to be chap>eroned to her 
dancing class, and there was nobody to 
dinner, Madame Ravignac really had 
her husband to herself for an hour or so. 
And how she did count those hours I 
*^Cest si gentUy le soir^^^ she would say to 
me, "when we sit together in my father's 
study under the lamp, his books all about 
us, the children asleep in their beds in the 



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next room, my husband reading Le Temps 
to me as I sew, and discussing his work 
and public affairs — ah, mademoiselle, these 
are the rewards of marriage, these hours 
of intimate talk. My husband has the 
highest respect for my opinion, and you 
may guess what his wise guidance is to 
me. " A husband was not a beau cheva- 
lier^ who heaped roses in one's lap and 
spread a purple cloak for one's feet — that 
she made clear to romantic America. He 
was, rather, a constant weight, pressed 
close against one's heart, a sotici which 
now and then made this same heart bleed. 
But it was worth what suffering it brought, 
the marriage relation, and the things that 
hurt most were, after all, the non-essen- 
tials — the childishness, the small stupid- 
ities of man. That was what men were 
like, especially the clever ones. 

Monsieur Ravignac's cleverness was 
one of the things that his wife loved to 
dwell upon. "0» demandera qa d mon 
mari^^ was a phrase often on her lips. His 
sense for color-^to take an instance — 
was impeccable. " Let's ask my husband ; 
he*ll know in a minute," she would sug- 
gest, when some girl was hesitating over 
the shade of a garniture. And monsieur, 
the kind soul, would be summoned, all in 
his blouse, from his studio, a little bored 
to be disturbed, but on the whole rather 
flattered, and cast a critical eye on the 
costume before the long mirror. Mon- 
sieur liked pretty frocks as well as an- 
other of his race, and sometimes shook his 
head over his wife's hats in those later 
years when there came a petit Jean, and 
finally a petit Philippe to lessen her al- 
ready faint interest in her own p>erson, by 
adding to the duties as well as to the joys 
of life. 

If Madame Ravignac vaunted the 
•* duties, " it must not be thought that she 
did not also adore a certain sort of break 
in the domestic round. I am sure that I 
cannot be the only friend of the family 
who, on a fine Sunday morning in spring, 
wakes with a sigh for Paris, and — remem- 
bering that this is the day sacred to ex- 
cursions — sees the dear things starting 
out of the front door, madame deftly ty- 
ing the last cap, monsieur faithfully but- 
toning the last coat, both of them hurry- 
ing Bette and Jacqueline and Jean and 
Philippe down the steps of the "M6tro," 



dumping them breathless in their seats, 
and a little later lifting themout as breath- 
lessly at some ugly station in a remote 
square. At the station door, I say to my- 
self, their great friends, the painter Jolier 
and his wife, will be waiting impatiently 
with the tickets and the morning papers, 
and they will all run down the platform, 
excitedly chattering, climb into a com- 
partment — ^possibly third class — ^and after 
an half hour or so, alight at a little white 
village on a river bank. There will be, of 
course, poplars along this calm bank, and 
patient immovable figures holding fishing- 
lines, and, for the eye of the gentlemen, 
who never forget the approach of midi, an 
inn or two in the distance. One inn has a 
garden set with little tables — that looks 
a bit expensive, so why not try the other, 
which offers a more sociable long table, 
under an arbor? 

Every detail of the meal comes back 
to me: the teasing humors of Liline, al- 
ways naughty and spiritueUe; the whis- 
pered reproofs of Bette, over whose seri- 
ous maternal care for her sister and 
brothers the two ladies exchange a moved 
look; the bewilderment of the gauche 
country waiter, jolted out of his week- 
long sleep, and tormented by the jokes 
and the demands of these Parisians. 
There are ruminative pauses, anecdotic 
interludes, and deep degustations. Over 
the coffee, the gentlemen, mindful of their 
professions, dScuss the nuances of the 
view: how it has been "done"; how the 
present school is doing it; how it may be 
done in next year's salon. Then there is 
the afternoon, with its adventurous essay 
of the stream in a row-boat, the long slow 
walk along a dusty ribbon of white road, 
Jean and Philippe trailing more and more 
behind tUl they are lifted to well-cush- 
ioned masculine shoulders; the drinking 
of pink grhtadine in another garden, full 
by this time of ether family parties; and 
finally the return to Paris, after a day 
in which nothing intrinsically interesting 
has been said or done, with a conviction 
of high holiday and achievement. 

Such diversions, be it clearly under- 
stood, have their established place, like 
marketing, or going to school, or making 
your first communion, in the scheme of 
bourgeois existence, and do not turn life 
itself into a picnic in the sense used by 



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Monsieur Ravignac at the meal which his 
wife's letter recalls. By way of further 
elucidation of his dictum, and of the loss 
it brings, in my opinion, to the young 
Americans who should have been the 
future generationsof pension ftaires^l must 
revert to the occasion in question. 

Though time had changed me from a 
pensionnaire to a friend with all the priv- 
ileges of "dropping in," I realized when 
I arrived at the house that day and found 
the family, with Alice White, the tall 
American blonde of the moment, al- 
ready assembled in the dining-room, that 
my hour had been ill-chosen. Something 
had gone wTong. Madame Ravignac 
embraced me warmly, nevertheless, and 
said, as if she were not perturbed, and as 
if her husband were not obviously out of 
sorts, that it was delightful I had come, 
for my old friend, her brother Jacques, 
had arrived the night before from his 
mission in the East, and was stopping 
with her till his own flat should be pre- 
pared. They were waiting for him now ; 
Liline had been sent to call him. " While 
we stifle the pangs of hunger,'' added 
monsieur, sharply reproving the two little 
boys who sat opposite him, for shaking 
their yellow heads, wriggling in their chairs, 
and showing their bare knees above the 
table's edge. Bette, whose nine years and 
whose rdle olfiUe ainie now made her quite 
equal to any situation, tossed her curls 
over her shoulders and inquired, in a po- 
litely conversational tone, whether Mad- 
emoiselle Alice had enjoyed her morning's 
work. Madame was just poking her head 
down the dumb-waiter to summon the 
omelet anyhow, when Liline burst into the 
room. 

" I think he has a toothache, poor Uncle 
Jacques," she began, in her monotonous 
childish treble, climbing into her chair, 
and backing around mechanically, so that 
her father might tie her bib, ^*I opened 
his door'' — '*You didn't knock?" ex- 
claimed Madame, **will nothing teach 
this flyaway manners I" — '*and he had 
a funny bandage over his mouth comme 
^a" — she seized two forks and held them 
against her thin cheeks with hermost elf-like 
expression — ' ^ and he seemed very cross, and 
told me to say he was coming at once." 

Monsieur Ravignac took away the 
forks, and his faithful black eyes asked 
his wife a troubled question. The witty 



perceptions and volatile ways of his 
second daughter were a perpetual trial; 
Bette's calm good sense and her tact 
seemed to him a much safer feminine en- 
dowment. Madame raised her eyebrows 
in response. She did not understand the 
toothache either. 

We were just finishing our omelet 
when the door opened and Monsieur 
Jacques appeared, correct and ironical, a 
heavy lock of gray hair carefully arranged 
over his forehead, and his grizzled mus- 
tachios screwed into the sharpest of mili- 
tary points. Four pairs of childish eyes 
— for even Bette, the paragon, yielded to 
temptation — examined his cheeks for a 
possible swelling, as he shook hands all 
round, and made a polite apology. 

"Mon onclcj^^ began the irrepressible 
Jacqueline, " haven't you — " " Tais-toi^ 
mafiUey'^ interrupted madame, conquer- 
ing a smile. For she«had at once related 
the bandage to those impeccable mus- 
tachios: a lovely American blonde was 
worth the trouble of a thorough metallic 
curling, it appeared. 

"£A bien, mon meuXy" began Monsieur 
Jacques easily — ^he had a gift of turning 
the tables — looking from Monsieur Ra- 
vignac, who w^as pouring out the wine 
with an abstracted air, to his sister, as she 
skilfully dissected the fowl — "well, you 
two, what is the matter? You look, both 
of you, my excellent brother and sister, as 
if you were of Gautier's opinion — ^isn't it 
Gautier? — ^about the futility of existence. 
^Rien ne sert d rien, et tout d'abord, U n*y 
a rien — ' " he quoted. " I, for one, can't 
agree with him, not when I am visiting 
my best friends and drinking their vin de 
bourgogne, " and he sipped his wine with a 
pleasurable indrawing of the lips, tossed 
his gray lock, twisted his mustachios, and 
regarded me quizzically across the table. 

** That's all very well for a successful 
journalist with no responsibilities," re- 
torted madame, helping herself to the last 
and least promising portion of the fowl; 
" but if you hadfour children toprovidefor, 
a big house on your hands, and Mademoi- 
selle Marsh, one of your two guests of the 
winter who has gone off in a huff " 

"And why, " interrupted Monsieur Ra- 
vignac, fiercely pulling his sqiiare black 
beard ; " why, do you suppose? Because 
we won't allow her to spoil our children, 
our well-brought-up children!" 



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"Now, now, mon ami,^' corrected 
madame gently, "you must remember 
that the poor woman is very much alone 
Sinddes^UibrSe. My heart aches for the 
poor dear — no wonder she loved our four 
too well. Here she is, Jacques, sufficient- 
ly pretty, rich, well educated, but her 
parents are dead, her sisters are married, 
she hasn't a single binding tie. She 
didn't marry, all because her father wanted 
to keep her at home, if you'll believe it! 
He was lonely, and said there should be 
one old maid in every family — ah, I must 
say I don't understand it ! " 

"Papa, I shall marry at eighteen," an- 
nounced Liline, with conscious virtue. 

"Parents," continued Monsieur Ra- 
vignac impatiently, "who don't look foi:- ' 
ward to the day when they will be no more 
are no parents at all, in my opinion. 
Young girls don't always think ahead, nat- 
urally, and it is therefore the parents' duty 
to point out, at the suitable time, the only 
road to happiness — what is it, Marie?" 

"A big bimdle from the Bon Marche, 
for Mademoiselle White, " replied the red- 
chedced bonnCy returning from one of 
her periodic joumejrs to answer the door; 
"fifty francs to pay." 

"iVe vous dirangez pas, mon enfant,^* 
cried Madame Ravignac. "I have the 
money in my pocket," and she had hur- 
ried out before the young American had 
turned her pretty head. 

"Are you getting the moral, madem- 
dselle?" inquired Monsieur Jacques 
mischievously of his vis-Ji-vis. Nothing 
really escaped her, but with an air of 
graceful and innocent detachment from 
mundane discussion, she affected not to 
hear, and continued to dip the leaves of 
her artichoke in the thick yellow sauce. 

"Thank you so much, dear madame," 
she said very prettily to our returning 
hostess. "How do you always manage 
to have money on hand? I never have 
^ sou! I am so enjoying this delicious 
sauce — was it a rule of your mother's? 
Will you give me the recipe? " 

"Yes, indeed, ma chkre petite, ^^ replied 
madame. "I am too delighted to teach 
you any art I possess. Who knows but 
your husband will have a liking for French 
dishes! The most important thing for a 
sauce, as maman used to impress upon 
me, is to use the very best butter. Well, 
well, Marie, what is it this time?" 



"A monsieur for Mademoiselle Alice" 
— (Marie's cheeks flamed as she fell to 
clearing the table) — "he is waiting in the 
salon, but he said I was to whisper to 
mademoiselle that the train goes soon. " 

Alice blushed a little, too, but explained^ 
with great self-possession, in spite of a 
sort of solidifying of the family surface: 
"It's only my friend Jack Brown, madame, 
and we are going sketching at Versailles, " 
and rising, she kissed LUine, smiled a gen- 
eral good-by from her blue eyes, and 
swished nonchalantly through the door. 

^^Jolie fiUe!^^ remarked Monsieur 
Jacques, with appreciation. 

"Yes, indeed," said hk sister eagerly; 
" we are devoted to her, aren't we, Jean? " 
But monsieur muttered something about 
spoiled children, and there followed rather 
a dismal pause. It was not, indeed, until 
madame had made the coffee over the 
gas-jet in the comer, and the children, 
replete with petUs canards, had been sent 
upstairs, that conversation was resumed. 

"£A hien?^^ asked Monsieur Jacques, 
"now that we are by ourselves, what is 
it, really? This friend here," he added, 
turning to me, "your American inter- 
preter; can't she clear up the difficulty? " 

"Poor mademoiselle," agreed madame; 
"we do consult her like a hand-book I 
But it's really nothing but the cantanker- 
ousness of Mademokelle Marsh, which 
I have already described, and the ad- 
mirers of Mademoiselle White, of whom 
you have just had a specimen. " 

"A charming creature, too." Mon- 
sieur Jacques twisted his mustache. 

"And obviously made for marriage," 
continued Madame Ravignac. "She is 
lovely, clever, utterly adorable, enfin, and 
twenty-two years old — careless and un- 
formed yet, but capable of the most beau- 
tiful development. This is evidently the 
time for her to be settling the lines of her 
life, but is she thinking seriously of matri- 
mony? No, indeed, she's having far too 
good a time!" 

"Seeing, even here in Paris," inter- 
jected her husband, "at least a dozen 
different young men. She enjoys them 
all, she tells us, each for a different rea- 
son " 

"Do not suppose," put in madame a 
little anxiously, "that we question the 
propriety of her behavior. Her conduct 
is irreproachable, but all the same, and 



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even though I have her mother's consent 
that she shall go out with them, it makes 
me uncomfortable, the neighbors and ser- 
vants gossip, and, worst of all, it*s exciting 
for the girl without leading anywhere. " 

"That is just what I maintain," Mon- 
sieur Ravignac asserted, with an em- 
phatic gesture. "Why should not Mad- 
emoiselle Alice's superfluity of gallants 
have the same result in the end as Mad- 
emoiselle Marsh's lack of opportunity? 
If she waits and waits for the knight of 
her dreams ! Well, I declare I understand 
this American system less every year. " 

Monsieur Jacques, the ironist, who 
liked nothing better than to stir up his 
matter-of-fact brother-in-law, said some- 
thing about his sister's having married 
for love. But Madame Ravignac did not 
allowany jokeson thatsubject, and pointed 
out that if her marriage had succeeded it 
was because she had known how to adapt 
herself to its conditions, and had had a 
sound training in good house-keeping. 

"Just so," agreed monsieur, not to be 
distracted from his thesis. "There, on 
the contrary, is a girl who can't mend a 
stocking, and doesn't know beef from 
pork." ' 

"Ah, Jacques, it's pathetic I " cried ma- 
dame. "I take her to market, and ex- 
plain how, when one pays a little more 
for the cutlet, one pays a little less for 
the fish; how, if one wants strawberries, 
one doesn't buy early asparagus the same 
day, since the allotted amoimt for a meal 
must not be exceeded, and she k so in- 
terested! * If one keeps house this way, ' 
she says, 'there's some fim in it; it's a sort 
of game. We just order by telephone, you 
know, and father pays the monthly bills. ' " 

"Yes, indeed, ordering by telephone, 
that's typical!" Monsieur Ravignac 
threw up his hands expressively. "And 
the poor child has no idea what she ought 
to spend, having, if you'll believe me, no 
knowledge- of the family resources, one 
day reproached for extravagance, the next 
day called miserly ! " 

"A contrast, indeed," remarked Mon- 
sieur Jacques more seriously, "to our 
childish share in the financial responsibil- 
ities of the household. Do you remember, 
tna soeur, " he said, with a reflective smile, 
"how enchanted we were to work out 
the possibility of a journey to the C6- 
vennes, the year you made your d^but? 



After all, life is more amusingVhen lived 
with an eye on its central facts." 

"j5ten entendu," ejaculated monsieur, 
"with apologies to you, mademoiselle," 
— he turned to me, — "for I know I can 
speak as I should to a friend of our nation; 
most of your coimtrywomen treat the uni- 
verse as a playgroimd. With their jour- 
neys, and their bookbinding, and their 
metal-working, and their frocks, and their 
sketching, and their lectures, and their 
^beaux^l Far be it from me to refuse 
woman a place in the arts, or even in the 
learned professions, if she has the requisite 
earnestness of purpose and a real talent — 
though, of course, for her nothing can take 
the place of marriage," he was constrained 
• to add. " But I can't see that most of our 
young friends have any end in view but 
activity itself ! And what permanent satis- 
faction, I ask you, " he ended rhetorically, 
brushing the cnmibs off his knees as he 
rose with flashing eyes from the table, " do 
they get out of an existence founded on 
une tdie colossak de pigue-nique ? A fine 
example for my daughters!" 

This sounded ominous: yet the news 
of Alice White with which I was greeted 
several months later, on my arrival at 
la Sapini^re — the estate so often vaunted 
in Paris for its homely sauvagerie on its 
hill-top above the rich vineyard land of 
Burgundy — ^was of a reassuring nature. 
Alice had written from America of her 
engagement to one of the admirers: 
"Ce/«i qui fait la peitUure, un garqon trks 
bien," madame joyously announced. 

It was Alice again who made the climax 
to the charming last afternoon of my 
visit. We had all been, as usual, for a 
long ramble on the montagne — the man- 
tagne was a rocky ridge that stretched 
back into wilder country behind the farm, 
and its furze-grown open spaces, and its 
adventurous herb-like tang always led us 
farther than we planned. When we turned 
back, at last, toward the plain and the 
sunset — the rich Burgimdian scene again 
spread out for otir eyes — a sense of wide 
peace was in the air. The children wan- 
dered off to hunt rabbits in brushy tangles 
marked '^chasse rSservie,*' and I, too, fol- 
lowed my own way. But as I finally 
emerged on the slope that led precipitously 
down to the walls and sheltered the white 
house and vines of la Sapinifere, I came 



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The Riddle 



107 



upon my host and hostess, sitting together 
on a flat rock, with the sunset light in 
their faces. 

" We were talking of dear Alice and her 
happiness, '' said Madame Ravignac in a 
moved voice, making room for me beside 
her. 

" Ce fCtsi pas grande chosCy un mart, 
mademoiselle,** said monsieur — ^his rare 
jokes were always a sign of emotion — 
"mats c*est, je crois, ce qu'on a irouvS 
de mteux jusqu'ici! — a husband doesn't 
amoimt to much, but he's probably the 
best invention that's been made up to 
now. " 

"Alice declares," Madame Ravignac 
hesitated, "that it is all my doing. Of 
course, that's nonsense, but if I've been 
able to show her what makes life worth 
living — " and she looked up toward 
her four, who were slowly ambling over 
the ridge in our direction, down toward 
the farm, and then again cherishingly 
to her husband, whose face held the 
same transfigured sense of mercies too 
deep for speech, yet counted to the ut- 
most. 

Heureux quifComme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage, 
Ou comme ceshiy lii qui conquU la toison^ 
El puis est retournif plein d'usage et raison, 
Viwe entre ses parents le reste de son age!i 



quoted Monsieur Ravignac. -But there 
he stopped, and the images of the unclassi- 
fied activities and the still less classified 
admirers seemed to pass before his eyes. 
" * Flein d'usage et raison 7 ' * Vivre entre 
ses parents le reste de son age?'** he 
queried. "I wonder, I wonder!" 

"Come along, everybody," cried ma- 
dame gaily. " DepicheZ'Vous done, les pe- 
tits, " she called to the children. " Look, 
the chinmey is smoking away. That 
means baths and bedtime, and I must 
hurry to see that Marie puts the chicken 
into the oven when she should." 

Monsieur Ravignac must nevertheless 
have continued to " wonder " as he watched 
the bewildering activities of the picnick- 
ers, and the long and the short of his 
conclusions is that the idolized house 
which madame's father built above the 
Seine must go. Bricks and mortar are 
transitory, aiter all. The real inheri- 
tance for grandchildren and children is a 
point of view and a standard; standards 
are worth the sacrifice of frail personal 
attachments — the Ravignacs probably 
reasoned something after this fashion, 
and I believe that their act of allegiance 
to a transcendent "system" will raise 
them above idle regret. 



THE RIDDLE 

By Cliarles F. Lummis 

I PLANTED a seed in my neighbor's garden 
(Fair, wee garden where Wonder grows) 
Wet with a tear, that it may not harden, 
Seed of a Hope that the dear God knows — 
And for its cover, 
I folded over 
Five slim petals of a little Wild Rose. 

O, Lady-Liege of the Wonder-Garden, 
Riddle me, how is that seed to be — 
Quick with the sun of thy smile and pardon, 

Or dead and dust for despair of thee? 
Wilt thou it bloom as a flower in Arden? 
Wilt thou it perish before we See? 
Will thy palm forget 
Where my kiss was set 
To grow for a thought of me? 



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"CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH" 

By Katharine Holland Brown 

I L I. r S T R A T I O N S BY A 1. O N Z O K I M B A L I. 




flALM and exalted as the red- 
granite charioteer who 
guides his steeds on the red- 
granite pylon of Queen Hat- 
asu, these thirty immemorial 
centuries gone, the chauf- 
feur loomed behind his broad glass shield. 
Sumptuous as Queen Hatasu's own chariot, 
from ponderous tires to glittering crested 
door, the great car rolled through the col- 
lege gates, and stopped portentously be- 
fore Cliffe Hall. 

Apple-cheeked Seventeen, tripping down 
Cliffe steps, nudged Angel-eyed Sixteen at 
her side. 

''That's Mrs. Cornelius Brinckerhoff's 
car. The Mrs. Brinckerhoff who gave 
Bumbrae School their gymnasium, ninety- 
foot pool and aJl. My — Oh!" Apple 
Cheek's dove-blue eyes grew very round. 
"Don't you hope she's brought a gymnasi- 
lun in her carriage- bag for us too?" 

Angel Eyes nodded, her rose-leaf mouth 
being inconveniently full of panocha. 

''Yeth. 'Specially if it puts it over 
Bumbrae. Why, ^lartha, can that be the 
majestical Mrs. BrinckerhofT ? Why, what 
a very old lady!" 

With pretty deference, Apple Cheek and 
Angel Eyes hastened to assist the very old 
lady just alighting. Rather, the very old 
empress; for Mrs. Brinckerhoff, short, 
stout, white-haired and rosy, yet tran- 
scended her background of lordly chauf- 
feur and imperial car. 

" You young ladies are students ? " She 
fixed her escort with a terrifying although 
a tremulous lorgnette. ** I wish to see your 
head mistress, Mrs. Stanton- Chase. She 
resides in this building?" 

**Yes, ma'am. This is her receiving 
day." 

*^\hl '' Her keen blue eyes lighted eager- 
ly. **Then I shall go up unannounced. 
We are very old friends." 

She gave the girls a brisk, pleasant nod, 
and swept away toward the long marble 
io8 



flight, her sable cloak flowing regally from 
her plump shoulders. 

**Nice old party, Pat." 

"Um h'm." Angel Eyes took another 
large, placid bite. " But wouldn't you simply 
shrivel up and expire if you thought you'd 
ever live to be an old, old lady like that?" 

^'Wouldn't I!" Apple Cheek sighed, 
with tragic eyes. 

A slow, commanding rap fell on the 
head mistress's study door. The mistress 
rose from her low chair, her beautiful ethe- 
real face smiling with flower-like welcome, 
exquisite, formal, remote. 

Then, as she saw the figure at the door, 
all that fine ivory punctilio melted and fell 
away. She stood motionless, wide-eyed. 
The elder woman, pink and flustered, 
laughed unsteadily: *' Guess who!" 

" Molly— Eliza— McClintock! " 

'' Yes, it's Molly McClintock. Didn't you 
knowme, Barby ? You darling, blessed girl!" 

A moment the two old ladies stared, trem- 
bling. Then they stumbled into each 
other's arms. The mistress's waxen cheek 
burned crimson, her soft eyes flashed with 
tears, when at last she drew back to look 
on her friend. Mrs. Brinckerhoff's plumed 
bonnet tipped rakishly over one eye. She 
was sobbing and laughing in a breath. 

*' Molly! It has been so long!" The 
mistress clung to her tenderly, her voice 
catching between the words, her beautiful, 
fair old face vivid. *' Molly, it can't be 
forty years!" 

" It can't be anything else," Mrs. Brinck- 
erhoff gave her patrician nose a final vicious 
dab, which left it pathetically luminous. 
*' My last glimpse of you was in April, '71. 
On your wedding-day, child." 

*'I remember. Yours was the last face 
I saw as we drove away." The mistress 
drew her plump hand close. "Little 
'Lizabeth, all starched and ruffly, was hang- 
ing to your skirts, and you had set baby 
Richard on your shoulder. He was pulling 



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Apple-cheeked Seventeen, tripping down Cliife steps, nudged Angel-eyed Sixteen at her side. — Page zo8. 



the cherry wreath in your hair, and you were 
laughing up at him. You looked like a 
Madonna. And I looked back at you as 
long as I could see you.'* A shadowy pink 
warmed her soft, withered cheek. *'It 
seemed like a good omen, somehow." 

" I'd like to see myself hoist baby Rich- 
ard to my shoulder nowadays." 
"He hasn't really grown up, Molly?" 
" Not unless you call forty- two years, and 
two hundred pounds, grown up. How he 
Vol. UI.— 12 



does despise being overweight! He takes 
right after me, poor boy." 

**You!" The mistress scofiFed, doting. 
"You're just as lovely as you were in '71." 

"More lovely." Mrs. Brinckerhoff set- 
tled back, comfortably. "Sixty pounds, 
more. But you keep your nj-mph look, 
Barby. You litde, spooky, pretty thing! 
Do you mind the valentine James J. Duck- 
worth made you, our first year at Oberlin? 
Lace-paper, with stuck-on red hearts, 




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110 



"Crabbed Age and Youth" 



* Queen and Huntress, Chaste and Fair/ 
three verses, written in red ink ? AndJ|u)W 
he let you imagine it was his owrf, and mat. 
you'd inspired it, till the day Professor 
Leach gave us Ben Jonson in rhetoric 
class?" 

"Do I remember? The great sap- 
head!^* The mistress's angelic old face 
crimsoned. The shocking word slipped 
from her sainted lips utterly unnoticed. 
" You can't say much, Molly Eliza! You 
know well that you were his first choice. 
Can't I see him, goggling those pale-blue 
eyes across the classroom at you? And 
his pale-blue crochet nuby, that his mother 
made him wear, because his chest was ten- 
der. And his hair, slicked into a roach, 
with two ear-scallops " 

"With bears' grease, and spearmint for 
scent." Mrs. BrinckerhoflF broke in, gig- 
gling rapturously. She sat with her plump 
feet tucked on the chair-round, her plump 
arms hugging her knees. Her blue eyes 
danced, her cheeks burned deep rose-red. 
She looked like an impish girl, masquerad- 
ing in frosty wig and fairy-godmother wrin- 
kles. "Wasn't he the beatenest for per- 
fumery ! Mind how he'd philander around 
at our students' socials at Masonic Hall, 
and let us girls sniflF his handkerchief ? He 
always allowed me two sniffs, as a particu- 
larly tender attention. 'Balm of a Thou- 
sand Flowers '" 

"No, that was the label on his hair-oil 
bottle. I know, because your brother 
Samuel once stole the bottle from his room. 
And filled it up with whale-oil. I suppose 
Samuel's sons never stoop to such atroci- 
ties?" 

" His grandsons stray, occasionally. Lit- 
tle Samuel — The Infant Samuel, they call 
him at Yale — stampeded the Freshman 
banquet at WTierry's with a fake bomb, 
last week. Little Samuel is the image of 
his grandfather. Remember that curly red 
head?" 

The mistress's lips quivered into a shy 
smile. 

"I rememl>er that curly red head quite 
well. Perhaps Samuel has never told you, 
Molly. But we — we carried on a corre- 
sp)on(lence all through the war, from the 
day he left college with his regiment. And 
he sent me a lock of his hair " 

Mrs. Brinckerhoff jumped. A wave of 
pink streamed to her crisp pompadour. 



"A lock of his hair? I — I wish I could 
pe^Uiat lock, Barby. Of course it's long 
since thrown away?" 

The mistress looked at her reproach- 
fully, then with a glint of mischief. She 
stooped over a great cedar chest. 

"Why, Barby! Have you kept your 
treasures, too?" 

" Some of them." She lifted out a heavy 
old velvet album and imfastened the broad 
gilt clasps. Gently she drew from it a yel- 
lowed, embossed envelope, which revealed 
a lock of auburn hair, quaintly mounted 
on bristol-board. A languishing curlycue, 
fine and soft as a girl's. 

Mrs. Brinckerhoff seemed to be con- 
trolling herself with difficulty. 

"Barbara! Did you ever notice any- 
thing odd about this curl ? " 

"Why, no. Only it seemed a shade 
lighter than Samuel's." 

"It is. Far lighter." Mrs. Brincker- 
hoff choked. "Barby! Didn't you ever 
guess" — ^tfien giggles overpowered her, 
"that — that all those lovely ringlets were 
my hair?^' 

''Your hair r' 

Mrs. B,rinckerhoff confessed between 
shamed chuckles. 

" It was j-just Samuel's wicked deception. 
He came home on a furlough the day they 
shingled my hair. I'd had malarial fever. 
And Samuel pounced on four long curls, 
and cut them up into rings. And I 
mounted them for him. With flour paste. 
And he took four dozen ringlets back to 
camp with him. The other girls were al- 
ways plaguing him for curls, and it kept the 
poor lad's head shaven tight. He was al- 
ways having colds in his head. But he 
hated to say no." 

"* The other girls!'" The mistress sat 
quite rigid. "Then he sent locks to other 
young ladies — besides myself?" 

"D-dozcns of 'em. To girls he'd never 
even seen, his comrades' sisters and cousins 
and sweethearts. Oh, Barby, don't look 
so shocked! All the soldier lx>ys did it. 
I've heard Sam tell how the whole regiment 
used Irving Cobb's tintype, because he was 
the handsomest man in the service. They 
used eleven hundred copies one year." 

The mistress returned the fond memento 
to its case with unnecessary vim. 

"Well! If I'd dreamed !" 

"There, Barby! Don't be so techy. 



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"Crabbed Age and Youth" 



111 



Think how you treated poor Samuel ! What 
about John? There, now!" 

What about John! 

The mistress caught up the album and 
turned hastily to her chest. A lovely 
fiaroe-pink glowed in her cheek; her eyes 
grew veiled and soft. 

"Molly Eliza, did you ever see this be- 
fore?" 

She held out a mass of rosy, changeable 
silk, brocaded in huge palm leaves. An in- 
credible garment, shaped like a Titan's 
lamp-shade, flowing in shining billows over 
her slender arms. 

Mrs. Brinckerhoflf considered. 

"I should say I had. You wore that 
dress the night of the party his folks gave 
me. Six starched and fluted petticoats; 
and a red rose in your hair. And your bod- 
ice laced so tight that I had to pin the rose 
on for you — Mercy, Barby! Somebody 
rapped. Hide it, quick!" 

Pale and panting, the mistress thrust the 
gleaming mass into the chest, and slammed 
down the lid as if she slammed it upon the 
fragments of a murder. Then, her gentlest 
dignity robing her, she trailed to the door. 

A soberly pretty young girl awaited her; 
small, fair, dainty, with a sweet little gos- 
ling face. Meekly she made her request; 
I>ermbsion to go to the city shopping, ac- 
companied by a chaperon. 

Graciously the mistress gave permission. 
With a dutiful little gosling courtesy, the 
child tripped away. 

"So you let them go to the city, Barby?" 

" Yes, with a suitable chaperon. By the 
way ! Do you remember Susan Pearmain ? 
That little girl is Susan's granddaughter." 

" Susan Pearmain ? A great, fat, blowsy 
giri?" Mrs. Brinckerhoff chuckled. *'I 
should think I did. Don't I remember 
seeing her eat half a pimiplcin pie at a Sun- 
day-school barbecue? And here comes 
her granddaughter, asking for a chaperon 
— H'm. I mind that when Susan and Eph 
first married and went to Nebraska, Susan 
used to shoo Indians oflF her front porch 
with a rolling-pin. She wasn't more than 
seventeen, then, but she didn't need a chap- 
eron for that. Pull out that silk again. I 
want to see. My, my, that waist ! Do you 
let your girls wear party dresses like that ? " 

The mistress twinkled. 

"Not in these athletic days. You could 
hardly bribe a girl to try that bodice on." 



"That reminds me, I want to build a gym- 
nasium for them, Barby. Like the one I 
gave Bumbrae." 

The Mistress twinkled again. 

* * A gymnasium ! Molly, do you remem- 
ber how we two used to sweep our own room, 
and carry up wood, and even split our kin- 
dling — except when somebody else did it 
for us?" 

*'Oh, and wasn't it fun!" Mrs. Brinck- 
erhoflF's round face shone. "Do you mind 
the fall we started to college together, driv- 
ing all the eighteen miles in your father's 
grand new Dearborn? I wore a purple 
merino, and you had a spandy new buff 
delaine with cinnamon dots. My, weren't 
we fine ! And the wagon bed was crammed 
with baskets that our mothers had fixed; 
eggs packed in oats, and a boiled ham, and 
a whole jar of your Aunt Emeline's ginger 
cakes, and a cheese, and honey; for board 
at Oberlin was two dollars a week, and we 
mustn't dream of such sinful extravagance. 
And our elegant new hair tnmk, lashed on 
behind. My, how my neck cricked, spyin' 
for fear that trunk would fall off! And 
can't you see the walnut grove, where 
we camped for nooning, and your father 
shot a squirrel, and broiled it over the 
coals? And then the long, long white road, 
winding on through the beech woods, and 
the windy red sunset beyond? Oh, Bar- 
by, why can't we two drive that road 
again?" 

Their eyes met in wistful question. 
Again the September wind blew in their 
faces, pungent, autumn-sweet. Instinc- 
tively they leaned, listening. Across that 
far unfathomable river of years, they heard 
the fretful call of the quail through hot, dry 
stubble, the long sigh of the prairie grass, 
as it swept the wheels of the grand new 
Dearborn; that endless drowsy tide of the 
prairie sea. 

"And the folks in our class. Remember 
Adoniram Jones? He planted fruit-trees 
through the woods, like Johnny Appleseed." 

"And Lissy Hunt. She married a mis- 
sionary to Ceylon. She and her lisp and 
her curls — and her spruce gum ! Did any- 
body ever see Lissy and that gum apart! 
S'pose she taught the natives to chew gum 
too?" 

"And little fat Drusilla Weed. She was 
so bashful she couldn't recite her declen- 
sions without pigeon-toeing. She went 



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" It doesn't pinch. Not a mile." — I'akc 114. 



down to Georgia after the war and started 
a Freedmen's School, and the Ku KIux 
burned her out twice, but she'd set right to 
and build it up again. Little scared, plucky, 
fat thing! And Peter D. Freeman. His 
father was a (}rahamite, poor boy. They 
never had anything to eat at home but raw 
meal, and apples, and water, ^fy, how 
he used to enjoy pork-and-bean night at 
Obcriinl He was the smartest scholar in 
our class. Unless — it was — John." 
112 



Again that swiit irradiation gleamed on 
the mistress's tranquil face. She would 
not meet her friend's eyes. 

Mrs. Brinckerhoff looked keenly at that 
flushed, musing face, that lovely, drooping 
head. Suddenly her fine old face grew 
very white. A curious tension narrowed her 
steady mouth. 

**Barby, there's something I want to tell 
you. Something I ought to have told you 
. . . forty years ago. But I never did. 



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" Crabbed Age and Youth 



113 



I've let it stand between us all these years. 
Something about — John.'* 

Then the mistress wheeled and faced her, 
blazing, passionate. Her wide eyes dark- 
ened. Her hands clenched, cold. 

** Something about John ? You need not 
tell me, MoUy. We always imderstood 
each other, John and I." 

'*! know." Mrs. Brinckerhoff's face 
grew older, strangely gentle. She tried to 
^>eak. The words would not come. The 
mistress confronted her, moveless. Her 
pale lips set. Between the two women 
there seemed to rise a mysterious wall: 
shadowy, intangible; impassable as a wall 
of ice. 

Mrs. Brinckerhoflf put out her hands, with 
a quavering laugh. 

"Don't look at me that way, Barby. I 
ought to have told you long ago. It has 
been a sore spot for us both. And it was 
all my hateful silliness. But — but I was 
dreadfully put out with you that year. 
Because you had more beaux than I had. 
My brother Samuel, and both the Jones 
boys, and John too. It truly wasn't fair, 
Barby. And you led them a dance. 
'Specially John. He was desperately in 
love with you, and you snubbed him cruelly. 
And, poor boy, he took me for his confi- 
dante. He was forever lagging me about, 
to tell me how wonderful you were, and I 
got some tired of it. So — I let you think 
he liked me — a little. I liked him myself, 
anyway." 

**Yes," pondered the mistress, quite 
without mercy. **Yes; I know you did." 

Mrs. Brinckerhoflf swallowed hard. She 
^>oke unflinching on. 

**So I — I pretended. Right along. 
Though he never gave me a thought. Ex- 
cept when you had a contrary streak, and 
wouldn't write to him. Then I'd get a 
frantic scrawl, begging for news of you. 
And then I'd obligingly tell you, what a nice ' 
letter I'd had from John. Oh, I should 
have been smacked and set in a comer. I 
know that. But it wasn't fair, Barby. 
You with four beaux, and I with only three, 
and one of them James J. Duckworth! 
And you just more than crowing over me! " 

She stopped, gulping. Angry tears 
stormed into her blue eyes. 

The mistress caught her arm. 

•*Crow? Of course I did. / had to! 
It was my one chance to keep my own head 
Vol. LIl.— 13 



out of the dust. For I was mad over John, 
Molly. From the first hour. I 'd have fol- 
lowed him barefoot through the world. 
But he was so splendid, so far above me, 
that I couldn't believe he really loved me. 
And I wanted to be so sure! Little goose 
that I was, I kept trying him, testing him, 
pushing him away. ... No wonder it 
neariy killed me to see him look at any- 
body else!" 

There was a silence. 

**You poor little simpleton! To throw 
away ail those years!" 

The mistress drooped like a scolded child. 

**I know. Wasn't I foolish! Wicked, 
too. And I was punished, Molly. For, 
after we were really engaged at last, we had 
to wait, and wait in earnest, till John could 
get his start. Six long years! Yes, I was 
punished." 

Mrs. Brinckerhoff looked on her with ten- 
der mother-eyes. 

*'But it was worth waiting for. Wasn't 
it, Barby?" 

** Worth waiting for!" The mistress 
locked her frail oldi hands. The great be- 
trothal pearl shone white on the veined 
waxen flesh. All the ecstasy of her brief, 
exquisite wifehood glowed upon her, lumi- 
nous, transfiguring. Old and frail and child- 
less; yet she stood there, lovely with the 
loveliness of an embodied hope, crowned, 
triumphant. For her and for her lover the 
great stars had been lighted. Their ra- 
diance could never quite go out, their glory 
dim. 

The elder woman leaned to her. Silently 
their lips met, across the fading shadow of 
that childish barrier. 

At last Mrs. Brinckerhoff broke the si- 
lence with a sad little laugh. 

*'Ah, well, you had it all, Barby! And 
I have my children. I ought to be content. 
But I'm not. For Elizabeth and Richard 
are ^)oth so wise and grave and grown up, 
and they think, just because I'm past 
seventy, that I ought to stay in the chimney- 
corner and knit. And I just won't. There, 
now!" 

*'And you just sha'n't!" The mistress 
hugged her belligerently. "Much they 
know about it! You're younger and pret- 
tier than Elizabeth ever dared be, this min- 
ute. What wouldn't I give to see you in 
that peach bardge with flounces that you 
wore to our class-night party! And your 



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114 



"Crabbed Age and Youth 



little tiny feet in clocked stockings and 
peach satin shoes! Look, Molly. Here*" 

She snatched a silver-paper roll from the 
chest. Mrs. Brinckerhoff cried out, de- 
lighted. There lay two satin slippers, 
vivid pink, their gilded buckles hardly 
tarnished. 

"I gave them to you! Because you 
were so bewitched with them. Td for- 
gotten." 

"Could you squeeze them on, Molly?*' 

"Well, Vd hope so." With a daring 
fling of silken skirts, Mrs. Brinckerhoff tore 
off her sedate boot. Puffing and tugging, 
she crowded her plump foot into the slipper. 
"You haven't a shoe-horn? No, they're 
perfectly comfortable. They always were 
too large. Nonsense. It doesn't pinch. 
Not a mite. Where's your pink silk? 
Look!" 

Twinkling, her plimip cheeks scarlet, 
she threw off her rigorous tailored gown, 
an^ struggled into the wide swirling robe. 
Flowing skirts held high, she swept a daz- 
zling courtesy to the enchanted mistress. 

* * Molly, you darling I Wait ! ' ' The mis- 
tress dived wildly into her chest. " I'm go- 
ing to dress up too. Help fasten tWs, 
quick! And here's my sunshade, and my 
hat ! " Sparkling with mischief she perched 
a flat straw object, the size and aspect of 
a waffle, high on her soft braids. "Put on 
these velvet bracelets, Molly. And this 
torty-shell comb. Oh, dear, you look pre- 
cisely like Miss Abigail Peabody, when 
she'd dance the lancers with Captain 
Tucker. Don't you remember? She with 
her sausage curls, and her green morocco 
shoes, and he with his brass-buttoned 
coat, and his fierce glass eye? Here, I'll 
be the captain, and you can be Miss Abi- 
gail. Turn out your toes and simper, 
Molly. Now!" 

" * Tirra, lirra, toora, loora, 

Far beyond the Northern Sea! ' " 

Flushed, laughing, they minced and 
swaggered through the quaint old steps. 
Down the middle and back again, they 
pranced and languished; then, with one 
last flaunting courtesy, one pompous pigeon- 
wing, they stopped short, laughing into 
each other's eyes. 

Absurd every step had been, delicious 
the caricature. Yet in that masque there 
glinted something finer, rarer, sweeter than 



mere burlesque. Standing here in the 
faded robes of their youth, it was as if they 
threw down the gauntlet to all the golden 
promises of youth . . . thrai paid their 
challenge in full, with noble, ripened hopes; 
with brave and lovely years. 

And as they stood, glowing, mirth- 
ful-eyed, across the park there echoed 
an ominous note: a distant, summoning 
bell. 

"Oh, oh! The first Vespers bell! I al- 
ways preside. And — Oh, look at me!" 
Panic-smitten, the mistress stared at her 
frivolous image. Frenzied, she tore off her 
billowing finery. " It's all your fault, Molly 
Eliza. You — ^you Ninkimi! To come here 
and turn my silly head, talking old times! 
Oh, oh, where is the button-hook!" 

"There,takethishairpin." Mrs.Bririck- 
erhoff struggled madly to escape her 
smothering flounces. "How did we get 
in to the wretched things! Oh, Barby, 
in pity's name, take this hook out of my 
hair!" 

Blindly they flung on decorous garments. 
Wild-eyed, they fl«i down the long hall. 
At the Chapel door there sounded an an- 
guished moan. 

"Barby! I forgot! I can't sit on the 
platform. I've got on that miserable pink 
satin shoe!" 

"Sit on the shoe, then," hissed the mis- 
tress, grimly. "March right along!" 

Seven hundred girls filed into the great, 
dim Gothic hall. The organ droned 
through a mellow prelude. Fair, grave, 
stately in her trailing black, the mistress 
rose and spoke with all her tender grace, 
her sweet spiritual authority. 

Beside her on the platform, majestic as 
an aged empress, sat her honored guest. 
Her handsome, highly colored face took on 
a soft, deepened flush when the mistress 
closed her talk with a brief touching refer- 
ence to her visitor, and to the dearmemories 
of their lifelong friendship. 

Seven hundred girls hearkened to the 
mistress with their imvarying, adoring awe. 
Seven himdred girls, with faces of young- 
eyed cherubim, looked upon Mrs. Brinck- 
erhoff, first with solemn admiration, then 
with pale, young sympathy. For, at the 
mistress's pensive references, her plump 
hand was seen to tremble on the chair-arm; 
a hint of tears clouded her clear, old eyes. 



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. . . (A twitching pang leaped through her, 
a poignant terror. Warily she glanced 
down. But the long skirts safely hid the 
cruel pink shoe,* still nipping, implacable.) 

And on the rear seat, Apple Cheek 



heaved a gusty sigh, and punched Angel 
Eyes with a powerful thumb. 

"They're two old dears. But just think I 
Isn't it too cruelly awful to have to be old, 
old ladies like that?" 

** Awful I" sorrowed Angel Eyes. 



A WOMAN OF MAIDSTONE 



By Robert Shackleton 




|0 be born blind, to live for 
thirty-six years in darkness, 
and then to look out for the 
first time upon the great, 
bright, glowing world — there 
are few things more tragic, 
more dramatic. There is awe in the very 
thought of it: awe, and an infinite pity. 

Yet to say this is not to express a mere 
possibility; it is to speak of an actual case. 
In the town of Maidstone, so I learned, was 
a woman who had been given this marvel- 
lous experience, and I found myself insist- 
ently wondering how she was adjusting 
herself to the world that she had just discov- 
ered ; what she was seeing, doing, thinking. 
Was it to her a world of phantasies or one 
which measurably fitted with her notions 
preconceived ? So I went down from Lon- 
don to meet this woman of new sight. 

There is old-fashioned charm about 
much of Maidstone, but the part of the 
town to which I was directed is a district of 
bare streets, of humble modem homes, of 
small houses built close together; it is not 
precisely disagreeable, yet it is without at- 
tractiveness. And in one of the plain little 
bouses I found the woman of experiences — 
a little house, part of which is devoted to a 
little shop, kept by her mother, a busy, 
earnest woman who strives hard to keep 
herself and her family from dependence. 

I explained to the mother that I had read 
of the case, and had come to Maidstone on 
that account, whereupon she called Annie 
down from an upstairs room. 

Annie Hubbard; age, thirty-six; an in- 
telligent, quiet-faced woman, composed, 
placid, self-possessed, calm. She was look- 
ing out upon the whole world as something 
to be learned, but her appearance and de- 



meanor gave no indication of it as she spoke 
a good-morning. She was merely a quiet 
and self-possessed woman. 

From her mother's tone, in the first min- 
ute$ of talk, Annie imderstood that she was 
to consider me as a friend, and it was inter- 
esting to notice how she gradually warmed 
end glowed. 

Mrs. Hubbard wished me first to see how 
much her daughter had learned while blind ; 
whereupon Annie, with eyes shut, walked 
about the room with perfect ease, perhaps 
more easily than when peering her way. 
She opened a crowded drawer of the bureau 
and lifted and named article after article. 
** Annie knows where every single thing is 
in that bureau! And she knows every .cor- 
ner of the house!" 

* * Now, read your Longfellow." And An- 
nie, at this, took up a book of print for the 
blind, in Braille, and with swift deftness of 
touch went over **The Old Clock on the 
Stairs," reading aloud, with proper em- 
phasis and real feeling, as her fingers sped; 
and I think it was more than fancy that her 
voice quivered a little at the line: ** And as 
if, like God, it all things saw." 

*** Horologe' is from a French word, 
meaning 'clock,'" she said calmly, in the 
pause that followed her reading; and she 
added, deprecatingly: "I read it in one of 
the notes." 

Except in Braille, she cannot even yet 
read, except the largest of letters. Only 
one of her eyes has been given sight, and 
that not of the most perfect She told me 
that the surgeon, within some months, was 
to make an attempt to gain improvement; 
and she let me know, too, that instead of 
assurance of gain, there was danger in this 
necessary further operation, that what had 



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A Woman of Maidstone 



been won might be lost. Yet she was no 
more morbid with fear than she was elated 
with sight. Nor, throughout, was there a 
word of repining over the long years lost. 
There was only gratitude for being per- 
mitted to see the splendor of the world, and 
a humble and almost unspoken hope for the 
future. Unpretentiously brave, she was 
equal to either fate. 

For a time, at the first, I talked with the 
mother rather than the daughter, to pave 
the way for natural confidences later, and 
It was pathetic to see that Annie, so far from 
feeling that her remarkable experience gave 
her the right to be noticed and made much 
of, felt a humbleness in very wonder that 
she should be given any particular atten- 
tion at all. 

Some cattle were driven past the window. 
She looked intently, to be sure of identify- 
ing them. "Cows," she said, but more to 
herself than to us. And then she laughed. 
** Mother has always been afraid of cows,"* 
she said. "They are often driven through 
the streets and mother always wants to get 
right over a hedge. But I always say to 
her: *Don*t be afraid, mother; they won't 
hurt us; you know, nothing will hurt blind 
people.'" 

Throughout, her command of language 
and her choice of words were astonishing. 
Ancl for much of the time I could almost 
have believed, had I not known to the con- 
trary, that I was talking with one who had 
always had normal sight. 

She looked after the cows till they disap- 
peared, and then said: "But I was always 
afraid of horses, though I suppose I ought 
not to have been. It was their kicking. I 
could hear their feet striking, and the sound 
seemed to threaten something dreadful." 
And she added: " Do you know, horses are 
so much smaUer than I thought! I used to 
think them, oh ! ever so large ! " She waved 
her hand explanatorily. " I suppose it was 
because they frightened me. They don't 
frighten me now; not if I can see them, 
that is. But if I just hear the sound of 
their feet, and don't see them, it scares me. 
And it's funny about the cows, that I didn't 
use to be afraid of at all. For now I am 
really frightened — ^just as frightened as 
mother ever was!" She laughed a gentle, 
quiet laugh. " When I first saw one it was 
much larger than I expected. It was a big 
tall thing, all hairy, and there were two 



things sticking out at the sides of the head. 
Oh, I just wanted to run away!" 

I asked her about automobiles. "They 
frighten me so much!" she cried. "They 
always seem to be coming right at me!" 

To me, throughout, the most astonishing 
feature of it was that she herself was not 
more astonished. I expected to find things 
more pregnant of perplexity for her. But 
here she was, slipping natiu'ally into her 
newly revealed environment and just taking 
things for granted. But, after all, I re- 
flected, it is essentially the same with all of 
us, for we all take the wonders of nature 
and of science for granted, and it would be 
the extreme of imfaimess to demand con- 
tinued cries of amazement from Annie 
Hubbard. One comesquickly to the limi- 
tations of hiunan feeling, and still more 
quickly to limitations of the expression of 
feeling. 

Her first desire, she told me, after learn- 
ing that the hospital surgeon had some 
hopes of giving her sight, was to see her 
father and mother, and she grieved that her 
father died before sight came. 

After quite a while I suggested that she 
go out with me into the town, and she 
eagerly expressed her delight, but — hav- 
ing in darkness learned the restraints of 
womanhood — turned to her mother for 
approval. 

She was in a flutter of expectation as we 
started off. It was the first time since gain- 
ing her sight that she had been out alone 
with a stranger. But she astonished me by 
saying: " I know the town so well! When 
I was blind I could guide people about." 
Then she said: "But I never used a stick. 
People don't notice you so much without a 
stick." (How had she learned that?) 
"And a stick isn't necessary. Don't you 
always hear people when they are walking 
toward you? And doesn't the sound tell 
you when you are at a comer or a crossing ?" 

Assuredly, no one noticed her now, the 
town being quite large enough and busy 
enough for the people not to notice every 
one on the streets, and her own bearing 
being quite natural and unmarked. And 
how, I wondered, had she learned to be so 
conventional and sophisticated? 

I found that there is much to learn from 
one suddenly put into the world of sight. 
We passed the high wall of a school-yard. 
"The boys are drilling in there," she said; 



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A Woman of Maidstone 



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and indeed there was the sound of soft- 
sbuffling steps, hardly perceptible above 
the noise of the rattling of wagons on the 
cobble-stones. 

"There are so many people!'' she ex- 
claimed, in an awed munnur. 

And after some dubitative moments she 
went on: '* I don't understand much about 
people yet, so mother tells me, for I don't 
judge at all by faces. Faces all seem to 
look so much alike! Clothes are different, 
but I don't know about them yet, except 
whether they are ragged or not. And I 
don't understand how to tell the rich from 
the poor. I judge people altogether by the 
sound of the voice." 

Some of her remarks were in response to 
suggestions from me, but most of them came 
naturally from the sense of communicative 
companionship. 

The busy streets were a constant fascina- 
tion . There was such amazing multiplicity 
of objects, such plethora of things to see. 

*• At the very first, when I would wake in 
the morning, I would begin to think what I 
should see that day for the first time! I 
would decide: * To-day it will be a dog, or 
a new shop-window, or a new color.' Oh ! 
it was so exciting ! Some things came easy. 
Tables and chairs I knew almost at once. 
I had so often touched them that I almost 
knew them. One morning I would study 
out the pattern of the wall-paper. Another, 
I would find myself studying the pattern 
of the counterpane. When I first saw the 
counterpane I was astonished!" 

We went on silently; then: **I haven't 
really learned, yet, what people mean by 
*ugly,'" she said; "nothing seems to dis- 
appoint me." 

Her certainty of step was astonishing. 
She moved with spirit, with eager expecta- 
tion. There was nothing doubtful or tim- 
orous. She was every moment alert, every 
moment on the watch for something new. 
I have seen the same manner in eager tour- 
ists seeing Europe for the first time — and 
this was a woman seeing the world for the 
first time. 

" People are larger than I expected," she 
remarked; and then her attention went 
again to the vehicular variety in the streets. 
*• Do you know, it seems so strange to see 
the wagon wheels going round. I don't 
know exactly why — it seems strange," she 
added, shyly. A bicycle rider went whirl- 



ing past, and she drew in her breath with 
excitement. "It seems so wonderful to 
see him sitting so quiet and going so fast." 
And then, as another wagon went by: "It 
seems so strange that the little wheels go 
just as fast as the big; but of course I have 
been told — " a little shamefaced lest she 
should be deemed too ignorant. 

Continually recurrent to my mind were 
the words of garrulous old Pepys: "To 
Maydstone, which I had a mighty mind to 
see, having never been there; and walked 
all up and down the town" — ^for here was 
one who had an infinitely greater desire 
to see Maidstone than had the diary-mak- 
ing official of King Charles. And Pepys, 
I remembered, mounted to the top of the 
church tower, and wrote that he found 
there " a noble view " ; and it was a sugges- 
tion to me — for what would this long-blind 
woman think of that view? It was cer- 
tainly worth trying for. 

It is a charming church, five centuries old, 
set in the midst of grass and shrubs and 
flowers beside the quiet river that goes by 
in a great sweeping bend. "The river is 
so pretty," said Annie. "But I used to 
think it would be very dark!" A boat 
came into sight, around the cunx, and I 
looked at her to see if she was surprised at 
the apparition. But she only looked at it 
quietly for a moment and said, like a pupil 
giving an answer to a question: "Boat." 
And in a few moments: "I know boats — I 
have touched them." 

We turned toward the church and she 
approached it with gentle awe. Passing 
beneath the trees of the church-yard, she 
touched with her fingers the leaves of a low- 
hanging branch. "I feel as if my fingers 
will always be my eyes," she said. 

There were flowers, and she bent toward 
them fondly, lovingly. " I so longed to see 
flowers! " She knew them all as she touched 
them, and geraniums she knew by sight. 

We walked slowly on through the church- 
yard, and I noticed that she said not a word 
of the gravestones. 

"Next to seeing father and mother, my 
greatest wish was to see this church," she 
said. "But I never really thought I could 
see it!" It had been her own church, and 
many and many a time she had sat there 
and listened in darkness to the service. 

We entered, and the silent hush of it all 
seemed to affect her deeply. She walked 



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A Woman of Maidstone 



to the pew in which she had so often sat. 
She told me of how sweet and sad the music 
had sounded, and of how it seemed just as 
sad even now, though she could not under- 
stand why, for everything ought to seem 
joyful to her. 

We sat together for a while, in the dim 
cool building, and then I suggested going 
to the top of the ancient tower. 

She gave a gasp of joy. "Oh!" she 
breathed. And then: "Will you really, 
really take me up there?" It made me 
feel ashamed, to think how easily a pleasure 
may be given to those whose pleasures have 
been few. 

She was almost frightened as we entered 
the narrow stairway and began to ascend 
the winding steps of stone. But she put 
her hand in mine and in a moment went 
on with absolute confidence, though it was 
too dark to see well even had her sight been 
perfect. 

She went up and up, keenly pleased, 
keenly anticipatory of what she was to find 
in the imdiscovered country at the top. 
Nearing the summit, I stopped at the bell- 
room, and told her that there the bells were 
hanging, each with its dangling rope. Her 
pleasure was pathetic. She stepped inside 
the room and went from bell to bell, touch- 
ing them, each in turn. "You see, I still 
see with my fingers," she said, wistfully. 

We were starting again toward the top, 
when the bells began to ring, and she stood 
there in a perfect agony of joyful excite- 
ment, hearing the bells as they had never 
soimded to her before. We stepped back 
into the room, and in wonder she watched 
them swaying as they chimed and sang. 
But her intensity of emotion was almost 
silent; there was scarcely a soimd or word 
to express it. But when the bells finally 
ceased, and the vibrant humming died 
away, her face was beaming with a manel- 
lous happiness. "I have known the bells 
all my life," she whispered, "but I never 
thought I'd be up here." 

We went on to the top and stepped out 
upon the little square roof of the square 
tower, and she gave a cry of surprise. It 
was her first experience of a wide view. 
For a moment she was frightened, but al- 
most instantly steadied herself. 

It was a supreme experience. But she 
said little. Her range of ideas, her range 
of experiences, had not taught her much of 



what she ought to feel on the top of a church 
tower. She was awed, and her face flushed, 
and she breathed a little more quickly, and 
turned now in one direction, and now in 
another. 

I knew that she could not see very much 
of the view; it must have been to her a sort 
of glorified indistinctness, in the mild glitter 
of sunlight. 

After the first moments of deep-breathed 
wonder she began eagerly to try to pick out 
what she could, with her still defective sight 
and her inexperience. She said nothing of 
a few rooks circling gracefully; she said 
nothing of a few flying and fleecy clouds. 
But she slowly studied the trees, which she 
was looking at for the first time from above, 
and with a little laugh of satisfied triumph 
exclaimed: "Trees! Those must be trees! 
But before, they have looked like tall things 
with sticks standing out, and now they look 
so different!" Constantly, I was amazed 
at her vocabulary and the correctness with 
which she used it. 

"What is that white thing?" she asked; 
and when I said it was the bridge she 
nodded comprehendingly : " I know it very 
well; I've often been over it." 

There was higher ground, rising indis- 
tinctly in the haze of distance, beyond the 
town, and she looked long toward it, as if 
striving to see into a remote mystery. " Arc 
there hills there?" she said. And then: 
"You remember that verse, *I will lift up 
mine eyes imto the hills ' ? " And I thought 
I knew somewhat of what she was thinking. 
From suggestions now and then, I had seen 
that she was deeply religious and that re- 
ligion was a profound comfort to her. 

She looked again in silence, and then, 
reminded by her verse, said: "When I left 
the blind school, they let me choose four 
books of the Bible to take home with me, 
at half price. And I thought and thought, 
for they cost so much money I wanted 
to choose right. They cost five shillings 
apiece! — but I could have the four for ten 
shillings. And I chose St. John — and St. 
Matthew — and Isaiah — and Revelation." 
There came into her face the .brightness 
that it was a pleasure to see, as she added: 
"I don't understand Revelation, but I like 
it; it's such fine reading." 

"I read a newspaper every week," she 
went on, proudly. " It's a London news- 
paper, and a blind friend that I knew at 



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school takes it, and then sends it on to 
roe." 

We went down again, and it was surpris- 
ing how readily she picked her way. She 
barely needed my hand out-stretched be- 
hind me to assist her. "At the school they 
taught us to be as self-reliant as possible," 
she said, answering my unspoken thought. 

We went out again into the streets, and 
this time to the busier ones. But even here 
she was undisturbed. Even the electric 
trams did not frighten her, with their rush 
and clangor. She had been told what they 
were, long before, and while blind had be- 
come accustomed to their sound. That the 
cars were not nearly so large as she had 
imagined them to be marked the limit of 
her words. 

Never, indeed, was there superlative in 
expression. A thing was larger or smaller 
than she had supposed; darker or lighter; 
it frightened her a little or it did not— gen- 
erally not. And there was nothing that 
she disliked. Everything that she could 
see was a thing to be thankful for. 

There was much that she did not need 
to be told. She knew the chemist's shop; 
she knew the green-grocer's; she knew the 
shoeshop. And these, without the glance of 
inquiry, the eager straining look — ^for she 
knew them by smell! 

I noticed that her sense of color was 
rapidly developing, and that she was 
especially beginning to pick out reds and 
greens. She could recognize oranges even 



on the farther side of a glass show-window. 
Vegetables she could not differentiate by 
sight alone, but knew each kind by touch. 
And always, she was the eternal feminine: 
**I like to look in shop-windows!" she ex- 
claimed. 

"The buildings are so high — so high!" 
she exclaimed several times, in astonish- 
ment. There was no difficulty in realizing 
that buildings of two or three stories must 
indeed represent to her the extreme of lofti- 
ness, and assuredly I left it for some one 
else to tell her about skyscrapers. 

In the restaurant she was as outwardly 
composed as if she had been sitting in such 
places all her life; and again I wondered 
how she could have learned sophistication. 

Evening was coming on as we turned 
homeward. I wondered if the darkling 
twilight bore for her a message of sinister 
menace. How could it help doing so? "At 
school, they taught us to be as self-reliant 
as possible," she said quietly, as she had 
said once before to me, and as if subtly dis- 
cerning my imspoken fears for her. A 
brave woman, this, certain not to fall into 
vain repinings even if evil should befall; 
certain to glory forever in the splendid 
vision given her of the world — to be by the 
vision splendid, on her way attended — and 
to be among the happiest and helpfullest 
of the earth if the Power in which she 
profoundly but unobtrusively believes shall 
utter for her the world-old dictate: Let 
there be light. 




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IN THE MANSION YARD 
By William Hervey Woods 

There's no need now to look about my feet, 

Or lift a cautious chair, 
But uses of old years my senses cheat, 

And still I think him there, 

Along the hearth-rug stretched, in full content. 

Fond of the fire as I — 
Ah! there were some things with the old dog went 

I had not thought could die. 

The flawless faith mankind not often earn 

Nor give, he gave to me, 
And that deep fondness in his eyes did bum 

Mine own were shamed to see. 

And though to men great Isis Isis is 

But while she wears her veil, 
This love looked on my stark infirmities 

Life-long, and did not fail. 

And is it clean gone? Nay, an Indian's heart 

Have I, and even in heaven. 
If heaven be mine, I pray some humble part 

To earth-joys may be given — 

Far down the ringing streets, some quiet yard, 

Drowsy with afternoon 
And bees, with young grass dandelion -starred, 

And lilacs breathing June — 

Across whose mossy walls the rolling psalms, 

Like dream-songs, come aloud. 
Shall float, and flying angels vex our calms 

No more than flying cloud — 

Some nook within my Father's House, where still 

He lets me hide old toys, 
Nor shames me even if foolish Memory will 

Play with long laid -by joys. 

There may my friend await, as once on earth, 

My step, my hand's caress, 
And naught of Heaven-town mingle with our mirth 

But everlastingness. 



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THE POINT OF VIEW 



I 



F it is true, as has been so often asserted, 
that we bring away from a book prac- 
tically what we take to it, it is easy to 
see why most critics have overlooked that 
one of Dickens's characteristics w^hich looms 
largest before me when I think of my own 
row of dog-eared volumes. The 
Si^^UeKnows majority of critics have not taken 
long years of house-keeping to his 
novels, and they have brought no house- 
keeping away. They could never feel the 
keen delight of stopping in the midst of a 
morning's dusting to snatch a friendly copy 
of the Beloved Boz from the shelves in order 
to extract from his inexhaustible stores a 
recipe for a rechauff6, a prescription for a 
tonic, a suggestion for a menu, a hint on the 
management of servants, a warning against 
personal incompetence, or an inspiration to 
all the housewifely virtues. These are all 
to be found there, and every novel-loving 
housewife knows that romance and house- 
keeping are as inextricably interwoven in 
his books as in the pages of the modem 
women's magazines. 

If his intense interest in house-keeping rep- 
resented some special movement of his age, 
I should marvel less, but the attitude of his 
contemporaries puts this theory to rout. I 
remember that George Eliot spent hours in 
the dairy, and I look for traces of her experi- 
ence in her novels, but I find that most 
famous of housewives, Mrs. Poyser, giving 
no specific advice about household matters, 
and confining herself to frequent scoldings 
about the delinquencies of the "gells," scold- 
ings of no practical service to the present- 
day reader tossing on a troubled domestic 
sea. I recall that Thackeray, the social regis- 
trar, described many a formal dinner and 
"swarry," but I turn his pages only to dis- 
cover that Miss Fotheringay, cleaning her 
white satin slippers with bread crumbs, is 
one of his few incidents which could be 
adapted to human nature's daily needs. I 
admit that Meredith has given us one im- 
mortal house-keeper, Mrs. Berry,"that bunch 
of black satin," who assures us that ^^kissin' 
don't last. Cookery do"; but Mrs. Berry 
is remembered as a culinary philosopher 



rather than a practical demonstrator of the 
art, and Mrs. Todgers is her undeniable pro- 
totype. 

Dickens seems to stand alone in making 
his plot develop by means of cooking, meals, 
and household tasks. Despite his delight- 
ful pages where Bella Wilfer administers a 
knock both figurative and literal to the 
"Complete British Housewife," the cook- 
book of his day, he himself is often as explicit 
about matters of food as the cooking man- 
uals of the present year of grace. In nearly 
all his longer stories someone 's house-keeping 
is carefully, not always agreeably, delineated 
and its influence upon the home is given full 
emphasis. His two most famous house-keep- 
ers are those that might be denominated 
destructive housewives — Home Wreckers — 
Mrs. Jellyby, the Inefficient, and Dora 
Copperfield, the Incompetent. The key- 
note to Mrs. Jellyby's house-keeping is dis- 
order, and it requires a full half-page to 
enumerate the conglomeration of hetero- 
geneous articles collected in one of her 
closets. Whenever I open at this page, I in- 
variably cast everything else aside and de- 
vote the day to the cleaning of cupboards! 
Dora and her house-keeping, superintended 
by Jip, is one of the most pathetic histories 
in any literature, yet when I realize what 
material havoc Dora wrought I almost for- 
get her pathos in my haste to make my own 
account-books balance. A thorough study 
of these two characters would, I believe, do 
more for the future happiness of any Young- 
Woman-About-To-Be-Married than an en- 
tire course in that comparatively new branch 
which the students call "Dom Econ;" and 
here one great artist might outweigh several 
exact scientists. 

In direct contrast to these are the beau- 
tiful portraits of two constructive house- 
wives — Home Builders — Agnes Wickfield, 
the Eflicient,' and Esther Summerson, the 
Competent — and in both cases their vocation 
is continually suggested by the introduction 
of a bunch of keys. When David first sees 
Agnes she has a ** little basket trifle hanging 
at her side with keys in it," and these keys 
appear again and again all through the nar- 

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rative until its happy climax when she looks 
down at them and says, ** They seem to jingle 
a kind of old tune!" Esther Summerson's 
first experience at Bleak House is the pres- 
entation of the keys, and after this they are 
constantly in evidence while she is portrayed 
as the busy young house-keeper, making lists 
of her preserves, balancing her neat accounts, 
serenely pursuing her household tasks, until 
to the most casual reader they eventually 
become the symbol of tender household min- 
istrations. I know of no better incentive to 
order and devotion in home life than the 
example of these two young women. 

They are not the only instances, however, 
for ail through the books we catch glimpses 
of successful and attractive housewifery. 
There is Traddles's Sophy," the dearest girl ! " 
"her punctuality, economy and order!" 
there is Betsy Trotwood, washing the tea- 
cups and folding the cloth; there is gentle 
Florence Dombey sweeping the hearth at 
Captain Cuttle's; there is pretty Mary roll- 
ling the rugs with some aid from Sam WcUer, 
and there are many, many more. On al- 
most every page food is served in one form 
or another, and some of the most distin- 
guished characters are introduced through 
the medium of a meal. Mrs. Jarley, Dolly 
Varden, Mrs. Maylie and Rose, the Father of 
the Infant Phenomenon, and Mr. F.'s Aunt, 
all make their initial entrances at the table. 

There is a continuous performance of tea 
drinkings. Over t he Squeers's teacups, Nicho- 
las Nickleby meets John Browdie; with the 
aid of the teapot Mrs. Harris's fate is forever 
settled; in a tea-room Flora Casby makes 
her great confession to Little Dorrit; steep- 
ing the fragrant leaves the Heeps first assert 
their oppressive humbleness, and "with a 
little more flip" in her cup Mrs. Micawber 
avers that she "will never desert Mr. 
Micawber." 

Through "Our Mutual Friend" more 
than all, are carried two great domestic 
strands. From the beginning to the end of 
the book the Handford-Hexam murder mys- 
tery is expanded by the discussions at the 
Veneering dinner-parties under the shadow 
of the "camels." The romance of the fas- 
cinating Bella Wilfer, on the other hand, 
from the time she first appears as a wilful 
girl, tossing her curls, until she becomes the 
Mendicant's Bride, is developed in a series 
of purely domestic scenes. When she finally 
leaves us, the Inexhaustible Baby in her 



arms, she is dreaming of the furniture in the 
new nursery. 

The supreme use, perhaps, which Dickens 
makes of cookery is where the romance actu- 
ally turns upon the concoction of a beef- 
steak pie. Peggotty was famous for her 
beefsteak pie, and it was a favorite dish of 
Vincent Crummies, but with Ruth Pinch 
and John Westlock it becomes the tissue 
from which love is woven. When I open at 
this passage, I lay down my duster and 
hasten to the pantry, hoping and expecting 
to find Cupid perched on the bread-board or 
hovering over the flour-barrel. Thus far 
his actual presence has not been vouchsafed 
me, but I feel that I have found something 
just as valuable. 

No ! It was no mere chance that prompted 
Dickens to call his magazine "Household 
Words." He was and is saturated with 
them, and the youngest housewife may per- 
ceive this more clearly than the oldest critic. 



HAVE you not noticed, in our current 
literature, the wnde-spread epidemic of 
dashes that has broken out upon the 
printed page? In books and in periodicals it 
is alike prevalent; treatise, essay, and story 
are equally subject to it. I sometimes wonder, 
in picking up one of the more popular maga- 
zines, if an editorial fiat has gone forth that no 
tale shall be accepted unless it con- th r» k 
tains at least one dash to each sen- ^ ^ 

tence. Do they pay by the dash, one wonders, 
as the eye follows gap and hiatus in line after 
line and colunm after column? True, these 
blank spaces often constitute the best part of 
the page, and the grateful eye sometimes rests 
upon them with relief, but so plentiful and so 
unnecessary are they that one wonders if they 
point to a gradual but sure elinunation of the 
text itself, in deference to a generation whose 
animal energies so far outstrip the mental. 
Are we going back to that long howl or bark, 
innocent of words and of ideas, which Mr. 
Jesperson, in a learned essay, assures us was 
the origin of human speech ? 

The dashes are of as many kinds as are the 
kinds of style that they decorate. Most com- 
mon, perhaps, b the dash of inexpressible 
emotion. 

"*Real love is—'" she broke off and re- 
turned suddenly to her light tone. . . . 

" 'Don't you know — haven't you seen -that 
— that I've always loved you?' 



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" 'It doesn't seem as if it could be a real, 
grown-up love ' 

"Their eyes met and glanced away. 

" 'Can't you understand * 

"'You are sorry you said it. You would 
take it back if you could * " 

Then there is the psychological-subtle dash. 

"These words, he was well aware, left his 
wife — given her painful narrowness — a bris- 
tling quiver of retorts to draw from; yet it was 
not without a silent surprise that he saw her, 
with her irritated eyes on him, extract a bolt 
of finest point. 'The pleasure then, in her 
view, you make out — since you make out such 
wonders — is to be all for us only?*" 

Space forbids further quotation; one need 
but turn to our more serious writers of fiction 
to find instances innumerable of this baldly 
apparent, self-conscious device for securing 
piquant effects. 

Closely related to the first class, the dash of 
inexpressible emotion, possibly also, though I 
should hardly dare suggest this, to the second 
class, is the plain-lazy dash. This hardly 
needs illustration; it confronts us everywhere. 
Naturally, it is easier to draw a line upon the 
page than it is to write out even the very ob- 
vious words that go with the plain -lazy style. 
In all these types there is a fundamental insin- 
cerit>% whether the author is trying to suggest 
more emotion than is really there, or to hint a 
deeper meaning than is in his mind. By this 
device he imposes upon the reader, making him 
supply what the author lacks, suggesting, by 
this hiatus and that long pause, unspeakable 
things that he may have been, but probably 
was not thinking or feeling, but which he ap- 
parently hopes the reader will take the trouble 
to think and to feel. 

I do not object to the dash as a dash, but 
to its excessive and inappropriate use. There 
are places where it serves a real need, as, for 
instance, in the essays and the letters of 
Charles Lamb. When, as in his case, the 
style is full of sudden quips and cranks and 
turns, it is well for the printed page to bear 
some device that meets the inner need. The 
charm of his thought is that it comes in flashes; 
and the imaginative suggestions are so diverse 
and so various that they are best indicated by 
this symbol of sudden break. In the case of 
the majority of those who use and over-use it, 
however, there is no such reason. What quips 
and sudden turns of thought are to be found, 
may I ask, in the prose of Mrs. Humphry 
Ward that she should thus disfigure her even, 



straightforward sentences? For the amiable 
mental processes of Richard Meynell no such 
device is needed to suggest complex mental- 
ity, and seeing his plain thoughts thus tricked 
out makes upon me an impression of as great 
incongruity as it would to see ^latthew Arnold 
jumping rope. 

Any amount of extraneous material can l)c 
thrust into sentences so made. It is as easy as 
throwing miscellaneous articles into the waste- 
basket, and in much of the writing em ploy in t; 
this device the relation of the component parts 
is about the same. With this freedom, what 
mark or measure is there for the sentence? 
Why should it ever begin or ever end? I 
object to this impressionist punctuation, this 
chaotic and emotional kind of expression, this 
exclamatory and fragmentary thought. It is 
hard to have the meaning of a sentence, just as 
you were about to grasp it, dashed away; to 
have, if I may change the figure, the clew to the 
labyrinth break in your hands; to find your- 
self, if I may change it again, brought up 
standing, with a sudden wrench, as if some one 
were jerking the reins, and to find all meaning 
thro^Ti violently out of your mind. When 
this happens, you naturally think that some- 
thing in the thought has changed, and that you 
are to turn in another direction. But no! In 
nine cases out of ten you find yourself at ex- 
actly the same point in the same old subject, 
and you find it far harder to get back into the 
rut than it would have been to stay in. You 
lose mental confidence and grow nervous, as 
one who feels that a leg of the chair in which 
he is sitting may at any moment come out, or 
the wheel of his carriage roll independently 
away. 

No good tailor would think of leaving an 
inch gap between sleeve and arm-hole, nor 
would a decent carpenter leave yawning pauses 
between his shingles. My chief objection to 
the dash is that it acts as a disintegrating force 
upon both form and subject-matter. The in- 
tegrity of the sentence is disappearing before it, 
and with it is disappearing that skilful adjust- 
ment of minor phrases to the main phrase 
which alone can achieve delicate gradations 
and shades of meaning. The art of modifying 
your idea and explaining it in a fashion that 
brings out the relative values of the more and 
the less important parts is becoming a lost art, 
and the mastery of conjunctions, so mar\'ellous 
in Newman's closely knit and logical prose, 
has already largely disappeared. Instead of a 
finely wrought bit of architecture, where every 



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atom is in its rightful place, you are given, in 
the typical modern sentence, a heap of rolling 
stones, whose harsh sides grate one against 
another, as the meaning scatters ever3rwhere 
and nowhere, the little clause that might mean 
so much in the right place tumbling over the 
larger clause and so being lost to sight and 
sense. Of what use is our alleged modem 
development in complex, many-sided thought, 
if subtlety of cunning sentence-structure, 
whereby this may be wrought out, is beyond 
us? Often in coming upon one of these long, 
meaningless dashes one feels as if, in some 
delicate triumph of architecture, one had dis- 
covered a sudden gap in arch or pillar. It 
achieves the impossible, substituting a hole where 
nothing but firmest substance would suffice. 



My wrath is greatest when I find these 
marks thrust into my own writing, by dashing 
editor or proof-reader, anxious to keep up with 
the times; for I have resisted temptation, have 
struggled to manipulate my adjectives, my 
participles, my conjunctions so that definite 
design may be visible in my sentences. To 
have my careful dove-tailing torn asunder and 
wide spaces thrust between maddens me. 
Great also is my wrath when I find the ten- 
dency working unconsciously within me, with 
the subtle temptation to escape trouble. You 
would be distressed to know how many times, 
in writing down the foregoing brief remarks, I 
have found myself using it, and have removed 
it with maledictions. 

Dash take the Dash! 



THE FIELD OF ART 



THE MUSEUM AND THE TEACHING OF 
ART IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS 

IN discussing the uses of the museum in 
connection with the teaching of art, the 
most important things to consider are, 
first, what we mean by "the teaching of 
art," and, second, what purpose is to be sub- 
served by such teaching. Of course, in the 
strict sense of the words, art cannot be taught 
at all, but what we ordinarily call the teach- 
ing of art may be classed under three heads. 
In the first place we can teach about art. A 
great deal of the teaching in our schools and 
colleges, a great deal that appears in books 
and lectures everywhere, is, I think, rather 
teaching about art than teaching art. It is 
teaching the history of art; to some extent 
the theory of art. It is a very useful kind 
of teaching in its place, and for its own ends, 
but it is to be clearly distinguished from the 
other two kinds of teaching — the teaching 
of, or the assistance and encouragement in, 
the appreciation of art, which is the rarest 
kind of teaching; and the teaching of the 
use of the tools of art, which is what all 
teachers of drawing or of modelling are en- 
gaged in. 

Now, it is obvious that in this teaching 
about art — this teaching of the history or 
the theory of art — a museum is a tool of the 



highest utility. It is possible, as we know 
too well, to teach something of art history 
by lectures and text-books without the use 
of concrete examples; but such teaching is 
pretty sure to degenerate into a teaching of 
names, or about names, instead of a teach- 
ing about things. It is a little pathetic to 
see the hunger for such teaching — to note 
how many people go to lectures on the his- 
tory of art, or read books on that history, 
without ever realizing that they know noth- 
ing — really nothing — about the things of 
which they are hearing or reading. 

But whatever you may learn of the his- 
tory of art without seeing the actual ob- 
jects which are the subject of that history, 
you can learn not at all to appreciate art 
without stud3ring the objects themselves. 
The best that you can get outside of a good 
museum is a limited supply of photographs 
or of illustrations in books — and these are a 
very poor substitute. One really good pict- 
ure of almost any school or epoch, one 
fragment of Greek sculpture or of Gothic 
carving, is a far better introduction to the 
enjoyment of art than all of the illustra- 
tions in all of the illustrated books on art 
that have been printed. In the attempt to 
teach appreciation the museum is not merely 
a valuable aid, it is an absolute necessity. 



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In the third form of teaching — the teach- 
ing of the use of the tools of art — the mu- 
seum is less obviously necessary; and as a 
matter of fact such teaching, whether in 
the professional art schools or in general 
schools, has made little use of the museum. 
I think it can be shown, however, that even 
in this part of the teaching of art the uses 
of the museum are many and its facilities 
should be taken advantage of. 

As to the purpose of art teaching in our 
schools, I imagine it to have two principal 
aims or ends. I imagine art to be taught 
in the schools, first, for the sake of general 
culture; and, second, for the training of 
eye and hand, and for the providing of a 
valuable tool for use in the future life of the 
students. 

It is almost impossible to exaggerate the 
importance of art teaching for the diffusion 
of culture. Our general school training be- 
comes of necessity more and more a matter 
of utility. The necessarily, obviously use- 
ful things that will help a student to gain a 
living are insisted upon; and what used to 
be called the "humanities" are perforce 
more and more neglected. We all know 
how much regret has been felt and expressed 
at the gradual decay of the study of Greek 
in our institutions of learning. Now, it 
seems to me that in the teaching of art there 
is a pretty good substitute for some of the 
more humane studies that are being discon- 
tinued. The tendency to do away with the 
study of Greek is lamented by scholars be- 
cause, they say, the Greek spirit is of the 
utmost importance to our general culture 
and to our finer and higher education; but, 
as long as there is Greek sculpture and 
Greek architecture to be studied in our mu- 
seums, it seems to me we need not despair 
of arriving at some very tolerable notion of 
the Greek spirit. I have always been inter- 
ested in the story that has been told of 
Goethe, who, when he was about to write 
his "Iphigenia," wished to fill himself with 
the Greek spirit and did it, not by reading 
Greek tragedies, but by taking a course of 
drawing from the antique. 

The theory of art, I think, we can dismiss 
from this discussion as a thing hardly to be 
taught in the ordinary schools. The theory 
of art, or what we know as aesthetics, is a 
branch of metaphysics — a thing only to be 
understood or enjoyed by very advanced 
students — by mature minds. And, on the 



other hand, if a child or a young person in 
the high-schools can be brought to take a 
natural and healthy interest in art — tfce 
concrete thing as it exists — I think he need 
not be troubled much about the theory of 
it. He can be allowed to take that for 
granted — leaving it as a matter for the 
metaphysicians and the aestheticians to 
discuss. 

Of the teaching of the history of art there 
is much more that is favorable to be said; 
but that teaching has also its dangers. I 
think there is alwa)rs a little danger that 
in studjdng and in teaching the history of 
art we shall get too much into the scientific 
frame of mind — shall get to thinking too 
much of the importance of things as speci- 
mens. Thinking scientifically, rather than 
artistically, we shall classify and pigeon- 
hole and come to treat a work of art as if 
it were an insect with a pin through it. 
If we are to gain much for culture out of 
the study of art we have got to know it as 
something alive — not as something in a 
cabinet with a label on it. In stud}dng the 
work of art as if it were conveniently dead, 
we are studying, in reality, archaeology 
rather than art, for archaeology does not 
necessarily confine itself to the study of the 
work of extinct peoples. There is Egyptian 
archaeology and Greek archaeology, but 
there is also, nowadays, a good deal of 
Renaissance archaeology. Even the study 
of modern art may reduce itself to what one 
may call a sort of. premature archaeology. 
The archaeologist looks at a work of art for 
the light it throws on history or the life of 
man, on customs or costumes, on religion, 
or a thousand other things, but he some- 
times forgets that the one important thing 
about a work of art is its beauty. We 
should remember that the teaching of art 
history is, after all, less a branch of the 
teaching of art than a branch of the teach- 
ing; of history. As a branch of the teaching 
of history it has very great importance; but 
for those specifically engaged in trjring to 
get some idea of the meaning of art into the 
minds of the young, such teaching should 
take a minor place. 

The important thing about a work of art, 
then, for us is not its country or its date, or 
the name of its author — not its authen- 
ticity or any other fact about it — the im- 
portant thing is its beauty. If it have not 
beauty it is useless for our purpose, however 



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authentic and interesting it may be as a 
specimen. And that is one of the things 
that makes it necessary to use a museum 
with discretion — for a museum necessarily 
contains a good many specimens which have 
their interest of one or another sort, but 
which are not beautiful. They may not be 
beautiful, possibly, because the whole art 
of a certain period or school was unbeauti- 
ful; or they may be unbeautiful because 
they are the inferior works of a given period 
or the failures of a particular artist. But 
the things which in themselves intrinsically 
possess beauty are the only things which 
should interest us. If it have real beauty 
it does not much matter when a work of art 
was made, or where or by whom it was 
made — its beauty is its reason for existence; 
and the best we can do for the young people 
over whom we may have an influence is to 
try to encourage, and as far as possible to 
train, their appreciation of the beautiful. 
It is, therefore, the second kind of art teach- 
ing, the training in the appreciation of art, 
that is most important for our first purpose 
— that of the diffusion of culture. 

Now, it is not an easy thing to do — to 
train the appreciation of art. As far as it 
can be done at all it can be done in a mu- 
seum, and hardly anywhere else; and it be- 
comes of the utmost importance, therefore, 
that relations between the museums and the 
schools should be systematic, and should be 
kept constantly in view. 

I should like not only to see regular trips 
to the museum at certain intervals by classes 
under the direction of their teachers, but I 
should like to see the school children en- 
couraged to go to the museum of their own 
volition — to go in their spare hours and on 
their holidays. I should like to see some 
reason given to them to do this; some ques- 
tion asked them that they could there find 
an answer for. I should like to see any- 
thing done that might tend to give them the 
museum habit — a habit which is lamentably 
lacking in a large class of well-to-do and 
well-educated people. 

But I think it might be rather dangerous 
to try to give too much direction at first to 
these young people. I can imagine that if 
one took a class through the rooms of a 
good museum, carefully pointing out the 
best things and explaining why they should 
be admired and why they are the best, one 
might readily produce the result that a good 



many teachers of literature produce — the 
result of making the pupils hate the best 
things forever. My _ notion would be to 
take the horse to water, but not at first to 
try too hard to make him drink. Take the 
children to the museum. Let them range 
a little. See what they like. Find out, if 
you can, whether they really like anjrthing; 
and when they like something, find out why. 
Then, it seems to me, if you can find out 
why any child or young person has liked a 
particular work of art, you can begin to 
point out the quality he has liked in other 
things, in better form and in higher degree; 
and you can gradually produce a very de- 
cided impression on the taste of the student. 

To this end we must specially guard 
against the old error of thinking of art as a 
thing made up of pictures in gold frames and 
statues standing on pedestals. We must 
not forget the great number and variety of 
objects collected in a museum of art, and 
the genuinely artistic nature of almost all 
of these objects. Take, for example, a col- 
lection of musical instruments, and I can 
imagine a sense of line being awakened for 
the first time by the study of these instru- 
ments, just as I can imagine a sense of color 
being awakened by the study of the deep 
tones and rich glazes of some piece of orien- 
tal pottery. 

In the first place, many of these things, hy 
their associations, are more likely to interest 
the young than the pictures and the statues 
— certainly than the statues. And, in the 
second place, I am not at all sure that the 
purely artistic sensations cannot be given 
more directly by some of these works cf 
minor art than by works of painting or 
sculpture, because the artistic element is less 
entangled with the question of representa- 
tion. When we look at a picture we are in- 
evitably thinking somewhat of the subject ; 
we are inevitably thinking of the things 
represented, and the color of the picture, rs 
color, does not come to us with anything HI e 
the force and the clearness and simplicity 
of appeal that it might have coming from 
some oriental plaque. So with beauty cf 
line, which it is hard to disentangle from 
representation, but which is entirely dis- 
connected with representation in the fine 
forms of a musical instrument or of a 
beautiful piece of furniture. Therefore, in 
trying to cultivate artistic appreciation in 
the young, I should, especially in the begin- 



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ning. allow them a wide range of choice of 
subject » trying, KtHe by little^ to'lead them 
to a finer, higher appreciation of the quali- 
ties they had first shown a liking for, tak- 
ing them from the line of a fiddle neck to 
the line of a drawing by Botticelli, and from 
the color of a tile to the color of a Titian. 

If this could be done — if the pupils of our 
public schools could be brought frequently 
to a museum and encouraged to comeoftener 
by themselves until they became pretty 
familiar with its contents, th^re seems to be 
no real reason why, in a few years, such 
pupils should not have a really sounder, 
belter-based, and more cultivated taste in 
the fine arts than many of the members of 
our highly educated classes. 

The third form of the teaching of art, the 
teaching of the use of the tools of art, re- 
duces itself, for our purpose, practically to 
the teaching of drawing. I do not think 
painting can be profitably taught in our pub- 
lic schools, and I shall not now consider the 
teaching of modelling, though much of what 
I shall say of the teaching of drawing would 
apply to the other study. This form of art 
teaching is especially fitted to promote the 
second of our aims, the training of eye and 
hand and the providing of a useful tool for 
the life work of the student. Drawing as a 
training of eye and hand is a kind of physical 
culture. It sharpens the senses, broadens 
the powers, and stimulates the observation 
and the intelligence, making of the student 
a finer and every way more efficient being 
than he coidd become without it. Drawing 
is also, in many walks of life, an indispen- 
sable tool, and I can imagine no walk of life 
in which the power of expressing oneself 
with lines might not occasionally be of the 
utmost service. Therefore, I consider the 
teaching of drawing a most important part 
of a good general education. 

Now, the highest possible material for the 
study of drawing is undoubtedly the human 
figure; but I take it that very few of the 
pupils in our schools are at all likely to be- 
come professional artists, and I am quite 
certain that the amount of time which can 
be given to the teaching of drawing in the 
schools is utterly insufficient for any useful 
attempt at the mastery of the human figure. 
Therefore, I should eliminate at once from 
such teaching any attempt to draw the 
human figure, either from life or from casts 
or copies. Landscape is poor material for 



the training of the sense of form. The 
•whole tendency of the study of landscape is 
necessarily toward the perception of color, 
of light and shade, and of effect, and toward 
the neglect of the precise study of form. 
Whatever may be proper for the education 
of the artist, I am quite certain that for the 
education of the artisan, and for the general 
training of eye and hand which is good for 
every one, any impressionistic work, any 
work that attempts "effect*' or concerns 
itself with the subtleties and intricacies 
of light, is work in a mistaken direction. 
Therefore, as far as the teaching of drawing 
in the public schools is concerned, I should 
say at once, don't try to connect this teach- 
ing of drawing with pictures, or even to any 
great extent with figure sculpture. What 
you want for the kind of study of drawing 
that is necessary to the training of eye and 
hand, and to the forming of a useful tool, is 
something precise, definite, and simple in it^ 
forms. . There can be nothing better for the 
purposes in view than the study of ornament 
and of the minor and decorative arts — the 
arts of pottery and furniture and the like — 
and good material for that kind of study may 
be found in the museum. For the future 
use of the pupil he has no need of effect, of 
mystery, of all that impressionism deals 
with. What he wants is a tool that will 
lend itself to the mastery of concrete facts. 
He wants to be able to see what the shapes 
of things and the makes of things are, and 
for his general training it is even more im- 
portant that he should learn to see the facts 
of form and construction before thinking of 
effect. Let the teacher, therefore, discour- 
age anything more than clear outline draw- 
ing, with a minimum of light and shade, 
making the attainment of exact proportion 
and construction the principal aim. 

It is to be remembered that many of the 
pupils in the public schools are likely to prac- 
tise one or another trade or handicraft in 
which not only will drawing be useful to 
them, but in which a knowledge of what has 
been done in the past in the way of artistic 
handicraft will also be of inestimable advan- 
tage. Now, such things, for instance, as 
the beautiful furniture and mural decora- 
tions of the eighteenth century can only be 
really understood by drawing them; and 
for the general cultivation of the pupils, for 
providing them with that power to draw, 
which will be a useful tool for them, and for 



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the incidental gaining of some real under- 
standing of the various styles of historic or- 
nament and of some appreciation of the 
beauty of workmanship to be found in work 
in the minor and decorative arts of past 
times, I should wish that all classes in draw- 
ing connected with our public schools should 
have a certain regular allotment of time for 
work in the museum, where, instead of draw- 
ing from insignificant objects or from copies 
of one sort or another, they should be able 
to draw from really fine specimens of deco- 
rative art. 

One thing more as to the methods of such 
study and I shall have done. I think in 
almost all modern study of art there is a 
lamentable neglect of the training of the 
memory. But perhaps even more than to 
the artist is it essential to the artisan that 
his memory be trained. Certainly a stone- 
cutter should be able to carve an acanthus 
leaf "out of his head," and not have to go 
and look it up somewhere, and a wood- 
carver should surely "know by heart" most 
of the ornamental forms he is in the habit 
of emplo3dng. I should feel that half the 
value of a sound training in drawing was 
lost if it were not made to include a train- 
ing of the memory as well as of the eye and 
hand. Therefore, in working with a class 
of pupils in drawing in a museum, my idea 
would be to set them to drawing selected 
objects in the museum, and then to ask them 
to reproduce these drawings from memory 
when away from the objects. As the pupils 
became more used to the work and more 
able to analyze and to remember the forms 
of things, I should set the more advanced 



among them to study the objects in the 
museum without drawing at all — simply 
making mental notes and deciding upon the 
height and width and construction of the 
thing on its form and on its ornament ; and 
then I should ask them to make their draw- 
ing in the absence of the model, at school or 
at home, returning as often as necessary to 
the museum to correct their impressions, 
but never touching the drawing in the 
presence of the object. In working either 
from memory, of a previous drawing, or from 
direct memory of the object itself, the stu- 
dent should, of course, have the aid of the in- 
structor in comparing his work with the orig- 
inal in the museum, and should be shown 
where his drawing is wrong, and what is the 
nature and the importance of his mistakes. 
I do not believe that every one can learn 
to draw% I think there are people without 
eye as there are people without ear. There 
are people who will never draw, just as there 
are people who will never be able to play 
an air by ear or from memory. But such a 
course of training the eye and the hand by 
drawing from objects of decorative art, and 
of training the memory by constant prac- 
tice of the sort here recommended — all this 
done definitely and decisively, without 
sketching and scrawling, or impressionistic 
treatment of light and shade, but with a 
constant insistence upon clear statement of 
form — such a course should put into the 
hands of some considerable part of the class 
a fundamentally better and more generally 
available knowledge of drawing than is pos- 
sessed by many a well-known artist to-day. 
Kenyon Cox. 




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BLOOD WI LL TELL 



BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 



Illustrations by Wali-ace Morcax 




IE other men in the Broad- 
way office took a cHflFerent 
view. As Wyckoff , one of 
Burdett's flying squadron 
of travelling salesmen, said, 
"Allgrandfatherslookalike 
to me, whether they're great, or great- 
great-great. Each one is as dead as the 
other. I'd rather have a live cousin who 
could loan me a five, or slip me a drink. 
What did your great-great-dad ever do for 
youV 

"Well, for one thing," said David 
stiffly, "he fought in the War of the Rev- 
olution. He saved us from the shackles 
of monarchical England; he made it possi- 
ble for me and you to enjoy the liberties 
of a free republic." 

"Don't try to tell me your grandfather 
did all that, " protested Wyckoff. " There 
were a lot of others helped. I read about 
it in a book." 

Wyckoff dived into his inner pocket and 
produced a leather photograph case that 
folded like a concertina. 

"I don't want to be a descendant," he 
said; "I'd rather be an ancestor. Look 
at those." Proudly he exhibited photo- 
graphs of Mrs. Wyckoff and three little 
Wyckoffs. David looked with envy at the 
children. 

"When I'm married," he stammered, 
and at the words he blushed, " I hope to 
be an ancestor, but, for the present, I am 
proud to be a descendant. " 

David Greene was an employee of 
the Burdett Automatic Punch Company. 
The manufacturing plant was at Bridge- 
port, but in the New York offices there 
were working samples of all the punches, 
from the little nickel-plated hand punch 
with which conductors squeezed holes in 
railroad tickets, to the big punch that 
could bite into an iron plate as into a 
piece of pie. David's duty was to explain 
these different pimches, and accordingly 
when Burdett Senior or one of the sons 
«3o 



turned a customer over to David he sp)oke 
of him as a salesman. But David called 
himself a * * demonstrator. ' * He succeeded 
even in persuading the other salesmen to 
speak of themselves as derhonstrators, 
but the shipping clerks and book-keepers 
laughed them out of it. They could not 
laugh David out of it. This was so be- 
cause he had a great-great-grandfather. 
Among the salesmen on lower Broadway, 
to possess a great-great-grandfather is im- 
usual, even a great-grandfather is a rarity, 
and either is considered superfluous. But 
to David the possession of a great-great- 
grandfather was a precious and open de- 
light. He had possessed him only for a 
short time. Undoubtedly he always had 
existed, but it was not until David's sister 
Anne married a doctor in Bordentown, 
New Jersey, and became socially am- 
bitious, that David emerged as a Son of 
Washington. 

It was sister Anne, anxious to "get 
in" as a "Daughter" and wear a distaff 
pin on her shirt-waist, who discovered the 
revolutionary ancestor. She unearthed 
him, or rather ran him to earth, in the 
graveyard of the Presbyterian church at 
Bordentown. He was no less a person 
than General Hiram Greene, and he had 
fought with Washington at Trenton and 
at Princeton . Of this there was no doubt. 
That, later on, moving to New York, his 
descendants became peace-loving sales- 
men did not affect his record. To enter 
a society founded on heredity the impor- 
tant thing is first to catch your ancestor, 
and having made sure of him, David en- 
tered the Society of the Sons of Washing- 
ton with flying colors. He had gone to 
bed a timid, underpaid salesman with- 
out a relative in the world, except a mar- 
ried sister in Bordentown, and he awoke 
to find he was a direct descendant of 
"Neck or Nothing" Greene, a revolu- 
tionary hero, a friend of Washington, a 
man whose i>ortrait hung in the State 



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131 



House at Trenton . David's life had lacked 
color. The day he carried his certificate 
of membership to the big jewelry store up- 
town and purchased two rosettes, one for 
each of his two coats, was the proudest of 
his life. 

At first when he showed the other clerks 
his parchment certificate, and his silver 
gilt insignia with on one side a portrait 
of Washington, and on the other a Con- 
tinental soldier, they admitted it was 
dead swell. They even envied him, not 
the grandfather, but the fact that ow- 
ing to that distinguished relative Dayid 
was constantly receiving beautifully en- 
graved invitations to attend the monthly 
meetings of the society; to erect monu- 
ments on battle-fields, to mark neglected 
graves; to join in joyous excursions to the 
tomb of Washington or of David Paul 
Jones; to be among those present at the 
annual "banquet" at Delmonico's. 

In these communications he was always 
addressed as "Dear Compatriot," and 
never did the words fail to give him a 
thrill. They seemed to lift him out of 
Burdett's salesrooms and Broadway, and 
place him next to things uncommercial, 
untainted, high, and noble. He did not 
quite know what an aristocrat was, but he 
believed being a compatriot made him an 
aristocrat. When customers were rude, 
when Mr. John or Mr. Robert were over- 
bearing, thk idea enabled David to rise 
above their ill-temper, and he would smile 
and say to himself: "If they knew the 
meaning of the blue rosette in my button- 
hole, how differently they would treat me! 
How easily with a word could I crush 
them!" 

But few of the customers recognized the 
significance of the button. They thought 
it meant that David belonged to the 
Y. M. C. A. or was a teetotaler. 

When Wyckoff mentioned marriage, 
the reason David blushed was because al- 
though no one in the oflSce suspected it 
he wished to marry the person in whom 
the office took the greatest pride. This was 
Miss Emily Anthony, one of Burdett and 
Sons' yoimgest, most efficient, and pret- 
tiest stenographers, and although David 
did not cut as dashing a figure as did some 
of the firm's travelling men, Miss Anthony 
had found something in him so greatly to 
admire that she had, out of office hours, 



accepted his devotion, his theatre tickets, 
and an engagement ring. Indeed, so far 
had matters progressed, that it had been 
almost decided when in a few months they 
would go upon their vacations they also 
wouldgo upon their honeymoon. And then 
a cloud had come between them, and from a 
quarter from which David had expected 
only simshine. 

The trouble befell when David dis- 
covered he had a great-great-grandfather. 
With that fact itself Miss Anthony was al- 
most as pleased as was David himself, but 
while he was content to bask in another's 
glory. Miss Anthony saw in his inheri- 
tance only an incentive to achieve glory 
for himself. 

From a hard-working salesman she had 
asked but little, but from a descendant of a 
national hero she expected other things. 
She was a determined young person, and 
for David she was an ambitious young 
person. She found she was dissatisfied. 
She found she was disappointed. The 
great-great-grandfather had opened up a 
new horizon — ^had, in a way, raised the 
standard. She was as fond of David as 
always, but his tales of past wars and 
battles, his accounts of present banquets 
at which he sat shoulder to shoulder with 
men of whom even Burdett and Sons spoke 
with awe, touched her imagination. 

" You shouldn't be content to just wear 
a button," she urged. "If you're a Son 
of Washington, you ought to act like one." 

" I know I'm not worthy of you, " David 
sighed. 

"I don't mean that, and you know I 
don't, " Emily repliedindignantly. " It has 
nothing to do with me ! I want you to be 
worthy of yourself, of your grandpa Hiram ! " 

" But haw? " complained David. " What 
chance has a twenty-five dollar a week 
clerk " 

It was a year before the Spanish- Amer- 
ican War, while the patriots of Cuba were 
fighting the mother country for their in- 
dependence. 

"If I were a Son of Washington," said 
Emily, " I'd go to Cuba and help free it. " 

"Don't talk nonsense," cried David. 
"If I did that I'd lose my job, and we'd 
never be able to marry. Besides, what's 
Cuba done for me? All I know about 
Cuba is I once smoked a Cuban cigar and 
it made me ill. " 



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Blood Will Tell 



" Did Lafayette talk like that? ''demand- 
ed Emily. "Did he ask what have the 
American rebels ever done for me? " 

" If I were in Lafayette 's class, '* sighed 
David, "I wouldn't be selling automatic 
punches. " 

" There's your trouble, "declared Emily. 
"You lack self-confidence. You're too 
humble, you've got fighting blood and you 
ought to keep saying to yourself, ^ Blood 
will tell,' and the first thing you know, 
it will tell! You might join the militia. 
That takes only one night a week, and 
then, if we did go to war with Spain, you'd 
get a commission, and come back a cap- 
tarn!" 

Emily's eyes were beautiful with de- 
light. But the sight gave David no 
pleasure. In genuine distress, he shook ' 
his head. 

"Emily," he said, "you're going to be 
awfully disappointed in me." 

Emily's eyes closed as though they shied 
at some mental picture. But when she 
opened them they were bright, and her 
smile was kind and eager. 

"No, I'm not," she protested; "only I 
want a husband with a career, and one 
who'll tell me to keep quiet when I try 
to run his for him." 

"I've often wished you would," said 
David. 

"Would what? Run your career for 
you?" 

"No, keep quiet. Only it didn't seem 
polite to tell you so. " 

"Maybe I'd like you better," said 
Emily, "if you weren't so darned polite." 

A week later, early in the spring of 1897, 
the unexpected happened, and David was 
promoted into the flying squadron. He 
now was a travelling salesman, with a raise 
in salary and a commission on orders. It 
was a step forward, but as going on the 
road meant absence from Emily, David 
was not elated. Nor did it satisfy Emily. 
It was not money she wanted. Her am- 
bition for David could not be silenced 
with a raise in wages. She did not say 
this, but David knew that in him she 
still found something lacking, and when 
they said good-by they both were ill at 
ease and completely unhappy. Former- 
ly, each day when Emily in passing David 
in the office said good-morning, she 
used to add the number of the days that 



still separated them from the vacation 
which also was to be their honeymoon. 
But for the last month she had stopped 
counting the days — at least she did not 
count them aloud. 

David did not ask her why this was so. 
He did not dare. And, sooner than learn 
the truth she had decided not to marry 
him, or that she was even considering not 
marrying him , he asked no questions, but in 
ignorance of her present feelings set forth 
on his travels. Absence from Emily hurt 
just as much as he had feared it would. 
He missed her, needed her, longed for her. 
In numerous letters he told her so. But, 
owing to the frequency with which he 
moved, her letters never caught up with 
him. It was almost a relief. He did not 
care to think of what they might tell him. 

The route assigned David took him 
through the South and kept him close to the 
Atlantic seaboard. In obtaining orders 
he was not unsuccessful, and at the end 
of the first month received from the firm 
a telegram of congratulation. This was 
of importance chiefly because it might 
please Emily. But he knew that in her 
eyes the great-great-grandson of Hiram 
Greene could not rest content with a tele- 
gram from Burdett and Sons. A year be- 
fore she would have considered it a high 
honor, a cause for celebration. Now, he 
could see her press her pretty lips to- 
gether, and shake her pretty head. It was 
not enough. But how could he accom- 
plish more? He began to hate his great- 
great-grandfather. He began to wish 
Hiram Greene had lived and died a 
bachelor. 

And then Dame Fortune took David 
in hand and toyed with him and spanked 
him, and pelted and petted him, until 
finally she made him her favorite son. 
Dame Fortune went about this work in 
an abrupt and arbitrary manner. 

On the night of the ist of January, 1898, 
two trains were scheduled to leave the 
Union Station at Jacksonville at exactly 
the same minute, and they left exactly on 
time. As never before in the history of 
any Southern railroad has this miracle 
occurred, it shows that when Dame Fort- 
une gets on the job she is omnipotent. 
She placed David on the train to Miami 
as the train he wanted drew out for 
Tampa, and an hour later when the con- 



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Blood Will Tell 



133 



ductor looked at David's ticket he pulled 
the bell-cord and dumped David over the 
side into the heart of a pine forest. If he 
walked back along the track for one mile, 
the conductor reassured him, he would 
find a flag station where at midnight he 



to proceed, and dropping his suit case he 
sat down under the open roof of the shed 
prepared to wait either for the train or 
daylight. So far as he could see, on every 
side of him stretched a swamp, silent, dis- 
mal, interminable. From its black water 




W^OtUiM - 



' I don't want to be a descendant," he said : " I'd rather be an ancestor." — Page 13a 



could stop a train going north. In an 
hour it would deliver him safely in Jack- 
sonville. 

There was a moon, but for the greater 
part of the time it was hidden by fitful, 
hurrying clouds, and, as David stumbled 
forward, at one moment he would see the 
rails like streaks of silver, and the next 
would be encompassed in a complete and 
bewildering darkness. He made his way 
from tie to tie only by feeling with his foot. 
After an hour he came to a shed. Whether 
it was or was not the flag station, he did 
not know, and he never did know. He 
was too tired, too hot, and too disgusted 
Vol. LIL— is 



rose dead trees, naked of bark and hung 
with streamers of funereal moss. There 
was not a sound or sign of human habita- 
tion. The silence was the silence of the 
ocean at night. David remembered the 
berth reserved for him on the train to 
Tampa and of the loathing with which 
he had considered placing himself between 
its sheets. But now how gladly would 
he welcome it! For, in the sleeping car, 
ill-smelling, close and stuffy, he at least 
would have been surrounded by fellow- 
sufferers of his own species. Here his 
companions were owls, water-snakes, and 
sleeping buzzards. 



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Blood Will Tell 



"I am alone," he told himself, "on a 
railroad embankment, entirely surrounded 
by crocodiles." 

And then he found he was not alone. 

In the darkness, illuminated by a match, 
not a hundred yards from him there 



awake and awake to some purpose. David 
stood uncertainly, questioning whether 
to make his presence known or return to 
the loneliness of the shed. The question 
was decided for him. He had not con- 
sidered that standing in the moonlight he 




" I know I'm not worthy of you," David sighed. — Page 131. 



flashed suddenly the face of a man. Then 
the match went out and the face with it. 
David noted that it had appeared at some 
height above the level of the swamp, at 
an elevation higher even than that of the 
embankment. It was as though the man 
had been sitting on the limb of a tree. 
David crossed the tracks and found that 
on the side of the embankment opposite 
the shed there was solid ground and 
what once had been a wharf. He ad- 
vanced over this cautiously, and as he 
did so the clouds disappeared, and in 
the full light of the moon he saw a bayou 
broadening into a river, and made fast 
to the decayed and rotting wharf an 
ocean-going tug. It was from her deck 
that the man, in lighting his pipe, had 
shown his face. At the thought of a warm 
engine-room and the company of his fel- 
low-creatures, David's heart leaped with 
pleasure. He advanced quickly. And 
then something in the appearance of 
the tug, something mysterious, secretive, 
threatening, caused him to halt. No 
lights showed from her engine-room, cab- 
in, or pilot-house. Her decks were emp- 
ty. But, as was evidenced by the black 
moke that rose from her funnel, she was 



was a conspicuous figure. The planks of 
the wharf creaked and a man came to- 
ward him. As one who means to at- 
tack, or who fears attack, he approached 
warily. He wore high boots, riding breech- 
es, and a sombrero. He was a little man, 
but his movements were alert and active. 
To David he seemed unnecessarily ex- 
cited. He thrust himself close against 
David. 

"Who the devil are you?" demanded 
the man from the tug. "How'd you get 
here?" 

"I walked, "said David. 

"Walked?" the man snorted incredu- 
lously. 

"I took the wrong train," explained 
David pleasantly. "They put me off 
about a mile below here. I walked back 
to this flag station. I'm going to wait 
here for the next train north. " 

The little man laughed mockingly. 

"Oh, no you're not," he said. "If 
you walked here, you can just walk away 
again!" With a sweep of his arm, he 
made a vigorous and peremptory gesture. 

"You walk!" he commanded. 

"I'll do just as I please about that," 
said David. 



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136 



Blood Will Tell 



As though to bring assistance, the little 
man started hastily toward the tug. 

**ril find some one who'll make you 
walk!" he called. "You wail, that's all; 
you wait I ^^ 

David decided not to wait. It was pos- 
sible the wharf was private property and 
he had been trespassing. In any case, at 
the flag station the rights of all men were 
equal, and if he were in for a fight he 
judged it best to choose his own battle- 
ground. He recrossed the tracks and sat 
down on his suit case in a dark corner of 
the shed. Himself hidden in the shadows 
he could see in the moonlight the ap- 
proach of any other person. 

"They're river pirates," said David to 
himself, " or smugglers. They're certain- 
ly up to some mischief, or why should 
they object to the presence of a perfectly 
harmless stranger?" 

Partly with cold, partly with nervous- 
ness, David shivered. 

"I wish that train would come," he 
sighed. And instantly, as though in an- 
swer to his wish, from only a short dis- 
tance down the track he heard the rum- 
ble and creak of approaching cars. In 
a flash David planned his course of ac- 
tion. 

The thought of spending the night in a 
swamp infested by crocodiles and smug- 
glers had become intolerable. He must 
escape, and he must escape by the train 
now approaching. To that end the train 
must be stopped. His plan was simple. 
The train was moving very, very slowly, 
and though he had no lantern, in order 
to bring it to a halt he need only stand 
on the track exposed to the glare of the 
headlight and wave his arms. David 
sprang between the rails and gesticu- 
lated wildly. But in amazement his 
arms fell to his sides. For the train, now 
only a hundred yards distant and creej)- 
ing toward him at a snail's pace, carried 
no headlight, and though in the moon- 
light David was plainly visible, it blew 
no whistle, tolled no bell. Even the 
passenger coaches in the rear of the sight- 
less engine were wrapped in darkness. It 
was a ghost of a train, a Flying Dutchman 
of a train, a nightmare of a train. It was 
as unreal as the black swamp, as the moss 
on the dead trees, as the ghostly tug-boat 
tied to the rotting wharf. 



"Is the place haunted!" exclaimed 
David. 

He was answered by the grinding of 
brakes and by the train coming to a sharp 
halt. And instantly from every side men 
fell from it to the ground, and the silence 
of the night was broken by a confusion of 
calls and eager greetings and questions 
and sharp words of command. 

So fascinated was David in the stealthy 
arrival of the train and in her mysterious 
passengers that , until they confronted him, 
he did not note the equally stealthy ap- 
proach of three men. Of these one was 
the little man from the tug. With him 
was a fat, red-faced Irish-American. He 
wore no coat and his shirt-sleeves were 
drawn away from his hands by garters of 
pink elastic, his derby hat was balanced 
behind hisears,upon hisright hand flashed 
an enormous diamond. He looked as 
though but at that moment he had stopped 
sliding glasses across a Bowery bar. The 
third man carried the outward marks of a 
sailor. David believed he was the tallest 
man he had ever beheld, but equally re- 
markable with his height was his beard 
and hair, which were of a fierce brick-dust 
red. Even in the mild moonlight they 
flamed like a torch. 

" What's your business? "demanded the 
man with the flamboyant hair. 

" I came here, " began David, " to wait 
for a train " 

The tall man bellowed with indignant 
rage. 

"Yes," he shouted; "this is the sort of 
place any one would pick out to wait for 
a train!" 

In front of David's nose he shook a fist 
as large as a catcher's glove. " Don't you 
lie to we/" he bullied. "Do you know 
who I am? Do you know who you're up 
against? I'm " 

The barkeeper person interrupted. 

"Never mind who you are," he said. 
" We know that. Find out who he is. " 

David turned appcalingly to the bar- 
keeper. 

" Do you suppose I'd come here on pur- 
pose?" he protested. "Tm a travelling 
man " 

"You won't travel any to-night," 
mocked the red-haired one. " You've seen 
what you came to see, and all you want 
now is to get to a Western Union wire. 



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"But how," he demanded, " how do I gel ashore? " — Page 14a 



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Blood Will Tell 



Well, you don't do it. You don't leave 
here to-night!" 

As though he thought he had been 
neglected, the little man in riding-boots 
pushed forward importantly. 

"Tie him to a tree!" he suggested. 

"Better take him on board," said the 
barkeeper, "and send him back by the 
pilot. When we're once at sea, he can't 
hurt us any. " 

" What makes you think I want to hurt 
you?" demanded David. "Who do you 
think lam?" 

"We know who you are," shouted the 
fiery-headed one. "You're a blanketty- 
blank spy! You're a government spy or 
a Spanish spy, and whichever you are you 
don't get away to-night! " 

David had not the faintest idea what 
the man meant, but he knew his self- 
respect was being ill-treated, and his self- 
respect rebelled. 

"You have made a very serious mis- 
take," he said, "and whether you like it 
or not, I am leaving here to-night, and you 
can go to the devil!" 

Turning his back, David started with 
great dignity to walk away. It was a 
short walk. Something hit him below 
the ear and he found himself curling up 
comfortably on the ties. He had a strong 
desire to sleep, but was conscious that a 
bed on a railroad track, on account of 
trains wanting to pass, was unsafe. This 
doubt did not long disturb him. His 
head rolled against the steel rail, his limbs 
relaxed from a great distance and in a 
strange sing-song he heard the voice of 
the barkeeper saying, "Nine — ten — and 
out!" 

When David came to his senses his 
head was resting on a coil of rope. In his 
ears was the steady throb of an engine, 
and in his eyes the glare of a lantern. The 
lantern was held by a pleasant-faced youth 
in a golf cap who was smiling sympathet- 
ically. David rose on his elbow and gazed 
wildly about him. He was in the bow of 
the ocean-going tug, and he saw that from 
where he lay in the bow to her stern her 
decks were packed with men. She was 
steaming swiftly down a broad river. On 
either side the gray light that comes be- 
fore the dawn showed low banks studded 
with stunted palmettos. Close ahead 
David heard the roar of the surf. 



"Sorry to disturb you," said the youth 
in the golf cap, "but we drop the pilot 
in a few minutes and you're going with 
him."^ 

David moved his aching head gingerly, 
and was conscious of a bump as large as a 
tennis ball behind his right ear. 

"What happened to me?" he de- 
manded. 

" You were sort of kidnapped, I guess," 
laughed the young man. " It was a raw 
deal, but they couldn't take any chances. 
The pilot will land you at Okra Point. 
You can hire a rig there to take you to the 
railroad. " 

"But why?" demanded David indig- 
nantly. " Why was I kidnapped? What 
had I done? Who were those men 
who " 

From the pilot-house there was a sharp 
jangle of bells to the engine-room, and the 
speed of the tug slackened. 

"Come on," commanded the young 
man briskly. " The pilot's going ashore. 
Here's your grip, here's your hat. The 
ladder's on the pott side. Look where 
you're stepping. We can't show any 
lights, and it's dark as " 

But, even as he spoke, like a flash of 
powder, as swiftly as one throws an elec- 
tric switch, as blindingly as a train leaps 
from the tunnel into the glaring sun, the 
darkness vanished and the tUg was swept 
by the fierce, blatant radiance of a search- 
light. 

It was met by shrieks from two hun- 
dred throats, by screams, oaths, prayers, 
by the sharp jangling of bells, by the 
blind rush of many men scurrying like rats 
for a hole to hide in, by the ringing orders 
of one man. Above the tumiilt this one 
voice rose like the warning strokes of a 
fire-gong, and looking up to the pilot- 
house whence the voice came, David saw 
the barkeeper still in his shirt-sleeves and 
with his derby hat pushed back behind 
his ears, with one hand clutching the sig- 
nal to the engine-room, with the other 
holding the spoke of the wheel. 

David felt the tug, like a hunter taking 
a fence, rise in a great leap. Her bow sank 
and rose, tossing the water from her in 
black, oily waves, the smoke f)oured from 
her funnel, from below her engines sobbed 
and quivered, and like a hound freed from 
a leash she raced for the open sea. But 



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140 



Blood Will Tell 



swiftly as she fled, as a thief is held in the 
circle of a policeman's bull's-eye, the shaft 
of light followed and exposed her and held 
her in its grip. The youth in the golf cap 
was clutching David by the arm. With 
his free hand he pointed down the shaft of 
light. So great was the timiult that to be 
heard he brought his lips close to David's 
ear. 

"That's the revenue cutter!" he shout- 
ed. "She's been laying for us for three 
weeks, and now," he shrieked exultingly, 
" the old man's going to give her a race for 
it." 

From excitement, from cold, from 
alarm, David's nerves were getting be- 
yond his control. 

"But how." he demanded, "how do I 
get ashore? " 

"You don't!" 

" When he drops the pilot, don't I " 

"How can he drop the pilot?" yelled 
the youth. "The pilot's got to stick by 
the boat. So have you. " 

David clutched the young man and 
swung him so that they stood face to face. 

"Stick by what boat?" yelled David. 
"Who are these men? Who are you? 
What boat is this?" 

In the glare of the search-light David 
saw the eyes of the youth staring at him 
as though he feared he were in the clutch 
of a madman. Wrenching himself free, 
the youth pointed at the pilot-house. 
Above it on a blue board in letters of gold- 
leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. 
As David read it his breath left him, a 
finger of ice passed slowly down his spine. 
The name he read was The Three Friends, 

''The Three Friends!'' shrieked David. 
"She's a filibuster! She's a pirate! 
Wher're we going?" 

"To Cuba!" 

David emitted a howl of anguish, rage, 
and protest. 

"What for? "he shrieked. 

The young man regarded him coldly. 

"To plant bananas," he said. 

"I won't go to Cuba," shouted David. 
"I've got to work! I'm paid to sell 
machinery. I demand to be put ashore. 
I'll lose my job if I'm not put ashore. 
I'll sue you! I'll have the law " 

David found himself suddenly upon his 
knees. His first thought was that the 
ship had struck a rock, and then that she 



was bumping herself over a succession of 
coral reefs. She dipped, dived, reared, 
and plunged. Like a hooked fish, she 
flung herself in the air, quivering from 
bow to stem. No longer was David of a 
mind to sue the filibusters if they did not 
put him ashore. If only they had put him 
ashore, in gratitude he would have crawled 
on his knees. What followed was of no 
interest to David, nor to many of the 
filibusters, nor to any of the Cuban pa- 
triots. Their groans of self-pity, their 
prayers and curses in eloquent Spanish 
rose high above the crash of broken crock- 
ery and the f)oimding of the waves. Even 
when the search-light gave way to a brill- 
iant sunlight the circumstance was unob- 
served by David. Nor was he concerned 
in the tidings brought forward by the 
youth in the golf cap, who raced the 
slippery decks and vaulted the prostrate 
forms as sure-footedly as a hurdler on a 
cinder track. To David, in whom he 
seemed to think he had found a congenial 
spirit, he shouted joyfully: "She's fired 
two blanks at us!" he cried; "now she's 
firing cannon-balls!" 

" Thank God, " whispered David ; " per- 
haps she'll sink us!" 

But The Three Friends showed her 
heels to the revenue cutter, and so far as 
David knew hours passed into days and 
days into weeks. It was like those night- 
mares in which in a minute one is whirled 
through centuries of fear and torment. 
Sometimes, regardless of nausea, of his 
aching head, of the hard deck,of thewaves 
that splashed and smothered him,, David 
fell into broken slumber. Sometimes he 
woke to a dull consciousness of his posi- 
tion. At such moments he added to his 
misery by speculating upon the other mis- 
fortunes that might have befallen him on 
shore. Emily, he decided, had given him 
up for lost and married — probably a navy 
oflScer in command of a battle-ship. Bur- 
dett and Sons had cast him off forever. 
Possibly his disappearance had caused 
them to suspect him; even now they might 
be regarding him as a defaulter, as a 
fugitive from justice. His accounts, no 
doubt, were being carefully overhauled. 
In actual time, two days and two nights 
haci passed ; to David it seemed many ages. 

On the third day he crawled to the 
stern where there seemed less motion, and 



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Blcx)d Will Tell 



141 



finding a boat's cushion threw it in the 
lee scupper and fell upon it. From time 
to time the youth in the golf cap had 
brought him food and drink, and he now 
appeared from the cook's galley bearing 
a bowl of smoking soup. 

David considered it a doubtful atten- 
tion. 

But he said, '* You're very kind. How 
did a fellow like you come to mix up with 
these pirates?" 

The youth laughed good-naturedly. 

** They're not pirates; they're patriots," 
he said,** and I*m not mixed up with them. 
My name is Henry Carr and I'm a guest 
of Jimmy Doyle, Uie captain. " 

**The barkeeper with the derby hat?" 
said David. 

'*He's not a barkeeper; he's a teetotal- 
er, "Carr corrected, ** and he's the greatest 
filibuster alive. He knows these waters 
asyouknowBroadway,and he's the salt of 
the earth. I did him a favor once; sort 
of mouse helping the lion idea. Just 
through dumb luck I found out about this 
expedition. The government agents in 
New York found out I'd found out and 
sent for me to tell. But I didn't, and 
I didn't write the story either. Doyle 
heard about that. So he asked me to 
come as his guest, and he's promised that 
after he's landed the expedition and the 
arms, I can write as much about it as I 
dam please." 

**Then, you're a reporter?" said David. 

**I'm what we call a cub reporter," 
laughed Carr. "You see, I've always 
dreamed of being a war correspondent. 
The men in the oflfice say I dream too 
much. They 're alwaysguying me about it. 
But, haven't you noticed, it's the ones who 
dream who find their dreams come true. 
Now this isn't a real war, but it's a near 
war, and when the real thing breaks loose, 
I can tell the managing editor I served 
as a war correspondent in the Cuban- 
Spanish campaign. And he may give me 
a real job!" 

**And you like this?" groaned David. 

"I wouldn't, if I were as sick as you 
are," said Carr, "but I've a stomach like 
a Harlem goat. " He stooped and lower- 
ed his voice. "Now, here are two fake 
filibusters," he whispered. "The men 
you read about in the newspapers. If a 
man's a real filibuster, nobody knows it I" 
Vou LIl.— 16 



Coming toward them was the tall man 
who had knocked David out, and the 
little one who had wanted to tie him to 
a tree. 

"All they ask," whispered Carr, "is 
money and advertisement. If they knew 
I was a reporter, they'd eat out of my 
hand. The tall man calls himself Light- 
house Harry. He once kept a light-house 
on the Florida coast, and that's as near to 
the sea as he ever got. The other one is 
a dare-devil calling himself Colonel Beam- 
ish. He says he's an English officer, and 
a soldier of fortune, and that he's been in 
eighteen battles. Jimmy says he's never 
been near enough to a battle to see the 
Red Cross flags on the base hospital. But 
they've fooled these Cubans. The Junta 
thinks they're great fighters, and it's sent 
them down here to work the machine guns. 
But I'm afraid the only fighting they will 
do will be in the sporting colunms, and not 
in the ring." 

A half dozen sea-sick Cubans were 
carrying a heavy oblong box. They 
dropped it not two yards from where Da- 
vid lay, and with a screw-driver Light- 
house Harry proceeded to open the lid. 

Carr explained to David that The Three 
Friends was approaching that part of the 
coast of Cuba on which she had arranged 
to land her expedition, and that in case 
she was surprised by one of the Spanish 
patrol boats she was preparing to defend 
herself. 

** They've got an automatic gun in that 
crate," said Carr, **and they're going to 
assemble it. You'd better move; they'll 
be tramping all over you. " 

David shook his head feebly. 

**I can't move!" he protested. "I 
wouldn't move, if it would free Cuba." 

For several hours with very languid in- 
terest David watched Lighthouse Harry 
and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod 
to the deck and balance above it a quick- 
firing one-f)ounder. They worked very 
slowly, and to David, watching them from 
the lee scupper, they appeared extremely 
unintelligent. 

*'I don't believe either of those thugs 
put an automatic gun together in his life," 
he whispered to Carr. **I never did, 
either, but, I've put hundreds of auto- 
matic punches together, and I bet that 
gim won't work." 



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142 



Blood Will TeH 



"What's wrong with it?*' said Carr. 

Before David could summon sufficient 
energy to answer, the attention of all on 
board was diverted, and by a single word. 

Whether the word is whispered apolo- 
getically by the smoking-room steward to 
those deep in bridge, or shrieked from 
the tops of a sinking ship, it never quite 
fails of its eflfect. A sweating stoker from 
the engine room saw it first. 

"Land!'' he hailed. 

The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves 
and swung their hats; their voices rose in 
a fierce chorus. 

" Cuba librel'Hhey yelled. 

The sun piercing the morning mists had 
uncovered a coast-line broken with bays 
and inlets. Above it towered green hUls, 
the peak of each topped by a squat block- 
house, in the valleys and watercourses, 
like columns of marble rose the royal 
palms. 

"You must look!" Carr entreated 
David. "It's just as it is in the pict- 
ures!'' 

"Then I don't have to look," groaned 
David. 

The Three Friends was making for a 
point of land that curved like a sickle. 
On the inside of the sickle was Nipe Bay. 
On the opposite shore of that broad har- 
bor at the place of rendezvous a little 
band of Cubans waited to receive the 
filibusters. The goal was in sight. The 
dreadful voyage was done. Joy and ex- 
citement thrived the ship's company. 
Cuban patriots appeared in uniforms with 
Cuban flags pinned in the brims of their 
straw sombreros. From the hold came 
boxes of small-arm anmiimition, of Mau- 
sers, rifles, machettes, and saddles. To 
protect the landing a box of shells was 
placed in readiness beside the one- 
pounder. 

"In two hours, if we have smooth 
water," shouted Lighthouse Harry, "we 
ought to get all of this on shore. And 
then, all I ask," he cried mightily, "is for 
some one to kindly show me a Spaniard ! " 

His heart's desire was instantly granted. 
He was shown not only one Spaniard but 
several Spaniards. They were on the deck 
of one of the fastest gun-boats of the Span- 
ish navy. Not a mile from The Three 
Friends she sprang from the cover of a 
narrow inlet. She did not signal questions 



or extend courtesies. For her the name 
of the ocean-going tug was sufficient intro- 
duction. Throwing ahead of her a solid 
shell, she raced in pursuit, and as The Three 
Friends leaped to full speed there came 
from the gun-boat the sharp dry crackle 
of Mausers. 

With an explosion of terrifying oaths 
Lighthouse Harry thrust a shell into the 
breech of the quick-firing gun. Without 
waiting to aim it, he tugged at the trigger. 
Nothing happened! He threw open the 
breech and gazed impotently at the base 
of the shell. It was untouched. The 
ship was ringing with cries of anger, of 
hate, with rat-like squeaks of fear. 

Above the heads of the filibusters a 
shell screamed and within a hundred feet 
splashed into a wave. 

From his mat in the lee scupper David 
groaned miserably. He was far removed 
from any of the greater emotions. 

"It's no use!" he protested. "They 
can't do it! It's not connected! " 

''What's not connected?" yelled Carr. 
He fell upon David. He half lifted, half 
dragged him to his feet. 

"If you know what's wrong with the 
gun, you fix it I Fix it, " he shouted, " or 
I'll -" 

David was not concerned with the 
vengeance Carr threatened. For, on the 
instant, a beautiful miracle had taken 
place. With the swift insidiousness of 
morphine, peace ran through his veins, 
soothed his wracked body, his jangled 
nerves. The Three Friends had made the 
harbor and was gliding through water 
flat as a pond. But David did not know 
why the change had come. He knew only 
that his soul and body were at rest, that 
the Sim was shining, that he had passed 
through the shadow of the valley, and 
once more was a sane, sound young man. 

With a savage thrust of the shoulder 
he sent Lighthouse Harry sprawling from 
the gun. With swift, practiced fingers he 
fell upon its mechanism. He wrenched 
it apart. He lifted it, reset, readjusted it. 

Ignorant themselves, those about him 
saw that he understood, saw that his 
work was good. 

They raised a joyous, defiant cheer. 
But a shower of bullets drove them to 
cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splin- 
tered the superstructure, smashed the glass 



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Blood Will Tell 



143 



in the air ports, like angry wasps, sang in 
a continuous whining chorus. Intent only 
on the gun, David worked feverishly. He 
swung to the breech, locked it and dragged 
"It open, pulled on the trigger, and found 
it gave before his forefinger. 

He shouted with delight. 

"I've got it working," he yelled. 

He turned to his audience, but his 
audience had fled. From beneath one of 
the life-boats protruded the riding '^boots 
of Colonel Beamish; the tall form of 
Lighthouse Harry was doubled behind a 
water-butt. A shell splashed to port, a 
shell splashed to starboard. For an in- 
stant David stood staring wide-eyed at 
the greyhound of a boat that ate up the 
distance between them, at the jets of 
smoke and stabs of flame that sprang 
from her bow, at the figures crouched be- 
hind her gunwale, firing in volleys. 

To David it came suddenly, convin- 
cingly, that in a dream he had lived it all 
before, and something like raw poison 
stirred in David, something leaped to his 
throat and choked him, something rose in 
his brain and made him see scarlet. He 
felt rather than saw young Carr kneeling 
at the box of ammunition and holding 
a shell toward him. He heard the click as 
the breech shut, felt the rubber tire of 
the brace give against the weight of his 
shoulder, down a long shining tube saw 
the pursuing gun-boat, saw her again and 
many times disappear behind a flash of 
aflame. A bullet gashed his forehead, a 
bullet passed deftly through his forearm, 
but he did not heed them. Confused 
with the thrashing of the engines, with 
the roar of the gim, he heard a strange 
voice shrieking unceasingly: 

" Cuba Ubre! " it yelled. "To hell with 
Spain!" and he found that the voice was 
his* own. 

The story lost nothing in the way Carr 
wrote it. 

"And the best of it is," he exclaimed 
joyfully, "it's true!" 

For a Spanish gun-boat had been crip- 
pled and forced to run herself aground 
by a tug-boat manned by Cuban patriots, 
and by a single gun served by one man, 
and that man an American. It was the 
first sea-fight of the war. Overnight a 
Cuban navy had been bom, and into the 
lime-light a cub reporter had projected a 



new "hero," a ready-made, warranted — 
not — to — ^nm, popular idol. 

They were seated in the pilot-house — 
"Jimmy" Doyle, Carr, and David — the 
patriots and Uieir arms had been safely 
dmnped upon the coast of Cuba, and The 
Three Friends was gliding swiftly and, 
having caught the Florida straits napping, 
smoothly toward Key West. Carr had 
just finished reading aloud his account of 
the engagement. 

"You will tell the story just as I have 
written it," commanded the proud au- 
thor. "Your being South as a travelling 
salesman was only a blind. You came 
to volunteer for this expedition. Before 
you could explain your wish you were mis- 
taken for a secret-service man and hus- 
tled on board. That was just where you 
wanted to be, and when the moment ar- 
rived you took command of the ship and 
single-handed won the naval battle of 
NipeBay." 

Jimmy Doyle nodded his head approv- 
ingly. "You certainly did, Dave," pro- 
tested the great man; "I saw you do it!" 

At Key West Carr filed his story and 
while the hospital surgeons kept David 
over one steamer, to dress his wounds, his 
fame and features spread across the map 
of the United States. 

Burdett and Sons basked in reflected 
glory. Reporters besieged their office. 
At the Merchants* Down-Town Club the 
business men of lower Broadway tendered 
congratulations. 

"Of course, it's a great surprise to us," 
Burdett and Sons would protest. "Of 
course, when the boy asked to be sent 
South we'd no idea he was planning to 
fight for Cuba ! Or, we wouldn't have let 
him go, would we?" Then they would 
wink heavily. " I supposeyouknow, " they 
would say, "that he's a direct descendant 
of General Hiram Greene who won the 
battle of Trenton. What I say is, ' Blood 
will tell!'" And then, in a body, every 
one in the club would move against the 
bar and exclaim : " Here's to Cuba libre ! " 

When the Olivette from Key West 
reached Tampa Bay every Cuban in the 
Tampa cigar factories was at the dock. 
There were thousands of them and all of 
the Junta, in high hats, to read David an 
address of welcome. 

And when they saw him at the top of 



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144 The Embarkment for Cythera 

the gangplank, with his head in a bandage wreck. No one on Broadway would have 

and his arm in a sling, like a mob of mani- recognized her as Burdett and Sons' 

acs they howled and surged toward him. most immaculate and beautiful stenog- 

But before they could reach their hero the rapher. 

courteous Junta forced them back and She dug the shapeless hat into David's 

clearedapathwayforayounggirl. Shewas shoulder and clung to him. "DavidI'* 

travel-worn and pale, her shirt-waist was she sobbed, "promise me you'll never, 

disgracefully wrinkled, her best hat was a never do it again!" 



THE EMBARKiMENT FOR CYTHERA 

[AFTER WATTEAU.] 
By Thomas Walsh 

Where is Tircis slender swain, 

Now the petalled gloom is falling, — 
Muscadin, and pale Syglaine 

Whom the zephyrs come a-calling 
Down the vales and streams again? 
Are their silken sails in vain 

Lifting for the sunset rivers? 
Daphn^! Amaryllis I — where 

Now delaying? — Venus quivers 
O'er Cythera *s rainbow stair 
Whither golden barges fare. — 
Wearied they of lute, and masking, 

Shepherd staff, and ribboned air? 
Wearied, of the lights, and tasking, 

Rapier, plume, and saraband? — 
''Belle marquisey thy little hand — '' 

Nay, — 'tis but a lily swaying 
Down the purple meadowland! — 

''Cher abhiy^^ what old betraying 
Shadows yonder c}'press throws I — 

Seel on crimson gusts of rose 
One and all away are hieing 

To Cythera!— after those 
Gentle shades that set us sighing 

Where the stream of twilight Hows! 



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LETTERS OF GEORGE MEREDITH 




IE letters of George Mere- 
dith, which since his death 
in 1909 have been brought 
together and prepared for 
publication by his son, and 
from which the Magazine 
has now the privilege of printing a selec- 
tion, are chiefly those to a relatively small 
number of his intimate and life-long friends 
and the members of his family. Others are 
known to have been in long and familiar 
correspondence with him, but the letters 
to some of these have been destroyed or 
cannot be reached. Largely for this rea- 
son, though the series extends over fifty 
years, it in no sense supplies or is intend- 
ed to supply a narrative of his life; but 
it gives a reflection of temperament and 
character, of personal relations, of opin- 
ions, and even of moods, that is unsur- 
passed by any similar collection. To each 
of the more intimate correspondents he 
presents, even more than is commonly the 
case, an individual side; he has his note 
for each; there are few groups of letters 
extending over such a time which are so 
sharplv differentiated in this way. In the 
difficult task of making a choice for the 
few instahnents which the Magazine can 
print, it has been thought best to take 
some typical letters from the manifesta- 
tion of himself to each friend, rather than 
to seek to cover any period or to show 
more fully any one of the many phases of 
Meredith in which the reader will find 
interest when the whole collection k be- 
fore him. 

After a few notes from his boyhood 
and early youth, the body of the Letters 
begins a little before i860. The friends 
to whom many of them are written had 
been made in the few years shortly pre- 
ceding this time — the years of Meredith's 
first marriage, to Mrs. Nicolls, a daughter 
of Thomas Love Peacock. In the middle 
'50's the Merediths had lived in Wey- 
bridge, Surrey, and here they first made 



the acquaintance of Sir Alexander and 
Lady Duff Gordon and their children, 
Maurice, Urania, and Janet, and at their 
house Tom Taylor, Kinglake, Mrs. Nor- 
ton, J. E. Millais, G. F. Watts, and many 
more men of letters and artists. Later 
when Meredith lived at Copsham Cottage, 
Esher, with his little son Arthur, he was 
again a neighbor of the Duff Gordons,who 
had settled between Esher and Oxshott. 
Janet Duff Gordon and Edith Nicolls, 
Meredith's step-daughter, were play-fel- 
lows at Weybridge, and tell how, as small 
children, Meredith enthralled them by 
wild fairy tales which he spun for their 
edification. In so far as Meredith ever 
drew his characters direct from life, Janet 
Duff Gordon was his model for Rose Joce- 
lyn in "Evan Harrington," whilst her fa- 
ther and mother are pictured as Sir Frank 
and Lady Jocelyn. 

In i860 Miss Janet Duff Gordon be- 
came engaged to, and in December of the 
same year married, Henry James Ross, 
head of the firm of Briggs & Co., bank- 
ers, at Alexandria. Mr. Ross took part, 
with Layard, in the excavation of Nine- 
veh. He also wrote a book, "Letters from 
the East," 1837-1857. 

[To Mrs. Janet Ross.] 

Copsham, Esher, May 17, 1861. 
My Dear Janet: The little man has 
been in great glee to answer you. He had 
paper and everything ready to do so a 
week before your letter came, and his re- 
ply is all his own, and from his heart. He 
must love you. Who could fail to love 
one so stanch and tender to him? Here 
have I waited silently, thinking much of 
you, and incurring I knew not what con- 
demnation. I have not thought of you 
less because I withheld my pen. The 
truth is, my experiences are all mental — I 
see nothing of the world, and what I have 
to say goes into books. However, I am 
now compelled by my state of health to 
give it up for a time. Your poet — dare 
I call myself that, after hearing the rhap- 

145 



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146 



Letters ot George Meredith 



sodic eulogies of old Alder?* I assure you, 
my dear, I cannot equal him. I might put 
him into rhythm, but that would spoil his 
hearty idiom. I feel quite a friendliness 
for old Alder after hearing him speak of 
you. — " I never saw a young lady like her, 
and never shall again. She's a loss to 
Esher and to England!" etc. You are 
compared with Miss Gilbert and Miss 
Reynolds; and men are dared to say that 
either fair equestrian surpassed you on 
horseback. Apropos of the former lady, 
Landseer has a picture of her in the Acad- 
emy, leaning exhausted against the flanks 
of a mare couchant. "Taming of the 
Shrew" the picture is named, and it is 
sufliciently bad. Millais has nothing. 
Hunt a "Street Wooing in Cairo," of 
which you could judge better than I. 
Leighton has a "Paolo and Francesca"; 
painted just as the book has dropped and 
they are in no state to read more. You 
would scorn it; but our friendship never 
rested on common sentiments in art. I 
greatly admire it. I think it the sole Eng- 
lish picture exhibiting passion that I have 
seen. I have the delight to stand alone 
in my judgment of this, as of most things, 
and I shall see the worid coming round to 
my opinion, and thinking it its own. Does 
that smack of the original George M.? — 
Never mind. Well: there is a beautiful 

portrait of Alice P . Idealized of 

course— showing more in her than she pos- 
sesses; but my friend Maxse — one who is 
strong on points of feminine beauty (a 
naval man loose upon society)— thinks her 
superior to the picture in physique. He 
meets her out. He said to me, the first 
time: "I think she thought me slow": — 
the second: "Is she stupid?" His con- 
clusive judgment pronounces her an ex- 
quisitely plumed little pol parrot. She is 
being admired: people think she should 
wear more clothing. The effect is said to 
be that of a damsel such as you see at the 
booth of a country fair. — Maxse is a very 
nice fellow with strong literary tastes. 
He was Naval Aide-de-Camp to Lord 
Lyons in the Crimea. I dare say you have 
heard of him. You would like him. He 
is very anxious to be introduced some 
day to Rose Jocelyn. I tell him that Janet 
Ross is a finer creature. If Rose satisfies 
him, how will not Janet! He has taken a 

* A butcher of Esher, and a regular f(^wer of the Due 
'Aumale's hounds. 



cottage at Molesey, and we make expedi- 
tions together on foot. Talking of Rose, 
did you see the Saturday? It says you are 
a heroine who deserve to be a heroine. 
And yet I think I missed you. Your 
Mother tells me that Mrs. Austin speaks 
in very handsome terms of the perform- 
ance generally, and of the portrait in 
particular. — ^I have not seen your mother 
for some days. She has had another at- 
tack, a very severe one. It wears my 
heart to think of her. And yet her con- 
stitution rallies from time to time, and 
I have still strong hopes of her ultimate 
recovery. She must not spend another 
winter in England. — ^The baby is quite 
charming. Like you, but rosier, and with 
a tendency to be just as positive. She 
articulates admirably, and shows quali- 
ties equal to the physiological promise I 
have noted from the first. How I should 
wish Arthur to conquer a fair position in 
the world, and lead her away as a certain 
Janet was led! At present he is not brill- 
iant but he is decidedly hopeful. I don't 
want to force him yet. I wish to keep him 
soimd, and to instil good healthy habits 
of mind and body. In writing, spelling, 
and reading; in memory for what he ac- 
quires, few children surpass him. And he 
really thinks — ^without being at all insti- 
gated to think. I remained at Copsham 
for his sake, and perhaps shall not quit it 
for some time to come. He will not go to 
a regular school till next year. I don't 
like the thought of his going; but it must 
be, and so I submit. 

I have three works in hand. The most 
advanced k "Emilia Belloni," of which I 
have read some chapters to your mother, 
and gained her strong approval. Emilia 
is a feminine musical genius. I gave you 
once, sitting on the mound over Copsham, 
an outline of the real story it is taken 
from. Of course one does not follow out 
real stories; and this has simply suggested 
Emilia to me. — ^Then, my next novel is 
called " A Woman's Battle. " Qy.— good 
title? I think it will be my best book as 
yet. The third is weaker in breadth of 
design. It is called " Van Diemen Smith " 
— is interesting as a story. Nous ver- 
rons. . . . 



About the year 1858, when Meredith 
was thirty years old, he first met Captain 
Frederick Augustus Maxse (1833-1900). 



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Captain Maxse, R.N., promoted rear- 
admiral in 1877, was the second son of 
James Maxse by bis marriage with Lady 
Caroline Fitzhardinge, daughter of the 
fifth Earl of Berkeley. He acted as naval 
A.D.C. to Lord Raglan, and after the bat- 
tle of the Alma displayed conspicuous 
gallantry in canying despatches from the 
army to the fleet. Promoted conamander 
in 1855, he retired in 1867, and imsuc- 
cessfully contested Southampton in the 
Radical interest in the following year. 
During this election Meredith canvassed 
actively for him. He was also beaten in a 
subsequent contest for Middlesex in 1874. 
His Radical tendencies in these days were 
the dual outcome of his experiences of the 
inept unpreparedness of the government 
for the war in the Crimea and the suf- 
ferings which he saw and shared in that 
campaign. In later life he was a strong 
Unionist. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

Milan, August 16, 1861. 
My Dear Maxse: . . . You know I 
wish very earnestly to see you, a man made 
to understand and make happy any pure, 
good woman, married to one. I don't 
think any son owes his parents more than 
the conscientious assurance that he has 
clearly thought over what he is about to 
do (in such a matter) ; seeing that men are 
the only possible judges in the case; and 
that the stake is all Uieir own. To have 
found a suitable person, and to give her 
up for anything on earth is like seeing a 
jewel on iht shore and rejecting it on ac- 
count of the trouble of conveying it home. 
But do you strongly recognize the jewel? 
Have you found her? A boy can't^ but 
a man must reason, in these cases. You 
may know yoiu: love from its power of 
persbting and bearing delay. Passion has 
not these powers. U your love of thb 
person is true and not one of your fancies, 
it will soon light you clear enough. . . . 
And don't be hasty and think you are 
trusting your instinct by grasping sud- 
denly at ^e golden apple. Can you bear 
poverty for her? Will she for you? Can 
she, even if she would? Think whether 
you are risking it, and remember that 
very few women bear it and retain their 
delicacy and charm. Some do. Can you 
think her one of the diosen? The great 



difficulty is to be honest with ourselves. 
If there comes a doubt, the wave of pas- 
sion overwhelms it. Try and listen to 
your doubt. See whether you feel, not 
what we call love, but tenderness for her. 
Satisfy yourself on this point. And then 
determine to wait. You can, if your heart 
has conceived real tenderness. If not, 
should you marry her? You speak of se- 
curing her. You may secure her person, 
but how can you be yet sure of more? If 
continually you find her worthier, fix your 
mind to win her by the force of your love. 
Then should you have that divine de- 
light, I ask you whether you can see any 
earthly obstacle in yOur way? You are 
on the highest pinnacles and may remain 
untouched, whatever is said or done. You 
will have pains and aches — agonies to go 
through. They serve to strengthen you. 
— God bless you, my dear Maxse! Be- 
lieve me your faithful and affectionate 
George Meredith. 



The Rev. Augustus Jessopp, to whom 
some of the following letters were ad- 
dressed, was head-master of King Edward 
VI grammar-school, Norwich, canon of 
Norwich, author of "One Generation of 
a Norfolk House," "Trials of a Country 
Parson," etc. 

[To the Rev. Augustus Jessopp.] 

CopSHAM Cottage, Esher, 
SuMtEY, Nov, 13, 1861. 

My Dear Sir: I have received your 
letter. Let me tell you at once that I feel 
it to be most generous, and I should be 
glad to think I deserved such hearty praise 
as fully as I do the censure. But on that 
point, I must be allowed to give you two 
or three words of explanation. Apropos 
of the " Rosanna, " it was written from the 
Tyrol, to a friend, and was simply a piece 
of friendly play. Which should not have 
been published, you add? Perhaps not, 
but it pleased my friend, and the short 
passage of description was a literal tran- 
script of the scene. Moreover, though 
the style is open to blame, there is an idea 
running through the verses, which, while 
I was rallying my friend, I conceived to 
have some point for a larger audience. 

It is true that I have fallen from what I 
once hoped to do. The fault is hardly 
mine. Do you know Vexation, the slayer? 



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There is very little poetry to be done when 
one is severely and incessantly harassed. 
My nerves have given way under it, and 
it is only by great care and attention to 
the directions of my doctor, that I can 
work at all. — I have now more leisure and 
somewhat better health, and the result is, 
that I have gone back partially to my old 
mistress. 

As to my love for the Muse, I really 
think that is earnest enough. I have all 
my life done battle in her behalf, and 
should, at one time, have felt no blessing 
to be equal to the liberty to serve her. 
Praise sings strangely in my ears. I have 
been virtually propelled into a practical 
turn, by the lack of encouragement for 
any other save practical work. I have no 
doubt that it has done me good, though 
the pleasure your letter gives me, and let 
me say also the impetus, is a proof that I 
should have flourished better under a less 
rigorous system. 

If you do me the favor to look at " Once 
a Week " during the next two months, you 
will see some poems of mine that are of 
another cast. The " Cassandra," you will 
see, is as severe in rhythm as you could 
wish. But one result of my hard educa- 
tion since the publication of my boy's 
book in '51 (those poems were written be- 
fore I was twenty) has been that I rarely 
write save from the suggestion of some- 
thing actually observed. I mean, that I 
rarely write verse. Thus my Jugglers, 
Beggars, etc., I have met on the road, and 
have idealiz^ but slightly. I desire to 
strike the poetic spark out of absolute 
human clay. And in doing so I have the 
fancy that I do solid work — ^better than a 
carol in mid air. Note the *'01d Chart- 
ist," and the "Patriot Engineer," that will 
also appear in " Once a Week." They may 
not please you, but I think you will admit 
that they have a truth condensed in them. 
They are flints perhaps, and not flowers. 
Well, I think of publishing a volume of 
Poems in the beginning of '62, and I will 
bring as many flowers to it as I can. It 
may be, that in a year or two I shall find 
time for a full sustained Song. Of course 
I do not think of binding down the Muse 
to the study of facts. That is but a part 
of her work. The worst is, that, having 
taken to prose delineations of character 

d life, one's affections are divided. I 
now a prose damsel crying out to 



me to have her history completed ; and the 
creatures of a novel are bubbling up; and 
in truth, being a servant of the public, I 
must wait till my master commands be- 
fore I take seriously to singing. 

This is a long letter for a man to write 
about himself; and it is the first time I 
have been guilty of such a thing. It has 
not been possible for me to reply to you 
in any other way. 

[To Mrs. Janet Ross.] 

COPSHAM, ESHER, \0V. I9, 1861. 

My Very Dear Janet: I plead ill 
health: I plead vexation, occupation, gen- 
eral insufficiency: I plead absence from 
home, absence from my proper mind, and 
a multitude of things: and now I am going 
to pay my debts. But are not my letters 
really three single gentlemen rolled into 
one? This shall count for ten. Now the 
truth is that my Janet is, by her poet at 
least, much more thought of when he 
doesn't write to her than when he does. 
Vulgar comparisons being always the most 
pungent, I will say, Lo, the Epicurean to 
w^hom his feast is still in prospect: he 
dreams of it: it rises before him in a thou- 
sand hues and salutes his nostril with 
scents heavenly. He dines. Tis gone. 
'Tis in the past and with it go his rosy 

visions. — Your P. G., to wit H , I saw 

him the other day, and shall probably 
dine with him on Thursday— Quoth I, at a 
period of our interview — ^Have you, O 

H replied duly to the fair Alexandri- 

enne? Then went he through much pan- 
tomime, during my just reproaches, and 
took your address — which may be an ex- 
cellent P. G. performance, and no more. 
You will see. He is in new chambers full 
of pictures. Old Masters, we hear. For a 
fine putative Leonardo he disbursed re- 
cently £400. And Sir Charles Eastlake 
said — never mind what. Then, too, a 
Masaccio for which he gave £19. 7s. 6jd., 
was Exhibited at the British Institution 
and the papers took note of nothing else. 
And Sir Charles Eastlake said — as before. 

H is a good old boy. He has a 

pleasant way of being inquisitive and has 
already informed me, quite agreeably, 
that I am a gentleman, though I may not 
have been bom one. Some men are al- 
ways shooting about you like May flies in 
little quick darts, to see how near you they 



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may come. The best thing is to smile and 
enjoy the fun of it. I confess a private 
preference for friends who are not thus 
afflicted, and get the secret by instinct. 
As my Janet does, for instance. — ^The dear 
indifferent Bart. I meet occasionally; in 
the train, or on lonely Celia; looking as 
if he bore with life, but had not the ex- 
act reason for his philosophy handy. He 
speaks out like a man concerning your 
husband, and I should wish every hus- 
band to have a father-in-law who appre- 
ciates him as heartily. Your Mother's 
Diary will not, I suppose, reach you before 
this letter. On the whole it is very hope- 
ful. Secondly, it is inmiensely amusing, 
and shows her fine manly nature admi- 
rably. O what a gallant soul she is! and 
how very much I love her! I had only 
time during the passage of the train to 
read it, and couldn't get to the end. As 
yet the voyage has wrought no cure: but 
the change and the sea-breeze and shak- 
ing have done good and produced fa- 
vorable excitement. I have new friends 
whom I like, and don't object to call by 
name. A Mr. and Mrs. Hardman I met 
in Esher this autumn. She is very pleas- 
ant, and is one of the rare women who 
don't find it necessary to fluster their sex 
under your nose eternally, in order to 
make you like them. I gave her private's 
rank in Janet's Amazonian regiment, with 
chances of promotion. Also he is a nice 
fellow : a barrister who does photographs ; 
of his friends principally. On the other 
hand, let me say, that I went (thinking of 
you solely) and was done the other day, 
and will send a copy to you immediately. 
It looks absurd; but I must conclude it 
faithful. . . . 

You have had particulars of our travels ; 
at least, items. Munich is a glorious city 
to pass through, and the Tyrol a won- 
derful country for the same. I had, the 
truth is, a miserable walking companion. 
Hecouldn't walkin thesun: he wouldn't 
walk after its setting: the rain he shunned 
as if he had been dog-bitten — in fact, he 
was a double-knapsack on my back. Cer- 
tainly the heat was tremendous. The 
Tyrolean men are the handsomest I have 
seen; the women the ugliest. The Alps 
gave me shudderings of delight; but I did 
not see enough of them, and I can't bear 
being coop'd long in those mountain- 
guarded valleys; so I shot through them 



in two weeks, and then saw Italy for the 
first time, emerging by Adige, which the 
Austrians are fortifying continually. Ve- 
rona lies just under the Alps, and is now 
less a City than a fortress. You see noth- 
ing but white coats — who form the ma- 
jority of the inhabitants. The little 
man* asked innumerable questions about 
the amphitheatre, and the gladiators, the 
shows, and the Roman customs. Thence 
to Venice, where he and I were alone — 

W parting for Como and his mother. 

Our life in Venice was charming. Only I 
had to watch the dear boy like tutor, gov- 
erness, courier, in one; and couldn't get 
much to the pictures; for there was no use 
in victimising him and dragging him to 
see them, and I couldn't quit him at all. 
We hired a Gondola and floated through 
the streets at night, or out to Malamocco 
to get the fresh breeze. A fresh Levant 
wind favored our visit. To the Lido we 
went every morning: Arthur and I bath- 
ing—behold us for a solid hour under enor- 
mous* straw-hats floating and splashing 
in the delicious Adriatic. The difficulty 
of getting him out of it was great. "Papa, 
what a dear old place this is! We won't 
go, will we? " I met and made acquaint- 
ance with some nice fellows (Austrians) 
in the water. The Italian fish are not to 
be found where they are. Venice looks 
draped, and wears her widow's weeds 
ostentatiously. Our Gondolier, Lorenzo, 
declared that he had seen Lor Birren, 
when a boy. " Palazzo Mocenigo, Signor 
Ecco!" On the Lido one thinks sadly of 
Byron and Shelley. I found the spot Shel- 
ley speaks of in "Julian and Maddalo," 
where he saw the Vicenza hills in the 
sunset through the bell-tower where the 
lunatics abide, on an island. Of the 
glories of St. Mark's who shall speak. It 
is poetry, my dear, and will be expressed 
in no other way. In Venice I learnt to 
love Giorgione, Titian and Paul Veronese. 
I cannot rank Tintoret with them (Ruskin 
puts him highest) though his single work 
shows greater grasp and stretch of soul. 
Viennese crinoline and the tyrant white 
coat do their best to destroy the beauties 
of St. Mark's. Charming are the Vene- 
tian women ! They have a gracious walk 
and all the manner one dreams of as 
befitting them. Should one smile on a 

•Arthur Gryffydd. Meredith's son by his first marriuRe, 
born in June, 185.^. 



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Whitecoat, she has the prospect of a pa- 
triotic dagger smiting her fair bosom, and 
so she does not; though the Austrians are 
fine men, and red-hot exclusiveness for an 
abstract idea sits not easy on any ladies of 
any land for longer than — say a fortnight. 
Consequently Vienna sends Crinoline to 
her children. I made acquaintance with 
a tough Baronne, who had brought two 
daughters of inMnense circle ! How quiet- 
ly the pretty Venetians eyed them! The 
square of St. Mark's is the great parade. 
-^The weather was fiery: but we had no 
mosquitos. — Milan is, for heat, next door 
to Pandemonium. The view from the 
Cathedral you have heard of. I went to 

Como to see W , who was with II 

Principessa. She received me affably at 
the Villa— Villa Ciani, prfes d'Este. She 
has a handsome daughter, fair as. a high- 
bom English girl, engaged then, and since 

married to, General T . Madame la 

Princesse will be Mdme. la Princesse, and 
desires that she should hear it too, as I 
quickly discovered. I grew in favor. She 
has no difficulty in swallowing a compli- 
ment. Quantity is all she asks for. This 
is entre nous, for she entertained me, and 
indeed I was vastly entertained. Look 
for it all in a future chapter. A good 
gross compliment, fluently delivered, I 
find to be the best adapted to a French- 
woman's taste. If you hesitate, the flavor 
evaporates for them. Be glib, and you 
may say what you please. Should you 
in addition, be neat, and ready, they will 
fall in love with you. Mademoiselle the 
fianc6e, perceived that I was taken with 
her before I had felt it. Hence she dis- 
tinguished me, till the General came. It's 
a real love match. She wouldn't sing then 
— couldn't. Nor did I press it: for Oh! — 
She sings in the rapid French style: all 
from the throat: and such a hard metallic 
Giordigianic rang over Como's water as 
sure our dear old Muddy Mole never knew 
of ! Young Captain G- — , T 's aide- 
de-camp, and I, then fell upon the Prin- 
cess. 

King Victor gave T some royal 

Tokay, which he brought to the Villa, and 

we were merry over it. I like G , a 

very gallant fellow: only 24, and served 

through the Hungarian revolt, and all the 

Garibaldian campaign. 

Before dinner we all bathed in Como, 

dies and gentlemen ensemble. Really 



pleasant and pastoral ! Mdlle. swims capi- 
tally : rides and drives well ; and will maike 
a good hero's wife. She scorns the Eng- 
lish for their bad manners, she told me. 
The Emperor allows her ;giooo a year: 
her mother gets ;g2ooo. Vive I'Empe- 
reur! . . . 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

COPSHAM, ESHER. 

My Dear Maxse: You knew how 
glad it would make me to hear the good 
news, and I th^ik you for making me feel 
that she does not take you away from 
those who love you. I don't think there 
will be a war. I don't even think that the 
withdrawal of our Ambassador would give 
the signal for one. In any case there can 
be no reason why you should go. Dis- 
miss the notion. A war with France 
would tax all the energies of this country. 
All would have to serve. . . . So be mar- 
ried quickly to that dear and sweet person 
who is to make you happy, I doubt not. 
I look at her and should envy you, if I 
did not feel for her through your heart. — 
I mean the photograph, which I prize. — 
De Stendhal I have had to send to Paris 
for. You will have " L'Amour " in a week. 
I told them (Hachette) to send it to you, 
from me. Write as often as you can spare 
time. Give her my kindest salute and 
know me, your loving 

George M. 

I have done a great deal of the "Love- 
Match. " Rossetti says it's my best. I 
contrast it mentally with yours, which is 
so very much better! 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

London, 186 i. 

My Dear Maxse: I will come. So 
shall the little man. I hate wedding- 
breakfasts, which make one take wine and 
eat I don't know what at unholy seasons 
of the day, and are such a stupid exhibi- 
tion of the couple. 

Tell me when you think it may take 
place, that I may keep all clear for that 
day. I'm sure you're going to be happy, 
and I'm like Keats and the nightingale — 
"happy in your happiness." — ^I wonder, 
now, whether any nice woman wOl ever 
look on me? — I certainly begin to feel new 



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life. Also a power of work, which means 
money. There is evidently great folly 
kindling in me. All the effect of example ! 

I have matters in hand, which you will 
like, I think. Theywon't drag you down to 
the Roadside and the haunts of vagabonds ! 

How do you like de Stendhal? L'Amour 
ought not to be dissected, and indeed can't 
be. For when we've killed it with this 
object, the spirit flies, and then where is 
L'Amour? Still I think de Stendhal 
very subtle and observant. He goes over 
ground that I know. Let me hear. — I 
bow to your lovely bride. The photo- 
graph is not just to her. All blessings on 
you both! — Your loving, 

George M. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

COPSHAM, ESHER. 

Is it the same sky over us? Mine is of 
the grimmest grey, with a fog-lining. The 
daffodil in the meadow has been nodding 
to this genial wind for the last two weeks: 
and now we have the pen-bird heralding 
the cuckoo, and I suppose summer is com- 
ing: but we are all in suspense to know 
whether we are to get a daily ducking 
or live the life of non-purgatorial beings 
through the months. Last Sunday there 
was a puff of sunshine. I walked with 
a couple of fellows to Box Hill. What 
changes since last year! I looked over 
the hilly Dorking road we traversed. It 
wound away for other footsteps. Well! 
— you at least have nothing to regret. I 
hope the sunshine will cling to you. 

The Naples correspondent of the Times 
gives a horrible account of the state of 
the country, and rather alarms one about 
you: but having so precious a charge to 
protect you won't be rash, I'm sure. — 
Of course, you have heard all about the 
Monitor and Merrimac. A pretty busi- 
ness sea-fighting comes to! Was there 
ever so devUish an entertainment ! Blood 
bursting from the eyes and ears of the men 
at the guns, who seemed to be under the 
obligation of knocking their own senses 
to atoms as a preliminary to sending the 
souls of their foes to perdition. If they 
want me to go on board such vessels, I 
plead with Charles Lamb, "Lance, and a 
coward. " — ^The whole business affects the 
imagination awfully: but in reality an old 
sea-fight was a far bloodier business. Sci- 



ence, I presume, will at last put it to our 
option whether we will improve one an- 
other from off the face of the globe, and 
we must decide by our common sense. 

Read John Mill on "Liberty" the other 
day; and recommend it to you. It's a 
splendid protest against the tyranny so- 
ciety is beginning to exercise; very noble 
and brave. 

The book will be out the Monday after 
Easter. I sent with Borthwick as many 
of the proofs as I could collect; thinking 
you would have no time to review in Rome. 
But, if you have not done it, let me beg 
you to be in no hurry. The book can wait. 
You will find one or two poems that you 
have not seen. The " Ode to the Spirit of 
Earth in Autumn" may please you. 

I heard from Borthwick of the Violet's 
charming adventure with the Emperor, 
and can picture it. 

What you say about Christianity ar- 
resting sensualism, is very well: but the 
Essenian parentage of Christianity was 
simply asceticism. Hitherto human nat- 
ure has marched through the conflict of 
extremes. With the general growth of 
reason, it will be possible to choose a path 
midway. Paganism no doubt deserved 
the ascetic reproof; but Christianity failed 
to supply much that it destroyed. Pom- 
peii, as being, artistically, a Grecian Col- 
ony merely, cannot represent the higher 
development of Paganism. 

Alas! I fear I shall not join you in Ven- 
ice. — By the way, take care to get an in- 
troduction to Rawdon Brown, while there. 
He has lived and worked at the Archives 
in Venice for 20 years, and can tell you 
more of the place than any other man. I 
hear he is also a good fellow. 

Pray, give my kindest regards to your 
Cecilia. I am flattered to hear that Eng- 
lishmen stand so high with her now that 
she can make comparisons. — Write soon; 
and know me ever, your faithful 

George M. 

In Venice read "Julian and Maddalo. " 
It is one of Shelley's best: admirable for 
simplicity of style, ease, beauty of descrip- 
tion and local truth. The philosophy, of 
course, you may pass. 



William Hardman, a barrister, sub- 
sequently chairman of Surrey quarter- 
sessions, and later editor of the Morning 



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Post J had lately taken for one summer a 
country cottage near Esher. Widely read, 
with a large circle of friends, a cheerful out- 
look upon the world, and a keen sense of 
humor, mated, moreover, with a lady in 
whom personal beauty was combined with 
musical tastes and rare personal charm, 
his hospitality was a welcome social tonic, 
and close life-long friendship resulted. 

[To William Hardman.] 

CopsHAU, May 5, 1S62. 

MADRIGAL 

"Since Tuck is Faithless Found" 

Since Tuck is faithless found, no more 
ril trust to man or maid; 
I'll sit me down, a hermit hoar, 
Alone in Copsham shade. 

The sight of all I shun; 
Far-spying from the mound; 
I'll be at home no more, 

Since Tuck, 

Since Tu-a tu-a tu-a 

Tuia Tuck, 
Since Tuck is faithless found. 

Oh ! what a glorious day. I have done 
lots of Emilia, and am now off to Ripley, 
or St. Demitroia hill, or Tuck's Height, 
carolling. I snap my fingers at you. And 
yet, dear Tuck, what would I give to have 
you here. The gorse is all ablaze, the 
meadows are glorious — green, humming 
all day. Nightingales throng. Heaven, 
blessed blue amorous Heaven, is hard at 
work upon our fair, wanton, darling old 
naughty Mother Earth. 

Come, dear Tuck, and quickly, or I 
must love a woman, and be ruined. An- 
swer me, grievous man! 

In thine ear! — Asparagus is ripe at Rip- 
ley. In haste. — Your constantly loving 
friend, 

George M. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

Copsham, Esher, June 9, 1862. 
My Dear Maxse: ... I hope, by 
the way, your review won't be written 
before you see the book. One jx>em, new 
to you (Ode to the Spirit of Earth in 
Autumn), will please you better than all 
— please you specially. It will suffice for 
me if you tell me what you think of 
it, and not the public. The notices that 
have appeared fix favorably on the Road- 



side poems, but discard "Modem Love,'' 
which, I admit, requires thought, and dis- 
cernment, and reading more than once. 
The Saturday R. has not yet spoken. One 
paper calls me a genius — one, a mere- 
tricious, clever, bold man. I find, to my 
annoyance, that I am susceptible to re- 
marks on my poems, and criticisms from 
whipsters or women absolutely make me 
wince and flush. I saw Robert Browning 
the other day, and he expressed himself 
*' astounded at the originality, delighted 
with the naturalness and beauty." — Par- 
don my egotism — I write to please you! 

I have not yet seen Gibson's Venus. I 
went to the Int. Ex. on the opening day 
— have delayed to go since. It was a poor 
unimpressive show. Fancy the Poet Lau- 
reate in the line of march! 

June 13. — Your letter from Lucca: — 
You complain of sun. TheS.W. has been 
blowing since the middle of May, and 
this year has not yet known one day of 
sunshine. Rossetti b beginning to ask 
about your Lady, to know when he may 
have a sitting. He, dear fellow, is better 
— still somewhat shaken. Mention it not 
— he buried his MSS. poems in his wife's 
coffin, it is whispered. He, his brother, 
and Swinburne, have taken a house (Sir 
T. More's) at Chelsea: a strange, quaint, 
grand old place, with an immense garden, 
magnificent panelled staircases and rooms 
— a palace. I am to have a bedroom for 
my once-a-week visits. We shall have 
nice evenings there, and I hope you'll 
come. . . . — The notices of my book are 
scarce worth sending. The "Spectator" 
abuses ma The "Athenaeum" mildly 
pats me on the back: the "Parthenon" 
blows a trumpet about me: the " Sat. R." 
makes no sign. — Whatever number of 
books you may like to have, pray accept 
as your own. Is not mine yoiu^, in all 
things? I would prefer that you should 
not buy books of mine. That is for the 
good public to do. 

I wish particularly to be kept au cou- 
rant of your change of abode: there's no 
knowing what I might do, on the spur. 
Whither in Switzerland do you go, fiirst? 
I presume, across the Italian Lakes, and 
over the Spliigen to Lucerne. Be careful 
of the waters of that lake: at some points 
it is dangerous at any moment. — ^Tell me, 
don't you find that great heat somewhat 
narrows and sharpens the reflective power? 



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The effect, in Southern climates, on art, 
is to sacrifice all to outline, as a rule, and 
murder detail. Even during the short 
time I was in Italy I experienced this in 
a small degree. If the passions did but 
slumber, Italy would be the very spot of 
earth for great work to be done. Here I — 
I should like to try it. — I have a comedy 
germinating in the brain, of the Classic 
order: "The Sentimentalists." I fancy it 
will turn out well. "Emilia Belloni" goes 
slowly forward, for the reason that I have 
re-written it: so, all will be new to you. I 
shall send you the Comhill Mag. next 
month. Adam Bede has a new work in 
it. I imderstand they have given her an 
enormous sum G£8ooo, or more! she re- 
taining ultimate copyright) — Bon Dieu! 
will aught like this ever happ>en to me? — 
Shall you stay long at Turin? — Of all the 
horrible cities! Two or three days at 
Milan will give you quite enough of the 
pet Italian city: go to the Brera: and see 
Leonardo's wrecked Last Supp)er. On 
Como stop at Bellagio — not at the Villa 
d'Este: the hotel is good at the latter 
place, but the scenery is not so fine. . . . 
— Your constant loving 

George Meredith. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.] 

Dec. 1$, 1862. 

My Darling Little Man! — I shall be 
at Shoreditch station, on Wednesday, to 
meet the Train at 6.30. But, you must 
not be disappointed, if I tell you that it 
will be too late for you to go on to Esher 
that night; and you will sleep at Mrs. 
Morison's, in Porchester Square. Mr. 
Hardman wants me to dine with him on 
Thursday, but I have told him I am afraid 
you won't let me. Copsham will be de- 
lighted to see you. All the dear old woods 
are in their best winter dress. Mossy Gor- 
don has come from Eton. Janet leaves 
England next week; but hopes to see 
her dear boy before she goes. — Be care- 
ful not to have any larks in the train. 
Only fools do that. As much fun as you 
like, but no folly. Look out for Ely Ca- 
thedral, just before you get to Ely station. 
At Cambridge you will see the four towers 
of "King's'' Chapel, built by Cardinal 
Wolsey. Tell Angove, that I will get a 
bed for him, if he wishes to sleep in Town 
on Wednesday night. And give Angove 



your address, written down; that he may 
let me know when he will come to London 
from Cornwall, and we will go to the 
theatre together, and then he will take 
you to school again. — Your loving Papa, 
George Meredith. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.) 

Copsham Cottage, 
Esher, Nov, 12, 1863. 

My Dear Little Man! — Island Pond 
is frozen over, and all the common looks 
as you saw it that Christmas morning 
when we walked over to Oatlands. San- 
dars is seen sometimes, with brown gaiters 
and a green tunic. His legs continue to 
grow, but his body does not. All your 
playthings, your theatre, books, etc., arc 
put away, but you can get at them easily 
when you return. You can imagine how 
glad I shall be to hear your voice again in 
this neighborhood; and if I were not work- 
ing very hard, I should find the place too 
dull to live in, without you. Shall I hear 
at Christmas, that you have been learn- 
ing, and have got a little more friendly 
with your Latin Grammar? Mind you 
don't waste your time. If you do your 
best, I shall be satisfied. Tell me the 
names of the boys you play withmost,and 
what fellows you think are the best. I 
suppose you see Mr. Sandys. Have you 
been to Mrs. Clabbums? Let me be sure 
that I shall have a letter from you every 
week. When you have written to Cap- 
tain Maxse, you must write to Mrs. Ed- 
ward Chapman, "Camden Park, Tun- 
bridge Wells." The name of her house is 
"Hollyshaw." God bless my dear little 
man, prays his loving Papa, 

George Meredith. 

[To the Rev. Augustus Jessopp.] 

Esher, June 6, 1864. 
My Dear Jessopp: It is time that 
your friend should show you a clean breast. 
—He loves a woman as he never yet loved, 
and she for the first time has let her heart 
escape her. She is not unknown to you, 
as you both immediately divine. She is 
the sweetest person I have ever known, 
and is of the family which above all others 
I respect and esteem. Her father is a 
just and good man; her sisters are pure 
gentlewomen: she is of a most affection- 



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Letters of George Meredith 



ate and loving nature. May I be worthy 
of the love she gives me! 

Your surprise over, you will possibly 
think me rash. My friends, who know 
of this, think me fortunate, on reflection. 
They see that I shall now first live; that I 
shall work as I have never yet done; and 
that, to speak materially, marriage will 
not increase the expenses of a man hither- 
to very careless. My hof)e stands like a 
fixed lamp in my brain. I know that I 
can work in an altogether different fashion, 
and that with a wife and such a wife by 
my side, I shall taste some of the holiness 
of this mortal world and be new-risen in 
it. Already the spur is acting, and health 
comes, energy comes. I feel that I can 
do things well, and not haphazard, as here- 
tofore. ... I can hardly make less than 
eight hundred, reckoning modestly. And 
I shall now hold the purse-strings warily. 

I shall not speak to Arthur till he is 
with me. She -is very fond of him, and 
will be his friend. He will find a home 
where I have found one. 

I cannot play at life. I loved her when 
we were in Norwich. "Cathedralizing" 
would not otherwise have been my occu- 
pation. I believe that I do her good. I 
know that she feels it. Me she fills with 
such deep and reverent emotion that I can 
hardly think it the action of a human 
creature merely. I seem to trace a fable 
thus far developed by blessed angels in 
the skies. She has been reserved for me, 
my friend. It was seen that I could love 
a woman, and one has been' given to me 
to love. Her love for me is certain. I 
hold her strongly in my hand. Write — I 
thirst to hear words from you. Address 
to Piccadilly. And if Mrs. Jessopp can 
feel that she can congratulate my beloved 
and thank her for loving me — ^Ah ! will she 
let her know this? — ^her address is 

Miss Marie Vulliamy, 
Mickleham, 

near Dorking, 

Surrey. 

Also, tell Mrs. Jessopp that "Emilia" is 
running very fast in Italy, and that we 
may hope to see the damsel of the fiery 
South (no longer tripped and dogged by 
Philosopher or analyst) by late Autumn. 
I have an arrangement to do a serial for 
** Once a Week," and a series of Wayside 



pieces for the "Comhill," Sandjrs illus- 
trating, is on the tapis. These will ulti- 
mately form a volume sp>ecial and I hope 
popular. Adieu to you both! Will two 
be welcome some day? She has ventured 
to say that she hopes so. — Your loving, 
George Meredith. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

June 6, 1864. 
Esher is the address, and your letter to 
Mickleham astonished us all. I read it 
and handed it to my beloved, who said — 
"How heartily he writes! he must be one 
of your true friends. " Pray, write to her 
at once, if you have the kindly impulse. 
It will please her, for I have talked much 
of you and my feeling for you: of your 
happiness with your beloved, which she 
would rival. And she wishes to feel that 
my friends are to be hers. The letter 
will be a charming surprise to her. An 
assurance also that I am cared for, here 
and there, and by worthy men. Your 
wife is sure to love her. If God gives her 
to me, I may certainly say that our wives 
will be as much heart in heart as we are. 
We shall see one another more. Ah! when 
you speak of Ploverfield for us during the 
first sweet days of our union, you touch 
me deeply and breathe fair auspices. I 
shall accept, if it can be arranged. I could 
not choose another place while that door 
stood open. My friend, I have written 
of love and never felt it till now. — ^I 
have much to pass through in raking up 
my history with the first woman that held 
me. But I would pass through fire for my 
darling, and all that I have to endure 
seems little for the inmiense gain I hope 
to get. When her hand rests in mine, tiie 
world seems to hold its breath, and the 
sun is moveless. I take hold of Eternity. I 
love her. — She is intensely emotional, but 
without expression for it, save in music. 
I call her my dumb poet. But when she 
is at the piano, she is not dumb. She has 
a divine touch on the notes. — Yes, she is 
very fond of the boy. Not at all in a 
gushing way, but fond of him as a good 
little fellow, whom she trusts to make her 
friend. As to her family: the old man 
is a good and just old man, who displays 
the qualities by which he made what fort- 
une he has. There are three sons, four 
daughters. The sons are all in business 



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in France — wool manufacturers, or some- 
thing. They and the girk were strictly 
brought up at home at Nonancourt in 
Normandy. Marie was seventeen when 
seven years ago they came to England. 
They have been aboutfiveyearsinMickle- 
ham Vale. On Saturday next, Kitty, the 
third — the one preceding my beloved — 
is to be married at the little church: Marie 
being first bridesmaid, and I shall see her. 
The eldest sister is married to a French 
officer, who has an estate in Dauphin^, 
and is a good working soldier — "a rough 
diamond," says Marie. The eldest un- 
married sister, Betty, is a person of re- 
markable accomplishments and very clear 
intellect, vivacious and actively religious: 
therefore tolerant, charitable, and of a 
most pure heart. Kitty, the present 
bride, takes her Christianity with more 
emotion: she teaches the children of the 
parish, while Betty every Sunday even- 
mg has a congregation of the men and 
women in a bam. Do you smile? Much 
good has been done by these two women. 
I saw last Sunday a man rescued by Betty 
from inveterate drunkenness, and happy. 
They — indeed all of them, are thoroughly 
loved by the poor throughout the district, 
and respected by all but the party cler- 
gyman, who declares that their behavior 
(Betty chief culprit) has been a scandal, 
and that he will countenance none of them 
— ^neither marry them, bury them, nor in 
any way bless them. I heard him preach 
last Sunday morning, and Oh! alas for 
Orthodoxy! Marie, however (she has 
strong common sense, as have all real 
emotional natures), takes her own view, 
and says she thinks Betty wrong in tak- 
ing the clergyman 's work out of his hands. 
"But if he doesn't do it?" "Yes, but his 
curate is anxious to try, and Betty has 
such influence, and speaks so closely to 
the hearts of the poor, that they will lis- 
ten to no one else. " — ^The controversy is 
at that point. Marie does not go to the 
bam: but, to please her sister, is willing, 
now that Kitty goes, to do her best among 
the children, until she likewise is led 
away. — To Ploverfield? I sound the 
echoes of the future. Oh! is it to be? 
There could not be a fairer, sweeter com- 
panion, or one who would more perfectly 
wed with me. She tries to make me un- 
derstand her faults. I sp>ell at them like 
a small boy with his fingers upon words 



of one syllable. Of course some faults 
exist. But she has a growing mind and 
a developing nature. Love is doing won- 
ders with her. — I could write on for hours, 
but I have letters and work calling loudly 
stop. We shall live, I fancy, about my 
present distance from London. But where 
to find a cottage of the kind I require, is 
the problem. What you say of income 
is sensible, and has not been unthought 
of by me. If I did not feel courage in 
my heart and a strong light in my brain, 
I should not dare to advance in this 
path; but in those vital points I have full 
promise. I shall now write in a different 
manner. We will speak further on the 
subject when we meet. Let me know 
what day you think I may select to pre- 
sent you. The week after this will ex- 
actly do. And the Monday or Tuesday 
of it would be the best days, if possible; or 
add, the Wednesday. Try to give her the 
whole day, so that you may hear her play 
in the evening, and see her in all her lights 
and shades, and know the family — the 
best specimen of the middle-class that 
I have ever seen — ^pure gentlewomen, to 
call one of whom wife and the rest sisters 
is a great honor and blessing. God bless 
you, dear fellow. This letter and all the 
tendemess of my heart is for Mrs. Maxse 
as well as for yourself. My kindest wishes 
for Boy. — I am ever your loving 

George Meredith. 

[To the Rev. Augustus Jessopp.] 

Sept. 20, 1864. 

My Dear Jessopp: As to the Poems: 
I don*t think the age prosaic for not buy- 
ing them. A man who hopes to be pop- 
ular, must think from the mass, and as 
the heart of the mass. If he follows out 
vagaries of his own brain, he cannot hope 
for general esteem; and he does smaller 
work. "Modem Love" as a dissection 
of the sentimental passion of these days, 
could only be apprehended by the few 
who would read it many times. I have 
not looked for it to succeed. Why did I 
write it? — Who can account for press- 
ure? ... 

Between realism and idealism there is 
no natural conflict. This completes that. 
Realism is the basis of good composi- 
tion: it implies study, observation, artistic 
power, and (in those who can do more) 



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Letters of George Meredith 



humility. Little writers should be real- 
istic. They would then at least do solid 
work. They afflict the world because 
they will attempt that it is given to none 
but noble workmen to achieve. A great 
genius must necessarily employ ideal 
means, for a vast conception cannot be 
placed bodily before the eye, and remains 
to be suggested. Idealism is as an at- 
mosphere whose effects of grandeur are 
wrought out through a series of illusions, 
that are illusions to the sense within 
us only when divorced from the ground- 
work of the real. Need there be ex- 
clusion, the one of the other? The artist 
is incomplete who does this. Men to 
whom I bow my head (Shakespeare, 
Goethe; and in their way, Moliere, 
Cervantes) are Realists au fond. But 
they have the broad arms of Idealism at 
command. They give us Earth; but it 
is earth with an atmosphere. One may 
find as much amusement in a Kaleido- 
scope as in a merely idealistic writer: and, 
just as sound prose is of more worth than 
pretentious poetry, I hold the man who 
gives a plain wall of fact higher in esteem 
than one who is constantly shuffling the 
clouds and dealing with airy, delicate sen- 
timentalities, headless and tailless imag- 
inings, despising our good, plain strength. 
Does not all science (the mammoth 
balloon, to wit) tell us that when we for- 
sake earth, we reach up to a frosty, inim- 
ical Inane? For my part I love and cling 
to earth, as the one piece of God's handi- 
work which we possess. I admit that we 
can refashion; but of earth must be the 
material.— Yours faithful, 

George Meredith. 

[To the Rev. Augustus Jessopp.] 

Garrick Club, Autumn 1864 (?). 
My Dear Jessopp: . . . Have you 
heard that the Countess Guiccioli has two 
continuation cantos of Don Juan, and 
means to publish them? Likewise more 
of Byron ! — He's abused, so I take to him ; 
and I'm a little sick of Tennysonian green 
Tea. I don't think Byron wholesome — 
exactly, but a drop or so — Eh? And 
he doesn't give limp, lackadaisical fisher- 
men, and pander to the depraved senti- 
mentalism of our drawing-rooms. I tell 
you that ** Enoch Arden" is ill done, and 
that in twenty years' time it will be de- 



nounced as vHlanous weak, in spite of 
the fine (but too conscious) verse, and the 
rich insertions of Tropical scenery. Now, 
then! — ^are we face to face, foot to foot? — 
Forgues is translating "Emilia" (some- 
what condensed) very well in the " Revue 
des deux Mondes." . . . 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

Kingston, 1865. 
My Dear Fred: I must tell you that 
I am becoming an admirer of President 
Johnson. And have you seen the Book 
called Sherman's great March? If you 
get it, examine the heads of his Gener- 
als. They are of a peculiarly fine cast and 
show the qualities of energy and skill, and 
also race. They are by no means vulgar. 
Place our best men (headed by the Duke 
of Cam) alongside them, and start. The 
contrast will not be flattering to us. — 
Hawthorne has just the pen to fascinate 
you. His deliberate analysis, his undra- 
matic representations, the sentience rather 
than the drawings which he gives you of 
his characters, and the luscious, morbid 
tone, are all effective. But I think his 
delineations imtrue: their power lies in 
the intensity of his egotistical perceptions, 
and are not the perfect view of men and 
women. — Goethe's Elective AflSnities — 
the Wahlverwandschaf ten— would delight 
you, as they have nourished Hawthorne. 

[To Algernon Charles Swinburne.] 

Kingston Lodge, 
Kingston-on-Thames, 

My Dear Swinburne: " Vittoria," as 
I am told by Chapman and others, is not 
liked; so you may guess what pleasure 
your letter has given me. For I have the 
feeling that if I get your praise, I hit the 
mark. It seems that I am never to touch 
the public's purse. Why will you conten t 
yourself with only writing generously? 
Why will you not come and see me? My 
wife has constantly asked me how it is 
that you do not come. Must I make con- 
fession to her that I have offended you? 
It is difficult for me to arrange for spare 
evenings in town; I can't leave her here 
alone. If we meet, I must quit you only 
too early. I wonder whether Sandys would 
invite us to dine with him ; when we might 
have one of our evenings together, and 



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come to an understanding about future 
evenings at Kingston. I mil speak to him 
on that head. — I am very eager for the 
poems. The promise of the essay on 
Byron makes me extremely curious, for 
though I don't mistrust your estimation 
of the manliness of his verse, he is the last 
man of whom I would venture to foretell 
your opinion. — As to the Poems — ^if they 
are not yet in the press, do be careful of 
getting your reputation firmly grounded: 
for I have heard "low mutterings" al- 
ready from the Lion of British prudery; 
and I, who love your verse, would play 
savagely with a knife among the proofs 
for the sake of your fame; and because 
I want to see you take the first place, as 
you may if you will. — Apropos, what do 
you think of Buchanan's poetry? Lewes 
sends him up I don't know how high. 
My feeling is that he is always on the 
strain for pathos and would be a poetic 
Dickens. But I can't judge him fairly, 
I have not read his book. Adieu. Re- 
mind Moxon of the Byron, and write to 
me again. — I am ever your faithful 

George Meredith. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

Box Hill, Dec. 27, 1869. 
My Dear Fred: I return Ruskin's 
letter, a characteristic one. I am chiefly 
glad that you should be in correspond- 
ence with a man who will appreciate and 
stimulate you; glad too that you seem to 
see where he falls short, or, rather, aims 
blindly. It is the spirituality of Carlyle 
that charms him. What he says of Ten- 
nyson I too thought in my boy's days, 
that is, before I began to think. Tenny- 
son has many spiritual indications, but no 
philosophy, and philosophy is the palace 
of thought. Mill is essentially a critic: 
it is his heart, not his mind, which sends 
him feeling ahead. But he really does 
not touch the soul and springs of the Uni- 
verse as Carlyle does. Only, when the 
latter attempts practical dealings he is 
irritable as a woman, impetuous as a ty- 
rant. He seeks the short road to his ends ; 
and the short road is, we know, a bloody 
one. He is not wise; Mill is; but Car- 
lyle has most light when he bums calmly. 
Much of Ruskin's Political Economy will, 
I suspect, be stamped as good by poster- 
ity. He brings humanity into it. This 
Vol. LII.— 17 



therefore is not the Political Economy of 
our day. — I have turned Wendell Phil- 
lips like a drenching fireman's hose on a 
parson, and made him sputter and gutter 
and go to his wife to trim his wick. The 
Oration is very noble. Adieu. Write 
some day next year. — ^Your loving 

George Meredith. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

Mickleham, 1869. 
My Dear Fred: . . . Will is in the 
garden on a rocking-horse, new gift from 
his Aunt. His seat is as Cardigan 's enter- 
ing Balaclava guns. — Of course you've 
read Kinglake, very deliberate, very con- 
scientious. He has done all the work of 
the History of the Crim. War except to 
write it. His writing is so fine — so fine 
(in both senses) that to say it is penman- 
ship seems best to express it. — One sees 
the whole Balaclava business, as he saw it 
(and you) from the heights, through King- 
lake's slowly-moving, dioramic opera- 
glass, with the fifty degree magnifying 
power of patient imagination, full study 
and testimony, superadded. It deserves 
praise and thanks. Contemporaneous 
history should thus be written: but it is 
not an artistic piece of history. How 
glorious Scarlett at the head of his 30a 
Greys and Lmiskillens! Yet one can't 
help feeling that Kinglake makes them 
go astonishingly like the horsemen in a 
peepshow. Scarlett enters: — pause; now 
Shegogg : — pause ; Aide de camp : — pause : 
now the Greys, presently the Inniskillens: 
— Soon. Very good, very bad. Adieu. — 
Your loving 

George Meredith. 

[To Captain Maxse.] 

MiCKLEHAM, Jan. 2f 1S70. 
My Dear Fred: It's difficult to speak 
mildly of a man who calls John Mill block- 
head, and dares to assume Carlyle's man- 
tle of Infallibility on the plea that it is his 
** master's.*' Still I agree with much that 
he says of Carlyle. I hold that he is the 
nearest to being an inspired writer of any 
man in our times; he does proclaim in- 
violable law: he speaks from the deep 
springs of life. All this. But when he 
descends to our common pavement, when 
he would apply his eminent spiritual wis- 



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158 To Little Renee 

dom to the course of legislation, he is no tion. Of practical little or none, and he 

more sagacious nor useful nor temperate beats his own brains out with emphasis, 

than a flash of lightning in a grocer's shop. As to what R. says of John Mill I have 

"I purify the atmosphere," says tlus not the Pol. Ec. handy. I am inclined to 

agent "You knock me down, spoil my think the present generation of P. Econ- 

goods and frighten my family," says the omists wrong — that they don't see that 

grocer. — ^Philosophy, while, rendering his the obligations of Wealth pertain to its 

dues to a man like Carlyle and acknowl- sources, and that R. has some vague truth 

edging itself inferior in activity, despises for a backbone to his preposterous priestly 

his hideous blustering impatience in the attitude and inebriate conceit as against 

presence of progressive facts. adversaries. 

Read the "French Revolution" and you The Parsonry are irritating me fear- 
listen to a seer: the recent pamphlets, and fully, but a non-celibate clergy are a ter- 
he is a drunken coimtry squire of super- rific power. They are interwound with 
ordinary ability. the whole of the Middle class like the 

Carlyle preaches work for all to all. poisonous ivy . Oh! for independence, that 

Good. But his method of applying his I might write my mind of these sappers of 

sermon to his "nigger" is intolerable. — our strength. — ^Your loving 

Spiritual light hei has to illuminate a na- George M. 

(To be continued.) 



TO LITTLE RENISe 

ON FIRST SEEING HER LYING IN HER CRADLE 
By William Aspenwall Bradley 

Who is she here that now I see, 

This dainty new divinity, 

Love's sister, Venus* child? She shows 

Her hues, white lily and pink rose, 

And in her laughing eyes the snares 

That hearts entangle unawares. 

Ah, woe to men if Love should yield 

His arrows to this girl to wield 

Even in play, for she would give 

Sore wounds that none might take and live. 

Yet no such wanton strain is hers, 

Nor Leda's child and Jupiter's 

Is she, though swans no softer are 

Than whom she fairer is by far. 

For she was bom beside the rill 

That gushes from Parnassus' hill. 

And by the bright Pierian spring 

She shall receive an offering 

From every youth who pipes a strain 

Beside his flocks upon the plain. 



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To Little Renee 159 

But I, the first, this very day, 
Will tune for her my humble lay. 
Invoking this new Muse to render 
My oaten reed more sweet and tender, 
Within its vibrant hollows wake 
Such dulcet voices for her sake 
As, curvM hand at straining ear, 
I long have stood and sought to hear 
Borne with the warm midsummer breeze 
With scent of hay and hum of bees 
Faintly from far-off Sicily. . . . 

Ah, well I know that not for us 

Are Virgil and Theocritus, 

And that the golden age is past 

Whereof they sang, and thou, the last, 

Sweet Spenser, of their god-like line. 

Soar far too swift for verse of mine 

One strain to compass of your song. 

Yet there are poets that prolong 

Of your rare voice the ravishment 

In silver cadences; content 

Were I if I could but rehearse 

One stave of Wither's starry verse. 

Weave such wrought richness as recalls 

Britannia's lovely Pastorals, 

Or in some garden-spot suspire 

One breath of Marvell's magic fire 

When in the green and leafy shade 

He sees dissolving all that's made. 

Ah, little Muse, still far too high 

On weak clipped wings my wishes fly. 

Transform them then and make them doves, 

Soft-moaning birds that Venus loves, 

That they may circle ever low 

Above the abode where you shall grow 

Into your gracious womanhood. 

And you shall feed the gentle brood 

From out your hand — content they'll be 

Only to coo their songs to thee. 



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DICKENS'S 
CHILDREN 

TWO DRAWINGS 

BY 

JESSIE WILLCOX 
SMITH 




• 


LITTLE EM'LY 

** David Coppt-rJii'W — ChapUr III 

The light, bold, fluttering little figure 
turned and came back safe to me, and I 
soon laughed at my fears, and at the cry 
I had uttered; fruitlessly in any case, for 
there was no one near. 











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Vol. LII.— i8 



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"%'' 

/••/• 






THE RUNAWAY COUPLE 

** Christmas Stories " 
The I lot iy- Tree — Seeond Branch 

" So Boots goes up-stairs to the Angel, 
and there he finds Master Harry on 
a e-normous sofa, — immense at any 
time, but looking like the great Bed 
of Ware, compared with him, — a dry- 
ing the eyes of Miss Norah with 
his pocket-hankecher. Their little 
legs was entirely off the ground, of 
course, and it really is not possible 
for Boots to express to me how small 
them children looked!*' 



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• • • 




• •• • 



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Prn'.vti hy I\ihI JhUch Meylnn. 

" She flung herself across his knees and put her arms around him." — Page 171. 



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THE EFFECTUAL FERVENT PRAYER 
By Henry van Dyke 

Illustration by Pail Jilien Meylax. 




I 



DANNY! oho-o-o! five 
o'clock!" 

The clear young voice 
of Esther North floated 
across the snowy fields to 
the hill where the children 
of Glendour were coasting. Her brother 
Daniel, plodding up the trampled path be- 
side the glairy track with half a dozen other 
boys, dragging the bob-sled on w^hich his 
little sister Ruth was seated, heard the call 
with vague sentiments of dislike and rebel- 
lion. His twelve years rose up in arms 
against being ordered by a girl, even if she 
was sixteen and had bc^un to put up her 
hair and lengthen her skirts. She was a nice 
girl, to be sure — the prettiest in Glendour. 
But she might have had more sense than to 
call out that way before all the crowd. He 
had a good mind to pretend not to hear her. 

But his comrades were not so minded. 
They had no idea of letting him evade the 
situation. They wanted him to stay, but 
he must do it like a man. 

" Listen at your nurse already ! '* said one 
of the older lads mockingly; " she's a-callin' 
you. Run along home, boy!'' 

"Aw, no!" pleaded a youngster, not yet 
master of the art of irony. "Don't you 
mind her, Dan! The coast is just gettin' 
like gla^, and you're the onliest one to steer 
the bob. You stay!" 

"Please, Danny," said Ruth, keeping 
her seat as the sled stopped at the top of the 
hill, "only once more down! I ain't a bit 
tired." 

"Dannee-ee-ee! O Danny!" came the 
sweet vibrant call again. "Five o'clock — 
come on — ^remember!" 

Daniel remembered. The rules of the 

Rev. Nathaniel North's house were like the 

law of the Medes and Persians. Dam'el 

had never met a Mede or a Persian, but in 

Vol. UI.— 19 



his mind he pictured than as persons with 
reddish-gray hair and beards and smooth- 
shaven upper lips, wearing white peck- 
cloths and long black broaddoth coats, and 
requiring absolute punctuality at meal- 
time, church-time, school-time, and family 
prayers. Esther's voice recalled him from 
the romance of the coasting-hill to the real- 
ity of life. He considered the consequences 
of being late for Saturday evening worship 
and made up his mind diat they were too 
much for him. 

" Come on, Ruthie," he cried, picking up 
the cord of her small girl's sled, which she 
had forsaken for the greater glory and ex- 
citement of riding behind her brother on the 
bob. The child put her hand in his, and 
they ran together over the creaking snow to 
the place where their older sister was wait- 
ing, her slender figure in blue jacket and 
skirt outlined against the white field, and 
her golden hair shining like an aureolp 
around her rosy face in theintense bloom of 
the winter sunset. 

The three young Norths were the flower 
of Glendour: a Scotch village in western 
Pennsylvania, where the spirits of John 
Knox and Robert Bums lived face to face, 
separated by a great gulf. On one side of 
ihe street, near the river, was the tavern, 
where the lights burned late, and the music 
went to the tune of "Wandering Willie" 
and " John Barleycorn." On the other side 
of the street, toward the hills, was the Pres- 
byterian church, where the sermons were 
an hour long, and the favorite lyric was 

"A charge to keep I have." 

The Rev. Nathaniel North's "charge to 
keep" was the spiritual welfare of the elect, 
and especially of his own motherless chil- 
dren. To guide them in the narrow way, 
unspotted from the world, to train them up 
in the faith once delivered to the saints and 
in the customs which that faith had devel- 

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oped among the Scotch Covenanters, was 
the great desire of his heart. For that de- 
sire he would gladly have suffered martyr- 
dom; and into the fulfilling of his task he 
threw a strenuous tenderness, a strong, im- 
faltering, sincere affection that bound his 
children to him by a love which lay far 
deeper than all their outward symptoms of 
restiveness under his strict rule. 

This is a thing that seldom gets into sto- 
ries. People of the world do not understand 
it. They are strangers to the intensity of 
religious passion, and to the swift instinct 
by which the heart of a child surrenders to 
absolute sincerity. 

This was what the North children felt in 
their father — a devotion that was grave, 
stem, almost fierce in its single-hearted 
attachment to them. He was theirs alto- 
gether. He would not let them dance or 
play cards. The theatre and even the circus 
was tabooed to them. Novel-reading was 
discouraged and no books were admitted 
to the house which had not passed under 
his censorship. All this seemed strange to 
them; they could not comprehend it; at 
times they talked together about the hard- 
ship of it — the two older ones — and made 
little plots to relax or circumvent the pa- 
ternal rule. But in their hearts they ac- 
cepted it, because they knew their father 
loved them better than any one else in the 
world, and they trusted him because they 
felt that he was a true man and a good 
man. 

You see they were not "children in fic- 
tion '* ; they were real children — ^and beau- 
tiful, high-spirited children too. Esther 
was easily the fairest of the village maidens, 
and the head of her class in the high-school; 
Daniel, a leader in games among the boys 
of his age; even eight-year-old Ruth with 
her fly-away red hair and her wide brown 
eyes had her devoted admirers among the 
younger lads. It was evident to the Rev. 
Nathaniel North that his children were des- 
tined to have the perilous gift of popularity, 
and with all his natural pride in them he 
was tormented with anxiety on their ac- 
count. How to protect them from tempta- 
tion, how to shield them from the vain al- 
lurements of wealth and folly and fashion, 
how to surround them with an atmosphere 
altogether serious and devout and pure, 
how to keep them out of reach of the evil 
that is in the world — that was the tremen- 



dous problem upon which his mind and his 
heart labored day and night. 

Of course he admitted, or rather he posi- 
tively affirmed, according to orthodox doc- 
trine, that there was original sin in them. 
Under every human exterior, however fair, 
he postulatied a heart "deceitful above all 
things and desperately wicked." This he 
regarded as a well-known axiom of theol- 
ogy, and it had no bearing at all upon the 
fact of experience that none of his children 
had ever lied to him and that he would 
have been amazed out of measure if one 
of them should ever do a mean or a cruel 
thing. 

But he believed, all the same, that the 
mass of depravity must be there, in the nat- 
ure which they inherited through him from 
Adam, like a heap of tinder waiting for the 
fire. It was his duty to keep the fire from 
touching them, to guard them from the 
flame, even the spark, of worldliness. He 
gave thanks for his poverty which was like 
a wall about them. He prayed every night 
that no descendant of his might ever be 
rich. He was grateful for the seclusion and 
plainness of the village of Glendour in 
which vice certainly did not glitter. 

"Separate from the world,*' he said to 
himself often, " that is a great mercy. No 
doubt there is evil here, as everywhere; but 
it is not gilded, it is not attractive. For my 
children's sake I am glad to live in obscu- 
rity, to keep them separate from the world." 

But they were not conscious of any op- 
pressive sense of separation as they walked 
homeward, through the saffron after-glow 
deepening into crimson and violet. The 
world looked near to them, and very great and 
beautiful, tingling with life even through its 
winter dress. The keen air, the crisp snow 
beneath their feet, the quivering stars that 
seemed to hang among the branches of the 
leafless trees, all'gave them joy. They were 
healthily tired and heartily hungry; a good 
supper was just ahead of them, and beyond 
that a long life full of wonderful possibilities; 
and they were very glad to be alive. The 
two older children walked side by side pull- 
ing the sled with Ruth, who was willing to 
confess that she was "just a little mite tired " 
now that the fun was over. 

"Esther," said the boy, "what do you 
suppose makes father so quiet and solemn 
lately — more than usual? Has anything 
happened, or is it just thinking?" 



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167 



" Wdl," said the girl, who had a touch of 
the gende tease in her, "perhaps it is just 
the left-over sadness from finding out that 
you*d been smoking!" 

"Huh," murmured Dan, "you drop that, 
Essie! That was two weeks ago — ^besides, 
he didn't find out; I told him; and I took 
my medicine, too — ^never flinched. That's 
all over. More likely he remembers the 
fuss you made about not being let to go 
with the Slocums to see the theatre in Pitts- 
burgh. You cried, baby! I didn't." 

The boy rubbed the back of his hand 
reminiscently against the leg of his trousers, 
and Esther was sorry she had reminded 
him of a painful subject. 

"An)rway," she said, "you had the best 
of it. I'd rather have gone, and told him 
about it, and taken a whipping afterward." 

"What stuff! You know dad wouldn't 
whip a girl — not to save her life. Besides, 
when a thing's done, and 'fessed, and paid 
for, it's all over with dad. He's perfectiy 
fair, I must say that. He doesn't nag like 
giris do." 

"Now you drop ihatf Danny, and I'll tell 
you what I think is the matter with father. 
But you must promise not to speak to him 
about it." 

" All right, I promise. What is it ? " 

"I guess — now mind, you mustn't tell 
— but I'm almost sure it is something about 
our Uncle Abel. A letter came last month, 
postmarked Colorado; and last week there 
was another letter in the same handwriting 
from Harrisburg. Father has been reading 
them over and over, and looking sadder 
each time. I guess perhaps Uncle Abel is 
in trouble, or else " 

"You mean father's rich brother that 
lives out West? Billy Slocimi told me 
about him once — says he's a king-pin out 
there, owns a mine a mile deep and full 
of gold and diamonds, keeps lots of fast 
horses, wins races all over the country. He 
must be great. You mean him? Why 
doesn't father ever speak of him ? " 

The girl nodded her head and lowered 
her voice, glancing back to see that Ruth 
was not listening. 

"You see," she continued, "father and 
Uncle Abel had a break — not a quarrel, 
but a kind of a divide — ^when they were 
young men. Lucy Slocum heard all about 
it from her grandmother, and told me. 
They were in a college scrape together, and 



father took his pimishment, and after that 
he was converted, and you know how good 
he is. But his brother got mad, and he ran 
away from college, out West, and I reckon 
he has been — well, pretty bad. They say 
he gambled and drank and did all sorts of 
things. He said the world owed him a fort- 
une and a good time. Now he's got piles 
of money, and a great big place he calls Due 
North, with herds of catUe and ponies and 
a house full of pictures and things. I guess 
he's quieted down some, but he isn't mar- 
ried, and they say he isn't at all religious. 
He's what they call a free-thinker, and he 
just travels around with his horses and 
spends money. I suppose that is why 
father does not speak of him. You know 
he thinks that's all wrong, very wicked, aiid 
he wants to keep us separate from it all." 

The boy listened to this long, breathless 
confidence in silence, kicking the lumps of 
snow in the road as he trudged along. 

"Well," he said, "it seems kind of awful 
to have two brothers divided like that, don't 
it, Essie? But I suppose father's right, he 
most always is. Only I wish they'd make 
it up, and Uncle Abet would come here with 
some of those horses, and perhaps I could 
go West with him some time to make a start 
in life." 

"Yes," added the giri, "and wouldn't it 
be fine to hear him tell about his adventures. 
And then perhaps he'd take an interest in 
us, and make things easier for father, and 
if he liked my singing he might give the 
money to send me to the Conservatory of 
Music. That would be great!" 

"Yes," piped up the voice of Ruth from 
the sled, " and I wish he'd take us all out to 
Due North with him to see the ponies and 
the big house. That would be just lovely ! " 

Esther looked at Dan and smiled. Then 
she turned around. 

"You litde pitcher," she laughed, "what 
do you have such long ears for? But you 
must keep your mouth shut, anyway. Re- 
member, I don't want you to speak to 
father about Uncle Abel." 

"I didn't promise," said Ruth, shaking 
her head, "and I want him to come — it'll 
be better'n Santa Claus." 

By this time the children had arrived at 
the little red brick parsonage, with its white 
wooden porch, on the side street a few doors 
back of the church. They stamped the 
snow off their feet, put the sled under the 



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porch, hung their coats and hats in the 
entry, and went into the parlor on the 
stroke of half-past five. 

Over the mantel hung an engraving of 
"The Death-Bed of John Knox," which 
they never looked at if they could help it; 
on the opposite wall a copy of Reynolds' 
" Infant Samuel," which they adored. The 
pendent lamp, with a view of Jerusalem on 
the shade and glass danglers around the 
edge, shed a strong light on the marble- 
topped centre-table and the red plush fur- 
niture and the pale green paper with gilt 
roses on it. 

On Saturday evening family worship 
came before supper. The cook and the 
maid-of -all-work were in their places on the 
smallest chairs, beside the door. On the 
sofa, where the children always sat, their 
Bibles were laid out. The father was in the 
big arm-chair by the centre-table with the 
book on his knees, already open. 

The passage chosen was the last chapter 
of the Epistle of James. The deep, even 
voice of Nathaniel North sounded through 
that terrible denunciation of unholy riches 
with a gravity of conviction far more im- 
pressive than the anger of the modem 
muck-raker. The hearts of the children, 
remembering their conversation, were dis- 
turbed and vaguely troubled. Then came 
the gender words about patience and pity 
and truthfulness and the healing of the sick. 
At the end each member of the household 
was to read a sentence in turn and try to 
explain its meaning in a few words. The 
portion that fell to litde Ruth was this: 

^^The effectual fervent prayer of a right- 
ecus man availeth tnuch.** 

She stiunbled over the two longer words, 
but she gave her comment clearly enough in 
her childish voice. 

"That means if we obey Him, God will 
do anything we ask, I suppose." 

The father nodded. "Right, my child. 
If we keep the commandments our prayers 
are sure of an answer. But remember that 
the people in the first part of the chapter 
have no such promise." 

There was an imusual fervor in the 
prayer which closed the worship that night. 
Nathaniel North seemed to be putting his 
arms around the family to shield them from 
some unseen danger. The children, whose 
thoughts had wandered a little while he was 
remembering the Jews and the heathen and 



the missionaries in the customary phrases, 
felt their hearts dimly moved when he asked 
that the house might be kept from the 
power of darkness and the ravening wolves 
of sin, kept in imbroken purity and peace, 
holy and undefiled. The potent sincerity 
of his love came upon them. They be- 
lieved with his faith ; they consented with 
his will. 

At the supper-table there was pleasant 
talk about books and school work and 
games and the plan to make a skating-pond 
in one of the lower fields that could be 
flooded after the snow had fallen. Nathan- 
iel North, with all his strictness, was very 
near to his children; he wished to increase 
and to share their rightful happiness ; he 
wanted them to be separate from the world 
but not from him. It was when they were 
talking of the coming school exhibition that 
Ruth dropped her litde surprise into the 
conversation. 

"Father," she said, "will Uncle Abel be 
here then? Oh, I wish he would come. I 
want to see him ever so much ! " 

He looked at her with astonishment for 
a moment. Esther and Daniel exchanged 
glances of dismay. They did not know 
what was coming. A serious rebuke from 
their father was not an easy thing to face. 
But when he spoke there was no rebuke in 
his voice. 

"Children," he said, "it is strange that 
one of you should speak to me of my brother 
Abel when I have never spoken of him to 
you. But it is only natural, after all, and I 
should have foreseen it and been more 
frank with you. Have other people told 
you of him ? " 

"Oh, yes," they cried, with sparkling 
looks, but the father's face grew darker as 
he noticed their eagerness. 

"Let me explain to you about him," he 
continued gravely. "He was my older 
brother — ^a year older — and as boys we 
were very fond of each other. But one day 
we had to part because our paths went in 
opposite directions. He chose the broad 
and easy way, and I was led into the 
straight and narrow path. How can two 
walk together except they be agreed ? For 
ten years I tried to win him back, but with- 
out success. At last he told me that he 
wished me never to address him on the sub- 
ject of religion again for he would rather 
lose both his hands and his feet than believe 



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1G9 



as I did. He went on with his reckless life, 
prospering in this world, as I hear^ but I 
have never seen him since that time." 

"But wouldn't you like to see him?" 
said Esther, dropping her eyes. ** He must 
be quite a wonderful man. Doesn't he 
write to you?" 

Her father's lip twitched, but he still 
spoke sadly and gravely. 

"I see you have guessed the answer al- 
ready. Yes, a letter came from him some 
time ago, proposing a visit, which I dis- 
couraged. Another came this week, saying 
that he was on his way, driving his own 
horses across the country, and though he 
had received no reply from me, he hoped to 
get here late Saturday — that is, to-night — 
or Sunday morning. Of course we must 
welcome my own brother — ^if he comes." 

"Why, he may get here any minute," 
cried Daniel eagerly; "he's sure to change 
his wagon for a sleigh in Pittsburgh, and he 
won't have to drive 'way roiihd by the long 
bridge, he can cross the river on the ice. I 
wonder if he's driving that famous long- 
distance team that Slocimi told me about. 
Oh, that'll be shnply great." 

"I must go upstairs right away," ex- 
claimed Esther, with brightening face, "to 
see that the guest-room is ready for him 
when he comes." 

" I'll go to help," cried Ruth, clapping her 
hands. "What fim to have a real uncle 
here. I guess he'll bring a present for each 
of us." 

"Wait, my children," said the father, lift- 
ing his hand, "before you go I have some- 
thing more to say to you. Your uncle is a 
man of the world, and you know the world 
is evil; we have been called to come out of 
it. He does not think as we do, nor be- 
lieve as we do, nor live as we do, according 
to the Word. For one thing, he cares noth- 
ing for the sanctity of the Sabbath. Unless 
he has changed very much, he is not tem- 
perate nor reverent. I fear the effect of 
his example in Glendour. I fear his influ- 
ence upon you, my children. It is my duty 
to warn you, to put you on your guard. It 
wDl be a hard trial. But we must receive 
him — if he comes." 

"If he comes?" cried Esther, evidently 
alarmed; "there's no doubt of that, is there, 
since he has written?" 

"My dear, when you know your imcle 
you will understand that there is always a 



doubt. He is very irregular and uncertain 
in all his ways. He may change his mind 
or be turned aside. No one can tell. But 
go to your tasks now, my children, and to 
bed early. I haVe some work to do in my 
study. God keep you all!" 

Each of them kissed him good-night, and 
he watched them out of the room with a 
look of tender sternness in his lined and 
rugged face, anxious, troubled, and ready 
to give his life to safeguard them from the 
invisible arrows of sin. Then he went into 
his long, narrow book-room, but not to work. 

Up and down the worn and dingy carpet, 
between the walls lined with dull gray and 
brown and black books, he paced with 
heavy feet. The weight of a dreadful re- 
sponsibility pressed upon him, the anguish 
of a spiritual conflict tore his heart. His 
old affection for his brother seemed to re- 
vive and leap up within him, like a flame 
from smothered embers when the logs are 
broken open. The memory of their yoiing 
comradeship and joys together grew bright 
and warm. He longed to see Abel's face 
once more. 

Then came other memories, dark and 
cold, crowding in upon him with evil faces 
to chill and choke his love. The storm of 
rebellion that led to the parting, the wild 
and reckless life in the far country, the 
gambling, the drinking, the fighting, the 
things that he knew and the things that he 
guessed — and then, the ways of Abel when 
he returned, at times, in the earlier years, 
with his pockets full of money to spend it 
in the worst company and with a high- 
handed indifference to all restraint, yet al- 
ways with a personal charm of generosity 
and good-will that drew people to him and 
gave him a strange power over them — and 
then, Abel's final refusal to listen any more 
to the pleadings of the true faith, his good- 
humored obstinacy in unbelief, his definite 
choice of the world as his portion, and after 
that the long silence and the growing ru- 
mors of his wealth, his extravagance, his 
devotion, if not to the lust of the flesh, at 
least to the lust of the eyes and the pride of 
life— rail these thoughts and pictures rushed 
upon Nathaniel North and overwhelmed 
him with painful terror and foreboding. 
They seemed to loom above him and his 
children like black clouds charged with hid- 
den disaster. They shook his sick heart 
with an agony of trembling hatred. 



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He did not hate his brother — no, never 
that — and there was the poignant pain of it. 
The bond of affection rooted in his very flesh 
held firm and taut, stretched to the point of 
anguish, and vibrating in shrill notes of sor- 
row as the hammer of conviction struck it. 
He could not cast his brother out of his 
inmost heart, blot his name from the book 
of remembrance, cease to hope that the in- 
finite mercy might some day lay hold upon 
him before it was too late. 

But the things for which that brother 
stood in the world — the imgodliness, the 
vainglory, the material glitter and the spir- 
itual darkness — these tilings the minister 
was bound to hate; and the more he hated 
the more he feared and trembled. The in- 
tensity of this fear seemed for the time to 
blot out all other feelings. The coming of 
such a man, with all his attractions, with the 
glamour of his success, with the odors and 
enchantments of the world about him, was 
an incalculable peril. 

The pastor agonized for his flock, the 
father for his littie ones. It seemed as if he 
saw a tiger with glittering eyes creeping near 
and crouching for a spring. It seemed as 
if a serpent, with bright colors coiled and 
fatal head poised, were waiting in the midst 
of the children for one of them to put out a 
hand to touch it. 

Which would it be ? Perhaps all of them 
would be fascinated. They were so eager, so 
innocent, so full of life. How could he guard 
them in a peril so subtle and so terrible? 
He had done all that he could for them, 
but perhaps it was not enough . He felt his 
weakness, his helpless impotence. They 
would slip away from him and be lost — 
perhaps forever. Already his sick heart saw 
them charmed, bewildered, poisoned, perish- 
ing in ways where his imagination shud- 
dered to follow them. 

The torture of his love and terror crushed 
him. He sank to his knees beside the ink- 
stained wooden table on the threadbare 
carpet and buried his face in his arms. All 
of his soul was compressed into a single 
agony of prayer. 

He prayed that this bitter trial might 
not come upon him, that this great peril 
might not approach his children. He 
prayed that the visitation which he dreaded 
might be averted by almighty power. He 
prayed that God would prevent his broth- 
er from coming, and keep the home in 



unbroken purity and peace, holy and im- 
defiled. 

From this strange wrestling in spirit he 
rose benumbed, yet calmed, as one who feds 
that he has made his last effort and can do 
no more. He opened the door of his study 
and listened. There was no sound. The 
children had all gone to bed. He turned 
back to the old table to work until mid- 
night on his sermon for the morrow. The 
text was: " A sfor me and my ftouse, we will 
serve iJu Lord" 



II 



But that sermon was not to be delivered. 
Mr. North woke very early, before it was 
light, and could not find sleep again. In 
the gray of the morning, when the little day 
was creeping among the houses of Glen- 
dour, he heard steps in the street and then 
a whisper of voices at his gate. He threw 
his wrapper around him and went down 
quietly to open the door. 

A group of men were there, with trouble 
in their faces. They told him of an acci- 
dent on the river. A sleigh crossing the ice 
during the night had lost the track. The 
horses had broken into an air-hole and 
dragged the sleigh with them. The man 
had been carried under the ice with the 
current. His body came out a little while 
ago in the big spring-hole by the point. 
They had pulled it ashore. They did not 
know for sure who it was — ^a stranger — but 
they thought — ^perhaps 

The minister Ibtened silentiy, shivering 
once or twice, and passing hb hand over 
his brow as if to brush away something. 
When their voices paused and ceased, he 
said slowly, "Thank you for coming to me. 
I must go with you, and then I can tell." 
As he went upstairs sofdy and put on his 
clothes, he repeated these words to himself 
two or three times mechanically — "yes, 
then I can tell." But as he went with the 
men he said nothing, walking like one in a 
dream. 

On the bank of the river, amid the 
broken ice and trampled yellow snow, the 
men had put a few planks together and 
laid the body of the stranger upon them 
turning up the broad collar of his fur coat to 
hide hb face. One of the men now turned 
the collar down, and Nathaniel North 
looked into the wide-open eyes of the dead. 



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A horrible tremor shook him from head 
to foot. He lifted his hands, as if he must 
ciy aloud in anguish. Then suddenly his 
face and figure seemed to congeal and 
stiffen with some awful inward coldness — 
the frost of the last circle of the Inferno — it 
spread upon him till he stood like a soul im- 
prisoned in ice. 

"Yes," he said, " this is my brother Abel. 
Will you carry him to my house? We 
must bury him." 

During the confusion and distress of the 
following days that frozen rigidity never 
broke nor melted. Mr. North gave no direc- 
tions for the funeral, took no part in it, but 
stood beside the grave in dreadful immobil- 
ity. He did not mourn. He did not lament. 
He listened to his friends' consolation as 
if it were spoken in an unknown tongue. 
Nothing helped him, nothing hurt, because 
nothing touched him. 

He did no work, opened no book, spoke 
no word if he could avoid it. He moved 
about his house like a stranger, a captive, 
shrinking from his children so that they 
grew afraid to come close to him. They 
were bewildered and harrowed with pity. 
They did not know what to do. It seemed 
as if it were their father and not their uncle 
who had died. 

Every attempt to penetrate the ice of his 
anguish failed. He gave no sign of why or 
how he suffered. Most of the time he spent 
alone in his book-room, sitting with his 
hands in his lap, staring at the unspeakable 
thought that paralyzed him, the thought 
that was entangled with the very roots of 
his creed and that glared at him with mon- 
strous and malignant face above the very 
altar of his religion — the thought of his last 
prayer — the effectual prayer, the fervent 
prayer, the damnable prayer that branded 
his soul with the mark of Cain, his brother's 
murderer. 

The physician grew alarmed. He feared 
the minister would lose his reason in a help- 
less melancholia. The children were heart- 
broken. All their efforts to comfort and dis- 
tract their father fell down hopeless from the 
mask of ice behind which they saw him like a 
dead spirit in prison. Daniel and Ruth were 
ready to give up in despair. But Esther 
still clung desperately to the hope that she 
could do something to rescue him. 

One night, when the others had gone to 
bed, she crept down to the sombre study. 



Her father did not turn his head as she 
entered. She crossed the room and knelt 
down by the ink-stained table, laying her 
hands on his knee. He put them gently 
away and motioned her to rise. 

"Do not do that," he said in a dull voice. 

She stood before him, wringing her 
hands, the tears streaming down her face, 
but her voice was sweet and steady. 

"Father," she said, "you must tell me 
what it is that is killing you. Don't you 
know it is killing us too? Is it right for 
you to do that? I know it is something 
more than imcle's death that hurts you. It 
is sad to lose a brother, but there is some- 
thing deeper in your heart. Tell me what 
it is. I have the right to know. I ask you 
for mother's sake." 

He lifted his head and looked at her. 
His eyelids quivered. His secret dragged 
downward in his breast like an iron hand 
clutching his throat-strings. His voice was 
stifled. But no matter what it cost him, to 
her, the first child of his love, his darling, he 
must speak at last. 

" You have the right to know, Esther," 
he said, with a painful effort. "I will tell 
you what is in my soul. I killed my brother 
Abel. The night of his death, I knelt at 
that table and prayed that he might be pre- 
vented from coming to this house. My 
only thought, my only wish was that he 
must be kept away. That was all I asked 
for. God killed him because I asked it. 
His blood is on my soul." 

He leaned back in his chair exhausted, 
and shut his eyes. 

The girl stood dazed for a moment, 
struck dumb by the grotesque horror of 
what she had heard. Then the light of 
Heaven-sent faith flashed through her and 
the, courage of human love warmed her. 
She sprang to her father, sobbing and 
trembling with the joy of the thought that 
had come to her. She flung herself across 
his knees and put her arms around him. 

" Father, did you teach us that God b our 
Father, our real Father?" 

The man did not answer, but the girl 
went bravely on: 

"Father, if I asked you to kill Ruth, 
would you do it ? " 

The man stirred a little, but he did not 
open his eyes nor answer, and the girl went 
bravely on: 

"Father, is it fair to God to believe that 



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172 The Mother 

He would do something that you would be '' Yes, father dear, but if what you asked 
ashamed of? Isn't He better than you in your prayer was wrong, were you a right- 
are?" eous man? Could yoiu* prayer have any 

The man opened his eyes. The fire of his power?" 

old faith kindled in them. He answered It was her last stroke — she tremUed as 

firmly: she made it There was a dead silence in 

''He is infinite, absdute, and unchange- the room. She heard the dock ticking 

able. His Word is sure. We dare not on the mantel, the wind whistling in the 

question Him. There is the promise — the chimney. Then her father's breast was 

effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man shaken, his head fell upon her shoulder, his 

availeth much." tears rained upon her neck. 

The girl did not look up. She clung to "Thank God," he cried, "I was a sin- 

him more closely, she buried her face on his ner — it was not a prayer — God be merciful 

breast, but she went bravely on: to me a sinner!" 



THE MOTHER 
By John Hall Wheelock 

There was a trampling of horses from Calvar}', 

Where the armed Romans rode from the mountain-side; 

Yet riding (hey dreamed of the soul that could rise free 
Out of the bruised breast and the arms nailed wide. 

There was a trampling of horses from Calvary 
And the long spears glittered into the night; 

Yet riding they dreamed of the will that dared to l)e, 
When the head fell and the heavens were rent with light. 

The eyes that closed over sleep like folded wings 
And the sad mouth that kissed death with the cr}', 

'* Father, forgive them," — silently these thmgs 
They remembered, riding down from Calvar)'. 

.\nd Joseph when the sick body was lowered slowly 

Folded it in a white cloth without seam, 
The indomitable brow inflexible and holy, 

And the sad breast that held the immortal dream, 

And the feet that could not walk, and the pierced hand, 
And the arms that held the whole world in their embrace; 

But Mary l>eside the cross-tree could not understand, 
Ix)oking upon the tired, human face. 



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THE 

OLD NIAGARA 

a ballad hy 

ARTpi GUrrERMAN 

widi draEwingis lay 

JOHN WOLCOHAa^MS 




TwAS noon. A dreamy August heat 
Pervaded all the village street; 
The horses dozed upon their feet, 

The people dozed as well; 
A drowsy note the locust sang; 
When, clear and slow with vibrant clang, 
From out the lime-washed belfry rang 

The booming fire-bell: 



Vol. LII.— 20 



'73 



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m » - — . , 

0/ 





" Come, Deluge One ! Come, Torrent Three ! 
Come, Old Niagara, brave and free! 
Come, fire-lads of each degree '^^ 

Where Duty calls, and Fame! '^'" 
Come one, come all! Come friends, come foes! 
Come, Water Witch and Neptune Hose! 
Oh, come! Across the river glows 
Judge Bascom's Place, aflame!" 

Now, "Fi-urr! fi-urr!" urchins cried; 
The village clamored; horses shied; 
The clerkly pen was cast aside; 

The hammer down was flung. 
How swiftly donned were shirts of red! 
His leathern helm upon his head. 
How gallantly each hero sped 

To man his engine-tongue! 







r'li^':/,KS\N>\ 



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174 



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Then, swept along by shouting bands, 
On every rope a score of hands. 
The foremen blaring wild commands 

With sundry- oaths, belike. 
Black Deluge with her seasoned crew. 
Green Water Witch, all painted new. 
And Old Niagara, tried and true. 

Came roaring down the Pike. 



'75 



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^ 






rjMj^^:^^ 











Brave Old Niagara! our boast, 

And ever first when needed most! 

We bumped her through the panting host 

With lusty heave and tug. 
Red Torrent's race was quickly done; 
We "jumped'' the Neptunes on the run, 
And, barely passing Deluge One, 

Achieved the water-plug! 



176 



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:L.^L^i^^^L^^ 








:•>../■ 



c->,-,.' 




That pluj; was ours by law and riKht; 
But Deluge One in jealous spite 
Essayed to steal our prize by might 

Of fisticuffs and blows. 
But, stroke for stroke on helmets black, 
We drove the Deluge cohorts back; 
And having foiled their base attack 

Made fast our suction hose. 



Yet Bascom's Place stood well away 
Beyond our nozzle's utmost play; 
So orders came our pi|>e to lay, 

A steady stream to pour 
In Water Witch, whose braggart claim, V 

Though challenged oft, was still the same— 
That she could empty on a flame 

All we could pump, and more! 




0^-^ 










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4? 

V' 



"'-> 



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Though twelve stout men on either side 
Her pumping-brakes, unwearied, plied, 
Our hose-pipe gushed a whelming tide! 

In vain, at fever-pitch 
Our rivals pumped! Unworthy foes. 
In vain they tried to cut our hose' 
Above their brim the bubbles rose — 

We'd " washed '' the Water Witch! 



178 



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r--\ 



r.l 





Cold water hissed on flame. And now 
Judge Bascom came, with furrowed brow 
And fluent speech, to tell us how 
The ladders should be set, 
- And what to do and where to go — 
y-^'f^. But Torrent's hose-pipe burst, and so 
^>?>^ f ' "^ The Judge was drenched from top to toe 
f>^ d^^ 'Yq every one's regret. 



"Up, ladders!" Brawny axemen broke 

^*^)!!% ;^ The panes and plunged through flame and smoke 

^ V%" To save, perchance, a chair, a cloak, 
4 *>^I^ ^ ^^^ "^ gingham gown. ^ 

^^ f^^^^^^% Some hurled from windows chinaware 

^■^. ^^^\ And costly glass and pictures rare; 

"^^^^^^ V^ While other-some, with tender care, 
^ A mattress lowered down. 






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179 



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Alas! a surging, crackling wave 
Engulfed the home we could not save! 
Yet noble deeds that day, and brave. 

Were writ on History's page; 
And distant Melton heard the roar 
Of cheers when Perkins burst a door 
And down the charring stairway bore 

A parrot in a cage! 

The Banner said: "A sooty pall 

Of ashes covers Bascom Hall! 

The Place was burned in spite of all 

Our fire-lads endured. 
The honors of the dreadful day 
The Old Niagara bore away. 
Judge Bascom, we rejoice to say, 

Is heavily insured." 





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THE HEART OF THE HILLS 

BY JOHN FOX, JR. 




XIV 

IITTLE Mavis did not reach 
the hills. At sunrise a few 
miles down the road, the 
two met Steve Hawn on a 
borrowed horse, his pistol 
buckled aroimd him and 
his face pale and sleepless. 

"Whar you two goin?" he asked 
roughly. 

** Home," was Jason's short answer, and 
he felt Mavis's arm about his waist begin 
to tremble. 

" Git off , Mavis, an* git up hyeh behind 
me. Yo' home's with me.*' 

Jason valiantly reached for his gun, but 
Mavis caught his hand and, holding it, 
slipped to the ground. 

*' Don't, Jasie— 111 come, pap, I'll 
come." Whereat Steve laughed and Ja- 
son, raging, saw her ride away behind her 
stepfather, clutching him about the waist 
wiUi one arm and with the other bent 
over her eyes to shield her tears. 

A few miles further, Jason came on the 
smoking.charredremainsof atoll-gate, and 
he paused a moment wondering if Steve 
might not have had a hand in that, and 
rode on toward the hills. Two hours later 
the school-master's horse shied from those 
black ruins, and John Bumham kept on 
toward school with a troubled face. To 
him the ruins meant the first touch of the 
writhing tentacles of the modem trust and 
the blue-grass Kentuckian's characteris- 
tic way of throwing them oflF, for turn- 
pikes of white limestone, like the one he 
travelled, thread the blue-grass country 
like strands of a spider's web. The spin- 
ning of them started away back in the be- 
ginning of the last century. That far 
back 3ie strand he followed pierced the 
heart of the region from its chief town to 
the Ohio and was graded for steam-wagons 
that were expected to roll out from the 
land of dreams. Every few miles on each 
of these roads sat a little house, its porch 
touching the very edge of the turnpike, 

VOU LII.— 21 



and there a long pole, heavily weighted at 
one end and pulled down and tied fast to 
the porch, blocked the way. Every trav- 
eller, except he was on foot, every drover 
of cattle, sheep, hogs, or mules, must pay 
his toll before the pole was lifted and he 
could go on his way. And Bumham 
could remember the big fat mia,n, who 
once a month, in a broad, low buggy, 
drawn by two swift black horses, would 
travel hither and thither, stopping at 
each little house to gather in the deposits 
of small coins. As time went on, this 
man and a few friends began to gather 
in as well certain bits of scattered paper 
that put the tumpike webs like rpins 
into a few pairs of hands, with the natu- 
ral, inevitable result: fewer men had per- 
sonal need of good roads, the man who 
parted with his bit of paper lost his power 
of protest, and while the traveller paid the 
same toll, the path that he travelled got 
steadily worse. A mild eflFort to arouse 
a sentiment for county control was made, 
and this failing, the Kentuckian had 
straightway gone for firebrand and gun. 
The dormant spirit of Ku-Klux awakened, 
the night-rider was bom again, and one 
by one the toll-gates were going up in 
flame and settling back in ashes to the 
mother earth. The school-master smiled 
when he thought of the result of one in- 
vestigation in the county by law. A 
sturdy farmer was haled before the grand 
jury. 

"Do you know the perpetrators of the 
unlawful buming of the toll-gate on the 
Cave Hill Pike?" asked the august body. 
The farmer ran his fearless eyes down the 
twelve of his peers and slowly walked the 
length of them, pointing his finger at this 
juror and that. 

" Yes, I do," he said quietly, " and so do 
you — and you and you. Your son was in 
it — and yours — and mine; and you were 
in it yourself. Now, what are you going 
to do about it?" And unrebuked and 
unrestrained, he tumed and walked out 
of the room, leaving the august body, 

i8i 



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182 



The Heart of the Hills 



startled, grimly smiling and reduced to a 
helpless pulp of inactivity. 

That morning Mavis was late to school, 
and the school-master and Gray and Mar- 
jorie all saw that she had been weeping. 
Only Marjorie suspected the cause, but at 
little recess John Bumham went to her to 
ask where Jason was, and Gray was be- 
hind him with the same question on his 
lips. And when Mavis burst into tears, 
Marjorie answered for her and sat down 
beside her and put her arms around the 
mountain girl. After school she even 
took Mavis home behind her and Gray 
rode along with them on his pony. Steve 
Hawn was sitting on his little porch smok- 
ing when they rode up, and he came down 
and hospitably asked them to "light and 
hitch their beastes," and the black-haired 
stepmother called from the doorway for 
them to "come in an* rest a spell," and 
Gray and Marjorie concealed with some 
diflSculty their amusement at such queer 
phrases of welcome, their wonder at the 
democratic ease of the two and their utter 
\mconsciousness of any social difference 
between the lords and ladies of the blue- 
grass and poor people from the mountains, 
for the other tobacco tenants were not 
like these. And there was no surprise on 
the part of the man, the woman, or the 
little girl when a sudden warm impulse to 
relieve loneliness led Marjorie to ask Ma- 
vis to go to her own home and stay all 
night with her. 

"Course," said the woman. 

" Go right along, Mavis," said the man, 
and Marjorie turned to Gray. 

"You can carry her things," she said, 
and she turned to Mavis and met puzzled, 
unabashed eyes. 

"Whut things?" asked little Mavis, 
whereat Marjorie blushed, looked quickly 
to Gray, whose face was courteously un- 
smiling, arid started her pony abruptly. 

It was a wonderful night for the moun- 
taineer girl in the big-pillared house on 
the hill. WTien they got home, Marjorie 
drove her in a little pony cart over the big 
farm, while Gray trotted alongside — 
through pastures filled with cattle so fat 
they could hardly walk, past big bams 
bursting with hay and tobacco and stables 
full of slender, beautiful horses. Even the 
pigs had little red houses of refuge from 
the weather and flocks of sheep dotted the 



hill-side like unmelted patches of snow. 
The mountain girPs eyes grew big with 
wonder when she entered the great hall 
with its lofty ceiling, its winding stairway, 
and its polished floor, so slippery that she 
came near falling down, and they stayed 
big when she saw the rows of books, the 
pictures on the walls, the padded couches 
and chairs, the noiseless carpets, the pol- 
ished andirons that gleamed like gold be- 
fore the blazing fires, and when she 
glimpsed through an open door, the long 
dining-table with its glistening glass and 
silver. When she mounted that wind- 
ing stairway and entered Marjorie's room 
she was stricken dumb by its pink cur- 
tains, pink wall paper, and gleaming brass 
bedstead with pink coverlid and pink pil- 
low-facings. And she nearly gasped when 
Marjorie led her on into another room 
of blue. 

"This is your room," she said smiling, 
"right next to mine. I'll be back in a 
minute." 

Mavis stood a moment in the middle of 
the room when she was alone, hardly dar- 
ing to sit down. A coal fire crackled be- 
hind a wire screen — coal from her moun- 
tains. A door opened into a queer little 
room, glistening white, and she peeped, 
wondering, within. 

"There's the bath-room," Marjorie 
had said. She had not known what was 
meant, and she did not now, looking at 
the long white tub and the white tUing 
floor and walls until she saw the multi- 
tudinous towels, and she marvelled at 
the new mystery. She went back and 
walked to the window and looked out 
on the endless rolling winter fields over 
which she had driven that afternoon — 
all, Gray had told her, to be Marjorie's 
some day, just as all across the turnpike, 
Marjorie had told her, was some day to 
be Gray's. She thought of herself and 
of Jason, and her tears started, not for 
herself, but for him. Then she heard 
Marjorie coming in and she brushed her 
eyes swiftly. 

" Whar can I git some water to wash? " 
she asked. 

Marjorie laughed delightedly and led 
her back to that wonderful little white 
room, turned a gleaming silver star, and 
the w*ater spurted joyously into the bowl. 

"Well, I do declare!" 



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The Heart of the Hills 



183 



Soon they went down to supper, and 
Mavis put out a shy hand to Marjorie's 
mother, a kind-eyed, smiling woman in 
black. And Gray, too, was there, watch- 
ing the little mountain girl and smiling en- 
couragement whenever he met her eyes. 
And Mavis passed muster well, for the 
mountaineer's sensitiveness makes him 
wary of his manners when he is among 
strange people and he will go hungry 
rather than be guilty unknowingly of a 
possible breach. Marjorie's mother was 
much interested and pleased with Mavis, 
and she made up her mind at once to dis- 
cuss with her daughter how they could 
best help along the little stranger. After 
supper Marjorie played on the piano, and 
she and Gray sang duets, but the music 
was foreign to Mavis, and she did not like 
it very much. When the two went up- 
stairs, there was a dainty long garment 
spread on Mavis's bed, which Mavis fin- 
gered carefully with much interest and 
much curiosity until she recalled suddenly 
what Marjorie had said about Gray carry- 
ing her "things." This was one of these 
things, and Mavis put it on wondering 
what the other things might be. Then she 
saw that a silver-backed comb and brush 
had appeared on the bureau along with a 
tiny pair of scissors and a little ivory stick, 
the use of which she could not make out 
at all. But she asked no questions, and 
when Marjorie came in with a new tooth- 
brush and a little tin box and put them in 
the bath-room, Mavis still showed no sur- 
prise, but ran her eyes down the night- 
gown with its dainty ribbons. 

"Ain't it purty?" she said, and her 
voice and her eyes spoke all her thanks 
with such sincerity and pathos that Mar- 
jorie was touched. Then they sat down 
in front of the fire — a pair of slim brown 
feet that had been bruised by many a 
stone and pierced by many a thorn 
stretched out to a warm blaze side by side 
with a pair of white slim ones that had 
been tenderly guarded against both since 
the first day they had touched the earth, 
and a golden head that had never been 
without the caress of a tender hand and a 
tousled dark one that had been bared to 
sun and wind and storm — close together 
for a long time. Unconsciously Marjorie 
had Mavis tell her much about Jason, just 
as Mavis without knowing it had Marjorie 



tell her much about Gray. Mavis got the 
first good-night kiss of her life that night, 
and she went to bed thinking of the blue- 
grass boy's watchful eyes, little courtesies, 
and his sympathetic smile, just as Gray, 
riding home, was thinking of the dark, 
shy, little moimtain girl with a warm glow 
of protection about his heart, and Mar- 
jorie fell asleep dreaming of the mountain 
boy who, under her promise, had gone 
back homeless to his hills. In them per- 
haps it was the call of the woods and wilds 
that had led their pioneer forefathers long, 
long ago into woods and wilds, or per- 
haps, ^ter all, it was only the little blind 
god shooting arrows at them in the dark. 

At least with little Jason one arrow had 
gone home. At the forks of the road be- 
yond the county-seat he turned not to- 
ward his grandfather's, but up the spur 
and over the mountain. And St. Hilda, 
sitting on her porch, saw him coming 
again. His face looked beaten but de- 
termined, and he strode toward her as 
straight and sturdy as ever. 

"IVe come back to stay with ye," he 
said. 

Again she started to make denial, but 
he shook his head. " 'Tain't no use — I*m 
a-goin' to stay this time," he said, and he 
walked up the steps, pulling two or three 
dirty bills from his pocket with one hand 
and unbuckling his pistol belt with the 
other. 

"Me an' my nag'll work fer ye an' I'll 
wear gal's stockings an' a poke-bonnet 
an' do a gal's work, if you'll jus' I'arn me 
whut I want to know." 

XV 

The funeral of old Hiram Sudduth, 
Marjorie's grandfather on her mother's 
side, was over. The old man had been 
laid to rest, by the side of his father and 
his pioneer grandfather, in the cedar-filled 
burying-ground on the broad farm that 
had belonged in turn to the three in an ad- 
joining county that was the last strong- 
hold of conservatism in the blue-grass 
world, and John Burnham, the school- 
master, who had spent the night with an 
old friend after the funeral, was driving 
home. Not that there had not been many 
changes in that stronghold, too, but they 



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184 



The Heart of the HiHs 



were fewer than elsewhere and unmodem, 
and whatever profit was possible through 
these changes was reaped by men of the 
land like old Hiram and not by strangers. 
For the war there, as elsewhere, had done 
its deadly work. With the negro quarters 
empty, the elders were too old to change 
their ways, the young would not accept 
the new and hard conditions, and as mort- 
gages slowly ate up farm after farm, quiet, 
thnfty, hard-working old Hiram would 
gradually take them in, depleting the old 
Stonewall neighborhood of its families one 
by one, and sending them West, never to 
come back. The old man, John Burnham 
knew, had bitterly opposed the marriage 
of his daughter with a "spendthrift Pen- 
dleton," and he wondered if now the old 
man's will would show that he had carried 
that opposition to the grave. It was more 
than likely, for Marjorie's father had gone 
his careless, generous, magnificent way in 
spite of the curb that the inherited thrift 
and inherited passion for land in his Sud- 
duth wife had put upon him. Old Hiram 
knew, moreover, the parental purpose 
where Gray and Marjorie were concerned, 
and it was not likely that he would thwart 
one generation and tempt the succeeding 
one to go on in its reckless way. Right 
now Burnham knew that trouble was im- 
minent for Gray's father, and he began 
to wonder what for him and his kind 
the end would be, for no change that 
came or was coming to his beloved land 
ever escaped his watchful eye. From the 
crest of the Cimiberland to the yellow 
flood of the Ohio he knew that land, and 
he loved every acre of it, whether blue- 
grass, bear-grass, peavine, or pennyroyal, 
and he knew its history from Daniel Boone 
to the little Boones who still trapped skunk, 
mink, and muskrat and shot squirrels in 
the hills with the same old rifle, and he 
loved its people — his people — whether 
they wore silk and slippers, homespun and 
brogans, patent leathers and broadcloth, 
or cowhide boots and jeans. And now se- 
rious troubles were threatening them. A 
new man with a new political method had 
entered the arena and had boldly offered 
an election bill which, if passed and en- 
forced, would create a State-wide revolu- 
tion, for it would rob the people of local 
self-government and centralize power in 
the hands of a triumvirate that would 



be the creature of his govemnient and, 
under the control of no court or jury, the 
supreme master of the State and absolute 
master of the people. And Burnham 
knew that in such a crisis ties of blood, 
kinship, friendship, religion, business 
would count no more in the blue-grass 
than they did during the Civil War, and 
that now, as then, father and son, brother 
and brother, neighbor and neighbor would 
each think and act for himself, though the 
house divided against itself should fall to 
rise no more. Nor was that all. In the 
farmer's fight against the staggering crop 
of mortgages that had slowly sprung up 
from the long-ago sowing of the dragon's 
teeth, Burnham saw with a heavy heart 
the telling signs of the land's slow descent 
from the strength of hemp to the weakness 
of tobacco — the ravage of the woodlands, 
the incoming of the tenant from the river- 
valley counties, the scars on the beautiful 
face of the land, the scars on the body so- 
cial of the region — and now he knew 
another deadlier crisis, both social and 
economic, must some day come. 

In the toll-gate war, long over, the law 
had been merely a little too awkward and 
slow. Coimty sentiment had been a little 
lazy, but it had got active in a hurry, and 
several gentlemen, among them Gray's 
father, had ridden into town and depos- 
ited bits of gilt-scrolled paper to be ap- 
praised and taken over by the county, and 
the whole problem had been quickly 
solved, but the school-master, looking 
back, could not help wondering what law- 
less seeds the firebrand had then sowed in 
the hearts of the people and what weeds 
might not spring from those seeds even 
now; for the trust element of the toll-gate 
troubles had been accidental, unintention- 
al, even imconscious, unrecognized, and 
now the real spirit of a real trust from the 
outside world was making itself felt. 
Courteous emissaries were smilingly fixing 
their own price on the Kentuckian's own 
tobacco and assuring him that he not only 
could not get a higher price elsewhere, but 
that if he declined he would be offered 
less next time, which he would have to ac- 
cept or he could not sell at all. And the 
incredulous, fierily independent Kentuck- 
ian found his crop mysteriously shadowed 
on its way to the big town markets, marked 
with an invisible "noli me tangere" ex- 



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T*ie Heart of ^ the Hrlfe 



185 



cept at the price that he was offered at 
home. And so he had to sell it in a rage at 
just that price, and he went home puzzled 
and fighting-mad. If, then, the blue-grass 
people had handled with the firebrand cor- 
porate aggrandizement of toll-gate owners 
who were neighbors and friends, how 
would they treat meddlesome interference 
from strangers? Already one courteous 
emissary in one county had fled the peo- 
ple's wrath on a swift thoroughbred, and 
Bumham smiled sadly to himself and 
shook his head. 

Rounding a hill, a few minutes later, 
the school-master saw far ahead the an- 
cestral home of the Pendletons, where the 
stem old head of the house, but lately 
passed in his ninetieth year, had wielded 
patriarchal power. The old general had 
entered the Mexican war a lieutenant and 
come out a colonel, and from the Civil 
War he had emerged a major-general. He 
had two sons — twins — and for the twin 
brothers he had built twin houses on 
either side of the turnpike and had given 
each five hundred acres of land. And 
these houses had literally grown from the 
soil, for the soil had given every stick of 
timber in them and every brick and stone. 
The twin brothers had married sisters, and 
thus as the results of those imions Gray's 
father and Marjorie's father were double 
cousins, and like twin brothers had been 
reared, and the school-master marvelled 
afresh when he thought of the cleavage 
made in that one family by the terrible 
Civil War. For the old general carried but 
one of his twin sons into the Confederacy 
with him — the other went with the Union 
— and his grandsons, the double cousins, 
who were just entering college, went not 
only against each other, but each against 
his own father, and there was the extraor- 
dinary fact of three generations serving 
in the same war, cousin against cousin, 
brother against brother, and father against 
son. The twin brothers each gave up his 
life for his cause, the cousins in time took 
their places in the heart of the old general, 
and in the twin houses on the hills. Gray's 
father married an aristocrat, who survived 
the birth of Gray only a few years, and 
Marjorie's father died of an old wound but 
a year or two after she was born. And 
so the balked affection of the old man 
dropped down through three generations 



to centre on Marjorie, and his passionate 
family pride to concentrate on Gray. 

Now the old Roman was gone, and John 
Bumham looked with sad eyes at the last 
stronghold of him and his kind — the 
rambling old house stuccoed with aged 
brown and covered with andent vines, 
knotted and gnarled like an old man's 
hand; the walls three feet thick and built 
as for a fort, as was doubtless the intent in 
pioneer days; the big yard of \mmown 
blue-grass and filled with cedars and for- 
est trees; the numerous servants' quarters, 
the spadous hen-house, the stables with 
gables and long sloping roofs and the 
arched gateway to them for the thorough- 
breds, under which no hybrid mule or low- 
ly work-horse was ever allowed to pass; 
the spring-house with its dripping green 
walls, the long-silent blacksmith-shop; 
the still windmill, and over all the atmos- 
phere of careless, magnificent luxury and 
slow decay; the stucco peeled off in great 
patches, the stable roofs sagging, the wind- 
mill wheelless, the fences following the 
line of a drunken man's walk, the trees 
storm-torn, and the mournful cedars harp- 
ing with every passing wind a requiem for 
the glory that was gone. ' As he looked, 
the memory of the old man's funeral came 
to Bumham — the white old face in the 
coffin — haughty, noble, proud, and the 
spirit of it unconquered even by death; 
the long procession of carriages, the slow 
way to the cemetery, the stops on that 
way, the creaking of wheels and hamess, 
and the awe of it all to the boy, Gray, 
who rode with him. Then the hospitable 
doors of the princely old house were closed 
and the princely life that had made merry 
for so long within its walls came sharply 
to an end, and it stood now, desolate, 
gloomy, haunted, the last link between 
the life that was gone and the life that was 
now breaking just ahead. A mile on, the 
twin-pillared houses of brick jutted from a 
long swelling knoll on each side of the 
road. In each the same spirit had lived 
and was yet alive. 

In Gray's home it had gone on un- 
checked toward the same tragedy, but in 
Marjorie's the thrifty, quiet force of her 
mother's hand had been in power, and in 
the little girl the same force was plain. 
Her father was a Pendleton of the Pendle- 
tons, too, but the same gentle force had, 



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The Heart of the Hills 



without curb or check-rein so guided him 
that while he lived, he led proudly with 
never a suspicion that he was being led. 
And since the death of Gray's mother and 
Marjorie's father each that was left had 
been faithful to the partner gone, and in 
spite of prediction and gossip, the com- 
mon neighborhood prophecy had remained 
unfilled. 

A mile farther onward, the face of the 
land on each side changed suddenly and 
sharply and became park-like. Not a 
ploughed acre was visible, no tree-top was 
shattered, no broken boughs hung down. 
The worm fence disappeared and neat 
white lines flashed divisions of pastures, 
it seemed, for miles. A great amphitheatri- 
cal red barn sat on every little hill or a 
great red rectangular tobacco barn. A 
huge dairy was building of brick. Pad- 
docks and stables were everywhere, mac- 
adamized roads ran from the main high- 
way through the fields, and on the highest 
hill visible stood a great villa — a colossal 
architectural stranger in the land — and 
Bumham was driving by a row of neat 
red cottages, strangers, too, in the land. 
In the old Stonewall neighborhood that 
Bumham had left, the gradual depopu- 
lation around old Hiram left him almost 
as alone as his pioneer grandfather had 
been, and the home of the small farmers 
about him had been filled by the to- 
bacco tenant. From the big villa ema- 
nated a similar force with a similar ten- 
dency, but old Hiram, compared with old 
Morton Sanders, was as a slow fire to a 
lightning-bolt. Sanders was from the 
East, had unlimited wealth, andloved race 
horses. Purchasing a farm for them, the 
Saxon virus in his Kentucky blood for 
land had gotten hold of him and he, too, 
had started depopulating the country; 
only where old Hiram bought rods, he 
bought acres; and where Hiram bagged 
the small farmer for game, Sanders gunned 
for the aristocrat as well. It was for San- 
ders that Colonel Pendleton had gone to 
the mountains long ago to gobble coal 
lands. It was to him that the roof over 
little Jason's head and the earth under his 
feet had been sold, and the school-master 
smiled a little bitterly when he turned at 
last into a gate and drove toward a stately 
old home in the midst of ancient cedars, 
for he was thinking of the little mountain- 



eer and of the letter St. Hilda had sent 
him years ago. 

"Jason has come back," she wrote, 
"*to learn some way o' gittin' his land 
back.'" 

For the school-master's reflections dur- 
ing his long drive had not been wholly im- 
personal. With his own family there had 
been the same change, the same passing, 
the workings of the same force in the same 
remorseless way, and to him, too, the 
same doom had come. The home to 
which he was driving had been his, but it 
was Morton Sanders's now. His brother 
lived there as manager of Sanders's flocks, 
herds, and acres, and in the house .of his 
fathers the school-master now paid his 
own brother for his board. 

XVI 

The boy was curled up on the rear seat 
of the smoking-car. His face was upturned 
to the glare of light above him, the train 
bumped, jerked, and swayed; smoke and 
dust rolled in at the open window and cin- 
ders stung his face, but he slept as peace- 
fully as though he were in one of the huge 
feather beds at his grandfather's house — 
slept until the conductor shook him by 
the shoulder, when he opened his eyes, 
grunted, and closed them again. The 
train stopped, a brakeman yanked him 
roughly to his feet, put a cheap suit-case 
into his hand, and pushed him, still dazed, 
into the chill morning air. The train 
rumbled on and left him blinking into a 
lantern held up to his face, but he did 
not look promising as a hotel guest, and 
the darkey porter turned abruptly and the 
boy yawned long and deeply, with his 
arms stretched above his head, dropped 
on the frosty bars of a baggage-truck and 
rose again shivering. Cocks were crowing, 
light was showing in the east, the sea of 
mist that he well knew was about him, 
but no mountains loomed above it, and 
St. Hilda's prize pupil, Jason Hawn, woke 
sharply at last with a tingling that went 
from head to foot. Once more he was in 
the land of the blue-grass, his journey was 
almost over, and in a few hours he would 
put his confident feet on a new level and 
march on upward. Gradually, as the lad 
paced the platform, the mist thinned and 
the outlines of things came out. A mys- 



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The Heart of the Hills 



187 



terious dark bulk high in the air showed 
as a water-tank, roofs, new to mountain 
eyes jutted upward, trees softly emerged, 
a desolate dusty street opened before him, 
and the cocks crowed on lustily all around 
him and from farm-houses far away. The 
CTowing made him hungry, and he went to 
the light of a little eating-house and asked 
the price of the things he saw on the coun- 
ter there, but the price was too high. He 
shook his head and went out, but his pangs 
were so keen that he went back for a cup 
of cofiFee and a hard-boiled egg, and then 
he heard the coming thunder of his train. 
The Sim was rising as he sped on through 
the breaking mist toward the blue-grass 
town that in pioneer days was known as 
the Athens of the West. In a few minutes 
the train slackened in midair and on a 
cloud of mist between jutting cliffs, it 
seemed, and the startled lad, looking far 
down through it, saw a winding yellow 
light, and he was rushing through autumn 
fields again before he realized that the yel- 
low light was the Kentucky River surging 
down from the hills. Back up the stream 
surged his memories, making him faint 
with homesickness, for it was the last 
link that bound him to the mountains. 
But both home and hills were behind him 
now, and he shook himself sharply and 
lost himself again in the fields of grass and 
grain, the grazing stock and the fences, 
houses, and bams that reeled past his 
window. Steve Hawn met him at the sta- 
tion with a rattle-trap buggy and stared 
at him long and hard. 

" I*d hardly knowed ye — ^you Ve growed 
like a weed." 

"How's the folks?" asked Jason. 

"Stirrin'." 

Silently they rattled down the street, 
each side of which was lined with big wag- 
ons loaded with tobacco and covered with 
cotton cloth — there seemed to be hun- 
dreds of them. 

"Hell's a-comin' about that terbaccer 
up here," said Steve. 

"Hell's a-comin' in the mountains if 
that robber up here steals the next elec- 
tion," said Jason, and Steve looked up 
quickly and with some uneasiness. He 
himself had heard vaguely that somebody, 
somewhere, and in some way had robbed 
his own party of their rights and would go 
on robbing at the poUs, but this new Jason 



seemed to know all about it, so Steve nod- 
ded wisely. 

"Yes, my feller." 

Through town they drove, and when 
they started out into the country they 
met more wagons of tobacco coming in. 

"How's the folks in the mountains?" 

"About the same as usual," said the 
boy. "Grandpap's poorly. The war's 
over just now — folks 'r' busy makin' 
money. Uncle Arch's still takin' up 
options. The railroad's comin' up the 
river" — the lad's face darkened — "an' 
land's sellin' fer three times as much as 
you sold me out fer." 

Steve's face darkened too, but he was 
silent. 

" Found out )dt who killed yo' daddy? " 

Jason's answer was short. 

"If I had I wouldn't tell you." 

"Must be purty good shot now?" 

" I hain't shot a pistol off fer four year," 
said the lad again shortly, and Steve 
stared. • 

"Whut devilmint are you in up here 
now? " asked Jason calmly and with no 
apparent notice of the start Steve gave. 

"Who's been a-tellin' you lies about 
me?" asked Steve with angry suspicion. 

"I hain't heerd a word," said Jason 
coolly. " I bet you burned that toll-gate 
the morning I left here. Thar's devil- 
mint goin' on everywhar, an' if there's 
any around you I know you can't keep 
out o' it." 

Steve laughed with relief. 

"You can't git away with devilmint 
here like you can in the mountains, an' 
I'm 'tendin' to my own business." 

Jason made no comment and Steve 
went on: 

" I've paid fer this boss an' buggy an' I 
got things hung up at home an' a leetle 
money in the bank, an' yo' ma says she 
wouldn't go back to the mountains fer 
nothin'." 

" How's Mavis? " asked Jason abruptly. 

" Reckon you wouldn't know her. She's 
al'ays runnin' aroun' with that Pendleton 
boy an' gal, an' she's chuck full o' new- 
fangled notions. She's the purtiest gal I 
ever seed, an'," he added slyly, "looks 
like that Pendleton boy's plum crazy 
'bout her." 

Jason made no answer and showed no 
sign of interest, much less jealousy, and 



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The Heart' of the Hills 



yet though he was thinking of the Pendle- 
ton girl and wanted to ask some question 
about her, a little inconsistent rankling 
started deep within him at the news of 
Mavis's disloyalty to him. They were 
approaching the lane that led to Steve's 
house now, and beyond the big twin houses 
were visible. 

"Yo* Uncle Arch's been here a good 
deal, an' he's tuk a powerful fancy to Ma- 
vis an' he's goin' to send her to the same 
college school in town whar you're goin'. 
Marjorie and Gray is a-goin' thar too, I 
reckon." 

Jason's heart beat fast at these words. 
Gray had the start of him, but he would 
give the blue-grass boy a race now in school 
and without. As they turned into the 
lane, he could see the woods — could al- 
most see the tree around which he had cir- 
cled drunk, raging, and shooting his pistol, 
and his face burned with the memory. 
And over in the hollow he had met Mar- 
jorie on her pony, and he could see the 
tears in her eyes, hear her voice, and feel 
the clasp of her hand again. Though 
neither knew it, a new life had started for 
him there and then. He had kept his 
promise and he wondered if she would re- 
member and be glad. 

His mother was on the porch, waiting 
and watching for him , with one hand shad- 
ing her eyes. She rushed for the gate, and 
when he stepped slowly from the bug- 
gy she gave a look of wondering surprise 
and pride, burst into tears, and for the 
first time in her life threw her arms aroimd 
him and kissed him, to his great confusion 
and shame. In the doorway stood a tall, 
slender girl with a mass of black hair, and 
she, too, with shining eyes rushed toward 
him, stopping defiantly short within a few 
feet of him when she met his cool, clear 
gaze, and, without even speaking his 
name, held out her hand. Then with in- 
tuitive suspicion she flashed a look at 
Steve and knew that his tongue had been 
wagging. She flushed angrily, but with 
feminine swiftness caught her lost poise 
and lifting her head, smiled. 

"I wouldn't 'a' known ye," she said. 

"An' I wouldn't 'a' known you," said 
Jason. 

The girl said no more, and the father 
looked at his daughter and the mother at 
her son, puzzled by the domestic tragedy 



so common in this land of ours, where the 
gates of opportunity swing wide for the 
passing on of the young. But of the two 
Steve Hawn was the more puzzled and un- 
easy, for Jason, like himself, was a prod- 
uct of the hills and had had less chance 
than even he to know the outside world. 

The older mountaineer wore store 
clothes, but so did Jason. He had gone 
to meet the boy, self-assured and with the 
purpose of patronage and counsel, and he 
had met more assurance than his own smd 
a calm air of superiority that was troub- 
ling to Steve's pride. The mother, always 
apologetic on account of the one great act 
of injustice she had done her son, felt awe 
as she looked, and as her pride grew she 
became abject and the boy accepted the 
attitude of each as his just due. But 
on Mavis the wave of his influence broke 
as on a rock. She was as much changed 
from the Mavis he had last seen as she 
wats at that time from the little Mavis of 
the hills, and he felt her eyes searching 
him from head to foot just as she had done 
that long ago time when he saw her first 
in the hunting-field. He knew that now 
she was comparing him with even higher 
standards than she wats then, and that 
now, as then, he was falling short, and he 
looked up suddenly and caught her eyes 
with a grim, confident little smile that 
made her shift her gaze confusedly. She 
moved nervously in her chair and her 
cheeks began to burn. And Steve talked 
on — volubly for him — while the mother 
threw in a timid homesick question to Ja- 
son now and then about something in the 
mountains, and Mavis kept still and looked 
at the boy no more. By and by the two 
women went to their work and Jason fol- 
lowed Steve about the little place to look 
at the cow and a few pigs and at the gar- 
den and up over the hill to the tobacco 
patch that Steve was tending on shares 
with Colonel Pendleton. After dinner 
Mavis disappeared, and the stepmother 
reckoned she had gone over to see Mar- 
jorie Pendleton — "she was al'ays a-goin' 
over thar" — and in the middle of the af- 
ternoon the boy wandered aimlessly forth 
into the blue-grass fields. 

Spring green the fields were, and the 
woods, but scarcely touched by the blight 
of autumn, were gray as usual from the 
limestone turnpike, which, when he crossed 



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The Heart ot the Hills 



189 



it» was ankle-deep in dust. A cloud of yel- 
low butterflies fluttered crazily before him 
in a sunlight that was hardly less golden, 
and when he climbed the fence a rabbit 
leaped beneath him and darted into a 
patch of iron-weeds. Instinctively he 
leaped after it, crashing through the pur- 
ple crowns, and as suddenly stopped at the 
foolishness of pursuit when he had left 
his pistol in his suit-case, and with another 
sharp memory of the rabbit hunt he had 
encountered when he made his first ap- 
pearance in that land. Half imconscious- 
ly then his thoughts turned him through 
the woods and through a pasture toward 
the twin homes of the Pendletons, and on 
the top of the next hill he could see them 
on their wooded eminences — could even 
see the stile where he had had his last 
vision of Marjorie, and he dropped in the 
thick grass, looking long and hard and 
wondering. 

Around the comer of the yard fence a 
negro appeared leading a prancing iron- 
gray horse, the front doors opened, a tall 
girl in a black riding-habit came swiftly 
down the walk, and a moment later the 
iron-gray was bearing her at a swift gallop 
toward the turnpike gate. As she disap- 
peared over a green sumnut, his heart 
stood quite still. Could that tall woman 
be the little girl who, with a tear, a tremor 
of the voice, and a touch of the hand, had 
swerved him from the beaten path of a 
century? Mavis had grown, he himself 
had grown — and, of course, Marjorie, too, 
had grown. He began to wonder whether 
she would recollect him, would know him 
when he met her face to face, would re- 
member the promise she had asked and he 
had given, and if she would be pleased to 
know that he had kept it. In the passing 
years the boy had actually lost sight of 
her as flesh and blood, for she had become 
enshrined among his dreams by night and 
his dreams by day, among the visions his 
soul had seen when he had sat imder the 
old circuit rider and heard pictured the 
glories of the blessed when mortals should 
mingle with the shining hosts on high ; and 
above even St. Hilda, on the very pinna- 
cle of his new-bom and ever-growing am- 
bitions, Marjorie sat enthroned and alone. 
Light was all he remembered of her — the 
light of her eyes and of her hair — yes, and 
that one touch of her hand. His heart 



turned to water at the thought of seeing 
her again and his legs were trembling 
when he rose to start back through the 
fields. Another rabbit sprang from its 
bed in a tuft of grass, but he scarcely paid 
any heed to it. When he crossed the 
creek a muskrat was leisurely swimming 
for its hole in the other bank, and he did 
not even pick up a stone to throw at it, 
but walked on dreaming through the 
woods. As he was about to emerge from 
them he heard voices ahead of him, high- 
pitched and angry, and with the caution 
of his race he slipped forward and stopped, 
listening. In a tobacco patch on the edge 
of the woods Steve Hawn had stopped 
work and was leaning on the fence. Seat- 
ed on it was one of the small farmers of 
the neighborhood. They were not quar- 
relling, and the boy could hardly believe 
his ears. 

"He'll have two of his judges to your 
one at every election booth in the State. 
He'll steal every precinct and he'll be set- 
tin' in the govemor's chair as sure as you 
are standing here. I'm a Democrat, }3ut 
I've been half a Republican ever since 
this free-silver foolishness came up, and 
I'm going to vote against him. Now, 
all you mountain people are Republicans, 
but you might as well all be Democrats. 
You haven't got a chance on earth. What 
are you goin' to do about it?" 

Steve Hawn shook his head helplessly, 
but Jason saw his huge hand grip his to- 
bacco knife and his own blood beat indig- 
nantly at his temples. The farmer threw 
one leg back over the fence. 

"There'll be hell to pay when the day 
comes," he said, and he strode away while 
the mountaineer leaned motionless on the 
fence with his grip on the knife unrelaxed. 

Noiselessly the boy made his way 
through the edge of the woods and out un- 
der the brow of a hill and went on his rest- 
less way up the bank of the creek toward 
Steve's home. When he tumed toward 
the tumpike he foimd that he had passed 
the house a quarter of a mile, and he 
wheeled back down the creek, and where 
the mouth of the lane opened from the 
road he dropped in a spot of sunlight on 
the crest of a little cliff, his legs weary, but 
his brain still tirelessly at work. These 
people of the blue-grass were not only rob- 
bing him and his people of their lands, but 



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190 



A Last Favor 



of their political birthright as well. The 
fact that the farmer was on his side but 
helped make the boy know it was truth, 
and the resentments that were alwa)rs 
burning, like a bed of coals, deep within 
him, sprang into flames again. The shad- 
ows lengthened swiftly about him and 
closed over him, and then the air grew 
chill. Abruptly he rose and stood rigid, 
for far up the lane, and coming over a 
little hill, he saw the figure of a man lead- 
ing a black horse and by his side the 
figure of a woman — both visible for a 
moment before they disappeared behind 
the bushes that lined the lane. When 
they were visible again, Jason saw that 
they were a boy and a girl, and when 
they once more came into view at a bend 
of the lane and stopped he saw that the 
girl, with her face downcast, was Mavis. 
While they stood the boy suddenly put 
his arm around her, but she eluded him 
and fled to the fence, and with a laugh 
he climbed on his horse and came down 
the lane. In a burning rage Jason started 
to drop down the cliff and pull the in- 
truder, whoever he was, from his horse, 
and then he saw Mavis, going swiftly 
through the fields, turn and wave her 
hand. That stopped him still — he could 
not punish where there was apparently no 
offence — so with sullen eyes he watched 



the mouth of the lane give up a tall lad on 
a black thoroughbred, his hat in his hand 
and his handsome face still laughing and 
still turned for another glimpse of the girl. 
Another hand-wave came from Mavis at 
the edge of the woods and glowering Jason 
stood in full view unseen and watched 
Gray Pendleton go thundering past him 
down the road. 

Mavis had not gone to see Marjorie — 
she had sneaked away to meet Gray; his 
lips curled contemptuously — Mavis was a 
sneak and so was Gray Pendleton. Then 
a thought struck him — ^why was Mavis 
behaving like a brush-girl this way, and 
why didn't Gray go to see her in her own. 
home, open and above board, like a man? 
The curl of the boy's lips settled into a 
straight, grim line, and once more he 
turned slowly down the stream that he 
might approach Steve's house from an- 
other direction. Half an hour later, when 
he climbed the turnpike fence, he heard 
the gallop of iron-shod feet and he saw 
bearing down on him an iron-gray horse. 
It was Marjorie. He knew her from afar; 
he gripped the rail beneath him and his 
heart seemed almost to stop. She was 
looking him full in the face now, and then, 
with a nod and a smile she would have 
given a beggar or a tramp, she swept 
him by. 



(To be continued.) 



A LAST FAVOR 

By Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi 

Speak lower — do not wake 

This hurrying heart of mine 
That ailed the livelong day. 

And listening tense for thine, 
Remembered scarce to beat! 

Step ghostlier — do not stir 
Forgotten miseries. 

Come thou no nearer her. 

Still, and app)eased at last, 

By every sign she sleeps — 
Forsaken of desire. 

Alas, the slumbering deeps 
Will tremble 'neath thy voice — 

Thy faintest whispering break 
Her calm's frail barrier. 

Ah, go! she shall not wake! 



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THAT OLD-TIME PLACE 
By John Galsworthy 




JES, suh — here we are at 
that old-time place!'' 
And our dark driver drew 
up his little victoria 
gently. 
Through the open door- 
way, into a dim cavern of ruined house, 
we passed. The mildew and dirt, the 
dark, denuded dankness of that old hostel, 
rotting down with damp and time! 

And our guide, the tall, thin, gray- 
haired dame, who came forward with 
such native ease, and moved before us, 
touching this fungused wall, that rusting 
stairway, and telling, as it were, no one, 
in her soft, slow speech, things that any 
one could see — what a strange and fitting 
figure! 

Before the smell of the deserted, oozing 
rooms, before that old creature leading us 
on and on, negligent of all our questions 
and "talking to the air, as though we were 
not, we felt such discomfort that we soon 
made to go out again iiito such freshness 
as there was on that day of dismal heat. 
Then realizing, it seemed, that she was 
losing us, our old guide turned; for the 
first time looking in our faces, she smiled, 
and said in her sweet, weak voice, like the 
sound from the strings of a spinnet long 
implayed on: "Don' you wahnd to see 
the dome-room: an' all the other rooms 
right here, of this old-time place?" 

Again those words! We had not the 
hearts to disappoint her. And as we fol- 
lowed on and on, along the mouldering 
corridors and rooms where the black peel- 
ing papers hung like stalactites, the dom- 
inance of our senses gradually dropped 
from us, and with our souls we saw its 
soul — the soul of this old-time place; this 
mustering house of the old South, be- 
reft of all but ghosts, and the gray pigeons 
niched in the rotting gallery round a nar- 
row court-yard open to the sky. 

"This is the dome-room, suh and lady; 
right over the slave-market it is. Here 
they did the business of the State — sure; 
see their faces up there in the roof — Wash- 



ington, Hamilton, Jefferson, Davis, Lee — 
there they are! All gone — now! Yes, 
suh!" 

A fine — yea, even a splendid room, of 
great height, and carved grandeur, with 
hand-wrought bronze sconces, and a band 
of metal bordering, all blackened with 
oblivion. And the faces of old heroes en- 
circling that domed ceiling were blackened 
too, and scarred with damp, beyond rec- 
ognition. Here, beneath their gaze, men 
had banqueted, and danced, and ruled. 
The pride, and might, and vivid strength 
of things still fluttered their uneasy flags 
of spirit, moved disherited wings! Those 
old-time feasts and grave discussions — we 
seemed to see them printed on the thick 
air, imprisoned in this great chamber 
built above their dark foundations. The 
pride and the might and the vivid strength 
of things — gone, all gone! 

We became conscious again of that soft, 
weak voice. 

"Not hearing very well, suh, I have it 
all printed, lady — beautifully told here — 
yes, indeed!" 

She was putting cards into our hands; 
then, impassive, maintaining ever her im- 
personal chant, the guardian of past glory 
led us on. 

"Now we shall see the slave-market — 
downstairs, underneath! It's wet for the 
lady — the water comes in now — yes, suh!" 

On the crumbling black and white mar- 
ble floorings the water indeed was trick- 
ling into pools. And down in the halls 
there came to us wandering — strangest 
thing that ever strayed through deserted 
grandeur — a brown, broken horse, lean, 
with a sore flank and a head of tremen- 
dous age. It stopped and gazed at us, 
as though we might be going to give it 
things to eat, then passed on, stumbling 
over the ruined marbles. 

For a moment we had thought him a 
ghost — one of the many. But he was not, 
since his hoofs sounded. That scrambling 
clatter had died out into silence before 
we came to the dark, crypt-like chamber 

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The Coward 



whose marble columns were ringed in iron, 
veritable pillars of foundation. And then 
we saw that our old guide's hands were 
full of newspapers. She struck a match; 
they caught fire and blazed. Holding high 
that torch, she said: "See! Up there's his 
name, above where he stood. The auc- 
tioneer. Oh yes, indeed! Here's where 
they sold them!" 

Below that name, decaying on the wall, 
we had the slow, uncanny feeling that 
some one was standing there in the gleam 
and flicker of that paper torch. For a 
moment the whole shadowy room seemed 
full of forms and faces. Then the torch 
died out, and our old guide, pointing 
through an archway with the blackened 
stump of it, said: 

" Twas here they kept them — indeed, 
yes!" 

We saw before us a sort of vault, stone- 
built, and low, and long. The light there 
was too dim for us to make out anything 
but walls, and heaps of rusting scrap-iron 
cast out there and mouldering down. But 
trying to pierce that darkness we became 
conscious of innumerable eyes gazing, not 
at us, but through the archway where we 



stood; innumerable white eyeballs gleam- 
ingoutof blackness. From behind us came 
a little laugh. It floated past through the 
archway, toward those eyes. Who was 
it laughed in there? The old South itself 
— that incredible, fine, lost soul! That 
** old-time " thing of old ideals, blindfolded 
by its own history! That queer, proud 
blend of simple chivalry and tyranny, of 
piety and the abhorrent thing ! Who was 
it laughed but of that old slave-market, 
at these white eyeballs glaring from out 
of the blackness of this dark cattle-pen? 
What poor departed soul in this House of 
Melancholy? But there was no ghost 
when we turned to look — only our old 
guide with her sweet smile. 

" Yes, suh. Here they all came — 'twas 
the finest hotel — before the war-time; old 
Southern families — bought theii4>roperty. 
Yes, ma'am, very interesting ! This way ! 
And here were the bells to all the rooms. 
Broken, you see — all broken!" 

And rather quickly we passed away, out 
of that *' old-time place"; where some^ 
thing had laughed, and the drip, drip, drip 
of water down the walls was as the sound 
of a spirit grieving. 



THE COWARD 
By William Hervey Woods 

We stoned him for a coward yesterday 
And quitter, hated even of Heaven, we thought, 
But when his garments from his breast we caught. 

And then our own, to give our vengeance play, 

Among the stones we heard him shuddering pray, 

"Open their eyes!*' and with those words were wrought 
An unguessed woe: our leader, long time sought, 

Hid in a closet, died of fright, they say 

Who saw his face; and those, his friends addressed. 
Are fled, no man knows whither, all save me, 

And now on me our victim's curse is laid, 

That I, I always of the brave confessed. 
Should taste the coward's shivering agony. 
And since I see, walk evermore afraid. 



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'^^' 



SAILORMEN OF THE MAINE COAST 



By Sidney M. Chase 



Illustrations by the Author 



"/^AST off your bow line!" 

I . The big hawser splashed into 

^^"^^ the green water below the old 
wharf. 

Clang! A muffled bell sounded some- 
where in the depths of the little steamer. 

The captain, standing on the upper 
deck beside the pilot-house, his hand on 
the engine-room signal bell, scanned the 
narrow, rocky harbor carefully. 

On the rambling old wharf the entire 
population of the little seaport village 
shouted last farewells as the boat slowly 
swung clear. 

"Tell Uncle Aaron we^U be lookin' for 
hun Thanksgiving " 

"Now, father, don't forget you got 
them thick flannels, ef we git a spell o' 
cold weather!" 

" Susie, be sure an' send me that rule for 
ginger cake!" 

"Take good care o* yourself!" 

"Don't forget to write!" 

From the deck came back: 
Vol. LII.— 22 



"Say good-by to Aunt Myra for me!" 

"IVe had a lovely time!" 

"Dan'l, be sure an' don't forgit to feed 
the cat!" 

" I'll write fust thing when I get to Ma- 
chiasport!" 

The engines throbbed, the screw churned 
the water into foam astern, and the old, 
gray-bearded wharf-master in dingy uni- 
form cap and faded cotton shirt tugged 
frantically to free the stern hawser from 
the wharf piling. 

The captain leaned over the rail. 

"Let go your starn line, Hiram!" he 
called. 

With a last tug the old man slipped the 
loop of rope over the pile and straightened 
up as far as his bent figure allowed. 

"All gone, Cap'n!" he shouted impor- 
tantly. 

The captain, gauging the long swing of 
his steamer, reached for his signal bell. 

"Clang! Clang!" 

The engines settled down to a steady 

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rhythmic hum as the boat turned her nose 
toward the narrow harbor entrance. 

* * Good-by ! Good-by ! ' ' came the chorus 
over the widening strip of water. 

The captain waved his hand to the 
store-keeper. 

"I'll bring them dress goods next trip 
sure!" he called. "Tell Micah he better 
ship them chickens Thursday. They'll 
fetch a good price now t' — th' — city!" he 
shouted above the shriek of th^ whistle. 

Astern of us the little village of Lost 
Harbor was slipping away, its ancient 
wharves, the winding road leading up over 
the hill, the green slope dotted with snug, 
white, one-story houses, and the slender 
194 



The captain reached 

church spire — all were losing themselves 
in the gray-green background of the coast. 
As the steamer passed the rocky head- 
lands tipped with rich, dark-green hem- 
locks which closed in to make the harbor 
entrance, a lobsterman in a dingy weather- 
beaten dory piled high with traps slid by 
us. Never pausing in his even stroke as 
he stood at the oars, he nodded silently 
to the captain, and then he too melted 
into the background of the quiet little 
fishing port. The steamer turned her 
clean-cut prow out into the waters of 
Muscongus Sound, lifting a little to meet 
the swing of the sea outside. And leav- 
ing the warm land breeze and the odor of 



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for his signal bclL — Page 193. 

the pines we turned our faces toward the 
ocean to feel in our nostrils the salt sting 
of the sea. 

"Gulls flyin' in t' the shore," said a 
husky voice at my side; "cal'late we'll git 
a spall o* wet." 

I turned and saw a stocky, bronzed old 
man with a thatch of iron-gray beard, who 
was puffing solemnly at a pipe and star- 
ing overhead at a flight of sea-gulls wing- 
ing their way toward the land. 

"Is that a sure sign?" I asked. 

"The's two-three more," he answered. 
" Full moon riz pale last night, an' I never 
see the flies bite like thev done yes'day." 



He broke off to watch a dory that was 
dipping across the choppy waves, her 
sprit-sail full before the fresh breeze. A 
trawl tub and the sparkle of fish showed 
above her gunwale, and in the stern sat 
a hardy, bent old fisherman. 

"Nothin' but fishin' an' farmin'," my 
friend muttered, scornfully, "an' both on 
'em peterin' out. When I was a boy" — 
his face lightened — "ev'rybody follered 
th' sea. Lost Harbor thar' was all clut- 
tered up with sea cap'ns. . . . I run away 
when I was fourteen — cal'lated I'd see the 
world . . . wa'al, I see it, an' see it good 
. . . master of a bark at twenty-two 'n 
th' Chiny trade — seven v'y'ges in all I 

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Sailormen of the Maine Coast 



went. Them was the days o' clipper 
ships an' big squar' riggers. . . . The old 
skippers is mostly dead an' gone. Nothin' 
like it nowadays." 

The light died out of his eyes. He 
sighed deeply. 

"Mother wus allers possessed t' buy 
a farm," he went on after a moment. 
" 'Bout twelve year ago I did. . . . Some- 
times I wish. . . . Land ain't wuth a 



a nice quiet October evenin'. I was 
holdin' a course 'bout a mile off shore, 
wind fair an' stiddy, when all of a suddin' 
it died away stark ca'm, an' thar' I was, 
tide a-heavin' me in on th' rocks an' nary 
a puff o' wind ! I had my wife aboard an' I 
didn'tsaynothin',butsheseeIwa'n'teatin' 
much supper, an' bimeby I says : * I'll go on 
deck a spall,' an' I did. Thar' we was, half 
a mile off shore an' the tide takin' us in 




A breeze o' wind. 



cuss for farmin', anyway. 'Tain't nothin' 
but rock— look 't that!" 

He pointed to a jagged ledge that we were 
rounding into the open sea. Our steamer 
was pitching in the long green swell that 
broke into white splotches on the rocks. 

"A bad lee shore in a blow, Captain?" 
I suggested. 

"Wust kind," he answered, a far-away 
look in his eyes. " Makes me think o' one 
time I got ketched on a lee shore — 'twa'n't 
a blow, neither — an' nigh fetched up with 
all hands. I was purty scared too, but 
nobody knowed it." 

He chuckled grimly. 

"Cap'n's got to stan' on his own feet," 
he went on. " 'Twas off Rio, back in '74, 



stiddy. I see the surf breakin' on the rocks 
an' I walked the deck, an' still I didn't say 
nothin'. The yards was braced t' ketch 
an off-shore wind, an' the mate kep' his 
eye on me, an' I kep' mine aloft. Bimeby 
I felt a leetle puff o' wind. Then I see the 
to'gallant-s'ls fill, an' then purty soon the 
top-s'ls, ... an' I knowed we was safe." 

I drew a long breath. 

"What did the crew think?" I asked. 

The captain turned and looked squarely 
at me. His weather-beaten face wrinkled 
in amused recollection. 

"The crew?" he said. "They didn't 
think nothin'. They cal'lated I'd hauled 
in under the shore t' ketch the breeze off 'n 
the land!" 



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Sailomien of the Maine Coast 



197 




Lights twinkled in the sombre hull of the battle-ship. — Page aoa 



Our steamier was ploughing across the 
sound under a cloud-dappled sky, "open- 
ing out'* a steadily changing view of 
long, low, pine-topped islands, their level 
stretches broken by the occasional lift of 
a light-house. On the horizon the sun 
caught the sails of coasting schooners, and 
near by we passed business- 
like dory fishermen at work, 
and dancing white sail-boats 
lying over before the fresh- 
ening breeze. 

My friend pointed out to 
sea. An irregular bit of blue 
lifted itself from the straight 
horizon. 

"Monhegan," said he. 

From time to time we 
touched at sleepy, half-for- 
gotten ports where dis- 
mantled hulls lay rotting at 
ancient wharves. The cap- 
tain was telling me of the 
busy shipping of past days. 

" 'Long back in eighteen 
hunderd 'n' twelve the' was 
consid'able many priva- 
teers fitted out o' Maine," 
he said. "It paid purty 
well," he chuckled," an' th' 
British was kind o' pesterin' 



. . , some on 'em was neigh- 
borly, though. . .my gran '- 
father — he come from Bay- 
port over yonder — he ust t' 
tell how one time he was 
makin' port from a long 
fishin' v'y'ge t' the Gran' 
Banks, an' a big British 
frigate fired at him an' made 
him heave to. He didn't 
know nothin' 'bout th' war, 
an' he was b'ilin' mad! 
Wa'al, sir, them Britishers 
took all the fish he had — an' 
a master fine fare, too — an' 
paid him consid'able more'n 
they was wuth, an' filled up 
his kag with good ol' 
Jamaicy rum ! 

" They didn't hev' no pro- 
hibitionary laws in them 
days," he went on. "But 
then," his gray eyes twin- 
kled, "them laws don't do 
no harm. The way / figger 

it now, all on us hed ought t' be satisfied. 

Them that wants prohibition has got it, 

an' them that wants rum has got it, tew! " 
He paused just long enough to relight 

his pipe. 

"But that wa'n't what I started in t' 

tell ye about," he resumed. " I was goin' 




As the steamer passed, he glanced up, but did not move. — Page aoa. 



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Sailormen of the Maine Coast 



t' tell ye T)out the only privateer v'y'ge 
my grandfather ever made." 

He puffed away at his pipe. 

" 'Twas this way, 's I reelect it. Money 
was gittin' scurce an' the' was rumors 
a-plenty o' British prizes. Wa'al, one 
day, a fisherman come int' Bayport with 
a story o' how he'd seen a ship t' th' 



mighty, he hove a shot into her, an' then 
she come to. Grandfather an' a bo't lo'd 
o' men, bristlin' firearms, went aboard an* 
captured her ... an' what kind o' a 
cargo d'ye s'pose she carried?" 

I gave it up. 

" Wa'al, sir, ef you'll believe it, she was 
bound from England to Canady, an' the 




Her square, awkward bow buried in white spray at every plunge. 
— Page 202. 



north'ard looked like a West Injy trader, 
prob'ly lo'ded full with rum 'n' sugar 'n' 
m 'lasses an' Lord knows what. Wa'al, 
gran'father, he couldn't stan' it no longer, 
bein' kind o' arbeterious, an' he an' some 
more turns to an' h'ists a couple o' ol' 
brass cannon aboard his fishin' schooner, 
an' fills her up with men an' muskets an' 
puts to sea. 

"Wa'al, bimeby he sighted the ship an' 
he sot all the sail he hed. She was a good 
sailer an' up t' wind'ard, an' gran'father 
chased her nigh all day, gainin' slow. He 
cal'lated he could smell coffee, an' he was 
figgerin' what her cargo'd be wuth 't 
Portland." 

The captain stopped and laughed 
silently. 

"Wa'al, when he got up abeam of her, 
he h'isted his colors an' hove a shot under 
her bows. 'Twas a mercy his cannon 
didn't bust! She kep' on, an' then, by 



most val'able thing she had aboard was a 
parcel o' Bibles an' New Test'ments for 
the Canady Sunday-schools! . . . Gran'- 
father he kind o' cal'lated a cargo o' Bibles 
might be some embarrassin' for a priva- 
teer, 'n' he stood away for hum. . . . An' 
that was all the privateerin' he ever 
done." 

The shadows of the headlands were 
lengthening across the water. We passed 
a trim Gloucester mackerelseiner heading, 
as we were, for Rockland — her black hull 
and lower sails in shadow and her top- 
sails yellow with the last rays of the sun. 
Ahead across the bay rose the blue Cam- 
den Mountains melting into the twilight 
haze. As we rounded Owl's Head into 
Rockland Harbor, there, near a group of 
coasting schooners, lay a great, gray man- 
of-war at anchor. While we looked the 
mellow notes of a bugle came to us across 



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Drawn Ify Hidney M. (Jhau. 



The lumber coaster. 



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200 



Sailormen of the Maine Coast 



the silence, and from her peak fluttered 

down a tiny bit of bunting, red and white, 

while a puff of smoke followed by a dull 

boom told us of the sunset gun. In the 

purple twilight 

lights twinkled in 

the sombre hull of 

the battle-ship 

and mingled with 

the distant lights 

of the city. 

"Beats all," 
said the captain 
thoughtfully, 
"how good that 
makes ye feel . . . 
it*s purty good 
wherever ye see it, 
but . . . I've seen 
it a good many 
dif'rent places, in 
Halifax, 'n' South 
America, 'n' China, 
an' ev'ry time — 
the further off I 
be — the more it 
kind o' takes a-holt 
of ye — inside!" 




There is an east- 
em proverb that 

runs: "The morning has gold in its 
mouth." But it is only when one rises in 
the dark of a September morning by the 
light of the morning star, and watches the 
purple eastern sky fade to cold gray, and 
then warm with the crimson glow at the 
horizon which means a new day — it is only 
then that one realizes the full beauty of 
the saying. 

To see the black sails of the coasting 
schooners turn to gold, to walk the wet 
deck of the steamer when the rails and 
brass- work catch the color of the coming 
sunrise, to get the salty, tarry smell of 
the docks and taste the new-made morn- 
ing air — well, that is worth getting up for! 

Bells jangled, hawsers splashed, and the 
engines settled down to work. The wharf 
piling began to slip away from us and we 
were off for another day's adventure. I 
looked at my watch. It was quarter-past 
five. 

As we steamed out past the neighborly 
little group of coasters lying at anchor, 
with patched sails hoisted up to dry, curls 



The captain's cigar had gone out. — Page 203, 



of smoke rose from the galley cook-stoves 
and sleepy, sweater-clad members of the 
crew thrust up out of the companion- 
ways, pipe in mouth, to watch the steamer 
pass. Morning 
had brought a fair 
wind and several 
schooners loaded 
deep with lumber 
were getting under 
way. The creak 
of blocks and the 
scrape of wooden 
hoops against the 
masts as the crews 
hoisted sail came 
sharply to us across 
the water. The 
keen air, the smoke 
from the galley 
stoves, and the 
faint odor of cook- 
ing reminded me 
suddenly that I 
was hungry. I 
had parted from 
my friend of the 
day before with 
regret and his cor- 
dial request to 
"look him up the 
next time I made Lost Harbor." I had 
changed boats, slept aboard the newsteam- 
er, and chosen a new route across the wide 
reaches of Penobscot Bay. To the north 
lay the Camden Mountains — rose-colored 
on the eastern slopes and casting long blue 
shadows inland — and ahead to the east- 
ward were long stretches of hazy islands 
through which we were to find an opening. 
Breakfast finished, with a cigar alight, 
I came on deck again to find that we were 
well out among the islands. The crimson 
streak at the horizon had given way to a 
luminous gray sky that merged indistin- 
guishably into the gray stretches of the 
bay. Now and then between the islands 
we saw a coaster under full sail standing 
out to sea, or the trailing smudge of smoke 
from a distant steamer. 

It was too fine to enjoy alone. I looked 
about me, and there leaning against the 
rail placidly smoking stood a replica of 
my friend of the day before — a bit taller 
and thinner, but with the same tuft of 
beard and the same pipe. 



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Sailormen of the Maine Coast 



201 



"It's a fine morning," I said. 

" Wa'al," he returned, doubtfully, " kind 
o' dull weather. Suthin' brewin' mos' 
likely." 

He scrutinized me keenly. 

"Be you . that artist chap Cap'n 
Thatcher was tellin' me 'bout las' night?" 
he inquired. 

I nodded. 

"Wa'al, wa'al, I might 'a' knowed it!" 
he muttered. . . . " The' was one on 'em 
to Port Lookout las' summer — a woman 
one — an' I see one o' them lan'scape pict- 
ur's she painted by hand. 'Twas kind of 
a beach scene with a pavilion an' a movin' 
pictur* show an' some cottages into it, all 
on 'em painted up in bright colors, and 
the' was some fellers fishin' an' yachts an' 
row-bo'ts on th' water, an'" ... his 
voice trailed off. "An' you're one on 
'cm, too?" he finished. 

He looked me over with deep interest. 

We met the long swell coming in from 
the ocean and the steamer began to pitch. 
We steadied ourselves against stanchions. 
He looked at me almost hopefully. 

. "Don't never git sea-sick, do ye?" he 
inquired. 

I smiled noncommittally. 

"'F ye do," he grinned back, "the's 
nothin' so good 's drinkin' a leetle salt 
water." 

I looked my surprise. 

"Only," he went on seriously, "ye want 
to drink it on th' ebb tide. 'F ye drink it 
when the tide's flood, 't '11 make ye wuss! " 

I must have smiled. 

An injured look came over his face. He 
took his pipe out of his mouth for em- 
phasis. 

"It's sure cure," he averred. " Jes' 's 
sure 's 'tis that ye'll have bad luck ef ye 
kill a bird 'board ship or wear blue mit- 
tins ... or turn a hatch bottom up. 

"One time I went mackerel seihin' on 
Georges I rec'lect one o' the crew, grass- 
green he was, come aboard with blue mit- 
tins. Wa'al, he hed t' heave 'em over 
suddin, but 'twas too late. Next night 
we was la)dn' hove to under jib an' double- 
reefed main-s'l, an' thick o' fog. Fust 
thing we knowed a big squar' rigger was 
right aboard of us! Our lookout for'ard 
was countin' the planks in th' deck. The 
cap'n he see her lights fust. We done all 
we could-erun up th' shrouds with torches, 
Vol, LII.— 23 



but she hit us jest abaft the knightheads, 
carried away our bowsprit an' port stan- 
nin' riggin'. They throwed us ropes an' 
we dim' aboard th' ship. When the fog 
riz we see our schooner was still afloat; so 
we went aboard. The ship was stannin' 
by. Wa'al, by Godfrey, that fog shut in 
ag'in 's thick 's I ever see it. An' the 
next time she riz, dummed 'f the ship 
wa'n't gone!" 

He shook his head in disgusted recol- 
lection. His pipe was out and I offered 
him a cigar. 

"Thankee," he said. " Wa al, thar' we 
was. Our main-m'st bent way over th' 
stam, bowsprit gone, an' the hull vessel 
Ibokin' like a junk pile. We rigged jury 
sails an' stood int' New Bedford. " 

He shook with silent laughter. 

" 'Bout two years after that, that same 
ship come int' New York. Our cap'n he 
sued 'em 'n th' courts, an' the judge giv' 
me fourteen dollars for my share." 

He reflected gloomily, 

" I lost the profits of a good v'y'ge jest 
along o' them dumed blue mittins!" he 
growled. 

While the captain talked, the rocky 
shore had closed in and we were passing 
Deer Isle through the wonderful thorough- 
fare of Eggemoggin Reach. We touched 
at frequent landings, back of which rose 
hemlock heights sprinkled with summer 
homes. As he finished his story, we stood 
silent. The Reach was opening out again 
into the broader waters of the bay. Far 
to our right rose a high, rounded island. 

**Isle au Haut," said the captain. 

Then I saw that he had turned and was 
looking toward the east. He touched my 
arm and pointed silently. 

I looked as he indicated. And then I 
saw above the distant haze on the sky- 
line a bit of denser blue like a mountain 
peak — or was it a cloud? — and as I 
watched it extended itself downward until 
it seemed that the ocean had built from 
the clouds and the blue of the sea a won- 
derful fairy mountain — a mirage? — 

I looked at the captain. 

He nodded. 

"Mount Desert," he said. 

As we came nearer, the island grew 
slowly more real. From the single peak 



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SailoFmen of the Maine Coast 



half a dozen opened out. They were in- 
deed mountains; we saw their gray-green 
slopes and pine-covered ridges. Then be- 
fore we realized it we were in under the 
landy rounded a headland, and swung 
across the entrance to Somes Sound, the 
beautiful water gap that cuts the island 
almost in two. 

And then, our landings made, we were 
outside again skirting the island on the 
last stretch of our voyage. In* the dark- 
green reflection close under the high shore 
our little steamer left a long white wake. 
The shore grew steadily more wild. The 
shriek of the whistle started loud echoes 
in the mountains. At intervals on the 
high wooded slopes we caught glimpses of 
wonderful villas. . . . Presently, ahead, 
in an amphitheatre of the hills we saw 
the town. There was no mistaking it. 

'^That is Bar Harbor!" I said. 

I found the captain after dinner on the 
forward deck calmly smoking a cigar that 
I had given him, and watching with criti- 
cal interest a steam-yacht near by which 
was getting under way with a jolly party 
on board. The captain *s eye followed her 
appraisingly as she steamed away, and 
then he spoke. 

"Take it on a summer evening now," 
he said, " the* ain^t nothin' nowhar' pur- 
tier. " He swept his great brown hand in 
a broad motion including mountains and 
bay. " When 't comes on dark, an' all th* 
leetle lights begin t' twinkle up on them 
mountains, . . .an' down on th' water 
ye kin see th' sloops to anchor, an' their 
ridin' lights, an' hear the music kind o' 
faint up to the hotels, ... an' then, 
mebbe, one o' them cruisin' yachts" — he 
nodded toward the one he had been 
watching — "comes slippin' in quiet, all 
lit up, an' ye don't hear nothin' but the 
splash her anchor makes, . . . it*s a purty 
good place t' play in, now, ain't it?" he 
finished, smiling broadly. 

We had cast of! by this time and our 
steamer was passing out of the bay on her 
return journey. 

**In the summer, yes," I said. "But 
how about the winters, Captain?" 

He stopped smiling and looked thought- 
fully out to sea. We were both silent. To 
starboard lay a small boat with a young 
chap in a brown shooting-coat \^'ith a gun 



across his knees. Near by a string of black 
decoy ducks bobbed ridiculously on the 
water. As the steamer passed, he glanced 
up, but did not move. That single, lonely 
duck-hunter had suddenly brought us a 
breath of the coming winter. 

I was thinking of the desolate, snow- 
buried headlands, and of the bitter nights 
when the little, one-story cottages of Lost 
Harbor crouched lower behind the drifts 
to escape the sweep of the north-east gales; 
of lighted windows, of red-hot stoves, of 
delayed steamers fighting their way 
against heavy seas. 

"Yes," said the captain, "winters are 
consid'able severe. Snow gits dre'tful 
drifted. My mem'ry goes back to one 
winter" — he smiled — "must 'a' been in 
'79 — or '78 — ^that my brother-'n-law got 
short o' firewood an' went out an' chopped 
down a tree. Wa'al, now, 'f you'll believe 
it, we got a big Janooary thaw, an' when 
the snow melted that stump was twenty- 
two foot long I" 

We had left Mount Desert astern and 
were crossing the outer reaches of the bay. 
Close abeam of us, ploughing out to sea, 
her square, awkward bow buried in white 
spray at ever>- plunge and her dirty, 
patched sails close-hauled, was a small, 
two-masted coasting schooner. A deck 
load of yellow-pine lumber carried her 
paint-scarred hull low in the water. At 
the wheel stood a stolid figure, pipe in 
mouth. Slowly, hea\'ily she drew past us. 
The old skipper and I watched her with- 
out a word. 

"How about those fellows in winter?" 
I asked. 

The captain shook his head gravely. 

" That's the wust on it, " he said. " A 
parcel of old vessels a good many on 'em " 
— he nodded thoughtfully — "some like I 
be, only I'm hauled up out o' commission 
. . . an' when we git a bad blow from th' 
eastward a lot on 'em piles up on the rocks. 

" One time some years ago — I rec'lect 's 
though 't was yeste'day — a leetle, two- 
hunderd-ton schooner come ashore below 
thar' *' — he waved his arm to the south- 
ward — "a pitch-black night, snowin', an' 
th' wind a li\*in' gale." 

He shivered unconsciously at the mem- 
or\'. 

**The life-savers sighted her at dark 
makin' bad weather of it. Her skipper 



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Sailormen of the Maine Coast 



203 



done his best t' git her by the wind, but 
she was loaded deep with lumber an' she 
kep' drivin' off t' le'ward. She struck 
broadside on an' laid thar' with the big 
seas poundin' her. The life-savin' crew 
shot a line to her, an' jes' then her masts 
went an' th' line all fouled up with the 
wreckage. They tried ag'in, but the crew 
couldn't reach it. The deck lo'd had 
fetched loose an' the lumber was comin' 
ashore. " 

He paused, living over the recollection. 

"It was nip an' tuck," he went on. 
" Didn't seem *s though no bo't could live 
in them seas with that lumber stavin' 
round, but suthin' had to be done. We 
see the men hangin' on t' th' deck-house, 
an' the captain he called for volimteers. 
Ev'ry man stepped out. . . . Three times 
't was that bo't was swep' back, but 't last 
they got her out . . . didn't seem to make 
no headway, lumber thrashin' so an' break- 
ers an' — wa'al, when they fetched along- 
side, the deck-house had broke loose an' 
swep' overboard, men hangin' on. They 
held the bo't up till they yanked them men 
aboard, ev'ry one, an' got 'em ashore." 

He paused. 

" And you saw that? " I asked. 
. "I pulled an oar in the bo't," he an- 
swered simply. 

The captain's cigar had gone out. He 
was staring unseeingly across the bay. 

"The' was another time, though," he 
continued, speaking almost to himself, 
"when the Martin F. Eldridge come 
ashore ... an' we couldn't do nothin'. " 

He paused helplessly. 

" 'Twas a wicked night, fall o' the year 
... an' cold. It had been blowin' a gale 
for three days an' had kicked up a master 
heavy sea. 'Long jes' afore midnight the 
patrol he beared a fog-horn, faint, an' 
when he run toward it, the fog thinned a 
leetle an' he see the masts of a schooner. 
Jes' that, an' then it shut down thick 
ag'in. He burned a Coston light to sig- 



nalize 'em, an' tel'phoned t' the station. 
. . . 'Twas a long haul through that deep 
sand, only seven on 'em . . . they got a 
line aboard 't last, but the crew couldn't 
seem to haul it in. We was ready, but 
'twa'n't possible to la'nch th' life-bo't, 
breakers comin' in mountain-high. . . . 
We could see lights dim from the cabin 
winders, an' her sails was slattin' — we 
could hear 'em above the roar o' the surf. 
But the' wa'n't no sign o' life. . . . We 
built a big fire on the beach an' waited — 
the' wa'n't nothin' else to do. " 

He was silent a moment. 

"Bimeby them cabin lights went out 
... an' then 'long 'bout three in th' 
momin' we beared a crash an' one on- 
godly scream — we jedged . her masts 
hed gone ... an' the' wa'n't nothin' 
more ..." 

He sighed. 

"We done all anybody could do . . . 
next momin' her name board come ashore 
. . . an' later on we found a woman, 
dressed complete, with a blanket kind o' 
tied 'round her 's if . ... an' bimeby a 
man . . . the' wa'n't nobody else ever 
found ... we couldn't hev done no 
more ..." 

The lights of Portland were gleaming 
across Casco Bay one evening a couple of 
days later when the steamer came steadily 
in. Standing on the forward deck I heard 
more and more distinctly, the noise of the 
streets and the rattle of trolley-cars. 
Great warehouses and tall chimneys lifted 
black against the yellow evening sky, 
smudged with the smoke of a city. There 
ahead was the real world of work and 
achievement. 

Far behind me, down the coast, lay the 
open sea, the long stretches of gray islands, 
and the blue mountain of Mount Desert. 
Next summer, and the year after, they 
would still be there . . . waiting. And I 
was glad that it was so. 



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THE SCARLET IBIS 
By Mar)' Raymond Shipman Andrews 



Ilia'strations by Philip R. Goodwin 




^HE boy stopped sharply in 
the portage, and swung 
about and glanced inquir- 
ingly at Josef. Light as the 
sound was, quickly as the 
boy had heard it, Josef had 
heard first. He stood rooted in the path, 
a line of lean strength, in vague-colored 
clothes, his black locks tumbling from un- 
der his battered felt-hat, a scarlet ban- 
danna in the belt at his slim waist pricking 
the dim light with an explosion of color. 
His extraordinary eyes, very light blue, 
very large, with pupils dilated over the 
irises, as animals' eyes dilate, snapped 
electrically; his glance searched the woods 
to this side and that. 

The boy had been trained under Josef 
and knew his ways; he stood stock-still as 
the guide listened, as he sent that concen- 
trated glance ahead into the confused 
masses of shadow and brightness and fo- 
liage and water of the Canadian forest. 
It flashed, that blue search-light, straight 
through tangled branches and across bulks 
of emerald velvet which were moss-cov- 
ered bowlders; it went. on deep into the 
inscrutable forest — ^Josef's glance. And 
the boy knew that he was seeing things 
in those mysterious depths, and reading 
them as wild creatures see and read the 
woodland, as the boy himself, trained 
woodsman though he was, might never 
hope to do. With that, the tense pose 
relaxed, the wonderful eyes came back 
from their exploring and — gentle, friendly , 
shy — met the boy's eyes. Josef smiled. 

*'M'sieur Jack hears the m'sieur talk- 
ing?" he asked in French. 

Used as he was to his guide, the boy 
was surprised. *'What m'sieur? What 
do you mean, Josef?" 

Josef waved a careless hand. "There 
is a m'sieur and a guide. The landing- 
net dropp)ed, just now. It was that 
which one heard. They fish in the little 
river, around the next turn, at the Re- 
204 



mous des Jurons — Profanity Pool — one 
will see in a moment. The m'sieur, par 
exempky is large — a heavy man." 

This in quick, disjointed sentences, as 
Josef talked — much the same way as he 
sprang from one rock to another in a river 
crossing, feeling his way, assuring himself 
of a footing before he tried the next. 
Josef was shy even with his own young 
m'sieur whom he had guided for seven 
years, since M'sieur Jack was a lad in 
knickerbockers. It was of his nature to 
talk in a hurrying low voice, in short 
phrases, meeting one's glance with the 
gentleness of the brilliant, great, light 
eyes, guardedly, ready to spring back into 
the cave of his reserve as an alarmed wild 
creature might hide in. its den. Yet he 
loved to show M'sieur Jack this gift of his, 
this almost second sight in the woods. It 
gratified him now when the boy sp>oke. 

**How in thunder do you know all 
that?" he demanded. **I'm not so 
blamed slow, and yet I can't hear any 
one talking." 

Josef held up his hand dramatically, 
very Frenchly. "Listen — Scoutez/^* 

Jack listened, Josef smiling at him 
broadly, alert, vivid. The little river ran 
at their left, brown-pooled, foam-splashed, 
tumbling over rocks, blurring all sounds. 
Overhead, in the tall, white birches, in 
the lower spruce trees, the wand rustled, 
and brushed with a feathery music the 
edges of the tinkling water noises. It 
seemed, as one walked along the portage 
— the old, old Indian trail — all beautiful 
peace and stillness ; but when one stopped 
to listen there was a whole orchestra of 
soft instruments playing, and any one 
sound was hard to disentangle. Jack 
threw his whole soul into the effort before 
he made out, through the talking water 
and the wind sounds, an intermittent note 
which he could place as a man's speech 
some distance away. 

"I hear it," he cried out. 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



205 



Josef smiled indulgently; he liked to 
teach woodscraft to his young m'sieur; 
also M'sieur Jack was a good scholar; there 
was no other m'sieur of the club, young 
or old, to whom he would give the bow of 
his canoe in going through a difficult rap- 
ids; he had done that with *M'sieur Jack. 
Yes, and also M'sieur Jack could tell if a 
male or female beaver had gnawed the 
chii>s around a birch trunk by the tooth 
marks in the wood ; Josef had taught him 
that. And M'sieur Jack was also " capa- 
ble" to portage a canoe like a guide, toss- 
ing the heavy boat to his shoulders un- 
aided and swinging off down a trail as 
silently, as swiftly as an Indian; and he 
could tie up a pacquekm — and make camp 
in a rain — and skin a moose; these things 
and others M'sieur Jack could do, and Jo- 
sef was proud of him. But M'sieur Jack 
could not see into the woods like Josef and 
he was not as quick at hearing sounds — of 
that also Josef was proud. So he smiled 
and waited for the question sure to come. 
** What the dickens makes you think he's 
a big man — un homme pesani?'^ asked 
Jack promptly. 

They were moving forward along the 
trail. Jack leading, and throwing his sen- 
tences in an undertone, as instinct teaches 
one to speak in the woods, over his shoul- 
der to Josef. And for answer Josef flung 
out his muscular arm in its faded blue cal- 
ico sleeve, and pointed ahead. Jack stum- 
bled on a root as he followed the pointing 
hand, and, recovering, caught sight of a 
tan-colored sweater far in front, even now 
barely in range of sight, hung on a tree by 
the path. 

"It is not warm to-day, par exemple; a 
m'sieur who is not somewhat fat would 
not feel the walking in this portage — so as 
to take off that," Josef reasoned softly, in 
jerks. 

" Did you see that — away back there? 
Well, 111 be—" staccatoed the lad, and 
Josef grinned with pleased vanity. "Jo- 
sef, youVe a wizard," the boy went on. 
** But never mind, my son, you'll get fooled 
some time. Ill bet he didn't drop the 
landing-net. Ill bet it was his leader-box 
or his cigarette-case. No landing-net. A 
bos, landing-nets I Youll see I " 

And Jack kicked at a rotten stump 
and sent it crashing in slow ruin, as if the 
vitality in him were overflowing through 



his long legs. So the two, the boy bom 
into a broad life which faced from baby- 
hood the open door of opportunity, and 
the boy scarcely five years older, born to 
a narrow existence, walled about with a 
high, undoored wall of unending labor— 
these two swung on brotherly, through 
the peace and morning freshness of the 
forest, and in the levelling reality of nat- 
ure were equals. 

The river sang. One saw it — out of 
the comer of the eye as one walked — 
brown in the pools, white where it tum- 
bled over the rocks; the rocks speckled 
it with their thou3and gray hunmiocks; 
grasses grew on them; a kingfisher fled 
scolding across the water and on down- 
stream; in the trail — the portage — it was 
all shimmering misty greens, with white 
sharp ranks of birch trees; the wind 
murmured and blew against one's face. 
Through such things the two stalwart lads 
walked on and were happy. The uncon- 
cemed gray stones of the rapids, which 
had looked exactly the same on the mom- 
ing when Pharaoh's daughter had found 
little Moses in the bulmshes, would look 
exactly the same, likely, two thousand 
years from now — for world-making is a 
long business and the Laurentian hills are 
the grandfathers of the planet, and stones 
reel off twenty centuries with small aging 
— these immemorial nobodies of an ob- 
scure little Canadian river had seen noth- 
ing pass by in their long still lives blither 
or more alive than the two lads, gentle- 
man and peasant, with their "morning 
faces" and their loping pace of athletes. 

Around a turn shortly they halted as 
by one brain order. Somethmg moving. 
In Broadway a man in rapid motion is 
lost in a sea of men in rapid motion; in 
the woods a man lifts a slow finger and is 
so conspicuous that the mountains seem 
to shout a startled "Look ! " The man at 
the edge of Profanity Pool leaned forward 
and lunged at his flies, hanging tangled 
around his rod; he said "Damn!" The 
two boys, whom his movement had 
brought to a stand-still, unseen, motion- 
less in the shade of the narrow portage, 
shook with silent laughter. 

With that Jack stepped forward, break- 
ing a twig purposely, and came out on the 
rocks. The man looked up and saw him, 
a bright-faced, tall lad, claret and brown 



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206 



The Scarlet Ibis 



as to complexion, clean-limbed and strong 
as to build. Something in him drew a 
smile to the man's face — ^it was not un- 
likely to be so. 

" Bon jour, ^^ Jack said with a haul at his 
cap, and stuffing it into his pocket fur- 
ther; and then " Good-morning, sir. Any 
luck?" 

The man stared at him. "Didn't you 
hear what I said?" he inquired. 

And Jack, pausing one second, went off 
into a shout of deep laughter which set the 
mountain echoes ringing, and Josef, dis- 
creet in the background, stepped back a 
pace so that the strange m'sieur might 
not see him laughing also. When M 'sieur 
Jack laughed it was impossible to keep as 
serious as one should. 

Squatting in the shadows beyond the 
m'sieur was something shading off into 
rocks and foliage; a face stared over the 
bxishes of the "/A^ sauvage'* — the Indian 
tea shrub with its dim pink flowers. So 
hidden, so motionless was the man that 
Jack did not see him for the first instant — 
but Josef had seen him; there had been a 
brief half nod of recognition on both sides 
before the messieurs had spoken. Jack 
caught sight of him. 

"It is you, Adelard Martel?" he de- 
manded; Jack was likely to know most of 
the guides in the club. "Why haven't 
you got a big fish for your m'sieur? They 
are here," he threw at him cheerfully. 

But the man did not answer with a 
smile, as most people answered Jack 
Vance. The dark, furtive eyes shot a re- 
sentful glance at the large man who still 
struggled with his fishing tackle. "M'sieur 
— is not lucky," he brought out with the 
broad, soft accent of a habitant, and 
looked down sulkily, displeased, and then 
flashed up an angry glance. "There was 
a big one — 6'en gros — three minutes ago. 
He rose to the fly. One would have had 
him grabbed — poigni — in a second. But 
r'/d, M'sieur slipped and fell backward and 
knocked me the landing-net out of my 
hand, and the big one saved himself — se 
sauvait, Comme ^a" — with a swift gest- 
ure of disgust. 

"The landmg-net?" The boy turned 
and looked at Josef and laughed, and Jo- 
sef's big light eyes flashed satisfaction. 

The strange m'sieur broke in with a 
nod toward his guide. " Something wrong 



with that feHoW," he commented. "He 
seems angry that I can't catch fish." 

Jack leaned over and swept in one of 
the curly, bobbing snells of the m'sieur's 
leader as he answered. "May I help you?" 
he asked with friendliness of a brother 
craftsman. ^* It's the dickens of a job to 
do this alone. Adelard ought" — and he 
stopped and shook his head fatherly at the 
sullen-faced guide. "He's sore as a crab 
because you haven't had luck," he ex- 
plained. "They're all that way. It's a 
personal question — if their messieurs are 
lucky, you see. He'll be another person 
when you take a five-pounder." 

The big man lowered the butt of his 
rod suddenly, thereby mixing up all the 
whirls of catgut which Jack had skilfully 
untangled; he looked at the boy with a 
heart-broken expression; he looked as if 
he were going to cry. 

" But I can't," he said sorrowfully. " I 
don't know how to fish. And I want to 
so much. It's my first vacation in six 
years, and I haven't got but a week. I 
thought it was easy to fish, that anybody 
could do it. And I don't know how to 
tie the leader on, and the reel fails out of 
the — the reel plate or something. And if 
I touch the automatic spring it all snaps 
up before I can wink, and the leader runs 
down the rod through the rings and it's 
the very devil. I hit a rock and broke a 
tip the first thing and had to put in an- 
other. It took me half an hour to put the 
stuff together and then that happened. 
And the flies tangle — ^all the time. And 
my guide despises me! I thought fishing 
was fun!" 

The man's voice was a wail in the last 
sentences. Something in the boy's friendly 
youthfulness had made it possible to pour 
out this tale of woe where with another 
wayfarer the unlucky fisherman would 
have kept his bitter counsel. His instinct 
was not wrong. The thought shot into 
Jack's mind that here was a poor man, 
probably not able to afford vacations, who 
had put his hard-earned money into one 
and was failing to get the good of it. Like 
a young knight to a maiden in distress Jack 
rushed to the rescue. 

"Now that's just too darned bad," he 
brought out heartily. "But you know, 
sir, it's easy enough to set it all straight. 
Fishing is fun — almost the best fun going. 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



207 



I don't want to butt in, but — you see I Ve 
been at this sort of thing all my days*' 
— one thought involuntarily of Methuse- 
lah — " and I can't help knowing the trick. 
I'm not a crack exactly, but — ^well, it's 
second nature to me, and I'd simply love 
to show you if you wouldn't think me 
fresh to offer." 

"Fresh!" the older man repeated. "If 
you'll give me a few points I'd bless you. 
But you're of! on a trip yourself — I can't 
take your time to" — and the boy cut in 
there with joyful assurances which there 
was no mistaking as to his pleasure in 
helping. 

"We're just on a casual two days' 
tramp, Josef and I," he explained. 
" Nothing to do so's you'd notice it. We 
left the canoe and the pack down at the 
lake and dashed up here for a fish or 
so." By this he had the stranger's rod in 
hand, a Leonard rod, the boy knew at a 
glance, about four ounces in weight, the 
last word in expense and perfection of 
rods. "Gosh, he blew himself!" was 
the inward comment Jack made. Josef 
was somehow present at the psychological 
distance from the butt, as the boy held it 
in his hand, and while he set the reel more 
firmly into the plate and pushed the nickel 
ring down strongly, Josef's delicate, coarse 
finger-tips]wereuntwisting the three bright 
flies from an extraordinarily thorough tan- 
gle. Adelard Martel watched sulkily out 
of the Indian tea bushes; the large m'sieur 
watched, wondering. With that the lines 
were free, and Jack swung the butt about 
into Josef's ready hand, and suddenly had 
the junction of leader and fish-line in his 
mouth and was chewing at it with energy. 

"Tied wrong," he commented thickly, 
and then had it out and drew the softened 
strings from their knot. "If you don't 
mind, sir, I'll show you how to put a 
leader into a snell." He held the loop of 
transparent cord in his left hand and 
poised the green line above it. "Like 
this — down you go inside — up you go out- 
side — across you go — then down outside, 
up — and pull her tight. There you are ! " 
He slid the cross-loop down, and with a 
jerk it was all undone. "Just as easy to 
take out as to put in, you see. Want to 
do it yourself, sir? " And the man, as en- 
chanted as a small boy, fumbled a bit and 
learned the knot. " Now we're off," Jack 



announced, glancing backward to assure 
his recover, and sent a skilful line into 
Profanity Pool. 

Perhaps no harder place to fish was in 
the club. The pool, a black hole in the 
river, was thirty odd feet long and varied 
in width from twenty to five feet, irregu- 
larly. At the right a large log stretched 
over the water lengthwise, and under its 
shadow lurked the big trout. Also under 
it were snags where, once hooked, the fish 
ran to hide, and catch the line about the 
wood, and tear loose. One must keep a 
fish away from this log at all hazards. 
Yet across from it were sharp rocks apt 
to cut fish-line. 

"The hole is chuck full of Scyllas and 
Charybdises, all right," Jack remarked, 
pointing out the geography to his pupil. 
" I reckon Profanity Pool isn't a misnomer. 
Lots of cuss words spilled into this water, 
they do say." 

He cast, varying his line, varying his di- 
rection, with easy skill, over the dark, 
wild water, all the time telling how and 
why. 

"With the forearm, you know, sir. 
Don't put your shoulder into it. And 
stop a second on your recover, when the 
line's back of you. Don't monkey with 
it too fast — ^give it time to straighten out; 
and don't slap the water with the flies. 
That scares 'em. Let the tail fly touch 
first, and just as it's touching lift the tip 
of the rod a scrap — see! " He illustrated 
with finished delicacy. "Then it goes 
down softly. Hi!" 

A liquid swash, a break of white foam, 
an upward snap of the wrist — a trout was 
on. 

" That's too blamed bad — I didn't mean 
to take anything," he murmured regret- 
fully, but he played it all the same, and in 
three or four minutes Josef had landed it 
and held it up wordlessly — a Salmo Fan- 
tindis of a pound and a half, with scarlet 
fins and gold and silver spotted stomach. 
The stranger was tingling with excitement. 

"That's something like!" he brought 
out, and then meekly, anxiously, "May I 
fish now?" 

And Jack, smiling his old young smile, 
put the rod into the man's hand and held 
the hand carefully for a few trial casts. 
Then "Let her go," he commanded, and 
the large m'sieur, trembling with eager- 



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208 



The Scarlet Ibis 



ness, was fishing. Jack, standing by with 
his hands in his troxisers pockets, his whole 
soul on the performance, criticised with 
frankness. "Now that's rotten, sir. Don't 
recover that nervous way; that's what 
tangles 'em. Just — sort of — rhythmic; 
back slow — pause — cast; lift the tip a 
scrap as you touch; just a shiver of the 
wrist does it. Now — tip up — don't sag the 
line; draw the flies along, and wiggle 'em 
alluringly as they come; don't let 'em go 
under — bad,bad! You can't fool fish if you 
drown your flies. Oh, well — the tail fly 
may sink a bit if you're after big ones " — 
and so the illustrated lecture went on, Jack 
thoroughly enjoying himsdf in the r61e of 
instructor. " Ginger! " he brought out sud- 
denly in an interval, "my brother would 
throw a fit if he saw me teaching fishing. 
He's a shark at it, you know. He's for- 
gotten more than I everknew. " Josef " — 
turning on the guide — " M^sieur va s^amii- 
ser de mot en profeseur de la p^che, li'est- 
ce pas ? " And Josef, showing his teeth in 
a short grin, answered promptly, "Om/, 
M^sieufy^ and attended to business. 

The large m'sieur was learning fast. 
One saw that he had not missed a word 
of the boy's lesson or the reason for any 
point of piscatorial finesse. He made 
mistakes certainly, and was awkward, as 
is any beginner at the wonderful world- 
old game which has to get into the nerves 
and the blood before one plays it well 
ever. Yet he took hold as a trained mind 
takes hold of whatever problem, with a 
certain ability and sureness. 

" I rather think you must do some things 
very well, sir," Jack remarked encour- 
agingly, after a bout of unflinching repri- 
mand as to some vicious tendencies of the 
scholar. " You caught that idea about not 
getting the line too close, at once. You 
must be used to doing things well." 

The stranger lifted his keen, clear blue 
eyes a second and shot a glance at the 
boy. " Possibly one thing," he answered 
briefly, and cast again. 

Half a dozen small trout lay on the rocks, 
strung on a forked willow branch, the vivid, 
pointed leaves crisp on one side of it, cut 
by the resentful Adelard, now charmed by 
the turn of events and eager to be included 
in them. But the big trout did not rise. 

"Bad time of day," Jack explained. 
"Hole's fussed up, too. Have to let it 



get quiet before the sockdologcrs will take 
notice." He turned to the older man with 
a certain brotherly manner of his, a manner 
which lacked in no point of respect, but 
was yet simply unconscious of any dif- 
ference of age — a manner which made older 
men like the lad and like themselves bet- 
ter too. "If I were you," advised Jack; 
"I'd stop now and come back early to- 
morrow morning, by gray light, and have 
a try at them. Maybe you'd get an old 
he-one then." 

A short lecture followed on the taking 
down of rods, and the etiquette of wind- 
ing a leader about one's hat, so that the 
pull is always from the last fly. 

" Where are you going now? " asked the 
large m'sieur as he and Adelard stood, 
their htUin packed, ready to move on. 

Jack laughed and looked at Josef, who 
laughed also and shrugged his shoulders. 
"We don't know exactly," the boy said. 
" We're just * loungin' 'round and sufferin',' 
like Brer Fox. I rather think we'll ram- 
ble upstream and take the new trail the 
guardian cut last winter to Lac Cm. I've 
never been there. And then come back 
and put up our tent on your lake for the 
night, if you don't mind, sir. It's down 
there now, with the canoe, at the mouth 
of this little river," and he stamped a boot 
caressingly into the brown water, as one 
pats an animal in speaking of it. 

" Put up with me overnight," suggested 
the m'sieur. "I've plenty of room; it 
would be a great pleasure. Then you 
needn't bother with your tent or your 
kit." 

The clear eyes met the man's with frank, 
pleased surprise; Jack never got used to 
the astonishing goodness of people in 
wanting him about. " Why, we'll do that 
with bells on, if you'd really like us, sir," 
he agreed heartily. 

Ten minutes later the two lads were 
swinging again through the shifting mys- 
tery of the portage, following the narrow- 
ing river farther and farther upstream, 
while the large m'sieur and Adelard, now 
in a pleasanter humor, progressed down- 
stream to the lake and the camp. 

About six o'clock that evening the large 
m'sieur, whose name, incidentally, was 
Bradlee, spread a gray camp blanket on 
the pine needles in front of his immense 
walled tent, and stretched it with care to 



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PntTi'M hy Phi. if R. (m'.m'.i /•;. 

Jack put the n>d into the man's hand and held the hand carefully for a lew tiial ca>t»,— Taiic jo;. 

Vol. LIL— 24 



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Now Jack missed a stroke and shot his paddle high in the 
air in salute. 



the foot oi a peculiarly luxurious stump — 
a stump of the right shape and angle and 
consistency to make a good back for a 
man to loll against. There is a large dif- 
ference in the comfort of stumps. Mr. 
Bradlee sighed an unbroken sigh of satis- 
faction as he felt his weight settle rightly 
into curves of stump and of pine needles 
and knew that his confidence in both had 
not betrayed him. It was the only man- 
ner of Morris-chair he had about, and it 
seemed of importance. He had been tramp- 
ing all the afternoon, and he was tired 
and wanted luxury; he found it on the 
gray blanket, with his back against the 
spruce stump; luxury, it k said, is a 
matter of contrast; this man's scale of 
such things possibly began at a different 
point in New York — here in Canada, after 
a day's heavy labor in portage and canoe, 
after coming back grimy and sweating and 
black-fly-bitten and footsore — after those 
things, a plunge in the lake and dry flan- 
nel clothes and a gray blanket and a stump 
realized luxury. So he sighed contentedly 
and shifted his leg to feel how comfortably 
the muscles ached in repose, as he drew 
his crowning happiness out of his pocket, 
that long brown happiness called a cigar. 
Yet he was conscious as he lit it, and pulled 



the first delicious puff, that he was 
still unsatisfied. 

*'I wish that cub would come," 
Bradlee murmured half aloud. 

Behold, around the comer of the 
spruce point which guarded the bay, 
dark on the silvery water, a canoe 
shot forward, swift, silent. Bradlee 
with one long pull took his cigar from his 
mouth and held it as he watched. It was 
a picture to remember — the blue sky with 
pink and copper cotton-batting clouds; 
below that the band of dark woods, sun- 
light gone from them, crowding to the 
lake ; below that the gray shimmer of water 
and the dark bulk of the canoe, and the 
double paddle flash of the stroke of the 
two powerful lads under which the canoe 
leaped toward him out of the hills. The 
indescribable intoxication of the Canadian 
mountain air was about him, immense, per- 
vading; he heard the beat of the paddles 
and the long swish of the water after each 
bound of the canoe; now Jack missed a 
stroke and shot his paddle high in the air in 
salute, but did not break the infinite quiet 
with a spoken word. 

**Most boys would have howled their 
heads off at sight; this one respects the 
sanctuaries," thought the man. 

With that the springing boat was close 
and he got up and stood at the water's 
edge and the bow crushed, with a soothing 
sound which canoe people know, up the 
wet sand. Jack arose, stretched his legs, 
and stepped out, tall and dirty and happy ; 
bareheaded, bare-armed, the gray flannel 
shirt decollete around his strong neck, his 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



211 



face streaked with mother earth, and with 
blood of murdered black flies, but bright 
with that peace which shines from faces 
which nature has smoothed for a while. 

"Glad to see you, young man; hope 
you have an appetite," spoke Bradlee cor- 
dially, and felt the place all at once il- 
lumined by a buoyant presence. 

" Have I? " responded Jack. " Just you 
watch me, sir." 

Shortly, on the sand by the lake edge, 
under a wide-branched pine tree, the table 
was spread, with trout still sizzling in the 
frying-pan and flapjacks and maple sugar 
and thin fried potatoes and other delica- 
cies of camp, which Adelard and his con- 
frere, Louis, brought in relays, laughing 
joyfully at the enormous hunger of the 
young m'sieur. Then, while the guides 
ate their dinner, while the night settled 
down like some mammoth bird into its nest 
over the lonely miles of moimtains and the 
quiet stretch of lake, the man and the boy 
sat by the bubbling birch fire and " smelled 
wood smoke at twilight," and talked fish- 
ing. Jack was very great at expounding, 
and it was seldom he had such a chance; 
he made the most of it. The older man 



listened as to the Law and Gospel ; it was 
a memorable evening. The Bradlee fish- 
ing tackle was had out and looked over. 

"YouVe got some splendid things," 
Jack announced in his uncompromising 
young voice, and regretted to himself the 
unnecessary extravagance of a poor man. 
" But the trouble is, there^s a lot that's — 
excuse me for saying it — trash. I reckon 
you just went to a shop and bought what 
they told you, didn't you?" 

"Exactly." 

"Too bad." Jack's wise head shook 
sorrowfully. "Wish I could have been 
along. I could have saved you hunks of 
money. An automatic reel's a crime, too, 
you know. Not sportsmanlike. However 
— ^you'll know yourself next time." 

"Thanks to you," said Bradlee humbly. 

" Oh, gee, no," protested Jack. " You'll 
just learn, doing it. Let's see about that 
cast for to-morrow morning. Now, I'd 
admire to have a Parmachene Belle — 
that's good in these waters." 

The fine, big, new fly-book was opened, 
and the man flapped a thick leaf or two 
and nervously drew out a brown fly. Jack 
had been teaching him the names. 




Bradlee pointed out a patch of scarlet with his forefinger. " I want that one," he stated.— Page 212. 



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212 



The Scarlet Ibis 



"Ohno!" the boy threw athim. "That's 
a Reuben Wood. Hard to remember till 
you get used to them, isn't it, though? 
Here is your Parmachene — see, with the 
ugly-colored red feather? Put her on for 
a hand-fly, wouldn't you, sir?" 

Bradlee obeyed with pathetic prompt- 
ness, fumbling a bit, but getting fly and 
snell together ultimately. 

"That's— all— right!" approved the 
boy. "Now — let's see. A Silver Doctor 
— this fellow? Don't you think? I've 
had great luck with that fly. It's a pretty 
decent fly." The owner of the fly-book 
took hk orders and annexed the Silver 
Doctor to the leader. 

"Now — tail-fly. That's important. Let 
— me — see." 

But the willing horse suddenly took the 
bit in his mouth. Bradlee pointed out a 
patch of scarlet with his forefinger. "I 
want that one," he stated. 

The boy laughed. " The Scariet Ibis? " 
he inquired, like a kind but pitying father. 
"That wouldn't do, Fm afraid. That's 
too — crude, you see. That's good for very 
dark days and very wild waters, where no 
one has ever fished and they're not edu- 
cated. I'm afraid they'd know better than 
a Scarlet Ibis at Profanity Pool." 

But the man, so docile up to now, ac- 
quired a setness about the mouth. "I 
want the Scarlet Ibis. I like the name of 
it, and red is the color I like, and I have an 
idea it will bring me luck." 

There was something in the large m'sieur , 
when he spoke in this way, which made 
one see that he was accustomed to manage 
things; this was different from the meek 
scholar of the kindergarten class in fish- 
ing. Jack yielded at once and with cor- 
diality. 

"Of course, if you've got a hunch," he 
agreed with his young elderly benevolence. 
" Maybe it will bring you luck." 

And the large m'sieur, smiling inwardly, 
felt that he had been allowed the Scarlet 
Ibis by an indulgent superior, yet liked the 
lad no less. 

When the thick mists that had blank- 
eted the lake all night were blowing in 
streamers along the shore and curving to 
the alders in the damp morning wind; 
when the forest was a black mass below 
but dividing above into spires of spruce 
trees under the mystical glow which fast 



loosed the night-bound shadows; when 
the grasses in the little beaver meadows 
were stiff with cold, wet silver, the man 
and the boy, leaving the guides in camp, 
started upstream to Profanity Pool. It 
was hard to follow the portage at first, 
so dark it was; a hush was through the 
woods; no breeze stirred here away from 
the lake; no little beast rustled; no bird 
fluttered ; the underworld was fast asleep. 
One felt like a knight of Arthur advent- 
uring into a Merlin-guarded forest. 

Even when the two fishermen reached 
the pool it was dark enough to make the 
footing uncertain as one crossed from rock 
to rock, to the sand-bar where the Indian 
tea bushes grew, their small old-rose-col- 
ored blossoms frosted with dew, and over 
them in the dim light the same mysteri- 
ous stillness, as if the night's sleep were 
not yet ended. Also it was very cold ; the 
chill crept through sweaters and flannel 
shirts, through flesh and blood and into 
the bones and the marrow, as they sat 
down to put the rod together. Instinc- 
tively they spoke in low voices, not to 
waken the drowsy forest. Then arrows 
of sunlight shot and caught in the tops of 
the spruces and crept ever downward. 
One could see the quiet pool now, and the 
dark, wet log lying lengthwise, and the 
brown water; not a stir of life on that 
level surface, yet under it the great trout 
must be waking. 

The large m'sieur, casting, with his 
whole heart in his forearm, suddenly was 
aware of a small tentative resktance some- 
where on the leader threading a shimmer- 
ing way across the pool. Like an electric 
connection his wrbt thrilled in response 
and the delicate mechanism answered 
again with a light jerk. 

" Steady," spoke Jack's deep authorita- 
tive voice. " Something's after it — don't 
jerk. It's a big one. Recover — don't get 
flustered — slow. That's a peach. Draw 
the fly slowly — it's dark yet — let the tail- 
fly go under a little — not too quick — he's 
after it— let him take hold. Strike!"' 

With an appalling suddenness Bradlee 
was aware of a mighty pull of unseen live 
strength applied to the gossamer structure 
of his rod and line, and his wrist flew up 
antiphonally with a good- will which luckily 
did not break everything concerned. The 
fish had taken the fly under water, as a 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



213 



big one will; he was on — Bradlee had 
hooked him. But there was small time to 
dwell on that point, for the fight had be- 
gun without preliminaries. Straight for 



his finger on the spring — for he was learn- 
ing fast — and the line was snapping back 
in handfuls — yet there was slack for at 
least two seconds and it was pure chance 




It's the Scarlet Ibis! " — Page 215, 



the log ran the invisible streak of force, 
and Jack cried out in horror: 

**Keep him away — don^t let him get 
under." 

The large m'sieur's lips curled back 
from his teeth, and his eyes gleamed sav- 
agely, as he lifted the tip and held the 
struggling fish on the very edge of the dan- 
ger zone. The boy, following every pulse 
throb, murmured " Good work," and with 
that there was a sound as of a mighty gar- 
ment ripping and the trout was off head- 
long to the foot of the pool. 

"Give him line — quick," the boy thun- 
dered. 

And Bradlee, lowering the rod a bit, let 
the line run out — and behold the trout 
turned suddenly in his tracks and rushed 
back. Only luck saved him on that ma- 
noeuvre; before Jack had cried breathlessly 
** Reel up," the man had the tip lifted and 



that the fish did not shake loose. There 
was a space of quiet after this — danger- 
ous quiet. The big trout was "sulking." 
Somewhere down in the bottom he lay, 
planning fight in his cloudy fish brain, and 
it was equally dangerous to let him go on 
and to stir him up. He might be burrow- 
ing under a rock with a sharp edge which 
would cut the leader; he might rise at an 
inopportune touch and get free with one 
unexpected effort; everything was dan- 
gerous. 

"Just wait, " Jack advised. Two min- 
utes of masterly inactivity and then, out 
of patience, enraged, the enemy rose to 
the top and flung himself this way and 
that, tearing, rushing, shaking his head 
from side to side in a very hopeful effort 
to shake out the fly. Fisherman *s luck 
certainly carried the large m'sieur through 
that peril, for the most expert rodsman 



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214 



The Scarlet Ibis 



can do little but hope and hold on to his 
tackle in such tornadoes. The fit wore 
past, however, and was succeeded by a 
determined attempt, in a series of rushes, 
to get under the big log. Jack stood close 
at Bradlee's side and counselled him 
through the sharpness of this battle, and 
Bradlee's keen mind bent to the execu- 
tion of his orders with all there was in it. 
Add to this that the trout was uncom- 
monly well hooked inside the throat, and 
one sees that the event was not impossible. 
The time came at length when it was evi- 
dent that the prey was tiring. The rushes 
were shorter and executed with less vim, 
and the great back came up to the surface 
at times and flopped over limply. 

"Gee!'' conmiented Jack, "it's the 
best fight I've seen in moons. He's a 
sockdologer, sure Mike! All of four 
pounds, sir — look at him — did you see 
him then?" 

With that there was a sharp revival of 
energy and a dash to the end of the pool, 
and a double back, repeating the ma- 
noeuvre with which operations had begim. 
The last ten minutes of playing a fish have 
a peculiar danger in the relaxing effort of 
the fisherman. Not only does the creature 
struggle less vigorously and so throw one 
off guard, but the strain has told and one 
is tired, and then, often, comes an unex- 
p)ected strong rush which proves success- 
ful — the fish is gone. 

The large m'sieur, ignorant of what to 
expect, did not presume, did not relax, 
and was not taken off his guard. The boy 
glanced at the set face many times with 
benignant approval, as the man, silent, 
intent, fought the flagging fight as ear- 
nestly, as watchfully, as at its beginning. 

"Them's um," Jack endorsed proceed- 
ings, as the big fish flopped listlessly at 
the surface, and the fisherman yet held 
his line delicately taut, yet led the live 
weight at its end this way and that. 
" Them's um. Don't take your eye off him 
or he'll fool you yet," and finished with a 
manner of squeal. "Holy mackerel, but 
he's a he-one — I'll bet he's close on five. " 

At which premature gloating the trout 
rose for one last fling and shook his 
mighty head and slashed with his tail and 
threw his strong flexible body in a hun- 
dred directions at once, whipping the 
brown water into foam. The boy, crouch- 



ing with the landing-net at the water's 
edge, followed the infinitely quick scintil- 
lations with his eyes; the man, lifting, 
lowering his rod, keeping the line not too 
tight, not too loose, followed them, as 
mere human muscles might, with his play- 
ing wrist ; with that the long, shining body, 
brown and gold and silver and pink and 
scarlet and spotted, stopped struggling, 
floated limply half out of water, and the 
large m'sieur, flushed, anxious, drew him 
slowly inshore. Jack, with the net deep 
in the pool four feet to the right of the 
defeated king of it, waited till he was 
close — ^yet not too close — till a clock in 
his brain sounded the psychological sec- 
ond, and then — swoop; the net rushed 
through the brown water, deep imder the 
trout and up with a sure curve. There 
was a mad flopping and struggling, but 
the big fellow was caught in the meshes 
and Jack lifted him out, both fists gripping 
the handle of the heavy- weighted net, 
and held him so at arm's length high in air. 

"Gosh!" said Jack. 

The large m'sieur did not say anything, 
but he lowered the butt of his rod with 
hands that shook, and brought out a sigh 
that appeared to wander up in stages 
from his boots. His face radiated a sol- 
emn happiness several flights farther 
down than words; his eyes were glued to 
the landing-net with its freight of glory. 
He sat down on the rocks with hk boots 
casually trailing in the water and sighed 
profoundly again. 

"I caught him," he stated. 

"Sure," agreed Jack. "You took him, 
that's as certain as the Pyramids. WTiat's 
more, you did it in style. The way you 
played that fish, sir, was good enough for 
anybody. You may not have experience, " 
Jack allowed candidly, " but I'll be hanged 
if you haven't got promise. You're a won- 
der, sir — 3, plain wonder." 

By now Jack was squatting before the 
net, laid on a flat stone; his himting-knife 
was out of its leather-fringed caribou- 
skin sheath, and he had it in his right 
hand, the dull side of the blade down, 
while with his left he gathered the net 
tighter around the still flopping great 
trout. The wet, dull nose, the staring 
eyes were uppermost. Jack gave a sharp 
rap on the back of the neck two or three 
times repeated, and the king of Profanity 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



215 



Pool, with a long shiver, was still. Then 
with big-handed dexterity he drew back 
the meshes and pulled him out, a splendid, 
shining creature twenty-two inches long. 



Three months later, on a day in Novem- 
ber, a tall young man in good clothes, with 
a clean face and a hat, swung along a 
street uptown in New York City. The 




" State the situation now, Izaak Walton," he commanded. — Page 217. 



The large m'sieur, watching the boy's 
expert work, made a sudden movement. 
** What fly is he on? " he threw at Jack. 

Jack carefully withdrawing the net from 
its twists and double twists around the tail, 
around the leader and the flies, bent swiftly, 
examining. There was the Parmachene 
Belle, tied in a yard or two of wet net-mesh- 
es; there was the Silver Doctor, having 
run in a half-second a complicated course 
through a system of the same and caught 
itself in the snell of the Parmachene. That 
was all. The lad gave a whoop that set 
echoes ringing in the dark hills about Pro- 
fanity Pool and the gully of the little river. 

"Gosh!" shouted Jack, while the large 
m'sieur grinned triumphantly, *'it's the 
Scarlet Ibk!" 



setting and the costume were changed, 
yet a person who might have met the 
bareheaded, gray-shirted, earth-streaked 
woodsman and his guide in the Canadian 
forest in August might still have known 
this correct city character as Jack Vance 
The freedom of the woods had not yet left 
his buoyant heels, nor the breeziness of 
the hills his physiognomy; by these signs 
he was the same. B ut his mind was work- 
ing harder than it had on that morning 
when he and Josef had found the large 
m'sieur fishing by Profanity Pool; his 
eyes were absent-minded and intense; if 
one might have listened to hk thoughts as 
his long pace lifted them and him over the 
pavement, it might be that some such sen- 
tence as this would have come to the light : 



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216 



The Scarlet Ibis 



"Now how in thunder am I to tell if 
that's interstate commerce or if it isn't? " 
Jack was thinking. 

With the same whole-heartedness that 
he had put into his fishing, into his woods- 
craft, the boy had now flung himself into 
the study of the law at that hot-house for 
starting the delicate green sprouts which 
are to grow into trees of justice, the Har- 
vard Law School. He was in New York 
for what he would have described as a 
"bat" of some days, yet his work fer- 
mented in his brain in his holiday. He 
was finding law, as one mostly finds things 
done with all one's might, a joy and de- 
light. Yet for all the fun of it he was 
badly puzzled just now, and anxious as 
well as eager. After exhausting the sources 
of information he needed more light. 

" If I only knew a man who had a prac- 
tical hold on it," his mind went on, 
throwing out tentacles to search for help, 
"an older man — a clever man, a man 
who — " he stopped short; a mind tentacle 
had touched something in the dimness. 
Why had there come to him in a flash the 
familiar feeling of the woods, of fishing, of 
Josef and the little river and — in a flash 
again he had arrived. "Profanity Pool! 
The large m'sieur — Mr. Bradlee ! He said 
he was a railroad man — he said I was to call 
him up and lunch with him; he said if ever 
he could help me about anything he'd do 
it — by the sign of the Scarlet Ibis. Ginger ! 
I'm glad I thought of him. The very 
chap!" 

He dashed into a drug store and rushed 
to the telephone booth. Here he was — 
Bradlee — W. R. H. — that was the man. 
Wall Street — ^yes. And he took down the 
receiver and gave a number. It was a 
bit roundabout getting Mr. Bradlee. It 
seemed that the approach to him was 
guarded by an army of clerks and secre- 
taries. 

" He must think he's mighty precious, " 
Jack complained to himself. 

One must send a name — "Mr. Vance," 
Jack said simply. So that when at last a 
voice out of the long wire was speaking, 
the words "Yes — this is Mr. Bradlee," 
came with impersonal iciness. But Jack 
was not given to being snubbed ; his the- 
ory of the friendliness of mankind pre- 
vented that, along with other discomforts. 
"Oh, hello, Mr. Bradlee," he threw back 



eagerly. "I hope I'm not butting into 
business. This is Jack Vance. " 

"Who?" The chilly tone was a bit 
impatient. 

"Jack Vance — of the Montagnard 
Club — ^we went fishing — don't you re- 
member " 

The identification was cut short by a 
shout at the other end of the telephone in 
which there was no iciness or impatience 
at all. "Oh — Jack Vance — why, Great 
Scott, boy, it's you, is it? I'm delighted 
to hear your voice. I was thinking about 
you yesterday and of how you fell down 
on the fly question. The Scarlet Ibis was 
crude, was it? What have you got to say 
about that now?" 

Jack's great pealing laughter went down 
the telephone wires in response. "You 
certainly pasted me on that, sir," he 
agreed cheerfully, and then, "1 want to 
know if I can bother you with a question 
or two about railroads, " he began, and ex- 
plained the situation briefly. He had been 
assigned to argue a case in one of the moot 
courts — the mock trials of the students — 
of the law school; it was his first case; he 
wanted to win it " the worst way " ; he was 
at a stand-still about a railroad question ; 
he needed the point of view of a practical 
experience. 

"You're a railroad man, aren't you, 
sir?" Jack asked. 

There was a second's hesitation at the 
other end of the wire, and the answer came 
as if the speaker were smiling. "Well, 
yes— I'm called that." And Mr. Brad- 
lee's friendly voice went on: "Tell you 
what, my son — we can't discuss law over 
the telephone. Will you come down to 
lunch to-morrow at the Lawyers' Club?" 

"Why, I'd simply love to do it, thank 
you," Jack agreed joyfully. 

"Good. One o'clock. Come to my 
office. Possibly I may find — somebody 
who will help me advise you. We've got 
to win that case if it takes a leg — it's a sort 
of Scarlet Ibis case, I consider, you see. " 
And with light-hearted laughter again at 
both ends of the wire the telephone was 
hung up. 

Promptly at one next day a tall young 
man of fresh color was handed along with 
distinguished courtesy from one to another 
of such an array of officials as guards the 
valuable time of magnates in great offices. 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



217 



"Gee!" remarked Jack casually as he 
landed at last in the private office and the 
very presence of Mr. Bradlee. " Gee, this 
is *some' different from Adelard Martel 
and the tent, isn't it, Mr. Bradlee?" 

On the wall of the office, in a frame be- 
hind a bulging glass, himg one of the ugli- 
est and one of the most satisfactory per- 
sonal possessions which earth affords, a 
trophy trout set up by experts. Its 
weight, five and three-quarter pounds, 
was marked clearly in a comer, above the 
date, August 7, 19 — . Hooked in the grim 
black mouth gleamed a red fly. This work 
of art was examined, criticised, and ap- 
preciated by the visitor before he took 
his way with his host through the swarm- 
ing life of downtown to the great Equit- 
able Building which held the famous club 
restaurant. 

Three men were waiting in the reading- 
room as the two went in, three grizzled, 
imp)ortant personages, who rose up and 
greeted Jack's large m'sieur as one en- 
titled to consideration. 

" I want to present Mr. Vance to you," 
said Bradlee. " Mr. Howell — ^Judge Car- 
roll—Mr. Fitzhugh." 

And Jack, gripping the hands held out 
with his friendly, bone-breaking hand- 
clasp, failed to see the wonder at his 
youth on the men's faces, for the wonder 
in his own mind that the large m'sieur 
had found him worthy to meet these bully 
old chaps, who were quite evidently some- 
bodys. Somebodys — who? He wondered 
further. Shortly he found out. 

" I asked you three here," Bradlee be- 
gan, waving a comprehensive oyster fork, 
" to meet Mr. Vance, for a purpose." 

A bar of red crept up the clear brown of 
the boy's cheeks. He had not realized 
that these dignified persons had come to 
meet him ! He would have described him- 
self as "rattled." 

Bradlee went on: "It will advance the 
purpose if I mention who you all are. 
Jack, Mr. Howell is the president of the 
I. S. I. & O. Z. D.; Judge Carroll, whom 
I luckily caught in town for the day, is 
on the interstate Commerce Commission; 
and Mr. Fitzhugh is general counsel of 
four railways in the West and South. If 
anybody knowswhat you want to find out, 
these gentlemen do." 

"Holy mackerel!" said Jack simply. 
Vol. LII.— 25 



and flushed scarlet having said it, and 
murmured etiquettically something about 
"Certainly am mighty grateful." But 
the four, at the awe in the tone, at the un- 
tranmielled expletive, at something win- 
ning and indescribable in the lad's em- 
barrassment, broke into sudden laughter, 
and Bradlee, well pleased, knew that the 
charm which he had felt in the youngster 
was working. With that he was telling, 
what most men like to hear, a fish story — 
the story of the Scarlet Ibis. Plenty of 
raps for his autocratic ways the boy got as 
the large m'sieur told the tale, and once or 
twice the deep-toned young laughter rang 
out in a shout which made people all over 
the dining-room turn and stare and smile. 
Jack did not see that, but the elder men 
saw, and laughed too, and loved the boy 
for it, as older men do love youth and un- 
consciousness and joy of living. 

"So you see," Mr. Bradlee finished, 
"Izaak Walton Vance slipped up on the 
fly and the humble scholar guessed right. 
But the lad gave me the best time I've 
had for twenty years, bar none, and he 
taught me how to fish — I consider that 
worth anywhere from ten to forty million. 
So I'm his debtor to a large amount, and I 
want you three gentlemen to help me to 
pay an instalment on my debt. I want 
you to help the boy win his case in his 
moot court up at the Harvard Law School. 
That's what you're here for." 

" Si>eaking for myself, it will be a pleas- 
ure if I can help Mr. Vance," Fitzhugh 
enunciated with elaborate Southern cour- 
tesy. "And speaking for people in gen- 
eral, they certainly are likely to do what 
Billion Bradlee asks." 

The lad swung about and flashed a 
startled look at his host. " Are you — " he 
began and stopped. 

Bradlee frowned slightly. "You've 
heard my nickname, I see," he said. "You 
didn't place me before?" 

"Place you — well, I just didn't, sir," 
Jack smiled broadly. "You know, I 
thought you were so darned extravagant 
about that Leonard rod." And Bradlee 
smiled too, pleased with the comrade-like 
confidence. He laid a fatherly hand on 
Jack's arm. 

"State the situation now, Izaak Wal- 
ton," he commanded. 

So Jack, stammering a bit at first, for- 



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getting himself soon, and launching out 
into a perfectly regardless wealth of law 
language which flowed quaintly from his 
yoimg mouth, set forth his case. There 
was a small railroad, it appeared, running 
twelve miles, from Skaneateles to Skane- 
ateles Junction, wholly within the State. 
At Skaneateles the road joins the New 
York Central. A train was made up at 
Skaneateles, consisting of engine, tender, 
caboose, four local freight cars, and one 
freight car billed through to Chicago, via 
New York Central and Lake Shore. A 
brakeman on this train was injured be- 
tween Skaneateles and Skaneateles Junc- 
tion by the negligence of the raUroad 
company, but also because of his own 
negligence. 

"You see," finished Jack, addressing 
the great railway magnates and the in- 
terstate commerce conunissioner as man 
to man, "the question to be settled is 
whether that small road is engaged in 
interstate commerce, so that the brake- 
man may recover in an action against it 
in spite of his contributory negligence." 

Billion Bradlee, whose nod shook Wall 
Street; Judge Carroll, who, with his asso- 
ciates, decided every day vast questions 
of national conmierce, and the two power- 
ful railway men listened with careful at- 
tention. The four pair of keen eyes were 
fixed on the boy's face. The boy went on. 
His whole personality was focussed now 
on his argument, and though in the vague 
margin of consciousness there might have 
been a knowledge of the incongruity be- 
tween such an audience and a case in a 
law school moot court, yet the glow of 
his intense interest in his affair reduced 
such thoughts to a dim fringe. The boy 
went on, unembarrassed, throwing his free 
power into his statement. 

"You see, sir — ^you see, Judge Carroll, 
the act of 1898 speaks of 'common car- 
riers by railroads, while engaged in com- 
merce between any of the States, ' being 
liable to any employee for injuries while 
'employed by such carrier in such com- 
merce.' The fact of contributory negli- 
gence does not bar a recovery in such 
actions." 

Conway Fitzhugh, who handled rail- 
roads in three States, spoke consideringly. 
" It's an interesting question. I believe it 
has never been decided, " he said, and the 



president of the I. S. I. & O. Z. D. fol- 
lowed him up quickly. 

"Possibly there has been no final test 
case. But if such a position as Mr. Vance 
sets forth is maintained — if the brake- 
man could recover — then there is no such 
thing as the domestic trade of a State. 
Congress may take the entire control of 
the commerce of the coimtry. " 

Bradlee, leaning back in his chair, laid 
down his knife and fork, and the perfectly 
cooked bird on his plate was left imtasted. 
His keen blue glance swept across the 
table to Jack's face. Jack, bright-eyed, 
flushed, slashed off a manful bit of part- 
ridge and stowed it away before he an- 
swered. 

"There's that view of it, sir, of course, " 
he answered the mighty Howell respect- 
fully but firmly — and Bradlee chuckled. 
He remembered a fishing lesson up a little 
lost river and the odd sensation of being 
talked to as a novice. He wondered how 
Howell would take these fearless tactics. 
The lad went on: "But there's a good 
deal of authority on the other side. *The 
Constitution gives Congress plenary pow- 
er to regulate interstate commerce,' you 
see — doesn't it, Judge Carroll? I think 
that's a quotation from one of your opin- 
ions, sir. And you may use the analogy 
of the Safety Appliance act — under that it 
has been held that a railroad wholly with- 
in a State, not even touching the boun- 
dary line, may be engaged in interstate 
traffic. Then there wa§ an example — ^let's 
see — what was that? — it was a perfect 
peach," mused Jack, and the four dig- 
nitaries waited, regarded him seriously. 
"Oh, yes — I know," he flashed at them 
joyfully. " You'll remember this of course, 
Judge Carroll. The Senate was monkey- 
ing with the question — I mean to say, the 
question arose in the Senate. Senator 
Bacon supposed a case — he said, take a 
purely local train from Richmond to 
Alexandria. Clearly that train would not 
be engaged in interstate commerce. A 
trainman injured must sue imder the 
Virginia law. Now suppose a man at 
Orange Court House puts on a box of 
cigars consigned to Baltimore — does that 
immediately change the character of the 
train? After that may a trainman injured 
sue under the United States act? Senator 
Dolliver seemed to believe he could." 



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The Scarlet Ibis 



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With that there was a battle of the 
gods. Even Bradlee dropped his specta- 
tor's attitude and descended into the 
arena, for the point was one which held a 
vital interest for each of the four and the 
lad had opened the ball with a dance of 
distinguished authorities. Moreover, he 
had the literature of the question at his 
fingers* ends, and his shining spear, bright 
and new, flashed back and forth in the 
thick of the fray so readily, so accurately, 
that no thought of difference in age en- 
tered the minds of the older men any 
more than it did his own. It was sugges- 
tive of certain remarks of Kipling's call- 
ing attention to the fact that 

'* There is neither East nor West nor border nor 
breed nor birth 
When two strong men meet face to face though 
they come from the ends of the earth." 

So the four captains of industry, men 
at the very crest of international careers, 
and the lad not yet at the beginning of 
his career, bringing only his eager brain 
and hard-won young knowledge and tre- 
mendous impulse of his enthusiasm, de- 
bated together as equals and gave and 
took pleasure and strength. And the boy 
soaked in experience and ideas at every 
delighted pore. Till at last the lunch was 
over, and Jack, due at an engagement, 
had to leave before the grandees, and 
stood up to say good-by. In his manly, 
boyish way he expressed his appreciation 
of their help, and as he towered above 
them all in his young vigor and bright good 
looks, each one felt, perhaps, that he had 
unconsciously given as much as he had 
gotten, and that an impulse of generous 
new life had swept like a rushing wind into 
the world-wora minds from his contact. 

"I can't begin to thank you, sir," he 
said, his hand in his host's and Bradlee's 
arm across his shoulder half-caressingly. 
" I can't possibly tell you how I've en- 
joyed it. It's been simply great. I — I've 
never had such a bully time in my life," 
he exploded, and the others laughed quiet 
little laughs of older men, but their eyes 
were very friendly as they looked at him. 

"We shall be interested to hear if you 
win your case, " the mighty autocrat How- 
ell said. "Bradlee must let us know." 

"Send me a telegram, Jack," ordered 
Bradlee. 



"I sure will," promised Jack heartily, 
"if you'd like it, sir," and, flushed and 
radiant and smiling, was gone. 

About four o'clock the door in Jim 
Fletcher's room uptown — where a club 
of three law students held their meetings 
for study, and where the confrere from 
Cambridge was expected this afternoon 
to battle with them over a special ques- 
tion — opened and three bent heads lifted 
from a table littered with papers and legal- 
looking volumes to regard Jack Vance. 

"Come in," Fletcher threw at him. 
"You're late. We're half through. What 
are you grinning about?" 

Jack shut the door inside with an air 
of reserved electricity which arrested the 
workers at the table. He came and stood 
over them and they all stared up at him; 
there appeared to be something to wait 
for. 

"Gee!" spoke Jack at last. "Guess 
whom I've been lunching with." 

Carl Harrison drew a law book toward 
him. " Don't care, " he stated with disap- 
proval. " Get to work, Jack; we've got a 
tough one on to-day. " But Joe Lewis and 
Jim were interested. 

"What's up?" Joe asked. "Get it out 
of your system, Johnny. Who?" 

Jack stuck a thumb in each waistcoat 
pocket and looked "chesty." "Oh," he 
flimg at them casually with his lips pursed 
and his eyes dancing. " Nothing uncom- 
mon. I simply lunched at the Lawyers' 
Club downtown with four of me pals — 
Billion Bradlee — W. R. H., you know, 
the railroad king, and Judge Carroll of 
the Interstate Commerce Commission, 
and the president of the I. S. I. & O. Z. D., 
Mr. Howell, and Conway Fitzhugh, the 
Southern railway magnate — ^just us five, 
that's all. We had some business to talk 
over. " 

And Jack, grinning consumedly, agitat- 
ing his fingers from the thumb fulcrums, 
posing his slim figure as near as might be 
to resemble a bay-windowed alderman, 
grinned more and watched the effect. 

"Come off," responded Jim Fletcher. 

"Stop your monkey-shines," said Carl. 

But Joe Lewis asked curiously, "What 
do you mean. Jack? Give us straight 
dope." 

And with that Jack, chuckling very 
much, told the tale, to the wonder and 



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amusement and awe of the three lads. 
And then, with a dizzying shift from boy- 
ishness to the stress of the battle of life, 
the shouts of laughter and light-hearted 
chafling stopped short, and the four bent, 
grave and responsible, over the law books, 
and the work of the day went on. 

And the days went on and the Harvard 
Law School and its events went on, vary- 
ing from mere recitations to trials in the 
moot courts, till a Thursday came, three 
weeks after the luncheon at the Lawyers' 
Club. There was an important meeting 
that day in the impressive oflSces of W. 
R. H. Bradlee. People had travelled from 
long distances to that meeting; there was 
a man there from Texas, and. Hugh 
Arkendale had come from San Francisco 
on purpose, and Conway Fitzhugh had 
left his home in New Orleans two days 
before for it. Bradlee, opening the meet- 
ing, was making a short speech setting 
forth its purpose and importance. He had 
just begun when a rap came at the door. 
Every one looked up in astonishment; 
these men were as imaccustomed to being 
interrupted in their councils as the gods 
of Olympus. 

" Come, " thundered Bradlee in a terri- 
ble voice, and an alarmed clerk slid hur- 
riedly in and held out a telegram. 

"Orders'* — he murmured — "any mes- 
sage from" — and the name was a gurgle 
and the clerk bolted. 

Billion Bradlee flopped the paper open, 
and then, as if a bar of rollicking sunlight 
had broken into the dull atmosphere, his 
face lit up, as he read it, with a smile, a 
most unfitting smile. His clear, keen blue 
eyes flashed about the company a second, 
and then, like a boy, quite unlike a great 



financier plying his mighty trade, he tossed 
the yellow scrap to Fitzhugh. 

"Good news," he spoke — ^he was shak- 
ing a bit with inward laughter, it seemed. 
"Read that, Conway." 

The bald-headed general counsel of 
four railwa)rs put on his glasses, while the 
rest of the august company watched him 
and waited curiously. With careful, de- 
liberate enimciation, in a business-like 
tone and manner, the general counsel 
read aloud — a picked company of the 
most important men in America listening 
— these somewhat bewildering words: 

"Landed my trout Scarlet Ibis top of 
the heap glory be won every blamed 
thing sure am grateful to you and high 
mucky-mucks kindly pass on thanks and 
accept most. J. C. Vance." 

There was a momentary astonishment 
on the face of Conway Fitzhugh as he 
stared over the yellow paper at Bradlee; 
the varied expressions of surprise on the 
dozen faces of the other men were a psy- 
chological assortment; Fitzhugh suddenly 
arrived with a jostle of quick laughter. 

"Oh — that boy!" he said, and handed 
the telegram back across the table. " That 
delightful boy — I'm glad he won his case. 
Give him my congratulations." 

"A youngster — a friend of mine — and 
of Fitzhugh *s — " Bradlee explained 
vaguely to no one in particular, but the 
smile and the look of clean pleasure were 
still there, and every one felt at once as if 
a draught of sweet air had found its way 
into the room and had refreshed them. 

"Now, gentlemen," said W. R. H. 
Bradlee, "as I was saying " 




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IN THE WAKE OF WILLIAM TELL 
By Marion Hill 

Illustrations by Worth Brehm 




IE longer Kenneth went to 
school the surer he became 
of the fact that his dear 
mother knew nothing at all, 
or next to it. This was a 
saddening discovery for a 
loving little boy to make of a nice lady. 

And, except for her poverty of mind, 
she was nice — quite a credit to him, never 
arraying herself in shawls and invading the 
startled class room to talk loudly to the 
teacher either for or against him, which 
was the sort of nervous parent some boys 
sufiFered from ; but always stayed at home 
where ladies belonged and wore pretty and 
perfumy dresses. 

As loyal as he was loving, Kenneth hated 
to humiliate her by correcting her, but 
sometimes she left him no escape. As now. 

"Why don't you do your ciphering on 
your slate?" she asked. 

"What's ciphering?" he counter-ques- 
tioned hopefully. This might prove a loop- 
hole. She looked so intelligent sitting 
there sewing in the simny, flower-potted 
window of her room! 

"Arithmetic." 

Kenneth twisted uncomfortably. The 
issue was upon him. 

"We do number-work," was his gentle 
accusation. 

Instead of flinching imder this censure, 
she bit off a thread end very unconcernedly. 
Those thread ends added to his worry. 
Was she lined inside like a bird's nest? 

"Number-work, then," she admitted, 
smiling. She was so disarmingly pretty 
when she smiled that she could have 
stopped right there with honors. Instead, 
she added dementedly, " Just another name 
forthesame things— addition,subtraction, 
multiplication, and division ." 
• Cobwebs of ignorance for the broom of 
his knowledge to sweep down. 

"It's put-togethers," he elucidated. 
"And take-aways. And timeses. And 
goes-intos." 



Was she glad to be taught? Her ap- 
pearance gave no sign. She merely kept 
on poling the needle into unseen button 
and miraculously hitting the holes, too. 
So Kenneth made ready to glide down- 
stairs to Minna in the kitchen— he smelled 
gingerbread — but he administered a part- 
ing bit of information at the sewing-room 
door: 

"And only the babies use slates. We 
use pads." He then went. 

Minna greeted him with unction and 
cake as usual. She was Irish and ac- 
quisitive. No need to tell Minna any- 
thing. 

"Aha, Kenneth!" was her happy roar 
as, with arms akimbo, she beamed on him 
while he ate as if he were doing some- 
thing very clever indeed. "Is it home 
you are already? Ate, then. For there's 
nothing that empties a boy's stummick 
quicker nor filling his head with lessons 
does. Don't I know that ! " 

It seemed she did, for slice followed 
slice. Under the warm, thick soothing- 
ness of gingerbread, Kenneth forgot his 
mother's ignorance — till next time. When 
this is what she said: 

" Won't you bring home your copybook 
some night, for me to see?" 

Copybook! My goodness! 

Kenneth patiently explained in words 
of one syllable that copybooks were the 
banished relics of a faulty past, that they 
had perished with the mastodon and cave 
man, that nowadays a little boy used 
specimen sheets, and that specimen sheets 
never went home, but were kept at the 
principal's ofl5ce, except when a particu- 
larly nice one was pinned up on the class- 
room door to be an honor and example to 
all within. And at this his cheek glowed 
modestly. 

She was at least intuitive, asking joy- 
ously, "Is yours pinned up?" 

" Yes,"he admitted, growing hotter and 
gladder. 



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Privately, he couldn't help but be 
pleased that there was one good writer in 
their family, for her penmanship was cer- 
tainly painful, causing him chills in the 
spine whenever he had to carry a note to 
school. For her t's were never crossed, 
and the dots to her i's spattered just any- 
where. 

Later along, she called language, com- 
position. 

Worse and more of it, she insisted upon 
helping him with his examples yet didn't 
know enough to write sum, rem, prod, and 
quo after the results! What these labels 
meant was all a doubt to Kenneth. He 
was sure only of one thing — ^you had to 
have them. If you did a "goes-into" 
without tacking a "quo" to the answer 
you might just as well not have gone-into 
at all, for you were marked wrong. To 
times without a prod was equally disas- 
trous. And take-aways without rems had 
been known to mean ten minutes after 
school. 

Yet his mother said the things weren't 
really needed. H'm. Let any one try to 
tell that to Miss Cutler, the keeper in! 

With a lady abroad making life danger- 
ous by featuring quo's, and a lady at home 
making life equally dangerous by dispar- 
aging them, no wonder Kenneth looked 
forward to the time when he would have 
a man teacher and get rid of damsels in 
the class room. Yet, let him pause to 
consider — would it be pleasant to lose 
Viola Lane? 

This poignant thought came to him 
one day in school when Viola had been 
more than ordinarily entertaining, spell- 
ing worse and wriggling harder than ever 
before. She sat across the aisle from him, 
and one charm of her was that she could 
do more unnecessary things in five min- 
utes than all the rest of the class put to- 
gether. In lessons, she was a " low " girl, 
not "high"; but in prettiness of face and 
garments, Viola was "high" enough to 
suit anybody, even a fastidious soul like 
Kenneth. Viola was so small that her 
outside garment wasn't much more than 
a ribbon frilled to a band with sleeves on 
it, yet it gave Viola as much concern whon 
seating herself as a little dog's tail when it 
goes to lie down and has to turn around 
twenty times first. Neatness rather than 
scholarship was Viola's fad, and during a 



recitation she never did anything very 
much but skim to the waste-basket with 
scraps of paper. 

Miss Cutler said Viola Lane "wore her 
out." 

If true, this spoke volumes in Viola's 
favor, for anybody who could wear out 
Miss Cutler was not only a wonder but a 
blessing. 

Miss Cutler was a heavy weight for a 
class to bear up under, always talking 
about nobility and honor and truth. 

Not that the emoluments of honor were 
to be sneezed at. Fridays, the child 
whose name was "on the roll" got out 
ten minutes ahead of time. To gather 
his book and pencil and then to glide 
glowingly away to freedom with ninety- 
eight admiring eyes upon his sailor collar 
was the pride of Kenneth's careful life; 
for his name was always on the roll. 

A wonderfully eye-filling thing, this 
Roll of Honor, occupying one whole cor- 
ner of the black-board, and being repre- 
sented by a drawing of a kind of a sheet 
on a pole surmounted by the American 
eagle. The fine affair had been sketched 
by Billy Quigg, class Michael Angelo, 
aged eight. Billy had done it with skill 
and seven different colored chalks. The 
eagle looked a bit like a chicken getting 
over a fit of epilepsy, and the writhing 
ribbon in his mouth bearing the legend 
E Pluribus Unum had every appearance 
of a worm he feared to swallow until en- 
tirely well; yet the whole general effect 
was inspiring. 

Kenneth Underwood — that's what it 
said. To see how much room he took up 
always gave Kenneth a thrill of happy hor- 
ror. And to be pointed out to whispering 
visitors as the owner of the name always 
gave him a thrill of horrible happiness. 

But the mechanics of honor as prac- 
tised daily in the class gave him, and 
everybody else, horror alone without the 
element of happiness either before or after. 

Just now they were being told about 
Androclus and the lion. To be told tales 
was soothing. Sitting idly in one's seat 
and being filled up with language, instead 
of standing wretchedly in the aisle and 
unloading one's self of it, was to be borne. 
The unbearable part was this: 
. "Now repeat the story in your owr 
words," at which blood-curdling conclu- 



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In the Wake of William Tell 



223 



sion Miss Cutler stabbed her finger at one 
victim after another, who had to get up 
at once and put his foot in it. 

Androclus and the lion both being gen- 
tlemen, the he's gambolled through the 
retold narra ive very mixingly. A lis- 
tener had to know the story from A to 
Izzard in order to tell which of the charac- 
ters was at work. 

"And he growled and lashed his tail 
which softened his heart," finished Ken- 
neth, weak but sparring bravely. "So, 
when he roared, he struck his brow and 
asked himself, * Shall this poor beast suf- 
fer? ' When he growled again. Then he 
with his own hands pulled out the thorn. 
This made him lick his paw and thank 
him with his gently moving tail. So he 
smiled. Then he crouched at his feet. 
And he said, 'Oh, beast, thou art kinder 
than is man.'" 

Kenneth sat down shattered. Could 
there be any tortiure worse than "repro- 
ducing orally"? There could. There 
was. 

While the last mart3rr was trickling 
forth he's. Miss Cutler tore folds of 
writing paper into sinister neat squares. 
Gloomily every desk was cleared except 
for a pen, and all too soon an eye-smiting 
white square reposed on the top of each, 
like a storm signal. Which it turned out 
to be. 

"Write the story," ordered Miss Cutler 
heartlessly. Then, in icy response to the 
awful appeal for help which showed in 
every eye, "Why, start with your title. 
Put down 'Androclus and the Lion.' 
And" — more icily still — "remember your 
capitals and periods." 

Why theirs? Why not hers? She was 
the one who fought about capitals and 
periods, not they. Moreover, this was a 
case where capitals and periods were not 
the trouble. Spelling was the trouble. 
"Lion" was bad enough to stumble over 
without coming a cropper like "Andro- 
clus." 

With his half-hundred suffering mates, 
Kenneth clutched his pen and bent per- 
spiringly over the paper. 

Viola Lane was the first to straighten up. 
She was charmingly rapid with the pen. 
She could scratch it along at a great rate. 
Her proficiency as a speedist had once led 
her to being permitted to go to the board 



to drill spectacularly on M's, copying for 
the class this message: "Many Men of 
Many Minds." And before Miss Cutler 
could reach the spot, Viola had succeeded 
in putting down six times "Many Meny 
of Man Mings." Viola loved the gym- 
nasties of penmanship rather than the 
mentality back of it, so no wonder Ken- 
neth wavered his lashes at her doubtfully 
in the present crisis. 

Quick and sociable as a wren, Viola 
tipped her paper up for him to see. Her 
achievement was: 

Andorkle an Line, 

This being a confidence of Viola's, Ken- ^ 
neth respected it. He had no time to do 
much else about it, for Billy Quigg was 
performing. In addition to the artistic 
temperament, Billy had the trick of gig- 
gling merrily when in agony. When Billy 
giggled it was almost time for a doctor. 

"Ker-chick, ker-chick," he now went 
in despair. 

"Twenty minutes after school," pre- 
scribed Miss Cutler medicinally. 

Kenneth sympathetically sped a shy, 
long-lashed glance at Billy's paper to find 
out what had frightened him. He found 
it. This: 

Andy Roggles Andy Loin, 

Poor Billy! But Kenneth had no fur- 
ther time to bestow on the misfortunes of 
others." His own were pressing him too 
hard. Trying to keep sane and rely on 
analogies he wrote down: 

Androclus and the Lirn, 

Naturally dubious about the man, he 
felt solid about the beast. For if L-I-R-N 
did not spell lion, then nothing did. The 
story part was easy. Even at that, Ken- 
neth made the statement that the lion 
"waged his tale," and he wasn't talking 
editorially, either. Given leisure, Ken- 
neth could spell both wagged and tail. 
But a pen in a hurry can do some fearful 
things, all by itself, too. 

After the papers were taken up and 
recess mercifully arrived, Sandy McGann 
filled the yard with vociferations about 
the recent outrage. Sandy was, fortu- 
nately, a more desirable boy than he 
looked and sounded. All his life on his 
knees to fate, begging not for his deserts, 
but merely to be let alone, Sandy was 
frayed at the edges and owned a voice 
which was simply a wail. 



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In the Wake of William Tell 



"Fellers, tell me," he implored, his fal- 
setto cutting gashes into the ears, " where 
did they git them softy sort of beast? 
Know that big yaller li-urn out to the park 
zoo? Sposen I tried pickin' thorns from 
him. Say, I can see us. Him a-wavin' 
gently of his tail? No. Me a-sailin' tru 
de air chawed to bits? Yuss. Not enough 
lef ' of me to catterize. An' there ain't no 
other kind of li-um. I don't b'lieve none 
o' her dope. Do you know what I call it? 
I call it punk." 

Which last word put difl&culties in the 
way of Kenneth's repeating Sandy's 
wisdom at home. Kenneth was never al- 
lowed to say punk unless it came around 
on the Fourth of July and cost five cents. 
Having a cash value apparently cured 
punk of its curse. To his father and 
mother, at the tea-table, where he always 
held forth on the day's scholastic doings, 
Kenneth apologized for punk in its pov- 
erty. 

His mother looked depressed. 

"I told Sandy it was a bad word," ex- 
tenuated Kenneth. 

His father looked cheered. Lots of 
things that worry mothers, cheer fathers. 

"What did Sandy say to thank you for 
that?" 

"Said *Bloo-ey, bloo-ey, don't be so 
desprit,' " reported Kenneth faithfully but 
a-squirm. 

"Are we not risking a great deal in 
sending our little lad to a public school?" 
said Kenneth's mother. 

"If it turns him out a Lincoln or a 
Grant we ought to be able to stand the 
disgrace," answered his father. 

* * And Sandy knows more goes-in tos than 
anybody else," contributed Kenneth, a 
fair-play patriot already. 

The outcome of this supper conversa- 
tion was the spread of heroic anecdote to 
the home, for Kenneth's mother opened 
book-covers of an evening and through 
them led him to enchanted lands of 
chivalry. To become a hero was the hope 
of Kenneth's throbbing little heart. 

At school Miss Cutler had dug up the 
best yet — William Tell — who was not 
only a good shot, and easy to spell, but a 
short talker. 

"To kill thee, tyrant, hadst I slain my 
son." 

Who could beat it? 



Kenneth pondered by the hour over 
Tell's excellencies. The many-sidedness 
of them! Fancy being able to think of a 
word like "hadst" all at once, after he 
had already used beauties like " thee " and 
" tyrant," with " slam " yet ahead ! And 
how sure he was of " kill " ! After he had 
previously muffed things to the bitter 
extent of "slajdng" a son from whom he 
had merely wanted to knock an apple, 
wouldn't you think he'd have been afraid 
of reversing affairs again and merely 
knocking an apple off of Gessler instead 
of putting an end to him? But no. Kill. 

"To kSl thee, tyrant, hadst I slain my 
son." 

How brilliant its brevity was! If Ken- 
neth had had to reply to the question 
about the hidden arrow, what could have 
been forthcoming but this rigmarole: 

"I thought I'd better put an extra 
arrow into my blouse before I tried to hit 
the apple off of my little boy's head, so's 
if I'd accidentally killed my little boy, I'd 
have had another arrow handy to fire at 
you, you fierce, bad, wicked man, you." 

Why Gessler would be asleep and snor- 
ing 1 With words as with arrows. Tell was 
a crack shot, and no mistake. Kenneth 
so adored him that Sandy McGann's ti- 
rade actually hurt. 

"Say, fellers, does she take us for dip- 
pies?" he howled, "she" in that tone of 
voice being Miss Cutler, and howling 
being more than ever necessary, so great 
was the seethe and surge in the boys' yard. 
"Tryin' to tell us that back talks work. 
Does they? Look a here. Sposen I have 
a spit ball in me pockut, an' she goes tru 
'em, the way she does, an' finds it, an' 
says, *For what is this?' an' I says, *To 
paste thee, teacher, hast thou keep me 
in.' Then what? Bouquets to me? Me 
a-marchin' out to music? Can you see 
it? I gits keep in, don't I? An hour 
more? Yuss." 

Kenneth refused to imbibe this heresy. 
He might not know as many goes-intos as 
Sandy, but he was a firmer believer in the 
ideal. If heroism was once a thing of 
beauty and honor, so was it to-day; if he- 
roes then walked a path of blossoms and 
laurels, so walked they now. Oh, for a 
chance to be a hero and prove it! 

That opportunity was stalking grimly 
toward him, he mercifully did not know. 



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•* t^t nic hear if yuu have atiyihiiij; lu say fur yuur selves. What have^(?« / " — Page 223. 

Vot« LIT.— 26 



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In the Wake of William Tell 



The yard teacher rang her bell. Its 
intention, and result, was to have the 
bubbling mass of boys stand still and fold 
their arms — all attentively dead except 
for their respirations. In the astonish- 
ing hush which ensued, the little girls in 
the adjoining yard, a high board fence 
between, could be heard still revelling 
in life, laughter, and cackle. Jackstones 
whacked, skipping-ropes thumped. Ken- 
neth had to wrench his mind off this un- 
seen roistering in order to pay strict heed 
to the yard teacher. 

"Boys,'* she an- 
nounced pleasantly 
but with stabs of 
warning, "I must 
leave the yard to 
consult with the 
principal. I expect 
you to behave bet- 
ter than if I were 
still here watching 
you. Remember, I 
leave you on your 
honor." 

She tapped the 
bell again to un- 
limber them, then 
disappeared. 

On his honor or 
off it was all the 
same to Kenneth, 
whose righteous 
mind never har- 
bored any design 
except only to be 

good ; but he was delighted with the effects 
of "on honor*' in the others, for the yard 
suddenly became raving pandemonium, 
very cheerful and uplifting. Plainly, boys 
could do much funnier things on their honor 
than off it. And when Sandy McGann and 
Billy Quigg " shinnied " up the board fence 
and became witty over the top to the little 
girls on the other side, Kenneth adventur- 
ously joined them. Because they were his 
friends. Hiswasastarry-souledDamonand 
Pythias act of devotion. Nobody could 
pretend that a hopping mess of little girls 
was a sigh t worth scraping one's knees for or 
straining one's seams. Would a small per- 
son tug and puff merely to see things that 
would soon enough be in the class room with 
one, wriggling under one's nose, upsetting 
one's ink, borrowing one's sharp pencil? 




Kenneth Underwood. 



Once safely balanced on his ribs, how- 
ever, Kenneth found that his pains paid. 
How delightfully queer and stumpy little 
girls looked when viewed from aloft ! How 
blue and pink and prettily rag-baggy they 
were when bunched! How superior to 
them, and airy, a person felt on a fence! 
And who was this iridescent mosquito 
staring up at Sandy and Billy? ViolaLane. 
" You'll catch it ! " was her rather Sibyl- 
lie utterance. She appeared immensely 
glad about it, too, tUl she happened to 
see Kenneth. Then 
her Satanic glitter 
faded. "Fott'Jbet- 
ter get down," she 
suggested curtly. 

"Why?" asked 
Kenneth. He was 
now more than ever 
comfortable. 

"Because," she 
said, by way of full 
explanation. 

"Why?" he re- 
peated. The mon- 
osyllable was a 
masterly thing, 
being both reply 
and remark. 

When a question 
wasn't lessons, 
Viola never missed. 
"Because it's 
against the rules, " 
she warned. 
"Oh,thenI\aill," 
said Kenneth, shocked in his feelings. 

Simultaneously, too, he was shocked on 
the calf of his unseen, dangling little leg. 
The returned yard teacher had rapped 
it with the handle of her bell. Next, 
Billy ker-chicked. Lastly, Sandy yelped 
"Say I" The dismounting signal was 
doubtless on march. 

Descending from a fence takes less time 

than ascending, but scrapes more. The 

three startled aviators faced their rapper. 

"And I left you on your honor!" she 

said in a voice which spanked. 

Sandy and Billy at once dropped their 
heads and smelled their neckties. But 
Kenneth looked trustfully up, glad to 
have a reassuring thing to say. 

"I never got off my honor, even on the 
fence," he mentioned truly. 



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In the Wake of William Tell 



227 



"Ker-chick!" burst from Billy with 
tragic hopelessness. 

"Disobedience. Impertinence. Lev- 
ity," said the yard teacher, and with these 
three dictionary words on her lips, she led 
them to the region of culprits, which was 
a row of tacks all off by itself. Pass- 
ing them, the rest of the yard marched 
back to the class room. It was odd and 
awful to be out of this, to be standing in 
mental pillory, toeing the tacks of ostra- 
cism. 

Culprits had to fold their arms, more- 
over. Kenneth's were so chubby and 
short that they hardly clasped his chest 
even in the best of times. And this was 
one of the worst. In line with his two 
slouching companions, he stood straight 
and bravely, but his legs had that soft- 
boiled, inadequate feeling that they had 
in dreams when wild animals were coming, 
and a good sensible nm refused to occur. 



" If Miss Cutler tries any monkey- work 
with me, know what I'll do?" asked BOly 
sternly — Billy, usually so meek! 





Billy Quigg. 

"Bloo-ey!" bluffed Sandy. "Who's 
skeered?" 

"I am," said Kenneth. How could he 
say otherwise? He was. 

"Wotyerskeeredof?" 

"I don't know," confessed Kenneth. 
Which was just the trouble. During the 
brief moment that they were alone in the 
silent, cavernous yard, Sandy and Billy 
grew blithely loquacious. 



Sandy McGann. 

" Naw. Wot? " queried Sandy with in- 
terest. 

"Grab my cap and beat it. What'U 
you do?" 

Sandy ruminated senatorially. "Tell 
her to quit gettin' gay an' go on wid her 
school," was his majestic sentence. He 
had the elements of the politician about 
him even then. "Wot'U you do?" was 
his boss-like demand of Kenneth. 

"Why, I don't know," said Kenneth 
faintly. Do? Was he expected to " do " ? 
Wasn't he suffering enough merely by 
being done unto? 

Here a smugly virtuous classmate tip- 
toed toward them and beckoned them to 
follow him back to the room. They were 
soon there, but not safely in their desks. 
They were lined fatefully up in front of 
Miss Cutler's platform which, frankly, 
was ten sizes too small for the state of 
" mad " she was in. Their conduct — this 
she hurled at them — had bankrupted the 
credit of the class, had blackened its fame, 
had outraged their classmates, had in- 
sulted their aspiring teacher. 

The tirade was so long and fierce that 
Kenneth's polite attention, reaching sat- 
uration point, soon peacefully wandered. 
There was Viola Lane, for instance. 



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In the Wake of William Tell 



She had taken out her ink-well, had art- 
fully introduced a bottle of water under 
the hole and into it was " planting " a cab- 
bagy pink rose. To have a real live rose 
tOting head-first into the aisle was a 
scheme both new and good. No wonder 
Viola was occupied with it. The rest of 
the children had eyes and ears for no 
other enjoyment than the witch burning 
that was going on up in front. Viola ap- 
parently was deaf and blind to the 
crackle and glare of the flames. 

" Now, before I punish you severely as 
you deserve, " concluded Miss Cutler fe- 
rociously to the three criminals, "let me 
hear if you have anything to say for your- 
selves. What have you ? " her finger men- 
aced Sandy McGann's brains like a revol- 
ver ready to go off. 

"Nuthin'," miunbled the boss abste- 
miously. 

"Thought not. You,'' Billy's artis- 
tic storehouse was threatened next. 

Billy went palely to his doom in merry 
delirium. "Ker-chick! /iTer-chick! Ker- 
ckickr 

" It will be a little less fimny presently. 
You:' 

So close to Kenneth's soft brown bang 
came the loaded pistol that his eyes all 
but crossed trying to look at it respect- 
fully. 

" I did not know it was breaking rules 
to climb the fence," he said, spiking, 
as he thought, the truth to set him free. 
Fear had died. Back of Kenneth was a 
race of men who believed in the gentle 
justice of woman. 

" When I'm through with you, you vnll 
know," said this one. 

WTiy, he manifestly knew already. 
What need to be "through," with him? 
And, at this slow-coming thought, his 
small hands gripped the air and his chin 
hardened — his word had covertly been 
given the lie. 

^'And Kenneth Underwood didnH T' 
This unexpected championship hurtled 
through the air like a bomb. It came hotly 
fromViola Lane,who stood fearlessly in the 
aisle, her small mouth buttoned smaller 
than ever, her big eyes opened bigger than 
ever. 

" I need no assistance from a child who 
hasn't learned her three table," said Miss 
Cutler. "Sit down/' 



Viola sat down. Her three table was 
frightful. Three times nothing's three — 
that's as far as she knew with any cer- 
tainty. 

Kenneth grew quietly to see through 
and dislike Miss Cutler, for Miss Cutler 
evidently did not need the assistance of a 
child who had learned her three table. 
Miss Cutler merely wanted to be impo- 
lite. 

Nor was Miss Cutler a lady. WTiat she 
proceeded to do to Sandy and poor Billy 
proved this. Pity for them, shame for her, 
kept Kenneth from anticipating. And 
then came his twm. At the end he felt 
himself hauled through the atmo^here 
by his inmiaculate little coat collar and 
dangled derisively in front of the Roll ot 
Honor. 

"A pretty specimen to be there /" clari- 
oned Miss Cutler. With a swoop of the 
board eraser she wiped his name from 
sight Then she let go of him. "Now 
take your seat. " 

WTiile recovering his footing, he saw 
much de\'astation about himself — his 
brown suit abused, his silk tie loosened, 
his anchor-shield askew, his arm chev- 
ron twisted, his modest little undershirt 
horribly showing from imder one crushed 
cuff — he hardly knew himself. Was he 
Kenneth? — loved of his mother, hugged of 
his father, petted of Minna? His heart 
suddenly swelled to man's size. Con- 
quering dizziness and faintness, he started 
for the door. 

" Come back ! I said take your seat ! " 

" I am going home, " said Kenneth. "To 
my — my — mother, " 

The tender word nearly undid him. 
The silence in the startled room pounded 
in his ears like engines. Miss Cutler 
started for him. Almost anything might 
have happened. But the child who didn't 
know her three table knew something 
better. She hopped capably to the fore, 
tweaked Kenneth's blouse straight, thrust 
his anchor into his palpitating bosom, 
|K)ked his undershirt to proper retirement 
— all in the twinkling of an eye — ^and 
rammed Kenneth safely behind his desk. 
Then she whisked her skirts sidewa3rs to 
her perfect maidenly satisfaction and sub- 
sided into her own. And spelling b^an. 

Not that the afternoon's proceedings 
mattered to Kenneth. He had quietly 



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' _ t 



" Coming back day after to-morrow ? " — Page ^30. 



done with the whole thing. He felt like a 
visitor — a rather sick one, too. Miss Cut- 
ler told him once to take a drink of water. 
She seemed solicitous about him. Well, it 
was too late for that. He was no longer 



a member of her class. When dismissal 
time came, Kenneth trod the streets with 
his entire belongings humped up under 
one arm, even his ruler. When a person's 
ruler goes home it is moving day indeed. 

229 



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230 



In the Wake of William Tell 



"Why, you aren't comin' back!" in- 
terpreted Sandy, worship in his tones. 

"No," said Kenneth. "William Tell 
couldn't stand it. And I can't, either." 

He was the centre of an admiring circle. 
Even the girls hung around. 

"Whist I had your spunk," said pale 
Billy tributively. 

" Stickitout,"implored Sandy. " Don't 
be no welcher. Stick." 

"Stick" was the only intelligible ele- 
gance in this speech; so Kenneth replied 
to it. 

"I intend to," he promised, pride and 
gentleness making his voice tremble. As 
if William Tell could turn coward and 
kneel to Gessler's cap after all! 

"Coming back day after to-morrow?" 
asked Viola. Her dot of a face was a 
study in mysticism. She evidently wanted 
a certain reply and wanted it badly, but 
gave no sign. Gladly would he have given 
her what she wanted if he only knew. 
There was nothing for it but the truth. 

" No," he said. And — ^wonderful ! — the 
truth turned out to be her need. 

"That's the talk," she said trium- 
phantly. "Here." Attheword,sheshoved 
the rose into his embarrassed hand and 
skipped away. 

Kenneth went home with a retinue — 
one carried his books, one his ruler, an- 
other his pencils, leaving him nothing 
but the cabbagy rose. All fought shy of 
that. Except that it was a sacramental 
kind of cabbage, there'd have been jeers. 
A girl has no business to bedeck you flor- 
ally. 

When he got into the house he found 
his mother gone. Why, he couldn't for- 
ever walk around jabbing a rose into 
space! What to do with it? An inheri- 
tance from his dear father came to his res- 
cue — he would be helped out and be a be- 
stower — all in one beautiful scoop. So he 
donated the rose to Minna. 

"Thegintlemanlylittleboyyearre!"she 
roared gratefully, and presen t ed him with a 
slab of spice cake as wide as a geography. 

His honest hand drew back. 

" I did not want the rose, " he confessed. 

"Ye didn't? Oidoes!" As the bellow 
was undiminished in happiness, he ate the 
cake. 

In the drastic fun of making cookies 
with her all afternoon, he quite forgot 



the hero situation till school time next 
morning. 

When his mother glanced meaningly at 
the clock, his remembering heart gave a 
leap of pride and glee. 

" I'm not going, " he explained. " I'm 
being a hero instead. " 

Then, bit bybit,hetold the wholebludi- 
ing, wretched story. The amusement on 
his mother's face faded. When he came 
to the account of his punishment, her eyes 
blazed through tears. 

"OA/" she cried sobbingly; then 
dropped to her knees on the floor beside 
him and wrapped her arms protectingly 
aroimd him. 

"It's all right now," he consoled, pat- 
ting her on the shoulder. " It made a hero 
out of me, and I'm never going back. " 

Without getting up from the floor, she 
clasped her hands in her lap and thought 
things out. It was dreadful to see tear- 
marks on her face. Yet it was a trifle 
worse to see a smile gradually come. 
When a big person smiles at your trouble, 
you're done for. 

"Little son," she said at length, "run 
off to school, dear. For you must go 
back. I'm sorry you were pimished. But 
you broke a rule, you know. Forget it all 
now, and run off. " 

Forget it? Be a traitor? Did she know 
his whole world was banking on his fidel- 
ity? 

"Why, William Tell wouldn't; could- 
n't, " he stammered, pleading desperately. 
The words were poor, but they were all he 
could muster. 

Yet she seemed to understand, and 
again thought deeply. Then: 

"Kenneth," her eyes smiling levelly 
into his, " what is heroism? " 

What was it? Why, in anecdotes, if it 
was anything at all it was doing exactly as 
you pleased. But she gave him no chance 
to say so; she quickly made up an answer 
of her own. 

"Heroism, Kenneth, is doing the hard- 
est thing in the world because it is right. 
Your hardest thing, just now, is going 
back to school. Not the staying, but the 
going, will prove you a hero. So go. " 

It had a decently noble sound and he 
reached for his cap and books. Next, 
Reason, that murderer of dreams, gave 
him a setback. 



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The Trial at Ravello 



231 



" But theyll call me a coward ! '' The 
ringing words were prophecy. 

She knew it, too. Her smiling glance 
wavered. Were the tears again shining? 
"My little boy, my little boy," she whis- 
pered. Had he stumped her? If so, vic- 
tory. But — no. It is not so easy to stump 
a mother. Rather, they won't stay 
stumped. 

"Kenneth," she announced, so conclu- 
sively that his heart died; "unless the 
boys do call you a coward — " 

" — and the girls; " he flung in passion- 
ately. (Viola, Viola!) 

" — the going back wonH be the hard- 
est thing in the world. When they call 
you a coward, my baby, then you are a 
hero. Remember it ! " 

Oh, what use to argue! What had she 
ever known about school? 

She put his cap upon his downcast 



head. He laggingly took his books. The 
ruler quite made faces at him. No won- 
der it jeered. So this dingy, slinking, 
crawling set-out was heroism! Who 
would have thought it? What about the 
flags? the music? the applause? Evidently 
such things never came aroimd till long, 
long afterward. 

There was something in this last idea 
which held a crumb of comfort. He tried 
to impart it. But he had not much time. 
He was already at the door, waving good- 
by to his mother — still on the floor. 

"I guess a hero's got to be — " He 
paused. How slippery an idea becomes 
when its author tries to tie it down in 
words! 

" — has to be — what, dear?" encour- 
aged his mother, her face brighter. She 
happily stood up. 

"Z>efl</," explained Kenneth, cheering. 



THE TRIAL AT RAVELLO 

By Alice Brown 
Illustrations by Fred Peg ram 




IE Benedicts were at Amalfi 
when they got the letter 
from Ferdie which set them 
all by the ears. They were 
sitting in the Cappuccini 
cloister eating bread and 
honey and drinking tea at five in the 
afternoon: Gregory Benedict, the head of 
the family, a compact man of a modest 
portliness and a disposition to yield you 
the right of way in any matter not con- 
cerning his particular business; Mrs. Ben- 
edict, of an equal age and a complete set 
of carefully arranged ideals; Helen, a tall 
daughter with a surprised and inquiring 
expression of countenance; and Benedict's 
sister, known as Aunt Harriet. She, this 
aunt, who stood to the family and indeed 
to herself as one decreed to be an aunt and 
little more, was not yet fifty; but she had 
taught in a country seminary too fixed in 
its inherited traditions ever to become a 
collie, and her standards of beauty and 
conduct were those of a day when women 



in like responsible positions wore dresses 
prematurely middle-aged, and perhaps 
did their own hemstitching. Aunt Har- 
riet was really extremely handsome, ex- 
cept that she lacked the bravado which 
is inevitable to all but the purest beauty. 
She had no audacity to set her off. When 
her brown eyes sought you they said: 
"Please excuse me. I am not intrusive. 
I really have a purpose in looking. I am 
going to make a remark." Of any calcu- 
lated commerce of glances and the rep- 
ertory known in literature under "flash- 
ing," "glancing," "sparkling," she had the 
vaguest knowledge by hearsay. Her won- 
derfully white teeth disclosed themselves 
only when something accredited as hu- 
morous dared them to display. And her 
clothes, like the clothes of all female Ben- 
edicts, were made by a dressmaker of high 
ideals but inadequate equipment, who 
needed the work; they were, as Ferdie, 
Helen's married sister, had confided to her 
husband, after three months' travel and 



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232 



The Trial at Ravello 



the moulting of like raiment, "sights/* 
But they were flagrantly honest clothes. 
They looked like what they were, the cover- 
ing of a highly self-respecting family of in- 
herited modesty of station, living outside 
a country town so that father might be 
near his manufacturing plant. It was six 
months before that Aunt Laura, Mr. Ben- 
edict's aunt, had died and left him her 
very considerable fortune, and it had 
seemed best then to fulfil the breathless 
purpose of years and go abroad for the 
smnmer. They had never contemplated 
going save as a body. They were a very 
united family. But Ferdie, named Fer- 
nandina, in regular descent from an an- 
cestor whose father had been wrecked on 
the coast of Africa, had gone three months 




She 



alkcd back again tu the f*fusion in a trance ' 
J 'age 234. 



•f acqui 



before them with her husband, who was 
general superintendent of the Benedict 
factory. It had meant a good deal to 
Benedict to give him up at that time, but 
Ferdie had been so passionately set upon 
it that the ordinary ways of withstanding 
her had been exhausted about the time she 
developed nerves. This was her unim- 
agined trump-card, and the family had 
played all they had. So Ferdie had gone, 
and here was the letter to say that she and 
Preble would meet them at Ravello, and 
they could talk over things there. She 
thought it best to give them an idea, so 
that they might be considering it. She 
wanted to leave Preble. She meant to 
live abroad. It would be perfectly easy 
on what father could allow her (it never 
occurred to her that Aimt Lau- 
ra's money did not belong to all 
the family equally, and it cer- 
tainly did not occur to the fam- 
ily as they read) . She supposed 
they'd noticed that she and 
Preble weren't suited to each 
other. She realized now that 
she'd always known it, though 
coming over here had made it 
so apparent that she simply 
found there was but one thing 
to do. 

This letter it was that turned 
the Benedicts homesick in the 
face of Italy. It robbed the 
honey of its tang, and made 
the enchantment of that 
shore as idle as a painted screen. 
Mrs. Benedict, after a half-cup 
of tea, had taken the letter again 
out of her bag and read it for 
the fifth time. It was not a long 
one. She really knew it by 
heart. There had been no dis- 
cussion of it, but now she ad- 
dressed a question as directly to 
her husband as if he and she had 
been alone. 

"I never noticed she and 
Preble didn't get on all right, 
did you?" 

He shook his head. He could 
scarcely trust himself with a 
subject so shockingly alien to 
business. These crude avowals 
of incompatibility were what, 
with a fastidiousness of which 



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"Guess we'd better take her along with us," he had said.— Page 236. 



he had almost been ashamed, as too finick- 
ing, he had always wished the girls wouldn't 
read in the morning paper. And yet he 
had been too finicking even to forbid their 
being read. 

"Preble's a queer Dick," said Helen. 
"He never has anything to say for him- 
self." 

She offered it impetuously, her cheeks 
flushing, as if it were difficult to confide 
even so small an instance of emotional 
bias to her elders. This was an old-fash- 
ioned family. They had the most inti- 
mate confidences in regard to the renewal 
of rugs and the desirability of transplant- 
ing tJie phlox, and they did pass letters 
about at the breakfast-table. They would 
have said they had no secrets from one 
another, and now that Ferdie had winged 
them equally with this arrow cunningly 
contrived to pin them all in a bunch, they 
hung there, with no power beyond a sym- 
pathetic flutter. 

Aunt Harriet spoke now, with a like 
impetuous appearance of not daring to 
hesitate lest she find herself choked by 
custom. 

"I understand what Ferdie means. I 
understand perfectly." 

Mrs. Benedict turned upon her in an 
extremity of surprise, took up her lorgnon, 
and then dropped it with an apparent rec- 
ollection that this was only Harriet and 
supplementary lenses needn't help. Mr. 



Benedict, too, turned, and with more pur- 
pose. His plump person bumped slightly 
in its chair, as if it said, "Is this really 
Harriet speaking? " But all he could say 
was to inquire of Harriet, with a species 
of hostility, as if to ask also how a mere 
aunt could be so clever when the au- 
thors of Ferdie's being found themselves 
mired 

"You do, do you?" 

Aunt Harriet had flushed a deep, be- 
coming red. She knew, in the depths of 
her memory, why she could speak up for 
Ferdie and the miscalculated forces of 
nature. Aunt Harriet had her secret, not 
more than three weeks old. It went back 
to a night in Naples when she had run out 
of the pension bareheaded to post a letter. 
Immediately she was outside the court, 
the brazen spell of the city had assailed 
her, and she had fled on, with a green letter- 
box, such as she knew at home, for her ob- 
jective, but really with something crying 
out inside her, bidding her speed and speed, 
and never stop until she came on illimit- 
able joy whereof this pageant was the her- 
ald. And as she paused to look up at the 
Bertolini, in its fire-fly sea of lights, she felt 
an arm about her waist. It did not feel 
startling, although no arm save that of a 
worshipping school-girl had ever lain there 
before. It was as familiar as her belt, and 
Harriet turned, with a pleased expectancy, 
and saw beside her an Italian officer. His 

233 



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234 



The Trial at Ravello 



expression suited the act he had just per- 
formed. It was audacious, yet humbly 
adoring, and Aunt Harriet found it ex- 
actly right. She did turn about, her let- 
ter still in her hand, and he turned with 
her, and thus encircled she walked back 
again to the pension in a trance of ac- 
quiescence. At the door she pmused, and 
the arm fell from her waist. There was a 
step on the stone-pmved court within: the 
porter, Harriet, and perhaps her ofl&cer 
also, knew. He fell back a little into the 
shadow, brought his heels together, and 
made her an enchanting bow. Aunt Har- 
riet went in, her letter still in her hand. 



She had forgotten that the porter might 
post it, and indeed it was never posted, 
for it was to one of her pupOs, and Aunt 
Harriet, with a vague besetment that it 
had somehow shared in the profligacy of 
her adventure, tore it up as imworthy to 
invade the maiden precincts of the young. 
But that progress had told her what flames 
might be burning under the inherited 
tradition of New England snows. Aunt 
Harriet knew in her soul that the gold- 
laced swain had but spent an idle moment 
in the assault of her waist, and yet some- 
thing in her told her a veil of high mean- 
ing had dropped on it from the romance of 




She .ilmjit running to the suinmcr-housc . - . and he i.'alk::i< gauntly in her wake. — Page 236. 



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the world. He would never see her again ; 
she never wanted to see him again — and 
yet somewhere, said that voice of lying 
paradox, he was seeking her, somewhere, 
in a fuller paradise than Italy, they would 
meet. So it was out of a more extended 
experience than any Benedict, she be- 
lieved, had ever enjoyed that she faced 
her brother, whom she respected inimit- 
ably both as man and brother, and re- 
turned: 

"Yes. I know all about it. I think 
Ferdie's probably right." 

Gregory continued looking at her and, 
quite unaided by any natural facility, ac- 
complished the feat of becoming pop-eyed. 

"Well," said he, "by George!" 

"But, Harriet," said Mrs. Benedict, 
also regarding her from a high degree of 
amazement, "you don't mean you're pre- 
pared for it? Has Ferdie ever brought 
this up before? " 

" No," said Aunt Harriet defiantly, " but 
I'm not surprised." 

They were all three looking at her, she 
knew, with imvarying degrees of perplex- 
ity, at which she was, again, not surprised. 
They could not see the Italian officer in 
the background. 

"Well," said Mrs. Benedict, "of course 
we shall all stand by Ferdie." 

"God!" said Gregory, the solemn ad- 
juration as unexpected to him as to the 
others. "I guess we shall." 

Of the accompanying shock that Preble, 
whom he had considered worthy of mar- 
rying a Benedict, had been found wanting 
by one of the most precious Benedicts of 
the clan, he could not speak. It was all 
very well to stand by Ferdie. That was 
nature. But that a chap he had believed 
in as he had in Preble, liked him, indeed, 
too much to need to say anything about 
it, that Preble should in some unpardon- 
able fashion kick over the traces, shook 
the foundations of his house. Preble's 
side of it was too awful to be spoken of, 
except perhaps by Helen, who hadn't the 
experience to know what she was talking 
about anyway, and was as likely as not 
to judge a man for the cut of his hair. 

Thereupon they abandoned the sight of 
the siren coast to such as might have free 
minds for looking at it, and went off to 
pack — all but Aunt Harriet, who sat in her 
dream by the railing and watched the fish- 




Wherc shirt-waists needed perennially pulling down. — 
Page 242. 



ermen, vaguely like Peter and Paul in the 
Bible picture, hauling their nets. Once a 
splendid figure ran up the steps to the 
Cappuccini, and she drew back with a 
flood of certainty that this was he and 
he mustn't see her. And then her saner 
mind assured her that it was not he, and 
that if it were, this all-revealing daylight 
would hide her, in her middle-aged hon- 
esty, from him who had found her under 
the spell of night, and she leaned forward 
again and saw he was a man as old as 
herself and not Young Love at all. 

That night they were at Ravello, estab- 
lished at the very top, all rather light- 
headed with the sudden lift from sea level, 
but Gregory and his wife keeping their 
minds strictly upon the business of stand- 
ing by Ferdie. 



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" Guess we'd better take her along with 
us," he had said as they were brushing 
their teeth with a rhythmic unanimity at 
neighboring stands, while the moon of 
Italy silently bade them take heed of the 
heart which alone shall rule. 

"Mm," said Mrs. Benedict. "I never 
realized how much attached I was to 
Preble; but if Ferdie wants to get rid of 
him, you can depend there's a reason 
for it." 

And it was on the first day at Ravello 
that Ferdie and Preble were upon them, 
she almost running to the sunmier-house 
at the end of the terrace to find them, 
and he stalking gauntly in her wake. As 
he approached them and they escaped 
from the pretty assault of Ferdie's ca- 
resses to greet him for this one of the last 
times when they meant to accept him at 
all, they saw, as with a common vision, 
how he had changed. Preble strikingly 
resembled the younger pictures of Abra- 
ham Lincoln. He had the same large- 
featured benevolence of gaze, and he had 



also one characteristic of the later Lin- 
coln portraits: that look of most pa- 
thetic weariness. His face did not lighten 
in the least in greeting them, though he 
had, as Mrs. Benedict thought rather in- 
dignantly at noting his flaccidness, only 
the pleasantest recollections of them. And 
having shaken hands in a bony, perfimc- 
tory fashion, he turned about and left 
them, with a remark about seeing to the 
luggage. But Ferdie was with them, and 
they exclaimed over the wonder of her. 
Ferdie had changed. She was the plain 
one of the family, small without slender- 
ness, and with no one feature to be thank- 
ful for. But, since they had seen her, 
Ferdie had attained distinction. She had 
in her hand that marvellous and priceless 
gift to earth's daughters who mean to in- 
herit: she believed in herself. A number 
of artists had gone to the support of her 
in this arduous adventure. Ferdie had 
rather thin hair of no particular distinc- 
tion, but it had been waved and twisted 
and turned until her small head was a 




She lighted Preble's ci>iar fur liim vcrj* prettily. — Pa^e 249 



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It almost looked as if she were protecting him — Page 245. 



marvel of modish prettiness. She had no 
better features than are needed for con- 
ducting the acts of seeing, smelling, and 
their sister offices in a wholesome manner; 
but the slight expression of arrogance she 
had attained seemed to bring them into 
a harmonious agreement. Her clothes 
were just such as Aunt Harriet and Helen, 
on the way through Europe, had found in 
Regent Street windows, and despairingly 
regarded. And now this apotheosis of the 
old Ferdie who had worn flannel shirt- 
waists at home and even made a rhubarb 



pie with lattice work on top, for Preble's 
degustation, produced a vanity box, took 
a serious look at the state of her counte- 
nance, and here, in open conclave, rubbed 
a powder paper over her nose. But she 
didn't omit speaking while these rites were 
being accomplished. 

"He hasn't gone to look after the lug- 
gage. We left it in our rooms. I told 
him I was going to begin upon you the 
minute I saw you. He hates talk more 
than ever. He says he wishes he was 
deaf and dumb." 

237 



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"WeU," said Mrs. Benedict, "that^s a 
good deal for Preble to say." 

"I suppose he is tired of it," said Fer- 
die, with a bright alertness, pulling her 
veil down over her face and settling it with 
some of those mysterious mouth contor- 
tions women adopt toward veils. "You 
see, I've had to talk so much. IVe had 
to do a lot of it at night, because weVe 
been sight-seeing by day, and 
of course he's tired. I am, I'm 
sure, tired as a dog." 

But her air of gay equip- 
ment, of being equal to any 
situation, gave her the lie. A 
creature so ready for life, it said, 
so familiar with its outermost 
supremacies, could hardly yield 
to so crude a thing as physical 
weariness. She challenged 
them all round, admiring face 
after admiring face. 

"Well," she said, "you got 
my letter. I told you what I 
meant to do." 

Her mother bowed in a 
solemn manner, as if she felt a 
crown being fitted to her head; 
but Gregory Benedict asserted, 
from a ponderous sobriety: 

"We stand by you, Ferdie. 
I'd have sworn by Preb as I 
would by myself. But it's no 
use going over that now. I'm 
for having the fellow drop of! 
right here and our staying on a 
spell. Then we'll put for home." 

"Oh, but you see," said Fer- 
die, with the same air of hold- 
ing the interview in her hands and toss- 
ing it about as suited the game, "I don't 
want to put for home. I want to stay over 
here." 

" Why, Ferdie," said her mother, and in 
spite of careful habit she lapsed into a 
phrasing of her less-cultured yesterdays, 
" you don't want to stay longer than father 
wants you should." 

Ferche's eyes were shining. What with 
her new accoutrements and her triumph, 
she looked very pretty. 

"The fact is," said she, "I've written a 
story." 

*' Short story? " Helen came pelting in. 
Her eyes, too, were shining. She had 
never imagined such doings in the house 



of Benedict. They might even, some time, 
by infection, get to her. 

"Yes," said Ferdie. "And the Torch 
Bearer has taken it and asked for another. 
So you see I've simply got to give myself 
to my work." 

" You don't feel as if you could do it after 
you got home?" her mother suggested. 

"It isn't that I can't write after I get 




'*The seal's been taken," said she. — Page 245. 

home," said Ferdie, with a perfect air of 
exploiting everything time and travel 
could do for her. " It's simply that I've 
got to live over here and be — be differ- 
ent." Here she stumbled from her height 
of perfect poise, but they all understood 
her better so. 

"What does Preb say?" her father in- 
quired, as if he couldn't yet visualize the 
rock of shipwreck and wanted the testi- 
mony of a man who had really struck it, 

"Oh, he said he'd stand for it as far as 
he could," said Ferdie. " But I can't call 
on him. He doesn't care for one of the 
things I care for — not one. Pictures, mu- 
sic — imagine Preb caring one snap." 

"No," said Mrs. Benedict musingly, "I 



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don't know as I ever heard Preble express 
any interest in music. That's why I always 
thought 'twas so good in him to let you 
have those lessons in town that winter." 
Inadvertently she was shifting to the side 
of the defence. " You know that was the 
time of the strike, and we couldn't even keep 
one girl, and Preb got up and made your 
coffee so you could take the early train." 





"They're lovers, making love." — Page 245. 

"Yes," said Ferdie, with assurance, "of 
course I had to save my hands. I prac- 
tised awfully hard that winter. I may 
take lessons over here." 

They sat staring at her, Gregory in a 
fever of perplexity because, as yet, he had 
nothing sufficiently tangible to go on, and 
the three women breathless with appre- 
ciation of Ferdie as they saw her. Greg- 
ory, too, was duly influenced by her mar- 
vellous equipment; but he failed to trans- 
late it into plumes and cloth. He thought 
only how glad he was to see her, and how 
much nicer even than usual she seemed — 
which, indeed, was the effect of her bra- 
vado and her hat. But the three women 
studied her clothes with ravishment. They 
were not so dull as to fail to see that here 



was accomplished that simplicity which is 
the last word of art. And the way she 
wore them! Ferdie was no prettier than 
she was before, and if the eye turned to 
follow her it was because she was a matter 
of line and contour, of silk and lace, a last 
cry of fashion, but a shriek of audacity, 
too. She was not so much modish as 
grotesque, but the grotesqueness voiced 
an audacity that bespoke some big pre- 
tension in the background. Surely Fer- 
die couldn't look like this, couldn't sit up 
like beauty enthroned and punctuate her 
talk with neat little gestures, if she were- 
n't, in some fashion, more important than 
the Ferdie they had left. And the clothes 
spoke for her. Every wave of her hair 
stamped her right to be as she was. 
" Look at me," they said. And because 
they said it in such a complacent, manda- 
tory tone, it was evident that Ferdie was 
worth their championship. Aunt Harriet 
was the one who seemed to be seeking out 
the real Ferdie within her clothes. Her 
expression said she didn't care how shiny 
you made your hair with unguents pre- 
tending to be nature's own, and she didn't 
care how graciously the sun lay on the 
crests of it, nor how cannily the veil fitted 
over them. She was used to girls, and she 
could pluck out the heart of their mys- 
teries. 

" Ferdie," said she, in her school-ma'am 
voice. 

Ferdie sat up a trifle straighter, if that 
might be, and gave her veil another little 
reconciling adjustment with the lips. 

"Ferdie," said Aunt Harriet, "there's 
somebody else in this. You've met some 
man over here." 

" Harriet! " breathed Mrs. Benedict, in a 
pained invocation of propriety. 

Helen regarded the heaven about her 
and felt, not as if she were inexpressibly 
confused, as she must have been at Salem 
Field, if anybody had mentioned illicit love, 
but rightly curious. A sail was being 
dropped on the blue water below. It 
seemed like a fairy sail on a fairy boat, 
or at least a sail woven from the unreality 
of the stage. It couldn't have done so in- 
significant a thing as to bring a fisherman, 
or if it had, he would break into an aria 
and his entire purpose would have to do, 
not with fish, but with emotions that are 
eternally beautiful and so eternally right. 



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But all this Helen did not think in any 
explicit way, being a simple maiden with 
no imaginative equipment; she merely had 
a sense of ineffable acquiescence in what- 
ever this ecstatic scene brought about, and 
she was not in the least shocked to hear 
Ferdie accused of erring love. 

Gregory Benedict, who was not troub- 
ling himself acutely about Italian sce- 
nery, was the only one who, in the face 
of it, could keep his head. He looked at 
Aunt Harriet after h«r projectile had been 
launched, and ejaculated: 

"What the devil, Hat.^*" : 

This last he had not called her since she 
had begun to teach, but Aunt Harriet was 
not moved by its curtiiess. There were 
some things, she concluded, that brother 
didn't know. No Italian officer had ever 
laid an arm about his waist. But Ferdie, 
unabashed, was looking straight at Aunt 
Harriet, glance for glance. 

"I don't wonder you ask," she said. 
"Of course it's the most natural thing in 
the world. But there's nothing in it. I'm 
not leaving Preble for another man. I'm 
simply leaving him because we're not con- 
genial. I'm very fond of Preb." 

Gregory was frowning a little now, but 
with perplexity. 

"We've got to go into this matter of 
Preb," he began. " Shouldn't you rather 
I'd see him by himself and get it out of 
him?" 

"Get what out of him?" asked Ferdie. 
She had the air of wondering whether 
there were any more to be got out of him 
than she had got already, and if that were 
so of being ready to make a new essay. 

"Why, whatever there is," said Greg- 
ory testily. He hated to be made to 
speak before Helen. "What you accuse 
him of." 

Ferdie gave a little laugh, as nicely cal- 
culated as her clothes. 

"Why, bless you," said she, "I don't 
accuse Preble of anything. He's a dear 
old boy. I just want to leave him, that's 
aU." 

Gregory sat staring at her, again with 
that effect of straining eyes. Then he 
shook his head. 

"You're shielding him," he told her. 
" It's very creditable to you, Ferdie. But 
you just answer me a question or two. 
before we started, Preble cabled me to sell 



out some stock of his and send him the 
money. You didn't have a very big let- 
ter of credit, you two, but 'twas all you 
could afford. Now what'd Preble get into 
over here that made him cable for more? " 

"Oh, that was all right," said Ferdie, 
with a carelessness not at all elaborated. 
"We simply had to have it. You have 
to, you know." 

"But you hadn't been over here six 
weeks," Gregory pursued. " You couldn't 
have spent your letter of credit if you 
travelled as you'd ought to, as we're trav- 
elling, for instance." 

"Well!" said Ferdie. Her eyebrows 
went up, and she glanced about at the 
other women with an affectionate accept- 
ance of them as they were, but still from a 
perfect comprehension of how droll they 
looked. "Mother and Helen haven't had 
any clothes — not a thing." 

"We planned it that way, you know, 
dear," said Mrs. Benedict. "It's saved 
us time for our sight-seeing, and, besides, 
there won't be any complications with the 
custom-house." 

"Well, I sha'n't be complicated with 
the custom-house," said Ferdie. "I'm 
not going back. I've spent under eighteen 
hundred dollars, and I think I've really 
done pretty well." 

" You've spent eighteen hundred dollars 
in clothes?" said Gregory. He grasped 
the railing beside him as if he felt an im- 
pulse to jump down the declivity. 

"Why, that isn't much, father," said 
Ferdie. " If you could see the things they 
showed me!" 

"Do you mean to tell me Preb footed 
that bill without a murmur, and simply 
cabled home for more?" pursued her 
father, still with his desperate clutch on 
the rail. 

"Why, he had to," said Ferdie patient- 
ly. " I had to have the clothes, and they 
certainly had to be paid for. You wouldn 't 
have had me go about in a shirt-waist 
made in Salem Field, would you?" 

Helen looked down at her own silk 
waist not so much in dissatisfaction as]^a 
surprised certainty of perhaps never hav- 
ing met it socially before. Mrs. Benedict 
was speaking timidly but with a certain 
coldness: 

" I don't wonder your father's surprised 
at the price of things, my dear, but I can't 



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help thinking if you find Preble so hard to 
live with, it's on account of other things 
you don't want to speak about. Helen, I 
wish you'd get my blue shawl out of the 
top of my trunk. Here's the key. Now, 
Ferdie, you tell. I've been trying to think 
over cases where there was dissatisfaction. 
There's Romola. But Tito was very dif- 
ferent from Preble. And there was Rosa- 
mond Vincy. But 'twas her conduct more 
than his. I don't seem to remember in 
Thackeray " 

"O mother," said Ferdie, "that's all 
reading club. This is entirely different. 
I just tell you I want father to give me 
some money, so I can stay over here and 
let Preble go home. It's as simple as 
a b c." 

But Mrs. Benedict went back to her 
precedents. 

" I don't see what we could do better, 
dear, than take the best books we know," 
said she. "And George Eliot has always 
been praised for her lifelike characters." 

"There! there, mother!" said Gregory. 
" Ferdie, as near as I can make out, you've 
no case against Preble. You simply want 
to shake him." 

Mrs. Benedict gave a murmur, but Fer- 
die, to whom slang was not tabu, assented 
cordially. 

" You want to stay over here and study 
music and write stories and spend eigh- 
teen hundred dollars in clothes whenever 
you feel inclined." 

"I shouldn't have to spend anything 
for a long time," Ferdie corrected him. 
"IVe got a very good outfit now." 

"It's lunch time," said Aimt Harriet, 
dropping her eye-glass on the little hook 
attached to her sOk waist. " You'd better 
go in and take off your hat, Ferdie." 

"I sha'n't need to take off my hat," 
said Ferdie. " But I'll wake Preb." 

Preble appeared with her at luncheon, 
gaunt and tadtum. Benedict made some 
gruff confidences to him on the news from 
the factory; but there was an air of unea- 
siness over them, all except Ferdie. The 
veil of silence didn't seem to touch her at 
all, or if it did she had been able to lift a 
comer of it and peer out with an almost 
pert self-sufficiency. There were other 
people at the table, a party motoring 
through and carrying the very air of 
worldly equipment that Ferdie had been 
Vol. LII.— 27 



mysteriously able to filch. They talked 
to Ferdie as of their own kind, and she 
answered them with a sophistication that 
left even Aunt Harriet gasping. She told 
them the Vandewaters were at Spa and 
Aunt Clara's rheumatism was much im- 
proved, and when Helen, in an unquench- 
able curiosity, asked her afterward how 
she knew the Vandewaters, she said she 
had seen them at the hotel at Spa and the 
old lady had talked with her about her 
rheumatism. 

"Well!" said Helen, "I thought, frpm 
the way you spoke, you really knew the 
Vandewaters." 

"Well," said Ferdie, "of course you 
have to talk to people about what they 
know. You'll have to pin that waist down, 
Nell." 

But it was not only Aunt Clara Vande- 
water's rheumatism of which she had cog- 
nizance. She knew what was being played 
in Paris, and even the mysterious names 
at the Com^die. She had a little gossip 
about what Bernhardt — whose name she 
pronoimced in a way to veil its identity 
from the denizens of Salem Field — had 
said to Mrs. Kendall. 

"How in blazes does she manage it?" 
Aimt Harriet found herself saying to Helen 
that night when they were braiding their 
hair in the moonlight of Ravello. 

"Why, Aunt Harriet, you said * blazes ! ' " 
Helen switched off the topic to exclaim. 

"Did I?" said Aimt Harriet dreamily. 
" Well, it's a word I never used before. I 
dare say I sha'n't again." 

But she didn't mention that just now it 
didn't seem necessary to cavil at words; 
she had no prejudice, so they were tell- 
ing enough. What were they? Symbols. 
And this was Life. But she thought, as 
she lay awake in the moon-rays that 
seemed to her the true effulgence of Di- 
ana's axles, that it wasn't so difficult to un- 
derstand how Ferdie had managed it. 
Ferdie was studying the world now as 
if it were a guide-book to sophistication. 
With a mind quickened imder this sim 
and moon, she was snatching at every 
straw to build her nest of knowingness. 

The next day they found Ferdie had 
been up early and gone to walk by herself. 
She came, vivacious and breathless, to 
breakfast, drawing off long gloves. 

"I left Preb asleep," she explained. 



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"He didn^t get any sleep the first part of 
the night. We talked. But I wasn't go- 
ing to miss this morning air. Don't you 
know that essay, *The dewy chrism of the 
day ' ? I wasn't going to lose that." 

**You might have waked me,'* said 
Helen, much aggrieved, " and let me have 
it, too." 

To this Ferdie didn't reply. She was 
sweetly good-natured to Preble, to the 
waiters, to the family. She had found 
that out, too: that the mantle of the so- 
cially equipped is an impregnable compos- 
ure and ability to make things go. The 
family didn't know how to take her. She 
was excellent company, if you were willing 
to strain up to her height of cognizance, 
but she made them a little afraid. Helen, 
who regarded her from the bog of a sister- 
hood which had had no such social boost 
and where shirt-waists needed perennially 
pulling down, yielded to a malicious de- 
sire to hear what Preble thought of her, he 
who had been by while the statue was in 
process of moulding. She hadn't been 
sprung upon him as she had on them, full- 
armed from the head of Jove. 

But Ferdie was not hiding her nest. 
She left them in no doubt of an intention 
to settle her future without delay. 

*^ Let's go out to that lovely seat," she 
said, including them all. "Then we can 
talk things over. Come along, Preb." 

Gregory had wanted a word with Preble 
by himself, but that was not to be ac- 
corded him, and he lighted his cigar 
frowningly and paced along in the rear. 
Ferdie was vivacity itself. No wonder, 
Helen thought, still aggrieved, when she 
was the one for whom the banners were 
going to fly and the shouting to be raised. 
She was the centre of the picture. She 
looked as if she always meant to be. Some 
of us were going home to wear flannel 
waists again, and, in the discouragement 
of our state, perhaps insufficiently to pin 
them down. No woman of the three had 
forgiven Ferdie her clothes. They were in 
no condition to forgive from the slough of 
antithetical abasement where they found 
themselves. 

" Well," said Ferdie. She lighted Preb- 
le's cigar for him very prettily, took a little 
silver case from her bag, and was about to 
open it, but seemed to think better of it 
and returned it to the bag. But Aunt 



Harriet knew what was in the case. She 
had once dealt with a pupil detected in 
smoking cigarettes, a circumstance that 
looked now as remote as "battles long 
ago. " It seemed at this moment a matter 
of indifference whether Ferdie smoke4 or 
whether she didn't. Only it would be 
a pity to shock Ferdie's mother, which 
was, she supposed, why Ferdie had wisely 
abandoned the indulgence. But Ferdie 
was speaking. 

"It's no use going over it all again. 
Preble and I just agree to separate, that's 
all. And of course I want you to know it, 
so it will be perfectly aboveboard and 
easy. And I want to stay over here, and 
of course dad '11 make it easy for me. I 
don't need to ask you that, do I, dad?" 

She had never called him dad before, 
and Gregory didn't object to an innova- 
tion in the way of names; but he failed to 
reply with the efficacy she had looked for. 
Indeed, he didn't reply at all. He had 
caught a glimpse of Preble's face, not only 
the face, but the man back of the man's 
mere appearance, and, unimaginative 
though he was, it shocked him. It was 
really the shock he might have had if he 
had seen Preble drop dead. He drew his 
breath sharply between his teeth, and 
Helen, who was "father's girl," and al- 
ways guessing him out under his silences, 
said quickly, "What is it?" But Greg- 
ory had hold of himself now, though he 
still avoided looking at Preble. Having 
once seen the bleeding body of a man's 
happiness, he found it too terrible ever 
to encounter again. Gregory had seldom 
realized anything with the vividness of 
this sight of Preble's misery. The pag- 
eant of life, in its uneven values, was dis- 
played before him. Ferdie, he saw, had 
darted ahead. She was at the first of the 
seriesof worldly goals. Old Preble lounged 
about the starting-post, and here she was, 
breathless but triumphant. She had 
learned to play the game more deftly than 
he. Poor old Preble! he never would play 
just this game. Gregory felt as if he him- 
self were judge and jury in one. His predi- 
lections were swinging round to the de- 
fendant. If the judge side of him had to 
charge the jury side just at this moment, 
he felt that, in re\iewing the evidence, he 
should have to lay stress on everything 
Preble had done to help Ferdie out in her 



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clutchings at a more rarefied life, while 
they were at Salem Field, and what he was 
ready to do now. He heard a rustle of 
mother's dress as she rose and reseated 
herself, and the thought came over him, 
to the accompaniment of a shudder and 
an actual crawling of the flesh, ** Suppose 
mother had proposed leaving him, 'way 
back when they were both as yoimg as 
Preble and Ferdie, just because she had 
been hungry for more life than he could 
give her, more silks, more rustling things 
and excitements and talk about Vande- 
waters? " His house of life, a solid struct- 
ure with a tower and a mansard roof, 
seemed to be toppling down about him as 
he thought it. He felt like giving Preble 
a hand, and saying, "Hang on to me, old 
man. I'll see you through.'* And what 
was this Harriet was saying? 

" You'd better consider that this is Italy. 
You won't feel the same when you get 
home." 

Ferdie took out her vanity box and 
powdered her nose. She appeared to find 
some moral support in the act. 

"Nobody feels the same in Italy," 
Harriet was boldly asserting. "I don't 
know how it would be if we stayed longer. 
But the first taste of it's like getting 
drunk." 

"Harriet!" breathed Mrs. Benedict. 
Then she drew her lips in primly. " I can 
only say," she annoimced, in the manner 
of one to whom the task has fallen of lead- 
ing the last hope, " that I have felt no temp- 
tation to become intoxicated. Nor has 
Helen. Nor have I seen any indication of 
it in my husband." She seemed inten- 
tionally to leave out Aunt Harriet: a 
kind of purgatory by exclusion. 

Aunt Harriet was not to be halted. 

" I've had serious thoughts myself," she 
said, " of drawing out my savings and stay- 
ing here till they're gone. When you're 
here it seems the only thing to do. But 
everybody can't live in Italy. Somebody's 
got to stay in Salem Field, or the world 
won't balance." 

It became evident that Aunt Harriet 
was the coimsel for the defence. Preble 
turned a dull eye upon her. She seemed 
to be advising Ferdie to stay with him, 
and so she must be on his side. But Fer- 
die was answering brightly: 

"Good for you, Aunt Harriet. You 



stay over here with me and we'll take an 
apartment in Rome." 

"Oh, no," said Aunt Harriet grimly. 
"I'm going back to teach school. I'm 
going to take Italy in my pocket and pull 
it out and look at it." 

"There! there! " said Gregory. " Don't 
get off the key, Harriet. We've got to talk 
this thing out." 

" So," said Aunt Harriet to Ferdie, quite 
unmoved by any side]issue of interruption, 
"I feel as if you'd make a mistake if you 
give up Preble for anything so far away 
from what you've been born to as — as 
this." She threw a comprehensive wave 
of the hand at the heaven of slope and sea 
below them. " You must remember, if it 
doesn't turn out as you think and you get 
rid of Preble and Preble gets rid of you" 
' — here both Ferdie and Preble gave a little 
passionate murmur, which might mean 
one thing or another — "after you've once 
got a divorce, you can't go back on it." 

"My stars, Aimt Harriet, I didn't say 
a divorce ! " cried Ferdie. Her whole face 
was flaming, and she thrust the vanity box 
into her little bag as if she had to thrust 
at something. "I said a separation." 

Preble threw his cigar over the parapet, 
got up and put his hands in his pockets, 
and stared at the sky. 

"Why, of course you won't do such a 
contemptible thing as to separate from 
Preble," said Aunt Harriet, with the se- 
verity of the teacher who sets a disciplin- 
ary task of irregular verbs. "Send him 
back to Salem Field to fight it out alone? 
You've got to let him get a divorce, and 
not raise a finger, so he can marry again 
and make himself a home while he's young 
enough to enjoy it." 

The Benedict family sat staring at Aunt 
Harriet as if she were its uncomprehended 
sibyl. Preble stared at the sky. What 
he thought no one could tell from his back. 
He seemed to be turning it on the entire 
Benedict family. There was no doubt 
that Aunt Harriet, by force of audacity, 
it might be, had made a hit. Gregory 
was the head of the family, assuredly the 
judge, but Aunt Harriet was taking the 
argument out of his hands. It was she 
who was charging the jury. 

"Oh, come, Harriet," said he, "you 
don't know what you're talking about." 
But he said it weakly. 



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244 



The Trial at Ravel lo 



" As tx) your writing," said Aunt Harriet 
inexorably, addressing herself to Ferdie, 
"if youVe got it in you, you can write 
about Salem Field." 

"I don't want to write about Salem 
Field," said Ferdie. "Do you suppose I 
mean to tag on behind writing dialect sto- 
ries, like^" She paused rather scorn- 
fully, and then two angry tears came into 
her eyes. "I'm not so awfully young," 
said Ferdie. " I may look it, and I intend 
to look it. You can do almost an3rthing 
with yourself now, if you keep up with 
things. And I want to live as other peo- 
ple do." 

"What people?" asked Aunt Harriet, 
and the Benedict consciousness trembled 
because a fibre of it was being wrenched to 
the bar. 

"Like everybody that lives at all," said 
Ferdie. "You don't know the kind of 
novels I want to do. I want to do them 
like Marion Crawford and Henry James 
— and others. Father and Preble haven't 
even heard of 'em." 

"Look here, Ferdie," said Aunt Harriet. 
She rose and stretched out her hands to- 
ward the sky with an unconscious mag- 
nificence. For a moment she held them 
so, and then, with an equal majesty, let 
them relax and fall. " I've taught liter- 
ature, and I can tell you you couldn't do 
the kind of thing you want to if you 
should live here for the next twenty years. 
Some women could. You can't. You're 
not that kind. But " 

They were all watching her, really hang- 
ing on her words. She seemed to hold the 
entire Benedict family in her grasp. " I 
tell you what," said Aunt Harriet. She 
forgot the Benedicts. She remembered 
young love and Naples. "If I could be 
putting out to sea down there with some- 
body I liked, I'd rather do it than teach 
English literature or write like Henry 
James. And you can go down there and 
take a boat. You can go with Preble. 
Preble just worships the ground you tread 
on. You do all the writing you want to. 
But don't you think you've got to have 
the scene set for it, and you've got to 
live in Italy, and you've got to throw 
over your folks — because you're not a 
big enough woman, Ferdie, to go walking 
over things like that." 

Ferdie surprised them. She began to sob. 



"You don't know, Aunt Harriet," said 
she. " You don't know how big I can be." 

"I don't care," said Aunt Harriet, 
" how big you are if you're throwing over 
a man you've made your home with when 
you haven't got a shadow of complaint 
against him." 

" Preble's been a good husband to you," 
said Gregory, to his own amaze. He had 
no idea that his attitude had shifted or 
that he wasn't standing by Ferdie. "I 
don't say I won't do anything in reason in 
the way of money. I never 've stinted 
you girls and I never shall. But when it 
comes to your saying Preble ain't up to 
the scratch, and that sort of thing, I don't 
stand for it, Ferdie." 

"I do feel," murmured Mrs. Benedict, 
"that Preble's done everything in the 
world for you a husband could." 

" Seems to me," said Helen — no one ex- 
pected her to speak, but she dashed in 
with the alertness of a sisterly certainty 
that Ferdie might need taking down a 
peg — "seems to me, everything we've 
brought out shows how Preble's got down 
in the dust every single time and let Fer- 
die just walk over him." 

Ferdie looked from one to another of 
them in a jxinic-struck surprise. No Ben- 
edict had ever, in her experience, turned 
against another Benedict. At that instant 
Preble threw himself round and faced 
them. Gregory, in one brief look at him, 
saw how crumpled his face was, and how 
savage a misery dwelt in the eyes, and had 
to look away again. He had never seen a 
man cry. 

" Now," said Preble, " I'll speak. Fer- 
die's going to have whatever she wants, 
and she's going to take it from me, and 
when I can't give it to her I'll say I ain't 
man enough to live and put a bullet 
through my head. If she's going to stay 
over here, I can sell the home place and 
board. I don't want any place without 
Ferdie. It's going to be enough for me 
to know she's living the way she wants 
to live. You don't any of you imderstand 
Ferdie." 

Like Aunt Harriet, he looked very big 
against the sky, a colossal figure made 
for protection, on which the lesser waves 
of life could dash leaving him unscarred — 
a little worn, perhaps, after a good deal of 
it, but never overthrown. The group be- 



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The Trial at Ravello 



245 



fore him dissolved, broke up, and shifted. 
Helen frankly put her handkerchief to her 
face and cried. Gregory blew his nose vio- 
lently, and his wife murmured, "There!" 
Aunt Harriet stood at the rim of the world 
made by the edge of the terrace, another 
heroic figure that might, with Preble, 
know the meaning of life through nearness 
to the larger calls of earth. But Ferdie 
had rim to Preble like a child, and stood 
by him holding his big hand. It almost 
looked as if she were protecting him, per- 
haps by her silken touch from the ache 
that even giants may feel in giant hearts. 
They turned together, he and she, and 
went off along the terrace, Ferdie still 
holding his hand until, in a moment, Aunt 
Harriet saw him put his arm about her 
waist and draw her to him. In a moment 
too, without a conclusive word, the other 
Benedicts dispersed to their letters or their 
guide-books. All that day they didn't 
have a glimpse of Preble and Ferdie. But 
at night when they made their moonlit 
way along the terrace, Helen, in advance, 
turned back to them. 

"The seat's been taken," said she. 
"They're lovers, making love." Italy 
and moonlight were upon her, too, and it 
seemed as if she couldn't repeat the word 
enough. "Lovers!" 

Then some one laughed: a girl's laugh, 



Ferdie's. A man's laugh answered it: 
Preble's. 

" Come on," called Ferdie. " Come on. 
Family. We've got it all settled. We're 
going to stay three months more than we 
intended, and then we're going home to- 
gether." 

Then they all sat down and talked plans, 
and Preble, Ferdie's head on his shoulder, 
told a story he'd heard the day before in 
a smoking-room. It was a stupid story, 
but Ferdie led the laughter. Mother Ben- 
edict, from her demesne of matrimonial ex- 
perience, realized that Ferdie, from some of 
those mysterious forces that prevail in mat- 
rimony, again considered her husband 
" about right." Gregory gave himself up 
to his dgar with an imtainted satisfaction, 
and Helen, the warmth of virginal youth 
throbbing at her breast, wondered what 
made Ferdie get up such a row if she really 
meant to stick to Preble after all. But 
Aimt Harriet, standing in the moonlight, 
the shower of it on her face and shoulders 
like a silver rain, thought back to the morn- 
ing when she had made her plea for the 
defendant. The plea had been well direct- 
ed, the verdict was benign. And yet, if 
Ferdie had left her husband and gone forth 
emotionally unloosed. Aunt Harriet won- 
dered, with a throb of wildest envy, what 
she would have found in Italy. 




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BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL 
By G. E. Woodberry 

I RODE in the dark of the spirit 

A marvellous, marvellous way; 
The faiths that the races inherit 

Behind in the sunset lay; 
Dome, mosque, and temple huddled 

Bade farewell to the day; 
But I rode into the leagues of the dark, 
There was no light but my hoof-beats' spark 

That sprang from that marvellous way. 

Behind were the coffined gods in their shroud 

Of jungle, desert, and mound. 
The mighty man-bones and the mummies proud 

Stark in their caves underground; 
And the planet that sepulchres god and man, 

Bore me in the cone of its dark profound 
To the ultimate clash in stellar space, 
The way of the dead, god-making race 

WTiirled with its dead gods round. 

And my heart, as the night grew colder. 

Drew near to the heart of my steed; 
I had pillowed my head on his shoulder 

Long years in the sand and the reed ; 
Long ago he was foaled of the Muses, 

And sired of the heroes' deed; 
And he came unto me by the fountain 
Of the old Hellenic mountain, 

And of heaven is his breed. 

So my heart grew near to the heart of my horse, 

Who was wiser, far wiser than I; 
Yet wherever I leaned in my spirit's course, 

He swayed, and questioned not why; 
And this was because he was bom above, 

A child of the beautiful sky; 
And now we were come to the kingdoms black, 
And nevermore should we journey back 

To the land where dead men lie. 



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Beyond Good and Evil 247 

Now whether or not in that grewsome air 

My soul was seized by the dread cafard^ 
Terror of deserts, I cannot swear; 

But I rode straight into an orbed star, 
Where only reigned the spirit of good, 

And only the holy and virtuous are; 
And my horse's eyes sent forth sun-rays, 
And in my own was a noon-tide gaze 

That mastered that splendid star. 

The madness of deserts, if so it be, 

Burned in my brain, and I saw 
' The multitudinous progeny 

Of the talon and the claw; 
And Mammon in all their palaces 

Gaped with a golden maw; 
And we rode far off from the glittering roofs, 
And the horse, as he passed, with his heaven-shod hoofs 

Broke the tables of their law. 

And we came to a city adjacent thereby, 

For the twain to one Empire belong; 
Black over it hung a terrible cry 

From eternal years of wrong; 
And the land, it was full of gallows and prisons 

And the horrible deeds of the strong; 
And we fled; but the flash of my horse's feet 
Broke open the jails in every street, 

And lightning burned there long. 

We were past. the good and the evil, 

In the spirit's uttermost dark; 
He is neither god nor devil 

For whom my heart-beats hark; 
And I leaned my oheek to my horse's neck. 

And I sang to his ear in the dark: — 
"There is neither good nor evil, 
"There is neither god nor devil, 

And our way lies on through the dark. 

" Once I saw by a throne 

A burning angel who cried, — 
*I will suffer all woes that man's spirit has known,' 

And he plunged in the turbid tide; 
And wherever he sank with that heart of love, 

He rose up purified; 



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248 Beyond Good and Evil 

Glowed brighter his limbs and his beautiful face, 
And he went not back to the heavenly place, 
And he drew all men to his side. 



"I have never heard it or learnt it, 

It is in me like my soul, 
And the sights of this world have burnt it 

In me to a living coal, — 
The soul of man is a masterless thing 

And bides not another's control; 
And gypsy-broods of bandit-loins 
Shall teach what the lawless life enjoins 

Upon the lawless soul. 

"When we dare neither to loose nor to bind, 

However to us things appear; 
When whatsoever in others we find, 

We shall feel neither shame nor fear; 
When we learn that to love the lowliest 

We must first salute him our peer; 
When the basest is most our brother, 
And we neither look down on nor up to another, — 

The end of our ride shall be near." 

A wind arose from the dreadful past, 

And the sand smoked on the knoll ; 
I saw, blown by the bolts of the blast, 

The shreds of the Judgment scroll; 
I heard the death-spasms of Justice old 

Under the seas and the mountains roll; 
Then the horse who had borne me through all disaster, 
Turned blazing eyes upon me his master. 

For the thoughts I sing are his soul. 

And I sang in his ear, — " Tis the old world dying 

Whose death-cries through heaven are rolled; 
Through the souls of men a flame is flying 

That shall a new firmament mould; 
And the imcreated light in man's spirit 

Shall sun, moon, and stars unfold"; 
Then the horse snuffed the dark with his nostrils bright. 
And he strode, and he stretched, and he neighed to the light 

That shall beam at the word to be told. 



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THE POINT OF VIEW- 



I 



Anoo3rmous 
Letters 



T is a pity that the anonjrmous letter, 
by a long alliance with libel and black- 
mail, has sunk out of reach of the re- 
spectable. A force which might have been 
used for good has thus been lost to the com- 
mimity. There is no reason why the anony- 
A Plea for mous letter should not have be- 

come as necessary a part of our 
social, as the anonjrmous book 
review has of our literary life. Criticism, 
admittedly helpful to the artist, is even 
more desirable in the field of manners and 
morab; yet few individuals in maturity, 
except those in public life, are subjected to 
this salutary process; although it is a com- 
monplace that the older we grow the more 
we need it. In youth, under our present 
mild system, discipline is primarily criticism; 
and here no false reticence on the part of 
school-master or parent prevents children 
from knowing whenever they have com- 
mitted a breach of taste or of the ten com- 
mandments. For the first fifteen years of 
their lives they live in the eye of a public, 
small, but conscientiously determined to ex- 
press the minutest comment. But as we 
grow older, the voice of admonition grows 
fainter and fainter; and its tones have en- 
tirely died away by the time we reach the 
age when our mistakes may have the most 
serious consequences. Many of the faults 
of old age are doubtless due to this condi- 
tion. One of the first uses most of us make 
of independence is to repel all hostile criti- 
cism, to secure ourselves for the future 
against one touch of that moulding process 
which has made us what we are. We be- 
come reticent, not to say, secretive; refuse 
to discuss our opinions and actions with 
those who disagree with us; and, in extreme 
cases, withdraw from those friendships in 
which the faintest critical flavor may be de- 
tected. "I don't know why it is," we say 
sadly, "but So-and-So and I are no longer 
as congenial as we used to be." 

Many of us, it is true, can count among 
oiur nearest and dearest some people of 
sufficient candor, courage, and skill to con- 
vey even a disagreeable truth — who, for the 
sake of the love they bear us will risk not 
only a painful interview, but a possible 
breach. But unhappily not only are our 



nearest and dearest the last people to see us 
as we really are, but their utterances cannot 
always achieve the terrible finality of those 
of an utter stranger. 

And that is where the anonymous letter 
would be useful. Any well-disposed out- 
sider, who could not be expected to engage 
in a personal controversy, might yet be will- 
ing for the sake of the public good, to offer 
a dispassionate statement of opinion like this : 

LETTER TO A YOUNG BUSINESS MAN 

"My Dear Horace: It has been gener- 
ally observed that during the last eighteen 
months you have not spoken commendingiy 
of, nor appeared in public with, anyone 
whose income was less than $50,000 a year. 
While the desire to provide for your wife and 
children is entirely admirable, you must 
learn to distinguish between your social 
taste and your business necessities." 

Or again: 

TO A WIPE AND MOTHER 

"Domesticity, my dear Mrs. Blank, like 
culture and happiness, cannot be pursued 
directly as an end in itself. By concentrat- 
ing your attention exclusively upon your 
husband and children, you are providing 
them with but a didl companion. You 
cannot impoverish your own existence with- 
out depleting theirs. Since you have de- 
stroyed your- own power of taking an in- 
terest in anything outside the home circle, 
you are beginning to resent their doing so. 
I do not say to you love them less; but love 
them because they are lovable, and less be- 
cause they are yours." 

TO A GENTLE EGOIST 

" My Dear Clorinda : You are kind, but 
you wear your kindness as an ornament, and 
so while it dazzles the world, it will never 
win you the love of the recipient. You are 
concerned, not with the necessities of the 
beggar, but with the splendor of the benev- 
olent gestiure. The admiration of the on- 
lookers is your fidl reward. Talk not there- 
fore of ingratitude." 

To some people there may seem some- 
thing too overt in the actual sending of such 

249 



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250 



The Point of View 



The Army 
Post 



letters. Perhaps, therefore, it would be bet- 
ter to establish a central bureau, where, 
three or four times a year, we. could go — 
just as we are expected periodically to 
balance our check-books — and carry away 
the complaints that have been filed against 
us. 

Fancy how helpful it would be to some 
of our worst social tyrants — the imiversity 
prig, the* spoilt beauty, the domestic auto- 
crat — to meet, while hurr)ring away from 
such a bureau with their pockets full of un- 
palatable truths, the humble victims of their 
tyranny tripping home empty handed. 



AT first glance, life at the modem army 
/a post presents all its old, familiar char- 
^ ^ acteristics. There is the same pict- 
uresqueness, the same air of cheerful ani- 
mation. The day is punctuated by bugle 
calls, the band comes out and plays, groups 
of children disport themselves on 
the well-kept walks, young women 
play tennis and older women play 
bridge, while everywhere men in uniform 
are coming and going, afoot or on horse- 
back, the enlisted man stalking stiffly along 
about his business, the officer calling out a 
friendly greeting or perhaps stopping for a 
moment's talk. There is about the place 
an air of good comradeship and wholesome 
out-of-door life. It does not take long, how- 
ever, to find out that we are much busier 
than we seem to be, and much more serious. 
There is a traditional idea of an army 
officer as a good fighter, to be sure, but, in 
time of peace, an idle sort of fellow, some- 
what given to drink; and an accompanying 
tradition of his wife as a mere butterfly, 
leading a merry and irresponsible life of 
perpetual dancing and ffirting. This was 
never altogether true. The officer's \^ife, 
poor soul, has always had her share of hard- 
ships, which she has met no less bravely than 
gayly; and as for the officer himself, while 
the requirements were formerly less than 
at present, yet life was not all beer and 
skittles for him. He did his duty and bore 
himself well in trying situations, even 
though he knew that scant appreciation 
would be his p>ortion. For instance, it has 
been proverbial that there was no glory in 
Indian warfare, which required, neverthe- 
less, the highest amount of quick-witted re- 
source and cool courage. In the enforced 
and irksome leisure of life at a small fron- 



tier post, the officer did not by any means al- 
ways take to drinking and gambling to pass 
the time. Many a man has taken to books 
instead, has perhaps learned a language, or 
made himself an authority on a favorite 
subject. If not inclined to books, he has 
very likely become a mighty hunter, or set 
up a carpenter shop, or even raised chick- 
ens, with much study of scientific methods. 
But of the criticisms which may, from time 
to time, have been justified, some, at least, 
are justified no longer. Conditions have 
changed and in our modem army there are 
very few interims of idleness. Our officer 
is at present a hard-worked man whose day 
is filled from end to end with duties of the 
most strenuous kind. Aside from the ordi- 
nary routine of work, which is much more 
exacting than formerly, there is no calling 
outside of the two services in which, after 
fulfilling the initial requirements for admis- 
sion to his profession, one is obliged to take 
so many courses of study and to pass so 
many examinations; while in the matter of 
physical exercise, there is so much of it that 
one wonders how a man can have enough 
vitality left over to use his mind at all. 

In the old days, when a girl came a-visit- 
ing at an army post, the beaux were at her 
beck and call at pretty nearly any time of 
day. Now they say regretfully how sorry 
they are not to be able to drop in oftener, 
but that really, after five or six hours of rid- 
ing and several more hours of study, they are 
fit for nothing but to drop into their beds. 
Or it may be merely the daily routine of 
regimental duties which almost equally con- 
sumes their ti me . Not but what young men 
are still young men. The visiting girl enjoys 
herself , but with more measure than formerly. 

As to the young officer's wife, what with 
the increased cost of living and the un- 
changed figures on the monthly pay check, 
she is hard put to it to make ends meet; 
for it is the exception if she or her husband 
have, at this period of their lives, any money 
outside of the pay. Servants are scarce and 
expensive, and unreliable to boot. It be- 
hooves her to be a notable housewife. To 
add to the difficulties of the manage, the 
powers that sit up aloft at head-quarters are 
distinguished by a certain restlessness in 
the matter of uniform. No manner of 
dress is more expensive, and only too often 
the uniform has not lost its first gloss when 
changes are ordered, involving a heart- 
breaking outlay on a new one. The cost 



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The Point of View 



251 



must be saved somewhere and the wife 
musty if possible, make her own and the 
cl^ildren's clothes — simple ones at that. To 
the male belongs the gorgeous plumage. 
Frequently she must be a school-mistress as 
well as a seamstress; for good schools are 
not always at hand, children must be edu- 
cated, and of children there are plenty. 
Here you see a mother who has learned the 
kindergarten S3rstem and has two hours of 
kindergarten every day in her nursery, and 
there you see one who is taking her daugh- 
ter through all the grades of a modem gram- 
mar and high school. Naturally one would 
not venture to say that every young woman 
who marries into the army displays all these 
virtues and talents. Our ^ives are as various 
as other men's. But given some natural 
aptitudes of mind and heart, army life does 
much to develop them. In civil life a wom- 
an in such a case is apt to give up all amuse- 
ments of her own and develop into a serious, 
overworked domestic drudge. At ^n army 
post she shares in the life of the place. She 
dances, as does her husband; she plays 
cards, she makes and receives calls, she 
never gets out of the habit of hospitality. 
She lives in an atmosphere of comradeship. 
Nor is her life without its touch of poetry. 
The pause, with arrested needle, while the 
bugle sounds other calls to her than those 
on the soldier's schedule; the lift of the 
spirit when the strains of the Star-Spangled 
Banner and the boom of the gun announce 
that the day is done; the quickened pulses 
when, at the review, heads are bared as 
the colors pass; all these things mean 
something in her life and in the lives of her 
husband and children as well. It may be 
said in passing that the army finds no better 
material than in the sons of officers. The 
boy who comes in from a civilian family 
may sometimes be assailed by misgivings 
and regrets. He may wonder whether he 
would not have done better in another 
career. But the army boy who wants a 
commission has no doubts at all in the mat- 
ter. He knows just what he wants, and when 
he gets it he does his work whole-heartedly. 
It is a comparatively simple life that we 
live in the army. A delightful young wo- 
man said to me lately: ''When I go home 
to visit my family I find that all my friends 
have more money than I have, but I don't 
see that they have much more fun. The 
chief aim of their lives seems to be to have 
things, and as soon as they have got them 



and put them around their houses, they 
hurry up to get more. Somehow I have got 
over caring very much for things. One 
can get along so happily without them." 
Well, we are of all kinds, and some of us still 
care about our things. For those of us 
whose hearts break with breaking china and 
whose tempers are rasped by a scratch on 
cherished mahogany, the discipline of army 
life is indeed hard. Fortunately the most 
of us have learned to be philosophical. If 
we have poor quarters, why, the next change 
of station may give us good ones. If our 
pay is almost too small to live on, we have 
plenty of companions in misery and, if we 
only live long enough, we shall eventually 
get more rank and more pay with it; more 
obligations, too, to be sure, and as the chil- 
dren grow older, increased expenses for 
them. But we don't borrow trouble. 

There is of late, much talk of a changed 
order of things, and it may be that our 
government will one of these days find it 
expedient to put regiments in barracks in 
cities and, in the words of one of its advis- 
ers, "cease to concern itself with the hous- 
ing of women and children." Then the 
officers and their families will live in such 
quarters as their allowances will provide. 
They will live there according to their 
poverty; the bond of comradeship will be 
loosened; the pleasures and distinctive virt- 
ues of army life will be things of the past. 
Then our young officers will perhaps come to 
the conclusion that they must seek well 
dowered wives or else remain unmarried. Of 
course, if the dowry is too large (and who 
shall regulate its size?) our young man may 
presently find his duties irksome and resign 
his commission. Such a thing is not un- 
heard of. Or if, on the other hand, he drifts 
along without a normal domestic life he is 
likely to deteriorate, morally or physically. 
Experienced officers have observed that in 
many casesa youngman'scareer of usefulness 
has undoubtedly been prolonged by the fact 
that he has had a wife to look after his health 
and comfort. So that in either case, whether 
he remains unmarried or marries too prosper- 
ously, his value is apt to be diminished to the 
government which has educated him. 

Whatever may be the drawbacks of the 
present system, whatever the reasons for 
changing it, there will be much to regret in 
the passing of these unique little communi- 
ties where still exists a manner of life so sim- 
ple, so wholesome, and withal so gracious. 



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A' 



N English clergyman whom I once 
met in Paris told me he meant to 
spend three months there. 

"You are resting?" I inquired. 

"Oh, no, working hard. I am polishing 
my accent." 

"You have occasion to speak 

rLe^^'^ French in fulfiUing your parochial 

duties?" I inquired, still curious. 

"Oh, no, not quite that. In my sermons 
French expressions will come to me, you know, 
and it wouldn't be just comme il faut not to 
give them the correct accent, would it now? " 

I agreed fully. "A clerg3rman can't be 
too careful," I said. My feeble irony was 
lost upon him. 

The friendly English clergyman is not the 
only one of his nation who' thinks he proves 
his culture in interlarding his English idi- 
oms, well or ill prbnoimced. No doubt 
there are Americans, too, who share his 
thought. It is to be hoped that these good 
people at least say what they mean when 
they drop into French. People so seldom 
do. Americans in France are likely to for- 
get that "menu" is only American-French 
for carte du jour; that "nom de plume" 
means naught in French, but is rendered 
nom de guerre; that "vaudeville" means, 
not music-hall stunts, but light comedy; 
that un grand s^ieux is not a too serious 
person, but only a very long drink. Many 
are the pitfalls for the unwary. 

Nothing more powerfully impresses one 
with the silliness of using foreign phrases 
to express ideas that are native enough 
in themselves than residence in a foreign 
city, where one may study the abuse of 
English by foreigners who are equally af- 
fected. The cheapness of this particidar 
affectation was borne in upon me when I 
gazed at a shop window in Paris one day 
and read the sign " Extra-Snob Confections 
pour Hommes." It was a haberdashery — 
and a very bad one I Especially in the world 
of sports has English passed current in 
France, where clubmen have been "club- 
istes" and "sportsmans," and pedestrians 
have strolled out for an hour's "footing," 
and reporters have been "intervieweurs," 
and summer-men in "smokings" (dinner- 
jackets) who make love at a minute's warn- 
ing (or no warning at all) were "flirts" — 
they, and never the girl in the case. But 
have we not a lesson to learn from the fact 
that the French, like the Germans, are to- 
day reacting against this foolish borrowing 



of verbal coinage that is so often only coun- 
terfeit? In accounts of ring battles, to be 
sure, we may still read in French newspa- 
pers that Carpentier a mis knock-out Jim 
Sullivan — but even the sporting columns 
are using fewer and fewer English words. 
Frenchmen and Frenchwomen believe in 
speaking French. If they can speak Ger- 
man and English too, so much the better; 
but they are little disposed to speak two 
languages at once. Can't we learn a les- 
son from them, I repeat? We are very bad 
linguists: in this respect I feel myself to 
be a typical American. But am I a better 
linguist for making an international scan- 
dal of my table-talk? 

We all know the experience of the res- 
taurant patron who complained because the 
bill of fare was printed all in French, but 
was assured that the cook was Irish. That 
seems to have mollified him, but it is right 
there that I make my quarrel. I have no 
grudge against good French cookery; I do 
object to a French dinner card for honest 
Irish cooking. I find the following para- 
graph in a journal I once kept in Paris: 

" To-night I met a drunken man here for 
the first time. He was quite pleasantly in- 
toxicated, although a porter; and took to 
speaking the few English words he knew, 
bawling them out as he marched the boule- 
vard. Sober, he spoke French ; drunk, Eng- 
lish. The man is a symbolist." 

Let us, too, use foreign languages only 
when we have a good excuse. Should any- 
one ask us if we never find foreign words req- 
uisite to exactitude of expression or vivid- 
ness of color, we can say with the captain of 
H. M. S. Pinafore: " WeU, hardly ever." No 
reasonable person can wish to root out of his 
vocabulary that borrowed word, which, bet- 
ter than any native expression, conveys his 
meaning. Trust will remain good French, 
and chauffeur good English, however the 
words themselves may be mispronounced, 
and even if the irony of both words (the 
latter used to mean an armed brigand who 
held up mail-coaches) is quite wasted. But 
never can there be a good excuse for sand- 
wiching one's talk with importations used 
precisely because they are imported. ^Esop's 
fable of the crow who stuck peacock feathers 
in his tail was, I suspect, directed at the 
Roman matrons who dropped into Greek 
when they gossiped over their pure Faler- 
nian, and chattered about KaOdpci^ be* 
tween the acts of a first-night. 



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The Madonna and Child with St. Jerome and St. Dominic. By Ridolfo Ghirlandajo. 
In the .larvcs coUectiuii, Yale Art School. 



THE JARVES COLLECTION OF ITALIAN 

PICTURES IN THE GALLERIES OF 

THE YALE ART SCHOOL 

IN the general revival of interest concern- 
ing American collections, it is odd that 
such an exceptional collection as that of 
James Jackson Jarves, in the galleries of the 
Yale Art School, should have received so 
little attention. Here, within a short dis- 
tance from New York, is a remarkable and 
very interesting collection of early Italian 
masters known by comparatively few. Mr. 
Jarves's collection was first exhibited in the 
Yale School of Fine Arts in 1867, where it 
has since remained, with, it appears, but 
little recognition from the American critics. 
It has been several times mentioned in the 
Burlington Magazine and by various Eng- 
lish critics, but Mr. Jarves's own country- 
men, for whose benefit this collection was 
made and preserved, have given it scant meed. 
Collected during the owner's long resi- 
dence in Italy, it stood for several years the 
Vol. LTI.— 28 



severe test of connoisseurship in Florence. 
It was, unfortunately, brought to this coun- 
try in the early sixties, a period when ap- 
preciation of the beautiful appears to have 
been painfully lacking. Charles Eliot Nor- 
ton made an efifort to secure its permanent 
location in Boston, but after one or two 
exhibitions in New York, which apparently 
aroused no enthusiasm, it was, at Mr. Jar- 
ves^s wish, taken to New Haven and was 
subsequently bought by the Yale Art School. 

This does not purport to be a collection 
of masterpieces. It was Mr. Jarves*s in- 
tention to get together a series of pictures, 
that should, by characteristic specimens of 
the masters and schools, give an excellent 
opportunity for the study of early Italian 
art, and in this that prophet without honor 
has most exceptionally succeeded. 

These paintings occupy two of the three 
rooms devoted to pictures in the Yale Art 
School and cover a period from the tenth 
century Byzantine triptych to the Venetian 

253 



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254 



The Field of Art 




painters of the sixteenth century. Rarely, 
indeed, is such a comprehensive study of 
Italian art to be found outside of the great 
European galleries. Many of these paint- 
ings have the support of documentary evi- 
dence, but aside from any discussion of the 
authenticity of this or that picture, the col- 
lection, as a whole, shows a remarkable 
knowledge and judgment in selection. It 
is -extraordinary that such a representative 
collection could have been made at so late 
a date and most fortunate that it should 
have been made before the law prohibiting 
the removal of old masters from Italy. 

Many of the Italians can, of course, be 
seen to advantage only in mural decorations. 
Any gallery picture can give but a slight idea 
of their power, and in this respect it is un- 
necessary to say the Jarves collection cannot 
be representative. Aside from that, the col- 
lection has great historical and educational 
value. Mr. Jarves knew the painters and 
loved them, from Margharitone to Guido 
Reni, and with infinite skill and patience he 
gathered them together for a newer people 
who have not had them as a birthright. 

To afiford to those interested in the sub- 
ject some idea of the range and extent of 
this collection, this short resume of the most 
illustrative examples is attempted. Begin- 
ning with an extraordinary Byzantine work, 
a crucifixion having the Y-shaped cross, 
the distinctive peculiarity of the earliest 
Byzantine representations, from that through 
several twefth-century triptychs and altar- 
pieces done in encaustic, the collection pro- 
ceeds to a crucifixion of Giunta da Pisa and 
an altar-piece of Margharitone of Arezzo. 
After Margharitone comes Cimabue, and 
with him the beginning of the Florentine 
school. Cimabue studied from the Greeks 
and retained to the end much of the By- 
zantine style. However, he greatly im- 
proved their dry and formal art, drawing, as 

V.;: J- _; liodels. 

The picture here accredited to Cimabue is 
a pane! of the Madonna and Child with 
St. John the Baptist, St. James, Si. Peter, 
and St. Francis of Assisi in the gray robes 
in which he was always drawn, before the 
end of the fourteenth century. It is diffi- 
cult to believe that, as Boccaccio assures us, 
early Florentine really mistook Cim- 
|bue's figures for living people, in spite of 
great advance from Margharitone's 
jrzantine manner. It is, moreover, 



to the fact that he was Giotto's master that 
Cimabue chiefly owes his fame. 

"Tencr k> campo, ed on ha Giotto H grido 
Si Che la fama di oolui c oscura.*' 

Giotto can be, of course, but imperfectly 
represented by easel-pictures, but the two 
specimens in the Jarves collection are in- 
teresting studies: An altar-piece of the en- 
tombment and a small picture of the cruci- 
fixion done in Giotto's early style still 
markedly Byzantine. From Giotto the 
school proceeds in an almost unbroken line. 
It is impossible to mention all of the pict- 
ures worthy of notice, so carefully have 
these links in the early school been chosen, 
but the two attributed to Giotto's godson, 
Taddeo Gaddi, two Orcagnas, one of St. 
Augustine and St. Lucia and another of 
St. Domenic and St. Agnes from the con- 
vent of the Salvi near Florence, a St. Fran- 
cis receiving the stigmata, by Agnolo Gaddi, 
the teacher of Antonio Veneziano, who is 
represented here by "The Deposition from 
the Cross," a small altar-piece, instanced 
by Crowe and Cavalcaselle, are especially 
interesting. Then there is a delightfully 
primitive votive picture in honor of SS. 
Cosimo and Damian by Lorenzo di Bicci, 
where these patron saints of physicians are 
pictured healing a man with an incurable 
leg by grafting in its place the startlingly 
black leg of a Moor. From the gallery of 
the Prince Conti is a fascinating cassone 
painting of Gentile da Fabriano, "The Tri- 
umph of Love." Here are Venus and Mars, 
Apollo and Daphne, Dante, Petrarch and 
Boccaccio, Charlemagne, Semiramis, "che 
libito fe'licito in sua legge," and a host of 
other distinguished personages known to 
have succumbed to the fatal passion. 

Another of Fabriano's is the lovely 
signed " Madonna of the Roses and Pome- 
granates." This is mentioned by Crowe 
and Cavalcaselle as having been injured by 
restoring, but the repainting has been en- 
tirely removed without appreciable injury 
to the picture. Fra Angelico is represented 
by the right wing of an altar-piece. St. 
Zcnobia in pontificals, St. Francis Padre 
Serafico in a brown corded robe, and St. 
Anthony of Padua holding the flaming 
heart of fervent piety, and for once un- 
troubled by his importunate ladies. There 
is a most interesting Masaccio of the in- 
fancy of St. John the Baptist. This is be- 



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255 



lieved to be from the predella of the chapel 
of the Carmine in Pisa. The altar-piece of 
Masaccio's, as mentioned by Vasari, in the 
Carmine chapel was a Madonna and Child 
with St. Peter and St. John the Baptist on 
one side, the Virgin, and St. Nicholas and 
St. Julian on the other; on the predella be- 
neath were stories from the lives of the 



cione and to his pupil, Mantegna, a cruci- 
fixion with the Virgin and St. John beside 
the cross. Of Matteo of Sienna, who suc- 
ceeded Sano as the leader of Sienese paint- 
ing, there is a Madonna and Child, rich in 
coloring and decoration. Of Filippino Lippi 
there is the remarkable picture of "The 
Penitence of St. Jerome," mentioned by 



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The Adoration of the Magi. By Luca Signorelli. 
In the Janres collection, Yale Art School. 



four saints, and in the centre of these **The 
Adoration of the Magi." Three of these 
panels from the predella are now in the 
Berlin gallery. There are two delightfully 
quaint cassones of Paolo Uccelli on which 
he has depicted incidents from the ** iEneid," 
a pictorial feat that gave him unlimited op- 
portunity for displaying his passionately 
studied art of perspective, to which Vasari 
remarks "he applied himself perpetually 
and without any intermission whatsoever." 
After these comes another cassone of Dello 
Delli of a tournament in the piazza Santa 
Croce at Florence, in which figure '*many 
people of importance," distinguishable by 
their armorial bearings. Sano di Pictro, 
whose works are so seldom to be found out- 
side of Sienna, is twice represented — by the 
gradino of an altar-piece, "The Adoration of 
the Magi, "and a " Coronation of the Virgin," 
wonderful in its pure religious feeling. 

A canvas of "The Nativity," transferred 
from wood to oil, is attributed to Squar- 



Vasari as hanging in the guardaroba of 
Cosimo de Medici. The companion pict- 
ure of this, St. Augustine, that in Vasari's 
time was in the possession of Bernado Vec- 
chietti, is now in the Uffizi. Then there is 
a charming annunciation of Benozzo Goz- 
zoli's of lovely pure coloring. The figure 
of the angel is very like that of Melozzo 
da Forli*s " Angel of the Anunciation " in the 
Uffizi, and two PoUajuolo's, "The Rape of 
Dejanira" by Antonio, and an "Annuncia- 
tion" attributed to Pietro. There is an in- 
teresting little picture of Signorelli's taken 
from the palace of the Archbishop of Cor- 
tona, Signorelli's native city. Signorelli is 
best shown in fresco, but this is an interest- 
ing example of his work, although the color- 
ing is crude, as it so often was in his work, 
and this subject, ''The Adoration of the 
Magi," gave him naturally no opportunity 
for showing his skill in the handling of nude 
figures, in which he was one of the first Italian 
painters to excel. Next comes a portrait of 



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256 



The Field of Art 



the Princess \'itelli by Francia. This is ex- 
ceptionally lovely in coloring and model- 
ling and has a charming bit of landscape in 
the background. Perugino is represented 
by a small oil painting of "The Baptism of 
Christ/' Pinturicchio, his assistant, by a dec- 
orated salver of '' Love bound by Maidens " 
from Petrarch's "Triumph of Chastity.*' 
Dominico Ghirland- 
ajo is most interest- 
ingly and character- 
istically shown in a 
frescoon tile, the por- 
trait of a lady strik- 
ingly similar to the 
head of the young 
Florentine woman in 
the birth of the Vir- 
gin, and presumably 
his mistress, the sis- 
ter of Lorenzo Tor- 
nabuoni. There is a 
charming Botticelli, 
a "Madonna and 
Child," with the in- 
effable melancholy 
grace that was San- 
dro's peculiar charm. 
And a Giovanni Bel- 
lini of St. Peter done 
apparently in his 
earlier style before 
his work was in- 
fluenced by the glori- 
ous coloring of his 
pupil Giorgione. 

Very remarkable 
in this selection are the two paintings at- 
tributed to Giorgione, and it is strange that 
these two, the portraits of Andrea Gritti and 
his sisters, and a " Circumcision of Christ," 
should have escaped the attention of Gior- 
gione enthusiasts. They are undoubtedly 
interesting examples of the Giorgionesque 
school. The golden light and the rich, warm 
coloring are typical of Giorgione, and being 
so clearly in his manner offer an interesting 
study. To return to the Florentine school, 
Filippino Lippi is shown in a St. Sebastian 
dated 1470 and inscribed with the names of 
those who ordered the painting. There is 
a crucifixion of Lorenzodi Credi from a chapel 
in the Borghese Palace done in tempera. A 
Pieta of Fra Bartolomeo and an "Angel 
Gabriel," by his companion, Albertinclli. 

A Raphael of the Madonna with St. John 
and St. Joseph of Arimathea supporting 




Madonna and Child accompanied by Saints. Hy Soduma. 
In the Jarves collection, Yale Art School. 



the dead Christ is mentioned in the Lon- 
don AthencBum of February 12, 1859, hy 
T. A. Trollope, as being "an interesting 
early work of Raphael's, painted by him 
while still with his master, Perugino, from 
a design of his, but with variations." The 
original design of Perugino 's is in the Albizzi 
Palace in Florence, and this study from the 
fresco is supposed to 
be Raphael's earliest 
known work , and was 
taken from a villa of 
the Chigi family. At- 
tributed toLoSpagna 
is a "Madonna and 
Child " and to Andrea 
del Sarto, a fresco, 
again of the "Ma- 
donna and Child," 
which in its trans- 
ference from wall to 
canvas has been 
practically destroyed. 
Two Sodomas, men- 
tioned by C.C. Black 
of the South Ken- 
sington Museum, 
are especially in- 
teresting studies, a 
"Madonna and 
Child" with St. John 
the Baptist, St. 
Bernadino, and St. 
Catherine, and an 
exceptionally beau- 
tiful and character- 
istic painting of 
Christ bearing the cross. A sombre por- 
trait of Vittoria Colonna, Vittoria as an 
elderly dowager, done by Sebastiano del 
Piombo, is of some interest, and Veronese 
is represented by a crucifixion, which, how- 
ever, gives no idea of his decorative value. 
Few of the Venetian school are included 
in this collection and those few are, for 
the most part, rather poor examples. The 
Guido Reni's, which conclude Mr. Jar- 
ves's selection from the six centuries, are 
a sketch from the Gerini Gallery of St. 
Joseph holding the Christ-child, and a 
large canvas of three goddesses disarming 
cupid. 

There are in all one hundred and fifteen 
pictures in the Jarves collection, and they 
present an exceptional opportunity in this 
country for the study of Italian art. 

Anne C. Bunner. 



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Dnxun i'y /•. 



} O.'lH. 



•1 WANT TO KNOW JUST WHAT TO DO WIl H THAT LAND O* MINE. I AIN'T 
FORGOT WHAT YOU TOLD MR* 

—"The Heart of the Hills," page 347. 



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SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE 



VOL. LI I 



SEPTEMBER, 1912 



NO. 3 



THE TWO CONVENTIONS AT 
CHICAGO 

BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 

Illustrations by Wallace Morgan 



THE Coliseum in which the Repub- 
lican convention was held is of the 
trolley-car-barn style of architecture. 
Its walls support on arching 
girders an arching roof. To 
obtain better lighting effects 
the roof and the walls have 
been painted a 
good canary yel- 
low. During the 
days of the con- 
vention all you 
could see of the 
inside of the build- 
ing was the yellow 
roof and the iron 
girders. The rest 
of the Coliseum 
was concealed by 
people. Del- 
egates, and back of them alter- 
nates, sat on the floor level, and 
on three sides of them were the 
spectators, on seats that, start- 
ing on the floor level, rose to 
meet a balcony that hung from 
all four walls. Facing the del- 
egates was a platform half the 
width of the Coliseum raised 
from the floor to the height of 
a man standing. Between the 
platform and the delegates sat 
hundreds of reporters, corre- 
spondents, telegraph operators. 
These press seats made a big 
gap between the platform and 
the delegates, and in order to 
bridge it, whenever Mr. Root or 
one of the speakers wished to 

Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scri 




Sf/.H^r^^ 



address the delegates, or a clerk called the 
roll, he walked out along a gang-plank that 
jutted from the platform like a wharf from 
the main-land and cut the press seats 
in two. It was like the one the magi- 
cian uses when he comes down among 
t he a udience and lifts rabbits out of a 
hat. It made the man who stood 
upon it pitilessly conspicuous. It 
was as though he had been forced to 
walk the plank. Indeed, several of 
those who ventured forth upon it, 
so far as their political life was con- 
cerned, did walk the plank. While, 
on the other hand, as one 
man stood there the light- 
ning struck him, and the 
next morning he found 
himself famous. 

Seated as they were, 
two- thirds of those present 
faced theother third, knee 
to knee, and eyes looking 
into eyes. It was a com- 
pact, confidential, *' heart- 
to-heart- talk " kind of an 
arrangement. In twenty 
years of reporting I have 
never seen as big a gather- 
ing seated better. The 
man in the farthest* gal- 
lery, up under the band- 
stand, that clung to the 
roof like a bird's-nest to a 
cliff, may not agree. But 
that he should hear or see 
was not the object of the 
convention. What was 
important was that the 

bner's Sons. All rights reserved. 

259 



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260 



The Two Conventions at Chicago 






ter of fact, owing to ex- 
perience with former 
conventions, and to a 
system based on that ex- 
perience, the work of 
the convention struck 
at least one looker-on as 
being conducted with 
remarkable order, 
speed, and fairness. 
This does not refer to 
the work of the "steam- 
roller," but to the carry- 
ing on of the order of 
business. In the first 
place, neither the pre- 
siding officer nor the 
delegates were con- 
cerned with the ten 
thousand men and 
women who were pres- 
ent as their guests. In 
their minds those at 
chairman, thegentleman who had the floor, times semi-maniacs were eliminated. The 
and the reading clerk should hear and be delegates were concerned only with a tall 




Calling the roll. 



heard by one thousand 
delegates, and that what- 
ever of wit or wisdom, 
of insult or repartee 
passed between them 
should on the instant 
be heard by the report- 
ers, who in their turn 
should be able to pass it 
on outside the building 
to eighty million waiting 
people. That this was 
possible was due to the 
excellent acoustic prop- 
erties of the Coliseum, 
and to the efforts of Fred 
erick W. Upham and the 
other gentlemen of the 
convention committee 
of Chicago. 

When in the daily, or 
rather hourly, accounts 
of the convention you 
read of eleven thousand 
people on their feet yell- 
ing for twenty minutes, 
it was difficult to believe 
that in such chaos any 
progress was possible or 
that it could lead to any 
sane result. As a mat- 




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Sere no E. Payne 



man swinging a wooden 
mallet, and he with a 
thousand men gathered 
compactly together at 
his feet in a space little 
larger than the orches- 
tra floor of a theatre. 

The delegates sat in 
a block of kitchen chairs 
entirely surrounded by 
narrow aisles. In these 
aisles were messengers 
and stenographers. It 
was their business to see 
that no delegate who 
rose to his feet to speak 
was unreported. There 
were stenographers on 
the platform, stenog- 
raphers on the gang- 
plank, stenographers 
below the gang-plank; 
but these stenographers 
in the aisles were the 
allies of the lone del- 
egate. They saw that 
no crumb that fell from 
his table was lost. No 
matter in what frenzy 
he had spoken, no mat- 
ter whether he had 



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The Two Conventions at Chicago 



261 



committed libel, perjury, or was guilty 
only of "violent and profane language," 
the messenger and stenographer were at his 
throat. With a demand for his name, the 
messenger thrust into his hands a card and 
a pencil, and the stenographer commanded 
that he repeat his remarks. Half the time 
the delegate did not want to repeat his re- 
marks, but he felt that had he wished to 
do so his protest, motion, or merry jest 



clock, and, like a juggernaut, the "steam- 
roller" ploughed its way. For the ma- 
chinery one felt nothing but admiration. 
What puzzled and surprised one was that 
those in control did not seem to know how 
to make the best use of it. The working 
parts were all there. What you missed 
was the stage-manager, the coaches on the 
side lines. No college base-ball team, no 
second-class theatrical company would 




^^p-'^^^iVl^' 




Klihu Rout, chairman. 



would have gone on record and in time have 
reached the chairman. The chairman in 
his turn, in order to reach the delegates, 
was assisted by a staff of lieutenants with 
strong lungs and megaphones, expert ac- 
countants to keep score, sharps in parlia- 
mentary usage to give him advice, clerks 
to read resolutions, and sergeants-at-arms 
to keep order. These formed the ma- 
chinery of the convention ; the brains that 
directed the machinery also were on the 
platform, the Roosevelt leaders on one 
side, the Taft leaders on the other. Like 
admirals in the conning-tower, by means 
of telephones and messengers, they issued 
orders or received them, described the bat- 
tle to the White House or to the Congress 
Hotel, commanded fresh guns into action 
or spiked those of the enemy. In spite of 
the shouting and the tumult, the "stam- 
pedes," demonstrations, fist fights, cat- 
calls, challenges, and insults, this ma- 
chinery of the convention worked like a 



have gone on the field, or raised the cur- 
tain, with a lack of preparation as shock- 
ing, with a team so ill-selected, with a 
cast so incompetent, without one man in 
authority to substitute a fresh pitcher for 
the one who had been knocked out of the 
box. It was not as though the conven- 
tion had come to the Roosevelt and Taft 
managers as a complete surprise. It had 
been in the air for some time. It was not 
a carefully guarded secret. One would 
have thought the importance of what was 
at stake at that meeting might have oc- 
curred to them. In order to defeat Har- 
vard at foot-ball, young men at New Haven 
go into training for six months. For six 
months each man who is to play his par- 
ticular part is tested, tried out, coached, 
and cruelly driven. Veteran foot-ball 
players neglect their business, and from 
all over the country assemble to sit in 
judgment upon him, to coach him in what 
he has to do, and, if they find he cannot do 



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262 



The Two Conventions at Chicago 



it, to throw him out and train some one 
who can. They leave nothing to chance. 
They do not act on the hope that "it will 
all come right on the night." They put 
into the field the best team they can get 
together, and each player knows just what 
he is to do and the coaches know he can 
do it. They go to all that trouble and 
preparation to win a foot-ball champion- 
ship. If they lose, in a year they can try 
again. But if a convention nominates the 
wrong man, and on election day the party 
loses, it cannot try again for four lean, 
hungry years. For four years it is out of 
office, out of patronage, out of pocket. 
Knowing this, the party managers, or the 
managers of this or that candidate, would 
go into the convention, you would think, 
with picked men, with men they had re- 
hearsed, drilled, trained, men who would 




Senator I'radlcy clinrlitd his fists and shrieked. - 



speak only the lines assigned them, men 
who would not fumble the ball. Instead, 
most of the men placed upon the gang- 
plank by both the Roosevelt and Taft 
managers, to represent them and fight, 
were pathetic. They were so incompeten t 
that the audience howled at them, not 
because it was opposed to them in politics, 
but because they were incompetent. In 
most instances they succeeded only in 
assisting greatly the other side. Appar- 
ently, no one had asked them what they 
planned to say and had suggested that 
they had better not say it. No one, when 
they had made themselves ridiculous, stood 
ready to signal them off the field; no one 
had authority to throw into the breach 
a fresh and better player. 

They faced an audience of one thousand 
and seventy-eight men from every one of 
the States of the Union and of her col- 
onies. It was a crowd as smart as ter- 
riers, as wise to the game of politics as are 
the bleaching-boards to the other national 
game, a crowd ready to jump upon an 
error, to take advantage of a slip, to give 
a double meaning to any unstudied sen- 
tence. 

Heney , who rode forward to throw down 
the gauntlet for Roosevelt, made the first 
break on the first day of the convention. 
He could do nothing hut call names. No 
one likes to be called names. The more 
angry Heney grew, the more angry grew 
the delegates. He went at them like a 
two-gun man, and they would not have it. 
They did not like his method; they did not 
like what he said; they did not like him. 
He should have been a "head-liner," but 

his turn was a 
failure. Any 
stage-manager 
would have 
called him to 
the wings, in- 
stead, Heney, 
his own stage- 
manager, i n - 
sisted upon 
remaining 
until Root had 
silenced the 
tumult that 
Heney's own 
J tactlessness 
had aroused. 



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As a result, Root got credit for the assist, 
and Heney struck out. Some friend should 
have warned him that no man likes to be 
called a thief. This is especially so when 
he is a thief. Fort, the ex-governor of New 
Jersey, made a failure almost as brilliant. 
He was put forward to champion Roose- 
velt and to attack 
the tainted del- 
egates. Apparently 
he had not prepared 
what he had to say. 
What he tried to say 
was, "We must be 
firm at first, because 
later it will be too 
late." Hesaid,"We 
must be firm a/^r5/ " 
—and stopped. It 
sounded as though 
he was admitting 
that later the Roose- 
velt crowd would 
surrender. A stage- 
manager would have i 
told him in reading 
his line not to e m - 
phasize the "at 
first." Seated di- 
rectly below him, 
Wadsworth, the 
leader of the New 
York delegation , lent 
further emphasis to 
the "at first" by 
kicking his legs in 
the air and shrieking 
in derisive, mocking 
laughter. The other 
delegates took it up. 

Amidst the tumult Fort was heard crying, 
"I don't mean what y(?M mean," but his 
usefulness was at an end. 

It was the same with the speakers 
thrown into the fight by the Taft man- 
agers. They were dyed-in-the-wool, hide- 
bound "party" men, old in years, old in 
traditions. They did not know there was 
a new step on the floor, a new face at the 
door. No one had told them how you 
spell "progressive." 

Sereno E. Payne, like a Rip Van Winkle 
of the past, talked of Fremont. He did 
not know that since the days of the great 
Pathfinder a change had come to the map 
of this country, that disruption threatened 



Among his own people he is an orator. 



his party. He could not read the writing 
on the wall . Below him in black and white 
were signs staring him in the face. They 
read, " Alaska," " Porto Rico," " Hawaii," 
"Philippines." He did not see them. 
Helpless against the jeers and laughter, 
against the howls of "How about the 
Payne tariff bill?" 
he wandered aim- 
lessly up and down 
the gangplank, 
scolding and mum- 
bling to himself, a 
maudlin, pathetic 
spectacle. Finally, 
still mumbling, he 
wandered away, a 
stenographer, grin- 
ning cynically, 
clinging to his elbow. 
Senator Bradley, of 
Kentucky, another 
old man, whose 
white hairs gained 
him no respect, was 
drowned out with 
cries of "Lorimer! 
You voted for Lor- 
imer!" One won- 
dered why, in the 
city of Chicago of all 
places, the managers 
put forward one at 
whom it was so easy 
to hurl a brick. 
The old man raged, 
stamped, lost tem- 
per, breath, and 
dignity. Outside of 
the building eighty 
million people waited, while inside Senator 
Bradley clinched his fists and shrieked, 
speechless with rage. 

A negro followed him. Among his own 
people he is an orator. He began just the 
way an orator should begin. 

"The negro of this country," he pro- 
claimed, "looks to the Republican party 

for " 

"Post-offices!" yelled the delegates. 
Then he tried to say " populist ! " and pro- 
nounced it "pop-populist," and the sub- 
sequent proceedings interested him no 
more. A young man from Virginia felt he 
had to tell us about his " native State." A 
Virginian may reverence his mother, his 




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264 



The Two Conventions at Chicago 







wife, his God, but what chiefly 
troubles him is his love for his 
native State. Some one 
should have warned this 
young man that he was sent 
down the gangplank toexf>lain 
a contested election, and that 
the circumstance that he him- 
self had been born in Virginia 
was an historical fact in which 
neither the delegates nor the 
waiting eighty millions were 
specially interested. But no 
manager told him that, and 
of himself no Virginian would 
believe that there live men 
with souls so dead that they'd 
take no more pride in having 
been born within any special 
geographical area than they 
do in possessing a special tel- 
ephone number. So he told 
us about his love for his native 
State, and he was so unhappy 




Governor Johnson, of ( 
"Present— but no/ votiiii,' !" 



over it, and spoke in tones so 
reverential, that a delegate im- 
itated his mournful accents with 
a long-drawn "Amen!" And the 
young Virginian was laughed back 
into the arms of his native State. 
Another Southern gentleman suf- 
fered from the same obsession. 
Instead of at once getting to 
Hecuba, and telling the delegates 
what they wanted to know, 
he began, "The men — of Kenn- 
tuck-ee, loave — Keen-tuck-ee/" 
At which a delegate shouted, 
"Then go back to Ken-tuck- 
eer' 

After a speaker had once made 
a slip, had once been ridiculed, no 
matter how unfairly, the delegates 
would have none of him. He was 
as helplessly at their mercy as a 
man in a pUlory. Knowing this, 
one sat and wondered why the 
managers put forward the un- 
trained, weak, and in- 
competent brother. 

In the language of 
vaudeville, why, when 
you have at your com- 
mand" head-liners "and 
"top-notchers," 
give your audience 
"chasers" and "mov- 
ies." 

Not that there were 
no head-liners. 

Job Hedges was one. 
Cynical, clever, adroit, 
he tricked the delegates, 
and they loved him for 
it. They laughed, but 
with him, not at him. 
And he knew just when 
to stop. He stopped 
when he had done Mr. 
Root just as much good 
as he possibly could and 
Mr. Roosevelt as much 
harm as Sam Waller did 
to Messrs. Dodson and 
Fogg, and then, like the 
clever actor that he is, 
"left them laughing 
when he said * good-by. * * * 
aiifornia. ' For thc m a nagc r s 
-rat:c27o. the choice of cham- 



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265 



pions should not have been difficult, for ence, "came back." They were just as 

when a man had something to say, and said earnest as on the day previous, but they 

it with self-control, the delegates heard him were not abusive; each had himself well 

eagerly. They did not mind vehemence; in hand. Each spoke "man's talk," not 







The success of Governor Hadley was one entirely of personality. 



indeed, when the indignation was honest, 
even though it was directed against their 
own faction, they applauded impartially. 
It was loss of temper, pomposity, incompe- 
tence they could not tolerate. On the 
second day. Governor Johnson, of Cali- 
fornia, and Heney, each of whom on the 
first day had lost his temper and his audi- 



like a peevish fish-wife, and in consequence 
each of them scored tremendously. 

The success of Hadley was one entirely 
of personality. Dramatic critics throw 
personality at popular actors as though it 
was something of which they should be 
ashamed. That should not be so. Per- 
sonality in a man is what charm is in a 



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' We want Teddy. ' 



woman, something that cannot be ex- 
plained, imitated, or acquired. A week 
after Hadley,in Chicago, walked down the 
gangplank and found himself famous, in 
New York the middle-weight champion 
of England walked into the prize-ring in 
Madison Square Garden, and suddenly 
eight thousand good American citizens 
stood up and cheered him. Why? Be- 
cause they wanted him to defeat the 
American ^ * white hope ' ' ? Certainly not ! 
Because he was the champion of all Eng- 
land? Hardly! They liked his person- 
ality. He had not struck a blow; he only 
had walked once around the ring, smiUng, 
bowing, holding his head high, and in that 
short circuit Bombardier Wells had made 
eight thousand friends. It was so with 
Governor Hadley. He had nothing to 
say that some one else could not have said 
as well. Nor was it the way he said it. It 
was his appearance, which is distinguished, 
his confidence, the way he bore himself, 
the respect he showed to his opponents, 
the respect he felt for his cause and for 
himself — and personality. That night, 
up and down Michigan Avenue, in the 
hotel corridors, in committee-rooms, bar- 
rooms, Gold rooms, Florentine rooms, the 
gossip, the surmise, the speculation was 
all of Hadley, and in the half-million of 
w^ords sent out over the country by the 
266 



correspondents the name of Hadley led all 
the rest. The next morning no one could 
remember what he had said that had so 
deeply impressed him, no one could recall 
any particular act of strategy, statecraft, 
or generalship that had excited his admi- 
ration; but for some reason, or many, over- 
night the name of Hadley had become 
famous and familiar. 

It is said that that same night he w^as 
offered three different crowns which he 
did thrice refuse. That may or may not 
be true. In any event, it is politics and 
has no place in a story of a big meeting in 
a big hall. But this is certain, when the 
next morning he appeared upon the plat- 
form his presence started the only genuine 
demonstration of the convention. But 
convention audiences are fickle. Hadley 
did not long enjoy the demonstration, for 
within five minutes it switched to Roose- 
velt; half an hour later it again switched, 
this time to a good-looking young woman 
in a blue hat. Who shall say that repub- 
lics are ungrateful? 

It broke loose at ten minutes past three. 
For four hours every delegate had been sit- 
ting on a kitchen chair that each minute 
grew harder, smaller, and nearer to those 
on either side of it. For four hours he had 
been without food, drink, or a cigar. And 
he was bored, irritated, insurgent. Veter- 



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The Two Conventions at Chicago 



267 



ans of many conventions say it is impos- 
sible to explain the psychology of a dem- 
onstration. What floated this one, possi- 
bly, was that the Roosevelt delegates were 
pleased when Root permitted Hadley, 
who already had addressed them, again to 
speak. They looked upon his having the 
last word as an advantage. And when 
he came down the gangplank they cheered 
and applauded mightily. At this point 
the enthusiasm was heart-felt and genuine, 
but no more violent than it had been on 
other occasions. People had time to say 
it was clever of Root to let Hadley speak 
again as nothing he could say could now 
alter the final vote, and the concession 
gave an impression of fairness, even of 
magnanimity. They had time to say that 
when the cheering reached a higher note, 
it took on a new and strange significance. 
As one man, each reporter reached for his 
watch. Hadley, who had raised his hand 
for silence, felt the change, and lowering 



his arm stepped back quickly. Just as 
quickly, but too late, Root saw the danger 
and shot fon^'ard. The cheers now were 
yells, and halted him. A moment sooner 
with a few raps of his gavel he could have 
stopped it. Now thunder-claps could not 
have stopped it. From a greeting to Had- 
ley it had swung into a demonstration for 
the man for whom " the fighting governor " 
was fighting. Hadley sat down. Root 
sat down. Leaning back and crossing his 
legs as comfortably as though he were in 
his own library, he began reading a type- 
written document of many pages. As 
chairman he had effaced himself. The 
convention was in the hands of a mob. 
The demonstration fed on itself. The de- 
lirium of one man affected the one next 
him. They became like dancing dervishes, 
like those at a negro camp-meeting who 
have found religion. Twenty Texans rose 
in a solid mass and flung their arms 
into the air like men at calisthenic exer- 







W. J. Brj'an in the press seals, a sandwich in one hand. — Page 271. 



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268 



The Two Conventions at Chicago 




tract the attention of eleven thousand 
people. Massachusetts began to give a 
yell in rhythm, other delegations or tiny 
derelict blocks of delegates in half-doz- 
ens followed suit. Their war-cries ex- 
plained that " We are so-and-so ! " thefaith- 
ful six or the loyal two, and they wanted 
"Teddy!" It had lasted half an hour 
when a young woman in a blue dress 
and blue hat leaned out like Barbara 
Freitchie from the balcony and waved a 
bill-poster on which was printed a likeness 
of Roosevelt. She was a very excited, 
very good-looking young woman. She 
might have been a twin-sister to Miss 
Blanche Ring. She was extremely grace- 
ful. In pantomime she made a speech, 
waving her arms in the air, pointing at the 
portrait, shaking her fist at the Taft men 
and throwing ki^es to the Roosevelt dele- 
gates. Instantly the entire attention of ev- 
ery one in the Coliseum was centred uix>n 
her. The audience liked her. It liked 
her so well that the tempest rose again, 
the "roof-tops seemed to sway," men and 
women went entirely crazy. Delegates 



•^:^ 



James Watsou. 

cises. In unison they yelled, ^^We want 
Teddy! We want Teddy!'' They kept 
this up for half an hour. Their arms rose 
and fell with the regularity of a gang of 
Italians driving a hand-car. The Cali- 
fornia delegation, led by Heney, the Ruef- 
breaker, and Governor Johnson, stamped 
down the aisles cheering for Roosevelt and 
waving on high the banner and golden 
grizzly bear of their State. Parts of the 
delegations from the other States and Ter- 
ritories followed. The black and white 
signs that had been used to mark the lo- 
cation of the different delegations were 
plucked from the floor and brandished as 
standards. Eleven thousand people got 
on their feet, waving handkerchiefs, flags, 
newspapers, and cheering, or jeering at 
those who cheered. If on one part of the 
floor the noise and tumult sank, on an- 
other it burst out with the roar of a blast- 
furnace. Unexpected shrieks issued from 
unexpected sources. Old gentlemen, el- 
derly ladies, staid business men stood on 
chairs and at the same time tried to at- 




cX^^ 



The gcnilemau frum Tcjuu. 



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The Two Conventions at Chicago 



269 



who had sunk into the kitchen chairs 
breathless, panting, unable even to whis- 
per, at sight of the girl in the blue hat 
returned to life. Unable to express them- 
selves like ordinary human beings, they 



crowd in the aisle, with policemen pluck- 
ing at her skirts, with the body-guard 
holding her on her feet, the lady in dumb 
show made a speech. At least we could 
see her lips moving, her eyes flashing, her 







Mr. Root subduing "Bill" Flinn. 



gave imitations of Indians, coyotes, cow- 
punchers, noon-day whistles, motor-car si- 
rens. Nothing could silence them. They 
were as raucous, as persistent as an alarm- 
clock at six in the morning. The gal- 
lant Califomians rushed to the balcony 
and escorted the lady in the blue hat to 
the floor. In spite of sergeant-at-arms, 
policemen, and shrieking delegates, in a 
flying wedge they swept her down the 
aisles, jammed with howling men, to the 
platform and lifted and dragged her to 
the reporters' tables. Three of her body- 
guard were jostled off the tables and dis- 
appeared beneath them. But no one sym- 
pathized with them. The lady and her 
guard of honor were kicking and tramp- 
ing upon the instruments of the tele- 
graph operators, and the telegraph ex- 
perts were fighting mad and trying to hurl 
them into space, but no one sympathized 
with them either. Lifted high above the 



clinched fists trembling on high. It was 
a very interesting moment. Outside the 
Coliseum those same eighty million peo- 
ple still patiently waited for those they 
had sent there to nominate a presidential 
candidate. Inside, delegates waiting to 
do that very thing were gathered from 
Alaska's icy mountains, from Arizona's 
burning plains, from the land of the shel- 
tering palm ruled by the Sultan of Sulu, 
from the rock-ribbed State ruled by the 
Boston and Maine Railroad. But some- 
thing forbade it. Something frustrated the 
wishes of the sovereign people of these 
United States and their legally, more or 
less, appointed delegates. It was the wife 
of a real-estate agent of Chicago in a blue 
frock and a blue hat. And did any one 
object? Certainly not! Had any man 
been so base he would have been launched 
into Wabash Avenue and the arms of the 
ambulance surgeon. What did it prove? 



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270 



The Two Conventions at Chicago 



Did it prove we are a gallant nation or 
that we are a very good-natured nation? 
One thing is certain, had the lady at- 
tempted the same performance in Lon- 
don she would by now be wearing broad 
arrows in Halloway jail and forcibly feed- 
ing from a stomach-pump. 

There is nothing more baffling than to 
know what is and what is not what Broad- 
way calls "drama." One lone female 
holding up an entire convention sounds 
like drama. But it was not. There was 
no " thrill " to it. It was only comic and 
entertaining. The real thrill, when it 
came, was big, not on account of what act- 
ually happened, but on account of what 
lay behind it, on account of what it meant. 
The clerk was calling the votes for chair- 
man, and in vehement, aggressive shouts 
the men were howling at him the name 
of either McGovem or Root. The clerk 
came to the delegates from California. 
He had called the name of Governor 
Johnson, of Truxton Beale, of Francis J. 
Heney, and, in stentorian, defiant shouts, 
each had thundered back the choice of the 
followers of Roosevelt. For an instant 
the clerk remained silent, and then loudly 
and distinctly called, "Mrs. Florence C. 
Porter ! ' ' And for the first time in the his- 
tory of the United States a woman, in a 
firm, clear, sweet voice, cast her vote in a 
national convention. That was drama! 
That was where we got the first thrill. 
And while eleven thousand men and 
women howled and cheered her, the gray- 
haired, gentle-faced gentlewoman bowed 
her head and happily smiled. 

The actors in the convention drama 
gave us one other thrill. That was not be- 



cause any one actually did anything thrill- 
ing, but because he refused to do anything 
at all. It came when the first Roosevelt 
delegate, during the vote on the nomina- 
tion of a candidate, in answer to his name, 
shouted, " Present, but not voting ! " Then 
the audience and the delegates knew that 
a. majority of the Roosevelt delegates 
would obey the wishes of their leader. It 
grew more thrilling when Root tried to 
rule that if a delegate " refused to perform 
his duty," the clerk should call upon his 
alternate. This brought Fosdick to his 
feet, and, with all the traditions of the com- 
monwealth of ^Massachusetts back of him, 
he told Mr. Root no one could steal from 
him his vote or force him to vote for any 
one for whom he did not choose to vote. 
Mr. Root appeared more than pained. 
During the duel that followed, he looked 
like a man who, on finding a belligerent 
lion in his path, lacks the courage to at- 
tack and is afraid to run away. 

There would have been more thrills had 
it not been for the " steam-roller." After 
you have shoved even a lawn-mower over 
the grass, you have noticed that there is 
very little of thrill left to the grass. That 
was the way the Roosevelt delegates were 
left after Mr. Root and the " steam-roller " 
had mowed them down. But they took it 
with true American humor. No one could 
say they were not good losers. On a mo- 
tion, on an amendment, Mr. Root could 
call for the "ayes" and "noes," and the 
Taf t delegates would bellow " ay " and the 
Roosevelt delegates, in much louder tones, 
to make up for the fact that they were in 
the minority, would drown out the " ayes " 
with frantic "noes." But, strange to re- 




Ainong those pre-*cnt. 



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A quiet evening at the Congress Hotel 



late, the increased volume of sound did 
not deceive Mr. Root. 

" The ayes have it," he would invariably 
decide. And then the Roosevelt faction 
would howl mockingly, and, as though to 
admit that the laugh was on them, blow 
"toot, toot" on police whistles, and in 
chorus, in measured cadences, give a very 
excellent imitation of the puffing and hiss- 
ing of a gigantic steam-engine. After a 
half-hour of this, one of the Roosevelt 
delegates leaped excitedly to his feet on a 
point of information. 

"What is the point of information?" 
asked Root benignly. 

"Don't you think, sir," inquired the 
delegate innocently, "that your 'steam- 
roller' is exceeding the speed limit?" 

Another delegate called cheerily, " Draw 
your fires. Root ! She'll go without steam 
now." 

And Allen , of Kansas, promised if theTaf t 
men would give him a hearing he would 
not "put any sand in your gasoline." 



It was all perfectly good-natured, hon- 
est give-and-take, except when everybody 
was very ill-natured, and even then it 
was honest give-and-take, especially when 
Will Cooke, of Illinois, got a punch on 
the jaw and a Missouri delegate knocked 
down a policeman. What was fine about 
it was that it was perfectly American, 
perfectly democratic. William Jennings 
Bryan, sitting in the press box with a 
sandwich in one hand and with the other 
clasping the hand of an admiring dele- 
gate or policeman, was only one sign of 
it. All men present were free and equal. 
It was no House of Commons. No faction 
was classed as "labor" delegates, no other 
as "sons of somebodies." The only dis- 
tinction was that some men were bossed 
and a few men were the bosses, and that 
distinction held as good with one faction 
as with the other. If one side yelled 
*'Flinn," the other retaliated by hurling 
at them "Penrose" or "Big Steve." But 
except that one man wore the collar of 

271 



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The Two Conventions at Chicago 



273 



one boss and the other man the collar of 
another boss, they were all perfectly free 
and equal. Personally^ had I twice been 
an ambassador or were I a college presi- 
dent, it would chafe my neck to wear the 
collar of Barnes of Albany. But possibly 
neither the ambassador nor the college 
president sees the collar he wears. Only 
other people see it. There is another 
president of another college who refused 
to wear the collar of a boss. At Chicago 
the one college president was permitted 
to make a speech nominating Taf t for the 
presidency, at Baltimore the other college 
president was nominated for the presi- 
dency of the United States. Maybe wear- 
ing collars is going out of fashion. 

But whether bossed or imbossed, the 
convention was a fine family party. It 
had gathered like an "old-home- week'* 
crowd from every part of this country, 
and each delegate learned much that was 
new about men of other States and left 
behind him in Chicago a lot of things it 
was good to unlearn. He found that no 
matter from which particular State a dele- 
gate came he was much like the man from 
home, that Massachusetts was not more 
intelligent than Wisconsin, New York 
more wicked than California. Each tried 
his wits against those of other men, and, 
whether he won or lost, he returned to his 
home broader and wiser. And to have 
been one of the one thousand and seventy- 
eight who came from every part of the 
Union to nominate a possible chief mag- 
istrate will enable each, when he gets back 
home, to help educate the folks concerning 
this big, unwieldy country of ours; and 
whether at the convention the lightning 
struck him, or only a sergeant-at-arms, 
for that brief and tumultuous experience 
he b the better citizen. 

This article is concerned only with the 
Coliseum, or it would be pleasant to try 
and tell of the life during the week of the 
convention outside of that building — of 
the excellence of the hotel arrangements, 
of the hospitality of the city and her citi- 
zens, of the great and beautiful lake front. 
Than Chicago, no city is so well adapted 
for the purposes of a convention. She 
gave the visitors a little stretch of Michi- 
gan Avenue from the Blackstone to the 
Chicago Club, lined with theatres and 

Vol. LI I.— 30 



hotels, and left them to themselves to 
parade and serenade, to plot and to fight. 
And when they were overheated with 
combat, with marching and countermarch- 
ing, with the drinking of toasts to rival 
candidates, just across the avenue she 
calmed them with grass-covered acres, 
gorgeous sunsets, cooling breezes from the 
lake, and a theatrical moon that looked 
down and said, with the sage of Concord, 
"So warm, my little friend?" 

The.scicond of the two conventions be- 
gan at midnight and lasted but a very few 
minutes. It was held in a hurry in Or- 
chestra Hall, a beautiful building adapted 
to symphony concerts, charmingly dec- 
orated, discreetly lit. In appearance it 
differed as widely from the Coliseum as 
does Madison Square Garden from Max- 
ine Elliott's Theatre. There were other 
differences, but there were no differences 
among those present. Every man and 
woman in the hall had but one idea, one 
party, one candidate. It was as easy as 
taking money out of a blind man's hat. 
Had Roosevelt asked them for the the- 
atrical moon hanging over the lake, they 
would have yelled " Yes, and after that? " 

In that convention that gave birth to 
the new party, there was nothing in the 
enthusiasm rehearsed, arranged, or forced. 
The only force used was outside by the 
police to prevent those who wanted to be 
present at the accouchement from tramp- 
ling each other to death. 

To those of us who had rushed from 
the Coliseum straight to Orchestra Hall, 
the effect was like stepping from a board 
meeting of railroad directors, from a post- 
mortem in a coroner's office on a corpse, 
into a Zuni snake-dance. 

At this late day you do not need to be 
told of that eventful midnight meeting. 
You have read of it. On another page you 
can see it in a picture drawn by Mr. Wal- 
lace Morgan. It is a correct picture, as I 
know, because he drew it against my knee- 
cap as I was balancing on the backs of two 
velvet orchestra chairs. As Mr. Morgan 
himself shouted up to me, " In comparison 
with that other convention, ihis one is 
more — more clubby!" 

Not only is Mr. Morgan a great artist, 
but he is a great describer. It was all of 
that! 



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AN ALASKAN CATHEDRAL 
By John Warren Harper 

Its walls are bound by the ages round, 

Its font is an ice-rimm'd sea, 

Its nave is the gorge where the ice packs forge, 

Its dome is eternity! 

The white drifts swirl round its shafts of p)earl, 

Far up 'long the shining pass, 

The sunset's glow o'er its crests of snow 

Is its windows of stained glass. 

Oh! man of sin, wouldst thou enter in, 
Wouldst thou kneel at its glittering shrine? 
Where the ice-bound trail is the chancel rail 
Far above the last, lone pine? 

Where the twilight falls on its opal walls. 
And the lights of the night are hung, 
Where its altar gleams in the starlight beams 
And its censer, the moon, is swimg? 

Where the silence speaks and the snow-clad p>eaks, 
With their glow of splendid stars, 
Are the candlesticks, and its crucifix 
•Is the North light% shimmering bars? 

Oh! man of sin, wouldst thou enter in. 

Canst thou up to that altar climb? 

Where the snows are driven wouldst thou.be shriven 

Where the moonlit crystals chime? 

Oh! its crags are bold and the stars are cold, 
Hast thy spirit then no qualms? 
When hunger and want like the gray wolf gaunt 
At its door shall ask of thee alms? 

Far down in its crypt by the ice pack gript. 
Are forms that are silent and cold, 
And stifiF in its bands are the vandal hands 
That would rob its coflfers of gold. 

Oh! man, beware of those altars fair, 

Of that "holy of holies" untrod. 

Where the ice crags ring and the planets swing. 

And the only priest is God. 



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LETTERS OF GEORGE MEREDITH 




n 

ITH this second instal- 
ment of the selection from 
Meredith's Letters appear 
the first that are given 
from the long and deeply 
interesting series to his 
friend John Morley, now Viscount Mor- 
ley of Blackburn. The friendship, as will 
be seen, was already of long standing; it 
continued uninterrupted till Meredith's 
death. Lord Morley edited the F(?f/mgMy 
Review from 1867 to 1883, the period of 
these first letters, and the Pall Mall Ga- 
zelle from 1880 to 1883. 

[To John Morley.] 

MiCKLEHAM, Jan, 2, 1870. 

My Dear Morley: Very glad to hear 
from you — I called on Morison. He told 
me of your passage to Glasgow and lecture 
on Count d'Orsay, a tapital subject for a 
philosopher. I shall read it in the " Fort- 
nightly." — Some fear struck me that you 
would not find things well at Lytham. 

I should have written to ask leave to re- 
view Tennyson^s Arthurian Cycles; but 
I could not summon heart even to get the 
opening for speaking my mind on it. — I 
can hardly say I tlunk he deserves well 
of us; he is a real singer, and he sings 
this mild fluency to this great length. 
Malory's Morte Arthur is preferable. 
Fancy one affecting the great poet and 
•giving himself up (in our days! — ^he must 
have lost the key of them) to such dan- 
diacal fluting. — Yet there was stuff here 
for a poet of genius to animate the figures 
and make them reflect us, and on us. I 
read the successive mannered lines with 
pain — ^yards of linen — drapery for the de- 
light of ladies who would be in the fashion. 
— The praises of the book shut me away 
from my fellows. To be sure, there's the 
magnificent "Lucretius." 

Fred Maxse has been corresponding 
with Ruskin. — Anon, anon. I am not at 



liberty to write of the latter's monstrous 
assumption of wisdom. 

Ah! the Hindhead and a South wester 
on it in March or April! — Yes! and then 
to Florence. 

Let me hear when you are in London. 
I shall not be up till about the 1 1 th or 1 2 1 h . 
We will dine at the Garrick, an you please. 
Good luck speed the " Pall Mall."— I re- 
joice to hear that your head is teeming. 
Did I tell you that Fred and I went to sit 
under Bradlaugh one evening? The man 
is neither to be laughed nor sneered down, 
nor trampled. He will be a powerful 
speaker. I did my best to make Green- 
wood imderstand that. It was really 
pleasant to hear those things spoken 
which the parsonry provoke. Here, at a 
party where our WOlie entertained com- 
pany of his own age, the hostess feared to 
see the children standing in a ring because 
(she said — and she is by way of being in- 
dependent) the little (parson's chil- 
dren — ^he begets annually — the children 
die decennially — and he is "chastened" 

but sees no natural curse — !) the little 

might think it was meant for dancing! 

[To John Morley.] 

Box Hill, Jitly 25, 1870. 

My Dearest M.: ... I am glad you 
like the verses. The next batch you will 
find plunge deeper. Mind, I swore them 
as to you, and you (though you blinked at 
the time, as much as to tell me I was in- 
timidating you) consented to take them. 
— I am in poor mood for writing: an at- 
tack of stomach keeps me singular in ideas, 
and, like the contemplative dervish, with 
a fixed eye on the centre of my being, 
whence does not issue song at present. 

The war of '70 is direct issue of '66. 
Just as we abused the Prussians then we 
howl at the French now, but the tremen- 
dous armaments on both sides were meant 
for this duel, and it mattered very little 
what was the pretext for the outbreak. 
Surely it's a case of Arcades Ambo. The 

275 



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French felt themselves perpetually men- 
aced by dbtended Prussia, irritated by 
her tone, even alarmed by the rumor and 
dread of projects the existence of which 
her antecedents might seem to warrant. 
At any rate it was a fight to come on; 
and here we have it; and if we are ener- 
getic and wise it may be the last of the 
great fights of Europe. The two foremost 
States in war and intellect may well be 
conmiitted to cut the bloody tangle. I 
feel deeply for the Germans; I quite un- 
derstand the ardor of the French. I think 
their cause, from ^heir point of view, thor- 
oughly good, and not likely to succeed. 
Armies can't do it: they can't check the 
tide of a great nation. As to the Em- 
peror, he app>ears to have thought the 
season for a trial of the new breech-loader 
field-pieces and Mitrailleuse had come, 
just as Bismarck could not afford to delay 
in trying his needle-gun on the Austrians. 
The Emperor had note of warning that his 
routed Prussians were also busy perfecting 
mysterious instruments. Poor devilry! 
All devilry is poor in the contemplation. 
But it is still the chief engine of history. 
You and I are forced into our channels by 
it. Friend, in the woods, you and I may 
challenge the world to match us in happi- 
ness. Out of them I feel myself pulled 
back a century or so. — ^And into a splash 
of shuddering matter. 

By the way, you must remember that 
the Emperor did not make the grief against 
Prussia. It came to his hand. It was 
deep in the French heart. I turn to the 
** Book of Orm" and find a refrain — 

"Grow, Seed, blossom, Brain, 
Deepen, deepen, into pain." 

Title of piece "The Devil's Mystics." 
There! 
Again — 

" God feared the thing He fashioned 
And fled into a cloud!" 

Public of Britain ! Here he is — your poet ! 

" Since that day, with cloudy face, 
Of His own handiwork airaid, 
God from His Heavenly hiding-place 
Peered at the thing He made." 

Aha! If He made Bbmarck and Napo- 
leon according to the view of the Stock 



Exchange, the British Spinster, Clericus 
and Press (siding for once with their bet- 
ters), then no wonder! — I would not mind 
our language if it came from an unselfish 
people: but a people notoriously craving 
p)eace for comfort's sake, and commerce's 
— they do but scold, they provoke con- 
tempt. — I regret bitterly that I am not out 
on a post of observation. I may still go 
for a month. — Your loving 

George Meredith. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, 

England, Od. 25, 1870. 

My Dear Arthur: . . . I am not very 
rich at present, bat I don't want you to be 
without pocket-money and minor comforts. 
— See that you have warm clothing for the 
winter — all that k really needful I gladly 
pay for. I leave it to your good sense to 
take measures to avoid chills, and to take 
daily reasonable exercise, and not to walk 
to excess. Your gastric attack last year 
will serve for a warning. Don't ever sit 
in clothes you have sweated in: the trouble 
of going upstairs and " grooming " yourself 
saves trouble, and worse, in the end. Fel- 
lows who contract illnesses are usually 
guilty (I don't say always) of indolence — 
carelessness is only one form of indolence. 
— You will note that I lay stress on the 
physical condition. I do so for the reason 
that it is the index to the moral condition 
in young men. It is ten to one that a 
healthy lad is of good general worth. If 
not physically healthy he will not be of 
much value. The day comes when we 
are put to the test, and* it is for this day 
we should prepare with cheerful heart. 
Don't imagine me to be lecturing you. I 
have favorable reports of you, and I merely 
repeat simple words of advice that it will 
be well for you to keep in mind. — ^Tell Pro- 
fessor Zeller, with my compliments, that if 
there is a fund for the wounded soldiers in 
Stuttgart, I shall be glad if he will put my 
name down for the subscription of £1, 
which he can charge to the next accoimt. 
I cannot aflford more just now. The 
French peasantry around Sedan claim 
everything of us that we can give. They 
are barely held up in life by ike bread we 
are able to fumkh; and a third of France 
will be demanding succor in the winter. 



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277 



Horrible to think of! — But do not let com- 
passion or personal sympathy make your 
judgment swerve. This war is chargea- 
ble upon France, and the Emperor is the 
Knave of the pack. Two venerations of 
Frenchmen have been rearea on the tradi- 
tions of Napoleonism, and these meant the 
infliction of wrongs and outrages on other 
nations for the glory and increase of their 
own. They elected a Napoleon for chief 
because of his name, and in spite of his 
known character. It is said, the French 
peasantry did not want war; that their 
ignorance offended in electing this man; 
but who can deny that it was the Napo- 
leonic prestige which gave him his first 
step to the throne by overwhelming votes? 
This man was the expression of their ig- 
norance, or folly, or vanity; he appealed 
to the Napoleonism in them, and had a 
prompt response. A more ignoble spec- 
tacle than the recriminations of Emperor 
and people upon one another as to the ori- 
gin of the war, after defeat, history does 
not show. The Germans, on the contrary, 
reap the reward of a persistently honorable 
career in civic virtue. Consider what the 
meaning of civic virtue may be. It com- 
prises a multitude of other virtues. As to 
German boasting, why the English also are 
great boasters. See the best in those about 
you. I say this, and I admire and respect 
the Germans, and God knows my heart 
bleeds for the French. But my aim, and 
I trust it will be yours, is never to take 
counsel of my sensations, but of my intelli- 
gence. I let the former have free play, 
but deny them the right to bring me to a 
decision. You are younger, have a harder 
task in doing that; you have indeed a task 
in discerning the difference between what 
your senses suggest and what your mind. 
However, try not to be let into some de- 
gree of injustice to your host, the German 
people, out of pity for France. — We had a 
capital time at Eastbourne, good bathing, 
Willie paddling up to his knees in salt water 
half the day. Now we have the autumnal 
gales and Box Hill looking on the last col- 
ors of the year. I saw your Grandpapa 
Meredith on my way to Captain Maxse's; 
he had been unwell, but was better; he 
asked after you and so did Mrs. M. They 
were anxious as to your situation in the 
territory of war. Captain Maxse is out 
and out French; Mr. Morison intensely 



German ; Mr. Morley and I do our utmost 
to preserve an ev^ balance. There is talk 
of an armistice, but Paris must fall before 
the French will seriously treat for peace. 
Count Bismarck gives audience to-day to 
that deleterious little Frenchman Thiers, 
who has been poisoning his countrymen 
for half a century, and now runs from 
Court to Court, from minister to minister, 
to get help to imdo his own direct work. 
Count Bismarck will be amused, for he has 
a keen appreciation of comedy. * Philoso- 
phers would laugh aloud at the exhibition 
of the author of the " Consulate and the 
Empire " in the camp at Versailles. Mod- 
ern France has been nourished on this ly- 
ing book. — Here in Mickleham we are nat- 
urally anxious about the Nonancourt* 
people. The latest telegrams say that the 
Germans are moving on Dreux — no great 
distance from the colony. You can fancy 
how sad the Old House looks now the good 
old man has gone.f — God bless you, my 
dear boy. If you have anything to nar- 
rate of the war, the wounded, the prison- 
ers, etc., it might be useful to me. Train 
your eyes to observe, and while they are 
at that work keep the action of your mind 
in abeyance. Young eyes can observe 
shrewdly, but the opinions of yoimg men 
are not quite so important. — I am your 
loving father, 

George Meredith. 



[To 



My Dear - 



Box Hill, March 23, 187 1. 
— : I will answer as plainly 
as you have written. I cannot but he 
shocked and grieved to think of the eflFect 
my manner of speaking has had in clashing 
with your ** opinions, ideas, and likings." 
But that this should prompt you to tell me 
that it makes my society seem baneful to 
you; and that only with me do you suffer 
the consciousness that you fail to get new 
strength, and that your complaint of me is 
not captious because I am the only friend 
who has ever caused you to complain — 
these are accusations which point in one 
direction, that is, to the end of our inti- 
macy. You consent to say that upon the 

•At Nonancourt. in Normandy, on the Avrc. Mrs. Mere- 
dith's three brothers lived and owned wool-spinning mills — 
close neighbors of the Waddington family, owning cottoa 
mills on the same river. 

tThe death of Mr. Justin VuUiamy, bis wife's father. 



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Letters of George Meredith 



larger matters we are one. I have thought 
so, and have considered the minor differ- 
ences too small to dwell on, the possible 
expression of them by one or the other of 
us too mean a subject for the predousness 
of friendship in our short life to brood on. 
For I am sensitive, and I likewise have 
thought myself here and there roughly 
used by you. But I pardoned the offend- 
ing minute when the hour had struck, and 
never thought of identifying the offence 
with my friend. I chose to blame myself, 
as the safer way of closing a sHght wound. 
It seems that I have been roughening you 
for six months. When I last came over 
to you I was bright with the happiness 
of being with you, and I remember I de- 
nounced (as I supposed I might do to a 
friend) a poem that struck me as worth- 
less. I spoke like a man coming off a 
coimtry-road fasting. It may be too often 
my manner. I might well think my friend 
would not let it live with him, and that he 
knew my mind better than to allow asense 
of variance to spring from such differences 
in open talk. Possibly a nature that I am 
proud to know never ceases in its growth, 
is passing now through some delicate stage 
which finds me importunate; or you feel 
that you have outstripped me, and are 
tempted to rank me with the vulgar. I 
can bring a thousand excuses for a letter 
that I have read often to assure myself it 
b among the things which are, but arrive 
only at the conclusion I have named. We 
will see one another as little as we can for 
two or three years, and by and by may 
come together again naturally. And if 
not, you will know I am glad of the old 
time, am always proud of you, always 
heart in heart with you on all the great 
issues of our life, and in all that concerns 
your health and fortimes. I suffer too 
much to-day to desire that any explana- 
tion should restore us to our past footing. 
Almost I am tempted to hope that I am 
quite valueless to you, for as I am not a 
man to send such a letter as you have just 
written to me, without deeply weighing 
every word in it and probable significa- 
tion of its burden to the reader, or with- 
out weighing my feelings well against my 
friend's, so I am not the man to receive 
one without determining to abandon a po- 
sition that has exposed me to be wounded. 
What you have permitted yourself to w rite 



and I to quote from you, cuts friendship 
to the ground. That I should be the only 
one of your friends ever to have done you 
harm, is not a nice distinction to reflect 
on. But I think I have said enough. I 
have answered you plainly and fully, and 
as to a sane man master of the meaning 
of his words and meaning exactly what 
they commonly convey. — I am ever yours 
faithfully and warmly, 

George Meredith. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.] 

Box KiLLj Dorking, Sureey, 
England, April 25, 1872. 

My Dear Arthur: . . . What you say 
of our religion is what thoughtful men feel: 
and that you at the same time can recog- 
nize its moral value, is matter of rejoicing 
to me. The Christian teaching is sound 
and good: the ecclesiastical dogma is an 
instance of the poverty of humanity's 
mind hitherto, and has often in its hide- 
ous fangs and claws shown whence we 
draw our descent. — Don't think that the 
obscenities mentioned in the Bible do harm 
to children. The Bible is outspoken upon 
facts, and rightly. It is because the world 
is pruriently and stupidly shamefaced that 
it cannot come in contact with the Bible 
without convulsions. I agree with the 
Frommen that the book should be read 
out, for Society is a wanton hypocrite, and 
I would accommodate her in nothing: 
though for the principle of Society I hold 
that men should be ready to lay down 
their lives. Belief in the religion has done 
and does this good to the yoimg; it floats 
them through the perilous sensual period 
when the animal appetites most need con- 
trol and transmutation. If you have not 
the belief, set yourself to love virtue by 
understanding that it is your best guide 
both as to what is due to others and what 
is for your positive personal good. If your 
mind honestly rejects it, you must call on 
your mind to supplv its place from your 
own resources. Otherwise you will have 
only half done your work, and that is al- 
ways mischievous. Pray attend to my 
words on this subject. You know how 
Socrates loved Truth. Virtue and Truth 
are one. Look for the truth in everything 
and follow it, and you will then be living 
justly before God. Let nothing flout your 



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Letters of George Meredith 



279 



sense of a Supreme Being, and be certain 
that your understanding wavers whenever 
you chance to doubt that he leads to good. 
We grow to good as surely as the plant 
grows to the light. The school has only 
to look through history for a scientific as- 
surance of it. And do not lose the habit 
of praying to the unseen Divinity. Prayer 
for worldly goods is worse than fruitless, 
but prayer for strength of soul is that pas- 
sion of the soul which catches the gift it 
seeks. — ^Your loving father, 

George Meredith. 



Frederick Greenwood, to whom the next 
letter is addressed, was an author and jour- 
nalist; originator and publisher of the 
PaU MM Gazette. When Yates Thomp- 
son purchased this and turned it into a 
Liberal organ. Greenwood and other mem- 
bers of the staff formed the St. James's Ga- 
zette. It was Frederick Greenwood who 
first suggested to Disraeli that purchase of 
the Suez Canal shares which made Eng- 
land master of that gate to the East. He 
subsequently edited the Antijacobin. 

[To Frederick Greenwood.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, March 12, 1874. 
My Dear Greenwood: I should like 
to review "Spain and the Spaniards" of 
Azamar Batuk; and also "Yu-pe-la's 
Lute " by Mrs. Webster, if I see stuff in it. 
Will you leave them out for me? I want 
work. My poor "Beauchamp" is not 
thought good for the market by George 
Smith, who is (as he always is) very kind 
about it. — ^Your faithful 

George Meredith. 

[To John Morley.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, May 22, 1874. 
My Dear Morley: I thank you very 
much for stepping over the obstruction for 
our mutual convenience in the matter of 
"Beauchamp." Greenwood and Maxse 
told me that the work pleased you. I 
need scarcely assure you that I look upon 
your appreciation of my labor as a good 
reward of it. I write for you and men like 
you. Consequently when the greater pay- 
master failed me, I hoped the work might 
be accepted where it would be more suit- 
ably accommodated, feeling quite certain 



that you would allow nothing to stand 
in the way of your estimation of it on 
its merits. Your reluctance to imdertake 
the burden of so lengthy a production, I 
cannot but think reasonable, and I gladly * 
meet your kind proposal that I should cut 
it short as much as I can, without endan- 
gering the arteries. I will get the MS. 
from George Smith immediately, and do 
my utmost upon it. It strikes me that 
the parts to lop will be the letters, a por- 
tion of the Visit to Normandy, the heavier 
of the electioneering passages, introduc- 
tory paragraphs to chapters, and dialogues 
passim that may be considered not vital 
to the central idea. That, which may be 
stated to be the personal abnegation com- 
ing, in spite of errors here and there (and 
as it were in spite of the nian himself), of a 
noble devotion to politics from the roots 
up, I think I can retain uninjured — possi- 
bly improved by the exclusion of a host of 
my own reflections. At any rate they can 
be reprinted subsequently. Chapman will 
buy the book for the 3 vol. issue. It rests 
with me that this should be brought about. 
I will take the liberty to let you know to 
what amount, and when, the task of ex- 
cision has been performed. 

My little ones, I am glad to say, are 
well, and so is my wife, whom I join in 
sending her compliments and regards to 
Mrs. Morley. 

Let me add that I await the ,contin- 
uation of the essay on Compromise with 
some impatience. — I am your obliged and 
faithful 

George Meredith. 

[To John Morley.] 

Box Hill, July i, 1875. 
My Dear Morley: . . . I have looked 
I forgot to tell you, at Tennyson's " Queen 
Mary," and I had great pleasure of my 
reading. I saw no trace of power, but the 
stateliness, the fine tone, the high tone, of 
some passages, hit me hard. Curiously 
too, in him, the prose k crisp, salient, ex- 
cellent. The Songs, if we had not Shake- 
speare's to show what are not literary forc- 
ings to catch a theme to point a compari- 
son, would do. As it is, "Milking the 
cow" smells of milking the brain. Mary's 
"Low-low" is an instance of public con- 
sciousness — before Victoria's people. — 



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But the work seems to me to be good, and 
how glad I am to have it of him! — Your 
faithful 

George Meredith. 



Mr. John Dennis tells how, sitting in the 
Garrick Club in the early hours of the 
morning, Meredith told him he had com- 
posed an address to Carlyle on his eigh- 
tieth birthday. This he wrote down and 
gave to Mr. Dennis. 

To Carlyle. 

Garrick Club. 

This eightieth year of thine sits crowned in light 
To lift our England from her fleshly mire: 
Two generations view thee as a fire 
Whence they have drawn what bums in them 

most bright: 
For thou hast bared the roots of life with sight 
Piercing; in language stronger than the lyre: 
And thou hast jbown the way must man aspire 
Is through the old sweat and anguish Adamite, 
As at the first. Unsweet might seem his fate. 
Sole with a spade between the stars of earth! — 
Giving much labor for his little mirth, 
And soldier-service till he fail to strike: 
But such thine was, and thine to contemplate 
Shall quicken young ambition for the like. 

George M. 



[To R. L. Stevenson.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, April i6, 1879. 

My Dear Stevenson: I have had but 
the song of a frog for a correspondent since 
your letter reached me, and my note is 
Batrachian still. A hint of suppressed 
Influenza seems to have been the cause; 
my customary specific of hard exercise, 
^ith which I generally sweat out all at- 
tacks, has this time failed. I do nothing 
but read, and that flimsily. — We have all 
been grieved to hear of your illness. Ma- 
riette says, " II a mangi trop de pickles I " 
I fear it may be from overwork. Take my 
advice, defer ambition, and let all go easy 
with you until you count forty : — then lash 
out from full stores. You are sure to keep 
imagination fresh, and will lose nothing by 
not goading it. 

My " Egoist " has been out of my hands 
for a couple of months, but Kegan Paul 
does not wish to publish it before October. 
I don't think you will like it: I doubt if 
those who care for my work will take to it 
at all. And for this reason, after doing my 



best with it, I am in no hurry to see it ap)- 
pear. It is a Comedy, with only half of me 
in it, unlikely therefore to take either the 
public or my friends. This is true truth, 
but I warned you that I am cursed with a 
croak. — I am about one quarter through 
"The Amazing Marriage," which I prom- 
ise you, you shall like better. 

Paul cannot. yet let me have a copy of 
the " Donkey in the Cevennes," of which 
I am very hopeful. 

We fully expect you and look for you to 
come to us in May. Please bring good 
weather. Let me hear that you progress 
and can put one leg forward. Then we 
can calculate that the other will follow, 
and we will count the days till we have 
you. Our plans are, to fill the cottage 
with friends during May, June, and part 
of July; after which we go to Dauphin^ 
for some weeks, home about the end of 
September. . . . My wife condoles with 
you, greets you, and will be glad to wel- 
come you, of thk from me be well assured. 
I beg you to present my compliments to 
your father and piother. — Yours very cor- 
dially, 

George Meredith. 

[To R. L. Stevenson.] 

GoLDRiLL House, Patterdau:, 
Westmoreland, July 28, 1879. 

My Dear Stevenson: I am here with 
the Editor of the " Fortnightly," battling 
with rain and mists, and stiff from a recent 
stiffish path up and down crags of a suffi- 
cient slope for brooks and kids. Now and 
then we have a spot of sun. He would 
smile, but he must cry, and he has got a 
tragic handkerchief, and with horrid itera- 
tion of stage action he resumes it when we 
are expecting him to give us a countenance. 
There is a nymph whose death he caused 
by giving too much. — I am not so far from 
you, my host says. It is his intention to 
write to you shortly apropos of work in his 
imperial contemplation. I have ventured 
to assure him that there will be no man 
better for it. He and I have been wonder- 
fully pleased with the Cevennes excursion 
and the Donkey. I prize Modestine above 
the cause. The night in the Pine Forest 
is memorable. I should have written of it 
in the fresh burst of my satisfaction, but 
knew not where to aim to hit you.*— The 



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diplomatic Kegan has dealt me a stroke. 
Without a word to me, he sold the right of 
issue of the **Egokt" to the "Glasgow 
Herald," and allowed them to be guilty of 
a perversion of my title. I wrote to him 
in my incredulous astonishment. He re- 
plied to me, excusing himself with cool in- 
competency. He will have to learn (he k 
but young at it) that these things may be 
done once — not more. 

I fancy I shall leave Morley for Box 
(Hill) on Tuesday, hardly later, except 
perchance on the tempting of a fine day. 
Give my compliments with addition of 
warmth to them to your Mother and 
Father. Henley wrote for my Essay on 
Comedy. I have directed my wife to post 
it to hiin. 

Adieu. Keep strong work in view, for 
you are of the few who can accomplish it. 
Let me hear of you when the mood is on 
you, and encourage the mood to come. — 
Your friendliest 

George Meredith. 

[To R. L. Stevenson.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, 
England, June i6, 1880. 

My Dear Stevenson: We have all 
had great rejoicing over news coming di- 
rect from you, "drawn from the Springs." 
Mariette, Will,my wife and I congratulate 
you on your temerity. We all want to 
know when it is that we are to see you. 
Bear that in mind, and let us hear of you 
when you turn your face east to the Island 
again. We had rumors of you: first from 
Walter Pollock, who came down to Leath- 
erhead to lecture on Dumas the Elder: 
then from Leslie Stephen, on his visit to 
us at the head of six of the famous corps 
of the Sunday Tramps: but these rumors 
were vague, though they blew note of a 
Wife and had thunder in them. Let me 
tell. you that our household roars at the 
absence of any communication from her 
lord concerning the lady. Has he married 
Enigma — to tell of whom is [to] split the 
head? Is she American? — Califomian? — 
Scottish washed in Pacific brine? 

The Sunday Tramps visiting us were 
L. S. for leader or Pied Piper, Morison, 
Fredk. Pollock, Groom Robertson, Edge- 
worth and another. Will and I shouldered 
a sack of cold sausages, 'Polinaris and 



Hock, and met them at old Dorking Sta- 
tion. Thence away to Leith Hill, where, 
in splendid sunlight, we consumed the 
soul of the sack, talked spiritedly (you 
may have been mentioned among the brill- 
iant subjects), rolled and smoked. Then 
down the piny clefts of the hill by Friday 
Street into the sloping meadows each side 
the Tillingboume leaping through Ev- 
elyn's Wooton, along imder Ranmore to 
our cottage and dinner. To this day 
the walk has a bubbling memory: L. S. 
in a recent number of the " Pall Mall " 
has described it in the philosophic man- 
ner.-^By the way, you have heard that 
Morley has the "Pall Mall"? Green- 
wood is oflf to the " St James's Gazette," 
after a snap with George Smith, who has 
a son-in-law that is Gladstonite. Hence 
Gladstone's victory at the elections pre- 
cipitated the fall of Greenwood, the foe 
of Gladstone. But the fall of very mighty 
heroes is to rise. Greenwood towers in 
his new paper: the poor "Pall Mall" 
drags on melancholily, as it were with 
bowels out, for Greenwood marched the 
whole of the "Pall Mall" staff away to 
his drumming, and Morley has to be 
abroad recruiting. 

Last year I was down with Morley at 
Ullswater. We talked of you and he wrote 
to you in your hills near Edina, but had no 
answer. He wanted to engage you to do 
some work for the " Fortnightly" — had it 
in his mind to propose Travels in the 
Vosges or Hartz, I think. Leaving West- 
moreland I took my family to France, 
where it was discovered that Will had 
Whooping Cough; an illumination to me, 
for in the Spring I had been seized with 
an incomprehensible attack, Mariette as 
well, all the symptoms the same as Will's. 
I used to cough at night until the works 
threatened a strike, and I was frightfully 
overthrown by it. I was partly.under the 
shadow of it when you last saw me. I 
left my family in Normandy and crossed 
Touraine and the centre of France to 
Clermont Ferrand, by rail through the 
Chaulat, a bit of your Cevennes country, 
to Nlmes, on to Marseilles and Bordi- 
ghera, back to Dauphin6. After a couple 
of weeks in the Norman home we re- 
turned to our cot. Here I have been 
working ever since. The children are 
well. I have an idea of sending Will to 



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Westminster School for the term after 
Christmas. I fancy I have more to say, 
but there's no space. We have heard on 
all sides great praise of your Cevennes 
tour. The article on Thoreau is good 
reading. 

Let me hear from you again. 

I am, with my heartiest salute to Mrs. 
Robert Louis, yoiur faithful 

George Meredith. 

Both dogs, Islai and Jacobi, in sound 
condition. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, June 19, 1881. 
My Dear Arthur: I have been struck 
to the heart by hearing ill news of your 
health from Lionel Robinson. He was 
here yesterday, and told me of your hav- 
ing had to consult a physician in London 
about spitting of blood. Let me know of 
your present condition immediately, and 
of how you feel affected, and what you 
think to be the cause of it. . . . Our cot- 
tage can now supply a bedroom, and this 
is at your disposal for as long as you please. 
When I was informed of your wishing to 
throw up your situation at Lille that you 
might embrace the profession of Literature, 
I was alarmed. My own fhischance in 
that walk I thought a sufficient warning. 
But if you come to me I will work with 
you in my chalet (you will find it a very 
quiet and pretty study), and we will oc- 
cupy your- leisure to some good purpose. 
I am allowed the reputation of a tolerable 
guide in writing and style, and I can cer- 
tainly help you to produce clear English. 
You shall share the chalet with me. Here 
you will be saving instead of wasting 
money, at all events. It will in no way 
be time lost. After all, with some ability, 
and a small independence just to keep 
away the wolf, and a not devouring ambi- 
tion. Literature is the craft one may most 
honorably love. I do not say to you, try 
it. I should say the reverse to any one. 
But assuming you to be under the obliga- 
tion to rest, you might place yourself in 
my hands here with advantage; and lead- 
ing a quiet life in good air, you would soon, 
I trust, feel strength return and discern 
the bent of your powers. Anything is pref- 
erable to that perilous alternation of cold 
market and hot cafe at Lille. I had no 



idea of what you were undergomg, or I 
would have written to you before. . . . 
— Believe me, ever at heart, your affec- 
tionate father, 

George Meredith. 

[To Arthur G. Meredith.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, June 23, 1881. 
. . . We have been long estranged, my 
dear boy, and I awake from it with a 
shock that wrings me. The elder should 
be the first to break through such divisions, 
for he knows best the tenure and the nat- 
ure of life. But our last parting gave me 
the idea that you did not care for me; and 
further, I am so driven by work that I do 
not contend with misapprehension of me, 
or with dbregard, but have the habit of 
taking it from all alike, as a cab-horse 
takes the whip. Part of me has become 
torpid. The quality of my work does not 
degenerate; I can say no more. Only in 
my branch of the profession of letters the 
better the work the worse the pay, and also 
it seems, the lower the esteem in which one 
is held for it. . . . Your loving father, 
George Meredith. 

[To Admiral Maxse.] 

Box Hill, March 19, 1882. 
My Dear Fred: The news of the Gov- 
ernor is not so good as I had hoped, but 
often the changes are surprising, and health 
seems given from the hand, after a painful 
dragging on for weeks. I suppose things 
to be well with Olive. Your pen-sketches 
of scenery and the picture forwarded to 
Mariette give me a breath of the Riviera. 
But here also we have had Midsummer 
in March. Day upon day a cloudless 
heaven, strong sun-heat, flowers profuse, 
leaves bursting — a return of the beir eti 
d'oro. At present I count five months of 
predominating S.W. wind. I have known 
winters as mild, but never followed by so 
soft a Spring. — (Interrupted by the call 
of a cleric, an amiable and a Liberal, who 
informed me in the course of the conver- 
sation that he had recently been enter- 
taining a " pure agnostic." Li reply I in- 
formed him that I should find it hard to 
hit on a friend of mine who was not a pure 
agnostic. He took it mildly.) — Morison 
was here on Saturday, did not sleep here, 



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as he has to finish his Macaulay for the 
Series.* He spoke of you, strongly ap- 
preciating you. He gave me a bad bit 
of news of Frederic Harrison's brother — 
thrown from his horse in the park and now 
lying in St. George's Hospital, paralyzed 
sdl but two fingers: case apparently hope- 
less, and meanwhile his little girl has died 
of diphtheria. 

Nothing advances in the House of Com- 
mons. I am of opinion that Gladstone, 
whatever the outlook for the party, should 
go to the country at once. I should, in 
that event, not be astonished at an increase 
of the Liberal majority. The feeling of 
disgust at the ignoble action of the Con- 
servatives against Bradlaugh and in badg- 
ering Gladstone is as general as it can be 
with so torpid a people.— My wife, Mari- 
ette and I were in town with friends the 
first week in March. Saw Mrs. Langtry 
in a play not possible with any public but 
the English. They swallowed it with rel- 
ish: "Ours." The realism is such that in 
a hut on the heights before Sebastopol you 
jam your shoulders against the door to 
keep out the snow-storm, and yet you re- 
ceive 3 ladies fresh from England without 
a spot of mud, snow, or wet on their skirts, 
and you give them lodging and provision. 
She is the ideal Shepherdess of the chromo- 
lithographs. She has to faint, and she 
takes three gaunt strides to fall on the 
ready knees of the dame prepared to re- 
ceive her. She has to make love, and does 
it with all her arms and breasts. Very 
handsome — not a shade of mystery or va- 
riableness: the heroine for bold dragoons. 
— Saw Irving as Romeo. The Love Play 
ceases to present a sorrowful story, and 
becomes a pageant with a quaint figure 
ranting about. 

I must come to a close. The doctor in- 
terdicts writing. I just manage to do my 
morning's work. Any little in addition 
nearly finishes me ; for the seat of the mal- 
ady is the pen. When I returned from 
London after a holiday I was getting bet- 
ter, and now am once more shaky, though 
improved by comparison with what I was. 
Give my love to the Governor and Olive. 
Mariette is delighted with her picture. A 
word from Venice would be welcome. — 
Yours ever affectionately, 

George Meredith. 

•"English Men of Letters." 



Read "Numa Roumestan," if you can 
lay hand on it. I do not care for the other 
novels of Daudet, but this is a consum- 
mate piece of work. 

[To M. Andi€ Raffalovich.] 

Box Hill, Dorkii^g, May 23, 1882. 
My Dear Sir: Your article on Th. 
Carlyle's " Reminiscences " was prompted, 
I think, rather by enthusiasm for the lady 
who stands close and in contrast with him 
than by an accurate knowledge of his 
works, nature and teaching. Our people 
over here have been equally unjust, with 
less excuse. You speak of vanity, as a 
charge against him. He has little, though 
he certainly does not err on the side cf 
modesty: — ^he knew his powers. The 
harsh judgment he passed on the greater 
number of his contemporaries came from 
a very accurate perception of them, as they 
were perused by the intense light of the 
man's personal sincereness. He was one 
who stood constantly in the presence of 
those "Eternal verities" of which he 
speaks. For the shallow men of mere lit- 
erary aptitude he had perforce contempt* 
The spirit of the prophet was in him. — 
Between him and his wife the case is quite 
simple. She was a woman of peculiar con- 
versational sprightliness, and such a wom- 
an longs for society. To him, bearing that 
fire of sincereness, as I have, said, society 
was unendurable. All coming near him, 
except those who could bear the trial, were 
scorched, and he was as much hurt as they 
by the action rousing the flames in him. 
Moreover, like all truthful souls, he was 
an artist in his work. The efforts after 
verification of matters of fact, and to pre- 
sent things distinctly in language, were in- 
cessant; they cost him his health, swal- 
lowed up his leisure. Such a man could 
hardly be an agreeable husband for a 
woman of the liveliest vivacity. But that 
is not a reason for your passing condem- 
nation on him. Study well his writings. 
I knew them both. She did me the honor 
to read my books, and make him listen to 
extracts, and he was good enough to repeat 
that "the writer thereof was no fool" — 
high praise from him. They snapped at 
one another, and yet the basis of affection 
was mutually firm. She admired, he re- 
spected, and each knew the other to be 



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Letters of George Meredith 



honest. Only she needed for her mate one 
who was more a citizen of the world, and a 
woman of the placid disposition of Mil- 
ton ^s Eve, framed by her master to be an 
honest laborer's cook and house-keeper, 
with a nervous system resembling a dump- 
ling, would have been enough for him. — 
He was the greatest of the Britons of his 
time — and after the British fashion of not 
coming near perfection;Titanic,not01ym- 
pian: a heaver of rocks, not a shaper. 
But if he did no perfect work, he had 
lightning's power to strike out marvel- 
lous pictures and reach to the inmost of 
men with a phrase. 

We have had Mr. Louis Stevenson in 
our Valley, staying with his wife and 
father and mother at the inn. He dined 
with me several evenings, and talked of 
you. We speculated on the impression 
produced by his costimie de Bohfeme, 
which he seems to have adopted for good 
— an innocent eccentricity at any rate. 

[To Mrs. George Meredith.] 

Box Hill, Feb. 15, 1884. 

Dearest Marie: Your Forsaken Hus- 
band, in looking at the topless tree of 
our garden, compares himself therewith, 
though he does not dare name it the Silver 
Fir, lest you should be set swearing aloud 
that never did he bear any resemblance to 
the currency. Your card was welcome. 
I shall look for a report of the "Flat." 
*' Diana" rather in the Doldnmis. 

To-day a brisker air, but last night was 
breathless. — I rejoiced to think that it was 
favorable for London. 

There is a card from Miss M , saying 

nothing, but curious as a literal transcript 
of the gaping of joint eyes and mouth! 

Give a cripple's love to Aunt Mary Anne. 
I am sure you will have remembered me to 
Mrs. Blackwell. 

Enclosed is A. and N. ticket in case of 
your needing it. I trust with all my 
heart that you and the blessed Riette will 
have a right joyful holiday. — Yours with 
full affection, George M. 

[To R. L. Stevenson.] 

Box Hnx, March 24, 1884. 
Mv Dear Stevenson: Nothing so 
pleasant can come to me as your good 



word of any of my writings — if I except 
the news of your reviving strength: and 
on that head I want more. I heard in 
the papers of your recovery from an illness 
imknown to me. Are you now much bet- 
ter? All our household inquires very anx- 
iously : my wife, Mariette and Will, and all 
send their love to you with warmth. Mine 
I trust you know of. In the winter I read 
" Treasure Island," the best of boys' books, 
and a book to make one a boy again, with- 
out critical reserve as to the quality of the 
composition. The Buccanneers are real 
bloody rascals, no sham of it. — I wish I 
could come to you. I have developed a 
spinal malady and can walk not much 
more than a mile. On the other hand I 
can work passably well, and am just fin- 
ishing at a great pace a two- volume novel, 
to be called "Diana of the Crossways" — 
partly modelled upon Mrs. Norton. But 
this is between ourselves. I have had to 
endow her with brains and make them evi- 
dence to the discerning. I think she lives. 
She appears by instalments in the Fort- 
nighUy Review^ commencing May or June. 
I hope to have done with her — have her 
out of me — ^in April. Then if I were well 
enough I think I would fly to the Riviera. 
I have no such sweet prospect. I am a 
cripple. All this winter we have had a 
Riviera temperature: and to me in need 
of bracing it has been a scourge. — On Sun- 
day the tramps come to us, L^lie Stephen, 
Fred Pollock, and others not named yet. 
I should venture to give them hopeful 
news of you: but pray confirm it. I shall 
await a letter from you anxiously. Should 
you be too busy to write instantly — often 
the case with me — confide the task to Mrs. 
Louis, to whom I and we all send respect- 
ful and amicable greetings. Have you 
met Edmond Sartoris of Hyferes? He is 
building a house there: a man with stead- 
fast good stuff in him. Adieu, my dear- 
est fellow, and know me always warmly 
your friend, 

George Meredith. 

[To Mrs. Leslie Stephen.] 

Box Hu-L, March 24, 1884. 
Dear Mrs. Leslie: Your wedded phi- 
losopher (if such thing there be, and pray 
pose him with the question) will tell you 
that facts do not always testify to facts. 



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and least of all the concrete for witness of 
the moral. I am always wishing to come, 
I have often to decline your charitable in- 
vitation. I am now writing daily very 
hard, and though the work flows to its 
end in full view, my health at present is 
of a kind hardly to bear the strain. If I 
come to London I lose the next morning 
for work; I am besides but a tottering 
dimMny at the festal board. It would 
have been a great pleasure to meet Mr. 
Lowell,* whom I love. But you will have 
him and be fully blest. 

Meanwhile I hope to finish with the de- 
livery of the terrible woman afflicting me 
(a positive heroine with brains, with real 
blood, and demanding utterance of the 
former, tender direction of the latter) by 
the end of April; and then I will venture 
to offer myself for an afternoon when I 
can see the whole family; say, an hour. — 
Request, I beg, the Captain of Tramps to 
inform me of his numbers and route on 
Sunday next: and bid him arrive by half- 
past five, that the thirsty troop may be 
refreshed by Russian tea, and not to have 
to drink tumblers of water at dinner, as I 
saw them doing on their last visit. I trust 
the children are well, and am your most 
faithful 

George Meredith. 



[To Mrs. Leslie Stephen.] 

Box Hill, May 19, 1884. 

Dear Mrs. Leslie: I have by an old 
engagement to go to Mr. Morison on the 
2 1 St, and I doubt of my being released on 
the day following. If in town I will vent- 
ure to present myself at your hour of 
meeting in the middle of the day, for I 
greatly wbh to see, on the chance of hear- 
ing, the fair Fiddler. 

"Diana of the Crossways" keeps me 
still on her sad last way to wedlock. I 
could have killed her merrily, with my 
compliments to the public; and that was 
my intention. But the marrying of her, 
sets me traversing feminine labyrinths, 
and you know that the why of it never 
can be accounted for. I shall be free cer- 
tainly after the first week in June; and 
then I believe I visit Lady Lawrence at 
Prince's Gate, when I may hope to see you 

• James Russdl Lowell. 



and your ambiguous lord and the children. 
— I am, most faithfully yours, 

George Meredith. 

[To W. E. Henley.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, June 24, 1884. 
Dear Mr. Henley: I will certainly 
come if I can. Any work of Louis Ste- 
venson's or yours will be sure to interest 
me. The doubt is owing to the serious 
illness of my wife.* The crisis is over, 
but she is lying at a friend's house under 
the Doctor's hands in town, and I give 
her all my spare hours, now that I have 
no longer to be in constant attendance. 
** Deacon Brodie" has a sound of success 
in the title. I should like to help the 
launch and will try. — Believe me, most 
truly yours, George Meredith. 

[To Miss Marie Meredith.] 

Box Hill, July 7, 1884. 
My Own Dearie: I have a telegram 
from Lady Lawrence, inviting me to go to 
Prince's Gate, and stay as long as I like, 
to-morrow. So I go, but cannot stay 
more than two days. I shall take up 
your flowers to Andr6 — the best we can 
find, jolly Dandelions, horse Daisies, double 
Marigolds — things he can wear with pride 
in Piccadilly. Mama seems going on 
pretty well. Papa still suffers from the 
persecution of invitations to dinner, which 
is becoming intense; mixed with sum- 
monses to be a Vice-President of strange 
Societies. His three bags are in perpetual 
motion, and we know but the name of 
home. As for work, it is treated as the 
whiff of a cigar. No sooner do I take pen 
in hand than a telegram arrives. Bags are 
packed, Cole shoulders them, Ampleford 
nips ticket, and away I fly, after suppos- 
ing myself settled yesterday. Will left 
tUs morning. God bless my dearie. I 
pray for constant good news of her. Love 
to the Aunts and cousins, from my dear 
Girl's Papa, George Meredith. 

[To Frederick Greenwood.] 

Box Hill, June 5, 1885. 
My Dear Greenwood: I do not reply 
to reviews of my work, favorable or the 

* In June. 1884, Mrs. Meredith underwent a severe opera- 
tion in London. 



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Letters of George Meredith 



reverse. But the friendliness of your little 
note in the St. James of yesterday is out 
of the regions of criticism, and I may no- 
tice it to thank you. Innovators in any 
department have a tough struggle to get 
to the field through the hedge for a hear- 
ing. Mine has lasted about thirty-five 
years, and still I have only to appear for 
the bawlers to be in uproar. As I know 
the world I do not complain. I am sen- 
sible not the less of generous voices. We 
are at issue on politics. You are a man 
who can rise to pure ether while in the 
sweat of the fray, and often, though we 
rarely meet, I grasp your hand. Here I 
am in the very pits of tragic life. My wife 
is desperately ill. There is no hope. She 
has twice passed under the hands of the 
surgeons, bearing it stoically. All my phi- 
losophy is at strain. She has a trained 
and devoted nurse, now the mainstay of 
our little home. Happily I can write, and 
have that refuge — the sole one. Adi6u, 
dear friend. — ^Your faithful, 

George Meredith. 

[To John Moriey.] 

Box Hill, June 21, 1885. 

My Dear Morley: I am glad thank- 
fully that you wrote at once — for two rea- 
sons — one the blackest: that it came in 
time. She was pleased and comforted, 
signifjdng "Write to him.'^ She has to- 
day evil symptoms. We know not how 
long the hunted bit of life will last. When 
I touched on your proposal to bring your 
wife, her cheek had a quiver at the offer, 
but she pointed to her mouth. Speech- 
lessness oppresses her. The malady has 
now reduced her self-command, she can- 
not help excessive fretfulness. She bore 
the two operations with a noble fortitude. 

Happily for me, I have learnt to live 
much in the spirit and see brightness on 
the other side of life, otherwise this run- 
ning of my poor doe with the inextricable 
arrow in her flanks, would pull me down 
too. As it is, I sink at times. I need all 
my strength to stand the buffets of the 
harsh facts of existence. I wish it were I 
to be the traveller instead. I have long 
been ready for the start, can think pros- 
pectingly of the lying in earth. She has 
no thought but of this light — and would 
cry to it like a Greek victim under the knife. 



For me to see you here would be a great 
rejoicing. — As I said, I live with you; ab- 
sence cannot put a soiling finger on the 
love. That will last. — Do not forget the 
Admiral. He is as fond of you as I — re- 
veres you; and you are at present more 
necessary to him. God with you. — Ever 
your loving 

George Meredith. 

[To W. Morton Fullerton.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, 
England, Nov. 15, 1886. 

Dear Sir: I have to plead an absence 
from home in excuse for the delay in my 
reply to you. Let me assure you that I 
am sensible of the honor you do me in 
thinking about my work at all. As for 
me, I am, I trust, to the full as modest a 
person as I am bound to be. In origin 
I am what is called here a nobody, and 
my pretensions to that rank have always 
received due encouragement by which, 
added to a turn of my mind, I am in- 
clined to Democracy, even in Letters, and 
tend to think of the claims of others when 
I find myself exalted. This is the advan- 
tage I have gained from sharp schooling. 
Good work is the main object. Mine I 
know to be faulty. I can only say gen- 
erally that I have done my best to make 
it worthy. On the other hand, simple 
appreciation, without comparisons of me 
with contemporaries, is welcome to my 
heart. Some one — is it you? — accuses me 
of cynicism. Against Uiat I do protest. 
None of my writings can be said to show 
a want of faith in humanity, or of sym- 
pathy with the weaker, or that I do not 
read the right meaning of strength. And 
it is not only women of the flesh, but also 
women in the soul whom I esteem, be- 
lieve in, and would aid to development. 
There has beeix a confounding of the tone 
of irony (or satire in despair) with cyni- 
cism. I must have overcharged the dose, 
to have produced such an impression . But 
enough of myself; I do not willingly take 
to the theme. Americans appear to ha\ e 
received my work very generously. Since 
their most noble closing of the Civil War, 
I have looked to them as the hope of 
our civilization: and in reading Professor 
Jebb^s account of Sophocles on the Har- 
vard stage, I have seen that they have the 



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spirit to excel in classics and belles lettres. 
Therefore I am justly flattered by their 
praise, if I win it; their censure, if they 
deal it to me, I meditate on. 

Should you visit England, know that 
there is, about 23 miles S. W. of London, a 
small cottage warmly open to you. The 
country is beautiful; nowhere in England 
is richer foliage or wilder downs and fresh- 
er woodland. My daughter and her gov- 
erness will entertain you below, I in the 
chalet, which is my study, on the bor- 
ders of the wood above. There I worjc 
and sleep, living en hermite — though not 
cynically. — I am your most faithful 

George Meredith. 

[To George Stevenson, of Glasgow, a 
cousin of R. L. S.] 

Box Hill, Dorkikg, April 21, 1887. 

My Dear Mr. Stevenson: . . . Will 
you say that my conscience is hollow as a 
drum when it requires a tap outside to 
give sound? I reserved the reply to your 
acceptable offer of your etchings imtil I 
had finished correcting proofs of a new 
volume and gathered matter par le monde 
to discourse on; for the hermit of the 
chalet sees little that can make him an 
amusing correspondent. Work from your 
hand will give us full pleasure, be sure. . . . 
Latterly I have been forced to discontinue 
prose, owing to evil digestion and nerves. 
Verse does not tax me so heavily. Even 
letters have to be postponed. I am, be- 
lieve me, sensible to the kindness of your 
proposals of your tonic highlands. If I 
had time! I may yet do so before the 
yellow season is over. 

We Liberals, Radicals, practical Chris- 
tians, are going through a gloomy time. 
Politics, even when they have us in thorn- 
iest thickets, do not obscure me. I see 
under the edge of the cloudiest. But it is 
nevertheless distressing to observe one's 
countrymen bemuddled by their alarms 
and selfish temporary interests. On Tues- 
day night I was a guest of the Eighty 
Club, was introduced to Gladstone (who 
favored me with the pleased grimace of 
the amiable public man in the greeting of 
an imknown), and heard a speech from 
him enough to make a cock robin droop 
his head despondently. We want a young 
leader. This valiant, prodigiously gifted, 



in many respects admirable, old man is, I 
fear me, very much an actor. His oratory 
has the veteran rhetorician's artifices — to 
me painfully perceptible when I see him 
waiting for his effects, timing those to fol- 
low. Morley and Asquith are able lieu- 
tenants. The captain is nowhere. Were 
he present, and of a size to be distinguish- 
able, the majority, to judge of them by 
their temper, would stone him. — ^At any 
rate you can say that Scotland leads to 
light. Haldane, the member for East Lo- 
tUan, brings down Dillon on a second visit 
to me next Sunday week. You are an ar- 
tist. I should like you to see and study 
Dillon's eyes. They are the most beauti- 
ful I have ever beheld in a head — clear, 
deep wells with honesty at bottom. It 
must be admitted that he had no theme 
save the political. 

Present my homage to your wife and 
believe me, most faithfully yours, 

George Meredith. 

[To W. G. CoUings.] 

Box Hill, Do&xing, May 5, 1887. 
Dear Sir: Letters addressed to my 
Club are not so numerous as to cause my 
ordering that they shall be forwarded; 
and thus it is that yours will have come 
to my hands too late, I fear, for my reply 
to serve in your discussion. Still you shall 
have it, the subject being important. — I 
do not abjure wine, when it is old and of a 
good vintage. I take it rarely. I think 
that the notion of drinking any kind of 
alcohol as a stimulant for intellectual work 
can have entered the minds of those only 
who snatch at the former that they may 
conceive a fictitious execution of the latter. 
Stimulants may refresh, and may even 
temporarily comfort, the body after labor 
of brain; they do not help it — not even in 
the lighter kinds of labor. They unseat 
the judgment, pervert vision. Produc- 
tions cast off by the aid of the use of them, 
are but flashy trashy stuff — or exhibitions 
of the prodigious in wildness or grotesque 
conceit, of the kind which Hoffmann's 
tales give, for example; he was one of the 
few at all eminent, who wrote after drink- 
ing. Schiller, in a minor degree — not to 
the advantage of his composition. None 
of the great French or English. — ^Yours 
very truly, George Meredith. 



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[To G. P. Baker, now professor at 
Harvard.] 

Box Hill, Dorking, 
England, July 22, 1887. 

My Dear Sir: When at the conclusion 
of your article on my works, you say that 
a certain change in public taste, should it 
come about, will be to some extent due to 
me, you hand me the flowering wreath I 
covet. For I think that all right use of 
life, and the one secret of life, is to pave 
ways for the firmer footing of those who 
succeed us; as to my works, I know them 
faulty, think them of worth only when 
they point and aid to that end. Close 
knowledge of our fellows, discernment of 
the laws of existence, these lead to great 
civilization. I have supposed that the 
novel, exposing and illustrating the nat- 
ural history of man, may help us to such 
sustaining roadside gifts. But I have 
never started on a novel to pursue the 
theory it developed. The dominant idea 
in my mind took up the characters and the 
story midway. 

You say that there arfe few scenes. Is 
it so throughout? My method has been 
to prepare my readers for a crucial exhibi- 
tion of the personae, and then to give the 
scene in the fullest of their blood and 
brain under stress of a fiery situation. 

Concerning style, thought is tough, and 
dealing with thought produces toughness. 



Or when strong emotion is in tide against 
the active mind, there is perforce con- 
fusion. Have you found that scenes of 
simple emotion or plain narrative were 
hard to view? When their author revised 
for the new edition, his critical judgment 
approved these passages. Yet you are 
not to imagine that he holds his opinion 
combatively against his critics. The ver- 
dict is with the observer. 

In the Comedies, and here and there 
where a concentrated presentment is in de- 
sign, you will find a "pitch" considerably 
above our common human ; and purposely, 
for only in such a manner could so much 
be shown . Those high notes and condens- 
ingsare abandoned when the strong human 
call is heard — I beg you to understand 
merely that such was my intention. 

Again, when you tell me that Harvard 
has the works, and that Yoiing Harvard 
reads them, the news is of a kind to 
prompt me to fresh productiveness and 
higher. In England I am encouraged but 
by a few enthusiasts. I read ih a critical 
review of some verses of mine the other day 
that I was "a harlequin and a performer 
of antics." I am accustomed to that kind 
of writing, as our hustings orator is to the 
dead cat and the brickbat flung in his face 
— at which he smiles politely; and I too; 
but after many years of it my mind looks 
elsewhere. Adieu to you. — Most faith- 
fully yours, George Meredith. 



(To be continued.) 




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289 




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HEN the north-west wind is blowing hard, 
And blue and white is the sky, 
And the sharp-cut waves are streaked and scarred 

Where the darting squalls race by; 
When the leeward shrouds are whelmed in green 

' And the leeward deck's afoam, 
And a dancing wake all white is seen 
Back toward the shores of home — 
Oh, that is the day my heart would choose 
For setting sail on an August cruise. 



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HEN the sun smiles down on a morning swim 
At an anchorage unvexed, 
And nobody knows what the weather's whim 

Will yield for a harbor next; 
When into some port we creep at last, 

As the breeze with the daylight ends, 
And the stars shine over the fading mast, 

And a long, still sleep descends — 
Ah, such are the days that the blest ones use 
Who quit all else for an August cruise I 




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A lake vessel at the Straits of Mackinac. 



THE FRENCH IN THE HEART 
OF AMERICA 

BY JOHN FINLEY 

IN THE WAKE OF THE "GRIFFIN" 

Illustrations from photographs by thk Author and from a painting by 
Carlton T. Chapman 




IE preface to this story 
should begin in France a 
century and a half before 
the building of the Griffin 
just above the falls of Ni- 
agara. One might go still 
farther back, but this is as far as one can 
tangibly trace the ancestry of that vessel 
which first carried sail upon the waters of 
the great northern inland seas of the New 
World. So I begin in the year 1534, and 
at Saint-Malo, on the coast of France. 
There many a pilgrim goes to visit the 
tomb of Chateaubriand, lying out be- 
yond the white ramparts, shut away by 
the tides for a part of every day from 
the shore. The Breton peasants, carrying 
their cauliflower to market, wondered at 
Vol. LI I.- 32 



my greater curiosity to know the birth- 
place of Jacques Cartier than to see the 
burial-place of Chateaubriand. But ev- 
ery man born in the Mississippi Valley 
has far greater reason for gratitude to Car- 
tier than Chateaubriand; for Cartier, un- 
wittingly to be sure, but none the less cer- 
tainly, showed the way, not to Asia, as 
he hoped, but to that valley with which 
Asia had nothing to make compare, rich 
even beyond Chateaubriand's glowing but 
not altogether accurate description. 

In the town hall of Saint-Malo there 
are exhibited a few fragments of weathered 
wood, guarded as relics of that little ves- 
sel, Le Petite H ermine , which Cartier was 
obliged to leave in Canada because so 
many of his men had died there of scurvy 
and exposure that he had not sufficient 
crew to man all of his three ships back to 

293 



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The monument to Jacques Cartier stands in the grove of trees. Just below in the Saint Charles is the place where 
it is supposed Cartier moored his vessels. 



France. Hail was beating upon the roof 
of the museum at Saint-Malo when I was 
examining these bits of wood — the first 
to taste the fresh inland waters of the 
north — and so suggestive of Canadian 
rigors was it that I could but think that 
it was a specially prepared stage storm. 
The heroic, dramatic values of that por- 
tentous adventure seemed greater in that 
picturesque setting than when, a few 
months later, I tried, amid mud and weeds 
and rushes, to identify the place in the 
Saint Charles River, back of Quebec, 
where Cartier had moored this ancestor 
of the Griffin, But it is because we are 
prone to see only the mud and weeds that 
I would have this story remembered. I 
should have no reason to recall this long 
dead past if it were not to help us to-day 
of the New- World valleys, north of New 
England and back of the AUeghanies, to 
realize not merely what material advan- 
tage we owe to French enterprise, but also 
and especially what glory of heroic ad- 
venture lights the background of even the 
most commonplace and sordid landscapes. 
Cartier got no farther, to be sure, than 
Montreal, but that was a thousand miles 
inland from the coasts which, but a few 
years before, had been the dim verges 
of the world, infested by real griffins and 
by fiends. He had opened the gates of 
the north, upon whose great posts of rock 
should be written that possessing para- 
graph from Parkman : *' Again their ghost- 
ly camp-fires seem to burn and the fit- 
294 



ful light is cast around on lord and vas- 
sal and black-robed priest, mingled with 
wild forms of savage warriors, knit in 
close fellowship on the same stem er- 
rand. A boundless vision grows upon 
us; an untamed continent; vast wastes 
of forest verdure; mountains silent in 
primeval sleep; river, lake, and glimmer- 
ing pool; wilderness, oceans, mingling 
with the sky. Such was the domain 
which France gave to civilization" — a 
domain which she can never lose except 
by her and our forgetting the glorious 
story of its conquest. 

It was exactly a hundred years after 
Jacques Cartier moored his three little 
vessels behind the gray "scarped rock'' 
of Quebec that Champlain died beneath 
that same rock, having laid there the first 
foundations of Canada. But he was net 
only the "Father of Canada'' — the first 
great apostle to the savages — he was the 
prophet of the farther valleys, of the Great 
Lakes and the Mississippi. The remark- 
able map published in 1632, composed 
from his own observations and the data 
brought or sent him by friars, priests, and 
coureurs de bois, whom he had persuaded 
from cloister and camp and city to the 
New World, and then despatched still 
farther west, gives no intimation of that 
valley; the rivers all run toward the At- 
lantic. But I suspect, as I hope, that one 
of his coiireurs de bais, Nicolet, the son of 
the Cherbourg courier, who in 1634 had 
looked oN'cr the watershed into the Missis- 



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The French in the Heart of America 



295 



sippi basin, brought to Champlain whose 
hand was soon paralyzed and no longer 
able to add a line to his precious map, 
some news of that valley which his com- 
patriots were to possess and which was to 
become the heart 
of another empire. 

There is reason, 
therefore, for re- 
membering with 
gratitude, in the 
United States as 
well as in Canada, 
this stanch spirit 
who put upon the 
map of the world, 
even with pathet- 
ic inaccuracies, the 
Great Lakes — the 
water path into the 
Mississippi Valley, 
the path for the 
fl^ht of the Griffin 
and its mighty 
flock. 

The two coun- 
tries find in France 
the common ground 
for this gratitude 
— in Champlain^s 
birthplace, that 
most picturesque 
fortress town 
of Brouage, sur- 
rounded by the salt 
marshes. Once the 
sea, I am told, 
touched its massive 
walls. There are 
still to be seen, 

several feet below the surface, iron rings 
to which mariners and fishermen moored 
their boats — they who used to come to 
Brouage for salt with which to cure their 
fish, they whose stories of the Newfound- 
land cod banks stirred in the boy Cham- 
plain the desire for discovery beyond their 
fogs. The boys in the school of Hiers- 
Brouage, a mile away — in the mairie where 
I went to consult the parish records — 
seemed to know hardly more of that land 
which the Brouage boy of three centuries 
before had lifted out of the fogs by his life- 
long heroic adventure. Which makes one 
feel that till all French children know 
of, and all American children remember, 




Monument to Champlain in Brouage in front of the church 
in which he was probably baptized. 



Brouage, the story of France in America 
needs to be retold. The valley of Canada 
has not forgotten; but I could not learn 
that citizens of the other valleys had made 
pilgrimages to this spot. The church in 
front of which the 
monument to 
Champlain stands, 
the church in which 
he was probably 
baptized, is closed 
awaiting repairs. 
The wall of what 
was by tradition 
his home has fallen 
into ruin. And 
only the well curb 
is left of the con- 
vent where the 
Recollect friars 
used to live in 
peaceful medita- 
tion before they 
followed Cham- 
plain, inflamed of 
his spirit, out 
among the red sav- 
ages. 

If this preface 
were to speak of the 
experiences of these 
friars and priests 
who came after 
them, of those who 
"led the way," as 
Bancroft said, into 
every river that was 
entered and around 
every cape that was 
turned, the journey 
into the valley beyond would be too long 
delayed. It was of that valley that La 
Salle, the builder of the Griffin, was dream- 
ing in 1668, as he looked across Lake Saint 
Louis from the shores of his seignory , a few 
miles above Montreal (" the seigniory of 
Saint-Sulpice, " as he called it — but " of La 
Chine," as his enemies named it from the 
rapids which a little way below laughed 
continually at those who had hoped to find 
their way through these waters to China). 
There, in the *'most dangerous place in 
Canada," tutored in the language and 
ways of the Indians, his thoughts made 
*' alliance with the sun," as Lescarbot 
would have said, and dwelt on exploration 



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Wall and outer entrance to house in Brouage where, according 
to local tradition, Champlain was born. 



and empire out in that country where a 
river "must needs flow into the Vermil- 
ion Sea. " It was of that valley that he 
dreamed when he was building Fort Fron- 
tenac (now Kingston) on his new seignory, 
a little farther on his way to the West — 
clearing the forest, building ships for the 
navigation of Lake Ontario, and establish- 
ing a school for the Indians. It was of 
empire in that valley he dreamed while 
lodged in a miserable street in Paris wait- 
ing through a long winter for a patent that 
would give him leave to explore and fortify 
it as a possession of France. And it was, 
finally, with that patent doubtless upon 
his body, that he still dreamed as he pre- 
pared for the building of a vessel on the 



Upper Lakes that should in turn 
carry equipment for a vessel which 
he hoped would find the way of the 
waters to the Gulf of Mexico or the 
Western Sea. 

n 

The city of Paris bears the sail- 
ing ship upon her shield, though she 
sits a hundred miles or more from 
the sea. Whatever the signifi- 
cance of that symbol has been to 
the inhabitants of that dty , it has a 
peculiar appropriateness, probably 
never realized before, in the fact 
that the iron, cordage, and anchors for the 
first vessel with sails that was to traverse 
the inland waters of the New World were 
carried out from Paris to the first ship- 
yard back of the mountains, in the midst 
of the forest above the mighty falls of Ni- 
agara. 

Jason, sailing for the Golden Fleece in 
Colchis and braving the fiery breath of 
the dragon, had not imdertaken a more 
perilous or a more diflScult labor than he 
who bore from the banks of the Seine the 
equipment of a vessel in which to bring 
back to France, as he hoped, the fleece of 
the plains and the forests. We are now 
accustomed to call those who crossed the 
plains of the West and the Rocky Moun- 



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^-^■^^ 



n..iise in lJr< uai^c where Ch.Tinplaiii is said to have lived. 



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The French in the Heart of America 



297 



tains for the gold-fields of California, 
nearly two centuries later, the "Argo- 
nautae," but the first American Argonauts 
set forth from Paris and built their Argo 
on what is now Lake Erie, on the edge of 
the Field of the Bulls, near a place now 
grown into a beautiful city, which bears 
the very name of the wild bull — the buf- 
falo — and within sound of the roaring of 



years before helped La Salle to establish 
in the wilds. Soon La Salle's lieutenants 
appeared, with most of the men, and while 
some were despatched in canoes to Lake 
Michigan to gather the buffalo fleeces 
against the coming of the ship whose keel 
had not yet been laid, the rest (La Motte, 
Hennepin, and sixteen men) embarked for 
the river by which the upper lakes empty 




The walls of Drouage. Sea marshes visible. 



the dragon that had frightened away all 
earlier explorers — so accurately do the de- 
tails of the story of Jason's adventure be- 
come real history. 

La Salle gathered his ship-carpenters 
and his ship furniture in Paris, between 
his journeys to Rouen (the place of his 
birth) and elsewhere for the means of pur- 
chase. But before the winter had come 
in Normandy his messengers were out amid 
snows and naked forests in continuance of 
that voyage toward the Western Colchis. 

In the autumn of 1678 a Franciscan 
friar, Hennepin, set out alone — the first 
solitary figure of the expedition, a gray 
priest — from the gray rock of Quebec, 
in a birch canoe, carrying with him the 
"furniture of a portable altar." Along 
the way up the Saint Lawrence he stopped 
to minister to the habitants, too few atid 
too poor to support a priest, saying mass, 
exhorting, and baptizing. Early in No- 
vember he arrived at the mission at Fort 
Frontenac, which he had two or three 



into Lake Ontario and the Saint Lawrence, 
that is, the Niagara. After a tempestu- 
ous voyage up and across the lake they 
found the mouth of this river whose tor- 
rent fury gathered of " four inland oceans '* 
stopped even the canoes. Then, led of the 
priest, they toiled up the cliffs called the 
"Three Mountains," because, I suppose, 
of the three terraces. (Having climbed 
up the face of the cliff in winter, with a 
heavy camera for my portable altar, and 
broken the icicles in order to make my 
way across a narrow ledge to the top of 
the precipice, I am able to know what this 
journey must have meant to those first 
European travellers.) Once on the upper 
plateau, they marched through wintry for- 
est and at length, in " solitudes unprofaned 
as yet by the pettiness of man," beheld 
the "imperial cataract"; "the thimder 
of water," as the Indians called it; or, 
as Hennepin described it, that "vast and 
prodigious cadence of water which falls 
down after a surprising and most aston- 



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ishing manner, insomuch that the uni- 
verse does not afford its parallel, those of 
Italy and Switzerland being but sorry pat- 
terns. ' ' To this priest , Hennepin , we owe 
the first description and picture of Niagara , 
probably now more familiar to the world 
than any other natural feature of this con- 
tinent. He has somewhat magnified the 
height of these falls, but they are impres- 
sive enough to acquit him of falsification 
and powerful enough to run virtually all 



the year 2027, and the entire supply by 
2050.) 

I take these as I have found them: 
Boston, $937.50; Philadelphia, $839.25; 
New York, $699.37; Chicago, $629.43; 
Cleveland, $559.50; Pittsburgh, $419.62; 
Buffalo, $184.91; Niagara Falls, $144.17. 
They intimate a wonderful advantage pos- 
sessed perhaps beyond any other site in 
America by the strip of shore on which La 
Salle's men from the banks of the Seine and 



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Seminary on the site of the seigniory of Saint-Sulpice. 



the manufacturing plants in the United 
States if they could be gathered within 
reach. As it is, less than four per cent of 
the water that overflows from the four up- 
per Great Lakes into the lower lake, once 
known as Lake Frontenac and now as On- 
tario, is diverted for utilitarian purposes, 
and yet it supplies the American and 
the Canadian almost equally between the 
two shores over three hundred thousand 
horse-power. What the conversion of the 
strength of this Titan, for ages entirely 
wasted and for a century after Hennepin 
only a scenic wonder, means or may mean 
to industry in the future, is intimated in 
some statistics furnished by a recent writer 
on the Great Lakes showing the relative 
cost per month of a certain unit of power 
in a number of representative American 
cities. (And they are more significant 
as one contemplates the diminishing 
available and accessible supply of coal 
in the United States, which, according to 
a reliable estimate, will be exhausted by 



Hennepin, the priest from Calais, that De- 
cember night in 1678 encamped, building 
their bivouac fire amid the snows, a few 
miles above the falls, and so opening to the 
view of the world a natural source of power 
and wealth more valuable than extensive 
coal-fields or rich mines of gold or silver. 

It was but a great water-fall to La Salle 
and Tonty and Hennepin — an impeding, 
hostile object. And to the half -mutinous, 
quarrelsome workmen, French, Flemings, 
Italians, it was a demon, no doubt, whose 
very breath froze their beards into icicles. 
It was, in reality, potentially the most be- 
neficent single incarnate force bounded by 
any one horizon or sky in that New World 
— a force developed by the tipping of the 
continent a little to the eastward after the 
Upper Lakes had been formed and by the 
consequent emptying of their waters into 
the Saint Lawrence instead of the Gulf of 
Mexico. 

The file of burdened men, some thirty 
in number, toiling slowly over the snowy 



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Photograph by a Canadian pritst. 

Looking across the Saint Lawrence River from the site of the seigniory of Saint- Sulpice. 



plains and " through the gloomy forests of 
spruce and naked oak trees/' the priest ac- 
companying with his altar lashed to his 
back, reached a favorable spot beside calm 
water five miles above the cataract. (The 
site is identified as a little 
way above the mouth of Ca- 
yuga Creek, just outside the 
village of La Salle in the 
State of New York. There 
is a stone erected by a local 
historical society to mark the 
spot. When I saw the 
bronze tablet its inscription 
was almost illegible, covered 
with ice and the snow that 
was falling upon it.) There 
began the felling and hewing 
of trees that were to touch 
the farther shores of Michi- 
gan. Some of the material 
brought from Paris had been 
lost by the wreck of La 
Salle's smaller vessel on the 
way up Ontario, but enough 
must have been saved to give 
this forty-five-ton vessel full 
equipment, for in the spring 
she was launched. The 
*' friar pronounced his bless- 
ing on her; the assembled 
company sang *Te Deum'; 
cannon were fired, and 
French and Indians. . . 
shouted and yelped in cho- 
rus as she glided into Ni- 
agara." She carried five cannon and on 
her prow was carved such a "portentous 
monster*' as doubtless finds double among 
the grotesques of Notre Dame — a griffin 
(that is, a beast with the body of a lion 




French mill at Lachine on the 

site of seigniory of 

Saint-Sulpice. 



and the head, beak, and pinions of a bird), 
in *' honor of the armoreal bearings of 
Count Frontenac." 

Through spring and half the summer 
she lay moored beyond reach of the jeal- 
ous Indians, but near 
enough so that Hennepin 
could preach on Sundays 
from the deck to the men 
encamped along the bank. 
When La Salle, who had 
been obliged by disasters to 
go back to Fort Frontenac 
during the building of the 
ship, again appeared above 
the falls in midsummer, the 
Griffin was warped up into 
the placid lake, and on the 
7th of August anchor was 
lifted and the fateful voyage 
was begun. There was (as 
when the Greek ArgOy the 
" first bold vessel, dared the 
seas ' ') no Orpheus standing 
high upon the stern and 
raising his entrancing strain. 
Nor did a throng of proud 
Thessalians or of "trans- 
ported demi-gods" stand 
round to cheer them off. 
The naked Indians, their 
hands over their mouths in 
wonderment, or shouting 
"Otkon, Otkon, " alone saw 
the great boat move out 
over the waters without 
oar or paddle or towing-rope. For music, 
there was only the " Te Deum " again, sung 
by raw, unpractised voices, such as one 
might hear among the boatmen of the 
Seine. It was not such music, at any 

299 



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View from a b<>at approaching Kingston, near the site of Fort Frontenac. 



rate, as that of Orpheus, to make plain 
men grow ** heroes at the sound. '* Doubt- 
less no one felt himself a hero. The 
only intimation of any consciousness of a 
high mission comes from Hennepin, who, 
when the Griffin ^ some days later, was 
ploughing peacefully through the straits 
that lead to the Mer Douce ("verdant 
prairies dotted with groves and bordered 
with lofty forests" on either side, "herds 
of deer and flocks of swans and wild tur- 
keys" within sight, and the "bulwarks 
plentifully hung with game"), wrote: 
" Those who will one day 
have the happiness to ^ ^ 

possess this fertile and 
pleasant strait will be 
very much obliged to 
those who have shown 
them the way. " " Very 
much obliged?" No, 
Hennepin, of the hun- 
dreds of thousands who 
now pass through or 
across those straits 
every year, or of those 
thousands who possess 
its shores, not a hun- 
dred, I venture to say, 
remember "those who 
showed the way I" 
They have forgotten 
that "the first Euro- 
pean voice that Ni- 
agara ever heard was 
French I " Sain te 



Claire, even, the name 
you gave to the beau- 
tiful strait beyond the 
"symplagades" of 
your voyage, in grat- 
itude, and in honor 
of the day on which 
you reached it, has 
become masculine in 
tribute to an Ameri- 
can general. If your 
later praying to that 
patron of seamen, 
Saint Anthony of Pad- 
ua, had not availed 
to save you from the 
peril of the storm and 
you had gone to death 
in unsalted water, you 
could hardly have 
been more completely forgotten. One 
has spoken now and then lightly of the 
vow made by your commander. La Salle, 
to build a grateful chapel to Saint An- 
thony, if your lives were spared from the 
storm, forgetting that so long as the Mis- 
sissippi runs to the sea there will be a 
chapel to Saint Anthony (Saint Anthony's 
Falls), in which gratitude will be con- 
tinually chanted for the preservation of 
the ship and its crew to find haven in 
quiet waters behind Point Saint Ignace. 
There, La Salle in scarlet, knelt before 







•f Niaviara River from a led^-c on the •^idi of the cliff above 

l.CVMvl II, N. V. 



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301 



the altar (where Marquette's bones were 
doubtless by that time gathered by his 
devoted savage followers), and thence 
they passed on to an island in Green Bay, 
the goal of their journey. 

From that far port the first cargo car- 
ried of sails .was sent back to the shore 
on which the Griffin^s timbers were hewn 
out. That it never reached harbor of that 



actually brought back the golden fleece, 
and priceless — the fleece of the plains if 
not of the forests. Day after day its gold 
is hung against the sky as grain is lifted 
from the ships into elevators which can 
store at one time twenty-three million 
bushels of wheat. 

The coasts of the lakes up which the 
Griffin led the oarless way are three thou- 




The mouth of the Niagara River and Lake Ontario in the distance. 



calm shelter, or of any other, we know, 
but that loss, once the path was written 
in the waters, is hardly of consequence, 
save as it helped further to illustrate the 
indomitable spirit of La Salle. 

Ill 

What good came to Thessaly or Greece 
of the yellow peltry that Jason brought 
back is not even kept in myth or fable. 
The mere adventure was the all. They 
did not even think of its worth in money. 
The goat-skin was valueless, except as a 
proof or token, and the hoait A r go, though 
the greatest ship known to the early myths 
of Greece and though dedicated to Nep- 
tune at the end of the voyage, became the 
pioneer of no such mighty fleet as did the 
Griffin. The list of the Greek ships and 
commanders in the " Iliad '' even offers but 
a pygmy analogy. And if you were to go 
to Buffalo to-day, near the site of that 
first ship-yard, a little farther away from 
the falls, you would know that the suc- 
cessors of La Salle in new Griffins have 



sand three hundred and eighty-five miles 
in length (including those of the lower 
lake ^'Frontenac," which was also first 
touched of French keels over four thou- 
sand miles). The statistics of the trafl5c 
which has grown in the furrow of that 
wind-drawn plough would be fatiguing if 
they did not carry to heights of wide and 
more exhilarating view. We of America 
have occupied and apportioned the billion 
acres of French domain among fifty mill- 
ions of people. Here is an added domain in 
which no landmarks can beset, but which 
has been di\dded among all mankind. 

I give a few graphic comparative facts 
which I have gathered from recent books 
about the waters over which France first 
found the way: 

Nearly as many people live in States 
that have ports upon those shores as in all 
France to-day. 

The lakes have a tonnage equal to 
one-third of the total tonnage of North 
America. 

They have made possible a saving in 
cost of transportation (and so of produc- 



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302 



The French in the Heart of America 



tion) of several hundred million dollars in 
a single year. 

Six times as much freight passes over 
these lakes as through the Suez Canal in 
a year. 

Three thousand vessels and twenty-five 
thousand men are required to move the hun- 
dred million tons of freight which every 
year would fill a train encircling the globe. 



ny and black, their powerful heads and 
long steel backs just visible above the blue 
water, they course the western Mediter- 
ranean from spring to winter. It is an in- 
truding and perhaps whimsical but fasci- 
nating thought that the wings of thegrifl&n 
have become evolved into the air-ships 
which first began successfully to fly in 
America near the shores of the lake on 




The Niagara River and cliffs up which the French climbed bearing equipment for the Griffin. 



If one were to stand on the shore of 
that "charming strait" between Erie 
and Huron, the Detroit River (which 
Hennepin so covetously describes, wish- 
ing to make settlement there, until La 
Salle reminded him of his "professed pas- 
sion for exploring a i.ew country *'), one 
would now see a vessel passing one way 
or the other every twelve minutes, on the 
average, day and night during the eight 
months of open navigation. 

Nor are they small sailing vessels of a 
few tons' burden, but great sailless, steam- 
propelled hulks carrying from five to ten 
thousand tons. 

So it is no fleet of graceful galleons — 
half-bird, half-lion as iheGriffin was — that 
have followed in her wake up what Hen- 
nepin called " the vast and unknown seas 
of which even the savages knew not the 
end." They have, in the evolution of nau- 
tical zoology, lost beak, wings, and feath- 
ers, and now% like a shoal of wet lions, taw- 



which the Griffin itself was hatched. It is 
not a far-fetched or labored thought which 
pictures that simple, rough-made galleon 
— very like the model of the ship on the 
shield of Paris — as leading two broods 
across the valley above the falls: one of 
lions that cannot fly, and one of air-ships 
that cannot swim — the brood of the sea 
and the brood of the sky, hatched from 
one nest at the water's edge. 

The ships of the lion brood — some of 
them are five or six hundred feet in length 
and carry eleven thousand tons of cargo. 
I have seen the skeleton of one of these 
iron-boned beasts, and I have been told 
that eight hundred thousand rivets go into 
its creation. Hearing this, one can but 
hear the deafening clamor caused by La 
Salle's driving the first nail or bolt in the 
first boat. Father Hennepin declining the 
honor because of the "modesty of [his] 
religious profession." 

As to the cargoes that these ships bring 



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Dack, me story is 
even more marvel- 
lous. First in quan- 
tity is iron ore, 
twenty-four mill- 
ion tons in one 
year, and that from 
the shores of Su- 
perior where Joliet 
had made search for 
copper mines, where 
Father AUouez, in 
the midst of reports 
of baptisms and 
masses, tells of nug- 
gets and rocks of the 
precious metal, and 
where has grown 
up in a few years 
the ** second great- 
est freight-shipping 
port on earth " — 
a port that bears the name of that famous 
French coureur de hois (Dulhut), Duluth. 
Twenty-four millions of tons and there 
are still a billion and a half in sight on 
those shores, which have already given 
to the ships hundreds of millions of their 
dark treasure. 

After the ore, lumber, fifteen hundred 
million feet in one year, a waning amount 
from the vanishing forests that once com- 
pletely encircled these lakes. Alexander 
Pope, whose " Ode on Saint Cecilia's Day '' 
I have quoted, speaks of Argo seeing " her 
kindred trees descend from Pelion to the 
main*' — from the mountain to the sea 
where Jason's boat was launched. So 
with the departure of the Griffin from the 





Slone and tabid in;arkiii(( ihc site tA thr tniililins^ ui the Crl/HUf 
ne.ir I^ Salle, N. Y. 



Hennepin's drawing of Niagara Falls. 



Green Bay island might a prophetic poet 
have seen her masts beckoning all the kin- 
dred trees to the water in which one hun- 
dred and sixty billion feet of pine have de- 
scended from the forests of Michigan 
alone — and that is but one of the circling 
States. And there is this singular fact to 
be added, that nearly a third of the annual 
cargo now goes to the Tonawandas, the 
"greatest lumber towns" in the world, 
that have grown up almost on the very 
site of the ship-yard at the mouth of 
Cayuga Creek, a little way above the falls. 
And after the ore and lumber, grain — 
the fleece of the fields, immensely more 
valuable than that of the forests, two 
hundred million bushels in one year, and 
eleven million barrels of flour, 
*'a fortnight*s bread sup[>ly 
for the entire world/* And, 
after ore and lumber and 
grain, fuel and other bulky 
necessities of life. 

The causal relation be- 
tween the building and jour- 
ney of the Griffin and these 
statistics cannot of course be 
established, but what no in- 
spired human jjrophecy could 
have divined, or even the 
wildest dreaming of La Salle 
have imagined, is as sequen- 
tial as the history that has 
been made to trace all New- 




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The French in the Heart of America 



305 



World development in 
the wake of the cara- 
vels of Columbus. 
The storms of nature 
and the jealousies 
in human breasts 
thwarted La Salle's 
immediate ambitions, 
but what has come into 
that northern valley 
has followed closely in 
the path of his pur- 
poses, the path traced 
by his ship built of the 
trees of Niagara and 
furnished by the 
chandleries of Paris. 

The mystery of the 
vanishing of this 
pioneer vessel only en- 
hances the glory of its venture and ser- 
vice — as its loss but gave new foil to the 
hardihood of La Salle and Tonty. We 
can imagine the golden-brown skins scat- 
tered over the blue waters as the bits of 
the body of the son of the King of Col- 
chis strewn by Medea to detain the pur- 
suers of the Argonauts. It was the first 
sacrifice to the valley for the fleece. In 
the depths of these lakes or on their shores 
were doubtless buried the bones of these 
French mariners who first of Europeans 
trusted themselves to sails and west winds 
on those uncharted seas. But this is not 
the all of the tragic story. The Griffin 
carried in her the prophecies of other than 
lake vessels. She had in her hold on that 
fateful trip the cordage and iron for the 
pioneer of the river ships. So when she 
went down she spoke to the waters that 





Munument to I'ere Marquette, 
Michigan. 



Point Saint Ignace, where Marquette had his mission before embarking 
for the discovery of the Mississippi. 



engulfed her the two dreams of her builder 
and commander: one dream, the navi- 
gation of the lakes; and the other, the 
coursing of the Mississippi to the Gulf. 

The Spanish council which decreed long 
ago that "if it had pleased God that . . . 
rivers should have been navigable, he 
would not have wanted human assistance 
to make them such" would be horrified 
by the sacrilege that has been committed 
and is being contemplated by the follow- 
ers of the men of the Griffin. 

They have made a canal around the 
falls which Hennepin first saw breathing 
a cloud of mist over the great abyss — a 
canal that, supplemented by other canals 
along the Saint Lawrence River, allows 
vessels of fourteen feet draught to go from 
Erie to Montreal and so on to the sea. 
They have deepened the straits where the 
Griffin had to wait for favorable breezes 
and soundings to pass from Erie to Huron 
— the " symplagades " of the New- World 
voyage. They have made canals on either 
side of the Sault Ste. Marie — the rapids of 
the Saint Mary's River, by the side of 
which the Saint Lusson took formal pos- 
session of all that northern empire— canals 
through which fifty-one million tons pass 
every year toward the east and south. 
They have made and deepened harbors all 
the way around the shores till ships two 
hundred times the size of the Griffin can 
ride in them. 

Yet this is not all. The symbols of La 
Salle's vision revived in the lakes memories 



Point Saint Ignace, 



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306 



The French in the Heart of America 



of the days when their waters ran through 
the Mississippi Valley to the Gulf, the very 
course which La Salle's unborn Griffin was 
to take. When the continent tilted a little 
to the east, and in the tilting poured the 
water of the Upper Lakes over the Niagara 
edge into the Saint Lawrence, that same 



has called it — between those on the one 
side who wish to maintain the grandeur 
of Niagara (much as it was when Henne- 
pin first pictured it), or who for utili- 
tarian reasons do not wish its thunderous 
volume diminished except for their local 
uses, or who fear disaster to their har- 




The Rapids, Sault Ste. Marie. 



tilting stopped the overflow down into the 
Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico at the 
other end of the lakes. But so slight was 
the tilting that the water still seeps over, 
in places, when the lakes are high, and 
sometimes even carries light boats across. 
Of late engineers have in effect been un- 
doing with levels and scoops and dredges 
what Nature did in a mighty upheaval. 
They are practically tipping the basins 
back the other way, and making currents 
to run down the old channel toward the 
Gulf through the valleys of the Des Plaines 
and the Illinois to the Mississippi. 

And so that dream which the dying 
Griffin spoke to the lake, and the lake to 
the rivers in the time of flood — when in- 
tercommunication was possible — is to be 
realized, except that steam will take the 
place of winds, and screws of sails. 

Meanwhile a great battle of the lakes 
is waging — a *' battle of levels" some one 



bors and canals all around the lakes, 
deepened at great expense, if water is led 
away toward the Mississippi ; and on the 
other side those who think of the health 
of millions at the western end of the lakes 
and of the commercial hopes of other mill- 
ions in the Mississippi Valley waiting for 
the Griffins of the lakes to come with more 
generous prices for their produce and to 
bring to their doors what the rest of the 
world has now to send to them by the 
more expensive rail. 

Some day, engineers intimate, the great 
upper lake, Superior, will be made a res- 
ervoir where enough water will be im- 
pounded in wet seasons for a steady and 
more generous supply during the dry 
seasons; in which event there will be 
water enough to keep Niagara in peren- 
nial beauty and power, to fill all the pres- 
ent and prospective harbors and canals 
to their desired depth, to float even larger 



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Sault Ste. Marie CanaL "The Soo." 



fleets of Griffins, and at the same time to 
make the Mississippi, as the Frenchman 
who saw it visualized it, and as President 
Roosevelt expressed it, *'a loop of the 
sea. 

This is but the merest intimation of 
the prophetic service of the water-pio- 
neers. And when the prophecy of those 
precursors, as interpreted in terms of 
steam and locks and dams, unknown to 



them, is fulfilled, it is not beyond think- 
ing that a captain of a sea-going vessel of 
ten or twenty thousand tons, from Havre 
or Cherbourg or Marseilles, may some day 
be calling in deep voice, as last summer 
in a room on the top floor of a Chicago 
"skyscraper" I heard a local descendant 
of the Griffin screeching, for the lifting of 
the bridge that will open the way to the 
Mississippi, the heart of America. 



(To be continued.) 




The Chicago River. 



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THE TITANIC 
By Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 

PARTING 

Beloved, you must go — ask not to stay, 

You are a mother and your duties call; 

And we, who have so long been all in all, 
Must put the human side of life away. 
For one brief moment let us stand and pray. 

Sealed in the thought that whatsoe'er befall 

We, who have known the freedom and the thrall 
Of a great love, in death shall feel its sway. — 
You, who must live, because of his dear need, 
You are the one to bear the harder part; — 
Nay, do not cling — 'tis time to say good-by. 
Think of me then but as a spirit freed — 
Flesh of my Flesh, and Heart of my own Heart 
The love we knew has made me strong to die. 

TOGETHER 

I CANNOT leave you, ask me not to go, 
Love of my youth and all my older years; 
We, who have met together smiles or tears, 
Feeling that each did but make closer grow 
The union of our hearts — Ah! say not so 
That Death shall find us separate. All my fears 
Are but to lose you. Life itself appears 
A trifling thing — But one great truth I know. 
When heart to heart has been so closely knit 
That Flesh has been one Flesh and Soul one Soul, 
Life is not life if they are rent apart — 
And death unsevered is more exquisite. 
As we, who have known much, shall read the whole 
Of Life's great secret on each other's heart! 

TO A. W. B. 

Here's to you, gallant friend. Not from a bullet's flight. 

Gentle and brave! Not under arms. 

You, who full fathom deep But in the Ocean's night 

Lie 'neath the wave. Of wild alarms. 

You were a soldier still Calm in the midst of fears. 

Up to the last, Taking command, 

Doing your Captain's will Courage! in spite of tears 

As in the past. For Fatherland. 

We, who have known you long 

Gallant and gay, 
First in the dance and song 

Pleasure and play, 
Knew, too, the valiant soul 

That would stand by 
(Women and children first!) — 

Ready to die I 



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SOME EARLY MEMORIES 

BY HENRY CABOT LODGE 

Senator itom Massachusetts 




> begin an essay or a speech 
or a book with an apology 
is never desirable. When, 
however, one writes about 
oneself, or ventures to record 
one's personal recollections, 
some explanation seems almost necessary. 
Yet for what follows I can give no better 
warrant or excuse than a passage from a 
very great book which it is to be feared is 
not as much read now as it ought to be or 
as it once was: "The life of every man, 
says our friend, Herr Sauerteig, the life 
even of the meanest man, it were good to 
remember, is a poem; perfect in all man- 
ner of Aristotelean requisites; with begin- 
ning, middle, and end; with perplexities 
and solutions; with its will-strength (Will- 
enkraf t) and warfare against fate, its elegy 
and battle-singing, courage marred by 
crime, ever3rwhere the two tragic elements 
of pity and fear; above all, with super- 
natural machinery enough, for was not the 
man 6(?fn out of nonentity, didhenot Jieand, 
miraculously vanishing, return thither?" 

I was bom in Boston, as I have been 
credibly informed, on May 12, one pleasant 
Simday morning in the year 1850. The 
house in which this event occurred belonged 
to my grandfather, Henry Cabot, for whom 
I was named. It was a square stone house 
of smooth granite, large, comfortable, fac- 
ing south and open on all sides. Two 
short streets called respectively Otis Place 
and Winthrop Place ran out of Summer 
Street, and, curving to the left and right, 
met and formed a horseshoe. At the bot- 
tom of the horseshoe stood our house with 
a small private lane on one side, which was 
closed by an iron gate. This lane led to 
our stable and thence turned to the east and 
meandered in the form of an alley into Fed- 
eral Street. It was not much iised except 
by the owners and as an access to our stable, 
but it offered a short cut to the business 
quarter of the town, and was not overlooked 
Vol. LII.— 33 



by those who were familiar with the neigh- 
borhood and anxious to save time. One 
morning somebody metRufus Chpate, who 
lived in Winthrop Place, hurrying down this 
alley and expressed surprise at meeting him 
there. "Yes," said Mr. Choate, "igno- 
minious but convenient," and passed on. 

Back of the house was a garden, an am- 
ple, garden, which ran out also beside the 
house to the street. Here stood a weather- 
worn statue of a garden nymph, which, with 
the assistance of a young friend, Sturgis 
Bigelow, I pushed over one happy day and 
was thereby involved in an Iliad of woes, 
not because of the mischief itself, but be- 
cause I undertook to lay the responsibility 
on my companion, a mean-spirited effort 
that aroused my father's just anger, which I 
greatly dreaded, although he never inflicted 
the slightest physical punishment upon me. 
The garden was a sunny and sheltered spot, 
and behind the nymph of bitter memories 
stood some fine pear-trees, in which my 
father took deep interest, and I have still the 
medals with which their f niit was crowned 
at various horticultural expositions. 

As I recall the old house (it was not really 
very old, but it was large and solid and spa- 
cious, with a fine air of age and perma- 
nence) it seems to me as if there was 'an 
atmosphere about it and its garden, and 
about the quiet court in front, and the like 
solid houses surroimding it, which no longer 
exists in Boston or in any American city. 
All that quarter of the town indeed was 
pervaded by the same atmosphere. Hard 
by was Summer Street, lined with superb 
horse-chestnut trees, beneath whose heavy 
shade the sober well-built houses took on in 
spring and summer an air of cool remote- 
ness. Further to the east, where Summer 
and Bedford Streets came together, stood 
the New South Church, with a broad green 
in front and trees clustering about it. A 
little further to the south was Essex Street, 
which was dignified by great English elms. 
Two of these elms in front of the house where 
Wendell Phillips lived lingered on long after 

309 



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region. They seemed in their last days of 
gaunt survival, like a melancholy protest 
against the destruction of the old town. 

It was long before I reasoned out the im- 
derlying meaning of all this, long after our 
old house had been swept out of existence 
by the new street which was pushed through 
into the quiet court to make way for the 
roaring tides of business, which now ebb and 
flow over the spot without anything resem- 
bling a house to be seen anywhere in the 
neighborhood. The fact was that the year 
1850 stood on the edge of a new time, but the 
old time was still visible from it, still indeed 
prevailed about it. I do not think that it 
was in itself a very remarkable year, and it 
has always seemed to me most noteworthy 
from the extreme and disagreeable ease with 
which one's age could be computed from it, 
but the year 1850 came nevertheless at a 
memorable period and had memorable com- 
panions. I have often said and written th at 
there was a wider difference between the 
men who fought at Waterloo and those who 
fought at Gettysburg or Sedan or Mukden 
than there was between the men of Leonidas 
and the men of Napoleon. This is merely 
one way of stating that the application of 
steam and electricity to transportation and 
communication made agreater change in hu- 
man environment than had occtured since 
the earliest period of recorded history. The 
break between the old and the new came 
some time in the thirties, and 1850 was 
well within the new period. Yet this new 
period was still very new, hardly more than 
a dozen years old, and theideasof theearlier 
time — the habits, the modes of life, although 
mortally smitten and fast fading — ^were still 
felt, still dominant. The men and women 
of the elder time with the old feelings and 
habits were still numerous and for the most 
part quite unconscious that their world was 
slipping away from them. Hence the at- 
mosphere of our old stone house, with its lane 
and its pear-trees and its garden nymph, 
indeed of Boston itself, was still an eigh- 
teenth-century atmosphere, if we accept Sir 
Walter Besant's statement that the eigh- 
teenth century ended in 1837, ^^^ ^^ ^i'^ 
events it was utterly different from anything 
to be foimd to-day. 

The year 1850, too, stood well beyond 
the zenith of the romantic movement, still 
dominant everywhere, but on the downward 



hand, the unrest, which was {^parent in all 
directions, and the revolt against the reac- 
tion of 1815, was just culminating. Two 
years before, in 1848, the outbreak had 
come, and the movement which was to re- 
sult in the consolidation of the United States 
and of Germany, in the imiflcation of Italy, 
the liberation of the slaves, the emancipa- 
tion of the Russian serfs, and the wide ex- 
tension of democratic and representative 
government was resuming its sweeping and 
victorious march, which had been checked 
at Waterloo. It was the day of the humcn- 
rights statesmen just rising to power, of the 
men who believed that in political liberty 
was to be foimd the cure for every human 
ill, and that all that was needed for himian 
happiness was to give every man a vote and 
set him free. Thus, it happened that the 
year 1850 came at the dawn of a new time, 
at the birth of new forces now plainly rec- 
ognized, but the meaning and scope of which 
are as yet littie imderstood, and the results 
of which can only be darkly guessed, because 
the past has but a slim light to throw upon 
the untried paths ahead. But that which 
was first apparent to the child bom in 1850, 
as he came to consciousness during the next 
ten years, was the old world that still sur- 
roimded him, for a child, happily for him- 
self, sees only what is near to him — ^bis pres- 
ent seems to have existed always and is 
haunted with no shadow of change. 

In 1850, Boston had a population of 
133,000, which by i86ohad risen to 170,000, 
about one-fourth of the present population 
of the city proper, if we take the average for 
the decade. The whole State of Massa- 
chusetts had only a million people in 1850, 
less than one-third of its population to-day, 
much less even than the population now 
gathered in Boston and in those suburbs 
which can be distinguished by no outward 
sign from the dty itself. The tidewaters of 
the Back Bay sdll rose and fell to the west 
of the peninsula, and that large region now 
filled in and covered with handsome houses 
had no existence. The best houses in that 
day were in Summer Street and its neigh- 
borhood, then just beginning to yield to the 
advance of trade, or else were clustered on 
the slopes of Beacon Hill. Opposite to us 
in Winthrop Place, for example, were two 
large stone houses with gardens at the side 
like our own, one occupied by Joshua 




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Some Early Memories 



311 



Blake, my great-grandfather's brother, the 
other by George Bancroft, the historian, 
and later by Samuel Cabot. On one side 
our neighbors were the Hunnewdls and on 
the other the Bowditches. In Winthrop 
Place lived Rufus Choate, and close by in 
Sunmier Street or its immediate vicinity 
were the houses of Daniel Webster and 
Edward Everett, of the Grays, Gardners, 
Frothinghams, Bigelows, Lees, Jacksons, 
Higginsons, and Cushings. The list might 
be indefinitely extended, but I have men- 
tioned names enough to show, especially to 
Bostonians, the character of that quarter of 
the town now extinct except for purposes of 
trade and commerce. 

Boston itself was still small enough to be 
satisfying to a boy's desires. It was still 
possible to grasp and to know and be known 
by every one in one's own fragment of soci- 
ety. The town still had personality, linea- 
ments that could be recognized, and had not 
lost its identity in the featureless, character- 
less masses inseparable from a great city. 
I do not say that this was an advantage; I 
merely note it as a fact. Local character 
may easily be repellent. Many of us pre- 
fer not only the interests and pleasures 
which only very large cities can give, but 
also the unmarked vagueness which is typ- 
ical of huge hordes of people as it is of the 
wastes of ocean. Whatever its merits or 
defects, Boston in the first decade of the 
second half of the nineteenth century still 
had a meaning and a personality, and even 
a boy could feel it. It may have been nar- 
row, austere, at times even harsh, this per- 
sonality, but it was there, and it was strong, 
manly, and aggressive. It would still have 
been possible to rally the people in 1850, as 
they were once rallied against the British 
soldiers on a certain cold March evening 
with the cry of "Town bom, turn out!" 

Yet again, whatever the advantages or 
disadvantages of this condition, Boston 
still offered for a small boy an opportunity 
to live contentedly within its limits. We 
could play in each other's gardens or yards, 
for generous gardens and large yards still ex- 
isted, a bequest of the eighteenth century, 
when there seems to have been more land 
and more leisure for city gardens than there 
is to-day. Best of all, we had the Common, 
where we could disport ourselves as of right. 
There we played all the games, rising, as we 
went, on to foot-ball and base-ball. There 



in winter we coasted on the " Big Hill" and 
on the long path running frcMn the Park 
Street comer, very near to the other "Long 
Path" made memorable by the "Auto- 
crat," but which was less suitable for sleds 
than for lovers. We skated, of course, on 
the Frog Pond; and on the Common we 
also waged Homeric combats with snow- 
balls against the boys from the South Cove 
and the North End, in which we made gal- 
lant fights, but were in the end as a rule out- 
niunbered and driven back. What was 
more serious, the ever-increasing number 
of our opponents gradually by sheer weight 
pushed us, and still more our successors, 
from the Common hills and the Frog Pond 
to seek coasting and skating in the coimtry. 
This was luckily not such a heavy infliction 
as might be supposed, for between 1850 and 
1867, when I went to Harvard, the coimtry 
was reached as soon as one stepped outside 
of Boston. One had but to cross the mill- 
dam to attain to the country, for the towns 
close to Boston were still small and rural 
and had not yet become paved portions of 
the big, ateorbing city. 

I have spoken first of that which is most 
important to a well-constituted boy, as I 
hope that I was — that is, of his opportimi ties 
for play and amusement. But what is 
technically called education began at the 
same time. I remember distinctly hearing 
my father say one evening: "That big boy 
is five years old and cannot read. It is time 
that he went to school." The statement 
gave me no pleasure; quite the contrary. 
My worldj I thought, was very well as it 
was. However, the command had gone 
forth from the Olympians, and to school I 
went the following autunm. A friend of 
my mother, Mrs. Parkman, had formed the 
idea of getting together the sons of a few of 
her friends who were about the same age 
as her own boy and thus making a little 
school, which she could teach herself. The 
plan was carried out with great success. 
The school was small, the boys were picked. 
Mrs. Parkman took an intense, affection- 
ate, and personal interest in each one of us, 
the sort of interest that no money could buy, 
and then she was herself very diiOTerent from 
any school-teacher I have ever known or 
heard of before or since. A descendant of 
John Eliot, the apostle to the Indians, of 
the best New England stock on both sides 
of the house, she was a well-bred woman in 



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312 



Some Early Memories 



the fullest sense, and, what was rarer per- 
haps in those days, a woman of the world in 
the best sense. She possessed unusual abili- 
ties, real learning, and was widely read. 
When I was at her school I regarded her 
with the settled hostility with which I think 
most vigorous boys regard any one who tries 
to teach them anything which is not a sport. 
In later years, after I had graduated from 
Harvard, married, and settied in Boston, 
Mrs. Parkman became one of my best and 
dearest friends. There are few friendships 
which I look back to with more pleasure. 
She was one of the cleverest and wisest 
women, one of the cleverest and wisest per- 
sons I ever knew. I delighted to talk with 
her about everything which was interesting 
me as a young man. She had both wit and 
humor, wide knowledge of men and books, 
and intense beliefs, as well as strong likes 
and dislikes, but she never meant to be in- 
tolerant or unfair. She died prematurely 
and made a great gap in my friendships, 
one of the kind that time closes perhaps but 
never fills. 

I suppose that I then learned to read and 
write, because I have no clear remembrance 
of a time when I did not possess those two 
accomplishments. I am certain that I was 
then taught the rudiments of arithmetic, 
because such acquisition as I effected was 
painful, both at the time and in recollection. 
Anything relating to figures or mathematics 
I regarded with a settied hate, both then 
and afterward. I also remember that I be- 
gan the study of French, which I liked, and 
I think I recall it chiefly because the teach- 
er, Dr. Amaux, tall, thin, grave, dark, and 
solemnly polite, presented a figure the like 
of which I had never seen before upon my 
littie Boston horizon. These were some of 
the things I learned or which were thrust 
into me, but of education in its true sense I 
got nothing except a single sentence from 
Mrs. Parkman: "Use your mind. I do 
not care what you answer if you only use 
your mind." At the time her words seemed 
to me only the outcry of a very natural irri- 
tation, a distinctiy hostile utterance, but in 
some way the phrase stuck in my memory, 
and in years long after I came to think that 
to know how to use one's mind comprises 
pretty nearly the whole of education. There 
is, however, one memory connected with this 
first school, although very far removed from 
any idea of tasks and lessons, which I must 



record. Mrs. (Fanny) Kemble at that 
time lived much in Massachusetts, where 
she was warmly admired and had many 
friends, especially among the women of my 
mother's age. One of her closest and most 
intimate friends was Mrs. Parkman, and I 
remember Mrs. Eemble's coming to the 
school and reading to us. I had forgotten 
where this occurred, but my old friend, 
Henry Parkman, has reminded me that it 
was at Mr. Ticknor's house. She read 
that noblest of old ballads, " Chevy Chase," 
which I recall, and no doubt other things 
the recollection of which has perished. 
How she looked I cannot now picture to 
myself, for the earlier image is blotted out 
by a much later one obtained when I heard 
her read in public on several occasions and 
when she was an elderly woman. What I 
retain of that earliest time is the memory of 
her deep melodious voice and a sense which 
lingers with me still that she was an awe- 
inspiring personage at whom I gazed in 
round-eyed wonder. 

But Boston and winter — although I loved 
the heavy snow-storms and the coasting and 
skating — Boston and winter and school and 
what passed for education were not the less- 
er but the worser part of life. Life in its 
full sense was imited indissolubly with the 
sununer and the sea. I had something of 
the sea in Boston, for my father was a 
China merchant, and, after the fashion of 
the merchants of those days, had his office 
in the granite block which stretched down 
to the end of Commercial Wharf. My 
father's counting-room was at the very end 
in the last division of the block, and from the 
windows I could look out on the ships lying 
alongside the wharf. They were beautiful 
vessels, American clipper ships in the days 
when our ships of that type were famous 
throughout the world for speed and stanch- 
ness. I wandered about over them, making 
friends with the captains, the seamen, and 
the ship-keepers, and taking a most absorb- 
ing interest in everything connected with 
them. They brought me from China ad- 
mirable firecrackers and strange fireworks 
which I could not make go at all. From 
them, too, came bronzes and porcelains and 
pictures and carved ivories which I was 
wont to look at wonderingly, and ginger 
and sweetmeats and lychee-nuts (then al- 
most unknown here), of which I used to 
partake with keen delight. For the teas 



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Some Early Memories 



313 



and silks which filled the holds I cared 
nothmg, but the history and adventures 
of the ships interested me greatly. I was 
indifferent to those which my father had 
bought and which rejoiced in such names as 
the Alfred Hill and Sarah H. Snow, but I 
cared enormously for those which he had 
built and named himself. There was the 
Argonaut f his *' luckiest" ship, in which he 
told me I had an interest or share. I still 
have a stiff picture of her painted by a Chi- 
nese artist in the Western manner, and a 
very beautiful ship she must have been. 
Then there were two named for the heroes 
of one of my father's best-loved books, the 
Don Quixote and the Sancho Panza. Then 
there were others, crack ships in their day, 
^hose names appealed to my imagination — 
the Kremlin, the Storm King, the Cossack, 
and the Magnet. But over all was the mys- 
tery and the fascination of the sea, and 
those who have been bom by it and have 
fallen under its spell are never happy when 
long parted from the ocean and the ships. 
Longfellow, who had in high degree the art 
of putting into pleasant, refined verse what 
many people thought and could not express, 
has given once for all in words what many 
a New England boy, bom by the sea, has 
felt, and having once felt, has never for- 
gotten: 

"I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
And the sea- tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea." 

Such I know was my feeling, and I can see 
the ships now and the look of the wharf anid 
the men as I gazed at them from the win- 
dow of the counting-room or wandered 
about the decks. I can see, too, the ship- 
yard at Medford, long since departed, and 
Mr. Lapham, the ship-builder, and the ves- 
sels on the stocks. It was one of the most 
exciting joys of my life to drive out to Med- 
ford with my father and stroll about the 
ship-yard while he inspected the ship in 
process of construction. I am far from de- 
crying steel and iron, but for mere grace 
and beauty the old clipper ship from the 
day she spread her wings and set out imder 
full sail can never be approached by any- 
thing made of metal with smoking chim- 
neys and military masts. 

I have drifted with the ships far away 
from the summer of my boyhood, but the 



mention of my drives with my father to 
Medford brings me naturally back to them, 
because in the spring it was hi6 habit to 
drive down on Sunday, the only day he had 
free from business, to see our little place' 
at Nahant and overlook the gardens there, 
in which he took a great interest. There 
were no Sunday trains in those days and 
electric cars were still in a remote future, 
so that the only way was to drive. Our 
vehicle was a large buggy. We changed 
horses at Lynn, leaving our own horse 
there to be fed, and went on to Nahant with 
a horse from the livery-stable. At Nahant 
we lunched, bringing our luncheon with us, 
examined the work on the place, and wan- 
dered about by the edge of the sea and 
among the closed houses, which only took 
ofiE their shutters and opened their eyes 
when summer came. The empty, shut-up 
houses gave an air of remoteness and soli- 
tude to the little peninsula much more tan- 
gible than if it had been merely uninhab- 
ited. To a small boy the whole expedition 
had a taste of adventure which was very 
satisfying. The part, however, which I 
liked best was the drive. My father was 
the best of companions. He had that some- 
what rare gift of being perfect company to 
a child. He was the kindest and most gen- 
erous of men. I never remember a harsh 
word from him except on one or two occa- 
sions, when he spoke to me sternly because 
he thought I was not telling the truth or was 
exhibiting either physical or moral timidity. 
He was a man of great courage, entirely 
fearless, and was said to have had a high 
temper, but although I realized his courage 
I never knew that he had a temper until one 
night, when, as we were going to the theatre, 
at a dark place on the Common, two men 
pushed into us; there were words, I saw 
something glitter in one man's hand, and 
then he was knocked down in the snow by 
my father, who merely said as we passed 
on, "I think that man had a knife." My 
confidence in my father was so absolute 
that at the moment the whole thing seemed 
a matter of course. As I look back upon 
it now it does not seem quite so simple. 
There had been a storm and the weather 
was just clearing. I can see the shine of 
the distant gas-light on the new-fallen snow, 
the sudden collision of the two men with my 
father, then one of them on his back in the 
white drift with something glittering in his 



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hand. Then we were walking quietly along 
and I have no recollection of either fright or 
excitement. My faith in my father was 
too great to admit either emotion. Per- 
haps I shall be pardoned if I say a few 
words now about him, for he filled a domi- 
nant place in my earliest years. He was 
open-handed and generous in the highest 
degree to the poor, to all who were con- 
nected with him, to any one whom he could 
help. When the war came he was unable 
to go, for he was not only too old, which he 
would not admit, but he had injured his 
knee in a fall from his horse, could not walk 
freely and rode with difficulty. But he 
was an intensely loyal man and gave to the 
support of the war in every way. It was 
the habit to subscribe money to equip regi- 
ments. John C. Ropes, afterward an emi- 
nent lawyer and the distinguished military 
historian, raised a great deal of money for 
this purpose. He told me that my father 
always gave, and on one occasion when there 
was some especial need my father handed 
him a check signed in blank and told him 
to fill it up as he pleased. Mr. Ropes said 
it was the only blank signed check ever 
given to him. My father enjoyed above 
all things the power of giving. He was 
overwhelmed, overburdened with business 
cares which broke him down and caused 
his premature death. My mother begged 
him to retire, as he had an ample fortune 
for those days, but his reply was: "If I re- 
tire and live on a fixed income I shall not 
be able to give as I do now, and I want to 
be able to give without stopping to think 
about it." 

But it was not his generosity, although he 
was continually giving to me, that made 
those Sunday drives so fascinating. It was 
his companionship. My father talked 
freely to me and we held long conversa- 
tions. He talked to me about his ships, 
and about the place at Nahant, and about 
his cotton-mill, and about politics, and 
above all, he used to repeat poetry to me, 
not only nonsense jingles, or the simple 
rhymes of the school-room, or the verses 
of Cowper and Mrs. Hemans, of Camp- 
bell and Southey, but he would recite to 
me long passages from Scott and from his 
two favorite poets, Shakespeare and Pope, 
a queer combination. I cannot remem- 
ber the Xime when I did not know the 
"Universal Prayer/' or when I could not 



repeat "The stag at eve had drunk his 
fill," and 

"Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things 
To low Ambition and the pride of kings." 

My idea of what the last poem meant was 
as vague as my knowledge of Bolingbroke, 
but the swing and ring of the verses greatly 
caught my fancy. It was in this way that 
I acquired an affection for Pope's rolling 
and balanced lines, which was found quite 
odd when I grew up, because Queen Aime*s 
poet had long been out of fashion. My 
father was fond of books and liked to talk 
of them to me, young as I was, and my 
earliest reading took, of course, the line of 
my father's fancies. He was very fond of 
Cervantes, and I early became familiar 
with our illustrated copy of "Don Quix- 
ote," pored over the pictures and read all 
that I could understand. He was a lover 
of Scott, and in my tenth year I read all the 
Waverley Novels through from beginning to 
end. I have repeated the performance 
more than once since, but the joy of that 
first reading can never be felt again. The 
pleasure of living in that other world filled 
with adventure and with fascinating people 
was beyond description. I understand 
that Scott is now no longer read and that 
the young and wise regard him as a poor 
creature. If this be true the loss is the 
world's and the present generation's, and 

" Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight." 

In the same way I was led to an early ad- 
miration of Macaulay and to a far earlier 
reading of Hawthorne, Dickens, and "Rob- 
inson Crusoe." I am inclined to think, as I 
set down the names of these books, which 
I turned to because my father talked about 
them, that his tastes were conservative, 
that he was not appealed to by the romantic 
or transcendental movement going on about 
him, and that, apart from Shakespeare, his 
particular adoration, he was very eighteenth 
century in his tastes. I am confirmed in 
this by the fact that among his books, and 
he had many, there was a particularly 
handsome and very complete set of Horace 
Walpole, for whom he seems to have had a 
peculiar affection. I am afraid that what 
I have just written will give the impression 
that I must have had the most precocious 
literarv tastes, which was not at all the case. 



Some Early Memories 



315 



These books I have mentioned I was led to 
read in part at least by hearing my father 
talk of them, and Scott was purely volun- 
tary reading on my part. But I also de- 
voured eageriy all the children's books of 
the time, especially fairy tales, for which I 
had an inexhaustible appetite. I also read 
all the works of Jacob Abbott, as well as 
Sandford and Merton, one of the most pre- 
posterous books ever written, but which had 
an undoubted charm which I find it hard 
to explain. I was familiar with the poems 
of Jane Taylor, and accepted as perfectly 
natiiral the ferocious punishments therein 
meted out to youthful transgressors. The 
extremely humorous side of those poems, 
quite unintended by the authoress, has 
been, I may add, a source of real pleasure 
to me all my life, as I have been able to re- 
call those jingling verses better than many 
more valuable things. I also read all Miss 
Edgeworth's writings — "Parents' Assist- 
ant," "Frank," "Harry and Lucy," and 
'* Rosamond and the Purple Jar." At that 
time the intolerable didacticism of the stories 
did not bore me, nor did I have the satisfac- 
tion of appreciating the brutal immorality 
of such persons as Rosamond's mother in 
her treatment of her luckless and deceived 
ofiFspring. 

But I have spent a long time in getting 
to Nahant and my summers there. I have 
drifted away on the sea of literature as I 
did before on the clipper ships. Neither 
perhaps is so very distant, for Nahant has 
been much connected with literature, and 
from her bold headlands she has watched 
"the stately ships go on to their haven 
under the hill" from the days of the long, 
low boats of the Vikings to the huge steam- 
ships throbbing and smoking as they come 
up out of the ocean or start forth to Europe. 
A bold, rock-bound peninsula of singidar 
beauty thrust out into the sea between Cape 
Cod and Cape Ann, the home from the early 
part of the seventeenth century of a few 
fishermen and farmers, Nahant at the be- 
ginning of the nineteenth century began to 
draw people from Boston, who sought for 
life out of doors, by its fine sea air and by 
the chance for fishing and shooting. In 
the early twenties gentlemen from Boston 
built a stone hotel on the extreme point 
of the peninsula. Cottages followed, built 
here and there on the bold cliffs and head- 
lands, and the place was fairly launched as 



a summer resort. It became well known, 
sharing with Newport the distinction of 
being one of the first and most famous of 
New England watering-places. Willis, and 
later Curtis, described it in prose and Whit- 
tier pictured its beauties in verse. Prescott 
and Longfellow and Agassiz made their 
homes at Nahant in siunmer, and Motiey 
and Sumner came there every year. Then 
Mr. Paran Stevens, forenmner of the pro- 
moters and combiners of a later day, cast 
his eyes upon it and determined that he 
could make it a great watering-place like 
Newport, a destiny for which Nahant was 
too small and altogether unsuited. But 
this experiment was in full tide when my 
earliest memory begins. The picturesque 
stone hotel had given way to a huge wooden 
barrack containing hundreds of rooms, 
ugly, tasteless, with no quality but size. A 
telegraph line was nm to Lynn, "hops," 
bands, and ballswereof frequent occurrence, 
and various attractions were furnished, in- 
cluding Blondin, whom I remember wheel- 
ing a man over a tight-rope stretched high 
across one of the coves which indented the 
shore. There was a brief period of gayety 
and success, the hotel was full, and fashion 
seemed to justify the anticipation of Mr. 
Stevens. Its fame indeed even travelled 
across the ocean. On September 7, 1858, 
Henry Greville writes in his diary: "An 
amusing letter from Fanny Kemble, dated 
Nahant, U. S. (a favorite sea-bathing place 
near Boston), received to-day, says: * How 
you would open your eyes and stop your 
ears if you were here I This enormous house 
is filled with American women, one prettier 
than the other, who look like fairies, dress 
like duchesses ox femmes entretenues, be- 
have like housemaids and scream like pea- 
cocks.' " The glimpse through English eyes 
is not flattering, but it is vivid and inter- 
esting, perhaps not without value even now. 
So far as my own knowledge is concerned 
I remember only dimly that the Olympians 
of the family used to go to the hotel for vari- 
ous entertainments, that there was music, 
and that I was taken there once to see Signor 
Blitz (why Signor ?) and his trained canaries. 
The only other recollection connected with 
the hotel in its brief hour of splendor is of the 
first diplomatist I ever saw. I have seen 
many since those days, some most interest- 
ing men, but as a rule I have found them, 
especially when they were what is called 



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Lord Napier, minister from England to the 
United States in 1857, was very distincdy of 
the former dass. He brought letters to my 
father, and he and Lady Napier dined often 
at our house and drove with my mother. A 
boy of seven notes not at all the appearance 
of persons so old as to be friends of his par- 
ents, but I have been told since that she was 
charming and handsome. An old photo- 
graph which lies before me, despite its im- 
perfections, certainly justifies the latter ad- 
jective. There were also two Napier boys, 
who made a far stronger impression upon 
my mind than did their parents. I remember 
playing and fraternizing with them very 
cheerfully, although I had a wholly vague, 
but none the less deep-rooted, hostility to 
England. This feeling was traditional and 
in the air, but I am sure that I derived mine 
from my father. He had been in England 
several times when a young man. I have his 
passport, issued to him by Governor White, 
of Louisiana, the father of my friend, the 
present chief-justice of the United States. 
My father then lived in Louisiana, where he 
was engaged in business, but the governor of 
a State as a source for passports curiously 
illustrates the alteration in the power and 
position of the States since the early thirties. 
He had enjoyed his visits to England, where 
he was very kindly welcomed by his uncle 
and cousins, and I never heard him speak 
harshly of any one whom he met Never- 
theless, he resented deeply the attitude and 
policy of England toward this country, as 
well as the contemptuous abuse heaped up 
on us by her writers, and this resentment 
became more intense when England's feel- 
ing toward us was revealed by her conduct 
at the beginning of the Civil War. But 
although my opinions were strong and sound 
as to Great Britain, I played cheerfully and 
contentedly with the sons of the minister and 
found them excellent companions. 

The passing glamour of the big hotel, 
however, was only an incident in the earlier 
summers that I remember. It was Na- 
hant itself that I cared for. Many, many 
years aftenvard senator iioar said of me 
and to me in a speech at Clark University, 
that I had suffered from one great mis- 
fortune — I had not been brought up in the 
country. I told him after the speech-mak- 
ing was over that I had one great compensa- 
tion in being brought up by the sea, and he 



which he had forgotten. The love of the 
sea which a child acquires who has been 
reared at its very edge deepens through life, 
and nothing can ever replace it I played 
upon the beaches and on the rocky cUfiTs; I 
loved the sea smiling and beautiful in the 
midsummer heats, and I loved it even more 
in the great gales of the autimm, when the 
huge seas broke over the cli£Fs and ledges, 
filling me with interest and excitement as I 
watched them by the hour together. 

Nahant not only meant the sea and sum- 
merand out-of-door life, but there was no 
school there, and, instead of lessons, I 
learned to swim and in time to rdw and sail 
a boat, accomplishments really worth hav- 
ing and one of the rare portions of my edu- 
cation which have been of use and pleasure 
to me my whole life through. There was, 
too, a certain enchantment about theplace — 
the mystery and magic of the sea, I sup- 
pose — and such dreams and imaginings as I 
had were all connected with Nahant and 
not with Boston. It is said that Robert 
Louis Stevenson once declaring that "every 
child hunted for buried treasure," Henry 
James replied "that he never had," to 
which Stevenson made the obvious answer: 
"Then you have never been a child." I 
was not at all imaginative, but I constructed 
an elaborate romance of treasure hidden 
at Nahant Little as I knew it then I was 
in a region peculiarly adapted for such 
dreams. Captain Kidd and other pirates 
of the seventeenth and eighteenth cen- 
turies, but especially Captain Kidd, are 
popularly believed to have buried treasure 
all along the New England coast. As a 
matter of fact, they probably concealed 
some of their plunder at various points, for 
litde deposits have been found here and 
there. The belief, however, was magnifi- 
cent and wide-spread, even if the treasure 
was small , scattered, and uncertain. Not far 
from where I lived, although I never heard 
of it until much later, at a place called Dun- 
geon Rock, in the Saugus Woods, a worthy 
family, under the direction of mediums and 
spirits, siowiy and painfully, wan nammcr 
and chisel, drove a tunnel into the solid rock 
in search of a cave where an Indian princess, 
an Indian chief, and sundry pirates had 
been imprisoned with all their treasures by 
a landslide or earthquake, of which geolc^*, 
differing with the spirits, gave no indication. 



Some Early Memories 



317 



The work of these poor people afterward 
became an attraction to sightseers, and they 
earned a living by the fees they received for 
exhibiting the work of their wasted lives. 

I also got a glimpse of the Captain Kidd 
belief many years later. One summer in 
the eighties a good-looking elderly man 
came to me and asked permission to dig on 
my place at Nahant, near East Point, just 
by the edge of the cliff. He said that the 
spirits had told him precisely where the 
treasure was buried in large pots packed in 
a great chest. Mindful of my own early 
visions I gave him the required permission, 
but after his excavation had reached such a 
size that it began to threaten serious dam- 
age I told him to stop and sent him away. 
He went obediently, but came back at night 
secretly and dug more and deeper, enlarg- 
ing the hole to the serious distress of my 
gardener, but naturally finding nothing. 
He was a fine-looking, sturdy man who had 
worked all his life as a bridge-builder and 
contractor, and his hard-earned savings 
were all being absorbed by crafty mediums 
who were encouraging him in his search 
for buried treasure. 

I have wandered far from my own early 
imaginings, which were as innocent of any 
knowledge of Kidd and eleventh-century 
buccaneers as they were of spiritual mani- 
festations and designing mediums. Mine 
was simply the boy^s dream of buried treas- 
ure. I made up my mind that on the side 
of one of the cliffs near the house where I 
then lived there was a cave which had been 
closed up by the fall of a rock suggested by 
a long crack and a projecting shelf. I 
fixed the place in my memory by slipping 
there one day when I was pounding the 
rock, and as I fell I brought my teeth 
sharply together, biting clean through my 
tongue, an incident as real as my cave was 
imaginary and a good deal more painful. 
But although I made no impression on the 
hard surface of the rock, I pictured the cave 
and fitted it up and filled it with treasure in 
my own mind, greatly to my own satisfac- 
tion. I became finally so pleased with my 
invention that I confided an account of it 
to my companion and contemporary, Stur- 
gis Bigelow. He was so interested that I 
gave him to understand that I had seen all 
these wonders, and I produced an old and 
rusty shot-gun which 1 had found in the gar- 
ret as something which I had brought from 



the cave. He was duly impressed, so much 
so indeed that he told his father and then 
informed me that his father said that there 
was no such cave and that the gun had prob- 
ably belonged to my grandfather. What 
defence I made I do not remember, but 
this impleasant scepticism not only im- 
paired my reputation for truth but wrecked 
my own belief, and I do not recall that I 
sought further to develop my cave, which 
was a loss I have never ceased to deplore. 
My only other attempt to carry out my 
dreams of buried treasure had an equally 
unfortunate ending. Russell Sullivan and 
I and one or two other boys put some of our 
hard-gotten quarters and half dollars in a 
small box and buried it deeply in a sand 
bank which ran along the edge of the marshes 
where Arlington Street now is. Then from 
time to time we would go secretly and mys- 
teriously and dig up the box and examine 
it. The pleasure of this performance is al- 
most as hard to explain as that of Steven- 
son's "Lantern Bearers," but I can testify 
that it was quite as real and quite as excit- 
ing. One sad day, however, we found that 
our box had been broken open and rifled. 
Sullivan and I, quite unjustly I think, sus- 
pected one of our fellow treasure-hiders and 
treated him with marked coolness. I am 
inclined to believe that some more practical 
treasure-seeker from the " South Cove^^ad 
observed our movements and had profited 
accordingly. But in any event this melan- 
choly experience terminated my effort to ac- 
quire or to pretend to acquire buried treasure. 

These memories of my first ten years all 
melt together. I cannot pick them apart 
and date them as some more fortunate 
writers of reminiscences seem able to do. 
I can only give them in mass as they arise 
before me out of the dead years. But 
some of the figures of that time stand forth 
very clearly before my mental vision, both 
those who made my little world and those 
whom I afterward knew to be of great im- 
portance in the larger world of men and 
whom I still distinguish salient and defined 
despite the uncertain and fluctuating lights 
of one's earlier memories. 

I have already spoken of my father who 
was so much to me as companion and 
friend. Next in the household was my 
grandfather, Henry Cabot, for whom I was 
named. He was over seventy when I first 
recall him clearly, a tall, erect, very fine- 



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or feebleness. He went to his club (the 
old Temple Club) and down town every day, 
although he had no business, having long 
since retired from the bar, and he was a 
great theatre-goer. When not at the thea- 
tre he was always at home in the evenings 
and used to sit up very late, reading, as I 
was told. He certainly got up late in the 
morning and I seldom saw him without a 
book. It seemed to me as if he knew every- 
body and that everybody knew him. His 
friends were constantly coming to see him. 
I thought at the time that they were all of 
his age, which I regarded as enormous. I 
learned later that some of them were young 
men, the fact being that he was a very agree- 
able and charming man who attracted both 
young and old. He had, as I look back on 
it, most perfect manners. He left the rep- 
utation of an excellent talker, but of that I 
could not judge. He was always very kind 
to me, but I looked up to him with awe, for 
he impressed me with an air of distinction 
which I could not have defined then, but 
which I fully realize now. I do not know 
why I had a feeling of awe, for he was al- 
ways most gentle in his manner, and as he 
had a way, if I asked him for money, of 
pulling out a handful of change and letting 
me take my choice among the coins I felt 
a peculiar affection for a method of giving 
quite unexampled in my experience. I 
used to try his patience, I fear, by getting 
him to tell me how he hid under the side- 
board and watched Washington at break- 
fast with his father when the President 
stopped at my great-grandfather's house in 
Beverly, on his journey through New Eng- 
land in 1789. 

Many years afterward there came to me 
in a curious way a written reminder of this 
little incident which had strangely enough 
escaped destruction. When 1 wrote my 
memoir of George Cabot in 1876 I went 
carefully through the Washington papers 
in the State Department and took copies of 
all the correspondence between Washing- 
ton and Mr. Cabot. I did not find any- 
thing relating to the Beverly visit, nor in- 
deed was there any reason why I should 
have found anything. Some fifteen years 
later my friend, William Endicott, then in 
the Department of Justice, was directed to 
examine all the papers in the archives re- 
lating to the acquisition of the District of 



Washington in order to settle some ques- 
tion which had arisen in regard to the title 
to the Potomac flats. There was an im- 
mense mass of papers, including many let- 
ters from Washington, all official and all 
relating to the establishment of the Federal 
city. Yet in this imlikely company Mr. 
Endicott found my great-grandfather's let- 
ter inviting Washington to stop at his house 
in Beverly, Washington preserved ever>'- 
thing, but how this little note from a friend 
had strayed into such a collection has never 
been explained. I will give it here because 
it is connected with my story and because 
it seems to me to have the pleasant grace 
of the elder day when Horace Walpole was 
writing letters and Gibbon was telling the 
story of the Roman Empire. 

Be%^erly, 
October 24, 17S9. 

Sir: The public papers having an- 
nounced **that the President of the United 
States is on his way to Portsmouth in New 
Hampshire," it immediately occurred to 
me that your route would be through this 
village^ and that you might find it conven- 
ient to stop here and take a little rest: 
should this prove to be the case, permit me, 
Sir, to hope for your acceptance of such ac- 
comodation and refreshment as can be 
furnished in my humble dwelling, where 
two or three beds would be at your disposal. 

I am fully aware that by indulging this 
hope I expose myself to the imputation of 
vanity as well as ambition and therefore 
should hardly dure to have my conduct 
tried by the cool maxims of the head alone, 
but would rather refer it to the dictates of 
my heart, which, in the most affecting con- 
cerns of life, I believe to be a sure guide to 
what is right. 

I have the honor, Sir, to be with senti- 
ments of the most profound respect 

your devoted and most obedient servant 
Georgp: Cabot 

The President oj the United States 

I have always liked since to think, as I 
have recalled this trifling anecdote, that 1 
have known and talked with some one who 
had seen Washington. But this was the 
only incident of the past I ever extracted 
from my grandfather. I used to importune 
him to tell me stories of the distant time 



Some Early Memories 



319 



when he was a boy and especially all about 
his father. I remember well his kindly re- 
fusal and his then adding: " My boy, we do 
not talk about family in this country. It 
is enough for you to know that your grand- 
father was an honest man." It is a regret 
to me now that I never could get more from 
him, for he had seen much of the world and 
had known many interesting people. He 
entered Harvard in the class of 1800, but 
became involved in one of the absurd out- 
breaks common in those days and known 
as college rebellions, and did not graduate* 
He was at Cambridge long enough, how- 
ever, to be a member of the Porcellian Club, 
and I remember how glad I was to find his 
name on the list when I became a member 
of the club myself, more than seventy years 
later. Washington AUston was in the same 
class, and my grandfather kept up his 
friendship with him always. 

Mr. Cabot wa^ also a life-long friend of 
Daniel Webster, personally as well as po- 
litically. They were both fond of gun and 
rod, and I have a long letter from Webster 
telling my grandfather about a day's fish- 
ing and describing the trout he had caught. 
My grandfather had Webster's signature 
appended to some other bits of paper less 
valuable than this delightful letter, which I 
think worth giving for the glimpse that it 
affords of the sport of many years ago: 

Sandwich, June 4, 

Saturday mor'g 

6 o'clock 

Dear Sir: I send you eight or nine brook 
trout, which I took yesterday, in that chief 
of all brooks, Mashpee. I made a long 
day of it, and with good success, for me. 
John was with me, full of good advice, but 
did not fish — ^nor carry a rod. 

I took 26 trouts, all weighing . . 17 lb 12 oz. 
The largest (you have him) weighed 

at Crokers 2"4*^ 

The 5 largest 3"5" 

The eight largest 11 *^ 8 ** 

I got these by following your advice; 
that is, by care/id &• thorough fishing of the 
difiicult places, which others do not fish. 
The brook is fished, nearly every day. I 
entered it, not so high up as we sometime 
do, between 7 & 8 o'clock, & at 12 was 
hardly more than half way down to the 
meeting-house path. You see I did not 
hurry. The day did not hold out to fish* 



the wiiole brook properly. The largest 
trout I took at 3 P. m. (yoa see I am pre- 
cise) below the meeting-house, imder a 
bush on the right bank, two or three rods 
below the large beeches. It is singular, 
that in the whole day, I did not take two 
trouts out of the same hole. I found both 
ends, or parts of the Brook about equally 
productive. Small fish not plenty, in 
either. So many hooks get everything 
which is not hid away in the manner large 
trouts take care of themselves. I hooked 
one, which I suppose to be larger than any 
which I took, as he broke my line, by fair 
pulling, after I had pu|led him out of his 
den, & was playing him in fair open water. 

Of what I send you, I pray you keep 
what you wish yourself, send three to Mr. 
Ticknor, & three to Dr. Warren; or two 
of the larger ones, to each will perhaps be 
enough — & if there be any left, there is Mr. 
Callender & Mr. Blake, & Mr. Davis, 
either of them not "averse to fish." Pray 
let Mr. Davis see them — especially the large 
one — ^As he promised to come, & fell badk, 
I desire to excite his regrets. I hope you 
will have the large one on your own table. 

The day was fine — ^not another hook in 
the Brook. John steady as a judge — and 
everything else exactly right. I never, on 
the whole, had so agreeable a day's fishing 
tho' the result, in pound or numbers, is not 
great; — nor ever expect such another. 

Please preserve this letter; but rehearse 
not these particulars to the uninitiated. 

I think the Limerick not the best hook. 
Whether it pricks too soon, or for what 
other reason, I found or thought I found 
the fish more likely to let go his hold, from 
this, than from the old fashioned hook. 
Yrs. 

D. Webster. 

H. Cabot, Esq. 

Among the people who came constantly 
to the house I well remember Charles Sum- 
ner. He was the friend of my grandfather 
and of my father, too. When respectable 
Boston shut its doors upon him on accoimt 
of his course upon slavery our house and 
that of Mr. Charles Francis Adams, as Mr. 
Adams himself told me, were the only ones 
still kept open to him. He came frequently 
to dinner when he was at home and passed 
several weeks with us always at Nahant, a 
habit which he maintained until his death. 



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320 



Some Early Memories 



But in those first ten years he is only a fig- 
ure in memory — tall, solemn, impressive, . 
and looked at by me with distant awe. He 
is vivid to me in that period upon only one 
occasion, and then he stands out on the back- 
ground of memory very sharply indeed. It 
was not long after Preston Brooks's attack 
upon him in the Senate chamber, of which 
I knew nothing at the time. My memory 
is merely that one afternoon my father took 
me to the State House to the point which 
was then the comer of Mount Vernon and 
Beacon Streets. He lifted me up and 
placed me on the coping of the terrace wall 
so that I could look over the heads of those 
about us. Thence I saw a crowd stretch- 
ing far away and filling the streets in ev- 
ery direction. Presendy an open carriage 
drove up with some gentlemen seated in it 
and stopped near the spot where I was 
placed. Then a tall man, who I knew 
was Mr. Sunmer, stood up in the carriage 
and at the sight of him a shout rose from 
that crowd the like of which I have never 
heard since, and I have heard, in the course 
of my life, many crowds, and some mobs, 
cheer and yell. Then memory drops the 
curtain and I remember no more. In after 
years I spoke of this recollection many 
times, both to my family and to others, but 
nobody seemed to recall the incident and I 
began to think that it was all a trick of mem- 
ory, which is so fond of tricks. At last Mr. 
Pierce's biography appeared, and there at 
the proper point appeared an account of the 
scene whidi I remembered. Years after- 
ward I found among my mother's papers a 
copy of the Boston Atlas for Tuesday, No- 
vember 4, 1856. In that veracious chroni- 
cle I read that Mr. Sunmer had passed the 
previous Sunday at the house of Mr. Law- 
rence in Brookline. The next day he drove 
to the Roxbury line, where he was received 
by the mayor and Mr. Quincy. There the 
procession was formed and marched to the 
State House. Then the reporter continues : 
"The scene at the State House was beyond 
description. The area in front, the long 
range of steps leading to the capitol, the 
capitol itself, the streets in the vicinity, 
the houses, even to the roofs, were packed 
with human beings. The assembled thou- 
sands greeted him with long-continued 
cheering." Of what followed, according to 
the newspaper, such as a speech by the gov- 
ernor and the like suitable performances, I 



remember nothing. But I can still see. the 
tall figure standing up in the cauiage; I 
can sdll hear the shout of the crowd, and I 
know now why that cheering, as the AtlcLs 
called it, branded itself on my young mem- 
ory. It was the note of fierceness in it, of 
deep-seated anger, the cry for vengeance of 
a people who had been insulted, outraged, 
and wronged. It would have been well for 
the South if that scene and sound had made 
the same impression upon the Southern 
people which it made upon the boy of six, 
although I fear that they would have un- 
derstood it as little as I did. Yet it might 
conceivably have caused them to think, a 
useful exercise in which they did not much 
indulge in those bitter days. 

Some time afterward — ^it must have been 
in 1859 or i860, because the scene was not 
in Winthrop Place but in our new house on 
Beacon Street — Mr. Sumner, who had been 
in Europe, came, as was his habit, to dine 
with us. In the middle of the dinner he 
arose from his chair and stretched himself 
upon the sofa because the pain in his back 
was so severe that he could not sit up longer 
without resting himself. He never fully re- 
covered, I think, from the effects of the as- 
sault, for the spine was more or less affected. 

Thus it came about that my first impres- 
sions of politics were tragic, and I imbibed 
in this way an intense hatred of slavery, 
which I connected with Southerners and 
Democrats. The details were misty and 
the reasoning vague, but the sentiment 
was vigorous and the general result fairly 
accurate. 

Another figure that I recall in the Win- 
throp Place days was Rufus Choate, some- 
time Whig Senator from Massachusetts, 
always a great lawyer and advocate, a 
speaker of remarkable originality and com- 
pelling eloquence, a real scholar and a man 
of exceptional brilliancy and charm. He 
lived near us in Winthrop Place, and one 
evening in early summer, when my bed- 
time was drawing on, the maid said to 
me as we sat by the window: "There is 
Mr. Choate." I looked and saw a tall 
man with black hair and dark, deep-set eyes 
stroll slowly by, his hat pushed back and 
his coat-sleeves drawn up as if for coolness. 
That is all, and as it stands it is not a very 
interesting contribution to our knowledge of 
Mr. Choate, and yet that his figure should 
be vivid to me across all these years, that a 



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Some Early Memories 



321 



single glimpse of him should have left such 
a lasting picture on a child's mind, shows, I 
think, what striking qualities the man must 
have had, so impalpable and yet so power- 
ful that, piercing the vesture of decay, they 
fastened themselves indelibly upon the 
memory of a litde boy. I do not remember 
ever seeing Mr. Choate again, and this one 
vision of him must have been shortly before 
his death, as he died prematurely in 1859. 
It is rather odd that I do not recall him on 
other occasions, for my father greatiy ad- 
mired Mr. Choate and we all knew the f am- 
fly well. A cousin of mine much older 
than I married one of Mr. Choate's daugh- 
ters, and in after years, through which their 
friendship has been one of my best posses- 
sions, I have seen in her and in her sis- 
ter, Mrs. Bell, the charm, the cleverness, 
the brilliancy, and the imending himior for 
which Mr. Choate was famous. 

Mr. Choate's power with juries was uni- 
versally known in his lifetime, but this side 
of a great lawyer's career is xmfortunately 
evanescent, like the glories of great actors, 
which of necessity rest only upon tradition 
and upon what was written about them by 
their contemporaries. I was, of course, 
bom too late to have seen Mr. Choate 
before a jiuy or to have heard him speak 
in public, but his reputatipn was still all- 
pervading at the bar when I studied law, 
and from the lawyers of that day and from 
his memoirs I have come to the conclusion, 
after comparison with the accounts of other 
great lawyers, that he ranks with Erskine 
and men of that class, and that he has never 
been surpassed before ajury except by Web- 
ster in the single speech at the White mur- 
der trial. Mr. Choate left behind him not 
only this great reputation, but also count- 
less anecdotes of his wit and humor and 
pictiiresque habit of speech. These, for 
the most part, have been published, but 
there are one or two of the many I have 
heard which I think are not in print and are 
certainly not well known. 

There was a story famous in its day of 
Mr. Choate cross-examining a man who 
had turned State's evidence against his 
companions, who were charged with mur- 
der on the high seas and whom Mr. Choate 
was defending. This man was the most 
important witness for the government, and 
Mr. Choate drew out of him the story of 
how the murder was planned and then 



asked : * * How did they induce you to join ? ' ' 
"Why," said the witness, "they told me 
that we should be all right because, even if 
we were caught, there was a man in Boston 
named Choate who would get us off if we 
were found with the money in our boots." 
There was a roar of laughter in the court- 
room, and at this point the story always 
stopped. An eye-witness told me that Mr. 
Choate waited perfecdy undisturbed until 
the laugh had subsided, then proceeded, 
and working on the reply just made, broke 
the witness down and greatly impaired the 
weight of his testimony. In fact, I believe 
that he secured the acquittal of his client. 

In after years I never met, or heard of 
or from, Mr. George Ticknor Curtis, the 
eminent historian of the Constitution, who 
was always very civil to me, without Mr. 
Choate's remark about him forcing itself 
uponmymind: "There are some men whom 
we hate for cause and some peremptorily. 
I hate George Ticknor Curtis in both ways. 
I never want to see him again — except from 
a window and in a procession." 

Another story which was always a favor- 
ite of mine, because the touch was so light, 
was that relating to a client in a great 
patent suit. After the junior counsel had 
thoroughly prepared the case he took the 
client, who wished to state his case to Mr. 
Choate personally, to see the senior coun- 
sel. The client began: " Of course, Mr. 
Choate, you understand the principle of 
the Jacquard loom?" "Certainly," said 
Mr. Choate, who had never heard of the 
loom before in his life ; " of course, of course. 
But assume for the moment that I do not 
understand the principle of the Jacquard 
loom and expound it to me as a prelim- 
inary." 

There is one more story, and it shall be 
the last, which I am sure has never been 
printed and which I heard in a curious 
way. When I was in Congress, General 
Butier, whom I had fought for years politi- 
cally and whom I had never met, came one 
morning into the House. I happened to be 
passing near where he was standing and Mr. 
S. S. Cox, of New York, stopped me and 
introduced me to him. After a few words 
General Butier asked us to come over to 
his house, which was near the Capitol and 
is now the office of the Coast Survey, and 
lunch with him. We had a very pleasant 
luncheon, but the one thing in the conver- 



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322 



Some Early Memories 



sation which I remember was this story of 
Choate. It was apropos of a certain claim* 
ant who just then had a bill before Con- 
gress to pay him for some improvement in 
rifles which he had made at the time of the 
war. "He was always inventing things," 
said General Butler. "Whenhewasayoung 
man he invented some baking machinery 
and set up a factory equipped with it in 
New Hampshire. The invention wasn't 
worth a damn, and the concern failed,. and, 
of course [I liked General Butter's *of 
course ' at this point], it burned down. The 
insurance companies refused to pay, and 
the claimant retained Mr. Choate and me 
to sue them. I took charge of the case, but 
the claimant insisted on seeing Mr. Choate, 
and so one day I took him to Mr. Choate's 
office and the daimanttold hisstory. When 
he had gone I said to Mr. Choate: 'What 
a liar our dient is.' Mr. Choate said, look- 
ing at me with his melancholy eyes: 'I would 
not say that, Mr; Butler; call him an in- 
ventor rather.'" 

I have again wandered far from my early 
days, but Mr. Choate is always a tempta- 
tion whenever one speaks or writes of him, 
and his early deatii prevented my ever 
knowing him after I had grown up. 

With Mr. Motley (the historian) the case 
is different He stands out very distinctly 
among my earliest memories, and I came 
to know him very well in later years. He 
and Mrs. Motley were intimate friends of 
my grandfather and of my father and 
mother. I used to call them "uncle" and 
"aimt," although there was no relation- 
ship, and when they were not in Europe 
they» with their daughters, used to pass sev- 
eral weeks with us every simimer at Na- 
hant Mrs. Motley was a very handsome 
woman, strong in her affections and her 
dislikes, enthusiastic, earnest, and full of 
charm and fasdnation. I know that she 
charmed a small boy who became very fond 
of her, and years only served to confirm the 
boy's opinion. Mr. MoUey I used to look 
at in those days with round eyes and loved 
to hear him talk, although naturally I did 
not understand very wdl all that he said; 
but he was so handsome, so spirited, with 
such an exdting and inspiring manner, that 
he compelled the vagrant attention even 
of a boy to whom the "Dutch Republic" 
and the "Beggars of the Sea" then first ap- 
peared above the mental horizon. 



Mr. Longfellow lived at Nahant and I 
saw him from earliest boyhood, but for 
some reason not explicable now he did not 
become real to me, although I knew many 
of his poems, until much later. On the 
other hand, Mr. Agassiz is one of my ear- 
liest and strongest remembrances. This 
was the case pardy, I suppose, because Mrs. 
Agassiz was an intimate friend of my 
mother, partly because my sister went to 
M* Agassiz's school in Cambridge, but 
chiefly, I think, because whenever a strange 
fish was caught oflf our shores my father al- 
ways said that he was going to show it to 
Mr. Agassiz, who would know all about it. 
This struck me as an evidence of surprising 
wisdom, as indeed it was, although I did 
not know that it implied that the question 
was to be asked of the greatest living au- 
thority on fishes, past or present More- 
over, Mr. Agassiz was a man who im- 
pressed a boy just as he did every one who 
came in contact with him. His fluent £i)g- 
lish with the marked French accent, quite 
strange to a child; the atmosphere of 
strength, both physical and mental, which 
seemed to pervade him; tl)e large, genial, 
kindly presence, the sense of power; all 
alike were at once imposing and reassur- 
ing, leaving a mark on the young memory 
not to be effaced. 

I cannot recall the time when Benjamin 
Pdrce, the great mathematician and a pro- 
fessor at Cambridge, was not at once fa- 
miliar and impressive to me. Mrs. Peirce 
was a cousin of my mother and the "Pro- 
fessor" was constandy at our house. His 
successful critidsm of Leverrier's compu- 
tations of the variations of Uranus and his 
discovery of the fluidity of Saturn's rings 
had already made him famous and laid the 
foundation of that international reputation 
to which the long list of honors conferred 
upon him by foreign sodeties, as duly set 
forth in the Harvard catalogue, bears im- 
posing witness. Of all this I knew nothing 
then, and the names of his mathematical 
achievements are all that I have learned 
since. But he made a profound impression 
on my imagination. I heard him spoken 
of always with admiration, and I gathered 
that he was a man of vast and mysterious 
knowledge, not understood by most people, 
which was true enough, but the effect on my 
mind was to make me regard him as a spe- 
des of necromancer or magician. His ap- 



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black hair very long, after the fashion of 
his youth. He had a noble leonine head 
and dark, deep-set eyes. His voice had a 
peculiar quality without any metallic or 
ringing note, but as if slightly veiled, and 
very attractive for some reason which I 
have never dearly defined. Altogether he 
had a fascination which even a child felt, 
and all the more because he was full of hu- 
mor, with an abounding love of nonsense, 
one of the best of human possessions in 
this vale of tears. I know that I was al- 
ways delighted to see him, because he was 
so gende, so kind, so full of jokes with me 
and "so fimny." As time went on I came 
as a man to know him well and to value 
him more jusdy, but the love of the child, 
and the sense of fascination which the child 
felt, only grew with the years. 

Among the ccnnpanions of my unde, 
George Cabot, at the Latin School, was 
John Fitzpatrick, who became greatly at- 
tached to my unde and kept up his friend- 
ship with our family after the latter's early 
death. Fitzpatrick rose to be Bishop o( 
Boston, whidi was far from being then the 
Irish and Catholic dty it has since become. 
He was known to every one as "Bishop 
John," and was a most excellent man, very 
popular and gready beloved. He came a 
great deal to our house, espedally in sum- 
mer, for there was no Roman Catholic 
Church at Nahant then, and he or Father, 
afterward Bishop, Healey used to cdebrate 
an early mass in our church, of which my 
father was warden and treasurer. Bishop 
"John" was not only very kind to me but 
the best of companions, genial, affectionate, 
and sympathetic. He had a great regard 
for my father, who used to help him very 
liberally with his poor people and was es- 
pedally generous to the orphan asylum, for 
whose head, Sister Ann Alexis, he had deep 
admiration. 

. Yet another whom I remember wdl at 
that time was Dr. Henry Bigelow, the 
father of my friend, Sturgis Bigdow. He 
belonged, in common with my own parents 
and all those of my friends generally, to 
what Mr. Kenneth Grahame has so happily 
called the " Olympians," the grown-up per- 
sons who wield a despotic, unquestioned, 
and imreasoning authority over the des- 
tinies of small boys. But I distinguished 
him as different from the others, not merely 



with admiration, but because of the per- 
sonal impression he made upon me. He 
was an ardent sportsman and his house was 
full of dogs and guns and firearms of all de- 
scriptions, which were, of course, irresisti- 
bly alluring to any properly constituted 
boy. But there was something about the 
man himself which makes him stand out in 
the past as I try to revive the boyish rec- 
ollections. I think it was mainly his ex- 
traordinary deamess of statement, the f ed- 
ing of finality in all he said, qualities which 
always give a sense of power and mastery. 
I knew of course that he was a doctor. I 
did not know that he was the greatest sur- 
geon of the day in our country. Still less 
did I know, what many, many years after I 
was to learn, that by his introduction of the 
system of reducing dislocations of the hip 
by manipulation and by his revolution, 
then in the distant future, in the operation 
of lithotrity he was to relieve an incalcu- 
lable amount of human suffering. I say 
that I came to know these facts, but they 
are not generally known even by the people 
who have profited by them. The great 
physidans and surgeons, who by thdr dis- 
coveries and their sdf-sacrifice have done 
more than all others to mitigate the physical 
miseries of humanity, are less recognized 
and remembered, I have often thought, 
than any other benefactors of the race. 
Their names may have an unpleasant asso- 
dation with a disease or an operation, but 
they themsdves pass out of sight, although 
the lives they led and the work they did, 
and their observation of hiunan nature, are 
more interesting than those of many of the 
men about whom volumes have been writ- 
ten. In Dr. Bigelow, whom I knew well 
and saw constanUy until his death in 1890, 
there was also a remarkable dexterity and 
luddity of mind, as well as a capadty for 
rapid and brilliant generalization, which 
as a boy I always felt while listening to him 
and which as a man I could define and 
appredate. 

Such were the men, seen by me now in 
the backward look, who impressed me in 
those early years as in some undefined way 
more interesting than the rest, and who 
were to my mind in their effect upon me or 
in what I heard of greater importance than 
others. Yet this serious sense of their im- 
portance, although strongly felt, did not put 



324 



The Early Dive 



them at all in the class of those who were 
heroes to me at that moment. It merely 
set them apart. My heroes then were at 
once nearer and better miderstood, more 
familiar and more admired. 

The event in which I think I felt the most 
passionate interest at that time was the 
great fight between Heenan and Sayers. 
The manner in which the English crowd 
broke the ropes, when Heenan had finally 
got Sayers in chancery and in another min- 
ute would have broken his neck or won the 
fight, filled me with an anger which I still 
think just, but at which I now smile and 
wonder. It seemed to me that no greater 
injustice had ever been committed than 
this act of violence, which led to the declara- , 



tion that it was a drawn fight. It was my 
first experience of what is called fair play 
in England, and I do not think that I ever 
wholly recovered from it, although I have 
seen so many instances of it since that I 
have come to appreciate what it means. 
From this vivid recollection of the famous 
battle it may be gathered what sort of per- 
sons appeared really heroic to me when I 
was a small boy. They were men whose 
feats were chiefly ph3rsical, great prize- 
fighters, athletes, riders, hunters, and ad- 
venturers by sea and land, of whom I read, 
and their more hiunble exemplars in the 
stable, by the river, or on the playing-field, 
with whom I loved to associate and whom I 
watched admiringly from a distance. 



(To be continued.) 



THE EARLY DIVE 

By Alice Blaine Damrosch 



A BLEAK, flat space of autumn lake. 
The red rim of the autumn shore 
Ghost-lighted by the pallid rays 
Of autunm sun thin veiled in haze, 
That slowly seeks to clamber o'er 
The heavens, now but half awake. 



One moment long my feet I press 
Upon the gritty rock in dread. 
Below, the waters call — ^repel — 
I long to leap, I cannot tell 
What keeps me, high above my head 
My arms outstretched are motionless. 



I fear the quiet, magic art, 

I hate the waters lying there 

So dark, so icy cold, and still, 

I have not strength, I have not will 

To hurl my body in the air. 

And then down, down into its hea'i. 



Now of a sudden all my fears 
Drop from me, and I leap on high. 
Far from the rock, far into space, 
The cold air rushes past my face, 
The waters cleave to let me by. 
The bubbles gurgle in my ears. 



I'm up again, the waters sing, 

I beat them, buffet them, in play. 

My blood has changed to glowing wine, 

The world laughs and the world is mine, 

God has granted one more day, 

I own that day, and I am king! 



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THE LAST FRONTIER 



By E. Alexander Powell, F.R.G.S. 

Illustrations from photographs 

WHEN the penniless younger son of the dry, dusty, sunny climate of Southern 

the English society play is jilted by California and the fertile, rolling, well- 

the luxury-loving heroine, he in- watered and well-wooded surface of Indi- 

variably packs his portmanteau and betakes ana ; picture such a country dropped down 



himself to Rhodesia 
to make his fortime. 
Fifty years ago he 
sought the golden 
fleece in California ; 
thirty years ago he 
took passage by 
P. &0. boat for the 
Australian dig- 
gings ; ten years ago 
he helped to swell 
the mad rush to the 
Yukon; to-day his 
journey's end is the 
newest of the great, 
new nations— Rho- 
desia. He returns 
in the fourth act, 
broad-hatted, 
bronzed, and bois- 
terous, to annoimce 
that he is the owner 
of a ten-thousand- 
acre farm, or a dia- 
mond field, or a gold 
mine, or isdl of them, 
and that he has 
come home to find 
a girl to share his 
farm-house on the 
Rhodesian veldt, 
where good cook- 
ing is more essen- 
tial in a wife 




Lotyito Bail] 



Cape Tow 



Sketch map showing Rhodesia and its railway systems. 



in theheartof equa- 
torial Africa — that 
is Rhodesia. It lies 
a little above and 
to the right of that 
speckled yellow 
patch on the map of 
Africa which was 
labelled in our 
school geographies 
the Kalahari Des- 
ert. Bearing the 
name of the great 
empire-builder 
is the whole of that 
region which is 
bounded on the 
north by the Congo 
and the sleeping 
sickness, on the east 
by Mozambique 
and the blackwater 
fever, on the west 
by Angola and the 
cocoa atrocities, 
and on the south 
by the Transvaal 
and the discon- 
tented Dutch. It 
is watered by the 
Limpopo, which 
forms its southern- 
most boundary; by 
the Zambezi, which 



than good clothes and a good complexion, separates Southern Rhodesia from the north- 
Now, beyond having a vague idea that east and north-west provinces; and by the 
Rhodesia is a frontier country somewhere innumerable streams which unite to form 
at the back of beyond, there is only about the Congo. 

one in every fifty of the audience who has When the railway which English con- 
any definite notion where or what it really cessionaires are now pushing inland from 
is. Picture, then, if you can, a territory the coast of Angola to the Zambezi is com- 
about the size of all the Atlantic States, pleted, the front door to Rhodesia will be 
from Florida to Maine, put together, with Lobito Bay, thus bringing Bulawayo within 
Vol. LI I. —34 325 



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326 



The Last Frontier 




ing automobile. 
If a d