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disordered hair and magically turned it to sombre fire. Venomous yet, but doubtful, Fawkes confronted her, now holding his handkerchief to his ear. And so the pair were posed when Paul Mario and Donald Courtier came down the steep path skirting the dell. Don grasped Paul by the arm. "As I live," he said, "there surely is my kindly coy nymph of the woods--now divinely visible--who led me to your doors!" Together they stood, enchanted by the girl's wild beauty, which that wonderful setting enhanced. But Flamby had heard their approach, and, flinging one rapid glance in their direction, she ran off up a sloping aisle of greenwood and was lost to view. At the same moment Fawkes, hitherto invisible from the path, stooped to recover his fowling-piece and turned, looking up at the intruders. Recognising Paul Mario, he raised the peak of his cap and began to climb the dell-side, head lowered shamefacedly. "It's Fawkes," said Paul--"Uncle Jacques' gamekeeper. Presumably this wood belonged to him." "Lucky man," replied Don. "Did he also own the wood-nymphs?" Paul laughed suddenly and boyishly, as was his wont, and nodded to Fawkes when the latter climbed up on to the path beside them. "You are Luke Fawkes, are you not?" he asked. "I recall seeing you yesterday with the others." "Yes, sir," answered Fawkes, again raising the peak of his cap. Having so spoken Fawkes become like a man of stone, standing before them, gaze averted, as a detected criminal. One might have supposed that a bloody secret gnawed at the bosom of Fawkes; but his private life was blameless and his past above reproach. His wife acted as charwoman at the church built by Sir Jacques. "Did you not observe a certain nymph among the bluebells, Fawkes?" asked Don whimsically. At the first syllable Fawkes sprang into an attitude of alert and fearful attention, listened as to the pronouncement of a foreman juror, and replied, "No, sir," with the relieved air of a man surprised to find himself still living. "I see Flamby Duveen, I did," he continued, in his reedy voice--"poachin', same as her father...." "Poachin'--same as her father," came a weird echo from the wood. Paul and Don stared at one another questioningly, but Fawkes' sandy countenance assumed a deeper hue. "She's the worst character in these parts," he went on hastily. "Bad as her father, she is." "Father, she is," mocked the echo. "She'll come to a bad end," declared the now scarlet Fawkes. "A bad end," concurred the magical echo, its accent and intonation eerily reproducing those of the gamekeeper. Then: "Whose wife stole the key of the poor-box?" inquired the spirit voice, and finally: "When are they going to burn you?" At that Don succumbed to uncontrollable laughter, and Paul had much ado to preserve his gravity. "She appears to be very young, Fawkes," he said gently; "little more than a child. High spirits are proper and natural after all; but, of course I appreciate the difficulties of your position. Good day." "Good day, sir," said Fawkes, again momentarily relieved apparently from the sense of impending harm. "Good day, sir." He raised the peak of his cap, turned and resumed his slinking progress. "A strange coincidence," commented Don, taking Paul's arm. "You are pursuing your fancy about the nymph visible and invisible?" "Not entirely, Paul. But you may remember, if the incident has not banished the fact from your mind, that you are at present conducting me, at my request, to Something-or-other Cottage, which I had failed to find unassisted." "Quite so. We are almost there. Yonder is Babylon Lane, which I understand is part of my legacy. Dovelands Cottage, I believe, is situated about half-way along it." "Babylon Lane," mused Don. "Why so named?" "That I cannot tell you. The name of Babylon invariably conjures up strange pictures of pagan feasts, don't you find? The mere sound of the word is sufficient to transport us to the great temple of Ishtar, and to dazzle our imagination with processions of flower-crowned priestesses. Heaven alone knows by what odd freak this peaceful lane was named after the city of Semiramis. But you were speaking of a coincidence." "Yes, it is the mother of the nymph, Flamby, that I am going to visit; the Widow Duveen." "Then this girl with the siren hair is she of whom you spoke?" "Evidently none other. I told you, Paul, that I bore a message from her father, given to me under pledge of secrecy as he lay dying, to her mother. Paul, the man's life was a romance--a tragic romance. I cannot divulge his secrets, but his name was not Duveen; he was a cadet of one of the oldest families in Ireland." "You interest me intensely. He seems to have been a wild fellow." "Wild, indeed; and drink was his ruin. But he was a man, and by birth a gentleman. I am anxious to meet his widow." "Of course, she knows of his death?" "Oh, you need fear no distressing scenes, Paul. I remember how the grief of others affects you. He died six months ago." "It affects me, Don, when I can do nothing to lessen it. Before helpless grief I find myself abashed, afraid, as before a great mystery--which it is. Only one day last week, passing through a poor quarter of South London, my cab was delayed almost beside a solitary funeral coach which followed a hearse. The coffin bore one poor humble little wreath. In the coach sat a woman, a young woman, alone--and hers was the wreath upon the coffin, her husband's coffin. He had died after discharge from a military hospital; so much I learned from the cabman, who had known the couple. She sat there dry-eyed and staring straight before her. No one took the slightest notice of the hearse, or of the lonely mourner. Don, that woman's face still haunts me. Perhaps he had been a blackguard--I gathered that he had; but he was her man, and she had lost him, and the world was empty for her. No pompous state funeral could have embodied such tragedy as that solitary figure following the spectre of her vanished joy." Don turned impulsively to the speaker. "You dear old sentimentalist," he said; "do you really continue to believe in the faith of woman?" Paul glanced aside at him. "Had I ever doubted it, Yvonne would have reassured me. Wait until you meet a Yvonne, old man; then _I_ shall ask _you_ if you really continue to believe in the faith of woman. Here we are." IV A trellis-covered path canopied with roses led up to the door of Dovelands Cottage. On the left was a low lichened wall, and on the right a bed of flowers bordering a trimly kept lawn, which faced the rustic porch. Dovelands Cottage was entirely screened from the view of anyone passing along Babylon Lane by a high and dense privet hedge, which carried on its unbroken barrier to the end of the tiny orchard and kitchen-garden flanking the bungalow building on the left. As Paul opened the white gate a cattle-bell attached to it jangled warningly, and out into the porch Mrs. Duveen came to meet them. She was a tiny woman, having a complexion like a shrivelled pippin, and the general appearance of a Zingari, for she wore huge ear-rings and possessed shrewd eyes of Oriental shape and colour. There was a bluish tinge about her lips, and she had a trick of pressing one labour-gnarled hand to her breast. She curtsied quaintly. Paul greeted her with the charming courtesy which he observed towards everyone. "Mrs. Duveen, I believe? I am Paul Mario, and this is Captain Courtier, who has a message to give to you. I fear we may have come at an awkward hour, but Captain Courtier's time is unfortunately limited." Mrs. Duveen repeated the curtsey. "Will it please you to step in, sirs," she said, her eyes fixed upon Don's face in a sort of eager scrutiny. "It is surely kind of you to come, sir"--to Don. They entered a small living room, stuffy because of the characteristically closed windows, but marked by a neatness of its appointments for which the gipsy appearance of Mrs. Duveen had not prepared them. There were several unframed drawings in pastel and water-colour, of birds and animals, upon the walls, and above the little mantelshelf hung a gleaming German helmet, surmounted by a golden eagle. On the mantelshelf itself were fuses, bombs and shell-cases, a china clock under a glass dome, and a cabinet photograph of a handsome man in the uniform of a sergeant of Irish Guards. Before the clock, and resting against it so as to occupy the place of honour, was a silver cigarette case. Don's eyes, as his gaze fell on this last ornament, grew unaccountably misty, and he turned aside, staring out of the low window. Mrs. Duveen, who throughout the time that she had been placing chairs for her visitors (first dusting the seats with her apron) had watched the captain constantly, at the same moment burst into tears. "God bless you for coming, sir," she sobbed. "Michael loved the ground you walked on, and he'd have been a happy man to-day to have seen you here in his own house." Don made no reply, continuing to stare out of the window, and Mrs. Duveen cried, silently now. Presently Paul caught his friend's eye and mutely conveying warning of his intention, rose. "Your grief does you honour, Mrs. Duveen," he said. "Your husband was one I should have been proud to call my friend, and I envy Captain Courtier the memory of such a comrade. There are confidences upon which it is not proper that I should intrude; therefore, with your permission, I am going to admire your charming garden until you wish me to rejoin you." Bareheaded, he stepped out through the porch and on to the trim lawn, noting in passing that the home-made bookshelf beside the door bore copies of Shakespeare, Homer, Horace and other volumes rarely found in a workman's abode. Lémpriére's _Classical Dictionary_ was there, and Kipling's _Jungle Book_, Darwin's _Origin of Species_, and Selous' _Romance of Insect Life_. Assuredly, Sergeant Duveen had been a strange man. * * * * * Some twenty minutes later the widow came out, followed by Don. Mrs. Duveen's eyes were red, but she had recovered her composure, and now held in her hand the silver cigarette case from the mantelpiece. "May I show you this, sir," she said, repeating her quaint curtsey to Paul. "Michael valued it more than anything he possessed." Paul took the case from her hand and examined the inscription: To Sergeant Michael Duveen, -- Company, Irish Guards, from Captain Donald Courtier, in memory of February 9th, 1916. Opening the case, he found it to contain a photograph of Don. The latter, who was watching him, spoke: "My affairs would have terminated on February the ninth, Paul, if Duveen had not been there. He was pipped twice." "His honour doesn't tell you, sir," added Mrs. Duveen, "that he brought Michael in on his back with the bullets thick around him." "Oh! oh!" cried Don gaily. "So that's the story, is it! Well, never mind, Mrs. Duveen; it was all in the day's work. What the Sergeant did deserved the V.C., and he'd have had it if I could have got it for him. What I did was no more than the duty of a stretcher-bearer." Mrs. Duveen shook her head, smiling wanly, the thin hand pressed to her breast. "I'm sorry you couldn't meet Flamby, sir," she said. "She should have been home before this." "No matter," replied Don. "I shall look forward to meeting her on my next visit." They took their departure, Mrs. Duveen accompanying them to the gate and watching Don as long as he remained in sight. "Did you observe the drawings on the wall?" he asked Paul, as they pursued their way along Babylon Lane. "I did. They were original and seemed to be interesting." "Remarkably so; and they are the work of our wood nymph." "Really! Where can she have acquired her art?" "From her father, I gather. Paul, I am keenly disappointed to have missed Flamby. The child of such singularly ill-assorted parents could not well fail to be unusual. I wonder if the girl suspects that her father was not what he seemed? Mrs. Duveen has always taken the fact for granted that her husband was a nobleman in disguise! It may account for her adoration of a man who seems to have led her a hell of a life. I have placed in her hands a certain locket which Duveen wore attached to a chain about his neck; I believe that it contains evidence of his real identity, but he clearly intended his wife to remain in perpetual ignorance of this, for the locket is never to be opened except by Flamby, and only by Flamby on the day of her wedding. I fear this popular-novel theme will offend your æsthetic sensibilities, Paul!" "My dear fellow, I am rapidly approaching the conclusion that life is made up more of melodrama than of psychological hair-splitting and that the penmen dear to the servants' hall more truly portray it than Henry James ever hoped to do or Meredith attempted. The art of to-day is the art of deliberate avoidance of the violent, and many critics persist in confusing it with truth. There is nothing precious about selfish, covetous, lustful humanity; therefore, good literature creates a refined humanity of its own, which converses in polished periods and never comes to blows." "What of _Madame Caligula_? And what of the critics who hailed _Francesca of the Lilies_ as a tragedy worthy to name with _Othello_!" "Primitive passions are acceptable if clothed in doublet and hose, Don. My quarrel with to-day is that it pretends to have lived them down." "Let us give credit where credit is due. Prussia has not hesitated to proclaim her sympathy with the primitive. Did you observe an eagle-crowned helmet above Mrs. Duveen's fireplace?" "Yes; you know its history?" "Some part of its history. It was worn by a huge Prussian officer, who, together with his staff, was surprised and captured during the operations of March 1st, 1916; a delightful little coup. I believe I told you that Sergeant Duveen had been degraded, but had afterwards recovered his stripes?" "You did, yes." "It was this incident which led to his losing them. He was taking particulars of rank and so forth of the prisoners, and this imposing fellow with the golden helmet stood in front of all the others, arms folded, head aloft, disdainfully surveying his surroundings. He spoke perfect English and when Duveen asked him his name and rank and requested him to hand over the sword he was wearing, he bluntly refused to have any dealings whatever with a 'damned common sergeant.' Those were his own words. "Duveen very patiently pointed out that he was merely performing a duty for which he had been detailed and added that he resented the Prussian's language and should have resented it from one of his own officers. He then repeated the request. The Prussian replied that if he had him in his own lines he would tie him to a gun and flog him to death. "Duveen stood up and walked around the empty case which was doing service as a table. He stepped up to take the sword which the other had refused to surrender; whereupon the Prussian very promptly and skilfully knocked him down. Immediately some of the boys made a rush, but Duveen, staggering to his feet, waved them back. He deliberately unbuttoned his tunic, took off his cap and unhitching his braces, fastened his belt around his waist. To everybody's surprise the lordly Prussian did likewise. A ring was formed and a fight began that would have brought in the roof of the National Sporting Club! "Feeling ran high against the Prussian, but he was a bigger man than Duveen and a magnificent boxer. Excited betting was in full swing when I appeared on the scene. Of course my duty was plain. But I had young Conroy with me and he pulled me aside before the men saw us. "'Five to one in fivers on the sergeant!' he said. "I declined the bet, for I knew something of Duveen's form; but I did not interrupt the fight! And, by gad! it was a splendid fight! It lasted for seventeen minutes without an interval, and Duveen could never have stayed another two, I'll swear, when the Prussian made the mistake of closing with him. I knew it was finished then. Duveen got in his pet hook with the right and fairly lifted his opponent out of the sentient world. "I felt like cheering; but before I could retire Duveen turned, a bloody sight, and looked at me, out of puffy eyes. He sprang to attention, and 'I am your prisoner, sir,' said he. "That left me no way out, and I had to put him under arrest. Just as he was staggering off between his guards the Prussian recovered consciousness and managed to get upon his feet. His gaze falling on Duveen, he held out one huge hand to him--" "Good! he was a sportsman after all!" "Duveen took it--and the Prussian, grasping that dangerous right of the sergeant's in his iron grip, struck him under the ear with his left and knocked him insensible across the improvised table!" Paul pulled up in the roadway, his dark eyes flashing: "The swine!" he exclaimed--"the--ee swine!" "I had all my work cut out then to keep the men off the fellow. But finally a car came for him he was the Grand Duke of Something or other--and he was driven back to the base. He had resumed his golden helmet, and he sat, in spite of his bloody face, scornfully glancing at the hostile group about the car, like a conquering pagan emperor. Then the car moved off out of the heap of rubbish, once a village, amid which the incident had taken place. At the same moment, a brick, accurately thrown, sent the golden helmet spinning into the road! "Search was made for it, but the helmet was never found. I don't _know_ who threw the brick, Paul (Duveen was under arrest at the time), but that is the helmet above his widow's mantelpiece! The men who have witnessed incidents of this kind will no longer continue to believe in the veneer of modern life, for they will know that the true savage lies hidden somewhere underneath." * * * * * They were come to the end of Babylon Lane and stood now upon the London road. Above the cornfield on the right hovered a sweet-voiced lark and the wild hedges were astir with active bird life. Velvet bees droned on their way and the air was laden with the fragrance of an English summer. Along the road flashed a motor bicycle, bearing a khaki-clad messenger and above the distant town flew a Farman biplane gleaming in the sunlight. The remote strains of a military band were audible. "The Roman road," mused Don, "constructed in the misty unimaginable past, for war, and used by us to-day--for war. Oh, lud! in a week I shall be in the thick of it again. Babylon Hall? Who resides at that imposing mansion, Paul?" They stood before the open gates of a fine Georgian building, lying far back from the road amid neatly striped lawns and well-kept gardens. "The celebrated Jules Thessaly, I believe," replied Paul; "but I have never met him." "Jules Thessaly! Really? I met him only three months ago near Bethune (a neighbourhood which I always associate with Milady and the headsman in _The Three Musketeers_)." "What was he doing in Bethune?" "What does he do anywhere? He was visiting the French and British fronts, accompanied by an imposing array of 'Staffs.' He has tremendous influence of some kind--financial probably." "An interesting character. I hope we may meet. By the way, do you manage to do much work nowadays? I rarely see your name." "It is impossible to do anything but war stuff, Paul, when one is in the middle of it. You saw the set of drawings I did for _The Courier_?" "Yes; I thought them fine. I have them in album form. They were excellently noticed throughout the press." Don's face assumed an expression of whimsical disgust. "There is a certain type of critic," he said "who properly ought to have been a wardrobe dealer: he is eternally reaching down the'mantle' of somebody or other and assuring the victim of his kindness that it fits him like a glove. Now no man can make a show in a second-hand outfit, and an artist is lost when folks begin to talk about the'mantle' of somebody or other having 'fallen upon him.' A critic can do nothing so unkind as to brand a poor poet 'The Australian Kipling,' a painter 'The Welsh Whistler,' or a comedian 'The George Robey of South Africa.' The man is doomed." "And what particular offender has inspired this outburst?" "Some silly ass who has dubbed me 'the Dana Gibson of the trenches'! It's a miserable outrage; my work isn't a scrap like Gibson's; it's not so well drawn, for one thing, and it doesn't even remotely resemble his in form. But never mind. When I come back I'll show 'em! What I particularly want to ask you, Paul, is to get in touch with Duveen's girl; she has really remarkable talent. I have never seen such an insight into wild life as is exhibited in her rough drawings. I fear I shall be unable to come down here again. There are hosts of sisters, cousins and aunts, all of whom expect to be taken to the latest musical play or for a week-end to Brighton: that's how we victimised bachelors spend our hard-earned leave! But I promised Duveen I would do all in my power for his daughter. It would be intolerable for a girl of that kind to be left to run wild here, and I am fortunately well placed to help her as she chances to be a fellow-painter. Will you find out all about her, Paul, and let me know if we can arrange for her to study properly?" "You really consider that she has talent?" "My dear fellow! go and inspect her work for yourself. Considering her limited opportunities, it is wonderful." "Rely upon me, Don. She shall have her chance." Don grasped his arm. "Tell Mrs. Duveen that she will receive a special allowance on account of her husband's services," he said, bending towards Paul. "Don't worry about expenses. You understand?" "My dear Don, of course I understand. But I insist upon sharing this protégée with you. Oh, I shall take no refusal. My gratitude to the man who saved my best pal _must_ find an outlet! So say no more. Do you return to London to-night?" "Unfortunately, yes. But you must arrange to spend a day, or at any rate an evening, with me in town before my leave expires. Are you thinking of taking up your residence at Hatton Towers?" Paul made a gesture of indecision. "It is a lovely old place," he said; "but I feel that I need to be in touch with the pulse of life, if I am to diagnose its ailments. Latterly London has become distasteful to me; it seems like a huge mirror reflecting all the horrors, the shams, the vices of the poor scarred world. To retire to Hatton in the companionship of Yvonne would be delightful, but would also be desertion. No idle chance brought us together to-day, Don; it was that Kismet to which the Arab ascribes every act of life. I was hesitating on a brink; you pushed me over; and at this very hour I am falling into the arms of Fate. I believe it is my appointed task to sow the seed of truth; a mighty task, but because at last I realise its dimensions I begin to have confidence that I may succeed." Don stood still in the road, facing Paul. "Choose your seed with care, Paul, for generations yet unborn will eat of its fruit." V Paul Mario dined alone in the small breakfast-room overlooking the sloping lawns, waited upon by Davison, the late Sir Jacques' butler, a useful but melancholy servant, having the demeanour of a churchwarden and a habit of glancing rapidly under tables and chairs as though he had mislaid a cassock or a Book of Common Prayer. The huge, gloomy dining-room oppressed the new owner of Hatton Towers, being laden with the atmosphere of a Primitive Methodist Sunday School. Sir Jacques had been Paul's maternal uncle, and Paul had often wondered if there could have been anything in common between his mother--whom he had never known--and this smug Pharisee. His father, who had died whilst Paul was at Oxford, had rarely spoken of Paul's mother; but Paul had chanced to overhear an old clubman refer to her as having possessed "the most fascinating ankles in London." The remark had confirmed his earlier impression that his mother had been a joyous butterfly. For his father, a profound but sombre scholar, he cherished a reverence which was almost Roman in its character. His portrait in oils occupied the place of honour in Paul's study, and figuratively it was a shrine before which there ever burned the fires of a deathless love and admiration. * * * * * Paul's acute response to environment rendered him ill at ease in Hatton Towers. The legacy embarrassed him. He hated to be so deeply indebted to a man he could never repay and from whom he would not willingly have accepted the lightest favour. It has been truly said that the concupiscence of the eye outlives desire. Tiberius succumbed to premature senility (and was strangled by Macro) in a bedchamber decorated with figures from the works of Elephantis; and Sir Jacques' secret library, which he had omitted to destroy or disperse, bore evidence to the whited sepulchre of his intellectual life. This atmosphere was disturbing. Paul could have worked at Hatton Towers, but not upon the mighty human theme with which at that hour his mind was pregnant. For his intellect was like a sensitive plate upon which the thoughts of those who had lived and longed and died in whatever spot he might find himself, were reproduced eerily, almost clairvoyantly. It was necessary that he should work amid sympathetic colour--that he should appropriately set the stage for the play; and Fame having coming to him, not empty-handed but laden with gold, he made those settings opulent. He did spontaneously the things that lesser men do at behest of their press-agents. The passionate mediaeval tragedy _Francesca of the Lilies_, destined to enshrine his name in the temple of the masters, he wrote at the haunted Palazzo Concini in Tuscany, where, behind tomb-like doors, iron-studded and ominous, he worked in a low-beamed windowless room at a table which had belonged to Gilles de Rais, and by light of three bronze lamps found in the ruins of the Mamertine dungeons. For company he had undying memories of sins so black that only the silent Vatican archives held record of them; memories of unholy loves, of deaths whose manner may not be written, of births whereat the angels shuddered. Torch-scarred walls and worm-tunnelled furniture whispered their secrets to him, rusty daggers confessed their bloody histories, and a vial still bearing ghastly frost of Borgian _contarella_ spoke of a virgin martyr and of a princely cardinal whose deeds were forgotten by all save Mother Church. Paul's genius was absorbent, fructiferous, prolific of golden dreams. But the atmosphere of Hatton Towers stifled inspiration, was definitely antagonistic. The portrait of the late Sir Jacques, in the dining-room, seemed to dominate the house, as St. Peter's dominates Rome, or even as the Pyramids dominate Lower Egypt. The scanty beard and small eyes; the flat, fleshy nose; the indeterminable, mask-like expression; all were faithfully reproduced by the celebrated academician--and humorist--who had executed the painting. Soft black hat, flat black tie, and ill-fitting frock coat might readily have been identified by the respectable but unfashionable tradesmen patronised by Sir Jacques. Paul, pipe in mouth, confronting the likeness after dinner, recalled, and smiled at the recollection, a saying of Don's: "Never trust a whiskered man who wears a soft black felt hat and a black frock coat. The hat conceals the horns; the coat hides the tail!" From room to room he rambled, and even up into the octagonal turret chambers in the tower. Here he seemed to be rid of the aura of the dining-room portrait and in a rarefied atmosphere of Tudor turbulence. In one of the turret chambers, that overlooking the orchard, he found himself surveying the distant parkland with the eyes of a captive and longing for the coming of one who ever tarried yet was ever expected. The long narrow gallery over the main entrance, with its six mullioned windows and fine collection of paintings, retained, as a jar that has held musk retains its scent, a faint perfume of Jacobean gallantry. But the pictures, many of them undraped studies collected by Sir Jacques, which now held the place once sacred to ancestors, cast upon the gallery a vague shadow of the soft black hat. From a tiny cabinet at one end of the gallery a stair led down to my lady's garden where bushes masqueraded as birds, a sundial questioned the smiling moon and a gathering of young frogs leapt hastily from the stone fountain at sound of Paul's footsteps. Monkish herbs and sweet-smelling old-world flowers grew modestly in this domain once sacred to the chatelaine of Hatton; and Paul kept ghostly tryst with a white-shouldered lady whose hair was dressed high upon her head, and powdered withal, and to whose bewitching red lips the amorous glance was drawn by a patch cunningly placed beside a dimple. My lady's garden was a reliquary of soft whispers, and Paul by the magic of his genius reclaimed them all and was at once the lover and the mistress. In the depths of the house he found a delightful dungeon. More modern occupiers of Hatton had used the dungeon as a wine-cellar and Sir Jacques had converted it to the purposes of a dark-room, for he had been a skilful and enthusiastic amateur of photography; but that it had at some period of its history served other ends, Paul's uncanny instinct told him. A sense of chill, not physical, indeed almost impersonal, attacked him as he entered, hurricane-lantern aloft. For the poet that informed his lightest action dictated that the ray of a lantern and not the glare of a modern electric appliance should illuminate that memory-haunted spot. Gyves fastened up his limbs and dread of some cruel doom struck at his heart as he stooped to enter the place. Here again the powerful influence of Sir Jacques was imperceptible; the dungeon lay under the spell of a stronger and darker personality; and as he curiously examined its structure and form, to learn that it was older than the oldest part of the house above, he knew himself to be in a survival of some forgotten stronghold upon whose ashes a Tudor mansion had been reared. Searing irons glared before his eyes; in a dim, arched corner a brazier glowed dully; ropes creaked. Returning to the library, he found himself again within the aura of his departed uncle. It was in this book-lined apartment that Sir Jacques had transacted the affairs of the ugly little church at Mid Hatton and the volumes burdening the leather-edged shelves were of a character meet for the eye of an elder. The smaller erotic collection in the locked bureau in the study presumably had companioned Sir Jacques' more leisured hours. Paul sank into a deep, padded arm-chair. The library of Hatton Towers was in the south-east wing, and now because of the night's stillness dim booming of distant guns was audible. A mood of reflection claimed him, and from it he sank into sleep, to dream of the portrait of Sir Jacques which seemed to have become transparent, so that the camel-like head now appeared, as in those monstrous postcard caricatures which at one time flooded the Paris shops, to be composed of writhing nudities cunningly intertwined, of wanton arms, and floating locks and leering woman-faces. VI Through the sun-gay gardens, wet with dew, Paul made his way on the following morning. The songs of the birds delighted him and the homely voices of cattle in the meadows were musical because the skies were blue. A beetle crawled laboriously across the gravel path before him, and he stepped aside to avoid crushing it; a ladybird discovered on the brim of his hat had to be safely deposited on a rose bush, nor in performing this act of charity did he disturb the web of a small spider who resided hard by. Because the flame of life burnt high within him, he loved all life to-day. The world grew blind in its old age, reverencing a man-hewn symbol, a fragment of wood, a sacerdotal ring, when the emblem of creation, of being, the very glory of God made manifest, hung resplendent in the heavens! Men scoffed at miracles, and the greatest miracle of all rose daily before their eyes; questioned the source of life, and every blade of grass pointed upward to it, every flower raised its face adoring it; doubted eternity whilst the eternal flames that ever were, are and ever shall be, burned above their heads! Those nameless priests of a vanished creed who made Stonehenge, drew nearer perhaps to the Divine mystery than modern dogma recognised. So ran his thoughts, for on a sunny morning, although perhaps sub-consciously, every man becomes a fire-worshipper. Then came the dim booming--and a new train of reflection. Beneath the joyous heavens men moiled and sweated at the task of slaying. Doubting souls, great companies of them, even now were being loosed upon their mystic journey. Man slew man, beast slew beast, and insect devoured insect. The tiny red beetle that he had placed upon the rose bush existed only by the death of the aphides which were its prey; the spider, too, preyed. But man was the master slayer. It was jungle law--the law of the wilderness miscalled life; which really was not life but a striving after life. Realising, anew, how wildly astray from simple truth the world had wandered, how ridiculous were the bickerings which passed for religious thought, how puerile, inadequate, the dogmas that men named creeds, he trembled spiritually before the magnitude
granite and quartz, its dizzy precipices of gneiss, and its huge masses of hornblende; we find the secondary rock in another, with its beds of sandstone and shale, its spars, its clays, and its nodular limestones. We discover the still little known but highly interesting fossils of the Old Red Sandstone in one deposition; we find the beautifully preserved shells and lignites of the Lias in another. There are the remains of two several creations at once before us. The shore, too, is heaped with rolled fragments of almost every variety of rock,--basalts, ironstones, hypersthenes, porphyries, bituminous shales, and micaceous schists. In short, the young geologist, had he all Europe before him, could hardly choose for himself a better field. I had, however, no one to tell me so at the time, for geology had not yet travelled so far north; and so, without guide or vocabulary, I had to grope my way as I best might, and find out all its wonders for myself. But so slow T was the process, and so much was I a seeker in the dark, that the facts contained in these few sentences were the patient gatherings of years. In the course of the first day's employment, I picked up a nodular mass of blue limestone, and laid it open by a stroke of the hammer. Wonderful to relate, it contained inside a beautifully finished piece of sculpture--one of the volutes apparently of an Ionic capital; and not the far-famed walnut of the fairy tale, had I broken the shell and found the little dog lying within, could have surprised me more. Was there another such curiosity in the whole world? I broke open a few other nodules of similar appearance,--for they lay pretty thickly on the shore,--and found that there might. In one of these there were what seemed to be the scales of fishes, and the impressions of a few minute bivalves, prettily striated; in the centre of another there was actually a piece of decayed wood. Of all Nature's riddles these seemed to me to be at once the most interesting, and the most difficult to expound. I treasured them carefully up, and was told by one of the workmen to whom I showed them, that there was a part of the shore about two miles farther to the west, where curiously shaped stones, somewhat like the heads of boarding-pikes, were occasionally picked up; and that in his father's days the country people called them thunderbolts, and deemed them of sovereign efficacy in curing bewitched cattle. Our employer, on quitting the quarry for the building on which we were to be engaged, gave all the workmen a half-holiday. I employed it in visiting the place where the thunderbolts had fallen so thickly, and found it a richer scene of wonder than I could have fancied in even my dreams. What first attracted my notice was a detached group of low lying skerries, wholly different in form and color from the sandstone cliffs above, or the primary rocks a little farther to the west. I found them composed of thin strata of limestone, alternating with thicker beds of a black slaty substance, which, as I ascertained in the course of the evening, burns with a powerful flame, and emits a strong bituminous odor. The layers into which the beds readily separate are hardly an eighth part of an inch in thickness, and yet on every layer there are the impressions of thousands and tens of thousands of the various fossils peculiar to the Lias. We may turn over these wonderful leaves one after one, like the leaves of a herbarium, and find the pictorial records of a former creation in every page. Scallops, and gryphites, and ammonites, of almost every variety peculiar to the formation, and at least some eight or ten varieties of belemnite; twigs of wood, leaves of plants, cones of an extinct species of pine, bits of charcoal, and the scales of fishes; and, as if to render their pictorial appearance more striking, though the leaves of this interesting volume are of a deep black, most of the impressions are of a chalky whiteness. I was lost in admiration and astonishment, and found my very imagination paralyzed by an assemblage of wonders, that seemed to outrival, in the fantastic and the extravagant, even its wildest conceptions. I passed on from ledge to ledge, like the traveller of the tale through the city of statues, and at length found one of the supposed aerolites I had come in quest of, firmly imbedded in a mass of shale. But I had skill enough to determine that it was other than what it had been deemed. A very near relative, who had been a sailor in his time on almost every ocean, and had visited almost every quarter of the globe, had brought home one of these meteoric stones with him from the coast of Java. It was of a cylindrical shape and vitreous texture, and it seemed to have parted in the middle when in a half-molten state, and to have united again, somewhat awry, ere it had cooled enough to have lost the adhesive quality. But there was nothing organic in its structure, whereas the stone I had now found was organized very curiously indeed. It was of a conical form and filamentary texture, the filaments radiating in straight lines from the centre to the circumference. Finely-marked veins like white threads ran transversely through these in its upper half to the point, while the space below was occupied by an internal cone, formed of plates that lay parallel to the base, and which, like watch-glasses, were concave on the under side, and convex on the upper. I learned in time to call this stone a belemnite, and became acquainted with enough of its history to know that it once formed part of a variety of cuttle-fish, long since extinct. My first year of labor came to a close, and I found that the amount of my happiness had not been less than in the last of my boyhood. My knowledge, too, had increased in more than the ratio of former seasons; and as I had acquired the skill of at least the common mechanic, I had fitted myself for independence. The additional experience of twenty years has not shown me that there is any necessary connection between a life of toil and a life of wretchedness; and when I have found good men anticipating a better and a happier time than either the present or the past, the conviction that in every period of the world's history the great bulk of mankind must pass their days in labor, has not in the least inclined me to scepticism. My curiosity, once fully awakened, remained awake, and my opportunities of gratifying it have been tolerably ample. I have been an explorer of caves and ravines--a loiterer along sea-shores--a climber among rocks--a laborer in quarries. My profession was a wandering one. I remember passing direct, on one occasion, from the wild western coast of Ross-shire, where the Old Red Sandstone leans at a high angle against the prevailing Quartz Rock of the district, to where, on the southern skirts of Mid-Lothian, the Mountain Limestone rises amid the coal. I have resided one season on a raised beach of the Moray Frith. I have spent the season immediately following amid the ancient granites and contorted schists of the central Highlands. In the north I have laid open by thousands the shells and lignites of the Oolite; in the south I have disinterred from their matrices of stone or of shale the huge reeds and tree ferns of the Carboniferous period. I have been taught by experience, too, how necessary an acquaintance with geology of both extremes of the kingdom is to the right understanding of the formations of either. In the north, there occurs a vast gap in the scale. The Lias leans unconformably against the Old Red Sandstone; there is no Mountain Limestone, no Coal Measures, none of the New Red Marls or Sandstones, Under or Upper. There are at least three entire systems omitted. But the upper portion of the scale is well nigh complete. In one locality we may pass from the Lower to the Upper Lias, in another from the Inferior to the Great Oolite, and onward to the Oxford Clay and the Coral Rag. We may explore, in a third locality, beds identical in their organisms with the Wealden of Sussex. In a fourth we find the flints and fossils of the Chalk. The lower part of the scale is also well nigh complete. The Old Red Sandstone is amply developed in Moray, Caithness, and Ross; and the Grauwacke, in its more ancient unfossiliferous type, rather extensively in Banffshire. But to acquaint one's self with the three missing formations,--to complete one's knowledge of the entire scale by filling up the hiatus,--it is necessary to remove to the south. The geology of the Lothians is the geology of at least two thirds of the gap, and perhaps a little more;--the geology of Arran wants, it is supposed, only the Upper New lied Sandstone to fill it entirely. One important truth I would fain press on the attention of my lowlier readers. There are few professions, however humble, that do not present their peculiar advantages of observation; there are none, I repeat, in which the exercise of the faculties does not lead to enjoyment. I advise the stone-mason, for instance, to acquaint himself with Geology. Much of his time must be spent amid the rocks and quarries of widely separated localities. The bridge or harbor is no sooner completed in one district, than he has to remove to where the gentleman's seat, or farm-steading is to be erected in another; and so, in the course of a few years, he may pass over the whole geological scale, even when restricted to Scotland, from the Grauwacke of the Lammermuirs, to the Wealden of Moray, or the Chalk-flints of Banffshire and Aberdeen; and this, too, with opportunities of observation, at every stage, which can be shared with him by only the gentleman of fortune, who devotes his whole time to the study. Nay, in some respects, his advantages are superior to those of the amateur himself. The latter must often pronounce a formation unfossiliferous when, after the examination of at most a few days, he discovers in it nothing organic; and it will be found that half the mistakes of geologists have arisen from conclusions thus hastily formed. But the working-man, whose employments have to be carried on in the same formation for months, perhaps years, together, enjoys better opportunities for arriving at just decisions. There are, besides, a thousand varieties of accident which lead to discovery--floods, storms, landslips, tides of unusual height, ebbs of extraordinary fall: and the man who plies his labor at all seasons in the open air has by much the best, chance of profiting by these. There are formations which yield their organisms slowly to the discoverer, and the proofs which establish their place in the geological scale more tardily still. I was acquainted with the Old Red Sandstone of Ross and Cromarty for nearly ten years ere I had ascertained that it is richly fossiliferous--a discovery which, in exploring this formation in those localities, some of our first geologists had failed to anticipate. I was acquainted with it for nearly ten years more ere I could assign to its fossils their exact place in the scale. In the following chapters I shall confine my observations chiefly to this system and its organisms. To none of the others, perhaps, excepting the Lias of the north of Scotland, have I devoted an equal degree of attention; nor is there a formation among them which, up to the present time, has remained so much a _terra incognita_ to the geologist. The space on both sides has been carefully explored to its upper and lower boundary; the space between has been suffered to remain well nigh a chasm. Should my facts regarding it--facts constituting the slow gatherings of years--serve as stepping-stones laid across, until such time as geologists of greater skill, and more extended research, shall have bridged over the gap, I shall have completed half my design. Should the working-man be encouraged by my modicum of success to improve his opportunities of observation, I shall have accomplished the whole of it. It cannot be too extensively known, that nature is vast and knowledge limited; and that no individual, however humble in place or acquirement, need despair of adding to the general fund. CHAPTER II. The Old Red Sandstone.--Till very lately its Existence as a distinct Formation disputed.--Still little known.--Its great Importance in the Geological Scale.--Illustration.--The North of Scotland girdled by an immense Belt of Old Red Sandstone.--Line of the Girdle along the Coast.--Marks of vast Denudation.--Its Extent partially indicated by Hills on the Western Coast of Ross-shire.--The System of Great Depth in the North of Scotland.--Difficulties in the way of estimating the Thickness of Deposits.--Peculiar Formation of Hill.--Illustrated by Ben Nevis.--Caution to the Geological Critic.--Lower Old Red Sandstone immensely developed in Caithness.--Sketch of the Geology of that County.--Its strange Group of Fossils.--Their present place of Sepulture.--Their ancient Habitat.--Agassiz.--Amazing Progress of Fossil Ichthyology during the last few Years.--Its Nomenclature.--Learned Names repel unlearned Readers.--Not a great deal in them. "The Old Red Sandstone," says a Scottish geologist, in a digest of some recent geological discoveries, which appeared a short time ago in an Edinburgh newspaper, "has been hitherto considered as remarkably barren of fossils." The remark is expressive of a pretty general opinion among geologists of even the present time, and I quote it on this account. Only a few years have gone by since men of no low standing in the science disputed the very existence of this formation--system rather, for it contains at least three distinct formations; and but for the influence of one accomplished geologist, the celebrated author of the _Silurian System_, it would have been probably degraded from its place in the scale altogether. "You must inevitably give up the Old Red Sandstone," said an ingenious foreigner to Mr. Murchison, when on a visit to England about four years ago, and whose celebrity among his own countrymen rested chiefly on his researches in the more ancient formations,--"you must inevitably give up the Old Red Sandstone: it is a mere local deposit, a doubtful accumulation huddled up in a corner, and has no type or representative abroad." "I would willingly give it up if nature would," was the reply; "but it assuredly exists, and I cannot." In a recently published tabular exhibition of the geological scale by a continental geologist, I could not distinguish this system at all. There are some of our British geologists, too, who still regard it as a sort of debatable tract, entitled to no independent status. They find, in what they deem its upper beds, the fossils of the Coal Measures, and the lower graduating apparently into the Silurian System; and regard the whole as a sort of common, which should be divided as proprietors used to divide commons in Scotland half a century ago, by giving a portion to each of the bordering territories. Even the better informed geologists, who assign to it its proper place as an independent formation, furnished with its own organisms, contrive to say all they know regarding it in a very few paragraphs. Lyell, in the first edition of his admirable elementary work, published only two years ago, devotes more than thirty pages to his description of the Coal Measures, and but two and a half to his notice of the Old Red Sandstone.[C] [Footnote C: As the succinct notice of this distinguished geologist may serve as a sort of pocket map to the reader in indicating the position of the system, its three great deposits, and its extent, I take the liberty of transferring it entire. "OLD RED SANDSTONE. "It was stated that the Carboniferous formation was surmounted by one called the 'New lied Sandstone,' and underlaid by another called the Old Red, which last was formerly merged in the Carboniferous System, but is now found to be distinguishable by its fossils. The Old Red Sandstone is of enormous thickness in Herefordshire, Worcestershire, Shropshire, and South Wales, where it is seen to crop out beneath the Coal Measures, and to repose on the Silurian Rocks. In that region, its thickness has been estimated by Mr. Murchison at no less than ten thousand feet. It consists there of-- "1st. A quartzose conglomerate, passing downwards into chocolate-red and green sandstone and marl. "2d. Cornstone and marl, (red and green argillaceous spotted marls, with irregular courses of impure concretionary limestone, provincially called Cornstone, mottled red and green; remains of fishes.) "3d. Tilestone, (finely laminated hard reddish or green micaceous or quartzose sandstones, which split into tiles; remains of mollusca and fishes.) "I have already observed that fossils are rare in marls and sandstones in which the red oxide of iron prevails. In the Cornstone, however, of the counties above mentioned, fishes of the genera Cephalaspis and Onchus have been discovered. In the Tilestone, also, Ichthyodorulites of the genus Onchus have been obtained, and a species of Dipterus, with mollusca of the genera Avicula, Area, Cucullæa, Terebratula, Lingula, Turbo, Trochus, Turritella, Bellerophon, Orthoceras, and others. "By consulting geological maps, the reader will perceive that, from Wales to the north of Scotland, the Old Red Sandstone appears in patches, and often in large tracts. Many fishes have been found in it at Caithness, and various organic remains in the northern part of Fifeshire, where it crops out from beneath the Coal formation, and spreads into the adjoining northern half of Forfarshire; forming, together with trap, the Sidlaw Hills and valley of Strathmore. A large belt of this formation skirts the northern borders of the Grampians, from the sea-coast at Stonehaven and the Frith of Tay to the opposite western coast of the Frith of Clyde. In Forfarshire, where, as in Herefordshire, it is many thousand feet thick, it may be divided into three principal masses--1st. Red and mottled marls, cornstone, and sandstone; 2d. Conglomerate, often of vast thickness; 3d. Tilestones, and paving-stone, highly micaceous, and containing a slight admixture of carbonate of lime. In the uppermost of these divisions, but chiefly in the lowest, the remains of fish have been found, of the genus named by M. Agassiz Cephalaspis, or buckler-headed, from the extraordinary shield which covers the head, and which, has often been mistaken for that of a trilobite of the division Asaphus. A gigantic species of fish, of the genus Holoptychius, has also been found by Dr. Fleming in the Old Red Sandstone of Fifeshire."--Lyell's _Elements_, pp. 452-4.] It will be found, however, that this hitherto neglected system yields in importance to none of the others, whether we take into account its amazing depth, the great extent to which it is developed both at home and abroad, the interesting links which it furnishes in the zoölogical scale, or the vast period of time which it represents. There are localities in which the depth of the Old Red Sandstone fully equals the elevation of Mount Ætna over the level of the sea, and in which it contains three distinct groups of organic remains, the one rising in beautiful progression over the other. Let the reader imagine a digest of English history, complete from the times of the invasion of Julius Cæsar to the reign of that Harold who was slain at Hastings, and from the times of Edward III. down to the present day, but bearing no record of the Williams, the Henrys, the Edwards, the John, Stephen, and Richard, that reigned during the omitted period, or of the striking and important events by which their several reigns were distinguished. A chronicle thus mutilated and incomplete would be no unapt representation of a geological history of the earth in which the period of the Upper Silurian would be connected with that of the Mountain Limestone, or of the limestone of Burdie House, and the period of the Old Red Sandstone omitted. The eastern and western coasts of Scotland, which lie to the north of the Friths of Forth and Clyde, together with the southern flank of the Grampians and the northern coast of Sutherland and Caithness, appear to have been girdled at some early period by immense continuous beds of Old Red Sandstone. At a still earlier time, the girdle seems to have formed an entire mantle, which covered the enclosed tract from side to side. The interior is composed of what, after the elder geologists, I shall term primary rocks--porphyries, granites, gneisses, and micaceous schists; and this central nucleus, as it now exists, seems set in a sandstone frame. The southern bar of the frame is still entire: it stretches along the Grampians from Stonehaven to the Frith of Clyde. The northern bar is also well nigh entire: it runs unbroken along the whole northern coast of Caithness, and studs, in three several localities, the northern coast of Sutherland, leaving breaches of no very considerable extent between. On the east, there are considerable gaps, as along the shores of Aberdeenshire.[D] The sandstone, however, appears at Gamrie, in the county of Banff, in a line parallel to the coast, and, after another interruption, follows the coast of the Moray Frith far into the interior of the great Caledonian valley, and then running northward along the shores of Cromarty, Ross, and Sutherland, joins, after another brief interruption, the northern bar at Caithness. [Footnote D: The progress of discovery has shown, since this passage was written, that these gaps are not quite so considerable as I had supposed. The following paragraph, which appeared in July, 1843, in an Aberdeen paper, bears directly on the point, and is worthy of being preserved:-- "ARTESIAN WELL. "The greatest of these interesting works yet existing in Aberdeen has just been successfully completed at the tape-works of Messrs. Milne, Low, and Co., Woolmanhill. The bore is 8 inches in diameter, and 250 feet 9 inches deep. It required nearly eleven months' working to complete the excavation. "In its progress, the following strata were cut through in succession:-- 6 feet vegetable mould. 18 " gray or bluish clay. 20 " sand and shingle, enclosing rolled stones of various sizes. 6 " light blue clay. 3 " rough sand and shingle. 115 " Old Red Sandstone conglomerate, composed of red clay, quartz, mica, and rolled stones. 74 " alternating strata of compact, fine-grained Red Sandstone, varying in thickness from 1 to 7 feet, and clay, varying from 6 inches to 12 feet thick. 8 " 9 inches, mica-slate formation, the first two feet of which were chiefly a hard, brown quartzose substance, containing iron, manganese, and carbonate of lime. ----------- 250 feet, 9 inches. "The temperature of the water at the bottom of the well, when completed, was found to be within a fraction of 50° Fahrenheit, and the average temperature of the locality, deduced from twenty-three years' observation, by the late George limes, F. R. S., is 47° 1: hence, nearly 3 degrees of increase appear as the effects of central heat. The supply of water obtained is excellent in quality, and sufficient in quantity for all the purposes of the works. Such an opportunity of investigating the geology of the locality can but rarely occur; and, in the present instance, the proprietor and managers afforded every facility to scientific inquirers for conducting examinations. To make the bearings of the case clear and simple, the following is quoted from Mr. Miller's work on the Old Red Sandstone. [The writer here quotes the above passage, and then proceeds.] Mr. Miller will be glad to learn, that though the convulsions of nature have shattered the 'frame' along the shores of Aberdeenshire, yet the fragments are not lost, as will be seen from the section above described; they are here reposing _in situ_ under the accumulated debris of uncounted ages--chiefly the 'boulder clay,' and sedimentary deposits of the Dee and Don, during a period when they mingled their waters in the basin in which Aberdeen now stands. The primary rocks--the settings--our granites, of matchless beauty stand out in bold relief a mile or two westward from the sea-coast. Within this year or two, the 'Old Red' has been discovered at Devanha, Union Grove, Huntly Street, Glenburnie, Balgownie, and various other localities to the northward. Hence it may reasonably be inferred, that our fragment of the 'frame' envelops the primary rocks under our city, and along the coast for a considerable distance between the Dee and the Buchaness."--_Aberdeen Constitutional_.] The western bar has also its breaches towards the south; but it stretches, almost without interruption, for about a hundred miles, from the near neighborhood of Cape Wrath to the southern extremity of Applecross; and though greatly disturbed and overflown by the traps of the inner Hebrides, it can be traced by occasional patches on towards the southern bar. It appears on the northern shore of Loch Alsh, on the eastern shore of Loch Eichart, on the southern shore of Loch Eil, on the coast and islands near Oban, and on the east coast of Arran. Detached hills and island-like patches of the same formation occur in several parts of the interior, far within the frame or girdle. It caps some of the higher summits in Sutherlandshire; it forms an oasis of sandstone among the primary districts of Strathspey; it rises on the northern shores of Loch Ness in an immense mass of conglomerate, based on a small-grained, red granite, to a height of about three thousand feet over the level; and on the north-western coast of Ross-shire it forms three immense insulated hills, of at least no lower altitude, that rest unconformably on a base of gneiss. There appear every where in connection with these patches and eminences, and with the surrounding girdle, marks of vast denudation. I have often stood fronting the three Ross-shire hills[E] at sunset in the finer summer evenings, when the clear light threw the shadows of their gigantic, cone-like forms far over the lower tract, and lighted up the lines of their horizontal strata, till they showed like courses of masonry in a pyramid. They seem at such times as if colored by the geologist, to distinguish them from the surrounding tract, and from the base on which they rest as on a common pedestal. The prevailing gneiss of the district reflects a cold, bluish hue, here and there speckled with white, where the weathered and lichened crags of intermingled quartz rock jut out on the hill-sides from among the heath. The three huge pyramids, on the contrary, from the deep red of the stone, seem flaming in purple. There spreads all around a wild and desolate landscape of broken and shattered hills, separated by deep and gloomy ravines, that seem the rents and fissures of a planet in ruins, and that speak distinctly of a period of convulsion, when upheaving fires from the abyss, and ocean currents above, had contended in sublime antagonism, the one slowly elevating the entire tract, the other grinding it down and sweeping it away. I entertain little doubt that, when this loftier portion of Scotland, including the entire Highlands, first presented its broad back over the waves, the upper surface consisted exclusively, from the one extremity to the other--from Benlomond to the Maidenpaps of Caithness--of a continuous tract of Old Red Sandstone; though, ere the land finally emerged, the ocean currents of ages had swept it away, all except in the lower and last-raised borders, and in the detached localities, where it still remains, as in the pyramidal hills of western Ross-shire, to show the amazing depth to which it had once overlaid the inferior rocks. The Old Red Sandstone of Morvheim, in Caithness, overlooks all the primary hills of the district, from an elevation of three thousand five hundred feet. [Footnote E: Suil Veinn, Coul Beg, and Coul More.] The depth of the system, on both the eastern and western coasts of Scotland, is amazingly great--how great, I shall not venture to say. There are no calculations more doubtful than those of the geologist. The hill just instanced (Morvheim) is apparently composed from top to bottom of what in Scotland forms the lowest member of the system--a coarse conglomerate; and yet I have nowhere observed this inferior member, when I succeeded in finding a section of it directly vertical, more than a hundred yards in thickness--less than one tenth the height of the hill. It would be well nigh as unsafe to infer that the three thousand five hundred feet of altitude formed the real thickness of the conglomerate, as to infer that the thickness of the lead which covers the dome of St. Paul's is equal to the height of the dome. It is always perilous to estimate the depth of a deposit by the height of a hill that seems externally composed of it, unless, indeed, like the pyramidal hills of Ross-shire, it be unequivocally a hill dug out by denudation, as the sculptor digs his eminences out of the mass. In most of our hills, the upheaving agency has been actively at work, and the space within is occupied by an immense nucleus of inferior rock, around which the upper formation is wrapped like a caul, just as the vegetable mould or the diluvium wraps up this superior covering in turn. One of our best known Scottish mountains--the gigantic Ben Nevis--furnishes an admirable illustration of this latter construction of hill. It is composed of three zones or rings of rock, the one rising over and out of the other, like the cases of an opera-glass drawn out. The lower zone is composed of gneiss and mica-slate, the middle zone of granite, the terminating zone of porphyry. The elevating power appears to have acted in the centre, as in the well-known case of Jorullo, in the neighborhood of the city of Mexico, where a level tract four square miles in extent rose, about the middle of the last century, into a high dome of more than double the height of Arthur's Seat.[F] In the formation of our Scottish mountain, the gneiss and mica-slate of the district seem to have been upheaved, during the first period of Plutonic action in the locality, into a rounded hill of moderate altitude, but of huge base. The upheaving power continued to operate--the gneiss and mica-slate gave way a-top--and out of this lower dome there arose a higher dome of granite, which, in an after and terminating period of the internal activity, gave way in turn to yet a third and last dome of porphyry. Now, had the elevating forces ceased to operate just ere the gneiss and mica-slate had given way, we would have known nothing of the interior nucleus of granite--had they ceased just ere the granite had given way, we would have known nothing of the yet deeper nucleus of porphyry; and yet the granite and the porphyry would assuredly have been there. Nor could any application of the measuring rule to the side of the hill have ascertained the thickness of its outer covering--the gneiss and the mica schist. The geologists of the school of Werner used to illustrate what we may term the anatomy of the earth, as seen through the spectacles of their system, by an onion and its coats: they represented the globe as a central nucleus, encircled by concentric coverings, each covering constituting a geological formation. The onion, through the introduction of a better school, has become obsolete as an illustration; but to restore it again, though for another purpose, we have merely to cut it through the middle, and turn downwards the planes formed by the knife. It then represents, with its coats, hills such as we describe--hills such as Ben Nevis, ere the granite had perforated the gneiss, or the porphyry broken through the granite. [Footnote F: It is rarely that the geologist catches a hill in the act of forming, and hence the interest of this well-attested instance. From the period of the discovery of America to the middle of the last century, the plains of Jorullo had undergone no change of surface, and the seat of the present hill was covered by plantations of indigo and sugar-cane, when, in June, 1759, hollow sounds were heard, and a succession of earthquakes continued for sixty days, to the great consternation of the inhabitants. After the cessation of these, and in a period of tranquillity, on the 28th and 29th of September, a horrible subterranean noise was again heard, and a tract four square miles in extent rose up in the shape of a dome or bladder, to the height of sixteen hundred and seventy feet above the original level of the plain. The affrighted Indians fled to the mountains; and from thence looking down on the phenomenon, saw flames issuing from the earth for miles around the newly-elevated hill, and the softened surface rising and falling like that of an agitated sea, and opening into numerous rents and fissures. Two brooks which had watered the plantations precipitated themselves into the burning chasms. The scene of this singular event was visited by Humboldt about the beginning of the present century. At that period, the volcanic agencies had become comparatively quiescent; the hill, however, retained its original altitude; a number of smaller hills had sprung up around it; and the traveller found the waters of the engulfed rivulets escaping at a high temperature from caverns charged with sulphureous vapors and carbonic acid gas. There wore inhabitants of the country living at the time who were more than twenty years older than the hill of Jorullo, and who had witnessed its rise.] If it be thus unsafe, however, to calculate on the depth of deposits by the altitude of hills, it is quite as unsafe for the geologist, who has studied a formation in one district, to set himself to criticise the calculations of a brother geologist by whom it has been studied in a different and widely-separated district. A deposit in one locality may be found to possess many times the thickness of the same deposit in another. There are exposed, beside the Northern and Southern Sutors of Cromarty, two nearly vertical sections of the coarse conglomerate bed, which forms, as I have said, in the north of Scotland, the base of the Old Red System, and which rises to so great an elevation in the mountain of Morv
a person is blindfolded, and endeavours to catch any one of the players, who, if caught, is blindfolded and takes his place. There is another Game something resembling it, called SHADOW BUFF. A piece of white linen is thrown over a line across the room; between this screen and close to the wall on one side, a candle is placed, and on the other side, Buffy is obliged to stand, while the players moving between the candle and linen show their shadows through it, and Buffy has to distinguish each person by his shadow. When he does this, the player so found out becomes Buffy and takes his place. TIP-CAT. For this game a piece of wood must be procured about six inches in length and two inches thick, of the following shape:-- [Illustration] that is, of a double curve. It will be seen by the shape of this, that it will fly up as easily as a ball when it is laid in the trap, for the striker has only to tap one end of it, and up it flies, making many a summerset as it rises; while it is performing this turn-over motion, which philosophers call the rotatory, the striker makes a blow at it and sends it whither he pleases. The proper way to play the game, is as follows:--A large ring is made on the ground, in the middle of which the striker takes his station; he then tips the Cat and endeavours to strike it out of the ring; if he fail in this, he is out, and another player takes his place. If he strike the Cat out of the ring, he judges with his eye the distance the Cat is driven from the centre of the ring, and calls for a number, at pleasure, to be scored towards the game. The place is now measured by the stick with which the Cat is struck, and if the number called be found to exceed the same number of lengths of the cudgel, he is out, but if it does not, he obtains his call. Another method of playing, is to make four, six, or eight holes in the ground in a circular direction, at equal distances from each other, and at every hole is placed a player with his cudgel. One of the party who stands in the field, tosses the Cat to the batsman who is nearest to him, and every time the Cat is struck, the players must change their situations and run over from one hole to another in succession. If the Cat be driven to any great distance, they continue to run in the same order, and claim a score towards their game every time they quit one hole and run to another. But if the Cat be stopped by their opponents, and thrown across between any two of the holes before the player who has quitted one of them can reach the other, he is out. JINGLING. This game is common to the West of England, and is called a "Jingling Match." It is played by a number of players being blindfolded within a ring formed for the game, and one or two others, termed the "Jinglers," not blindfolded, with a bell fastened to their elbow, also enter the ring. The blinded players have to catch the Jingler, who moves about rapidly from place to place. He who catches the Jingler wins the game; but if after a certain time, agreed upon previously by the players, the Jingler is not caught, he is declared the victor. FRENCH AND ENGLISH. French and English is another good game. A rope being provided, two players stand out, and after having cleeped for first choice, select the partners. After an equal number has been selected for each side, one party attaches itself to one end of the rope, and the other party lays hold of the other: a line is then made on the ground, and each party endeavours to pull the other over this line. The party succeeding in this, wins the game. PART III. DANGEROUS GAMES. And now that we have given a description of some good games, it may be as well to warn our readers of some bad or foolish ones, which are either calculated to spoil their clothes, make them very dirty, or are dangerous to their limbs. HEAP THE BUSHEL. This is a very dangerous game, if it can be called a game. Should one boy happen to fall, it is the practice of other boys to fall upon him and to "Heap the Bushel," as it is called, all the other boys leaping on the one already down. It sometimes happens, that those underneath are seriously injured; and the sport is seldom engaged in without quarrelling among the players, and sometimes it leads to a fight. DRAWING THE OVEN. This is another dangerous game. It consists of several players being seated on the ground in a line, clasped by each other round the waist: when all are thus united, two others take the foremost one, and endeavour by pulling and tugging to _break him off_ from the rest. Thus the united strength of several boys before, and as many behind, is made to act upon the one in front, and an arm may be dislocated by a sudden jerk, not to say anything about a broken neck. HOP-SCOTCH. This is a silly game. It is calculated to wear out the shoes. BASTING THE BEAR. This is another silly game. A boy, who is called the "Bear," kneels down on the ground in a ring marked out, to let the other boys beat him with their twisted or knotted handkerchiefs. The master of the Bear, who holds him by the rope, endeavours to touch one of the assailants; if he succeeds in doing this, without pulling the Bear out of his circle, or letting go the rope, the player touched becomes Bear in his turn. But it is calculated to spoil the clothes of the Bear, and sometimes, should he kneel on a sharp stone, may do him much injury. BUCK, BUCK. "Buck, Buck, how many horns do I hold up?" is also a stupid game. It neither requires speed, nor agility, nor wit. The game is played by one boy resting his head against a wall and making a back, upon which the other jumps, who, when seated, holds up as many of his fingers as he pleases, and cries, "Buck, Buck, how many horns do I hold up?" The player who is leaped upon, now _makes a guess_; if he guesses correctly, it is his turn to leap, if not, the leaper leaps again. But there is little good in all this, and it ought not to be encouraged. PART IV. GYMNASTICS. All boys, and girls too, ought to train themselves to habits of agility, and nothing is more calculated to do this than Gymnastics, which may be rendered a source of health and amusement. In all playgrounds, a piece of ground should be laid out; and there should be erected thereon, a couple of posts, about twenty feet apart, and sixteen feet high, which should support a plank, about a foot wide, and six inches thick; on the underside of this might be affixed a hook, from which a triangle might be swung,--this is capable of being used in a variety of ways. Two more hooks, about a foot apart, might be used for two ropes, so that the more advanced pupils could climb to the top by means of grasping a rope in each hand, and without the assistance of the feet. A pole may rise from the ground to the cross piece about midway: the pupils will be able to climb up this without the assistance of the feet. A wood ladder and rope ladder may occasionally be fastened to the beam, but may, when necessary, be taken down. A board about a foot broad may also be set up against the beam, inclining four feet from the perpendicular: the climber will grasp the sides with his hands, and placing his feet almost flat against the board, will proceed to the top: this is an advanced exercise. Another board may be set up which should be three feet broad, at least, and should slant more than the other: the pupil will run up this to the top of the beam easily, and down again. The middle of this, up to the top, should be perforated with holes about four inches apart, in which a peg may be placed: this may be in the first hole to begin with. The pupil will run up and bring this down, and then run up and put it in the second, and so on, till he has arrived at the top: then two or more pegs may be used, and it may be varied in many ways. A pole, twenty-five or thirty feet high should be erected, rather thin towards the top: at distant intervals of this, three or four pegs, as resting places, should be fastened; another pole, thicker, from about sixteen to twenty feet high, should be erected; on the top of which should be placed four projecting hooks turning on a pivot: to these hooks four ropes should be attached, reaching to within two feet from the ground. This is called the "Flying Course," from an individual taking hold of the peg at the end of each rope. One person may cross a rope under the one in possession of another, and by pulling round hard, make the other fly over his head. Care should be taken to make the hooks at the top quite secure, for otherwise many dangerous accidents might ensue. A cross pole might also be set up, but most of the exercises for which this is used, may be performed by the triangle. On the parallel bars, several beneficial exercises may be done, and also on the bridge. This is a pole thick at one end, thin at the other, and supported at three or four feet from the ground by a post at one end and another in the middle, so that the thin end vibrates with the least touch. This, it will be evident, is an exercise for the organ of equilibrium, and exercises the muscles of the calf, of the neck, and anterior part of the neck, and those of the back, very gently. On this bridge a sort of combat may be instituted,--two persons meeting each other, giving and parrying strokes with the open hands. The string for leaping is also another very pleasing exercise. It is supported by a couple of pegs on two posts fastened in the ground. The string may be heightened and lowered at pleasure,--it may be raised as high as the leaper's head when a leaping-pole is used. Besides these arrangements, a trench about a foot and a half deep should be dug, and widening gradually from one foot to seven, for the purpose of exercising the long leap either with or without the aid of the pole. Such are the general arrangements of a gymnasium, but before the youth enters upon regular exercises, he may commence with a few preliminary ones. FIRST COURSE. EXERCISE 1. The pupil should hold out his hand at arm's length, until he can hold it out no longer, and repeat it until he has power in the muscles, to continue it, without fatigue, for a considerable length of time. 2. Stand on one foot till he is tired, and repeat this for a similar period. 3. Hold out both arms parallel with his chin, letting the thumbs and fingers touch each other. 4. Hold the hands behind the back in a similar manner, the arms being stretched as far backward as possible, and hold the hands high. [Illustration] 5. Hold up the right foot by the right hand, extending the leg and arm by degrees. 6. Hold up the left foot in the same manner. 7. Stand with the knees bent, and exercise them towards the ground, until he can kneel on both knees at once without supporting himself as he drops. 8. Raise himself from this position without the aid of his hands, by springing back on his toes. 9. Endeavour to touch both his toes, with the back straight, the legs close together, and the head down. 10. Take a piece of wood, three inches broad, and twenty long, that will not bend, and hold it across the back, the three first fingers touching the wood. [Illustration] 11. Endeavour to sit, but not touch the ground, nor let any part of his body touch his heels, with his arms stretched out in a line with his chin. 12. Stand with his arms and legs extended, so as to form the letter X. SECOND COURSE. Let the pupil:-- 13. Lie down on his back, and raise his body from an horizontal to a vertical position, without any assistance from the hands or elbows. 14. Draw up the legs close to the posterior part of the thighs, and rise without other assistance. [Illustration] 15. Extend himself on his back again, and walk backwards with the palms of his hands and his feet. 16. Sustain the weight of the whole body upon the palms and the toes, the face being towards the ground. [Illustration] 17. Lie on his back, and take hold of each foot in his hands, and throw himself on his face by rolling over. 18. Lie with the face down, and take hold of his toes while in that position. [Illustration] 19. With his chest downwards, drag his body along by walking only with his hands. 20. Place himself on his back, and endeavour to advance by means of the propulsion of the feet. 21. Place his body on his hands and feet, with the breast upwards, and endeavour to bring the lips to the ground. 22. Lean on the breast and palms of the hands, and throw the legs over towards the back of the head. 23. Stretch himself on the back, and extending the hands beyond the head, at the utmost stretch, touch the ground, and, if possible, bring up a piece of money, previously to be placed there. 24. In the same manner, endeavour to seize a ball by the toes at full length. WALKING. These preliminary exercises having been practised, the young pupil will commence a course of more advanced exercises, such as walking, running, leaping, balancing, vaulting, and climbing. Walking is common to all, but few persons have a good walk, and nothing exhibits the person to so much disadvantage as a slovenly bad gait. It is true, that the walk of a person will indicate much of his character. Nervous people walk hurriedly, sometimes quick, sometimes slow, with a tripping and sometimes a running step; phlegmatic people have a heavy, solid, and loitering step; the sanguine man walks rapidly, treads somewhat briskly and firmly; while the melancholic wanders, and seems almost unconscious of touching the ground which he seems to slide over. But the qualities of the mind itself manifest themselves in the gait. The man of high moral principle and virtuous integrity, walks with a very different step to the low sensualist, or the cunning and unprincipled knave; therefore the young pupil will be sure that even the art of walking, which seems to be an exertion purely physical, will not be acquired properly if his mind has taken a vicious and unprincipled bias: it will either indicate his pride or his dastardly humility, his haughty self-sufficiency, or his mean truckling to the opinion of others, his honest independence, or his cringing servility. But he who has been blessed with the full use of his muscular powers, in proportion as he is virtuous, will, with a very little attention, indicate by his bearing, step, and carriage, the nobility of his mind. In walking, the arms should move freely by the side--they act like the fly-wheel of an engine, to equalise the motion of the body, and to balance it. One hand in the breeches pocket, or both, indicates the sot, and has a very bad appearance. The head should be upright, without, however, any particular call being made upon the muscles of the neck to support it in that position, so that it may move freely in all directions. The body should be upright, and the shoulders thrown moderately backwards, displaying a graceful fall. When the foot reaches the ground, it should support the body, not on the toe or heel, but on the ball of the foot. This manner of walking should be practised daily, sometimes in a slow, sometimes in a moderate walk, and sometimes in a quick pace, until each is performed with elegance and ease. RUNNING. In running, as the swiftness of the motion steadies the body in its course, without the aid of the oscillations of the arms, they are naturally drawn up towards the sides, and, bent at the elbows, form a right angle. Their motion is almost suspended in very swift running. In moderate running, a gentle oscillation is observed, increasing in proportion as the body approaches to the walking pace. The knees are now more bent,--the same part of the foot does not touch the ground, the body being carried forward more by the toes. The degree of velocity is acquired in proportion to the length and quickness of the steps. The person should therefore endeavour to ascertain whether long or short steps suit his muscular powers best; generally speaking a moderately short step, quickly repeated, accelerates motion most. In learning to run, the pupil should first endeavour to improve his breath by degrees: he must try his speed first in short distances, to be gradually increased: the distance will vary according to the age and strength of the runner. The first exercises in running should commence at a gentle trot over a distance of a hundred and fifty yards, at the rate of about six feet to a second: this should be varied up to eight feet in a second, for the first three or four days, and the distance increased from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty yards. On following days, the distance may be increased to five hundred yards, and afterwards gradually, until a mile can be performed in ten minutes, which is tolerably good running. Afterwards, six miles may be tried in an hour, which will be easily accomplished. As regards rapid running, from one hundred feet to one hundred yards may be attempted at full speed, and when the constitution is good, the body not too fat, the muscular developments fine, and the lungs sound, a quarter of a mile a minute may be accomplished, and a mile in five minutes, which is seldom done even in very good running. Ten miles an hour, which is the average speed of the mail, may, however, be easily performed with judicious and proper training. LEAPING. In leaping, that with the run, is the most common and the most useful. The object of the run is to impart to the nerves of the body a certain quantity of motion which may carry it onwards after the propelling power has ceased to act when the body leaves the ground. The run need not exceed twelve or fifteen paces: in this the steps are small and rapid. When the body leaves the ground, the legs are drawn up, one foot generally a little more than the other; and a great thing to be avoided, is coming to the ground on the heels. When springing, the height of the leap must be calculated, the breath held, the body pressed forward, and the fall should be upon the toes and the ball of the foot, although in an extended leap this is impossible. Leaping must, like running, be practised gradually; in the high leap, a person may easily accomplish the height of his own body, and should practise with the bar, which may be made of two upright posts bored, through which ropes should be placed according to the height required for the leap: on these should be hung a string with weights attached to each end to keep it straight. Should the leaper touch it with his feet as he takes his leap, it will be thrown off the pegs, thus showing that he did not make a clean leap. The deep leap may be acquired from the top of a bank into a hollow, and is useful in leaping from the top of a house or wall in a moment of danger. It may be practised from a flight of steps, ascending a step at a time to increase the height, till the limbs can bear the shocks, to break which, the body must be kept in a bent position, so that its gravity has to pass through many angles. The leaper should always take advantage of any rivulet that has one bank higher than the other, to practise himself. In the long leap, a person ought to be able to clear with a run, three times the length of his body. [Illustration] The high leap, the deep leap, and the long leap, may be all practised with the pole. For the high leap, the pole should be taken with the right hand, about the height of the head, and with the left hand, about the height of the hips; when put to the ground, the leaper should spring with the right foot, and pass by the left of the pole, and swing round as he alights, so as to face the place he leaped from. In the deep leap, the pole being placed the depth you have to leap, the body should be lowered forward, and then, the feet being cast off, swing round the pole in the descent. The long leap, with the pole, is performed much in the same manner. [Illustration] CLIMBING. [Illustration] In climbing the rope, the hands are to be moved one above the other alternately; the feet should be crossed, and the rope held firmly by their pressure: sometimes the rope may be made to pass along the right thigh just above the knee, and wind round the thigh under the knee. In climbing the upright pole, the feet, legs, knees, and hands touch the pole. Taking a high grasp of the pole, the climber raises himself by bending his body, drawing up and holding fast by the legs, and so on alternately. THE ROPE LADDER. The climber must keep the body stretched out, and upright, so as to prevent the steps, which are loose, from being bent forward. The oblique rope must be climbed with the back turned towards the ground, the legs crossed and thrown over, so that the rope passes under the calf, and thus he must work himself up by raising his hands one above the other alternately. The exercises on the ladder are:--1. To ascend and descend rapidly. 2. To ascend and descend with one hand. 3. Without using the hand. 4. Passing another person on the ladder, or swinging to the back to let another pass. THE SLANT BOARD. [Illustration] This should be seized with both hands, the feet being placed in the middle. The board should be considerably aslant when first attempted, and gradually brought towards the perpendicular. VAULTING. This exercise may be practised on that part of the balancing bar between the posts. It may be performed with or without running: it should, however, be commenced with a short run. The height should be, to commence, about the pit of the stomach, which should be increased to the height of the individual. BALANCING. There are two kinds of balancing to which we shall allude; namely, the balancing of other bodies, and the balancing of our own. All feats of balancing depend upon the centre of gravity being uniformly preserved in one position. The centre of gravity is that point, about which all the other parts exactly balance each other. If a body be freely suspended upon this point, it will rest with security, and as long as this point is supported, it will never fall, while in every other position it will endeavour to descend to the lowest place at which it can arrive. If a perpendicular line were drawn from the centre of gravity of a body to the centre of the earth, such a line would be termed the line of direction, along which every body supported endeavours to fall. If this line fall within the base of a body, such a body will be sure to stand. [Illustration] When the line of direction is thrown beyond its centre, unless the base be enlarged to counterbalance it, the person or body will fall. A person in stooping to look over a deep hole, will bend his trunk forward; the line of direction being altered, he must extend his base to compensate for it, which he does by putting his foot a step forward. A porter stoops forward to prevent his burthen from throwing the line of direction out of the base behind, and a girl does the same thing in carrying a pail of water, by stretching out her opposite arm, for the weight of the pail throws the centre of gravity on one side, and the stretching out of the opposite arm brings it back again, and thus the two are balanced. The art of balancing, therefore, simply consists in dexterously altering the centre of gravity upon every new position of the body, so as constantly to preserve the line of direction within the base. Rope-dancers effect this by means of a long pole, held across the rope; and when the balancing-rail is mounted, it will be found necessary to hold out both the arms for the same purpose; nay, even when we slip or stumble with one foot, we in a moment extend the opposite arm, making the same use of it as the dancer does of his pole. [Illustration] A balancer finds that a body to be balanced, is the best for his purpose if it have a loaded head, and a slender or pointed base, for although the higher the weight is placed above the point of support, the more readily will the line of direction be thrown beyond the base, yet he can more easily restore it by the motion of his hand,--narrowly watching with his eyes its deviations. Now the same watchfulness must be displayed by the gymnastic balancer: he first uses the balancing pole,--he then mounts the balancing bar without it. On mounting the bar, the body should be held erect, and the hands must be extended. He must then learn to walk firmly and steadily along the bar, so as to be able to turn round, and then he should practise going backwards. Two balancers should then endeavour to pass each other on the bar; afterwards, to carry each other, and bodies of various weights, in various positions. Walking on stilts is connected with balancing. A person can walk with greater security upon high than on low stilts. In some parts of France, the peasantry, in looking after their sheep, walk generally on stilts, and it only requires practise to make this as easy as common walking. Some few years ago, several of these stilt-walkers were to be seen in London, and they could run, jump, stoop, and walk with ease and security, their legs seeming quite as natural to them as those of the Stork. PART V. CRICKET. [Illustration] Cricket is the king of games. Every boy in England should learn it. The young prince of Wales is learning it, and will some day be the prince of cricket-players, as I trust he will some day, a long while hence, however, let us hope, be king of merry England. I shall, therefore, be very particular concerning this noble game. It is played by a bat and ball, and consists of double and single wicket. The wicket was formerly two straight thin batons, called stumps, twenty-two inches high, which were fixed in the ground perpendicularly, six inches apart, and over the top of both was laid a small round piece of wood, called the bail, but so placed as to fall off readily if the stumps were touched by the ball. Of late years the wicket consists of three stumps and two bails; the middle stump is added to prevent the ball from passing through the wicket without beating it down; the external stumps are now seven inches apart, and all of them three feet two inches high. Single wicket requires five players on each side, and double wicket eleven; but the number in both instances may be varied at the pleasure of the two parties. At single wicket the striker with his bat is the protector of the wicket; the opponent party stands in the field to catch or stop the ball; and the bowler, who is one of them, takes his place by the side of a small baton or stump, set up for that purpose, twenty-two yards from the wicket, and thence delivers the ball with the intention of beating it down. It is now usual to set up two stumps with a bail across, which the batsman, when he runs, must beat off before he returns home. If the bowler prove successful, the batsman retires from the play and another of his party succeeds; if, on the contrary, the ball is struck by the bat, and driven into the field beyond the reach of those who stand out to stop it, the striker runs to the stump at the bowler's station, which he touches with his bat, and then returns to his wicket. If this be performed before the ball is thrown back, it is called a run, and a notch or score is made upon the tally towards the game; if, on the contrary, the ball be thrown up and the wicket beaten down by the opponent party before the striker is home or can ground his bat within three feet ten inches of the wicket (at which distance a mark is made in the ground, called the _popping crease_), he is declared to be out, and the run is not reckoned. He is also out if he strike the ball into the air and it is caught by any of his antagonists before it reaches the ground, and retained long enough to be thrown up again. When double wicket is played, two batsmen go in at the same time,--one at each wicket: there are also two bowlers, who usually bowl four balls in succession alternately. The batsmen are said to be in as long as they remain at their wickets, and their party is called the _in-party_; on the contrary, those who stand in the field with the bowlers, are called the _out-party_. Both parties have two innings, and the side that obtains the most runs in the double contest, claims the victory. These are the general outlines of this noble pastime, but there are many particular rules and regulations by which it is governed, and these rules are subject to frequent variations. SINGLE WICKET. Single wicket may be played with any number of players, and is better than double wicket for any number of players under seven. At double wicket, a small number of players would get so fatigued with running after the ball, that when it came to the last player's turn, he would find himself too tired, without resting a while. The first innings in single wicket must be determined by chance. The bowler should pitch the wickets, and the striker measure the distance for the bowling-stump. Measure a distance of the length of the bat, and then one of the striker's feet, from the middle stump in a direction towards the bowling stump: there make a mark, which is the same as the popping-crease, and this will show when you are on the ground; place your bat upright on the mark at the place where the measure came to, and ask the bowler whether your bat is before the middle of your wicket; here make a mark on the ground, which is generally called the blocking-hole. The bowler now begins to bowl, and the striker should endeavour to hit any ball which comes within his compass, or if the ball given be not favourable for that purpose, he may block it; but in blocking he must be careful never to let the tip of the bat come before the handle, as the ball in such a case will probably rise in the air towards the bowler, and he will be caught out. In running, the striker must touch the bowling-stump with his bat or person, or it is no run, and he may be put out if he do no put his bat or some part of his person on his ground before the ball touches his wicket. With three players, the bowler and striker will be the same as when two are at play; the second player will be fieldsman, who, when the ball be hit nearer to him than to the bowler, will pick it up, or catch it if he can, and return it to the bowler. If the striker should attempt to run, the bowler should immediately run to the wicket, and the fieldsman should throw the ball to him, so that he may catch it, and touch the wicket with it to get the striker out. When the first striker is out, the fieldsman will take his place, the striker will bowl, and the bowler will take the field. When four players are engaged, the fourth should stand behind the wicket; and when five or more play, the additional players should take the field. The rule in such a case is simply, that as soon as a striker is out he becomes bowler, then he becomes wicket-keeper, and then he takes his place in the field on the left of the bowler, and afterwards the other places in regular progression, until it is his turn to have a new innings. LAWS OF THE GAME OF DOUBLE WICKET. "Law, is law," said Evergreen; "laws must be rigidly obeyed, and, therefore, I will read the articles of war for your edification. The first article of war is said to be, 'That it shall be death to stop a cannon-ball with your head.'" Cricketers must be cautious also how they stop cricket-balls with this part of the body: but _Imprimis_, the BALL must be in weight between five ounces and a half and five ounces and three quarters, and must be between nine inches and nine inches and one-eighth in circumference. 2. The BAT must not be more than thirty-eight inches in length, nor exceed four inches and a quarter in its widest part. 3. The STUMPS, which are three to each wicket, must be twenty-seven inches out of the ground, and placed so closely as not to allow the ball to pass through. The bails must be eight inches in length. 4. The BOWLING-CREASE must be in a line with the stumps, and six feet eight inches in length, the stumps in the centre, with a return-crease at each end towards the bowler at right angles. 5. The POPPING CREASE must be three feet ten inches from the wicket, and parallel to it, unlimited in length, but not shorter than the bowling-crease. 6. They must be opposite to each other, twenty-two yards apart. 7. It is not lawful for either party, during a match, without the other party gives consent, to make any alteration in the ground by rolling, watering, covering, mowing, or beating. This rule is not meant to prevent the striker from beating the ground with his bat near to the spot where he stands during the innings, nor to prevent the bowler from filling up holes with sawdust, &c., when the ground is wet. 8. After rain, the wickets may be changed with the consent of both parties. [Illustration] THE BOWLER. 9. The bowler must deliver the ball with one foot behind the bowling-crease, and bowl four bowls before he changes wickets, which he is permitted to do, once only, in the same innings. 10. The ball must be bowled; if it be thrown or jerked, or if the hand be above the shoulder in the delivery, the umpire must call "no ball" (this being reckoned as one of the four balls). 11. In some matches, the bowler may give six balls where the parties are agreed. The bowler may order the striker at the wicket from which he bowls, to stand on which side of it he pleases. 12. Should the bowler toss the ball over the striker's head, or bowl it so wide that it shall be out of distance to be played at, the umpire, although the striker attempt it, shall adjudge one run to the parties receiving the innings, either with or without an appeal from them, which shall be put down to the score of wide balls, and such balls shall not be reckoned as any of the four balls. When the umpire shall have called "wide ball," one run only shall be reckoned, and the ball shall be considered dead. 13. If "no ball" be called by the umpire, the hitter may strike at it, and is allowed all
a whisper to Tom. "That fellow can't curve a ball. I've been watching him. He's got a very fast straight delivery, and that's how he's fooling 'em. I'm going to hit him, and so can the rest of us if we don't let him bluff. Just stand close up to the plate and plug it. Who comes next?" "Percy Parnell." "Oh, wow! Well, unless he's improved a whole lot he won't do much." But Percy had, for the next moment he got the ball just where he wanted it, and slammed it out for a three bagger amid enthusiastic howls. Then the other Silver Star players became aware of the opposing pitcher's weakness and began hitting him, until three runs had come in. Then, in response to the frantic appeals of the "rooters" and their own captain, the Resolutes took a brace and halted the winning streak. But it had begun, and nothing could stop it. Joe, much elated that his diagnosis of his opponent had been borne out, again took his place in the box. He determined to show what he could do in the way of pitching, having done some warming-up work with Tom during the previous inning. He struck out the first man cleanly, and the second likewise. The third hit him for two fouls, and then, seeming to have become familiar with Joe's style, whacked out one that was good for two bases. "We're finding him! We're finding him!" yelled the excited Resolutes. "Only two down, and we've got a good hitter coming." Joe saw that his fellow players were getting a little "rattled," fearing perhaps that he was going to pieces, so, to delay the game a moment, and pull himself together, he walked toward home, and pretended to have a little conference with the catcher. In reality they only mumbled meaningless words, for Tom knew Joe's trick of old. But the little break seemed to have a good effect, for the young pitcher struck out the next man and no runs came in. "Oh, I guess yes!" cried the Silver Star crowd. The home team got two runs the next inning, and with goose eggs in their opponents' frame it began to look more like a one-sided contest. "Boys, we've got to wallop 'em!" exclaimed the visiting captain earnestly, as they once more came to bat. Joe's arm was beginning to feel the unaccustomed strain a trifle, and to limber up the muscles he "wound-up" with more motions and elaborateness than usual as he again took the mound. As he did so he heard from the grandstand a loud laugh--a laugh that fairly bubbled over with sneering, caustic mirth, and a voice remarked, loud enough for our hero to hear: "I wonder where he learned that wild and weird style of pitching? He'll fall all apart if he doesn't look out!" He cast a quick glance in the direction of the voice and saw Ford Weston, who sat beside Mabel Davis, fairly doubled up with mirth. Mabel seemed to be remonstrating with him. "Don't break your arm!" called Ford, laughing harder than before. "Hush!" exclaimed Mabel. Joe felt the dull red of shame and anger mounting to his cheeks. "So that's a Yale man," he thought. "And I'm going to Yale. I wonder if they're all like that there? I--I hope not." And, for the life of him, Joe could not help feeling a sense of anger at the youth who had so sneeringly laughed at him. "And he's a Yale man--and on the nine," mused Joe. CHAPTER V OFF FOR YALE "We've got the game in the refrigerator--on ice." "Take it easy now, Silver Stars." "Let 'em get a few runs if they want to." Thus spoke some of the spectators, and a number of the members of the home team, as the last half of the seventh inning started with the score ten to three in favor of the Silver Stars. It had not been a very tight contest on either side, and errors were numerous. Yet, in spite of the sneering laugh of the Yale man, Joe knew that he had pitched a good game. They had hit him but seldom, and one run was due to a muffed ball by the centre fielder. "Well, I guess you haven't forgotten how to pitch," exulted Tom, as he sat beside his chum on the bench. Behind them, and over their heads, sat the spectators in the grandstand, and when the applause at a sensational catch just made by the left fielder, retiring the third man, had died away the voices of many in comment on the game could be heard. "Oh, I'm not so very proud of myself," remarked Joe. "I can see lots of room for improvement. But I'm all out of practice. I think I could have held 'em down better if we'd had a few more games to back us up." "Sure thing. Well, this is a good way to wind up the season. I heard a little while ago that the Resolutes came over here to make mince-meat of us. They depended a whole lot on their pitcher, but you made him look like thirty cents." "Oh, I don't know. He's got lots of speed, and if he had the benefit of the coaching we got at Excelsior Hall he'd make a dandy." "Maybe. I'm going over here to have a chin with Rodney Burke. I won't be up for a good while." "And I guess I won't get a chance this inning," remarked Joe, as he settled back on the bench. As he did so he was aware of a conversation going on in the stand over his head. "And you say he's going to Yale this term?" asked someone--a youth's deep-chested tones. "I believe so--yes," answered a girl. Joe recognized that Mabel Davis was speaking. "He's a chum of my brother's," she went on. "They're talking of me," thought Joe, and he looked apprehensively at his companions on the bench, but they seemed to be paying no attention to him, for which he was grateful. They were absorbed in the game. "Going to Yale; eh?" went on the youth's voice, and Joe felt sure he was Ford Weston. "Well, we eat his kind up down there!" "Hush! You mustn't talk so of my friends," warned Mabel, and yet she laughed. "Oh, if he's a friend of yours, that's different," came the retort. "You're awful strong with me, Mabel, and I'd do anything you asked." The girl laughed in a pleased sort of way, and Joe, with a wild feeling in his heart, felt a certain scorn for both of them. "Yes, he and my brother are chums," resumed Mabel. "They went to boarding school together, but Joe is going to Yale. He is just crazy about baseball--in fact Tom is, too, but Joe wants to be a great pitcher." "Does he think he's going to pitch at Yale?" "I believe he does!" "Then he's got a whole lot more thinks coming!" laughed the Yale man. "He's about the craziest specimen of a tosser I ever stacked up against. He'll never make the Yale scrub!" "Hush! Haven't I told you not to talk so about my friend?" insisted the girl, but there was still laughter in her tones. "All right Miss Mabel. I'll do anything you say. Wow! That was a pretty hit all right. Go it, old man! A three-bagger!" and in the enthusiasm over the game the Yale man dropped Joe as a topic of conversation. Our hero, with burning cheeks, got up and strolled away. He had heard too much, but he was glad they did not know he had unintentionally been listening. The game ended with the Silver Stars winners, but the score was not as close as seemed likely in the seventh inning. For the Resolutes, most unexpectedly, began hitting Joe, though he managed to pull himself together in the ninth, and retired his opponents hitless. The last half of the ninth was not played, as the home team had a margin of two runs. "Well, we did 'em," remarked Tom, as he and Joe walked off the field. "But they sort of pulled up on us. Did they get on to your curves?" "No," spoke Joe listlessly. "I--er--I got a little tired I guess." "No wonder. You're not in trim. But you stiffened up at the last." "Oh, yes," but Joe knew it was not weariness that accounted for his being hit so often. It was because of an inward rage, a sense of shame, and, be it confessed, a bit of fear. For well he knew how little it would take, in such a college as Yale, to make or mar a man. Should he come, heralded perhaps by the unfriendly tongue of the lad who had watched him pitch that day--heralded as one with a "swelled head"--as one who thought himself a master-pitcher--Joe knew he could never live it down. "I'll never get my chance--the chance for the 'varsity--if he begins to talk," mused Joe, and for a time he was miserable. "Come on over to grub," invited Tom. "Sis and her latest find will be there--that Yale chap. Maybe you'd like to meet him. If you don't we can sneak in late and there'll be some eats left." "No, thanks, I don't believe I will," replied Joe listlessly. "Don't you want to meet that Yale fellow? Maybe he could give you some points." "No, I'd rather not." "All right," assented Tom quickly. Something in his chum's tones made him wonder what was the matter, but he did not ask. "I've got some packing to do," went on Joe, conscious that he was not acting very cordially toward his old schoolmate. "I may see you later." "Sure, any time. I'll be on hand to see you off for Yale, old man." "Yale!" whispered Joe, as he swung off toward his own home, half-conscious of the pointing fingers and whispered comments of a number of street urchins who were designating him as "dat's de pitchin' guy what walloped de Resolutes!" "Yale!" thought Joe. "I'm beginning to hate it!" And then a revulsion of feeling suddenly came over him. "Hang it all!" he exclaimed as he stumbled along. "This is no way for a fellow to feel if he's going to college. I've got to perk up. If I am to go to Yale, I'm going to do my best to be worth it!" But something rankled in his heart, and, try as he might he could not help clenching his teeth and gripping his hands as he thought of Ford Weston. "I--I'd like to fight him!" murmured Joe. "I wonder if they allow fights at Yale?" Several days later you might have heard this in the Matson home. "Well, Joe, have you got everything packed?" "Don't forget to send me a flag." "You've got your ticket all right, haven't you?" "Write as soon as you get there." "And whatever you do, don't go around with wet feet. It's coming on Winter now----" "Mother! Mother!" broke in Mr. Matson, with a laugh at his wife and daughter on either side of Joe, questioning and giving advice by turns. "You're like hens with one chicken. Don't coddle him so. He's been away before, and he's getting big enough to know his way around by this time." Well might he say so, for Joe had grown fast in the past three years, and, though but nineteen, was taller than his father, who was not a small man. "Of course he's been away," agreed Mrs. Matson, "but not as far as New Haven, and going to Yale is some different from Excelsior Hall, I guess." "I _know_ so," murmured Joe, with a wink at his father. "I'm going to the station with you," declared Clara. "Here comes Tom. I guess he's going, too." "Well, I'll say good-bye here," said Mrs. Matson, and her voice trembled a little. "Good-bye, my boy. I know you'll do what's right, and make us all proud of you!" Joe's answer was a kiss, and then, with her handkerchief much in evidence, Mrs. Matson left the room. "Come! Come!" laughed Mr. Matson. "You'll make Joe sorry he's going if you keep on." "The only thing I'm sorry about," replied the lad, "is that it'll be a good while until Spring." "Baseball; eh?" queried his father. "Well, I suppose you'll play if you get the chance. But, Joe, just remember that life isn't all baseball, though that has its place in the scheme of things. You're not going to Yale just to play baseball." "But, if I get a chance, I'm going to play my head off!" exclaimed the lad, and, for the first time in some days there came a fierce light of joy into his eyes. "That's the spirit, son," exclaimed Mr. Matson. "And just remember that, while you want to win, it isn't the only point in the game. Always be a gentleman--play hard; but play clean! That's all the advice I'm going to give you," and with a shake of his hand the inventor followed his wife from the room. "Well, I guess I'm going to be left alone to do the honors," laughed Clara. "Come on now, it's almost train time. Oh, hello, Tom!" she added, as Joe's chum entered. "Did you bring any extra handkerchiefs with you?" "Say I'll pull your hairpins out, Clara, if you don't quit fooling!" threatened her brother. Joe's baggage, save for a small valise, had been sent on ahead, and now, calling a good-bye to his parents, but not going to them, for he realized that it would only make his mother cry more, the young collegian, escorted by his sister and chum, started for the station. Our hero found a few of his friends gathered there, among them Mabel Davis. "And so you're off for Yale," she remarked, and Joe noticed that she too, like his sister, seemed to have "grown up" suddenly in the last year. Mabel was quite a young lady now. "Yes, I'm off," replied Joe, rather coldly. "Oh, I think it's just grand to go to a big college," went on Mabel. "I wish papa would let Tom go." "I wish so myself," chimed in her brother. "I know one Yale man," went on Mabel. "I met him this Summer. He was at the game the other day. I could write to him, and tell him you are coming." "Please don't!" exclaimed Joe so suddenly that Mabel drew back, a little offended. "Wa'al, I want to shake hands with you, an' wish you all success," exclaimed a voice at Joe's elbow. He turned to see Mr. Ebenezer Peterkin, a neighbor. "So you're off for college. I hear they're great places for football and baseball! Ha! Ha! 'Member th' time you throwed a ball through our winder, and splashed Alvirah's apple sass all over her clean stove? 'Member that, Joe?" "Indeed I do, Mr. Peterkin. And how you told Tom and me to hurry off, as your wife was coming after us." "That's right! Ha! Ha! Alvirah was considerable put out that day. She'd just got her stove blacked, an' that sass was some of her best. Th' ball landed plump into it! 'Member?" and again the old man chuckled with mirth. "I remember," laughed Joe. "And how Tom and I blackened the stove, and helped clean up the kitchen for your wife. I was practising pitching that day." "Oh, yes, you _pitched_ all right," chuckled the aged man. "Wa'al, Joe, I wish you all sorts of luck, an' if you do pitch down there at Yale, don't go to splattering no apple sass!" "I won't," promised the lad. There were more congratulations, more wishes for success, more hand shakings and more good-byes, and then the whistle of the approaching train was heard. Somehow Joe could not but remember the day he had driven the man to the station just in time to get his train. He wondered if he would ever see that individual again. "Good-bye, Joe!" "So long, old man!" "Don't forget to write!" "Play ball!" "Good-bye, Joe!" Laughter, cheers, some tears too, but not many, waving hands, and amid all this Joe entered the train. He waved back as long as he could see any of them, and then he settled back in his seat. He was off for Yale--for Yale, with all its traditions, its mysteries, its learning and wiseness, its sports and games, its joys and sorrows--its heart-burnings and its delights, its victories--and defeats! Off for Yale. Joe felt his breath choking him, and into his eyes there came a mist as he gazed out of the window. Off for Yale--and baseball! CHAPTER VI ON THE CAMPUS Joe Matson gazed about him curiously as the train drew into the New Haven station. He wondered what his first taste of Yale life was going to be like, and he could not repress a feeling of nervousness. He had ridden in the end car, and he was not prepared for what happened as the train drew to a slow stop. For from the other coaches there poured a crowd of students--many Freshmen like himself but others evidently Sophomores, and a sprinkling of Juniors and the more lordly Seniors. Instantly the place resounded to a din, as friends met friends, and as old acquaintances were renewed. "Hello, Slab!" "Where have you been keeping yourself, Pork Chops!" "By jinks! There's old Ham Fat!" "Come on, now! Get in line!" This from one tall lad to others, evidently from the same preparatory school. "Show 'em what we can do!" "Hi there, Freshies! Off with those hats!" This from a crowd of Sophomores who saw the newly-arrived first-year lads. "Don't you do it! Keep your lids on!" "Oh, you will!" and there was a scrimmage in which the offending headgear of many was sent spinning. Joe began to breathe deeply and fast. If this was a taste of Yale life he liked it. Somewhat Excelsior Hall it was, but bigger--broader. Gripping his valise, he climbed down the steps, stumbling in his eagerness. On all sides men crowded around him and the others who were alighting. "Keb! Carriage! Hack! Take your baggage!" Seeing others doing the same, Joe surrendered his valise to an insistent man. As he moved out of the press, wondering how he was to get to the house where he had secured a room, he heard someone behind him fairly yell in his ear: "Oh ho! Fresh.! Off with that hat!" He turned to see two tall, well-dressed lads, in somewhat "swagger" clothes, arms linked, walking close behind him. Remembering the fate of the others, Joe doffed his new derby, and smiled. "That's right," complimented the taller of the two Sophomores. "Glad you think so," answered Joe. "Well?" snapped the other Sophomore sharply. "Glad you think so," repeated our hero. "Well?" rasped out the first. Joe looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. He knew there was some catch, and that he had not answered categorically, but for the moment he forgot. "Put the handle on," he was reminded, and then it came to him. "Sir," he added with a smile. "Right, Freshie. Don't forget your manners next time," and the two went swinging along, rolling out the chorus of some class song. The confusion increased. More students poured from the train, overwhelming the expressmen with their demands and commands. The hacks and carriages were being rapidly filled. Orders were being shouted back and forth. Exuberance was on every side. "Oh ho! This way, Merton!" yelled someone, evidently a signal for the lads from that school to assemble. "Over here, Lisle!" "There's Perk!" "Yes, and who's he got with him?" "Oh, some Fresh. Come on, you goat. I'm hungry!" Joe felt himself exulting, after all, that he was to be a part of this throbbing, pulsating life--part of the great college. He hung back, friendless and alone, and it was borne on him with a rush just how friendless and alone he was when he saw so many others greeted by friends and mates. With all his heart Joe wished he had come up from some preparatory school, where he would have had classmates with him. But it was too late now. He made up his mind that he would walk to his rooming house, not because he wanted to save the carriage hire, but he would have to get in a hack all alone, and he was afraid of the gibes and taunts that might be hurled at the lone Freshman. He had engaged the room in advance, and knew it would be in readiness. Later he intended to join one of the many eating clubs for his meals, but for the present he expected to patronize a restaurant, for the rooming house did not provide commons. "I'll walk," decided Joe, and, inquiring the way from a friendly hackman, he started off. As he did so he was aware of a tall lad standing near him, and, at the mention of the street Joe designated, this lad started, and seemed about to speak. For a moment Joe, noticing that he, too, was alone, was tempted to address him. And then, being naturally diffident, and in this case particularly so, he held back. "He may be some stand-offish chap," reasoned Joe, "and won't like it. I'll go a bit slow." He swung away from the station, glad to be out of the turmoil, but for a time it followed him, the streets being filled with students afoot and in vehicles. The calling back and forth went on, until, following the directions he had received, Joe turned down a quieter thoroughfare. "That must be the college over there," he said after he had swung across the city common, and saw looming up in the half mist of the early September night, the piles of brick and stone. "Yale College--and I'm going there!" He paused for a moment to contemplate the structures, and a wave of sentimental feeling surged up into his heart. He saw the outlines of the elms--the great elms of Yale. Joe passed on, and, as he walked, wondering what lay before him, he could not help but think of the chances--the very small chances he had--in all that throng of young men--to make the 'varsity nine. "There are thousands of fellows here," mused Joe, "and all of them may be as good as I. Of course not all of them want to get on the nine--and fewer want to pitch. But--Oh, I wonder if I can make it? I wonder----" It was getting late. He realized that he had better go to his room, and see about supper. Then in the morning would come reporting at college and arranging about his lectures--and the hundred and one things that would follow. "I guess I've got time enough to go over and take a look at the place," he mused. "I can hike it a little faster to my shack after I take a peep," he reasoned. "I just want to see what I'm going to stack up against." He turned and started toward the stately buildings in the midst of the protecting elms. Other students passed him, talking and laughing, gibing one another. All of them in groups--not one alone as was Joe. Occasionally they called to him as they passed: "Off with that hat, Fresh.!" He obeyed without speaking, and all the while the loneliness in his heart was growing, until it seemed to rise up like some hard lump and choke him. "But I won't! I won't!" he told himself desperately. "I won't give in. I'll make friends soon! Oh, if only Tom were here!" He found himself on the college campus. Pausing for a moment to look about him, his heart welling, he heard someone coming from the rear. Instinctively he turned, and in the growing dusk he thought he saw a familiar figure. "Off with that hat, Fresh.!" came the sharp command. Joe was getting a little tired of it, but he realized that the only thing to do was to obey. "All right," he said, listlessly. "All right, what?" was snapped back at him. For a moment Joe did not answer. "Come on, Fresh.!" cried the other, taking a step toward him. "Quick--all right--what?" "Sir!" ripped out Joe, as he turned away. A moment later from a distant window there shone a single gleam of light that fell on the face of the other lad. Joe started as he beheld the countenance of Ford Weston--the youth who had laughed at his pitching. "That's right," came in more mollified tones from the Sophomore. "Don't forget your manners at Yale, Fresh.! Or you may be taught 'em in a way you won't like," and with an easy air of assurance, and an insulting, domineering swagger, Weston took himself off across the campus. CHAPTER VII A NEW CHUM For a moment Joe stood there, his heart pounding away under his ribs, uncertain what to do--wondering if the Sophomore had recognized him. Then, as the other gave no sign, but continued on his way, whistling gaily, Joe breathed easier. "The cad!" he whispered. "I'd like to--to----" He paused. He remembered that he was at Yale--that he was a Freshman and that he was supposed to take the insults of those above him--of the youth who had a year's advantage over him in point of time. "Yes, I'm a Freshman," mused Joe, half bitterly. "I'm supposed to take it all--to grin and bear it--for the good of my soul and conscience, and so that I won't get a swelled head. Well," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "I guess there's no danger." He looked after the retreating figure of the Sophomore, now almost lost in the dusk that enshrouded the campus, and then he laughed softly. "After all!" he exclaimed, "it's no more than I've done to the lads at Excelsior Hall. I thought it was right and proper then, and I suppose these fellows do here. Only, somehow, it hurts. I--I guess I'm getting older. I can't appreciate these things as I used to. After all, what is there to it? There's too much class feeling and exaggerated notion about one's importance. It isn't a man's game--though it may lead to it. I'd rather be out--standing on my own feet. "Yes, out playing the game with men--the real game--I want to get more action than this," and he looked across at the college buildings, now almost deserted save for a professor or two, or small groups of students who were wandering about almost as disconsolately as was Joe himself. "Oh, well!" he concluded. "I'm here, and I've got to stay at least for mother's sake, and I'll do the best I can. I'll grin and bear it. It won't be long until Spring, and then I'll see if I can't make good. I'm glad Weston didn't recognize me. It might have made it worse. But he's bound to know, sooner or later, that I'm the fellow he saw pitch that day, and, if he's like the rest of 'em I suppose he'll have the story all over college. Well, I can't help it." And with this philosophical reflection Joe turned and made his way toward his rooming house. It was a little farther than he had thought, and he was a bit sorry he had not selected one nearer the college. There were too many students to permit all of them to dwell in the dormitories proper, and many sought residences in boarding places and in rooming houses, and dined at students' clubs. "I suppose I'll have to hunt up some sort of an eating joint," mused Joe, as he plodded along. "I'd be glad to get in with some freshmen who like the baseball game. It'll be more sociable. I'll have to be on the lookout." As he rang the bell of the house corresponding in number to the one he had selected as his rooming place, the door was cautiously opened a trifle, the rattling of a chain showing that it was secure against further swinging. A rather husky voice asked: "Well?" Joe looked, and saw himself being regarded by a pair of not very friendly eyes, while a tousled head of hair was visible in the light from a hall lamp that streamed from behind it. "I--er--I believe I'm to room here," went on Joe. "Matson is my name. I'm a Freshman----" "Oh, that's all right. Come in!" and the tone was friendly at once. "I thought it was some of those sneaking Sophs., so I had the chain on. Come in!" and the portal was thrown wide, while Joe's hand was caught in a firm grip. "Are you--er--do you run this place?" asked Joe. "Not yet, but I'm going to do my best at it as soon as I get wise to the ropes. You can help--you look the right stuff." "Aren't you the--er--the proprietor?" asked our hero, rather puzzled for the right word. "Not exactly," was the reply, "but I'm going to be one of 'em soon. Hanover is my name--Ricky Hanover they used to call me at Tampa. I'll allow you the privilege. I'm a Fresh. like yourself. I'm going to room here. Arrived yesterday. I've got a room on the first floor, near the door, and it's going to be so fruity for those Sophs. to rout me out that I got a chain and put it on. The old man said he didn't care." "The old man?" queried Joe. "Yes, Hopkins, Hoppy for short--the fellow that owns this place--he and his wife." "Oh, yes, the people from whom I engaged my room," spoke Joe understandingly. "I think I'm on the second floor," he went on. "Wrong guess--come again," said Ricky Hanover with a grin, as he carefully replaced the chain. "There's been a wing shift, so Mrs. Hoppy told me. She's expecting you, but she's put you downstairs, in a big double room next to mine. Hope you won't mind. Your trunk is there, and your valise just came--at least I think it's yours--J. M. on it." "Yes, that's mine." "I had it put in for you." "Thanks." "Come on, and I'll show you the ropes. If those Sophs. come----" "Are they likely to?" asked Joe, scenting the joy of a battle thus early in his career. "They might. Someone tried to rush the door just before you came, but the chain held and I gave 'em the merry ha-ha! But they'll be back--we'll get ours and we'll have to take it." "I suppose so. Well, I don't mind. I've been through it before." "That so? Where are you from?" "Excelsior Hall." "Never heard of it. That's nothing. I don't s'pose you could throw a stone and hit Tampa School?" "Probably not," laughed Joe, forming an instinctive liking for this new chap. "Right. Tampa hardly knows it's on the map, but it isn't a half bad place. Ah, here's Mamma Hoppy now. You don't mind if I call you that; do you?" asked Ricky, as a motherly-looking woman advanced down the hall toward the two lads. "Oh, I guess I've been at this long enough not to mind a little thing like that," she laughed. "You college men can't bother me as long as you don't do anything worse than that. Let me see, this is----" "Matson, ma'am," spoke our hero. "Joe Matson. I wrote to you----" "Oh, yes, I remember. I have quite a number of new boys coming in. I'm sorry, but the room I thought I could let you have isn't available. The ceiling fell to-day, so I have transferred you downstairs. It's a double room, and I may have to put someone in with you. If you think----" "Oh, that's all right," interrupted Joe good-naturedly, "I don't mind. I'll be glad to have a room-mate." "Thank you," said Mrs. Hopkins, in relieved tones. "I can't say just now who it will be." "Never mind!" broke in Ricky. "Have you grubbed?" "No," replied the newcomer. "I was thinking of going to a restaurant." "Come along then. I'm with you. I haven't fed my face yet. We'll go down to Glory's place and see the bunch." Joe recognized the name as that of a famous New Haven resort, much frequented by the college lads, and, while I have not used the real designation, and while I shall use fictitious names for other places connected with the college, those who know their Yale will have no difficulty in recognizing them. "Come on to Glory's," went on Ricky. "It's a great joint." "Wait until I slip on a clean collar," suggested Joe, and a little later he and Ricky were tramping along the streets, now agleam with electric lights, on their way to the famous resort. It was filled with students, from lordly Seniors, who scarcely noticed those outside of their class, to the timid Freshmen. Joe looked on in undisguised delight. After all, Yale might be more to him than he had anticipated. "Like to go a rabbit?" suggested Ricky. "A rabbit?" asked Joe. "I didn't know they were in season?" "The Welsh variety," laughed Ricky. "They're great with a mug of ale, they say, only I cut out the ale." "Same here," admitted Joe. "Yes, I'll go one. It's made of cheese, isn't it?" "And other stuff. Great for making you dream. Come on, this is the Freshmen table over here. I was in this morning." "Do they have tables for each class." "They don't--I mean the management doesn't, but I guess it would be as much as your hair was worth to try to buck in where you didn't belong. Know anybody here?" "Not a soul--wish I did." "I didn't when I came this morning, but there are some nice fellows at the Red Shack." "Red Shack?" Joe looked puzzled. "Yes, that's our hang-out. It's painted red." "Oh, I see." "There are a couple of 'em now," went on Ricky, who seemed perfectly at ease in his comparatively new surroundings. He was a lad who made friends easily, Joe decided. "Hi, Heller, plow over here!" Ricky called to a tall lad who was working his way through the throng. "Bring Jones along with you. They're both at our shack," he went on in a low voice to Joe. "Shake hands with Matson--he's one of us chickens," he continued, and he presented the newcomers as though he had known them all their lives. "You seem at home," remarked Jones, who was somewhat remarkable for his thinness. "I am--Slim!" exclaimed Ricky. "I say, you don't mind if I call you that; do you?" he asked. "That's what the other fellows do; isn't it?" "Yes. How'd you guess it?" asked Jones, with a laugh. "Easy. I'm Ricky--Richard
iffs 1479. “About the midst of this street is the Standard in Cheape, of what antiquity the first foundation I have not read. But Henry VI., by his patent dated at Windsor the 21st of his reign, which patent was confirmed by parliament 1442, granted license to Thomas Knolles, John Chichele, and other, executors to John Wells, grocer, sometime mayor of London, with his goods to make new the highway which leadeth from the city of London towards the palace of Westminster, before and nigh the manor of Savoy, parcel of the Duchy of Lancaster, a way then very ruinous, and the pavement broken, to the hurt and mischief of the subjects, which old pavement then remaining in that way within the length of five hundred feet, and all the breadth of the same before and nigh the site of the manor aforesaid, they to break up, and with stone, gravel, and other stuff, one other good and sufficient way there to make for the commodity of the subjects. “And further, that the Standard in Cheape, where divers executions of the law beforetime had been performed, which standard at the present was very ruinous with age, in which there was a conduit, should be taken down, and another competent standard of stone, together with a conduit in the same, of new, strongly to be built, for the commodity and honour of the city, with the goods of the said testator, without interruption, etc. “Of executions at the Standard in Cheape, we read, that in the year 1293 three men had their right hands smitten off there, for rescuing of a prisoner arrested by an officer of the city. In the year 1326, the burgesses of London caused Walter Stapleton, Bishop of Exceter, treasurer to Edward II., and other, to be beheaded at the standard in Cheape (but this was by Paule’s gate); in the year 1351, the 26th of Edward III., two fishmongers were beheaded at the standard in Cheape, but I read not of their offence; 1381, Wat Tyler beheaded Richard Lions and other there. In the year 1399, Henry IV. caused the blank charters made by Richard II. to be burnt there. In the year 1450, Jack Cade, captain of the Kentish rebels, beheaded the Lord Say there. In the year 1461, John Davy had his hand stricken off there, because he had stricken a man before the judges at Westminster, etc. “Then next is a great cross in West Cheape, which cross was there erected in the year 1290 by Edward I. upon occasion thus:—Queen Elianor his wife died at Hardeby (a town near unto the city of Lincoln), her body was brought from thence to Westminster; and the king, in memory of her, caused in every place where her body rested by the way, a stately cross of stone to be erected, with the queen’s image and arms upon it, as at Grantham, Woborne, Northampton, Stony Stratford, Dunstable, St. Albones, Waltham, West Cheape, and at Charing, from whence she was conveyed to Westminster, and there buried. “This cross in West Cheape being like to those other which remain to this day, and being by length of time decayed, John Hatherle, mayor of London, procured, in the year 1441, license of King Henry VI. to re-edify the same in more beautiful manner for the honour of the city, and had license also to take up two hundred fodder of lead for the building thereof of certain conduits, and a common granary. This cross was then curiously wrought at the charges of divers citizens: John Fisher, mercer, gave six hundred marks toward it; the same was begun to be set up 1484, and finished 1486, the 2nd of Henry VII. “In the year 1599, the timber of the cross at the top being rotted within the lead, the arms thereof bending, were feared to have fallen to the harming of some people, and therefore the whole body of the cross was scaffolded about, and the top thereof taken down, meaning in place thereof to have set up a piramis; but some of her majesty’s honourable councillors directed their letters to Sir Nicholas Mosley, then mayor, by her highness’ express commandment concerning the cross, forthwith to be repaired, and placed again as it formerly stood, etc., notwithstanding the said cross stood headless more than a year after. After this (1600) a cross of timber was framed, set up, covered with lead, and gilded, the body of the cross downward cleansed of dust, the scaffold carried thence. About twelve nights following, the image of Our Lady was again defaced, by plucking off her crown, and almost her head, taking from her her naked child, and stabbing her in the breast, etc. Thus much for the cross in West Cheape” (Stow’s _Survey_, 1633, pp. 278-80). [Illustration: CHEAPSIDE CROSS (AS IT APPEARED ON ITS ERECTION IN 1606). From an original Drawing in the Pepysian Library, Cambridge. ] The cross was the object of much abuse by the Puritans, who at last succeeded in getting it pulled down. “On May 2nd, 1643, the Cross of Cheapside was pulled down. A troop of horse and two companies of foot waited to guard it; and, at the fall of the top cross, drums beat, trumpets blew, and multitudes of caps were thrown into the air.... And the same day, at night was the leaden popes[1] burnt in the place where it stood, with ringing of bells and a great acclamation” (Wilkinson’s _Londina Illustrata_). To continue Stow’s account: “Then at the west end of West Cheape Street, was sometime a cross of stone, called the Old Cross. Ralph Higden, in his _Policronicon_, saith, that Walter Stapleton, Bishop of Exceter, treasurer to Edward II., was by the burgesses of London beheaded at this cross called the Standard, without the north door of St. Paul’s church; and so is it noted in other writers that then lived. This old cross stood and remained at the east end of the parish church called St. Michael in the Corne by Paule’s gate, near to the north end of the old Exchange, till the year 1390, the 13th of Richard II., in place of which old cross then taken down, the said church of St. Michael was enlarged, and also a fair water conduit built about the 9th of Henry VI. “In the reign of Edward III., divers joustings were made in this street, betwixt Sopers lane and the great cross, namely, one in the year 1331, the 21st of September, as I find noted by divers writers of that time. “In the middle of the city of London (say they), in a street called Cheape, the stone pavement being covered with sand, that the horses might not slide when they strongly set their feet to the ground, the king held a tournament three days together, with the nobility, valiant men of the realm, and other some strange knights. And to the end the beholders might with the better ease see the same, there was a wooden scaffold erected across the street, like unto a tower, wherein Queen Philippa, and many other ladies, richly attired, and assembled from all parts of the realm, did stand to behold the jousts; but the higher frame, in which the ladies were placed, brake in sunder, whereby they were with some shame forced to fall down, by reason whereof the knights and such as were underneath, were grievously hurt; wherefore the queen took great care to save the carpenters from punishment, and through her prayers (which she made upon her knees) pacified the king and council, and thereby purchased great love of the people. After which time the king caused a shed to be strongly made of stone, for himself, the queen, and other estates to stand on, and there to behold the joustings, and other shows, at their pleasure, by the church of St. Mary Bow, as is showed in Cordwainer street ward” (_ibid._). In 1754 Strype writes: “Cheapside is a very stately spacious street, adorned with lofty buildings; well inhabited by Goldsmiths, Linen-Drapers, Haberdashers, and other great dealers. The street, which is throughout of an equal breadth, begins westward at Paternoster Row, and, in a straight line, runs to the Poultry, and from thence to the Royal exchange in Cornhill. And, as this Street is yet esteemed the principal high street in the City, so it was formerly graced with a great Conduit, a Standard, and a stately Cross; which last was pulled down in the Civil Wars. In the last Part, almost over-against Mercers Chapel, stood a great Conduit; but this Conduit, standing almost in the Middle of the street, being incommodious for Coaches and Carts, was thought fit by the Magistracy, after the great Fire, to be taken down, and built no more.” The great Conduit of Chepe, commenced in 1285, brought the water from Paddington, a distance of 3½ miles. It stood opposite Mercers’ Hall and Chapel. It was a stone building long and low, battlemented, enclosing a leaden cistern. In the year 1441 at the west end of Chepe and in the east end of the Church of St. Michael le Querne, the smaller conduit was erected. Both conduits were destroyed in the Great Fire—the larger one was not rebuilt. The Standard opposite Honey Lane was in later years fitted with a water cock always running. At the Standard many public executions took place (Strype, vol. 1. p. 566). Hardly any street of London is more frequently mentioned in annual documents than Chepe. There are many ancient deeds of sale and conveyances still preserved at the Guildhall, relating to property in Chepe. In the _Calendar of Wills_, houses, etc., in Chepe are bequeathed in more than two hundred wills there quoted; many ordinances concerning Chepe are recorded in Riley’s _Memorials_. Stow has given some of the history of Chepe. His account may be supplemented by a few notes on other events and persons connected with the street. The antiquity of the street is proved by the discovery of Roman coins, Roman _tesserae_, Romano-British remains of various kinds, and Saxon jewels. It is not, however, until the thirteenth century that we find historical events other than the conveyance, etc., of land and tenements in Cheapside. In the thirteenth century a part of Cheapside, if not the whole, was called the Crown Field; the part so called was probably confined to a space on the east of Bow Church. In the year 1232 we find the citizens mustering in arms at Mile End and “well arrayed” in Chepe. In 1269 it is recorded that the pillory in Chepe was broken, and so remained for a whole year by the negligence of the bailiffs, so that nobody could be put in pillory for that time. The bakers seized the opportunity for selling loaves of short weight—even a third part short. But in 1270, on the Feast of St. Michael, the sheriffs had a new pillory made and erected on the site of the old one. Then the hearts of the bakers failed them for fear, and the weight of the loaves increased. In 1273 the Mayor removed from Chepe all the stalls of the butchers and fishmongers, together with the stalls which had been let and granted by the preceding sheriffs, although the persons occupying them had taken them for life and had paid large sums for their leases. This was a political move, the intention being to deprive the stall-keepers of their votes. The Mayor, however, defended the action on the ground that the King was about to visit the City, and that it behoved him to clear the way of refuse and encumbrances. In the year 1326 a letter was sent by the Queen and her son Edward calling upon the citizens of London to aid with all their power in destroying the enemies of the land, and Hugh le Despenser in especial. Wherefore, when the head of Hugh was carried in triumph through Chepe, with trumpets sounding, the citizens rejoiced. In October of the same year when the Bishop of Exeter, Walter de Stapleton, was on his way to his house in “Elde Dean’s Lane” to dine there, he was met by the mob, dragged into Chepe with one of his esquires, and there beheaded. Another of the Bishop’s servants was beheaded in Chepe the same day. On the birth of Edward III. on November 13, 1312, the people of London made great rejoicings, holding carols, _i.e._ dances and songs, in Chepe for a fortnight, while the conduits ran wine. In 1482 a grocer’s shop in Cheapside with a “hall” over it—perhaps a warehouse—was let for the rental of £4 : 6 : 8 per annum. The owner of the shop was Lord Howard, created Duke of Norfolk in 1483. References to Cheapside multiply as we approach more modern times. In 1522, when Charles V. came to England, lodgings were appointed for his retinue. Among them was a house in Cheapside, a goldsmith’s. It contained one parlour, one kitchen, one chamber, and one bed. The murder of Dr. Lambe in 1631, the execution of William Hacket in 1591, the burning of the Solemn Covenant in 1661,—these are incidents in the history of Cheapside. Many other events belonging either to the history of the City or of the realm have been mentioned elsewhere. In the sixteenth century one of the sights of London was the Goldsmiths’ Row, built in 1491 on the site of certain shops and selds. Stow calls the Row “a most beautiful frame of faire houses and shops consisting of ten faire dwellinghouses and fourteen shops, all in one frame, builded foure stories high, beautified towards the street with the Goldsmith’s Arms and the likeness of woodmen, in memory of his name, riding on monstrous beasts all richly painted and gilt.” Maitland, who certainly could not remember it, says that it was “beautiful to behold the glorious appearance of the Goldsmith’s shops in the South row of Cheapside, which in a course reached from the Old Change of Bucklersbury exclusive of four shops only, of three trades, in all that space.” Coming now to a description of Cheapside as it is at present, we find a statue of Sir Robert Peel standing on a block of granite. The whole is more than 20 feet in height. The statue was put up in 1855, and on the pedestal is the inscription of Peel’s birth and death. On the north of Cheapside is a large stone block of building in one uniform style with shops on the ground floor. This contains the Saddlers’ Hall, and in the middle is the great entrance way solidly carried out in stone. THE SADDLERS COMPANY The date of the formation of the Company, and the circumstances under which it was founded, are unknown. It existed at a very remote period. There is now preserved in the archives of the Collegiate Church of Saint Martin’s-le-Grand a parchment containing a letter from that foundation, in which reference is made to the then ancient customs of the Guild. This document is believed to have been written about the time of Henry II., Richard I., or John, most probably in the first of these reigns. In this letter reference is made to “Ernaldus, the Alderman of the Guild.” This Ernaldus is stated by Mr. Alfred John Kempe, in his work _Historical Notices of the Collegiate Church of Saint Martin’s-le-Grand_, to have lived before the Conquest, by which it may be inferred that the Company is of Anglo-Saxon origin. King Edward I., A.D. 1272, granted a charter. King Edward III., by his charter 1st December, 37 Edward III., A.D. 1363, granted that as well in the City of London as in every other city, borough, or town where the art of Saddlers is exercised, one or two honest and faithful men of the craft should be chosen and appointed by the Saddlers there dwelling to superintend and survey the craft. This charter was exemplified and confirmed by Henry VI., Henry VII., and Henry VIII. Richard II., by charter 20th March, 18 Richard II., A.D. 1374, granted to the men of the mystery of Saddlers of the City of London, that for the good government of the mystery they may have one commonalty of themselves for ever, and that the men of the same mystery and commonalty may choose and appoint every year four keepers of the men of the commonalty to survey, rule, and duly govern the same. Furthermore, that the keepers and commonalty, and their successors, may purchase lands, to the yearly value of twenty pounds, for the sustentation of the poor, old, weak and decayed persons of the mystery, and this charter was exemplified, ratified, and confirmed by Edward IV. Queen Elizabeth, by charter 9th November, 1 Elizabeth, A.D. 1558, exemplifies, ratifies, and confirms the previous charters, and reincorporates the Company by the name of the wardens or keepers and commonalty of the mystery or art of Saddlers of the City of London. The charter names and appoints four wardens to hold office from the date of the charter until the 14th August then following, and authorises them to keep within their common hall an assembly of the wardens or keepers or freemen of the same mystery, or the greater part of them, or of the wardens, and of eight of the most ancient and worthy freemen, being of the assistants of the mystery, and that the wardens and eight of the assistants at least being present shall have full power to treat, consult, and agree upon the articles and ordinances touching the mystery or art aforesaid, and the good rule, state, and government of the same. Power is given to elect four wardens on the 14th August yearly. Power of giving two votes is given to the master at doubtful elections. Powers are also given for the government and regulation of the trade. This is one of the most ancient, as it is also one of the most interesting, of the City Companies. Their original quarter was at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. The saddle played an important part in every man’s life at a time when riding was the only method of travelling. The saddlers were connected with the Church of St. Martin’s-le-Grand and made some kind of convention with the Canons, the nature of which is uncertain. Probably the Canons promised them their aid in support of their rights and privileges, in return for which their religious gifts and fees were paid to the Church of St. Martin. The mystery of saddlery, like all others, overlapped, and encroached upon, other mysteries and crafts. Then there followed quarrels. Thus in 1307 (Riley, _Memorials_, p. 156) there was an affray between the saddlers on one side and the loriners, joiners, and painters on the other, on account of such encroachments. The quarrel was adjusted by the Mayor and Aldermen. Another trouble to which so great a trade was liable, was the desire of the journeymen to break off into fraternities of their own. This pretension was seriously taken in hand in 1796, and such fraternities were strictly forbidden. The Company has had three halls, all on the same site. The first was burned in the Great Fire; the second in 1822; the present hall was built after the second fire, and is at No. 141 Cheapside. At the corner of Wood Street is what remains of the churchyard of St. Peter’s, Westcheap, the building of which was destroyed in the Great Fire: a railed-in space, gravel covered and uninteresting, except for the magnificent plane-tree which spreads its branches protectingly over the low roofs in front. On the walls of the old houses near are fixed two monuments, and a little stone tablet rather high up, with the inscription: “Erected at the sole cost and charges of the Parish of St. Peter’s, Westcheap, A.D. 1687,” followed by the names of the churchwardens. =The Church of St. Peter, Westcheap=, was also called SS. Peter and Paul. After the Great Fire its parish was annexed to that of St. Matthew, Friday Street. The earliest date of an incumbent is 1302. The patronage of the church was in the hands of the Abbot of St. Alban’s before 1302. Henry VIII. seized it and granted it in 1545 to the Earl of Southampton, in whose successors it continued up to 1666. Houseling people in 1548 were 360. A chantry was founded here at the Altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary by Nicholas de Faringdon, Mayor of London, 1313 and 1320, for himself and Rose his wife, to which Lawrence Bretham de Faversham was admitted chaplain, October 24, 1361; the endowment fetched £29 : 3 : 4 in 1548, when Sir W. Alee was priest. There was another at the Altar of the Holy Cross. Sir John Munday, goldsmith, Mayor, was buried here in 1527; also Sir Alexander Avenon, Mayor in 1569; and Augustine Hind, clothworker, Alderman, and Sheriff of London, who died in 1554. The only charitable gifts recorded by Stow are: £2 : 4 : 4, the gift of Sir Lionel Ducket; 3s. 4d., the gift of Lady Read; 7s. 6d., the gift of Mr. Walton. John Gwynneth, Mus. Doc. and author, was rector here in 1545; also Richard Gwent, D.D., and William Boleyn, Archdeacon of Winchester. ST. MARY-LE-BOW But the ornament of Cheapside is St. Mary-le-Bow, which derived its additional name from its stone “bows” or arches. The date of its foundation is not known, but it appears to have been during or before the reign of William the Conqueror. The court of the Archbishop of Canterbury was held here before the Great Fire; and though the connection between the church and the ecclesiastical courts has ceased, it is still used for the confirmation of the election of bishops. The “Court of Arches” owes its name to the fact that it was held in the beautiful Norman crypt which still survives. The church has been made famous, Stow observes, as the scene of various calamities, of which he records details. In 1469 the Common Council ordained the ringing of Bow Bell every evening at nine o’clock, but the practice had existed for already more than a century; in 1515 the largest of the five bells was presented by William Copland. The church was totally destroyed in 1666, as well as those of St. Pancras, Soper Lane and Allhallows, Honey Lane; the two last were not rebuilt, their parishes being annexed to St. Mary’s. Wren began building the present church in 1671 and completed it in 1680. The cost was greater than any other of Wren’s parish churches by £3000, £2000 of which was contributed by Dame Williamson. The steeple was repaired by Sir William Staines in the eighteenth century, and again in 1820 by Mr. George Gwilt. In 1758, seven of the bells were recast, new ones were added, and the ten were first rung in 1762 in honour of George III.’s birthday; the full number now is twelve. In 1786 the parish of Allhallows, Bread Street, was united with this. The earliest date of an incumbent is 1242. The patronage of the church has always been in the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury and his successors, but Henry III. presented to it in 1242. Houseling people in 1548 were 300. The church measures 65 feet in length, 63 feet in breadth, and 38 feet in height; it contains a nave and two side aisles. The great feature of the building is the steeple, which is the most elaborate of all Wren’s works and only exceeded in height by St. Bride’s. It rises at the north-west end of the church and measures 32 square feet at the base. The tower contains three storeys. The highest is surmounted by a cornice and balustrade with finials and vases, and a circular dome supporting a cylinder, lantern, and spire. The weather-vane is in the form of a dragon, the City emblem. The total height is 221 feet 9 inches. The Norman crypt already mentioned still remains, consisting of three aisles formed by massive columns; it probably formed part of the building in William I.’s time. Chantries were founded here: By John Causton, to which John Steveyns was admitted chaplain, December 2, 1452; by John Coventry, in the chapel of St. Nicholas; by Henry Frowycke, whose endowment fetched £15 : 10s. in 1548; by John de Holleghe, whose endowment produced £7 in 1548; by Dame Eleanor, Prioress of Winchester, whose endowment yielded £4 in 1548. The original church does not appear to have contained many monuments of note. Among the civic dignitaries buried here was Nicholas Alwine, Lord Mayor in 1499, whose name is familiar to readers of _The Last of the Barons_. Sir John Coventry, Mayor in 1425, was also buried here. There is a tablet fixed over the vestry-room door, commemorating Dame Dionis Williamson, who gave £2000 towards the building of the church. On the west wall a sarcophagus commemorates Bishop Newton, rector, who won celebrity by his edition of Milton first published in 1749. The parish possessed a considerable number of charities and gifts: George Palin was donor of £100, to be devoted to the maintenance of a weekly lecture. Mr. Banton, of £50 for the same purpose. There were others, to the total amount of £60. There was one Charity School belonging to Cordwainer and Bread Street Wards for fifty boys and thirty girls, who were put to employments and trades when fit. The following are among the notable rectors: Martin Fotherby (d. 1619), Bishop of Salisbury; Samuel Bradford (1652-1731), Bishop of Gloucester; Samuel Lisle (1683-1749), Bishop of Norwich; Nicholas Felton (1556-1626), Bishop of Bristol; Thomas Newton (1704-1782), Bishop of Bristol; and William Van Mildert (1765-1836), Bishop of Llandaff, and later the last Prince-Bishop of Durham. Quaint sayings and traditions have gathered more thickly about St. Mary’s than about any of the City churches. Dick Whittington’s story has made the name familiar to every British child; while to be born “within sound of Bow Bells” is more dignified than to own oneself a Cockney. In sooth-saying we have the prophecy of Mother Shipton that when the Grasshopper on the Exchange and the Dragon on Bow Church should meet, the streets should be deluged with blood. They did so meet, being sent to the same yard for repair at the same time, but the prophecy was not fulfilled. The ringing of the Bow bells in the Middle Ages signified closing-time for shops, and the ringer incurred the wrath of the apprentices of Chepe if he failed to be punctual to the second. We now proceed to the =Poultry=. Stow thus describes the place: “Now to begin again on the bank of the said Walbrooke, at the east end of the high street called the Poultrie, on the north side thereof, is the proper parish church of St. Mildred, which church was new built upon Walbrooke in the year 1457. John Saxton their parson gave thirty-two pounds towards the building of the new choir, which now standeth upon the course of Walbrooke.” Strype says of it: “The Poultry, a good large and broad Street, and a very great thoroughfare for Coaches, Carts, and foot-passengers, being seated in the Heart of the City, and leading to and from the Royal Exchange; and from thence to Fleet Street, the Strand, Westminster, and the western parts: and therefore so well inhabited by great tradesmen. It begins in the West, by the old Jewry, where Cheapside ends, and reaches the Stocks market by Cornhill. On the North side is Scalding Alley; a large place, containing two or three Alleys, and a square Court with good buildings, and well inhabited; but the greatest part is in Bread Street Ward, where it is mentioned.” Roman knives and weapons have been found in the Poultry. The valley of the Walbrook, 130 feet in width, began its slope here. Nearly opposite Princes Street, a modern street, there was anciently a bridge over the stream. We find in the thirteenth century an inquest held here over the body of one Agnes de Golden Lane, who was found starved to death, a rare circumstance at that time, and only possible, one would think, considering the charity of the monastic houses, in the case of a bedridden person forgotten or deserted by her own people. In the fourteenth century there are various bequests of shops and tenements in the Poultry. In the fifteenth century we find that there was a brewery here, near the Compter; how did the brewer get his water? In the same century the Compter—which was one of the two sheriffs’ prisons—seems to belong to one Walter Hunt, a grocer. In the sixteenth century one of the rioters of 1517 was hanged in the Poultry; there was trouble about the pavements and complaints were made of obstructions by butchers, poulterers, and the ancestors of the modern coster, who sold things from barrows, stopping up the road and refusing to move on. Before the Fire there were many taverns in the Poultry; some of them had the signs which have been found belonging to the Poultry. The later associations of the place have been detailed by Cunningham: “Lubbock’s Banking-house is leased of the Goldsmiths, being part of Sir Martin Bowes’s bequest to the Company in Queen Elizabeth’s time. The King’s Head Tavern, No. 25, was kept in Charles II.’s time by William King. His wife happening to be in labour on the day of the King’s restoration, was anxious to see the returning monarch, and Charles, in passing through Poultry, was told of her inclination, and stopped at the tavern to salute her. No. 22 was Dilly, the bookseller’s. Here Dr. Johnson met John Wilkes at dinner; and here Boswell’s life of Johnson was first published. Dilly sold his business to Mawman. No. 31 was the shop of Vernor and Hood, booksellers. Hood of this firm was father of the facetious Tom Hood, and here Tom was born in 1798” (_Hand-book of London_). Here is a little story. It happened in 1318. One John de Caxtone, furbisher by trade, going along the Poultry—one charitably hopes that he was in liquor—met a certain valet of the Dean of Arches who was carrying a sword under his arm, thinking no evil. Thereupon John assaulted him, apparently without provocation, and drawing out the sword, wounded the said valet with his own weapon. This done, he refused to surrender to the Mayor’s sergeant, nor would he give himself up till the Mayor himself appeared on the spot. We see the crowd—all the butchers in the Poultry collected together: on the ground lies the wounded valet, bleeding, beside him is the sword, the assailant blusters and swears that he will not surrender, the Mayor’s sergeant remonstrates, the crowd increases, then the Mayor himself appears followed by other sergeants, a lane is made, and at sight of that authority the man gives in. The sergeants march him off to Newgate, the crowd disperses, the butchers go back to their stalls, the women to their baskets, the costers to their barrows. For five days the offender cools his heels at Newgate. Then he is brought before the Mayor. He throws himself on the mercy of the judge, sureties are found for him that he will keep the peace, and he consents to compensate the wounded man. For Stocks Market, St. Mary Woolchurch Haw, on the site of which the Mansion House stands, and the vicinity, formerly included in the Poultry, see Group III. At the east end of the Poultry is =Grocers’ Alley=, formerly Conyhope Lane, of which Stow says: “Then is Conyhope Lane, of old time so called of such a sign of three conies hanging over a poulterer’s stall at the lane’s end. Within this lane standeth the Grocers’ hall, which company being of old time called Pepperers, were first incorporated by the name of Grocers in the year 1345.” The Grocers’ Hall really opens into Princes Street. THE GROCERS COMPANY The Company’s records begin partly in Norman-French, partly in Old English, as follows: “To the honour of God, the Virgin Mary, St. Anthony and All Saints, the 9th day of May 1345, a Fraternity was founded of the Company of Pepperers of Soper’s Lane for love and unity to maintain and keep themselves together, of which Fraternity are sundry beginners, founders, and donors to preserve the said Fraternity.” (Here follow twenty-two names.) The same twenty-two persons “accorded to be together at a dinner in the Abbot’s Place of Bury on the 12th of June following, and then were chosen two the first Wardens that ever were of our Fraternity,” and certain ordinances were agreed to by assent among the Fraternity, providing that no person should be of the Fraternity “if not of good condition and of this craft, that is to say, a Pepperer of Soper’s Lane or a Spicer in the ward of Cheap, or other people of their mystery, wherever they reside”; for contributions among the members, for the purposes of the Fraternity, including the maintenance of a priest;
wrong’ "He nodded slowly. ’There is plenty of time—and I will tell. It is often said that the season that brings a late typhoon, as now, is also ushered in by an early typhoon. So it was this season. A very severe storm came down before its time, and almost without warning.... It was this storm into whose face our late friend Captain Turner took his ship, the _Speedwell_, sailing from Hong Kong for New York some four months ago’ "’You don’t mean that Turner has lost her?’ "’I regret to inform you, yes. Also, he has lost himself. Three days after sailing, he met the typhoon outside, and was blown upon a lee shore two hundred miles along the China Coast. In this predicament, he cut away his masts and came to anchor. But his ship would not float, and accordingly sank at her anchors....’ "’Sank at her anchors!’ I exclaimed ’How could that be? A tight ship never did such a thing’ "’Nevertheless, she sank there in the midst of the storm, and all on board perished. Afterwards, the news was reported from shore, and the hull of the _Speedwell_ was discovered in ten fathoms of water. There has been talk of trying to save the ship; and Captain Wilbur himself, her owner, in a diver’s suit, has inspected the wreck. Surely, he should be well-fitted to save her again, if it were possible! He says no, and it is reported that the insurance companies are in agreement with him. That is, they have decided that he cannot turn the trick a second time’ Lee Fu’s voice dropped to a rasping tone ’The lives, likewise, cannot be saved’ "I sat for some moments in silence, gazing at the green bronze dragon on the desk. Turner gone? A friend’s death is shocking, even though it makes so little difference. And between us, too, there had been a bond.... I was thinking of the personal loss, and had missed the significance of Lee Fu’s phraseology. I looked up at him blankly; found him still regarding me with up-turned eyes, his chin sunk lower on his breast. "’That is not all’ said he suddenly. "I sat up as if under the impact of a blow. Across my mind raced thoughts of all that might happen to a man on that abandoned coast. ’What more?’ I asked. "’Listen, Captain, and pay close attention. I have investigated with great care, and am fully satisfied that no mistake has been made. You must believe me.... Some weeks after the departure and loss of the _Speedwell_, word came to my ears that a man had a tale worth hearing. You know how information reaches me, and that my sources run through unexpected channels among my people. This man was brought; he proved to be a common coolie, a lighter-man who had been employed in the loading of the _Speedwell_. Note how slight chance may lead to serious occasions. This coolie had been gambling during the dinner hour, and had lost the small sum that he should have taken home as the product of several days’ labour. Like many others, he feared his wife, and particularly her mother, who was a shrew. In a moment of desperation, as the lighter was preparing to leave the vessel for the night, he escaped from the others and secreted himself in the _Speedwell’s_ lower hold, among the bales of merchandise. What he planned is hard to tell; it does not matter. "’This happened while yet the ship’s lower hold was not quite filled’ Lee Fu went on after a pause ’The coolie, as I said, secreted himself in the cargo, well forward, for he had entered by the fore hatch. There he remained many hours, sleeping, and when he awoke, quietness had descended on the deck above. He was about to climb into the between-decks, the air below being heavy with the odours of the cargo, when he heard a sound on the ladder that led down from the upper deck. It was a sound of quiet steps, mingled with a faint metallic rattling. In a moment a foot descended on the floor of the between-decks, and a lantern was cautiously lighted. The coolie retreated quickly to his former hiding place, from which post he was able to see all that went on’ "Again Lee Fu paused, as if lingering in imagination over the scene. ’It seems that this late and secret comer into the hold of the _Speedwell_ was none other than her owner, Captain Wilbur’ he slowly resumed ’The coolie knew his face; a distant cousin had once been in the employment of the Wilbur household, and the man was already aware whose ship it was. Most of the inner facts of life are disseminated through the gossip of servants, and are known to a wide circle. Furthermore, as the lighter had been preparing to depart that evening, this coolie had seen the owner come on board in his own sampan. Afterwards, through my inquiries among sampan-men and others, I learned that Captain Turner had spent that night on shore. It was Captain Wilbur’s custom, it seems, frequently to sleep on board his ship when she lay here in port; the starboard stateroom was kept in readiness for him. So he had done this night—and he had been alone in the cabin’ "’What was he doing in the hold with a lantern?’ I asked, unable to restrain my impatience. "’Exactly... you shall hear. I was obliged to make certain deductions from the story of the coolie, for he was not technically acquainted with the internal construction of a vessel. Yet what he saw was perfectly obvious to the most ignorant eye.... Have you ever been in the lower hold of the _Speedwell_, Captain Nichols?’ "’No, I haven’t’ "’But you recall the famous matter of her bow-ports, do you not?’ "’Yes, indeed. I was in Singapore when they were cut’ "The incident came back to me at once, in full detail. There had been a cargo of ironwood on the beach, destined for the repair of a temple somewhere up the Yang-tse-kiang; among it were seven magnificent sticks of timber, each over a hundred feet in length and forty inches square at the butt—these were for columns, I suppose. It had been necessary to find a large ship to take this cargo from Singapore to Shanghai; the _Speedwell_ had finally accepted the charter. In order to load the immense column-timbers, she had been obliged to cut bow-ports of extraordinary size; fifty inches in depth they were, and nearly seven feet in width, according to my recollection—the biggest bow-ports on record. "’It has been my privilege’ Lee Fu went on ’to examine the fore-peak of the _Speedwell_ when these ports were in and her hold was empty. I had once chartered the ship, and felt alarmed for her safety until I had seen the interior fastenings of those great windows which, when she was loaded, looked out into the deep sea. But my alarm was groundless. There was a most ingenious device for strengthening the bows where they had been weakened by the cutting of the ports. Four or five timbers had been severed; but these had been reproduced on the port itself, and the whole was fashioned like a massive door. It lifted upward on immense wrought iron hinges, a hinge to every timber; when it was lowered into its place, gigantic bars of iron, fitted into brackets on the adjoining timbers, stretched across its inner face to hold it against the impact of the waves. At the bottom there were additional fastenings. Thus the port, when tightly caulked from without, became an integral part of the hull; I was told, and could believe it, that there had never been a trace of leakage from her bows. Most remarkable of all, I was told that when it became necessary to lift these ports for use, the task could easily be accomplished by two or three men and a stout watch-tackle.... This, also, I am prepared to believe’ "There seemed to be a general drift to Lee Fu’s rambling narrative, but I hadn’t yet caught sight of a logical dénouement. ’To resume the story of the coolie’ he continued with exasperating deliberation ’This, in plain language, is what he saw. Our friend, Captain Wilbur, descended into the lower hold, and worked his way forward to the fore-peak, where there was little cargo. There he laboured with great effort for several hours; you will recall that he is a vigorous man. He had equipped himself with a short crowbar, and carried a light tackle wrapped about his body beneath the coat. The tackle he loosened and hung to a hook above the middle of the port; I take it that he had brought this gear merely for the purpose of lowering easily the iron cross bars, so that they would make no noise. Had one fallen...’ "’Good God, Lee Fu, what are you trying to tell me?’ "’Merely occurrences. Many quite impossible things, Captain, nevertheless get themselves done in the dark, in secret places, out of sight and mind.... So, with the short crowbar he pried loose little by little the iron braces to the port, slinging them in his tackle and dropping them softly one by one into the ship’s bottom. It was a heavy task; the coolie said that sweat poured from the big man like rain. Yet he was bent on accomplishment, and persevered until he had done the job. Later he removed all the additional port fastenings; last of all he covered the cross-bars with dunnage, and rolled against the bow several bulky bales of matting to conceal the crime.... Captain, when the _Speedwell_ sailed from Hong Kong on her last voyage in command of our honoured friend one of her great bowports below the water hung on its hinges without internal fastenings, held in place only by the tightness of the caulking. The first heavy sea...’ "’Can it be possible?’ said I through clenched teeth. "’Oh, yes, so easily. It happened, and has become a part of life. As I told you, I have investigated with scrupulous care; my men dare not tell me lies’ "I was still trying to get my bearings, to grasp a clue. ’But why should he do it, Lee Fu? Had he anything against Turner?’ "’Not at all. You do not seem to understand. He was tired of the vessel, and freights were becoming very poor. He wanted the insurance. He now assures himself that he had no thought of disaster; one could hardly foresee an early typhoon. He had it in mind for the ship to sink discreetly, in pleasant weather, so that all hands might escape.... Yet he was willing to run the risk of wholesale murder. Remember how he sweated at the task, there in the fetid air of the lower hold. It was absentee murder, if you will; he did not contemplate, he was not forced to contemplate, the possible results of his act on the lives of others.... What do you think now, Captain, of a man who will betray his profession?’ "I got up abruptly and began to pace the floor. The damnable affair had made me sick at heart, and a little sick at the stomach. What to think?—what to believe? It seemed incredible, fantastic; there must be some mistake.... While I was pacing, Lee Fu changed his position. He faced the desk, stretched out an arm, and put his palm flat down on the polished surface. "’Thus the gods have struck’ said he, in that changeless voice that seemed an echo of the ages ’There is blood at last, Captain—twenty-seven lives, and among them one dear to us—enough to convince even one of your race that a crime has been committed. But my analysis was seriously in error. The criminal, it seems, is destined not to suffer. He continues to go about carried by three men in white and crimson livery, his belly full of food and wine. Others have paid the price. Instead of toppling, his life spins on with renewed momentum. My query has been answered; he has escaped the gods’ "’Can’t you rip the case open, jostle his security? Isn’t there some way...?’ "’No way’ said Lee Fu with a shake of the head ’You forget the fine principle of extraterritoriality, which you have so kindly imposed on us by force of arms. Captain Wilbur is not subject to Chinese justice; your own courts have exclusive jurisdiction over him, his kind, and all their works. No, Captain, he is amply protected. What could I accomplish in your courts with this fanciful accusation, and for witnesses a coolie and a sampan-man?’ "I continued to pace the floor, thinking dark thoughts. There was a way, of course... between man and man; but such things aren’t done any longer by civilized people. We’re supposed not to go about with firearms, privately meting out justice. We are domesticated. Whatever the thoughts I might have harboured, in the first anger of the realization of wrong, I knew very well that I shouldn’t act on them. Lee Fu was right, there was nothing to be done; the man had made good his escape from the hand of destiny. "Pacing rapidly, as if pursued by a veritable phantom of crime, and oblivious of everything but the four walls of the room, I nearly floored the chief clerk, Sing Toy, as he pattered in with a message from the outer office. He ducked, slipped behind the lamp, and began whispering in Lee Fu’s ear. "’_Ah!_’ exclaimed Lee Fu sharply. "I started, whirled around in my tracks. His voice had lost the level, passive tone; it had taken on the timbre of action. Suddenly, with a quick rustle of silken garments, he stood up behind the desk; the abrupt motion threw his shadow across the floor and up the opposite wall. With a subtle thrill of anticipation, I felt the profound psychic change that had come over my friend. The very air of the room had quickened before that single exclamation, as if a cold breeze had blown through.... A breeze, indeed, was at that moment trying hard to find an entrance; the absolute silence of the room brought out in sharp relief the tumult outside, the hoarse voice of the rising gale. We stood as if listening. I looked at Lee Fu, caught his eye. It was charged with energy and purpose, with something like relief—like the eye of a man who has made up his mind after a long period of bewilderment, who begins to understand.... "’Send him in, alone’ said he in Chinese to Sing Toy, now at the outer door. "’Who is it?’ I asked hoarsely. "’The man we have been speaking of’ "’Wilbur? What the devil...?’ "’He merely dropped in as he was passing, to make a call’ said Lee Fu, speaking rapidly ’So he thinks—but I think otherwise’ Leaning forward across the desk, he fixed me with an extended arm that trembled slightly before it found its aim. ’Keep silence’ he commanded ’Beware of word or glance. This chanced by predestination. We are on the threshold of the gods’ V Lee Fu remained standing as Captain Wilbur entered the room. His hurried admonition still rang in my ears ’Keep silence—beware of word or glance!’ But I couldn’t have spoken; had I opened my mouth just then, it would have been only to emit a snarl of anger. To beware of glances was a different matter. The task might be easy enough for Lee Fu, with that perfect self-control of his that extended to the last nerve of his eyelids and the last muscle of his fingertips; but for my part I was spiritually incapable, as it were, of keeping rage and abomination out of my eyes. I stood as if rooted to the floor, gazing point-blank at Wilbur with a stare that must have made him wonder about my sanity. For, of course, he hadn’t the slightest suspicion that we knew what we knew. "’Good afternoon, Captain Wilbur’ said Lee Fu blandly ’Do you seek refuge from the storm?... I think you are acquainted with Captain Nichols, of the barque _Omega_. He arrived this morning from the Celebes’ "’Oh, how do you do, Nichols’ said Wilbur, advancing down the room ’I’ve missed you around town for a good while, it seems to me. So you’ve been off on one of your famous exploring trips? Then you’ll have a lot to tell us. I suppose you had the usual assortment of romantic and tragic adventures?’ "I drew back behind the desk, to escape shaking his hand. ’No’ I answered ’nothing like the adventure that awaited me here’ "He settled himself in a chair, directly in range of the light; smiled, and lifted his eyebrows. ’So...? Well, I can believe you. This office, you know, is the heart of all adventure. The most romantic room in the East—presided over by the very genius of romance’ He bowed toward Lee Fu, and touched a match to a long Manila. ’Genius, or demon, which is it, now?’ he chuckled, his eyes twinkling from Lee Fu to me. "’You honour me, Captain’ interposed Lee Fu quickly, cutting me off from the necessity of speaking. ’If, indeed, you do not flatter. I merely observe and live. It is life that may be called the heart of all adventure—life, with its amazing secrets that one by one transpire into the day, and with its enormous burden of evil that weighs us down like slaves’ "Wilbur laughed. ’Yes, that’s it, no doubt. But there’s some good, too, Lee Fu—plenty of good. Don’t be a pessimist. Yet you’re right enough in a way; the evil always does manage to be more romantic’ "’Much more romantic’ observed Lee Fu ’And the secrets are more romantic still. Consider, for instance, the case of a man with a dark secret that by chance has become known, though he is not aware of the fact. How infinitely romantic! He feels secure; yet inevitably it will be disclosed. When, and how? Such a case would be well worth watching... as the great poet had in mind when he wrote "Murder will out"’ "The winged words made no impression on their mark. Wilbur met Lee Fu’s glance frankly, innocently, with interest and even with a trace of amusement at the other’s flight of fancy. The full light of the lamp illuminated his features, the least fleeting expression couldn’t have escaped us. By Jove, he was superb; the damned rascal hadn’t a nerve in his body. To be sure, he still had no suspicion, and attributed Lee Fu’s shaft to a mere chance; yet this very factor of safety lent additional point to the finish of his dissimulation. He might at least have indulged himself in a start, a glance, a knitting of the eyebrows; his conscience, or his memory if he hadn’t a conscience, might have received a faint surprise. But his watchfulness must have been unfailing, automatic. Or was it that a reminder of his appalling crime woke no echo at all in his breast? "I examined him closely. Above a trimmed brown beard his cheeks showed the ruddy colour of health and energy; his eyes were steady, his mouth was strong and clean, a head of fine grey hair surmounted a high forehead; the whole aspect of his countenance was pleasing and dignified. He had good hands, broad yet closely knit, and ruddy with the same glow of health that rose in his face. He was dressed neatly in a plain blue serge suit, with square-toed russet shoes encasing small feet, a dark bow-tie at his throat, and a narrow gold watch chain strung across his vest. Sitting at ease, with an arm thrown over the chair-back and one ankle resting on the other knee, he presented a fine figure of a man, a figure that might have been that of a prosperous and benevolent merchant, a man who had passed through the world with merit and integrity, and now was enjoying his just reward. "He gave a hearty laugh. ’For the Lord’s sake, you fellows, come on out of the gloom!’ he cried ’A pretty state of mind you seem to have worked yourselves into, hobnobbing here behind closed doors. I drop in for a chat, and find a couple of blue devils up to their ears in the sins of humanity. Nichols, over there, is just as bad as the other; he’s scarcely opened his mouth since I came in. What’s the matter?... You have to fight these moods, you know’ he quizzed ’It doesn’t do to let them get the upper hand’ "’It is the mood of the approaching storm’ said Lee Fu quietly ’We have been speaking of typhoons, and of the fate that they sometimes bring to men’ "A fiercer squall than the last shook the building; it passed in a moment, ceasing suddenly, as if dropping us somewhere in mid-air. Wilbur was the first to speak after the uproar. "’Yes, it’s going to be another terror, I’m afraid. A bad night to be on the water, gentlemen. I shouldn’t care to be threshing around outside, now, as poor Turner was such a short time ago’ "I could have struck him across the mouth for the shocking callousness of the words. A bad night outside! He dared to speak of it; he, sitting there so comfortably, so correctly, alive and well, glad to be safe in port and sorry for those afloat—the same remorseless devil who had sent Turner to his doom. "Lee Fu’s voice fell like oil on a breaking sea. ’All signs point to another severe typhoon. But, as I was telling Captain Nichols, these late storms are often irregular—like the early ones.... It happened, Captain Wilbur, that the loss of the _Speedwell_ was the subject we were discussing when you came in’ "’Too bad—too bad’ said Wilbur soberly, as if overcome by thoughts of the disaster ’You were away, Nichols, weren’t you? Of course!—then you’ve just heard of it. It was a bad week here, I can tell you, after the news came in. I shall never forget it.... Well, we take our chances....’ "’Some of us do, and some of us don’t’ I snapped. "’That’s just the way I felt about it, at the time’ said he simply ’I didn’t feel right, to have both feet on the ground. Seemed as if there must have been something we could have done, something we had neglected. It came home hard to me’ "My jaw fairly dropped as I listened to the man. Something he had neglected?... Was it possible that he liked to talk about the affair? He didn’t seem anxious to turn the conversation. "’Captain Nichols and I were wondering’ observed Lee Fu ’why it was that the _Speedwell_ did not remain afloat, after she had cast her anchors. Neither of us can recall another incident of the kind. What is your opinion, Captain Wilbur; you have examined the hull, as it lies on the bottom’ "’It isn’t a matter of opinion’ Wilbur answered ’Haven’t I told you?—I thought I’d seen you since the inspection. I put on a diver’s suit, you know, Nichols, and went down.... Why, the simple explanation is, her starboard bow-port in the lower hold is stove in. It must have happened after she came to anchor. She lay there just scooping up water at every plunge—filled and sank as she lay. I’ve always been afraid of those big bow-ports; the moment I heard of the peculiar circumstances of the disaster, I knew in my heart what had happened’ "’Did you?’ inquired Lee Fu, with a slight hardening of the voice ’Strange—but so did I’ "Wilbur gazed at him questioningly, knitting his brows. ’Oh, yes, I remember. I was wondering how you happened to think of her bow-ports. But you told me that you had examined them....’ "’Yes, I examined them.... Captain Wilbur, have you collected your insurance money?’ The question came with an abruptness that marked a change of tactics; to me, who knew Lee Fu so well, it obviously marked the first turning point in some as yet impenetrable plan. "Wilbur frowned and glanced up sharply, very properly offended. The next moment he had decided to pass it off as an instance of alien manners. ’As a matter of fact, I’ve just cleaned up to-day’ he replied brusquely ’Had my final settlement with Lloyds this morning—and did a silly thing, as a fellow will sometimes. You know, they had a package of large denomination bank notes in the office, crisp, wonderful looking fellows; I took a sudden fancy for them, and in a moment of childishness asked to have my money in that form. They chaffed me a good deal, but I stuck to it. You’d hardly believe, would you, that a fellow would be such a fool? I can prove it to you, though; I’ve got those bills in my pocket now. By Jove, that reminds me—what time is it getting to be? I must leave them at the bank before it closes’ "’What is the total amount of the bank notes that you have in your possession?’ asked Lee Fu in a level tone that carried its own insult. Wilbur plainly showed his astonishment now. ’The total amount?... Well, if you want all the details, I have about forty thousand dollars in my pocket. I’m not aware, however, that it’s any concern of yours....’ "Lee Fu shot at me a stare full of meaning; it might have been a look of caution, or a glance of triumph. I was expected to understand something; but for the life of me I couldn’t catch the drift of the situation. Confused by the terrific struggle to keep my mouth shut, I only perceived that a crisis was impending. "’As I was saying, I once examined the bow-ports of the _Speedwell_’ Lee Fu calmly resumed. ’At that time, I satisfied myself as to their construction; unlike you, Captain Wilbur, I could not be afraid of them. When properly fastened, they were impregnable to any danger of the sea.... And I remember, Captain, that it occurred to me, as I examined their fastenings, how easily these ports could be loosened from within, by anyone who desired to sink the vessel. The iron cross-bars could be lifted from their brackets by a single strong man; with a small tackle they could be dropped without noise into the bottom. No one need know of it; and, lo, the ship would sail to meet her destiny riding on the waves. Has the thought ever occurred to you, Captain Wilbur?’ "Wilbur’s air of mingled repugnance and perplexity was innocence itself. ’I can’t say that it has’ he answered shortly ’Your imagination is a little morbid, Lee Fu—I won’t say worse. Who would want to sink the _Speedwell_, I’d like to know?’ "’Who, indeed?’ observed Lee Fu, staring at Wilbur with a steady, biting gaze. As he stared, he reached out slowly with his right hand and opened the top drawer of the desk. Suddenly he stood up. The hand held a revolver, which pointed with an unwavering aim at Wilbur’s breast. "’If you move from your chair, Captain, I will shoot you dead, and your end will never be known’ said he rapidly, throwing a cold determination into his voice ’It is time we came to an understanding, for the day wanes’ "Wilbur uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and looked at Lee Fu narrowly. ’What’s the joke?’ he demanded. "’A joke that will be clear as time goes on—like one you played with bow-ports on my friend.... Captain, we are about to go on a journey. Will you join us, Captain Nichols, or will you remain on shore?’ "The question was perfunctory; whatever was in the wind, Lee Fu knew that my decision rested in his hands. I stood up—for until now I’d been chained to my chair by the amazing turn of the moment. "’Bow-ports?...’ Wilbur was saying ’Put that gun down. What in hell do you mean?’ He started to rise. ’Sit down!’ commanded Lee Fu ’I mean that I will shoot. This is not play’ Their eyes met in a sharp struggle, which Lee Fu won. Wilbur sank back, angry and confused. "’Are you crazy, Lee Fu?’ he growled ’What is it—do you want to rob me? What’s the meaning of this nonsense, Nichols? Have both of you gone mad?’ "’No, Captain’ interposed Lee Fu ’But we have found a man who wanted to sink the _Speedwell_,, and we wish to observe him under certain conditions.... Is it possible that you do not as yet comprehend that I share your secret? You were seen, Captain, that black and cruel night in the forepeak; and those details, also, are known to me. It is needless to dissemble longer’ "’That night in the forepeak?... For God’s sake, Lee Fu, what are you talking about? Nichols, this is too ridiculous! Tell me the answer, and get over with it’ "’Ah!’ exclaimed Lee Fu with something like satisfaction ’You are worthy of the occasion, Captain. It will be most interesting’ "He slapped his palm sharply on the desk; Sing Toy appeared at the door as if by a mechanical arrangement. ’Bring oilskin coats and hats for three’ Lee Fu commanded ’Also send in haste to my cruising sampan, with orders to prepare for an immediate journey. Have water and food prepared for a week. We come within the half-hour, and will sail without delay’ "’Master!’ protested Sing Toy breathlessly—their words, in rapid Chinese, were wholly unintelligible to Wilbur. ’Master, the typhoon!’ He glanced at the revolver in Lee Fu’s hand, then raised his eyes to the wall that smothered the tumult of the gale. "’I know, fool’ answered Lee Fu ’I am neither deaf nor blind. But it is necessary to sail. Go, quickly, do as I say’ "He sat down, resting the revolver on the corner of the desk, and resumed his former tone of bland conversation ’I am sorry, gentlemen, that the rain has already come; but there is water also below, as Captain Wilbur should be well aware. Yes, it was destined from the first that this should be a wet journey. Yet it will be possible still to breathe; not quite so bad as solid water all around, where after a grim struggle one lies at rest, neither caring nor remembering.... Captain Wilbur, attend to what I say. We go from this office to my sampan, which lies moored at the bulkhead, not far away. During the walk, you will precede us. I shall hold my revolver in my hand—and I am an excellent shot. If you attempt to escape, or to communicate with any passerby—if you call for help, or even disclose by your manner the strangeness of the occasion—you will immediately be dead. Bear this in mind. And do not think that I should fear the consequences; we shall pass through Chinese streets, where action of mine would not be questioned’ "’Damn you!’ Wilbur burst out ’What crazy nonsense are you up to? Nichols, will you permit this? Where are you taking me?’ "’Never mind’ replied Lee Fu ’As for Captain Nichols, he knows, if anything, less than you do about it. He, also, is at my mercy.... Ah, here are the raincoats. Put one on, Captain Wilbur; you will need it sorely before your return. Now we must hurry. I would be clear of the harbour before darkness falls entirely’ VI "As we issued from the doorway, the gale caught us with a swirl that carried us round the corner and down a side street before we could get our breath. ’To the right’ Lee Fu shouted. Wilbur, lurching ahead, obeyed sullenly. We came about and made for the water front through the fringe of the Chinese quarter—the most remarkable trio, perhaps, that had ever threaded those familiar thoroughfares. Few people were abroad; a Chinaman now and then scurried to cover in our path, and more infrequently we caught sight of a stray European in the distance, called out somewhere by the exigencies of business. "Overhead, the sky had settled low on the slope of the Peak, cutting off the heights from view; it presented the aspect of a heavy leaden roof, spreading above the mainland to northward, fitting tight along the horizon, and seeming to compress the whole atmosphere. Torrents of rain fell from the frequent squalls; the running water in the streets spurted about our ankles. We floundered on, enveloped in a sort of grey gloom like that of an eclipse. When we reached the harbour, the face of the bay had undergone a sinister change; its yellow-green waters were lashed into sickly foam, and shrouded by an unnatural gleaming darkness. A distant moaning sound ran through the upper air, vague yet distinctly audible. It was evident to the practised eye that the southern margin of the typhoon wasn’t far away; with the wind in this quarter, its centre was headed straight in our direction. "As we staggered along the quay, my thoughts worked rapidly. The wind and the open had cleared my mind as to the swift events of the last half-hour; I began to perceive the plan, now, and immediately recognized the dangerous nature of the undertaking on which we’d embarked. It was to be a game of bluff, in which we should have to risk our lives if the other held his ground. I’d seen Lee Fu in action; I knew that he would hesitate at nothing, since his face was committed to the enterprise. "I edged toward him. ’Will you go on the water?’ I asked close to his ear. "He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Wilbur. "’But it can’t be done’ I told him ’A boat won’t live....’ "’There is always a definite alternative’ he replied. "’Yes, that she sinks’ "’Exactly’ "I drew away, reviewing the details once more.... All at once, in a flash of enlightenment, the greatness of the occasion came to me. By Jove! Lee Fu had taken the matter into his own hands, he had stepped in where the gods were impotent. But not rudely, as men are apt to do in sudden passion; not with blood and vengeance, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. No, he had observed the divine proprieties; had recognized that if he presumed
all the secrecy? And the guard. What is the guard?" "The less you know about that the safer you'll be." Doctor Chedwick's mouth shut like a trap. He stabbed at a button on his desk. "You'll be contacted on Asgard. Everything will be explained then. Meanwhile say nothing about the tattoo mark. Say nothing about our conversation to any one. Understand?" Joel nodded. The door opened and the attendant reappeared. Doctor Chedwick said, "Put this man in 745B. He's had training and practical experience in animal husbandry and he's husky as an ox. He's to be shipped to Asgard with the next labor battalion. Take him away." * * * * * The attendant turned Joel over to a guard who escorted him from the offices into the clear plastic division of the dome. It was like stepping out into space. He sucked in his breath. He could see straight down through level after level for hundreds of feet. Dormitories lined the passage on either hand. He could see men and women asleep in their bunks, sitting at tables, taking showers or dressing. The transparent walls were soundproof, and Joel experienced the peculiar sensation of walking through an animated silence. They were approaching a small ante chamber that must be a guard room. Half a dozen armed and uniformed men were sitting about a table playing cards. Beyond the transparent walls of the guard room Joel could see into another chamber. It was long and low and lined with bunks like the fo'cs'le of a spaceship. Forty or fifty people in gray were milling about two men on the floor who seemed to be doing their best to murder each other. "Here's a new guinea-pig for the labor battalion, Captain," said Joel's escort, pushing him into the guard room. With a grunt of annoyance, a tall man rose from the table and surveyed Joel with bleak gray eyes. His blue tunic was unbuttoned at the throat, his holster pushed around in back. "Papers," he snapped. Joel's escort handed over a folder, which the captain took to his desk. Joel's eyes returned to the next room. It was like being in a soundproof broadcasting cage, watching two men batter at each other beyond the glass. One of the men had the other by the throat and was throttling him. The strangler's arms were corded; his face shone with sweat; there was an insane fixed glare in his eyes. The other man's tongue was protruding, as he tore at his assailant's wrists. "My God!" Joel burst out. "Aren't you going to break it up?" "Let them kill themselves," said the captain indifferently. He opened the door. "In with you," he said and shoved Joel into the melee. Bedlam burst on his ears as he stumbled into the room. A woman was screaming in a shrill hysterical voice. The men milled about pushing to see better. No one paid any attention to him. He clenched his fists. He couldn't stand by and watch a man murdered. Impulsively, he shouldered through the press, got his hands on the strangler's wrists, tore them away. "Here!" somebody yelled. "Leave 'em be, you fool!" He ignored the warning, heaved the man from his victim. The fellow came to his feet, stared at him with that glazed intensity as if he didn't realize what had happened. Then without a sound he hurled himself at Joel's throat! III Joel wasn't taken entirely by surprise. But the ferocity of the attack drove him back a few steps. He wrapped his arms about the man's shoulders and hung on. A furious animal smell filled his nostrils. The man was berserk, his breath whistling through his teeth as he strove to tear himself free. Then like a mad dog, he sank his teeth in Joel's shoulder. Joel gave a yelp of surprise, pushed him off, hit him with his clubbed fist. His assailant reeled backwards, staggered to his knees. He was a giant of a fellow with shaggy black hair and curious yellow-gray eyes. Joel was on him like a tiger, smashing his fist into the giant's unprotected face. The man lunged over backwards, rolled to his belly and tried to push himself to his hands and knees. Joel kicked him behind the ear. The giant's arms collapsed. His face struck the floor and he lay still. The other prisoners had drawn back against the bunks. There was a minute of stunned silence. Then with whoops of delight they crowded around slapping his back, shaking his hand. Joel was too surprised to utter a word. The man who had been throttled, was sitting up massaging his throat. He regarded Joel with a puzzled expression. "Thanks," he wheezed painfully, "but what made you risk your neck?" "Risk my neck?" "You're new, aren't you?" asked the man, pulling himself to his feet and holding out his hand. "I'm Nick Thorp." Joel introduced himself. Thorp, he saw, was short and husky with prematurely gray hair and blue eyes bright as bits of china. "You've made yourself a wicked enemy," Thorp observed, prodding the giant with his toe. "That's Walt Eriss." "Walt Eriss!" Joel's green eyes widened. Walt Eriss' trial had created the sensation of the decade. Walt Eriss had been a brilliant surgeon, but with a pathological twist. A modern Jack the Ripper who delighted in torturing his patients. He had killed forty-three women by his own confession before he was apprehended! Joel stared at the hulking form as if it were some monster. "But why were the others letting him throttle you?" he asked Nick Thorp. "Why didn't they stop him?" "They're afraid of him." "But they could've ganged him...." Joel stopped with his mouth open. A bell had begun to ring with an ear-splitting clangor! Muttered exclamations burst from the prisoners as they exchanged alarmed glances. The bell continued to ring. "What's happening?" Joel asked. Nick Thorp shook his grizzled head. "I don't know. But the bell's a signal for us to line up at our bunks." Joel realized that the other prisoners had formed in a row down the walls. He glanced about uncertainly. "There's a vacant bunk beside mine," Nick Thorp suggested. Joel gratefully took his place beside Thorp. The bell fell silent. Everyone was staring through the wall into the guardroom. The guards had abandoned their card game, he saw. They were straightening their uniforms, buttoning their tunics. He could see the passage beyond and two men making their way along it. One, he recognized, was Doctor Chedwick, white-frocked and moon-faced. The other was a short man with a truculent walk. He was wearing the green uniform of a space man. A low excited buzz arose from the prisoners. Joel caught words here and there. "Asgard! So soon!" He felt tight with excitement and glanced surreptitiously at the girl beside him. She was an exotic elfin creature, even in the shapeless gray coveralls. Her black eyes and hair, the smooth olive of her complexion lent her the appearance of an Arab. He wondered what crime she had committed that had condemned her to the Experimental Station. Then the door to the guardroom was flung violently open. The captain appeared in the entrance and shouted, "Attention!" * * * * * The whispering ceased as the guards in their peacock blue and yellow filed into the dormitory. They were carrying a long plastic chain, which they stretched down the center of the floor. About every yard, Joel saw that a metal collar had been linked to the chain. Doctor Chedwick came through the door with the green-uniformed spaceman beside him. "This is Sam Mullin," he said indicating the spaceman. "Third mate of the _Zenith_. Mister Mullin will be responsible for you while you're aboard the _Zenith_. You're to be embarked at once...." Joel's heart leaped against his ribs. Even the archaic title of "mister" had a heady sound. It was a tradition among spacemen, he knew. Only officers of Star Ships were called "mister." "What's this?" Doctor Chedwick interrupted himself catching sight of the unconscious figure of Eriss on the floor. "There was a fight, Doctor," the captain hastened to explain. "The new man and Walt Eriss." "Hakkyt knocked out Eriss?" The captain nodded. Doctor Chedwick shot Joel a startled glance. "Watch those fists of yours, young man. You're too free with them." Then to the captain, "Revive Eriss and shackle the prisoners." Joel noticed that the guards were careful to fasten one of the collars about the ex-surgeon's neck before they broke a vial of some liquid and held it under his nose. Eriss opened his eyes and sat up groggily. Then his gaze fastened on Joel. With a bellow of rage he was on his feet, charging across the room like a mad bull. Three men, hanging onto the chain, snubbed him up short! Eriss wheeled furiously, found himself facing half a dozen drawn paralyzers and brought up with a curse. Joel could see the veins throb in the giant's temples. But the captain turned indifferently to the other prisoners. "Line up beside the chain." Joel took his place between the black-haired girl and Nick Thorp. The collar was snapped about his throat. In single file and with a good deal of tripping, the prisoners, chained neck to neck, tramped through the door. Doctor Chedwick left them at the main corridor, but the Captain and Mister Mullin helped the guards herd them into a lift. They dropped soundlessly level after level until they were well below the surface. At length the lift stopped, the doors opened. To his surprise Joel saw that there was a pneumatic station beneath the dome, and a train was waiting in the tube. They were shepherded into a coach. They had a good deal of trouble arranging themselves in the seats because of the chain linking them together, but at last it was done. Captain Goplerud blew a whistle and swung inside the car. The door slammed shut. With a powerful surge and a whoosh the train shot off. Joel found himself beside Nick Thorp. "Where do you suppose we're going?" he asked breathlessly. "Nu York," Thorp replied. "All the Star Ships berth at the White Plains spaceport. We're lucky. The _Zenith's_ a crack luxury liner. No being battened down in the hold of some stinking freighter for us." "You've been to space before?" Thorp turned his incredibly blue eyes on Joel. "For twenty-three years. Rocket ships and Star Ships. I never thought I'd see space again...." Joel eyed the battered gray-haired spaceman with increased respect. Here was a man who'd seen the stews of Venusport, breathed the murky air of Jovopolis, gazed out on the frigid whiteness of Pluto. "Then you've been to Asgard?" "Many's the time. Wait 'til you see it, lad. Jungles and rain and crawling plants that can pluck a man off the ground and devour him quick as a cat!" Joel was fascinated. The train slid along with a monotonous roar that shut them in a cell of privacy. "Who's the girl?" he asked, nodding at the elfin sloe-eyed brunette in the seat ahead. Nick Thorp's eyes twinkled. "Tamis Ravitz. She used to be a dancer. Poisoned her dancing partner in a fit of jealous rage. So I've heard." Joel was shocked and looked it. Thorp's battered features cracked into a broad grin. "We're a rum bunch. None of us can afford to throw stones at the others." Joel felt the rebuke in his words and reddened. * * * * * The spaceman had slumped in the seat and closed his eyes. The dull roar of the train had a soothing quality. But Joel was too keyed up to relax. He kept thinking of the humanoid guard and the fluorescent tattoo mark on his elbow and Doctor Chedwick saying: "The less you know about them, the safer you'll be. Someone will contact you at Asgard. Don't mention our conversation to anyone...." A buzzer began to whirr softly. The train braked. The guards rose and shouted, "On your feet! On your feet! Line up in the aisle." The train wooshed to a soft stop as if it had run into a foam rubber cushion. The doors slid back, letting in a thundering bedlam of sound. Joel found himself staring out into a vast groined hall lit by harsh violet light. Streams of beetle-like robot trucks, piled high with baggage, darted along elevated roadways. People were everywhere, a crazy throng like a disturbed colony of ants. He drew a ragged breath, feeling his heart thud against his ribs. The metal collar jerked against his throat and he fell into step. They shuffled out of the coach onto a long ramp. A huge red sign directly ahead caught Joel's eyes. Its flashing letters were at least ten feet high. CENTAURUS FLIGHT TAKE-OFF--15:52 STAR SHIP ZENITH The file of prisoners made straight for the sign, entered a narrow corridor that sloped downward like a tunnel. From the tunnel they emerged into the maw of a huge pit. Joel rubbed his eyes. He'd never seen the rocket pits before. The _Zenith_, a dull black, bullet-shaped monster, rested on her fins with her nose pointing straight up towards the starry black firmament. Gangplanks like airy cobwebs spanned the gap between the Star Ship and the blackened concrete walls. The file of prisoners crawled out along one of the gangplanks. They were in the center of it, when Joel felt Nick Thorp's fingers close like a vise on his shoulder. "Look! Overhead! We're having distinguished company this voyage!" Joel glanced up. * * * * * Above and to one side another gangplank crossed the gap. A stout man was leaning on the rail and watching the prisoners. Beside him stood a young woman with the warm beautiful face of a Venusian dancing girl. She was clad in a short green coat with exaggerated square-cut shoulders, and for one shocked moment Joel thought that she didn't have on anything beneath it. Then he realized that she must be wearing shorts which the coat was just long enough to hide. For the rest, he received a swift impression of long shapely tanned legs, sooty lashes, green eyes and hair. _Green hair!_ Then their eyes met--met and held. There was a swift outleaping of spirit between them, an indescribable feeling of kinship, of recognition. Joel felt shaken, bewitched. A smile was trembling on the girl's half-parted lips. And then he had been carried into the ship and he couldn't see her any longer. "Who were they?" he asked unsteadily. "Humphrey Cameron, Governor of Asgard," Thorp explained. "The girl was his daughter, Priscilla Cameron." Tamis Ravitz said over her shoulder, "Did you see that hair? _Green!_ She's been the talk of Terra." Joel thought the dancer sounded envious. They were shuffling single file down a long corridor that led straight into the bowels of the ship. A vague rumbling made the deck tremble beneath his feet. He heard shouted orders, the sound of the gangplank being run in. His face whitened in the raw violet light. All thoughts of the green haired Priscilla Cameron were driven from his mind. From the passage the prisoners were herded into a long low chamber outfitted with tables. Here they were unchained. Mister Mullin glanced at his chronometer. "Take-off in fifteen minutes," he warned. "Strap yourselves into your bunks." He disappeared at a run. The guards filed out of the prisoner's mess locking the door behind them. "Come along," Thorp urged Joel as a wild clangor broke out from the stem to stern of the _Zenith_. "We've time for a quick look around before we get settled." Joel followed him wordlessly into the sleeping quarters. Beyond the fo'cs'le were the washrooms and that was all. A second bell rang just as they flung themselves into empty bunks. The rumble of the tubes mounted into a furious roar. A trip hammer struck Joel in the chest, pinned him into the cushion. He gasped, strained to inflate his lungs. The _Zenith_ was off! IV Joel felt himself grow heavier, heavier. His arms were lead. The sweat glistened on his homely drawn features. His green eyes lost their sparkle. After what seemed hours, he heard Nick Thorp croak from his bunk overhead, "Watch y'self. Stellar drive! Any minute!" Joel felt a surge of unreasoning fear. A bell rang suddenly. "That's it!" Thorp warned. "Lie still." As suddenly as it had struck, the acceleration ceased. A terrifying sensation of weightlessness possessed him. He felt as if he were falling--falling! He wanted to spring from the bunk, but remembered Thorp's warning. Startled cries burst from the passengers. Several of them jumped up. From the corner of his eye Joel saw them shoot to the overhead where they hung kicking. Then the artificial gravity came on and they fell back to the deck a great deal faster than they'd gone up. Thorp climbed down. "You can get up now." Joel scrambled to his feet. He felt light, giddy. Nick Thorp took a look at his alarmed countenance and burst into laughter. "You'll get your space legs quick enough," he assured Joel. "The gravity aboard ship is only about a third of Earth's pull. You'll enjoy it when you get used to it." Joel had his doubts about that, but when he glanced at the antics of the others he couldn't resist a grin. A tall red-haired girl kept bounding into the air at each step. Then she flipped all the way over and lit on her bottom. Just then a whistle blew. Joel wheeled around to find Mister Mullin, the third mate, standing in the door to the mess-room. "Line up at your bunks," the third ordered. "This is a Star Ship and no stinking freighter. You'll be expected to keep your quarters clean. Inspection every day!" "Day?" someone asked. "We're on Earth time. Lights out at twenty-two hours and on again at six. Meals at eight, twelve and eighteen hours." With the same dispatch he divided the prisoners into squads of four and assigned each their job. Joel was relieved to find that he and Nick Thorp were in the same group along with Tamis Ravitz, the dancer, and another man whom Joel didn't know. Their job, it developed, was to keep the mess-room in order. Mister Mullin glanced at his watch, said, "It's eighteen hours now. You can go in to dinner," and trotted out. Joel realized that he hadn't eaten in hours. He was famished. He hastened into the mess-room and sat down at a table along with Nick Thorp and Tamis Ravitz. The tables, which seated four, were built against the bulkheads down each side of the mess-room. Joel was pressing the button for his meal when a tall handsome man with a black goatee approached them. "I'm Gustav Liedl," he introduced himself in a cultured voice. "I've been assigned to your squad. I thought it an excellent opportunity to become better acquainted." "Sit down," Nick Thorp invited, introducing the others. Joel's dinner arrived just then via a slot in the bulkhead and he addressed himself to it silently. Gustav Liedl, though, dawdled over his meal, talking with Tamis. "Yes," Joel heard Liedl say in reply to one of Tamis' questions. "I was a professor." He made a rueful face, tugging at his black goatee. "At the Sorbonne. Anthropology was my subject." "Anthropology!" Joel interrupted. "Then you must have some ideas about the natives of Asgard. What they are? Why no one has ever seen them?" Liedl regarded Joel with a smile. "Ah, the elusive Centaurians! Yes. I've a theory about the Asgardian natives. I spent several years, you know, studying their villages with the Sorbonne's Asgardian Institute...." Joel, glancing at Tamis, surprised a startled, half-frightened expression on her smooth ivory countenance. "I've a theory," Liedl repeated, "that the Centaurians are masters of camouflage. I doubt very seriously that they are human. They may even be a quasi-intelligent species of plant life. Have you ever seen the Asgardian jungles, young man?" "No," Joel admitted. "Horrible!" Liedl said. "Plants with snaky tendrils like jointless arms. And they aren't rooted. They're capable of independent motion. It's amazing the number of Asgardian species that can move around freely as mammals." Tamis said gaily, "Then you think the anthropologists have been looking for a man-like animal when all the time the natives have been plants who crept off into the jungle and hid?" "Exactly!" "Sounds like a reasonable explanation," Thorp admitted. "I've seen those Asgardian jungles. Crawling, thrashing masses of vegetation." He shook his head. "It gives a body the creeps." "But how can anything live in that jungle?" Joel protested. Liedl said triumphantly: "Nothing could! _Nothing but plants!_" * * * * * Fifteen minutes before twenty-two hours, a warning bell rang and the lights dimmed. Nick Thorp showed Joel the clothes locker where he could secure sleepers. The lights went out while Joel was taking his shower. He switched on the dryer in the dark. After a few seconds his eyes began to adjust. There was a dim night lamp in the mess-room beyond the fo'cs'le. Joel could see by its reflected light almost as well as he could by day. The only difference was the absence of color. Everything appeared in varying shades of gray like a photograph. The deadening effect of the chemicals that had been used to purify the air of the Experimental Station was beginning to wear off. A medley of familiar and unfamiliar smells beset his nostrils. All at once, he halted. There was something here that shouldn't be. Joel could smell it. A strange alien odor that he'd caught only once before. It was the same smell that had clung to the humanoid guard! Joel's nostrils flared, but the odor was so faint that he couldn't tell from whence it came. It might be emanating from any one of the gray figures placidly asleep in the gray bunks. He moved to his own bunk and lay down, but he couldn't sleep. That strange scent had acted like a dash of cold water. He didn't know how long he lay there. Hours, it seemed. There was no sound beyond the muted rumble of the _Zenith's_ jets, the snores of some of the prisoners. The temperature had dropped automatically when the lights were extinguished. He adjusted the thermal unit in his sleepers and closed his eyes. A faint noise from across the fo'cs'le brought them open again instantly. The gray elfin figure of Tamis Ravitz, the dancer, he saw, was rising cautiously from her bunk. She was barefooted, clad in the loose sleepers. She put her hand to her eyes. When it came away, she swept the fo'cs'le with a brief glance. Joel almost forgot to breathe. The dancer had done something to her eyes because they glowed faintly with an eerie flame! Joel's pulse throbbed in his ears. Tamis, he saw, was moving to the next bunk with a soundless cat-like glide. She pointed a slender metal cylinder at the man who lay sleeping there. A bright green spot sprang out on the man's arm! The tattoo mark! The cylinder must be a source of black light able to kick fluorescence out of the tattoo marks. What did it mean? Who was Tamis? From sleeping figure to sleeping figure, the girl glided. Sometimes she found the tattoo mark; sometimes she didn't. She was approaching Joel's bunk. He forced himself to relax, to breathe evenly as if in a deep sleep. Then she was hovering over him.... Joel's hand closed with a crushing grip about her wrist, yanked her off her feet into the bunk! Tamis uttered one smothered cry, struggled soundlessly. Then she seemed to realize the futility of trying to break free and went limp. Joel could feel her warm lithe body pinned against him. A strange alien scent filled his nostrils. It was delicate, flower-like, yet utterly alien. The hair lifted on the back of his neck like the hackles of a dog. He found himself staring deep into the girl's eyes. They had no pupil, no color, only a weird flickering light in their depths that glimmered like candle flame. A shudder of revulsion swept over him. Tamis Ravitz, the dancer, wasn't human! "Who are you?" Joel asked in a low hoarse voice. "What are you?" "Please! Softly!" She lay beside him, relaxed, breathing tremulously. "What are you?" he repeated. "I can't tell you." "You'll tell me or I'll turn you over to the guards. What did you do to your eyes?" "This." She held up a pair of contact lenses. Realistic pupils and iris, Joel saw, had been moulded into the thin slivers of glass. She slipped them quickly into place. Her eyes looked normal, human. They were a perfect disguise. "What are you?" Joel asked fiercely. "I'm a mutation." "No, you're not. I can tell by your scent! You're not human!" The girl went rigid. Then she began to kick and twist and squirm desperately. Joel pinned down her legs, tightened his grip. "D'you want me to yell for the guards?" "No! No!" she breathed in panic. "Then tell me what this is all about!" "Have you the tattoo mark?" * * * * * Joel held up his left arm, being careful to retain a grip on her with the other. She trained the cylinder at his elbow. The green spot began to fluoresce. "Ah," she breathed, relaxing limply. "You _are_ a legitimate maladjustment case. I thought you were a spy...." Her voice trailed off. Joel remained silent. "Believe me," she said. "I can't tell all. Not now. It's too dangerous. Suppose someone should wake and find me here!" "What are you?" he repeated stonily. She hesitated; then, putting her lips against his ear, she breathed, "Ganelon. I'm ganelon--not human. I--I am a native of the planet you humans call Asgard." "But how have you escaped detection? Why hasn't anyone ever seen a Centaurian?" "They've seen us--often." There was the suggestion of a giggle in Tamis' low voice. "Perhaps, like Professor Liedl thinks, we're plants." "No. You're animal. I can tell. Maybe you could fool my eyes but not my nose." "That nose of yours. It is unfair. _You_ are the mutation!" She gave a silvery chuckle and then clapped her hand over her mouth. "Please," she begged. "I must go. We are courting discovery!" "You haven't told me...." "Tomorrow night," she interrupted. Suddenly she stiffened. Joel heard it too. The faint noise of a heavy body shifting in one of the bunks. His eyes darted across the darkened fo'cs'le! Walt Eriss, the burly ex-surgeon, had raised himself to one elbow and was staring across into their bunk. Joel's heart stood still. How long had Eriss been awake? Had he heard anything? Joel could distinguish his features clearly but in shadings of gray and black. Eriss' eyes were narrowed, his mouth open in an expression of acute concentration. "Does he see us?" Tamis breathed in terror. "No." The word carried only as far as the girl's ear. With a swift cat-like movement, Tamis slid to her feet and stood like a gray statue. The shaggy giant was swinging his legs silently over the edge of his bunk. With infinite caution he began to creep towards them. Joel stood up beside Tamis. Around him there was silence broken only by the low breathing of the prisoners, the faint rumble of the _Zenith's_ jets. He pressed himself against the foot of the bunk, waiting, waiting for that stalking gray giant to creep within reach. Joel didn't dare breathe. The ex-surgeon was so close that he could see his lips drawn back from his teeth, his blind staring eyes trying to probe the blackness. It took an effort of will to realize that it was too dark for Eriss to see anything. Another step. Joel set himself. Eriss' foot glided forward. He was within reach. Joel's balled fist came up like a sledge-hammer, cracked solidly against the point of Eriss' chin. There was a distinct "pop!" as the ex-surgeon's jawbone broke. His head snapped back, his knees buckled.... [Illustration: _Joel's balled fist came up like a sledge-hammer._] Joel stepped forward, caught him beneath the arms. Walt Eriss was out cold. "Tamis!" Joel hissed. "Yes?" "Grab his feet. We'll lay him in his bunk." Together they lifted the giant, hauled him across the deck, stowed him in his bed. "Tomorrow!" Tamis breathed. Joel saw her slide into her bunk. He retreated across the fo'cs'le and lay down, but his brain was reeling. What did the presence of a native Centaurian among the malcontents signify? Then he thought of Walt Eriss and a coldness flowed through his veins. How much had the ex-surgeon overheard of this? At length in utter emotional exhaustion, he dropped off to sleep. * * * * * Joel was awakened by lights and the angry sound of voices. He opened his eyes. Beams of light were darting here, there. The fo'cs'le seemed overflowing with guards in their gaudy blue and yellow uniforms. He caught sight of the third mate, tousle-haired and wearing a lemon yellow dressing gown. The third was saying, "By God, Captain Goplerud! What have we got this voyage? A gang of homicidal maniacs?" Walt Eriss, Joel saw, was sitting up mumbling inarticulately. His jaw was swollen and queerly crooked. The ship's doctor was fussing over him. "Jaw's broken," the doctor diagnosed. Captain Goplerud ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. "It's that damned Hakkyt!" he said. "Hakkyt did this." "Who's Hakkyt?" Mister Mullin wanted to know. "He's the fellow who beat up Eriss before." "Where is he?" "Here," said Joel swinging his feet to the deck. The beam of a flashlight struck him in the eyes. "D'you know anything about this?" Mister Mullin demanded. Joel shook his head. "Does anyone know anything about it?" the third mate cried swinging the light beam in a flashing arc. No one answered. Captain Goplerud said, "It's no use. They're tight-mouthed as clams." Mullin cursed, then he said, "Get this man to the hospital." Walt Eriss was bundled onto a stretcher. The guards moved off. The doctor, Mullin, and Captain Goplerud disappeared with the lights. Darkness settled once more over the fo'cs'le. For a moment there was silence. Then a prisoner asked, "What happened?" A babble of voices answered. Somebody said, "The first I heard was Eriss beating on the door to the guardroom. When it was opened he fainted and they carried him in here." Thorp leaned down from the bunk above. "You hurt, Joel?" "No. Why should I be?" He was answered by a chuckle. V When Joel sat down to breakfast the next morning, Tamis shot him a warning glance from beneath lowered lashes. The pallor of her cheeks was accentuated by her sooty hair. She had the exotic look of some temple harlot strayed through time from ancient Babylonia. Joel realized suddenly that Professor Liedl was talking to him. "What did you say?" he asked. "That was a splendid service you performed last night." "You mean Eriss? But I didn't do it." "You're too modest." Liedl combed his black van dyke with long brown fingers. "I'm a light sleeper, my boy. And my bunk, you may recall, is next yours." Joel's face stiffened. He glanced quickly at Tamis. The blood had drained from the girl's countenance. "What did you hear?" he asked in a frozen voice. "Don't be embarrassed. Your voices didn't carry, and I'm quite broadminded." Joel stared at him bewildered. Then the blood began to burn in his cheeks as it dawned on him what Liedl meant. "The old goat," he thought. "So that's what he believes!" And he felt suddenly relieved. Tamis' lashes were lowered. She bit her nether lip. But whether from amusement or confusion, he couldn't decide. Fortunately, at that moment the door to the guardroom opened. Mister Mullin stuck his head inside; shouted: "Get a move on. Inspection in fifteen minutes." With relief Joel made his escape. He didn't like Liedl's insinuation. He didn't like Liedl. There was something cold and repellant about the black bearded professor. He wondered what crime he had committed to be sentenced to the Experimental Station. In exactly fifteen minutes Captain Goplerud, accompanied by Mister Mullin entered the prisoners' quarters and lined them up at their bunks. Then a dozen guards filed in and took posts about the fo'cs'le with drawn paralyzers. Joel wondered uneasily what was up. He wasn't left long in doubt. A stiff-backed man in a faultless olive-green uniform came through the door. He was wearing the gold sunburst of a Star Ship commander on his breast. Nick Thorp nudged Joel. "The old man!" he said out of the corner of his mouth. "What the devil brings him down here?" The commandant ran his eyes over the prisoners. "Very good, Mullin." He turned, said crisply, "This way, Governor." Governor Cameron and his daughter came through the door together. The governor was a big man with harassed gray eyes. He faced his daughter in obvious exasperation. "Well, here they are, Priscilla. Now why were you so confounded anxious to see them?" The girl stared around with parted lips. There was a curious eagerness in her green eyes. Then she discovered Joel and he was suddenly conscious of that strange affinity between them. She wore gold sandals and her toenails and fingernails were lacquered green to match her eyes and hair. She had on a brief pleated skirt, a matching monkey jacket of shimmering rose silkon. Her bare midriff, the valley between her breasts, her long legs were smooth golden tan. "Which one," she asked in a breathless voice, "broke Walt Eriss' jaw?" "Hakkyt," Mullin informed her briskly. "The big ugly one over there." He pointed at Joel. Joel found himself staring into the girl's green eyes again. Her lashes were long, black and curly. Her green hair was startling but it wasn't garish. Without taking her eyes from Joel's, she asked, "Could I see his examination reports? I think he's a...." The governor
a skirmishing party, withstood the shock of numbers alone, was often surrounded by the enemy, and called off by his officers, but would not come. At last he fell, having his skull fractured, his cheek separated from his face, his arm broken, and he was otherwise so shockingly mangled, that the British troops, after seeing him, concluded he was dead: and he was returned among the killed in the _Gazette_. The French having obtained possession of the field, Hadfield fell into their hands, and recovered. He remained upwards of a year a prisoner, his regiment all the time supposing him dead; but in August, 1795, he joined it at Croydon, to the great astonishment and joy of his comrades, who esteemed him much. It soon became manifest, however, that his wounds had deranged his intellect. Whenever he drank strong liquors he became insane; and this illness increased so much that it was found necessary to confine him in a straight-waistcoat. In April, 1796, he was discharged for being a lunatic.” His officers gave him the highest character, particularly for his loyalty; adding that they would have expected him to lose his life in defending, rather than attacking, his King, for whom he had always expressed great attachment. [Illustration: JAMES HADFIELD’S ATTEMPT TO KILL GEORGE III., MAY 15, 1800.] After his discharge he worked at his old trade; but even his shopmates gave testimony before the Privy Council as to his insanity. He was tried on June 26th by Lord Kenyon, in the Court of King’s Bench, and the evidences of his insanity were so overwhelming, that the Judge stopped the case, and the verdict of acquittal, on the ground that he was mad, was recorded. He was then removed to Newgate. He seems to have escaped from confinement more than once—for the _Annual Register_ of August 1, 1802, mentions his having escaped from his keepers, and been retaken at Deal; whilst the _Morning Herald_ of August 31st of the same year chronicles his escape from Bedlam, and also on the 4th of October, 1802, details his removal to Newgate again.[6] To pass to a pleasanter subject. The next event in the year of social importance is the Grand Review of Volunteers in Hyde Park, on the occasion of the King’s 63rd birthday. The Volunteer movement was not a novelty. The Yeomanry were enrolled in 1761, and volunteers had mustered strongly in 1778, on account of the American War. But the fear of France caused the patriotic breast to beat high, and the volunteer rising of 1793 and 1794 may be taken as the first grand gathering of a civic army. On this day the largest number ever brigaded together, some 12,000 men, were to be reviewed by the King in Hyde Park. The whole city was roused to enthusiasm, and the _Morning Post_ of the 5th of June speaks of it thus: “A finer body of men, or of more martial appearance, no country could produce. While they rivalled, in discipline, troops of the line; by the fineness of their clothing, and the great variety of uniform and the richness of appointments, they far exceeded them in splendour. The great number of beautiful standards and colours—the patriotic gifts of the most exalted and distinguished females—and the numerous music, also contributed much to the brilliancy and diversity of the scene. It was with mixed emotions of pride and gratitude that every mind contemplated the martial scene. Viewing such a body of citizen soldiers, forsaking their business and their pleasures, ready and capable to meet all danger in defence of their country—considering, too, that the same spirit pervades it from end to end, the most timid heart is filled with confidence. We look back with contempt on the denunciations of the enemy, ‘which, sown in serpents’ teeth, have arisen for us in armed men,’ and we look with gratitude to our new-created host, which retorted the insult, and changed the invader into the invaded.” But, alack and well-a-day! to think that all this beautiful writing should be turned in bathos by the context; and that this review should be for ever memorable to those who witnessed it, not on account of the martial ardour which prompted it, but for the pouring rain which accompanied it! No language but that of an eye-witness could properly portray the scene and give us a graphic social picture of the event. “So early as four o’clock the drums beat to arms in every quarter, and various other music summoned the reviewers and the reviewed to the field. Even then the clouds were surcharged with rain, which soon began to fall; but no unfavourableness of weather could damp the ardour of even the most delicate of the fair. So early as six o’clock, all the avenues were crowded with elegantly dressed women escorted by their beaux; and the assemblage was so great, that when the King entered the Park, it was thought advisable to shut several of the gates to avoid too much pressure. The circumstance of the weather, which, from the personal inconvenience it produced, might be considered the most inauspicious of the day, proved in fact the most favourable for a display of beauty, for a variety of scene, and number of incidents. From the constant rain and the constant motion, the whole Park could be compared only to a newly ploughed field. The gates being locked, there was no possibility of retreating, and there was no shelter but an old tree or an umbrella. In this situation you might behold an elegant woman with a neat yellow slipper, delicate ankle, and white silk stocking, stepping up to her garter in the mire with as little dissatisfaction as she would into her coach—there another making the first _faux pas_ perhaps she ever did and seated reluctantly on the moistened clay. [Illustration: THE LOYAL DUCKING; OR, RETURNING FROM THE REVIEW ON THE FOURTH OF JUNE, 1800.] “Here is a whole group assembled under the hospitable roof of an umbrella, whilst the exterior circle, for the advantage of having one shoulder dry, is content to receive its dripping contents on the other. The antiquated virgin laments the hour in which, more fearful of a speckle than a wetting, she preferred the dwarfish parasol to the capacious umbrella. The lover regrets there is no shady bower to which he might lead his mistress, ‘nothing loath.’ Happy she who, following fast, finds in the crowd a pretence for closer pressure. Alas! were there but a few grottos, a few caverns, how many Didos—how many Æneas’? Such was the state of the spectators. That of the troops was still worse—to lay exposed to a pelting rain; their arms had changed their mirror-like brilliancy[7] to a dirty brown; their new clothes lost all their gloss, the smoke of a whole campaign could not have more discoloured them. Where the ground was hard they slipped; where soft, they sunk up to the knee. The water ran out at their cuffs as from a spout, and, filling their half-boots, a squash at every step proclaimed that the Austrian buckets could contain no more.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. High price of gold—Scarcity of food—Difference in cost of living 1773-1800—Forestalling and Regrating—Food riots in the country—Riot in London at the Corn Market—Forestalling in meat. THE PEOPLE were uneasy. Gold was scarce—so scarce, indeed, that instead of being the normal £3 17s. 6d. per oz., it had risen to £4 5s., at which price it was a temptation, almost overpowering, to melt guineas. Food, too, was scarce and dear; and, as very few people starve in silence, riots were the natural consequence. The Acts against “Forestalling and Regrating”—or, in other words, anticipating the market, or purchasing before others, in order to raise the price—were put in force. Acts were also passed giving bounties on the importation of oats and rye, and also permitting beer to be made from sugar. The House of Commons had a Committee on the subject of bread, corn, &c., and they reported on the scarcity of corn, but of course could not point out any practical method of remedying the grievance. The cost of living, too, had much increased, as will appear from the following table of expenses of house-keeping between 1773 and 1800, by an inhabitant of Bury St. Edmunds:[8] ──────────────────────────┬─────────┬──────────┬───────────┬────────── │ 1773. │ 1793. │ 1799. │ 1800. ──────────────────────────┼─────────┼──────────┼───────────┼────────── │ │ │ │ │ £ s. d. │ £ s. d. │ £ s. d. │ £ s. d. Comb of Malt[9] │ 0 12 0 │ 1 3 0 │ 1 3 0 │ 2 0 0 Chaldron of Coals │ 1 11 6 │ 2 0 6 │ 2 6 0 │ 2 11 0 Comb of Oats │ 0 5 0 │ 0 13 0 │ 0 16 0 │ 1 1 0 Load of Hay │ 2 2 0 │ 4 10 0 │ 5 5 0 │ 7 0 0 Meat │ 0 0 4 │ 0 0 5 │ 0 0 7 │ 0 0 9 Butter │ 0 0 6 │ 0 0 11 │ 0 0 11 │ 0 1 4 Sugar (loaf) │ 0 0 8 │ 0 1 0 │ 0 1 3 │ 0 1 4 Soap │ 0 0 6 │ 0 0 8 │ 0 0 9½ │ 0 0 10 Window lights, 30 windows │ 3 10 0 │ 7 10 0 │ 12 12 0 │ 12 12 0 Candles │ 0 0 6 │ 0 0 8 │ 0 0 9½ │ 0 0 10½ Poor’s Rates, per quarter │ 0 1 0 │ 0 2 6 │ 0 3 0 │ 0 5 0 Income Tax on £200 │ ... │ ... │ 20 0 0 │ 20 0 0 ──────────────────────────┼─────────┼──────────┼───────────┼─────────── │ 8 4 0 │ 16 2 8 │ 42 9 4 │ 45 14 1½ ──────────────────────────┴─────────┴──────────┴───────────┴─────────── With everything advancing at this amazing rate of progression, it is not to be wondered at that the price of the staff of life was watched very narrowly, and that if there were any law by which any one who enhanced it, artificially, could be punished, he would get full benefit of it, both from judge and jury. Of this there is an instance given in the _Annual Register_, July 4, 1800: “This day one Mr. Rusby was tried, in the Court of King’s Bench, on an indictment against him, as an eminent cornfactor, for having purchased, by sample, on the 8th of November last, in the Corn Market, Mark Lane, ninety quarters of oats at 41s. per quarter, and sold thirty of them again in the same market, on the same day, at 44s. The most material testimony on the part of the Crown was given by Thomas Smith, a partner of the defendant’s. After the evidence had been gone through, Lord Kenyon made an address to the jury, who, almost instantly, found the defendant guilty. Lord Kenyon—‘You have conferred, by your verdict, almost the greatest benefit on your country that was ever conferred by any jury.’ Another indictment against the defendant, for engrossing, stands over. “Several other indictments for the same alleged crimes were tried during this year, which we fear tended to aggravate the evils of scarcity they were meant to obviate, and no doubt contributed to excite popular tumults, by rendering a very useful body of men odious in the eyes of the mob.” [Illustration: HINTS TO FORESTALLERS; OR, A SURE WAY TO REDUCE THE PRICE OF GRAIN.] As will be seen by the accompanying illustration by Isaac Cruikshank, the mob did occasionally take the punishment of forestallers into their own hands. (A case at Bishop’s Clyst, Devon, August, 1800.) A forestaller is being dragged along by the willing arms of a crowd of country people; the surrounding mob cheer, and an old woman follows, kicking him, and beating him with the tongs. Some sacks of corn are marked 25s. The mob inquire, “How much now, farmer?” “How much now, you rogue in grain?” The poor wretch, half-strangled, calls out piteously, “Oh, pray let me go, and I’ll let you have it at a guinea. Oh, eighteen shillings! Oh, I’ll let you have it at fourteen shillings!” In August and September several riots, on account of the scarcity of corn, and the high price of provisions, took place in Birmingham, Oxford, Nottingham, Coventry, Norwich, Stamford, Portsmouth, Sheffield, Worcester, and many other places. The markets were interrupted, and the populace compelled the farmers, &c., to sell their provisions, &c., at a low price. At last these riots extended to London, beginning in a small way. Late at night on Saturday, September 13th, or early on Sunday, September 14th, two large written placards were pasted on the Monument, the text of which was: “Bread will be sixpence the Quartern if the People will assemble at the Corn Market on Monday. FELLOW COUNTRYMEN, How long will ye quietly and cowardly suffer yourselves to be imposed upon, and half starved by a set of mercenary slaves and Government hirelings? Can you still suffer them to proceed in their extensive monopolies, while your children are crying for bread? No! let them exist not a day longer. We are the sovereignty; rise then from your lethargy. Be at the Corn Market on Monday.” Small printed handbills to the same effect were stuck about poor neighbourhoods, and the chance of a cheap loaf, or the love of mischief, caused a mob of over a thousand to assemble in Mark Lane by nine in the morning. An hour later, and their number was doubled, and then they began hissing the mealmen, and cornfactors, who were going into the market. This, however, was too tame, and so they fell to hustling, and pelting them with mud. Whenever a Quaker appeared, he was specially selected for outrage, and rolled in the mud; and, filling up the time with window breaking, the riot became somewhat serious—so much so, that the Lord Mayor went to Mark Lane about 11 a.m. with some of his suite. In vain he assured the maddened crowd that their behaviour could in no way affect the market. They only yelled at him, “Cheap bread! Birmingham and Nottingham for ever! Three loaves for eighteenpence,” &c. They even hissed the Lord Mayor, and smashed the windows close by him. This proved more than his lordship could bear, so he ordered the Riot Act to be read. The constables charged the mob, who of course fled, and the Lord Mayor returned to the Mansion House. No sooner had he gone, than the riots began again, and he had to return; but, during the daytime, the mob was fairly quiet. It was when the evening fell, that these unruly spirits again broke out; they routed the constables, broke the windows of several bakers’ shops, and, from one of them, procured a quantity of faggots. Here the civic authorities considered that the riot ought to stop, for, if once the fire fiend was awoke, there was no telling where the mischief might end. So the Lord Mayor invoked the aid of the Tower Ward Volunteers—who had been in readiness all day long, lying _perdu_ in Fishmongers’ Hall—the East India House Volunteers, and part of the London Militia. The volunteers then blocked both ends of Mark Lane, Fenchurch Street, and Billiter Lane (as it was then called). In vain did the mob hoot and yell at them; they stood firm until orders were given them, and then the mob were charged and dispersed—part down Lombard Street, part down Fish Street Hill, over London Bridge, into the Borough. Then peace was once more restored, and the volunteers went unto their own homes. True, the City was quiet; but the mob, driven into the Borough, had not yet slaked their thirst for mischief. They broke the windows, not only of a cheesemonger’s in the Borough, but of a warehouse near the church. They then went to the house of Mr. Rusby (6, Temple Place, Blackfriars Road)—a gentleman of whom we have heard before, as having been tried, and convicted, for forestalling and regrating—clamouring for him, but he had prudently escaped by the back way into a neighbour’s house. However, they burst into his house and entered the room where Mrs. Rusby was. She begged they would spare her children, and do as they pleased with the house and furniture. They assured her they would not hurt the children, but they searched the house from cellar to garret in hopes of getting the speculative Mr. Rusby, with the kindly intention of hanging him in case he was found. They then broke open some drawers, took out, and tore some papers, and took away some money, but did not injure the furniture much. In vain they tried to find out the address of Mrs. Rusby’s partner, and then, having no _raison d’être_ for more mischief, they dispersed; after which a party of Light Horse, and some of the London Militia, came up, only to find a profound quiet. The next day the riotous population were in a ferment, but were kept in check by the militia and volunteers. Whether by reason of fear of the rioters, or from the fact that the grain markets were really easier, wheat did fall on that eventful Monday ten and fifteen shillings a quarter; and, if the following resolutions of the Court of Aldermen are worth anything, it ought to have fallen still lower: “COMBE, MAYOR. “A Court of Lord Mayor and Aldermen held at the Guildhall of the City of London, on Tuesday, the 16th of September, 1800. “Resolved unanimously—That it is the opinion of this Court, from the best information it has been able to procure, that, had not the access to the Corn Market been, yesterday, impeded, and the transactions therein interrupted, a fall in the price of Wheat and Flour, much more considerable than that which actually took place, would have ensued; and this Court is further of opinion, that no means can so effectually lead to reduce the present excessive prices of the principal articles of food, as the holding out full security and indemnification to such lawful Dealers as shall bring their Corn or other commodities to market. And this Court does therefore express a determination to suppress, at once, and by force, if it shall unhappily be necessary, every attempt to impede, by acts of violence, the regular business of the markets of the Metropolis. “RIX.” A butcher was tried and convicted at the Clerkenwell Sessions, September 16th, for “forestalling the market of Smithfield on the 6th of March last, by purchasing of Mr. Eldsworth, a salesman, two cows and an ox, on their way to the market.” His brother was also similarly convicted. The chairman postponed passing sentence, and stated that “he believed there were many persons who did not consider, that, by such a practice, they were offending against the law; but, on the contrary, imagined that, when an alteration in the law was made, by the repeal of the old statutes against forestalling, there was an end of the offence altogether. It had required the authority of a very high legal character, to declare to the public that the law was not repealed, though the statutes were.” He also intimated that whenever sentence was passed, it would be the lightest possible. Still the populace would insist on pressing these antiquated prosecutions, and an association was formed to supply funds for that purpose. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. Continuation of food riots in London—Inefficiency of Police—Riots still continue—Attempts to negotiate a Peace—A political meeting on Kennington Common—Scarcity of corn—Proclamation to restrict its consumption—Census of the people. THE Lord Mayor in vain promulgated a pacific Proclamation; the Riots still went on. “COMBE, MAYOR. “_Mansion House, Sept. 17, 1800._ “Whereas the peace of this City has been, within these few days, very much disturbed by numerous and tumultuous assemblies of riotous and disorderly people, the magistrates, determined to preserve the King’s peace, and the persons and property of their fellow-citizens, by every means which the law has intrusted to their hands, particularly request the peaceable and well-disposed inhabitants of this City, upon the appearance of the military, to keep themselves away from the windows; to keep all the individuals of their families, and servants, within doors; and, where such opportunities can be taken, to remain in the back rooms of their houses. “By order of his Lordship. “W. J. NEWMAN, _Clerk_.” In reading of these Riots we must not forget that the civil authorities for keeping the peace were, and had been, for more than a century previous, utterly inefficient for their purpose, and the laughing-stock of every one; added to which, there was a spirit of lawlessness abroad, among the populace, which could hardly exist nowadays. The male portion of the Royal Family were fearlessly lampooned and caricatured, and good-natured jokes were made even on such august personages as the King and Queen—the plain, homely manner of the one, and the avaricious, and somewhat shrewish temper of the other, were good-humouredly made fun of. The people gave of their lives, and their substance, to save their country from the foot of the invader; but they also showed a sturdy independence of character, undeniably good in itself, but which was sometimes apt to overpass the bounds of discretion, and degenerate into license. So was it with these food riots. The mob had got an idea in their heads that there was a class who bought food cheap, and held it until they could sell it dear; and nothing could disabuse their minds of this, as the following will show. On the morning of the 18th of September, not having the fear of the Lord Mayor before their eyes, the mob assembled in Chiswell Street, opposite the house of a Mr. Jones, whose windows they had demolished the previous night, and directed their attentions to a house opposite, at the corner of Grub Street, which was occupied by a Mr. Pizey, a shoemaker, a friend of the said Jones, to accommodate whom, he had allowed his cellars to be filled with barrels of salt pork. These casks were seen by the mob, and they were immediately magnified into an immense magazine of butter and cheese, forestalled from the market, locked up from use, and putrefying in the hands of unfeeling avarice. Groaning and cursing, the mob began to mutter that “it would be a d—d good thing to throw some stuff in and blow up the place.” Poor Pizey, alarmed, sent messengers to the Mansion House, and Worship Street office: a force of constables was sent, and the mob retired. At night, however, the same riot began afresh. Meeting in Bishopsgate Street, they went on their victorious career up Sun Street, through Finsbury Square, overthrowing the constables opposed to them, down Barbican into Smithfield, Saffron Hill, Holborn, and Snow Hills, at the latter of which they broke two cheesemongers’ windows. Then they visited Fleet Market, breaking and tossing about everything moveable, smashed the windows of another cheesemonger, and then turned up Ludgate Hill, when they began breaking every lamp; thence into Cheapside, back into Newgate Street, St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and Barbican to Old Street, where they dispersed for the night. From Ludgate Hill to Barbican, only one lamp was left burning, and of that the glass was broken. Somehow, in this night’s escapade the military were ever on their track, but never near them. On the 18th of September the King arose in his Majesty, and issued a proclamation, with a very long preamble, “strictly commanding and requiring all the Lieutenants of our Counties, and all our Justices of the Peace, Sheriffs, and Under-Sheriffs, and all civil officers whatsoever, that they do take the most effectual means for suppressing all riots and tumults, and to that end do effectually put in execution an Act of Parliament made in the first year of the reign of our late royal ancestor, of glorious memory, King George the First, entituled ‘An Act for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies, and for the more speedy and effectual punishing the rioters,’” &c. Still, in spite of this terrible fulmination, the rioters again “made night hideous” on the 19th of September; but they were not so formidable, nor did they do as much mischief, as on former occasions. On the 20th they made Clare Market their _rendezvous_, marched about somewhat, had one or two brushes with the St. Clement Danes Association, and, finally, retired on the advent of the Horse Guards. Another mob met in Monmouth Street, the famous old-clothes repository in St. Giles’s, but the Westminster Volunteers, and cavalry, dispersed them; and, the shops shutting very early—much to the discomfiture of the respectable poor, as regarded their Saturday night’s marketings—peace once more reigned. London was once more quiet, and only the rioters who had been captured, were left to be dealt with by the law. But the people in the country were not so quickly satisfied; their wages were smaller than those of their London brethren, and they proportionately felt the pinch more acutely. In some instances they were put down by force, in others the price of bread was lowered; but it is impossible at this time to take up a newspaper, and not find some notice of, or allusion to, a food riot. The century would die at peace with all men if it could, and there was a means of communication open with France, in the person of a M. Otto, resident in this country as a kind of unofficial agent. The first glimpse we get of these negotiations, from the papers which were published on the subject, is in August, 1800; and between that time, and when the _pourparlers_ came to an end, on the 9th of November, many were the letters which passed between Lord Grenville and M. Otto. Peace, however, was not to be as yet. Napoleon was personally distrusted, and the French Revolution had been so recent, that the stability of the French Government was more than doubted. A demonstration (it never attained the dimensions of a riot)—this time political and not born of an empty stomach—took place at Kennington on Sunday, the 9th of November. So-called “inflammatory” handbills had been very generally distributed about town a day or two beforehand, calling a meeting of mechanics, on Kennington Common, to petition His Majesty on a redress of grievances. This actually caused a meeting of the Privy Council, and orders were sent to all the police offices, and the different volunteer corps, to hold themselves in readiness in case of emergency. The precautions taken, show that the Government evidently over-estimated the magnitude of the demonstration. First of all the Bow Street patrol were sent, early in the morning, to take up a position at “The Horns,” Kennington, there to wait until the mob began to assemble, when they were directed to give immediate notice to the military in the environs of London, who were under arms at nine o’clock. Parties of Bow Street officers were stationed at different public-houses, all within easy call. By and by, about 9 a.m., the conspirators began to make their appearance on the Common, in scattered groups of six or seven each, until their number reached _a hundred_. Then the police sent round their fiery-cross to summon aid; and before that could reach them, they actually tried the venturesome expedient of dispersing the meeting themselves—with success. But later—or lazier—politicians continued to arrive, and the valiant Bow Street officers, thinking discretion the better part of valour, retired. When, however, they were reinforced by the Surrey Yeomanry, they plucked up heart of grace, and again set out upon their mission of dispersing the meeting—and again were they successful. In another hour, by 10 a.m., these gallant fellows could breathe again, for there arrived to their aid the Southwark Volunteers, and the whole police force from seven offices, together with the river police. Then appeared on the scene, ministerial authority in the shape of one Mr. Ford, from the Treasury, who came modestly in a hackney coach; and when he arrived, the constables felt the time was come for them to distinguish themselves, and two persons, “one much intoxicated,” were taken into custody, and duly lodged in gaol—and this glorious intelligence was at once forwarded to the Duke of Portland, who then filled the post of Secretary to the Home Department. The greatest number of people present at any time was about five hundred; and the troops, after having a good dinner at “The Horns,” left for their homes—except a party of horse which paraded the streets of Lambeth. A terrible storm of rain terminated this political campaign, in a manner satisfactory to all; and for this _ridiculus mus_ the Guards, the Horse Guards, and all the military, regulars or volunteers, were under arms or in readiness all the forenoon! I have here given what, perhaps, some may consider undue prominence to a trifling episode; but it is in these things that the contrast lies as to the feeling of the people, and government, in the dawn of the nineteenth century, and in these latter days of ours. The meeting of a few, to discuss grievances, and to petition for redress, in the one case is met with stern, vigorous repression: in our times a blatant mob is allowed, nay encouraged, to perambulate the streets, yelling, they know not what, against the House of Lords, and the railings of the park are removed, by authority, to facilitate the progress of these Her Majesty’s lieges, and firm supporters of constitutional liberty. The scarcity of corn still continued down to the end of the year. It had been a bad harvest generally throughout the Continent, and, in spite of the bounty held out for its importation, but little arrived. The markets of the world had not then been opened—and among the marvels of our times, is the large quantity of wheat we import from India, and Australia. So great was this scarcity, that the King, in his paternal wisdom, issued a proclamation (December 3rd) exhorting all persons who had the means of procuring other food than corn, to use the strictest economy in the use of every kind of grain, abstaining from pastry, reducing the consumption of bread in their respective families at least one-third, and upon no account to allow it “to exceed one quartern loaf for each person in each week;” and also all persons keeping horses, especially those for pleasure, to restrict their consumption of grain, as far as circumstances would admit. If this proclamation had been honestly acted up to, doubtless it would have effected some relief; which was sorely needed, when we see that the average prices of corn and bread throughout the country were— Wheat per qr. Barley per qr. Oats per qr. Quartern loaf. 113s. 60s. 41s. 1s. 9d. And, looking at the difference in value of money then, and now, we must add at least 50 per cent., which would make the average price of the quartern loaf 2s. 7½d.!—and, really, at the end of the year, wheat was 133s. per quarter, bread 1s. 10½d. per quartern. Three per Cent. Consols were quoted, on January 1, 1800, at 60; on January 1, 1801, they stood at 54. A fitting close to the century was found in a Census of the people. On the 19th of November Mr. Abbot brought a Bill into Parliament “to ascertain the population of Great Britain.” He pointed out the extreme ignorance which prevailed on this subject, and stated “that the best opinions of modern times, and each of them highly respectable, estimate our present numbers, according to one statement, at 8,000,000; and according to other statements—formed on more extensive investigation and, as it appears to me, a more correct train of reasoning, showing an increase of one-third in the last forty years—the total number cannot be less than 11,000,000.” This, the first real census ever taken of the United Kingdom, was not, of course, as exhaustive and trustworthy, as those decennial visitations we now experience. Mr. Abbot’s plan was crude, and the results must of necessity have been merely approximate. He said, “All that will be necessary will be to pass a short Act, requiring the resident clergy and parish officers, in every parish and township, to answer some few plain questions, perhaps four or five, easy to be understood, and easy to be executed, which should be specified in a schedule to the Act, and to return their answers to the clerk of the Parliament, for the inspection of both Houses of Parliament. From such materials it will be easy (following the precedent of 1787) to form an abstract exhibiting the result of the whole.” When the numbers, crudely gathered as they were, were published, they showed how fallacious was the prediction as to figures. England and Wales 8,892,536 Scotland 1,608,420 Ireland 5,216,331 ——————————
k Street--the shop girls, the young women of the soda fountains, the waitresses in the cheap restaurants--preferred another dentist, a young fellow just graduated from the college, a poser, a rider of bicycles, a man about town, who wore astonishing waistcoats and bet money on greyhound coursing. Trina was McTeague's first experience. With her the feminine element suddenly entered his little world. It was not only her that he saw and felt, it was the woman, the whole sex, an entire new humanity, strange and alluring, that he seemed to have discovered. How had he ignored it so long? It was dazzling, delicious, charming beyond all words. His narrow point of view was at once enlarged and confused, and all at once he saw that there was something else in life besides concertinas and steam beer. Everything had to be made over again. His whole rude idea of life had to be changed. The male virile desire in him tardily awakened, aroused itself, strong and brutal. It was resistless, untrained, a thing not to be held in leash an instant. Little by little, by gradual, almost imperceptible degrees, the thought of Trina Sieppe occupied his mind from day to day, from hour to hour. He found himself thinking of her constantly; at every instant he saw her round, pale face; her narrow, milk-blue eyes; her little out-thrust chin; her heavy, huge tiara of black hair. At night he lay awake for hours under the thick blankets of the bed-lounge, staring upward into the darkness, tormented with the idea of her, exasperated at the delicate, subtle mesh in which he found himself entangled. During the forenoons, while he went about his work, he thought of her. As he made his plaster-of-paris moulds at the washstand in the corner behind the screen he turned over in his mind all that had happened, all that had been said at the previous sitting. Her little tooth that he had extracted he kept wrapped in a bit of newspaper in his vest pocket. Often he took it out and held it in the palm of his immense, horny hand, seized with some strange elephantine sentiment, wagging his head at it, heaving tremendous sighs. What a folly! At two o'clock on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Trina arrived and took her place in the operating chair. While at his work McTeague was every minute obliged to bend closely over her; his hands touched her face, her cheeks, her adorable little chin; her lips pressed against his fingers. She breathed warmly on his forehead and on his eyelids, while the odor of her hair, a charming feminine perfume, sweet, heavy, enervating, came to his nostrils, so penetrating, so delicious, that his flesh pricked and tingled with it; a veritable sensation of faintness passed over this huge, callous fellow, with his enormous bones and corded muscles. He drew a short breath through his nose; his jaws suddenly gripped together vise-like. But this was only at times--a strange, vexing spasm, that subsided almost immediately. For the most part, McTeague enjoyed the pleasure of these sittings with Trina with a certain strong calmness, blindly happy that she was there. This poor crude dentist of Polk Street, stupid, ignorant, vulgar, with his sham education and plebeian tastes, whose only relaxations were to eat, to drink steam beer, and to play upon his concertina, was living through his first romance, his first idyl. It was delightful. The long hours he passed alone with Trina in the “Dental Parlors,” silent, only for the scraping of the instruments and the pouring of bud-burrs in the engine, in the foul atmosphere, overheated by the little stove and heavy with the smell of ether, creosote, and stale bedding, had all the charm of secret appointments and stolen meetings under the moon. By degrees the operation progressed. One day, just after McTeague had put in the temporary gutta-percha fillings and nothing more could be done at that sitting, Trina asked him to examine the rest of her teeth. They were perfect, with one exception--a spot of white caries on the lateral surface of an incisor. McTeague filled it with gold, enlarging the cavity with hard-bits and hoe-excavators, and burring in afterward with half-cone burrs. The cavity was deep, and Trina began to wince and moan. To hurt Trina was a positive anguish for McTeague, yet an anguish which he was obliged to endure at every hour of the sitting. It was harrowing--he sweated under it--to be forced to torture her, of all women in the world; could anything be worse than that? “Hurt?” he inquired, anxiously. She answered by frowning, with a sharp intake of breath, putting her fingers over her closed lips and nodding her head. McTeague sprayed the tooth with glycerite of tannin, but without effect. Rather than hurt her he found himself forced to the use of anaesthesia, which he hated. He had a notion that the nitrous oxide gas was dangerous, so on this occasion, as on all others, used ether. He put the sponge a half dozen times to Trina's face, more nervous than he had ever been before, watching the symptoms closely. Her breathing became short and irregular; there was a slight twitching of the muscles. When her thumbs turned inward toward the palms, he took the sponge away. She passed off very quickly, and, with a long sigh, sank back into the chair. McTeague straightened up, putting the sponge upon the rack behind him, his eyes fixed upon Trina's face. For some time he stood watching her as she lay there, unconscious and helpless, and very pretty. He was alone with her, and she was absolutely without defense. Suddenly the animal in the man stirred and woke; the evil instincts that in him were so close to the surface leaped to life, shouting and clamoring. It was a crisis--a crisis that had arisen all in an instant; a crisis for which he was totally unprepared. Blindly, and without knowing why, McTeague fought against it, moved by an unreasoned instinct of resistance. Within him, a certain second self, another better McTeague rose with the brute; both were strong, with the huge crude strength of the man himself. The two were at grapples. There in that cheap and shabby “Dental Parlor” a dreaded struggle began. It was the old battle, old as the world, wide as the world--the sudden panther leap of the animal, lips drawn, fangs aflash, hideous, monstrous, not to be resisted, and the simultaneous arousing of the other man, the better self that cries, “Down, down,” without knowing why; that grips the monster; that fights to strangle it, to thrust it down and back. Dizzied and bewildered with the shock, the like of which he had never known before, McTeague turned from Trina, gazing bewilderedly about the room. The struggle was bitter; his teeth ground themselves together with a little rasping sound; the blood sang in his ears; his face flushed scarlet; his hands twisted themselves together like the knotting of cables. The fury in him was as the fury of a young bull in the heat of high summer. But for all that he shook his huge head from time to time, muttering: “No, by God! No, by God!” Dimly he seemed to realize that should he yield now he would never be able to care for Trina again. She would never be the same to him, never so radiant, so sweet, so adorable; her charm for him would vanish in an instant. Across her forehead, her little pale forehead, under the shadow of her royal hair, he would surely see the smudge of a foul ordure, the footprint of the monster. It would be a sacrilege, an abomination. He recoiled from it, banding all his strength to the issue. “No, by God! No, by God!” He turned to his work, as if seeking a refuge in it. But as he drew near to her again, the charm of her innocence and helplessness came over him afresh. It was a final protest against his resolution. Suddenly he leaned over and kissed her, grossly, full on the mouth. The thing was done before he knew it. Terrified at his weakness at the very moment he believed himself strong, he threw himself once more into his work with desperate energy. By the time he was fastening the sheet of rubber upon the tooth, he had himself once more in hand. He was disturbed, still trembling, still vibrating with the throes of the crisis, but he was the master; the animal was downed, was cowed for this time, at least. But for all that, the brute was there. Long dormant, it was now at last alive, awake. From now on he would feel its presence continually; would feel it tugging at its chain, watching its opportunity. Ah, the pity of it! Why could he not always love her purely, cleanly? What was this perverse, vicious thing that lived within him, knitted to his flesh? Below the fine fabric of all that was good in him ran the foul stream of hereditary evil, like a sewer. The vices and sins of his father and of his father's father, to the third and fourth and five hundredth generation, tainted him. The evil of an entire race flowed in his veins. Why should it be? He did not desire it. Was he to blame? But McTeague could not understand this thing. It had faced him, as sooner or later it faces every child of man; but its significance was not for him. To reason with it was beyond him. He could only oppose to it an instinctive stubborn resistance, blind, inert. McTeague went on with his work. As he was rapping in the little blocks and cylinders with the mallet, Trina slowly came back to herself with a long sigh. She still felt a little confused, and lay quiet in the chair. There was a long silence, broken only by the uneven tapping of the hardwood mallet. By and by she said, “I never felt a thing,” and then she smiled at him very prettily beneath the rubber dam. McTeague turned to her suddenly, his mallet in one hand, his pliers holding a pellet of sponge-gold in the other. All at once he said, with the unreasoned simplicity and directness of a child: “Listen here, Miss Trina, I like you better than any one else; what's the matter with us getting married?” Trina sat up in the chair quickly, and then drew back from him, frightened and bewildered. “Will you? Will you?” said McTeague. “Say, Miss Trina, will you?” “What is it? What do you mean?” she cried, confusedly, her words muffled beneath the rubber. “Will you?” repeated McTeague. “No, no,” she exclaimed, refusing without knowing why, suddenly seized with a fear of him, the intuitive feminine fear of the male. McTeague could only repeat the same thing over and over again. Trina, more and more frightened at his huge hands--the hands of the old-time car-boy--his immense square-cut head and his enormous brute strength, cried out: “No, no,” behind the rubber dam, shaking her head violently, holding out her hands, and shrinking down before him in the operating chair. McTeague came nearer to her, repeating the same question. “No, no,” she cried, terrified. Then, as she exclaimed, “Oh, I am sick,” was suddenly taken with a fit of vomiting. It was the not unusual after effect of the ether, aided now by her excitement and nervousness. McTeague was checked. He poured some bromide of potassium into a graduated glass and held it to her lips. “Here, swallow this,” he said. CHAPTER 3 Once every two months Maria Macapa set the entire flat in commotion. She roamed the building from garret to cellar, searching each corner, ferreting through every old box and trunk and barrel, groping about on the top shelves of closets, peering into rag-bags, exasperating the lodgers with her persistence and importunity. She was collecting junks, bits of iron, stone jugs, glass bottles, old sacks, and cast-off garments. It was one of her perquisites. She sold the junk to Zerkow, the rags-bottles-sacks man, who lived in a filthy den in the alley just back of the flat, and who sometimes paid her as much as three cents a pound. The stone jugs, however, were worth a nickel. The money that Zerkow paid her, Maria spent on shirt waists and dotted blue neckties, trying to dress like the girls who tended the soda-water fountain in the candy store on the corner. She was sick with envy of these young women. They were in the world, they were elegant, they were debonair, they had their “young men.” On this occasion she presented herself at the door of Old Grannis's room late in the afternoon. His door stood a little open. That of Miss Baker was ajar a few inches. The two old people were “keeping company” after their fashion. “Got any junk, Mister Grannis?” inquired Maria, standing in the door, a very dirty, half-filled pillowcase over one arm. “No, nothing--nothing that I can think of, Maria,” replied Old Grannis, terribly vexed at the interruption, yet not wishing to be unkind. “Nothing I think of. Yet, however--perhaps--if you wish to look.” He sat in the middle of the room before a small pine table. His little binding apparatus was before him. In his fingers was a huge upholsterer's needle threaded with twine, a brad-awl lay at his elbow, on the floor beside him was a great pile of pamphlets, the pages uncut. Old Grannis bought the “Nation” and the “Breeder and Sportsman.” In the latter he occasionally found articles on dogs which interested him. The former he seldom read. He could not afford to subscribe regularly to either of the publications, but purchased their back numbers by the score, almost solely for the pleasure he took in binding them. “What you alus sewing up them books for, Mister Grannis?” asked Maria, as she began rummaging about in Old Grannis's closet shelves. “There's just hundreds of 'em in here on yer shelves; they ain't no good to you.” “Well, well,” answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, “I--I'm sure I can't quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, a--a--it occupies one, you know. I don't smoke; it takes the place of a pipe, perhaps.” “Here's this old yellow pitcher,” said Maria, coming out of the closet with it in her hand. “The handle's cracked; you don't want it; better give me it.” Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years. “Oh, that pitcher--well, Maria, I--I don't know. I'm afraid--you see, that pitcher----” “Ah, go 'long,” interrupted Maria Macapa, “what's the good of it?” “If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather--” he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were gone. “Why, what's the good of it?” persisted Maria. He could give no sufficient answer. “That's all right,” she asserted, carrying the pitcher out. “Ah--Maria--I say, you--you might leave the door--ah, don't quite shut it--it's a bit close in here at times.” Maria grinned, and swung the door wide. Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was becoming unbearable. “Got any junk?” cried Maria at Miss Baker's door. The little old lady was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting idly in her lap. “Now, Maria,” she said plaintively, “you are always after junk; you know I never have anything laying 'round like that.” It was true. The retired dressmaker's tiny room was a marvel of neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoons laid in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its one venerable gold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window panes, drying in the sun. “Oh, I guess you got something you don't want,” Maria went on, peering into the corners of the room. “Look-a-here what Mister Grannis gi' me,” and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in the next room. What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be more trying than this position? “Ain't that right, Mister Grannis?” called Maria; “didn't you gi' me this pitcher?” Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old schoolboy. He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously upon his chin. Maria opened Miss Baker's closet unconcernedly. “What's the matter with these old shoes?” she exclaimed, turning about with a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand. They were by no means old enough to throw away, but Miss Baker was almost beside herself. There was no telling what might happen next. Her only thought was to be rid of Maria. “Yes, yes, anything. You can have them; but go, go. There's nothing else, not a thing.” Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Baker's door wide open, as if maliciously. She had left the dirty pillow-case on the floor in the hall, and she stood outside, between the two open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis. In a way she brought the two old people face to face. Each time they were forced to answer her questions it was as if they were talking directly to each other. “These here are first-rate shoes, Miss Baker. Look here, Mister Grannis, get on to the shoes Miss Baker gi' me. You ain't got a pair you don't want, have you? You two people have less junk than any one else in the flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like old maids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alike--you and Mister Grannis--ain't you, Miss Baker?” Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, more awkward. The two old people suffered veritable torture. When Maria had gone, each heaved a sigh of unspeakable relief. Softly they pushed to their doors, leaving open a space of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to his binding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet her nerves. Each tried to regain their composure, but in vain. Old Grannis's fingers trembled so that he pricked them with his needle. Miss Baker dropped her spoon twice. Their nervousness would not wear off. They were perturbed, upset. In a word, the afternoon was spoiled. Maria went on about the flat from room to room. She had already paid Marcus Schouler a visit early that morning before he had gone out. Marcus had sworn at her, excitedly vociferating; “No, by damn! No, he hadn't a thing for her; he hadn't, for a fact. It was a positive persecution. Every day his privacy was invaded. He would complain to the landlady, he would. He'd move out of the place.” In the end he had given Maria seven empty whiskey flasks, an iron grate, and ten cents--the latter because he said she wore her hair like a girl he used to know. After coming from Miss Baker's room Maria knocked at McTeague's door. The dentist was lying on the bed-lounge in his stocking feet, doing nothing apparently, gazing up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Since he had spoken to Trina Sieppe, asking her so abruptly to marry him, McTeague had passed a week of torment. For him there was no going back. It was Trina now, and none other. It was all one with him that his best friend, Marcus, might be in love with the same girl. He must have Trina in spite of everything; he would have her even in spite of herself. He did not stop to reflect about the matter; he followed his desire blindly, recklessly, furious and raging at every obstacle. And she had cried “No, no!” back at him; he could not forget that. She, so small and pale and delicate, had held him at bay, who was so huge, so immensely strong. Besides that, all the charm of their intimacy was gone. After that unhappy sitting, Trina was no longer frank and straight-forward. Now she was circumspect, reserved, distant. He could no longer open his mouth; words failed him. At one sitting in particular they had said but good-day and good-by to each other. He felt that he was clumsy and ungainly. He told himself that she despised him. But the memory of her was with him constantly. Night after night he lay broad awake thinking of Trina, wondering about her, racked with the infinite desire of her. His head burnt and throbbed. The palms of his hands were dry. He dozed and woke, and walked aimlessly about the dark room, bruising himself against the three chairs drawn up “at attention” under the steel engraving, and stumbling over the stone pug dog that sat in front of the little stove. Besides this, the jealousy of Marcus Schouler harassed him. Maria Macapa, coming into his “Parlor” to ask for junk, found him flung at length upon the bed-lounge, gnawing at his fingers in an excess of silent fury. At lunch that day Marcus had told him of an excursion that was planned for the next Sunday afternoon. Mr. Sieppe, Trina's father, belonged to a rifle club that was to hold a meet at Schuetzen Park across the bay. All the Sieppes were going; there was to be a basket picnic. Marcus, as usual, was invited to be one of the party. McTeague was in agony. It was his first experience, and he suffered all the worse for it because he was totally unprepared. What miserable complication was this in which he found himself involved? It seemed so simple to him since he loved Trina to take her straight to himself, stopping at nothing, asking no questions, to have her, and by main strength to carry her far away somewhere, he did not know exactly where, to some vague country, some undiscovered place where every day was Sunday. “Got any junk?” “Huh? What? What is it?” exclaimed McTeague, suddenly rousing up from the lounge. Often Maria did very well in the “Dental Parlors.” McTeague was continually breaking things which he was too stupid to have mended; for him anything that was broken was lost. Now it was a cuspidor, now a fire-shovel for the little stove, now a China shaving mug. “Got any junk?” “I don't know--I don't remember,” muttered McTeague. Maria roamed about the room, McTeague following her in his huge stockinged feet. All at once she pounced upon a sheaf of old hand instruments in a coverless cigar-box, pluggers, hard bits, and excavators. Maria had long coveted such a find in McTeague's “Parlor,” knowing it should be somewhere about. The instruments were of the finest tempered steel and really valuable. “Say, Doctor, I can have these, can't I?” exclaimed Maria. “You got no more use for them.” McTeague was not at all sure of this. There were many in the sheaf that might be repaired, reshaped. “No, no,” he said, wagging his head. But Maria Macapa, knowing with whom she had to deal, at once let loose a torrent of words. She made the dentist believe that he had no right to withhold them, that he had promised to save them for her. She affected a great indignation, pursing her lips and putting her chin in the air as though wounded in some finer sense, changing so rapidly from one mood to another, filling the room with such shrill clamor, that McTeague was dazed and benumbed. “Yes, all right, all right,” he said, trying to make himself heard. “It WOULD be mean. I don't want 'em.” As he turned from her to pick up the box, Maria took advantage of the moment to steal three “mats” of sponge-gold out of the glass saucer. Often she stole McTeague's gold, almost under his very eyes; indeed, it was so easy to do so that there was but little pleasure in the theft. Then Maria took herself off. McTeague returned to the sofa and flung himself upon it face downward. A little before supper time Maria completed her search. The flat was cleaned of its junk from top to bottom. The dirty pillow-case was full to bursting. She took advantage of the supper hour to carry her bundle around the corner and up into the alley where Zerkow lived. When Maria entered his shop, Zerkow had just come in from his daily rounds. His decrepit wagon stood in front of his door like a stranded wreck; the miserable horse, with its lamentable swollen joints, fed greedily upon an armful of spoiled hay in a shed at the back. The interior of the junk shop was dark and damp, and foul with all manner of choking odors. On the walls, on the floor, and hanging from the rafters was a world of debris, dust-blackened, rust-corroded. Everything was there, every trade was represented, every class of society; things of iron and cloth and wood; all the detritus that a great city sloughs off in its daily life. Zerkow's junk shop was the last abiding-place, the almshouse, of such articles as had outlived their usefulness. Maria found Zerkow himself in the back room, cooking some sort of a meal over an alcohol stove. Zerkow was a Polish Jew--curiously enough his hair was fiery red. He was a dry, shrivelled old man of sixty odd. He had the thin, eager, cat-like lips of the covetous; eyes that had grown keen as those of a lynx from long searching amidst muck and debris; and claw-like, prehensile fingers--the fingers of a man who accumulates, but never disburses. It was impossible to look at Zerkow and not know instantly that greed--inordinate, insatiable greed--was the dominant passion of the man. He was the Man with the Rake, groping hourly in the muck-heap of the city for gold, for gold, for gold. It was his dream, his passion; at every instant he seemed to feel the generous solid weight of the crude fat metal in his palms. The glint of it was constantly in his eyes; the jangle of it sang forever in his ears as the jangling of cymbals. “Who is it? Who is it?” exclaimed Zerkow, as he heard Maria's footsteps in the outer room. His voice was faint, husky, reduced almost to a whisper by his prolonged habit of street crying. “Oh, it's you again, is it?” he added, peering through the gloom of the shop. “Let's see; you've been here before, ain't you? You're the Mexican woman from Polk Street. Macapa's your name, hey?” Maria nodded. “Had a flying squirrel an' let him go,” she muttered, absently. Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for a moment, then dismissed the matter with a movement of his head. “Well, what you got for me?” he said. He left his supper to grow cold, absorbed at once in the affair. Then a long wrangle began. Every bit of junk in Maria's pillow-case was discussed and weighed and disputed. They clamored into each other's faces over Old Grannis's cracked pitcher, over Miss Baker's silk gaiters, over Marcus Schouler's whiskey flasks, reaching the climax of disagreement when it came to McTeague's instruments. “Ah, no, no!” shouted Maria. “Fifteen cents for the lot! I might as well make you a Christmas present! Besides, I got some gold fillings off him; look at um.” Zerkow drew a quick breath as the three pellets suddenly flashed in Maria's palm. There it was, the virgin metal, the pure, unalloyed ore, his dream, his consuming desire. His fingers twitched and hooked themselves into his palms, his thin lips drew tight across his teeth. “Ah, you got some gold,” he muttered, reaching for it. Maria shut her fist over the pellets. “The gold goes with the others,” she declared. “You'll gi' me a fair price for the lot, or I'll take um back.” In the end a bargain was struck that satisfied Maria. Zerkow was not one who would let gold go out of his house. He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudging each piece of money as if it had been the blood of his veins. The affair was concluded. But Zerkow still had something to say. As Maria folded up the pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said: “Well, see here a minute, we'll--you'll have a drink before you go, won't you? Just to show that it's all right between us.” Maria sat down again. “Yes, I guess I'll have a drink,” she answered. Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumbler with a broken base from a cupboard on the wall. The two drank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from the broken tumbler. They wiped their lips slowly, drawing breath again. There was a moment's silence. “Say,” said Zerkow at last, “how about those gold dishes you told me about the last time you were here?” “What gold dishes?” inquired Maria, puzzled. “Ah, you know,” returned the other. “The plate your father owned in Central America a long time ago. Don't you know, it rang like so many bells? Red gold, you know, like oranges?” “Ah,” said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knew a long story about that if she had a mind to tell it. “Ah, yes, that gold service.” “Tell us about it again,” said Zerkow, his bloodless lower lip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers feeling about his mouth and chin. “Tell us about it; go on.” He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little. It was as if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Maria still refused, putting up her head, insisting that she had to be going. “Let's have it,” insisted the Jew. “Take another drink.” Maria took another swallow of the whiskey. “Now, go on,” repeated Zerkow; “let's have the story.” Maria squared her elbows on the deal table, looking straight in front of her with eyes that saw nothing. “Well, it was this way,” she began. “It was when I was little. My folks must have been rich, oh, rich into the millions--coffee, I guess--and there was a large house, but I can only remember the plate. Oh, that service of plate! It was wonderful. There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold. You should have seen the sight when the leather trunk was opened. It fair dazzled your eyes. It was a yellow blaze like a fire, like a sunset; such a glory, all piled up together, one piece over the other. Why, if the room was dark you'd think you could see just the same with all that glitter there. There wa'n't a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, just like a little pool when the sun shines into it. There was dinner dishes and soup tureens and pitchers; and great, big platters as long as that and wide too; and cream-jugs and bowls with carved handles, all vines and things; and drinking mugs, every one a different shape; and dishes for gravy and sauces; and then a great, big punch-bowl with a ladle, and the bowl was all carved out with figures and bunches of grapes. Why, just only that punch-bowl was worth a fortune, I guess. When all that plate was set out on a table, it was a sight for a king to look at. Such a service as that was! Each piece was heavy, oh, so heavy! and thick, you know; thick, fat gold, nothing but gold--red, shining, pure gold, orange red--and when you struck it with your knuckle, ah, you should have heard! No church bell ever rang sweeter or clearer. It was soft gold, too; you could bite into it, and leave the dent of your teeth. Oh, that gold plate! I can see it just as plain--solid, solid, heavy, rich, pure gold; nothing but gold, gold, heaps and heaps of it. What a service that was!” Maria paused, shaking her head, thinking over the vanished splendor. Illiterate enough, unimaginative enough on all other subjects, her distorted wits called up this picture with marvellous distinctness. It was plain she saw the plate clearly. Her description was accurate, was almost eloquent. Did that wonderful service of gold plate ever exist outside of her diseased imagination? Was Maria actually remembering some reality of a childhood of barbaric luxury? Were her parents at one time possessed of an incalculable fortune derived from some Central American coffee plantation, a fortune long since confiscated by armies of insurrectionists, or squandered in the support of revolutionary governments? It was not impossible. Of Maria Macapa's past prior to the time of her appearance at the “flat” absolutely nothing could be learned. She suddenly appeared from the unknown, a strange woman of a mixed race, sane on all subjects but that of the famous service of gold plate; but unusual, complex, mysterious, even at her best. But what misery Zerkow endured as he listened to her tale! For he chose to believe it, forced himself to believe it, lashed and harassed by a pitiless greed that checked at no tale of treasure, however preposterous. The story ravished him with delight. He was near someone who had possessed this wealth. He saw someone who had seen this pile of gold. He seemed near it; it was there, somewhere close by, under his eyes, under his fingers; it was red, gleaming, ponderous. He gazed about him wildly; nothing, nothing but the sordid junk shop and the rust-corroded tins. What exasperation, what positive misery, to be so near to it and yet to know that it was irrevocably, irretrievably lost! A spasm of anguish passed through him. He gnawed at his bloodless lips, at the hopelessness of it, the rage, the fury of it. “Go on, go on,” he whispered; “let's have it all over again. Polished like a mirror, hey, and heavy? Yes, I know, I know. A punch-bowl worth a fortune. Ah! and you saw it, you had it all!” Maria rose to go
him. Perhaps her chance had come. She’d go with him this morning to see what having a beat was like. She sat down on the edge of a chair, and poured most of the contents of the cream pitcher into her cup of cocoa to make it cool enough to swallow in a gulp or two. Then she reached for a crumbly, sugary slice of coffee cake. “No cereal, thanks. I’m in a hurry.” Joan started for the door, the coffee cake in one hand. At her mother’s look, she added, “I’ll eat an extra egg at lunch to make up the calories, but I must go now.” She dashed out. What luck! Tim was just coming out of the front door of the _Journal_ office when she reached the sidewalk. She paused there, pretending to be absorbed in nibbling her cake, her eyes ostensibly fastened on the cracks in the sidewalk. The sidewalk was worth looking at—it was brick and the bricks were laid diagonally. It had been a game, when she was small, to walk with each step in a brick. Tim mustn’t see her. He would accuse her of tagging, and he was cross enough with her as it was. For all week she had been offering bits of information, like, “Mrs. Redfern has had her dog clipped,” and asking, “Is that _news_, Tim?” And Tim, harried with his new work, would snap out an answer in the negative. Poor Tim had already, as he often remarked, written up “battle, murder, and sudden death” since he had taken the job on the _Journal_. He went on, now, up the slight slope of Market Street. Joan, slipping along as though headed for the _Journal_ office, went too. At the _Journal_ door, she paused and watched while Tim crossed through the traffic of Main Street and started on towards Gay Street. Block by block, or “square” as they say in Ohio, she trailed after, looking into the shop windows every now and then, lest he should turn around. He kept right on, however—straight to the Plainfield railroad station, where he disappeared through the heavy doors. Joan, across the street, stopped in front of the _Star_ office. Somehow, the _Star_ office seemed almost palatial with its white steps and pillars, in contrast with the somewhat shabby _Journal_ office. That was because the _Star_ was a government newspaper, that is, a political man owned it. Tim had once said that about one third of the newspapers in the United States were owned by politicians. The _Journal_ wasn’t, though. But Joan wouldn’t have traded the _Journal_ office for the shiny new one of the _Star_. She loved every worn board in the _Journal_ floor, every bit of its old walls, plastered with pictures and old photographs. She crossed the street and opened the heavy door by leaning her weight against it. Tim was at the ticket window. The ticket agent was shaking his head, and Tim went on. No news there, Joan guessed, as she, too, went across the sunny station and out the opposite door to where the express men were hauling trunks, and travelers were waiting for trains. Back to Gay Street, through the musty-smelling Arcade, then Tim entered a small florist shop, crowded with flowers. Joan looked in the window. The girl at the counter reminded her of Gertie in the business office of the _Journal_. She was chewing gum, and as she talked to Tim, her hands were busy twisting short-stemmed pink roses onto tiny sticks of wood. Tim got his pencil and pad, and wrote leaning on the counter. When Tim opened the door, a whiff of sweet flowers was wafted to Joan who was innocently gazing into the window of the baby shop next door. Tim hurried on up toward the corner, brushing past two ragged children who stood by the curb, both of them crying. They might be “news,” thought Joan, but Tim was hurrying on. Joan took time to smile at the smaller child. Though she wore boy’s clothing, Joan could tell she was a girl by her mass of tangled, yellow curls. “What’s the matter, honey?” she asked. The little girl hung her head and was too shy to answer, but the brother spoke up. “Mamma’s dead and papa’s gone,” he said. Tim was up at the corner, now, going into the public library, and Joan hurried on. Maybe it wasn’t true anyway. Joan stood behind a tall rack of out-of-town newspapers while she listened as Tim asked the stiff-backed, white-haired librarian, “Anything for the _Journal_ to-day?” That must be the formula cub reporters used. But Miss Bird had said no, softly but surely, almost before he had the question asked. Then, across the street to the post office. Joan, feeling safe in the revolving door, watched while Tim approached the stamp window. He was getting some news, for the clerk was talking to him. Just then, a brisk business man of Plainfield, hurrying into the post office to mail a letter while the engine of his car chugged at the curb, banged into the section of the revolving door behind Joan with such force that she was sent twirling twice around the circle of the door, and in the dizziness of the unexpected spin, she shot out of the door—on the post office side, instead of the street side. Tim, leaving the stamp window and coming toward the door, bumped into her! “I beg your pardon—” he began, before he recognized his sister. Then, “Jo, you imp! Where’d you come from?” “Tim, I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “But I had to see what you did on your beat.” “Tagging me—making a fool of me,” Tim fairly sputtered. “Tim, there’s two children on Gay Street, crying—I think it’s ‘news.’” “News! What do you know about news?” scoffed Tim. “Probably lost the penny they were going to spend on candy.” “No, the boy said that their mother was dead and their father went away. If the mother just died, you could at least get an obit out of it,” she explained. “Sounds like a decent human interest story,” Tim admitted. “Say, maybe the father couldn’t pay the rent and got dispossessed.” They came successfully through the revolving doors and started down Gay Street together. “Is that the gang over there?” He pointed across at the boy and girl. “They do look forlorn. Maybe I’ve found a big story. You go on home, Jo. I don’t want you following me around on my beat. Looks crazy.” No use trying to explain her real motive to him. “Did the flower shop girl give you a story?” she asked, partly to make conversation and partly because she was curious. “A wedding. I’ll hand it over to Betty.” “What’d the post office man give you?” “Just a notice about the letter carriers organizing a bowling team,” he told her. “Run on, now. Maybe this isn’t anything. You can meet me at the _Journal_ and I’ll tell you.” She did go on, then. Tim might tell Mother if she didn’t, and then she’d be told not to bother her brother. She couldn’t expect them to understand that she’d only been trying to help. Joan was sitting on the sunny stone step of the _Journal_ office, half an hour later, when Tim returned. “It’ll be a dandy feature,” he announced. “May even make the front page.” He forgot it was just his “kid” sister to whom he was talking. He _had_ to tell some one. “That father deserted those children. I turned them over to the Welfare Society.” He told her details, excitedly. Joan hung about the _Journal_ office, though Tim hinted openly that she should go home. She wasn’t going to leave now. Tim was working hard over his story of the deserted children. The father’s name was Albert Jackson and he lived in South Market Street, a poor section of the city. Tim was getting nervous over the story. He was sitting on the edge of his chair and squinting at the machine before him. Finally, he jerked the page out, crushed it into a wad and dropped it on the floor. “Nixon’ll jump on me for such awful-looking copy,” he muttered. “I’ll have to do the whole thing over.” The editor often remarked that “copy” didn’t need to be perfect, but it had to be understandable to avoid mistakes, and he often told the young reporters, when they handed him scratched-up copy, “Don’t economize on paper. There’s plenty around here and it’s free. Do it over, if there are too many changes.” Tim reached for the sheet and straightened it out. “It’s written all right, I guess—” “Just copying?” Joan queried. “Oh, Tim, let me do it.” “Think you can?” Tim glanced around the office. Mr. Nixon was out to lunch, or he would have refused right off. “Of course,” Joan assured him. “I’ve often copied lists of guests for Miss Betty. You know, sometimes folks write up their own parties and lots of the county correspondents write in longhand. She lets me copy them for her.” “I didn’t know that.” Tim gave her his chair. “Well, go ahead. That typewriter makes me nervous. Some of the letters don’t hit. The comma’s nothing but a tail. See? It doesn’t write the dot part at all. You’d think I’d rate a better typewriter than this old thrashing machine.” Joan made no reply. She was too thrilled to speak—to think of helping Tim! She must do her best and not make any mistakes. She smoothed out the copy sheet and placed it on the sliding board. “Albert Jackson of—” her fingers struck the keys slowly but surely. When she finished the sheet, Tim read it over and placed it on Mack’s desk. He read copy while Nixon was out at lunch, rather than let the work pile up. The sport editor’s face was always smile-lit, like that of an æsthetic dancer. He teased every one. When Gertie from the front office walked through, with stacks of yellow ads in her hands, he had a tantalizing remark ready for her. He started the rumor in the office that Gertie was making love openly and loudly to Dummy’s silent back. Joan went back to the _Journal_ after lunch to bask in the last-minute rush, just before the paper was locked up, or “put to bed”—that last, breathless pause to see whether anything big is going to break before the paper is locked into the forms. She was glad school was over—suppose she’d have had to miss all this excitement of Tim’s job! She and Chub went out into the press room again and she grabbed another folded newspaper, damp with fresh ink, from the press. She turned the pages, the narrow strips of cut edges peeling away from them as she opened out the paper. There was the story she’d typed—on the back page, among the obituary notices. It was almost as though she herself had written it. Why, the name was wrong. Instead of starting “Albert Jackson,” as she had written it, the story began, “Albert Johnson of North Market Street—” a different name and address. “I guess that won’t make much difference,” reflected Joan, as she carried the paper back to the editorial office to show to Tim. “You never can tell,” grinned Chub, as he trotted along beside her, his rubber sneakers slipping over the oil spots on the cement floor. He had not been an office boy in a newspaper office for two summers for nothing. He knew any mistake was apt to be serious. “That’s what I was telling you about, Jo—mistakes.” But Joan hardly heard him. Tim was furious when he saw the story. Miss Betty, busy already writing up a lengthy account of a wedding that would take place to-morrow, for the next day’s paper, paused in the middle of her description of the bridal bouquet to console the cub reporter. “Mistakes do happen, Tim,” she laughed. “Think of the day I wrote up a meeting of the Mission Band and said that the members spent the afternoon in ‘shade and conversation,’ only to have it come out as ‘they spent the afternoon in shady conversation’!” But Tim refused to be cheered, and Joan began to realize that the mistake was serious, for Mr. Nixon, the editor, had a set look on his face, too. “Does it really make so much difference?” she asked. “Does it?” Tim glared at her, his eyes darker than ever. “With Albert Johnson one of the most influential men in town?” Then Joan understood. It was the name and address of a real resident of Plainfield that had been printed, and that was bad. The man wouldn’t relish reading in the paper that he had deserted his children when he hadn’t at all. “I can kiss my job good-by,” groaned Tim. “Why weren’t you careful?” “I’m sure I wrote it right!” To think she had brought all this on Tim. “But you couldn’t have, Jo,” he insisted. “I’ll hunt up the copy for you, Tim,” offered Chub. This was often part of his duties. Joan went with him. They went up to the high stool, before a tall, flat table, where Dummy read yards and yards of proof every day. It was such a nuisance having to write everything out to him. He directed them to the big copy hook where used copy was kept for alibis. Joan fumbled through the sheets and found the story. It had “Martin” up in the left-hand corner, the way Tim marked all his copy. The story started, “Albert Johnson of North Market Street.” “Why, it’s written wrong!” she gasped. Her eyes fell on Dummy’s bowed gray head. He gave a start as he bent over his pad, wrote something, and held it out to her. “That’s the way the copy came to me,” she read. It was certainly a mystery how she could write one thing, and it could be changed into something different. There was nothing to be gained by scribbling notes to the Dummy, and so Joan and Chub filed back. Tim was glummer than ever when she told him the news. “You must have written it that way, without realizing,” he said. “We’ve asked Mack, and he says it came to him that way.” He bent over his typewriter and banged away. He was doing rewrites now. “Much as we all like you, Tim, we can’t let any mistakes like this happen,” the editor said. “I’m responsible for everything in the paper, and if anything gets in wrong, I have to discover who’s the guilty party and get rid of him.” Joan and Chub crept away to the open back window, perched themselves on the broad sill, with their legs outside. “I bet that Dummy’s like Dumb Dora in the comic strip, ‘She ain’t so dumb,’” remarked Chub. “There’s something queer about him. I’ve always said so. And there’s been queer things going on. You know what I told you about the mysterious mistakes. They’ve been happening before Tim got on the paper. But I couldn’t prove _who_ made ’em. Now, I’m sure it’s Dummy.” “He couldn’t help it, when the story came to him wrong.” “But, Jo, if you’re sure you wrote it right, then somebody changed it and I think Dummy did. He’s got it in for Tim somehow, or for the paper, and put that mistake there on purpose. He thinks no one would dare accuse him, being a deaf-mute.” “But nothing was erased. I looked especially to see. Perhaps I did write it wrong,” began Joan, and then broke off, “Oh, there’s Amy.” A figure in an orchid sweater was waving to them from the corner. It was Amy in a new sweater. She adored clothes. Amy didn’t know a thing about a newspaper, and Chub was always disgusted with her for that. Tim, surprisingly enough, thought her a “decent kid” and really treated her with respect. Amy openly admired Tim—she thought him so romantic looking. “Jo, you wretch!” she said now, crossing the lawn to the _Journal_ window. “You’re never at home since Tim got that job. I’ve been phoning you all afternoon and I think your mother’s tired of answering.” Chub got off the window sill. “Here,” he offered Amy a seat. “There’s room for all of us.” Amy was always nice to every male creature, even though he might be just a red-haired, freckle-faced, chubby office boy. They all sat together and Joan confided the new mystery to Amy. Though Amy knew little about newspaper life, she knew mysteries. She agreed that Dummy seemed a most suspicious character. “But he’s so refined and nice,” Joan demurred. “Spies are always refined like that,” was Amy’s reply. Her ideas were based on prolific reading. “The more refined they are the worse they are, always.” “Oh!” Joan’s mouth dropped open. “I wonder,” she mused. “Say, Amy, you’ve said something. I believe he is a spy.” Amy had no notion of what the man could be spying for, but Joan’s eager mind was grasping at ideas. Bits of Tim’s conversation about the political candidate came to her—the importance of not having mistakes in the _Journal_ just at this time. That man, Dummy, had been hired to spy upon the _Journal_ and to see that somehow mistakes were made, mistakes that would give the _Journal_ that “black eye” that Tim talked about; mistakes that would eventually elect the _Star’s_ candidate. She was a little hazy about how it worked. But of course, a deaf man had been chosen because no one would bother to argue much with a deaf person. It was too much trouble to write everything. “I’ve read of things like that,” admitted Chub, when she had explained her ideas. “We’ll be detectives,” he announced. “And we’ll be on the watch for developments. I’ve a peachy book, _How to Be a Detective_.” “Maybe—maybe it’s like this,” ideas came to Joan. “Maybe Dummy wants to be a reporter himself and is jealous of Tim’s job. Maybe he doesn’t like it because Tim’s only seventeen and a full-fledged reporter. That’s why he makes the mistakes look like Tim’s. Still, I can’t help but like Dummy. He’s so kind and mild. But he _is_ sort of spooky, somehow.” Tim came to the window behind them now. “Jo,” his voice was hoarse and scared-sounding. “Come in here. Mr. Albert Johnson wants to talk to you.” Joan jumped off the sill to the soft grass, and stood for a moment trying not to tremble while she looked down at Em, who had just come up and was sniffing at her ankles. What was going to happen, now? “Don’t let ’em scare you, Jo.” Chub’s grimy hand was pressing hers. “The _Journal’s_ got insurance that takes care of libel suits.” Libel suits. Oh, dear, that had a dreadful sound. Would Uncle John fire Tim for her mistake—if it had been a mistake? “All right, Tim, I’m coming,” she called in a voice, that in spite of her, trembled, as she came in out of the sunshine, in through the window of the _Journal_ office to meet Mr. Albert Johnson. CHAPTER IV “NO MORE MISTAKES” Joan, with pounding heart, lifted her eyes and looked at Mr. Albert Johnson. He was a man of about fifty and was seated in the chair at Tim’s desk. His hair was thin and his face was round. He was holding his gray felt hat and his yellow gloves in his hands resting upon a yellow cane between his knees. He was tapping the cane on the floor—not with impatience, Joan realized, but it was that cross kind of a tapping noise that a person makes when he is very angry and is trying to control himself. Mr. Johnson’s face told her the same thing. It was red, now, and his mouth was set like a bulldog’s. His eyes glared at her. Tim was standing there, too, silent. The rest of the office staff was watching the scene, and pretending not to. “And are you the young woman who typed this—this—” Mr. Albert Johnson lifted up his hat and his hand shook as he held a folded newspaper toward her, “this ridiculous story about me?” “Yes,” was Joan’s faint answer. “But—” “Why,” the man seemed to be seeing her now for the first time, “why, you’re nothing but a child. Are you really able to run a typewriter?” “Yes,” she said again. She hated to be called a child. “Very, very peculiar.” Mr. Johnson tapped his yellow cane harder than ever. Joan could bear it no longer. “But I’m just positive I wrote that name Albert Jackson,” she burst out. The bulldog man eyed her. “Can you prove it?” “No, the copy was different. It was changed.” She was full of the mystery, having just come from the discussion over it with Chub and Amy. “We’re working on it—the mystery—now, and maybe we’ll have it cleared up. We have a suspect already.” The man still glared at her. “Young woman, do you know that I’m part owner of this paper with your Uncle John—the general manager is your uncle, isn’t he?—and that I’m a lifelong friend and chief backer of the _Journal’s_ candidate for the coming election?” “Oh, dear!” Joan almost sobbed. “I knew you lived out on North Market Street, so I imagined you must be somebody, but I never dreamed you were all that!” The bulldog man’s eyes actually twinkled and the yellow cane was still. “Well, I am,” he snapped, “all that. Of course, you’re too young to understand about politics, but if you’re big enough to help around a newspaper office, you must know how disastrous it is to have a mistake like this come out in the paper.” He waggled the newspaper again. “Oh, I do!” breathed Joan, fervently. “It’s going to cost this young man his job, I’m afraid.” Mr. Johnson turned his head slightly toward Tim. Her brother’s face was white. “Oh, no, please!” beseeched the girl. “It wasn’t his fault, at all. I did it, so why should he lose his job? He needs the money so badly for college this fall.” Why, it’d be terrible to have Tim lose his job. Tim gave her a look that said, “You didn’t need to say _that_.” “But your brother admits he read the copy over, after you’d typed it.” Mr. Johnson leaned over his cane. “First off, I suspected something crooked, but when I found out just a kid had made the mistake.... Your brother did read it over, didn’t he?” Joan nodded dumbly. Then her mind, in its wretchedness, went back to the mystery. “But, Mr. Johnson,” she began, unmindful of Tim’s watchful eyes, “don’t you think that when we both read the story over, it’s mighty queer that it had a mistake like that in it, and neither of us saw it?” “But you probably did it unconsciously. You’re young. The boy’s new at the job and was in a hurry. He let it slip,” answered the man. “You see, I know a lot about newspaper work.” “Do you know anything about mysteries?” Joan couldn’t help but ask. Somehow this fierce little man was not so fierce as he seemed. He had had a perfect right to be angry. Indeed, there was something really rather likable about him. A smile played about his bulldog features. “Well,” he drawled. “I ought to. I have indigestion bad, lots of times, and then I can’t get to sleep, so I keep a good detective story right by my bed, all the time. I guess I read about one a week.” “And don’t you think we have a mystery here?” Joan dropped her voice. In answer, Mr. Johnson motioned Tim to leave. “I’ll talk with this young woman alone,” he said, and shoved a chair toward her. “Now, let’s get this straight. To begin with, before we go on to your little mystery, let me ask you, do you realize how serious a mistake like that is?” “It’s libel,” said Joan, sadly. “I’ve lived next to the _Journal_”—she pointed through the smudgy window to her red brick home—“all my life, and I do know how terrible mistakes are. Daddy was city editor, and I know how particular he was about it.” “Well, then what about me?” asked Mr. Johnson. “Oh, I’m sure the _Journal_ will make it right some way—write a contradictory story and explain that the Albert Johnson who lived on North Market Street is not the Albert Jackson who deserted his two children. Tim’ll write you something nice, I know. And the publicity may even help you.” She smiled encouragingly. Oh, if she could only get Tim out of this mess! [Illustration: “I’ll talk with this young woman all alone,” he said.] “Well, all right, I’ll risk that.” The man cleared his throat. “And now to business. Who’s the suspect?” Joan slid her chair up until her red plaid skirt touched the gray-trousered knees of Mr. Albert Johnson. His cane was leaning back against his arm now. She told him all about the Dummy—how the copy must have been changed, and Dummy had insisted that it had been handed to him like that, when she knew she hadn’t written it wrong. Then she went on and told him how she and Chub and Amy had jumped to the conclusion that Dummy was a spy. “Every crime has a motive, you know,” she assured him earnestly. “And so we thought it all out. Of course, we’ll have to have more evidence than just that before we can accuse him.” “Of course,” nodded Albert Johnson. “Now, listen here. I’m part owner here and I’ll fix it for your brother to stay on here, and for you to stick around this office as much as you like, on one condition.” “Yes, indeed.” Joan felt she would promise anything to save Tim. “I want you to promise me to watch out for ‘developments’ as you call them, and come to me the next time anything suspicious happens. I don’t mind admitting things look queer. And don’t you accuse any one until you come to me. Remember?” That would be easy! They were going to watch for developments, anyway. And Tim’s job would be safe. Mr. Johnson got Tim back to the desk, and shook his hand, before he went into Uncle John’s little office with the frosted glass door and the “John W. Martin” on it. Joan watched his bulldog profile shadowed there until Mother telephoned to Tim to “send Joan home to help with dinner.” Amy had left long ago. Nothing very exciting happened anyway, Joan learned later. Uncle John had been on the verge of firing Tim, but after his talk with Mr. Johnson, he said Tim could remain on probation, providing no more mistakes happened. That evening, Tim spent hours wording an apology concerning Mr. Johnson for the paper, and Joan insisted that he tell the public what a nice man Mr. Johnson was. Tim told her that Mr. Johnson was a wealthy man who dabbled in politics as a pastime, so she understood how he had time to bother with mysteries. The _Journal_ staff would be interested in it, but they were all too busy to do much more than wonder. She did not tell any one that she had enlisted Mr. Johnson’s services in the detective work. Tim’s write-up of Mr. Johnson must have met with his approval, because he telephoned Joan about twenty minutes after the paper was out, that he was about ready to forgive the entire affair. He asked Joan whether she were watching out for the mystery. She was. Now that she had gained permission from Uncle John and the editor, through Mr. Johnson, to “stick around” the office, she fairly camped there every waking moment. Of course, Miss Betty and Tim took advantage of having such a willing young worker around. Miss Betty let her copy the news from the suburban towns, which usually came in in longhand. Joan loved it and worked painstakingly. Tim grumbled at times, Mack teased, Cookie joked, and even the editor got used to seeing her around. “Newspaper work is hard,” Cookie would tell her when she would make a little face about being sent on so many errands for Tim. “Make up your mind to get used to hard work and nothing else. You work as hard as you can on one story; then it’s printed and over with and you start on something else. Always some new excitement on a newspaper.” Joan understood that, for look how soon every one had forgotten the episode of the mysterious mistake about the Albert Johnson story—or appeared to. But she and Chub had not. The office boy had a new solution to offer every day. “The life of a newspaper is just ten minutes,” Cookie told her another time. Ten minutes. She glanced around at the staff all working feverishly to get out the paper. And the actual interest in the paper lasted only about ten minutes. That was true, she guessed. Still, all the _Journal_ family seemed to enjoy their jobs. After a week, Joan suddenly realized that she had joined the staff just in time for the annual outing. June nineteenth was just June nineteenth to a lot of people in Plainfield, but to the members of the _Journal_ family, it was the big day of the year—the one day when they dropped their labors of supplying the town with news and took an afternoon and evening off. The _Journal_ members were jolly for the most part while they worked. But when they took time off to play they were a perfect circus. Joan looked forward to the picnic. A neat “box,” that is, a little outlined notice, appeared on the front page of the paper at the beginning of the week, announcing that the _Journal_ would come out early on Friday in order that the staff and all employees could attend the annual picnic. Of course, it would be an unusually slim paper that day, but the subscribers did not mind one day in the year. Always by one o’clock on June nineteenth the paper was out on the street and the staff ready to pile into the two big busses chartered for the occasion. Now Joan could go along. She and Tim had both gone when Daddy was editor, but that was long ago. All the employees took their families, and Joan would go. Mother, too, perhaps. But no, Mrs. Martin declined the invitation immediately. “Bounce around in those uncomfortable, crowded busses for an hour, get eaten alive by mosquitoes and things, and come home as tired as though I’d done two weeks’ washing? No, thank you. I’ll take the day off, too, but I’ll run out and see sister Effie. She’s thinking about having her appendix taken out, and wants my advice.” The big event at the picnic was the baseball game, and this year the _Journal_ team was scheduled to play the _Star_. The _Journal_ team this year was excellent—Mack, Mr. Nixon, Lefty the photographer, Burke the bookkeeper, Cookie, the two advertising men, and one of the pressmen. Chub and Bossy always sat on the bench—that is, they were substitutes and hardly hoped for an opportunity to play. Would Tim get to play, Joan wondered. The first day he had come to work, Chub grabbed him. “You’ll try out for the team, won’t you? I bet you’re a peacherino pitcher.” Joan could easily see that Chub thought Tim mighty near perfection. Well, she thought so, too, most of the time, herself. He had been a star in the game at high school, but the men on the _Journal_ team were all older than he was. The owners of the _Journal_ were proud of the prowess of the _Journal_ team and their interest in baseball. The owners had this year ordered baseball suits for the team, and the _Journal_ nine had challenged the _Star_ team to a game to be played at the annual outing. The suits arrived one day during Tim’s first week on the paper and that afternoon no one worked. Fortunately, Bossy did not come in with the boxes until the paper was out. Bossy’s eyes were just visible over the big flat suit boxes. Instantly, every member of the staff forgot that the paper must come out to-morrow just as to-day. They’d all work overtime to-morrow and get it out in record time, but now they had to look at the suits. They were striped gray flannel with “Journal” written across the front in flaming red letters. Bossy’s brown eyes were almost popping out of his face. He had always played substitute, but he was a bit puzzled now. Was he to have one of the suits? “Here’s my fat one,” Cookie held up a shirt by the sleeves across his plump front. He was a dandy catcher but a bit slow on bases. “This skinny one must be yours, Mack!” The editor tossed him a gray bundle. “Just look through these, Bossy. There was one ordered for you.” Bossy’s eyes blinked behind their glasses. “Deed and I will, sah.” Then the red socks were distributed. “Double up your fist and if it goes around that, it’ll fit.” Miss Betty did the measuring. Chub was squeezing into his suit, putting it on over his everyday clothes, and soon the others followed his example. Cookie looked like a young boy in his. They all paraded up and down, until Miss Betty rushed to her typewriter and began pounding out a poem to celebrate the occasion. She called it, “The Wearing of the Gray.” They all clapped when she read it aloud. She tried to coax Mr. Nixon to promise to print it. “Luckily for me,” said the editor, “the _Journal’s_ policy is never to print poetry.” Whereupon Miss Betty made up a jingling tune to go with the words, and taught it to every one to use as a cheer. “Let’s have a bit of practice.” The editor was in rare good humor, for they usually practiced in the late afternoons. “But, since I seem to recall a certain mishap, I suggest we step outside for our practice.” He meant the time that they had had a few “passes” right there in the big editorial room, one day when work was slack, and Chub had missed a ball. The glass in the ticker, which reeled out yellow lengths of news bulletins, had been broken since that day. They went through the windows to the grassy place by Joan’s home. Em scurried out of the way at the first ball. Joan sat on her own side steps and looked on. How handsome Tim was, in that gray uniform and cap! Chub sat beside her, both of them engrossed in watching the men making catches and putting out imaginary opponents. “We _have_ to beat the _Star_,” she vowed. Suddenly, Mr. Nixon, who was captain by courtesy, called Tim. “Lefty here and I have been watching you play, Tim. You’re fast and sure. I believe I’ll put you in as shortstop.” Tim grinned. Every one seemed delighted. Miss Betty was loud in her exclamation. Only Mack was silent. He appeared peeved. Why should he care whether Tim was on the team or not? “No clews to the mystery,” Chub said glumly. “I’ve been watching for developments every minute. Maybe we’ll get some at the picnic.” “Maybe.” Joan hoped so, because she did want to solve the mystery and make it up to Tim for having got him into such a mess with the Albert Johnson story. CHAPTER V THE ANNUAL OUTING The two big busses chugged at the curb. Joan, in a sleeveless green linen frock, with her tightly rolled bathing suit dangling by a string from one finger, had been out a dozen times to have the driver of the first bus assure her that he was saving two seats next to himself for her and Chub. The busses were draped all around
I only oppose the prejudices of the others, but I contend with the passions of these. These it is who are forever prating of the beauties and virtues of the waltz. It is an "innocent recreation," a "healthful exercise," it is the "mother of grace" and the "poetry of motion;" no eulogy can be too extravagant for them to bestow upon their idol. _They_ see no harm in it, not they, and for those who dare hint at such a thing, they have ever ready at their tongue's end that most convenient and abused of legends: _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. They will catch at any straw to defend their pet amusement. They will tell you that The Preacher says "there is a time to dance," without stopping to inquire why that ancient cynic put the words "there is a time to mourn" in such close proximity. They will inform you that Plato, in his Commonwealth, will have dancing-schools to be maintained, "that young folks may meet, be acquainted, see one another, and be seen," but they forget to mention that he will also have them dance naked, or to quote the comments of Eusebius and Theodoret upon Plato's plan. They think the secret of their great respect for the waltz is possessed only by themselves, and hug the belief that by them that secret shall never be divulged. Bah! They must dance with the gas out if there is to be any secrecy in the matter. * I have stated several times, and I now do so for the last time, that by "dancers" I mean waltzers. I hope that my meaning will not be wilfully misconstrued. Innocent and healthful recreation forsooth! The grotesque abominations of the old Phallic worship had a basis of clean and wholesome truth, but as the obscene rites of that worship desecrated the principle that inspired them, so do the pranks of the "divine waltz" libel the impulse that stirs its wriggling devotees. The fire that riots in their veins and the motive that actuates their haunches is an honest flame and a decent energy when honestly and decently invoked, but if blood and muscle would be pleased to indulge their impotent raptures in private, the warmer virtues would not be subjected to open caricature, nor the colder to downright outrage. What do I mean by such insinuations? Nay, then, gentle reader, I will not insinuate, but will boldly state that with the class with which I am now dealing--the dancers par excellence, the modern waltz is not merely "suggestive," as its opponents have hitherto charitably styled it, but an open and shameless gratification of sexual desire and a cooler of burning lust. To lookers-on it is "suggestive" enough, Heaven knows, but to the dancers--that is to say, to the "perfect dancers"--it is an actual realization of a certain physical ecstacy which should at least be indulged in private, and, as some would go so far as to say, under matrimonial restrictions. And this is the secret to which I have alluded. It cannot even be _claimed_ as private property any longer. "For shame!" cries the horrified (and non-waltzing) reader; "how can you make such dreadfully false assertions! And who are these 'perfect dancers' you talk so much about? And how came _you_ to know their 'secret' as you term it? Surely no woman of even nominal decency would make such a horrible confession, and yet the most immaculate women waltz, and waltz divinely!" By your leave, I will answer these questions one at a time. Who are these "perfect waltzers?" Of the male sex there are several types, of which I need only mention two. The first is your lively and handsome young man--a Hercules in brawn and muscle--who exults in his strength and glories in his manhood. Dancing comes naturally to him, as does everything else that requires grace and skill. He is a ruthless hunter to whom all game is fair. The gods have made him beautiful and strong, and the other sex recognize and appreciate the fact. Is it to be expected of Alcibiades that he scorn the Athenian lasses, or of Phaon the Fair that he avoid the damsels of Mytelene? No indeed! it is for the husband and father to take care of the women--_he_ can take care of himself. Yet even this gay social pirate and his like might take a hint from the poet:= ```"But ye--who never felt a single thought ```For what our morals are to be, or ought; ```Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, ```Say--would you make those beauties quite so cheap?"= But this fine animal is by no means the most common or degraded type of ball-room humanity. It would be perhaps better if he were. In his mighty embrace a woman would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that she was dancing with a wholesome creature, however destitute he might be of the finer feelings that go to make up what is called a man. No, the most common type of the male "perfect dancer" is of a different stamp. This is the blockhead who covers his brains with his boots--to whom dancing is the one serious practical employment of life, and who, it must be confessed, is most diligent and painstaking in his profession. He is chastity's paramour--strong and lusty in the presence of the unattainable, feeble-kneed and trembling in the glance of invitation; in pursuit a god, in possession an incapable--satyr of dalliance, eunuch of opportunity. This creature dances divinely. He has given his mind to dancing, has never got it back, and is the richer for that. He haunts "hops" and balls because his ailing virility finds a feast in the paps and gruels of love there dispensed. It is he to whose contaminating embrace your wi--I mean your neighbor's wife or daughter, dear reader, is oftenest surrendered, to whet his dulled appetite for strong meats of the bagnio--nay to coach him for offences that _must_ be nameless here. She performs her function thoroughly, conscientiously, wholly--merges her identity in his, and lo! the Beast with two Backs! A pretty picture is it not?---the Grand Passion Preservative dragged into the blaze of gas to suffer pious indignities at the hand of worshippers who worship not wisely, but too well! The true Phallos set up at a cross-roads to receive the homage of strolling dogs--male and female created he them! Bah! these orgies are the spawn of unmannerly morals. They profane our civilization, and are an indecent assault upon common sense. It is nearly as common as the dance itself, to hear the male participants give free expression, loose tongued, to the lewd emotions, the sensual pleasure, in which they indulge when locked in the embrace of your wives and daughters; if this be true, if by any possibility it can be true, that a lady however innocent in thought is exposed to lecherous comments of this description, then is it not also true that _every_ woman possessing a remnant of delicacy, will flee from the dancing-hall as from a pestilence. [Illustration: 5061] [Illustration: 0062] CHAPTER IV. ```"What! the girl that I love by another embraced! ```Another man's arm round my chosen one's waist! ```What! touched in the twirl by another man's knee; ```And panting recline on another than me! ```Sir, she's yours; you have brushed from the grape its soft blue, ```From the rose you have shaken the delicate dew; ```What you've touched you may take--pretty Waltzer, adieu!"= [Illustration: 9062] et us now consider the female element in this immodesty. Is the woman equally to blame with the man? Is she the unconscious instrument of his lust, or the conscious sharer in it? We shall see. In the first place, it is absolutely necessary that she shall be able and willing to reciprocate the feelings of her partner before she can graduate as a "divine dancer." Until she can and will do this she is regarded as a "scrub" by the male experts, and no matter what her own opinion of her proficiency may be she will surely not be sought as a companion in that _piece de résistance_ of the ball-room the "after--supper glide." Horrible as this statement seems, it is the truth and nothing but the truth, and though I could affirm it upon oath from what I have myself heard and seen, I fortunately am able to confirm it by the words of a highly respected minister of the gospel--Mr. W. C. Wilkinson, who some years ago published in book form an article on "The Dance of Modern Society," which originally appeared in one of our American Quarterly Reviews. This gentleman gives a remark overheard on a railway car, in a conversation that was passing between two young men about their lady acquaintances. "The horrible concreteness of the fellow's expression," says Mr. Wilkinson, "may give a wholesome recoil from danger to some minds that would be little affected by a speculative statement of the same idea. Said one: I would not give a straw to dance with Miss --------; you can't excite any more passion in her than you can in a stick of wood." Can anything be plainer than this. "Pure young women of a warmer temperament," the same reverend author subsequently adds, "who innocently abandon themselves to enthusiastic proclamations of their delight in the dance in the presence of gentlemen, should but barely once have a male intuition of the _meaning_ of the involuntary glance that will often shoot across from eye to eye among their auditors. Or should overhear the comments exchanged among them afterwards. For when young men meet after an evening of the dance to talk it over together, it is not points of dress they discuss. Their only demand (in this particular) and it is generally conceded, is that the ladies' dress and shall not needlessly embarrass suggestion." But here is one of my own experiences in this connection. At a fashionable sociable, I was approached by a friend who had been excelling himself in Terpsichorean feats during the whole evening. This friend was a very handsome man, a magnificent dancer, and of course a great favorite with the ladies. I had been watching him while he waltzed with a young and beautiful lady, also of my acquaintance, and had been filled with wonder at the way he had folded her in his arms--literally fondling her upon his breast, and blending her delicate melting form into his ample embrace in a manner that was marvellous to behold. They had whirled and writhed in a corner for fully ten minutes--the fury of lust in his eyes, the languor of lust in hers--until gradually she seemed to lose her senses entirely, and must have slipped down upon the floor when he finally released her from his embrace had it not been for the support of his arm and shoulder. Now as he came up to me all flushed and triumphant I remarked to him that he evidently enjoyed this thing very much. "Of course I do," he answered. "Why not?" "But I should think," said I, not wishing to let him see that I knew anything about the matter from experience, "that your passions would become unduly excited by such extremely close contact with the other sex." "Excited!" he replied, "of course they do; but not unduly--what else do you suppose I come here for? And don't you know, old fellow," he added in a burst of confidence, "that this waltzing is the grandest thing in the world. While you are whirling one of those charmers--if you do it properly, mind you--you can whisper in her ear things which she would not listen to at any other time. Ah! but she likes it then, and comes closer still, and in response to the pressure of her hand, your arm tightens about her waist, and then"--but here he grew very eloquent at the bare remembrance, and the morals of the printer must be respected. "But," said I, "I should be afraid to take such liberties with a respectable woman." "O," he answered, "that's nothing--they like it; but, as I said before, you must know how to do it; there must be no blundering; they wont stand that. The best place to learn to do the thing correctly is in one of those dance-cellars; there you can take right hold of them. The girls there are "posted," you know; and they'll soon "post" you. Let everything go loose. You will soon fall into the step. All else comes natural. I go round amongst them all. Come with me a few nights, I'll soon make a waltzer of you--you will see what there is in it." He still rests under the promise to "show me round" in the interests of the diffusion of useful knowledge; and if he does not trace the authorship of this book to me, and take offence thereat, I will go at some future time. It must indeed be "jolly," as he called it, to possess such consumate skill in an art which makes the wives and daughters of our "best people" the willing instruments of his lechery. Oh yes--I _must learn_. This is a supreme accomplishment I cannot afford to be without. It has been said that out of evil comes good, and assuredly "this is an evil born with all its teeth." "Ah, yes," continued my enthusiastic friend, "it isn't the whirling that makes the waltz, and those who think it is are the poorest dancers. A little judicious handling will make a sylph out of the veriest gawk of a girl that ever attempted the "light' fantastic;" and once manage to initiate one of those stay-at-home young ladies, and I'll warrant you she'll be on hand at every ball she is invited to for the rest of that season. I'll wager, sir, that there isn't a "scrub" in this room who just knows the step but what I can make a dancer of her in fifteen minutes--the dear creatures take to it naturally when they are properly taught. But don't forget to come with me to the 'dives' one of these evenings and I'll show you what there is in it." And this was the estimation in which this man held the ladies of his acquaintance: this is the kind of satyr to the quenching of whose filthy lusts we are to furnish our wives and daughters; this is the manner of Minotaur who must be fed upon comely virgins--may he recognize a Theseus in these pages! And yet, dear reader, do not imagine that this man was a social ogre of unusual monstrosity. No, indeed, he was, and is, a "very nice young man;" he is, in fact, commonly regarded as a model young man. Nor must you imagine that his partner had a single stain upon her reputation. She is a young lady of the highest respectability; she takes a great interest in Sunday schools, is regular at the communion-table, makes flannel waistcoats for the heathen, and is on all sides allowed to be the greatest catch of the season in the matrimonial market. If she and the young man in question meet in the street, a modest bow on her part, and a respectful lifting of the hat on his, are the only greetings interchanged--he may enjoy her body in the ball-room, but, you see, he is not well enough acquainted with her to take her hand on the street. [Illustration: 5071] [Illustration: 0072] CHAPTER V. ````"Where lives the man that hath not tried ````How mirth can into folly glide, `````And folly into sin!"--Scott.= [Illustration: 9072] he conversation I have given in the last chapter is faithfully reported--it is exact in spirit very nearly so in letter; we may surely believe that the clergyman from whom I have quoted some pages back, was honest in his statements, and I think that there can be no man who has mixed among his sex in the ballroom and not heard similar remarks made. All this is, it seems to me, ample proof of the fact which I set out to demonstrate, namely, that the lechery of the waltz is not confined to the males, but is consciously participated in by the females, and if further evidence be needed, then, I say, take the best of all--watch the dancers at their sport--mark well the faces, the contortions of body and limb, and be convinced against your will. But even over and beyond this, I shall now lay before you a kind of testimony which you will be surprised to find brought to bear on the case. Shortly after I had determined to publish a protest against the abominations of the waltz, it became plainly apparent to me that I must if possible obtain the views on the subject of some intelligent and well known lady, whose opinion would be received with respect by all the world. With this end in view, I addressed one of the most eminent and renowned women of America. I could not fortell the result of such a step, I certainly did not expect it to be what it is, I hardly dared to hope that she would accede to my request in any shape. But I knew that if she did speak, it would be according to her honest convictions, and I resolved in that event to publish her statement whatever it might be. This lady freely and generously offered me the use of her name, and as this would be of great value to my undertaking, I had originally intended to print it; but upon consideration I have concluded that it would be a poor return for her kindness and self-devotion, to subject her to the fiery ordeal of criticism she would in that case have to endure, and for this reason, and this only, I withhold her name for the present. But I do earnestly assure the reader that if ever the words of a great and good woman deserved respectful attention, it is these:--"You ask me to say what I think about 'round dances.' I am glad of the opportunity to lay my opinion on that subject before the world; though, indeed I scarcely know what I can write which you have not probably already written. I will, however, venture to lay bare a young girl's heart and mind by giving you my own experience in the days when I waltzed. "In those times I cared little for Polka or Varsovienne, and still less for the old-fashioned 'Money Musk' or 'Virginia Reel,' and wondered what people could find to admire in those'slow dances.' But in the soft floating of the waltz I found a strange pleasure, rather difficult to intelligibly describe. The mere anticipation fluttered my pulse, and when my partner approached to claim my promised hand for the dance I felt my cheeks glow a little sometimes, and I could not look him in the eyes with the same frank gaiety as heretofore. "But the climax of my confusion was reached when, folded in his warm embrace, and giddy with the whirl, a strange, sweet thrill would shake me from head to foot, leaving me weak and almost powerless and really almost obliged to depend for support upon the arm which encircled me. If my partner failed from ignorance, lack of skill, or innocence, to arouse these, to me, most pleasurable sensations, I did not dance with him the second time. "I am speaking openly and frankly, and when I say that I did not understand what I felt, or what were the real and greatest pleasures I derived from this so-called dancing, I expect to be believed. But if my cheeks grew red with uncomprehended pleasure then, they grow pale with shame to-day when I think of it all. It was the physical emotions engendered by the magnetic contact of strong men that I was enamoured of--not of the dance, nor even of the men themselves. "Thus I became abnormally developed in my lowest nature. I grew bolder, and from being able to return shy glances at first, was soon able to meet more daring ones, until the waltz became to me and whomsoever danced with me, one lingering, sweet, and purely sensual pleasure, where heart beat against heart, hand was held in hand, and eyes looked burning words which lips dared not speak. "All this while no one said to me: you do wrong; so I dreamed of sweet words whispered during the dance, and often felt while alone a thrill of joy indescribable yet overpowering when my mind would turn from my studies to remember a piece of temerity of unusual grandeur on the part of one or another of my cavaliers. "Girls talk to each other. I was still a school girl although mixing so much with the world. We talked together. We read romances that fed our romantic passions on seasoned food, and none but ourselves knew what subjects we discussed. Had our parents heard us they would have considered us on the high road to ruin. "Yet we had been taught that it was right to dance; our parents did it, our friends did, and we were permitted. I will say also that all the girls with whom I associated, with the exception of one, had much the same experience in dancing; felt the same strangely sweet emotions, and felt that almost imperative necessity for a closer communion than that which even the freedom of a waltz permits, without knowing exactly why, or even comprehending what. "Married now, with home and children around me, I can at least thank God for the experience which will assuredly be the means of preventing my little daughters from indulging in any such dangerous pleasure. But, if a young girl, pure and innocent in the beginning, can be brought to feel what I have confessed to have felt, what must be the experience of a married woman? _She_ knows what every glance of the eye, every bend of the head, every close clasp means, and knowing that reciprocates it and is led by swifter steps and a surer path down the dangerous, dishonorable road. "I doubt if my experience will be of much service, but it is the candid truth, from a woman who, in the cause of all the young girls who may be contaminated, desires to show just to what extent a young mind may be defiled by the injurious effects of round dances. I have not hesitated to lay bare what are a young girl's most secret thoughts, in the hope that people will stop and consider, at least before handing their lillies of purity over to the arms of any one who may choose to blow the frosty breath of dishonor on their petals." And this is the experience of a woman of unusual strength of character--one whose intellect has gained her a worldwide celebrity and earned for her the respect and attention of multitudes wherever the English language is spoken. What hope is there then for ordinary women to escape from this mental and physical contamination? which= ````"Turns--if nothing else--at least our heads."= None whatever. [Illustration: 5080] [Illustration: 0081] CHAPTER VI. "_Il fault bien dire que la danse est quasi le comble de tous vices * * * * c'est le commencement d'une ordure, laquelle je ne veux declarer. Pour en parler rondement, il m'est advis que c'est une maniéré de tout villaine et barbare * * * A quoy servent tant de saults que font ces filles, soustenues des compagnons par soubs les bras; à fin de regimber plus hault? Quel plaisir prennent ces sauterelles à se tormenter ainsi et demener la pluspart des nuicts sans se soûler ou lasser de la danse?"_ L. Vives. [Illustration: 0081] any will say--have said--Byron wrote against the waltz because a physical infirmity prevented him from waltzing--that he is not a proper person to quote as an example for others to follow. It must be conceded that whatever his motive was, he _well knew_ what he was writing about, and whatever his practices may have been in other respects, it is to his credit that his sense of the proprieties of life were not so blunted as to render him blind to this cause of gross public licentiousness. But, unlike Byron, I have, as has been stated before, _practical experience, and positive knowledge_ in the matter whereof I speak, and am possessed of the most convincing assurances that my utterances will be received with joy by thousands of husbands and fathers whose views have been down-trodden--their sentiments disregarded, and their notions of morality held up to scorn because they disapprove of this "innocent amusement." It has also been before said that this vice was "seemingly tolerated by all," but I am proud to say that the placard posted about the streets announcing a= ````"Sunday School Festival--dancing ````TO COMMENCE AT NINE O'CLOCK," = does not reflect the sentiments of the entire community; that in all the marts of business, in every avenue of trade, in counting-house and in work-shop, men are to be found who would shrink with horror from exposing their wives and daughters to the allurements of the dance-hall--men who form a striking contrast to those simpering simpletons who sympathize with their feelings, but have not the courage to maintain the family honor by enforcing their views in the domestic circle. It is only a few years since the _Frankfort Journal_ announced that the authorities had decided, in the interest of good morals, that in future dancing-masters should not teach their art to children who had not yet been confirmed. The teaching of dancing in boarding-houses and hotels was also forbidden. It is not desirable that the law should interfere with purely domestic affairs, but really it seems as if those unfortunate parents and husbands who shudder at the evil but are awed into silence by ridicule or open rebellion, stand in as urgent need of the law's assistance as the Magdeburg godfathers and godmothers. I well know that many young ladies profess entire innocence of any impure emotions during all this "palming work." To them let me say: If you are so sluggish in your sensibilities as this would imply, then you are not fit subjects for the endearments of married life, and can give but poor promise of securing your husband's affection. But if on the other hand (as in most cases is true) you experience the true bliss of this intoxication, then indeed will the ground of your emotions be pretty well worked over before you reach the hymeneal altar, and the nuptial couch will have but little to offer for your consideration with which you are not already familiar. A friend at my elbow remarks. "I agree with you perfectly, but my wife likes these dances,--sees no harm in them, and her concluding and unanswerable argument is, that if I danced them, I should like them just as well as she does." The truth of this latter statement depends upon your moral perceptions. There is but one answer to the former, given by "Othello,"= ````"This is the curse of Marriage: ```We call these delicate creatures ours-- ```But not their appetites."= If you are so lax in your attention--so deficient in those qualities which go to make a woman happy--that she seeks the embrace of other men to supply the more than half acknowledged need--if this be true, my friend, I leave the matter with you--it belongs to another class of subjects, treated of by Doctor Acton of London---I refer you to his able works. Another says: Both my wife and I enjoy these dances. We see no particular harm in them--"to the pure all things are pure." The very same thing may be said by the _habitués_ of other haunts of infamy--= ```''Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, ```As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; ```Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, ```We first endure, then pity, then embrace."= There is, again, a very large class of dancers who frankly allow that there is immorality in the modern waltz, but insist that this immorality need not be, and by them is not, practised. They dance--but very properly, you know. These are the Pharisees who beat their breasts in public places, crying fie! upon their neighbors, and bravo! upon themselves. Of course, they will tell you, there are persons who are excited impurely by the waltz, but these are persons who would be immoral under any circumstances. "To the pure all things are pure." It is astonishing how apt they are with these tongue-worn aphorisms. To the pure all things are pure,--yes, but purity is only a relative virtue whose value is fixed by the moral standard of the individual. What would be pure to some would be grossly impure to others, and when you place your wife or daughter in the arms of such salacious gentry as have been described in the foregoing pages are you not pretty much in the position of the gentleman who when gravely informed by a guest who was taking an unaccountably hasty leave that his (the host's) wife had lewdly entreated him, replied: "But, my friend, that is nothing; your wife did as much for me when I visited you last year." This gentleman, remember, was also ready to add: "to the pure all things are pure." The Waltz should assuredly have figured among the "pure impurities" of Petronius. But even if it _be_ allowed that a lady can waltz virtuously, I have already shown that in that case she must not dance _well_. And what a pitiful spectacle, surely, is that of a lady trying "how not to do it"--converting her natural grace into clumsiness in order that she may do an indecent thing decently, and remain= ```"Warm but not wanton; dazzled, but not blind."= But perhaps she _cannot_ waltz. In that case how long will it take her to learn? Will not one single dance lower her standard of purity if her partner happens to be one of the adepts I have described? "But," cries the fair dancer "you must remember that no lady will permit herself to be introduced to, or accept as a partner, any but a gentleman, who she is sure will treat her with becoming respect." I will not stop to inquire what her definition of a "gentleman" is---whether the most courteous and urbane of men may not be a most desperate roué at heart. The attitude and contact are the same in any case, and if it needs must be that a husband is to see his wife folded in the close embrace of another man, is it any consolation for him to know that her partner is eligible as a rival in other respects than his nimble feet--that he who is brushing the bloom from his peach is at least his equal? Can you stop to consider the intellectual accomplishments and social status of the man who has invaded the sacred domain of your wife's chamber? No--equally unimportant is it to you, who or what he may be--that has thus exercised a privilege reserved by all pure-minded women for their husbands alone. But in this matter of the selection of the fittest the ladies have set up a man of straw, which I must proceed to demolish. In order that the lawless contact may be impartially distributed, and that no lady may be free to choose whose sexual magnetism she shall absorb, we have imported from across the water a foreign variety of the abomination, by which ingenious contrivance the color of the ribbon a lady chances to hold determines who shall have the use of her body in the waltz, and places her in the pitiable predicament of the "poore bryde" at ancient French weddings, who, as we read in Christen, "State of Matrimony," must "kepe foote with all dancers, and refuse none, how scabbed, foule, droncken, rude, and shameless soever he be." Nor are even the square dances any longer left as a refuge for the more modest, for to such a pitch has the passion for this public sexual intimacy come, that the waltz is now inseparably wedded to the quadrille. Even the old fogies are sometimes trapped by this device. A quadrille is called and they take their places feeling quite safe. "First couple forward!" "Cross over!" "Change partners!" "Waltz up and down the centre!" "Change over!" "All hands waltz round the outside!" and before they know it their sedate notions are lost in the "waltz quadrille." It may be said that every arrangement of the dance looks to an "equitable" distribution of each lady's favors. It is a recognized fact that a lady dancing repeatedly with the same gentleman shows a marked preference thereby--and he is deemed rude and selfish who attempts to monoplize his affianced, or shows reluctance in resigning her to the arms of another. [Illustration: 0092] CHAPTER VII. ```"Transformed all wives to Dalilahs, ```Whose husbands were not for the cause; ```And turned the men to ten-horn'd cattle, ```Because they went not out to battle." `````Samuel Butler.= [Illustration: 9092] one time ago a lady friend said to me: "How is it that while so many of you gentlemen are fond of dancing until you are married, yet from that moment few of you can be induced to dance any more. In fact it is a fraud perpetrated upon young ladies; you fall in love with them in the ball room, you court them there, you marry them there, and they naturally think you will continue to take them there. But no--thenceforth they must stay at home, or if you induced to go occasionally, you are as cross and ill-natured about it as possible; as though it was something dreadful. If the dancing-hall is good enough to get a wife in, is it not good enough to take a wife to?" My dear lady, said I, you have stated the case with a fairness not often met with in an opponent. There can be no stronger evidence (none other is required) to establish the sexualism of the popular dance than that which you have just cited. The privileges of matrimony relieve the necessity for the dance. The _lover_ is compelled to share that which the _husband_ considers all his own. Those who, while single, were most deeply versed in the mysteries and pleasures of the waltz are, when married, the first to proclaim their abhorrence of it, too often, it is true, in a mild and impotent protest, but not always. Is the reader acquainted with Boyesen's novel called "Gunnar?" If so he will remember that Ragnhild was to wed Lars under the pressure of parental authority. She preferred, however, the valiant, dancing Gunnar. "Ha! ha! ha!" cried he, "strike up a tune and that a right lusty one!" The music struck up, he swung upon his heel, caught the girl who stood nearest him round the waist; and whirled away with her. Suddenly he stopped and gazed right into her face, and who should it be but Ragnhild. She begged and tried to release herself from his arm, but he lifted her from the floor, made another leap, and danced away, so that the floor shook under them." "Gunnar, Gunnar," whispered she, "please, Gunnar, let me go"--he heard nothing. "Gunnar," begged she again, now already half surrendering, "only think what mother would say if she were here." But now she
vey, unconscious that he had said nothing of the sort, admitted that the Welcomes were in financial straits. "Their mother has to take in washing," he said, "and both the girls work. It's too bad, for they ought to be getting an education." The roan colt came to an abrupt stop. They were in front of a small cottage. Grogan surveyed the place for a moment and then turned to his jehu. "And what might you be stopping here for?" he inquired. Harvey paused with one foot on the step of the wagon and looked up at Grogan gravely. "This is Tom Welcome's cottage," he said. CHAPTER III ENTER A DETECTIVE While Harvey Spencer was climbing down from his wagon Mr. Michael Grogan, who was not exactly the guileless soul Millville took him to be, permitted himself rather a close inspection of the Welcome premises. There was nothing imposing about them. The cottage was old and obviously in need of repair. The fence which surrounded it had been repaired in places, apparently by someone who had small interest in the job. The little patch of ground in front, however, was decorated with a neatly kept vegetable garden bordered with flowers. The stone step at the cottage entrance was immaculate. Mr. Grogan was shrewd enough to indulge himself in the speculation that whatever Tom Welcome might be his wife was a careful housekeeper. Mrs. Welcome was standing in her open door and Grogan studied her with a curiosity not entirely disinterested. Her figure was frail and slightly bowed. Her hair, as it showed in the deepening dusk was almost white. Her features had delicacy like those of the daughter Grogan had just met. She was wiping her hands on a gingham apron. They were hands of a hard working woman. "Hello, Mrs. Welcome, nice day, ain't it?" called Harvey as he came through the gate. "Yes, it is nice, isn't it, Harvey?" replied Martha Welcome. "I hadn't noticed it before, I've been so busy with the washing." The woman's voice, Mr. Grogan noted, held a note of sadness. "Seems to me," said Harvey, dropping his voice and speaking with the assurance of an old family friend, "that if I had two girls like your Elsie and Patience, I'd see that they helped out with the washing." "How can they help me?" replied Mrs. Welcome. "Patience is up early every morning and off to Mr. Price's store and Elsie is at the mill all day." "That's so," said Harvey, "I didn't think, but surely they might--" "Oh, they help a lot," broke in Mrs. Welcome, hurriedly. "They do all their ironing at night. And that's all anyone could ask of them after they come home tired from their work." "Well, I'm glad to hear it. Your two girls always do look nice." "Thank you, Harvey." "But Mrs. Welcome--" "Yes, Harvey?" "Don't you think--" Harvey stopped and looked about hesitatingly,--"Ah, don't you think it would be just as well if Elsie didn't see quite as much of this Chicago fellow?" "Do you mean Mr. Druce?" inquired Mrs. Welcome. "I do. Of course, he's all right--" Harvey again hesitated and puckered his lips thoughtfully. "He wears fine clothing, patent leather shoes, sports a diamond ring, but it seems to me Elsie's different somehow since that Martin Druce began to hang around." Mrs. Welcome laughed softly. There was a glint of humor in her eyes. "I guess you're jealous, aren't you, Harvey?" "Well, say I am," agreed Harvey. "Never mind that. Is it a good thing for Elsie?" "Elsie's a good girl," replied Mrs. Welcome. "She sure is, Mrs. Welcome. That's why I want her to be Mrs. Harvey Spencer." Mrs. Welcome opened her eyes wide at this statement and looked kindly at the stout young man before her. "You mean it, Harvey?" she demanded. "I'm so much in earnest," he replied, fumbling in his pocket, "that I've got the ring right here." He produced a plain gold wedding ring nestling in a white velvet case. Mrs. Welcome uttered a little cry of gladness. She believed in Harvey, who, incidentally, was all he pretended to be. "O, I know I ain't much," went on Harvey, "just a clerk in a small town store, but I've got ambitions. Look at all the great men! Where did they begin? At the bottom." Harvey paused. Then he looked all about him carefully and, satisfied with this survey, leaned confidentially toward Mrs. Welcome and whispered: "Say, can you keep a secret, Mrs. Welcome?" "I guess so," replied Mrs. Welcome smiling. "Try me, Harvey." "All right, I'm going to be a detective," Harvey announced proudly. "You are, Harvey?" was the astonished reply. "Just watch me," Harvey went on. "I'm taking a correspondence school course. Here are some of my lessons." He took some closely typewritten sheets of paper from his pocket. "Ever notice how broad I am between the eyes?" he demanded. "I can't say that I have," said Mrs. Welcome. "Well, I am, and it's one of the signs, so they say, of the born detective. Listen here a moment." He unfolded the bulky pages and read grandly: "'Always be observant of even the smallest trifles. A speck of dust may be an important clew to a murder.'" "Harvey!" cried Mrs. Welcome. "Don't be frightened, Mrs. Welcome, just wanted to show you that I mean business." Harvey paused for a moment and regarded her steadily. Then he pointed his finger at her accusingly as he said: "I knew you were washing before you told me!" "You did, Harvey?" "Sure, because you had suds on your apron where you dried your hands." He drew a deep sigh and threw out his chest. "There," he said. "Oh, I guess I'm bad at these lessons, eh?" "You're a good boy, Harvey," replied Mrs. Welcome, indulgently. "Thank you." He bowed. "Oh, perhaps my future mother-in-law and I aren't going to get along fine," he announced to the world in general, exultingly. The roan colt interrupted this rhapsody by pawing impatiently at the ground. Harvey took his order book from his pocket and stuck his stub of lead pencil in his mouth. "Well," he inquired, "how about orders, Mrs. Welcome?" "We--we--need some flour," was the hesitating reply. "A barrel?" suggested Harvey, turning to a fresh page of his order book. "No--no--no--I--I guess ten pounds, and--I guess that's about all, Harvey." "Now you'll excuse me if I doubt your word, Mrs. Welcome," said Harvey, writing down fifty pounds of flour quickly. "Come now, tell me what you do really want." "O, what's the use. We need everything, we--" Mrs. Welcome broke down and began to weep softly as she turned toward the house. "Now hold on, Mrs. Welcome, don't break away from me like that!" Harvey followed her and laid his hand gently on her arm. "I hope Mr. Welcome isn't drinking again. Is he?" "I'm afraid so, Harvey." Mrs. Welcome's frail shoulders quivered as she attempted to restrain her sobs. "Why, Tom hasn't been home for two days and--and our rent is due--and--" Harvey Spencer interrupted with a prolonged whistle which seemed to be the best way he could think of expressing sympathy. A light dawned on him. "That's why young Harry Boland is here from Chicago, to collect the rent, eh?" he inquired. Mrs. Welcome nodded assent, "Yes," she said, "Mr. Boland has been very kind. He has waited two weeks and--and--we can't pay him." "Why not let me--" suggested Harvey, putting his hand into his pocket. Mrs. Welcome checked him with a quick movement. "No, Harvey, please. I don't want you to do that," she said. "I wouldn't feel right about it somehow." "Just as you say, Mrs. Welcome." Harvey was rather diffident and hesitated to press a loan on her. To change the subject he said: "Young Mr. Boland seems taken up with Patience." "I hadn't noticed it," said Mrs. Welcome, drying her eyes. "O, we detectives have to keep our eyes open," acclaimed Harvey with another burst of pride. But here Michael Grogan interrupted. "Young man," he called out from the roadway, "are you really taking orders or is this one of your visiting days?" He tied the colt and came into the yard. "Hello," said Harvey, "getting tired of waiting?" "Well, I felt myself growing to that hitching post," said Grogan, "so I tied that bunch of nerves you have out there and moved before I took root." Harvey laughed and turned to Mrs. Welcome. "This is Mr. Michael Grogan, Mrs. Welcome," he said. Mrs. Welcome backed away toward the porch, removing her apron. "Good afternoon, sir," she greeted him. "I hope you are well?" "Well," said Grogan, "I was before this young marauder cajoled me into leaving me arm chair on the hotel veranda to go bumping over these roads." Mrs. Welcome smiled and extended her hand. "I'm very glad to know you, Mr. Grogan. You mustn't mind Harvey's impetuous ways. He's all right here." She placed her hand on her heart. "I'll go bail he is that if you say so, Mrs. Welcome," replied Grogan gallantly, "anyhow I'll take him on your word." "Just ready to go, Mr. Grogan, when you called," put in Harvey. Then he caught Mrs. Welcome by the arm and bustled her into the house, saying: "And I'll see that you get all of those things, Mrs. Welcome, flour, corn meal, tomatoes, beans, lard--" and in spite of her protestations he closed the door on her with a parting: "Everything on the first delivery tomorrow morning sure." Then he added to Grogan, who stood smiling with a look of comprehension on his face, "All right. Ready to go." "It's about time," commented Grogan as they went toward the wagon. "Don't think I'm too inquisitive if I ask who are these Welcomes anyhow?" "People who are having a tough time," replied Harvey, unhitching his colt. "Tom Welcome used to be quite a man. He had that invention I was telling you about, an electric lamp. He was done out of it and went to the booze for consolation." "So," murmured Grogan, half to himself, "Two girls in the family, eh?" "Yes, that was one of them you met just before we came here." "The pretty one?" "Yes, and they're the best ever," added Harvey, antagonized by something he sensed in his companion's manner. Grogan turned to him smiling. "There," he said, "don't get hot about it. Nobody doubts that, meself least of all. Ain't I Irish? It's the first article of every Irishman's creed to believe that all women, old or young, pretty or otherwise, all of them are just--good." Harvey seized the older man's hand and shook it vigorously. Then looking up the road he said: "Here comes Elsie Welcome, I think. I want you to meet her." "Ah," retorted Grogan. He turned and looked at Elsie closely. She ran rapidly down the pathway toward the gate. She saw them, paused, walked more slowly and came up to them apparently in confusion. "Why, hello Harv! What are you doing here so late?" she asked. Without waiting for a reply she started toward the gate flinging back a short "Good night." The girl's whole manner indicated a guilty conscience. It was evident that she did not wish to talk to Harvey Spencer. She passed through the gate toward the door of her home. CHAPTER IV HARVEY MEETS "A DEALER IN CATTLE" Harvey threw the reins into Grogan's lap and strode recklessly after Elsie. His good-natured face was flushed with anger. "Say," he demanded, "what's the matter?" The girl, unwilling, halted. "Nothing," she replied, "what makes you ask that?" "Why," explained Harvey, hiding his anger and attempting to take her hand, "you're out of breath." "Been running," was the girl's laconic explanation. "You don't usually run home from the mill, Elsie," Harvey's detective instinct was showing itself. Elsie was extremely irritated by this unwished for interview. "Well, I--" she stammered, "I wanted to get here because it's Monday and mother's washing day and--" She paused, her irritation getting the better of her. "I don't see what right you have to question me, Harvey Spencer." Grogan had got down from the wagon and at this moment came through the gate. "Young man," he began, addressing Spencer. The girl interrupted him. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Do you come from the mill?" "I come from no mill," retorted Grogan, piqued by the girl's tone, "and if you'll excuse me I don't want to." "This is Mr. Michael Grogan of Chicago," put in Harvey placatingly. "I've been showing him the town." "And," added Grogan quickly, "I haven't seen much." "That's not at all strange," said Elsie, "because there's nothing to see." "And in Chicago, where I come from," said Grogan sagely, "there's altogether too much." Grogan saw by his two companions' faces that he was an intruder. "Young man," he said, "I don't think I'll wait for you. I've some letters to write at the hotel. I think I'll be strolling along." "Why," said Harvey, hospitable in the face of intrusion, "you're welcome to ride. Won't you wait?" "No, thanks," said Grogan, "that grocery wagon of yours wasn't built to accommodate a man of my size." Harvey and the girl watched Grogan disappear in the dusk. Then the young man turned to the girl. "Elsie--" he began tenderly. But the girl stopped him. "Now don't begin to question me," she ordered. "I won't answer." "You are trying to hide something from me," said Harvey, grasping the girl's unwilling hand. The girl drew away from him. "That's not true," she said. "I don't want you to bother me." "I never used to bother you," said Harvey, his face flushing. "That was before--" began Elsie impulsively. "I mean now," she went on, catching herself. "I mean that you do now because you have changed." "No," contradicted Harvey, "but you have." "What do you mean by that?" challenged the girl. Harvey stood silent for a moment and jerked out a laugh of embarrassment. "I don't know exactly what I mean," he said, "but you know we were engaged." Elsie flushed. "We were not," she said. "I mean," said Harvey miserably stumbling on, "we sort of were. We understood." He brought one hand from his pocket. It held the box containing the ring. "Why, Elsie," he said pleadingly, "I even bought the ring. Just a plain band of gold. I did so hope that some day, soon perhaps, you'd let me put it on your finger and take you to our home. It wouldn't be much, but I'd love you and care for you. Why I'd work night and day just to make things easy for you. I love you. It all begins and ends with that." Elsie stood for a moment as though this honest appeal had touched her. Then she turned sharply. "O, what's the use," she cried, "Look at this place. See how we live. And you--you want me to go on like this? No!" Harvey stared at her stupidly. "Don't stare at me like that," said the girl annoyed. "I am wondering what has changed you so," said Harvey apologetically. "Nothing, I tell you." "Yes, there is something, or somebody." "Now Harvey, please don't begin--" Elsie paused. Her glance left Harvey's face. A young man in a brown tweed suit and carrying a light walking stick in his gloved hand was coming toward the gate. "Hello," he said easily, addressing Elsie and ignoring Spencer, "anybody at home?" Elsie turned toward him with impulsive friendliness, then remembering her other suitor paused and tried to assume a manner of unconcern. "Of course, there's someone at home," she said, "can't you see there is?" "Can't be sure that such loveliness is real," said the newcomer gallantly. "You're talking Chicagoese," said the girl, not, however, displeased. "Simple fact, believe me," was the assured response. Elsie saw that Harvey was eyeing the stranger with hostility. "Do you know Mr. Spencer, Mr. Druce?" "Everybody in Millville knows Mr. Spencer," replied Martin Druce, putting out his hand. "He's a town institution." "Thank you," said Harvey, mollified by what he thought a sincere compliment and shaking hands. "Institution!" laughed Elsie. Harvey stopped and withdrew the hand. It dawned on him that there was a secret understanding between Druce and the girl. "Now hold on," he asked. "Just what do you mean by that word 'institution?'" "Why you're one of the landmarks here," explained Druce, "the same as the bank or the opera house." He brushed the lapel of Harvey's coat with his gloved hand and straightened his collar. Then he soberly removed Harvey's straw hat, fingered it into grotesque lines and replaced it on his head. He stepped back to observe the effect, adding satirically: "I'll bet you won't stay long in this jay town." "You're dead right there," boasted Harvey. "Millville is all right and a rising place but--" "I knew it," said Druce gravely. "You'll be coming up to Chicago to show Marshall Field how to run his store." "Well, I may--" began Harvey proudly. "Oh!" Elsie's voice was pained. "Don't do that, Mr. Druce!" Then she turned to Spencer. "Why do you let him make a joke of you?" "Who? Me?" Harvey looked at her in astonishment. He turned to Druce savagely. "Say," he demanded, "are you trying to kid me?" "Not on your life," was the reply. "I knew better than to try to kid a wise young man like you. What I'm trying to say is that you're too big for this town. Say, what's your ambition?" "Oh, I've got one, Mr. Druce. I'm going to be a detective." "Well, there's lots of room for a real one in Chicago," said Druce, suppressing a contemptuous smile. "I may go there some day." "Come along," said Druce, "the more the merrier." "Say, Mr. Druce," asked Harvey, now completely taken in by the ingratiating stranger, "what's your business?" "Mine, why--" The man moved toward Elsie as he spoke, gazing at her steadily. "Yes, you've got one, haven't you?" persisted Harvey. Druce seemed confused for a moment. Then his face broke into a genial smile. Both Elsie and Spencer were watching him curiously. "Sure, I've got a business. It's a mighty profitable one, too. I'm a dealer in live stock." "Oh, cattle?" said Harvey. "You got me," was the casual response, "just cattle." CHAPTER V A SERPENT WHISPERS AND A WOMAN LISTENS The word cattle seemed to arouse the roan colt to his own existence. He whinnied ingratiatingly and tugged at his hitching strap. Whether or not his master had forgotten, he knew it was supper time. Harvey heard him. "Well," he said to Druce, backing away towards the gate. "I've got to be going. Drop into the store some time. I'll give you a cigar." "Thanks," laughed Druce. Then under his breath he added, "Like blazes I will." He turned back to Elsie. "Is that the Rube," he demanded, "who wants to marry you?" "Yes," defended Elsie hotly, "and he's all right, too. I don't think it was nice of you to make fun of him as you did." "Now, now," said Druce soothingly. "Don't be angry with me. I was just playing around." He paused and looked warily at the house. "Everything all right, eh?" "Yes, I guess so," replied Elsie, with an anxious look in the same direction. "Harvey frightened me when I first got home. For a moment I thought he knew that I had been out with you." "Well, what if he did? There's no harm in going for a ride with me, is there?" "No-o," Elsie shook her head doubtfully. "But I don't feel just right about it." "And that grocery fellow didn't know after all, eh?" "I think not. At least he said nothing." Druce shrugged his shoulders derisively. "I think not. At least he said nothing." he couldn't detect a hair in the butter. I'm not worried about him. How is it with your own folks? Your mother doesn't know?" [Transcriber's note: previous paragraph transcribed as printed, with apparent obfuscation by duplicated line.] "No," replied Elsie, uneasy again. "Anyway, mother wouldn't matter so much, but dad--" She covered her face with her hands. "Never mind," said Druce tenderly, drawing her toward him and caressing her. "We had some ride, didn't we?" "Grand," replied Elsie, brightened by the recollection. "I told you it would be all right if I hired the car and picked you up around the corner from the mill. Say--" The man lowered his tone. "Gee, you're prettier than ever today, Elsie!" Something in his manner caused the girl to recoil. The shrinking movement did not escape Druce. "What's the matter, girlie?" he inquired. "Do you know that in all the weeks I have been coming down here from Chicago to see you, you haven't even kissed me?" "Please," pleaded the girl, pushing him away. She scarcely understood her mood. She only knew she did not want Druce to touch her. "What's the matter?" repeated Druce, following close behind her. "I--I don't know," faltered the girl, "I feel wicked somehow." "Why?" He led her to a bench and sat down beside her. "Haven't I always treated you like a lady?" "Yes, Martin, you've been good to me--but--I feel wicked." Druce laughed. "Nonsense, girlie," he said, "you couldn't be wicked if you tried. Do you know what you ought to do?" "What?" she asked. "Turn your back on this town where nothing ever happens and come to little old Chicago, the live village by the lake." "Chicago! What could I do there?" "Make more money in a month than you can earn here in a year." "But how?" "You can sing," said Druce appraisingly. "You're there forty ways when it comes to looks. Why they'd pay you a hundred dollars a week to sing in the cabarets." "Cabarets?" The girl's interest was aroused. "What's a cabaret?" "A cabaret," said Druce, "is a restaurant where ladies and gentlemen dine. A fine great hall, polished floors, rugs, palms, a lot of little tables, colored lights, flowers, silver, cut glass, perfumes, a grand orchestra--get that in your mind--and then the orchestra strikes up and you come down the aisle, right through the crowd and sing to them." "Oh, I'd love to do that," said the girl. "Why not try it?" "I--I wouldn't know how to begin." "I'll show you how." "Tell me, tell me how, quick." "Dead easy," Druce explained smoothly. "I'm going back to Chicago on the evening train tonight. Now there's no use having trouble with your folks. They wouldn't understand. You tell them you are going over to one of the neighbors', anything you can think of. That train slows down at the junction, right across the field there--you can always hear it whistle. I'll be aboard the last car and I'll take you to Chicago with me. Then when we get there we--" He broke off abruptly for Elsie started up from the bench and moved slowly away. "What's the matter, girlie?" asked Druce. "I--I don't know," the girl answered. "There isn't anyone here but just us, is there?" "No," replied Druce, watching the girl closely, "why?" "Because," she half whispered, "it seemed to me just then that someone touched me on the arm and said, 'Don't go!'" Druce started. He looked carefully around. Then he laughed. "You're hearing things tonight, Elsie," he said. "There's no one here but just you and me." He took her by the hand and was drawing her down to the bench when suddenly the front door of the cottage opened and Mrs. Welcome appeared. "Elsie," she called. She stood framed in the lighted doorway, her eyes shaded with her hand. Like a shadow Druce faded from his seat beside the girl and dodged behind a tree out of sight, but in hearing. "Is that you, Elsie?" asked the mother. "I thought I heard voices. Was Harvey here?" "Yes," replied the girl in confusion, "he has just gone." "You didn't see anything of your father, did you?" Elsie shook her head. "You--you don't suppose dad's drinking again?" the girl asked anxiously. "I suppose so," replied the mother wearily. "He hasn't been here all day." "Oh, mother," the girl wailed. "What shall we do?" She sank down on the seat. Her mother took her in her arms. "Don't cry," she said. "Come in and help me get supper." "I'm waiting for Patience," replied the girl. "I'll be in the house in a moment. You go ahead with the work. When Patience comes we'll both help you." Mrs. Welcome walked back into the cottage. As the door closed behind her Druce reappeared. He had not missed a word of the conversation between Elsie and her mother; as he now approached he outlined in his mind an immediate plan of attack. "Elsie," he said softly. The girl started. "I thought you had gone," she said. "No, don't touch me. I'm in trouble. My father--" she covered her face with her hands. "Yes, I know," said Druce. "I heard it all. Why do you stay here? Why do you--" "It isn't that," retorted the girl, too proud to accept sympathy. "You made me lie to my mother. That is the first time I ever deceived my mother." "Don't cry," said Druce. He drew her to the bench. "Come," he went on, "be sensible. Dry those tears. Come with me to Chicago." "How do you know I could get a chance to sing in that place you told me of?" she demanded, open to argument. Druce pressed his advantage. "Why," he said, "I'm interested in one myself. I think I could arrange to place you." "Martin," said Elsie, "you said you were in the live stock business." Druce hesitated a moment, toying with his cane. "I am," he said slowly. "This cabaret--er--is a little speculation on the side. Come now, say you'll be at the train at eight o'clock." The girl considered long. "Think," said Druce, "with one hundred dollars a week you will be able to take your mother out of this hole. Why, you'll be independent! You owe it to your family not to let this opportunity escape you." "I'll go," said Elsie. "Good! Good for you, I mean," said Druce. "On one condition," the girl went on. "What do you mean?" Elsie got up from her seat embarrassed. "It all depends," she said. "On what?" demanded Druce. "On you, Martin." "Me?" Druce laughed uneasily. "Yes," said the girl walking close to him and looking him in the face. "There is only one way I can go to Chicago with you." "How's that, girlie?" was Druce's astonished question. Elsie held up her left hand timidly. "With a plain gold ring on that finger, Martin," she said. She was now blushing furiously. She knew that she had virtually proposed to Druce. He laughed and something in his laugh jarred her. "Oh, marriage," he said. "You know that Martin, don't you? I couldn't go to Chicago with you any other way." Druce took off his hat. "Elsie," he said, "you're as good as gold. I honor you for your scruples." He paused to think for a moment. "I'll tell you," he said. "You come along with me and I'll marry you as soon as we reach Chicago. Meanwhile I'll telegraph ahead and arrange to have you taken care of by my old aunt. You'll be as safe with her as if you were in your own home." "You promise to marry me?" "Sure I do, girlie." He broke off blusteringly. "What do you take me for? Do you think I'd lure you to Chicago and then leave you?" "Martin," said Elsie gravely, "a girl must protect herself." "You'll go, honey?" Druce persisted. "I can't tell," replied the girl desperately, anxious to promise and yet afraid. "You'll go," said Druce positively, "at eight o'clock--" A cool voice broke in on his sentence. Druce started like a man suddenly drenched with cold water. "What's that is going to happen at eight o'clock, Mr. Druce?" The speaker was Patience Welcome. CHAPTER VI A ROMANCE DAWNS--AND A TRAGEDY Patience Welcome shared all the prejudices of her employer, John Price, against "city chaps." Her observation of those who had presented themselves in Millville had not raised her estimate of them. As a class she found them overdressed and underbred. They came into her small town obsessed with the notion of their superiority. Patience had been at some pains in a quiet way to puncture the pretensions of as many as came within scope of her sarcasm. She was not, like many girls of Millville, so much overwhelmed by the glamour of Chicago that she believed every being from that metropolis must be of a superior breed. She had penetration enough to estimate them at their true value. In her frankness, she made no effort to conceal her sentiments toward them. But recently there had come into her acquaintance a product of Chicago whom she could not fit into Mr. Price's city chap category. This was Harry Boland. Young Boland, the son of Chicago's "electrical king," was himself president of his father's Lake City Electrical Company. He was good looking, quiet, competent and totally lacking in the bumptiousness that Patience found so offensive in other Chicago youths. Toward him Patience had been compelled to modify her usual attitude of open aversion to mere cold reserve. She did not quite comprehend him and until conviction of his merits came she was determined to occupy the safe ground of suspicion. Patience and Harry Boland had first met on a basis that could scarcely have been more formal. The young man, early in his business career, had been his father's collector. Part of his duties had consisted of collecting the rents of a large number of workmen's cottages which the elder Boland owned at Millville. The Welcomes occupied one of these cottages. As Tom Welcome not infrequently was unable to pay the rent when it was due, Boland had had numerous opportunities for seeing Patience, who was treasurer of the Welcome household. Her attitude toward him had at first amused, then annoyed and finally interested him. When he began to understand what was back of her coldness a respect, such as he had felt for no other girl, developed in him. The more she held him off the more eager he became for a better acquaintance. This desire was fed by her repulses. Long ago he had made up his mind that he loved her. Now, in spite of the social chasm that yawned between them, he was determined to win her. His intentions toward her were honor itself. He was determined to marry her. When Harvey Spencer drove off, after having introduced Patience to Grogan, the girl started toward her home. She had gone only a short distance when a quick step behind her appraised her that she was followed. A moment later Harry Boland appeared at her side, hat in hand. "How do you do, Miss Welcome?" "I'm very well, thank you," replied Patience, primly. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" demanded Harry inanely. "Yes," agreed Patience, "I love the spring and even Millville is beautiful now." "I think it the most beautiful place in the world," declared Harry enthusiastically. Patience looked at him in surprise, then colored and laughed. "Do you?" she said with the accent on the first word. "I hope," said Harry, "that you don't mind if I smoke." "Not at all." There was an awkward silence. "Patience," Harry used the girl's name for the first time with deliberation, "why don't you speak to me?" Patience did not resent the familiarity. "I am thinking," she replied. "You act as though you do not like me. What have I done?" "It's not that," replied Patience shortly. "Then you are trying to avoid me." "I am." "Why?" "Don't you know?" She turned and looked at him squarely. She was determined to dispose of his attentions then and there. "I'm not good at riddles." "Think a moment, then. You are Harry Boland, only son of the richest and most powerful man in Chicago. I am Patience Welcome, daughter of a broken inventor, tenant in a cottage which you own, where I cannot pay the rent. Can there be anything in common between us?" Harry ignored the question. "You have forgotten one fact," he said. There was determination in his voice. "Or don't you know it?" "What is that?" asked Patience over her shoulder, for she had turned from him. "That Harry Boland is in love with Patience Welcome." "What an absurdity!" "You don't believe me?" "How can you talk like that to me?" said the girl, now agitated. "Look at me. You know we are in arrears for rent." "Don't worry about that." She turned on him defiantly and looked into his eyes. Then her glance fell under his more burning one. She flushed and turned away. "I suppose," she said, huskily with humiliation, "that you have paid the rent yourself." She was almost in tears. "Now don't take it like that," pleaded Harry. "No one but you and me will ever know. And if you will let me I will take you away from all this." Patience raised her head. She had recovered her composure. "All men come to that finally," she said coldly. "Even in my slight experience I have learned the phrase almost by heart. All men say that. They offer--" "Just a moment." Harry put out his hand
composed for you, that would answer the wishes both of the allies and of France."--"I know well, that we have in the archchancellor, in the Duke of Vicenza, and in several of our principal functionaries, statesmen abounding in talents, wisdom, and moderation: but the difficulty would be, to make a choice among the military men. Most of these have equal rights, and their pretensions, their jealousies, their rivalries, could not but be fatal to our tranquillity."--"We should know how to keep them in order; and I do not see one among them whose ambition could prove formidable."--"Their ambition has not displayed itself for want of opportunity. I know but one military man, who could be placed at the head of the government with safety; this is Eugene, the prince who said, in 1814, in his memorable proclamations, that 'they alone are immortal, who know how to live and die faithful to their duty, faithful to gratitude and honour:' this prince, I say, far from aspiring to the throne, would be on the contrary its glory and support: but his family ties, and the duties they impose on him, perhaps would not permit him to quit Bavaria. Perhaps too the allies would not allow the direction of affairs in France, to be entrusted to him: do you think they would?"--"I am perfectly ignorant of what might be the determination of the prince and his family."--"But cannot you guess, what would be that of the allies?"--"Not in the least."--"What men," said I to him jocularly, "you diplomatists are! why are not you as open with me, as I am with you? have I left one of your desires unsatisfied? have I avoided answering one of your questions?"--"I am not endeavouring to dissemble, I assure you: but, as the question you have put to me was not foreseen, I cannot, and ought not, to allow myself to answer it."--"Well, we will say no more of it. As to a federal government, this would too much resemble our republic, and we have paid so dear for the honour of being republicans, that we have no farther inclination for it. A federal government may suit a country with a scanty population, like Switzerland; or a new nation, like America; but it would be a calamity to our old France: we are too volatile, too impassioned; we want a ruler, a master who knows how to make himself obeyed. Hark you, M. Werner, I must continue to speak to you frankly: the only chief, that suits us, is Napoleon: no longer Napoleon the ambitious and the conqueror, but Napoleon corrected by adversity. The desire of reigning will render him docile to the will of France, and of Europe. He will give them both such pledges, as they may require: and I believe the Duke of Otranto will then esteem himself very happy, to be able to concur with M. de Metternich in pacifying Europe, re-establishing harmony between Austria and France, and so restricting the power of the Emperor, that it shall no longer be possible for him, to disturb a second time the general tranquillity. This, I believe, must be the object of the allies; it depends on themselves alone to attain it: but if they reckon upon subjugating us by means of our intestine divisions, they will be deceived; of this you may assure M. de Metternich. "For the rest, I shall give the Duke of Otranto an account of the overtures you have made me, and particularly of those relating to a regency: but, suppose we should consent to accept either one or the other of your proposals, what is to be done with Napoleon? for, as it is neither your intention, nor ours, to kill him, he must live; and where shall he live? Have the allies come to any determination on this point?"--"I do not know: M. de Metternich did not explain himself on this point: I will submit the question to him. I will acquaint him with your opinion of the state of France, and the situation of Napoleon, and of the possibility of a general arrangement: but I foresee, that the present sentiments of M. Fouché will astonish him greatly. He thought, that he detested Bonaparte."--"Men change with circumstances: M. Fouché may have detested the Emperor, when he tyrannized over France; yet be reconciled to him, since he has been willing to render it free and happy." We parted, after having exchanged a few supplementary questions, and agreed to return with all speed, he to Vienna, and I to Paris; and to meet again at Bâle in the course of a week. As soon as I arrived at Paris, I presented myself before the Emperor. I had spent only four days in going and returning; and he imagined, on seeing me so quickly, that I had not been able to pass. He was surprised and delighted to learn, that I had seen and conversed with M. Werner; led me into the garden (it was at the Élysée), and there we talked together, if I may use the term, for near two hours. Our conversation was so desultory, that it almost entirely escaped my memory: I could retain only a few fragments of it. "I was fully persuaded," said Napoleon to me, "that M. de Metternich had plotted nothing against my life: he does not like me, but he is a man of honour. If Austria chose it, every thing might be arranged: but she has an expectant policy, that loses every thing: she never knew how to take a decided part at the proper moment. The Emperor is ill advised: he does not know Alexander; and is not aware, how crafty and ambitious the Russians are: if once they get the upper hand, all Germany will be subverted. Alexander will set the good-natured Francis, and all the little kings, to whom I gave crowns, playing at catch-corners. The Russians will become masters of the world when I have nothing to do in it. Europe will not be sensible of my value, till she has lost me. There was no one but myself strong enough, to tame England with one hand, and restrain Russia with the other. I will spare them the trouble of deliberating where they shall put me: if they dared, they would cram me into an iron cage, and show me to their cockneys as a wild beast: but they shall not have me; they shall find, that the lion is still alive, and will not suffer himself to be chained. They do not know my strength: _if I were to put on the red cap, it would be all over with them._ Did you inquire of M. Werner after the Empress and my son?"--"Yes, Sire: he told me, that the Empress was well, and the young prince a charming boy."--The Emperor, with fire: "Did you complain, that the law of nations, and the first rights of nature, had been violated in respect to me? Did you tell him how detestable it is, to deprive a husband of his wife, a father of his son? that such an action is unworthy a civilized people?"--"Sire, I was only the ambassador of M. Fouché." After a few moments' silence, the Emperor continued: "Fouché, during your absence, has come and told me the whole affair[2]: he has explained the whole to my satisfaction. It is his interest not to deceive me. He has always been fond of intriguing; we must let him do it. Go and see him, tell him all that has passed with M. Werner; show confidence in him; and, if he question you about me, tell him, that I am perfectly easy, and that I have no doubt of his attachment and fidelity." [Footnote 2: I have since been assured, that M. Réal had warned him, by means of Madame Lacuée, his daughter, that the Emperor knew the whole affair.] Already the Emperor had had reason to complain of M. Fouché on several important occasions; but, subjugated by I know not what charm, he had always placed more confidence in him than he wished. Few men, it is true, possess the gift of pleasing and persuading in a higher degree than the Duke of Otranto: equally profound and witty, equally endowed with foresight and ability, his mind embraces at once the past, present, and future: he alternately seduces and astonishes by the boldness of his thoughts, the acuteness of his perception, and the solidity of his judgment. Unhappily his mind, overstrained by the revolution, has contracted a habit and taste for strong emotions: quiet is tiresome to him: he wants agitation, danger, convulsions: hence that desire of stirring, intriguing, I had almost said of conspiring, which has driven M. Fouché into errors so deplorable, and so fatal to his reputation. Conformably to the orders of Napoleon, I repaired immediately to the Duke of Otranto's, and told him laughing, that I was come to give him an account of the mission which he had confided to me. "A fine mission, indeed!" said he to me. "It is just like the Emperor; he is always suspicious of those who serve him best. Do you think, for example, that you are sure of him? You deceive yourself. If you should involuntarily be guilty of the slightest inconsistency, and he knew it (these words he pronounced in such a way, as to give me to understand, that it was through him the Emperor might be informed of it), nothing more would be wanting to ruin you. But let us have done with princes, and talk together." Leading me to his sofa, he said: "Do you know, that you gave me some uneasiness? if you had been betrayed, you would probably have been sent to some fortress, and kept there till a peace took place."--"Very true; I certainly ran that risk; but when an affair of such importance is at stake, a man should not think of himself." I gave him a faithful account of what M. Werner said; but took care, not to let him know the time of our next interview; for I was afraid, that he would play me some trick with the Swiss, or would hasten to undeceive M. de Metternich. When I had finished my tale, he resumed: "I first thought the whole of this a hum, but I find I was mistaken. Your conference with M. Werner may lead to a reconciliation between us and Austria; what you said must open the eyes of M. Metternich. To convince him completely, I will write to him; and depict with so much clearness and truth the real situation of France, as will make him sensible, that the best thing that can be done is, to abandon the Bourbons to their unlucky fate, and leave us to arrange matters with Bonaparte in our own way. When you are ready to set off, come to me, and I will give you my letter." He then said, "I did not speak to Napoleon about the letter of M. de Metternich immediately, because his agent had not delivered to me the powder, necessary to make the writing appear; I was obliged to have recourse to chemical experiments, which required time. Here is the letter (he made me read it): you see it says nothing: however, if I could have deciphered it immediately, Napoleon should have known nothing of it; I would have served him, without saying any thing to him. In affairs of this kind secrecy is necessary; and Napoleon is incapable of it: he would have been so much agitated, and have set so many men and so many pens in motion, that the whole would have taken wind. He ought to know my sentiments and opinions; and no person, but himself, could have taken it into his head for a moment, that I could betray him for the Bourbons: I despise and detest them at least as much as he." The indirect threats of M. Fouché, and the whole of his discourse, persuaded me, that he was not sincere. I imparted my suspicions to the Emperor, who did not agree in them: he told me, that M. Fouché's insinuation of his having it in his power to ruin me was only meant, to give himself an air of importance. That, however, I had nothing to fear from him, or from any other person. In fact, I did not fear; for, when the Emperor had conceived a liking for any one, he took him under his own protection, and no person whatever was allowed to hurt him. The next day but one I went to the Duke of Otranto's, to receive the letters he had promised me. He appeared surprised, to see me so soon. In fact I had made him believe, that I was not to return to Bâle till the 1st of June. To give a colour to this hasty departure, I informed him, that M. Werner, whom I had requested to write to me, in case of any unforeseen occurrence, under cover to M. **** the banker, had just desired me, to repair to Bâle immediately. He let me see, that he was not the dupe of this falsehood yet nevertheless delivered me with a good grace two letters for M. de Metternich. One of these, which has been published in the English newspapers, tended to show, that the throne of Napoleon, supported by the love and confidence of the French, had nothing to fear from the attacks of the coalition. In the other he went over the proposals of M. Werner: he discussed with admirable sagacity the advantages and inconveniences, that might result from them to the interests of France and of Europe; and he finished, by declaring, after having successively rejected a republic, a regency, and the Duke of Orleans, that Napoleon, whom he loaded with extravagant praises, was evidently the chief best suited to the French, and to the interests of the allied monarchs rightly understood. Nevertheless, he had contrived to turn his expressions with so much art and address, that it was impossible not to perceive, that he thought in the bottom of his heart the Duke of Orleans the only prince, capable of ensuring the happiness of France, and the tranquillity of foreign nations. I laid this letter before the Emperor, and endeavoured in vain to make him sensible of the treachery. He could see nothing but the eulogiums of his genius: the rest he overlooked. M. Werner had been punctual to his rendezvous and I hastened to his residence. "I was afraid," said he to me obligingly, "that you had been refused admission into Bâle: I have spoken about it to the authorities, and, if you wish it, I will cause to be delivered to you the necessary passport, to enable you to enter Switzerland, depart, or reside in it, without obstacle, and without danger." I thanked him for this offer, which convinced me, that the Swiss were as well disposed towards our enemies, as they were the reverse to us. We afterwards entered on business. "I related to M. de Metternich," said he to me, "the frank and loyal conversation, which I had the honour of holding with you. He hastened to give an account of it to the allied sovereigns: and the sovereigns have thought, that it ought to produce no alteration in the resolution they have formed, never to acknowledge Napoleon as sovereign of France, or to enter into any negotiation with him individually: _but at the same time, I am authorized formally to declare to you, that they renounce the idea of re-establishing the Bourbons on the throne, and that they consent to grant you the young Prince Napoleon._ They know, that in 1814 a regency was the wish of France; and they would think themselves happy, to be able to accomplish it now." "This is direct," answered I: "but what is to be done with the Emperor?"--"Begin you with deposing him: the allies will afterwards come to a suitable determination, according to circumstances. They are great, generous, and humane; and you may depend on it, they will treat Napoleon with the respect due to his rank, his alliance, and his misfortunes."--"This answer does not explain, whether Napoleon will be free, to choose a place of retreat for himself; or remain a prisoner to France and the allies."--"This is all I know."--"I perceive, that the allies want Napoleon to be delivered up to them bound hand and foot: never will the French be guilty of such a cowardly act. Since our interview, the public opinion in his favour has been expressed with fresh strength; and I protest to you, that he never possessed the love of the French to so high a degree. The electors convoked for the _Champ de Mai_, and the new representatives of France[3], are arriving at Paris from all quarters. Do you think, that these electors, and these deputies, who are the choice of the nation, would have embraced the perilous cause of Napoleon, were it not the common cause of all France? Do you think, that, if they were not resolved to defend it against all the world, they would be so stupid, or so imprudent, as to come forward in the face of that world, to swear fealty to the Emperor, and proscription and hatred to the Bourbons? The allies subdued us in 1814, because we were then without union, without will, without the means of resistance. But a great nation is not to be subdued two years following; and every thing indicates, that, if a contest take place, it will turn out to the advantage of the French this time."--"If you knew the force, that will be opposed to you, you would hold a different language: you will have twelve hundred thousand men to fight against, twelve hundred thousand men accustomed to conquer, and who already know the road to Paris."--"They know it, because they were taught it by treachery."--"Consider, too, that you are without artillery, without an army, without cavalry."--"The Spaniards resisted all the force of Bonaparte, though they had fewer resources than we have."--"You have no money."--"We shall procure it at the expense of the nobles and royalists, or do without it. The armies of the republic were paid with garlands of oak, yet were they the less able, to overcome the armies of the coalition?"--"You are wrong, I assure you, in viewing your situation under such fine colours. This new war will be more cruel, and more obstinate, than the others. The allies are determined, never to lay down their arms, while Napoleon remains on the throne."--"I by no means look with tranquillity on the war that is preparing. I cannot think of it without alarm. If Napoleon prove victorious, it is possible, that success may turn our brains, and inspire us anew with the desire of revisiting Vienna and Berlin. If he be unsuccessful, it is to be feared, that our defeats will animate the people with rage and despair, and that the nobles and royalists will be massacred."--"The prospect is no doubt extremely distressing; but I have already told you, and I repeat it, nothing will alter the determination of the allied monarchs: they have learned to know the Emperor, and will not leave him the means of disturbing the world. Even would the sovereigns consent, to lay down their arms, their people would oppose it: they consider Bonaparte as the scourge of the human race, and would all shed their blood to the last drop, to tear from him the sceptre, and perhaps his life."-- [Footnote 3: The greater part of the deputies were not yet named; but there was no harm in anticipating events.] "I know, that the Prussians have sworn him implacable animosity: but the Russians and Austrians surely are not so exasperated as the Prussians."-- "On the contrary, the Emperor Alexander was the first, to declare against Napoleon."-- "Be it so: but the Emperor of Austria is too virtuous, and too politic, to sacrifice his son-in-law, and his natural ally, a second time to vain considerations."-- "The Emperor is not guided by vain considerations: he had to choose between his affections as a father, and his duties as a sovereign; he had to decide between the fate of a wife and child, and the fate of Europe: the choice he would make could not be doubted, and the magnanimous resolution taken by the Emperor is incontestably a noble title to the gratitude of his contemporaries, and the admiration of posterity."-- "I am fully aware, how much it must have cost him, to overturn the throne of his daughter, and of his grandson; and condemn them to lead a painful life on the face of the earth, without father, without husband, without a country. Though a Frenchman, I do justice to the strength of mind, that the Emperor has shown on this memorable occasion: but if the part he then took were proper, it appears to me, that the path he now seems inclined to pursue will be as dangerous, as it is impolitic. Austria, in the critical situation in which it is placed by the vicinity, ambition, and alliance of Prussia and Russia, has need of being protected and supported by a powerful ally; and no prince is more capable of succouring and defending it than Napoleon."-- "Austria has nothing to fear from its neighbours: such harmony reigns between them, as nothing can disturb: their sentiments and principles are the same. M. de Metternich has charged me, to declare to you positively, that he acted only in concert with the allies; and that he would enter into no negotiation without their consent."-- This word, negotiation, struck me. "Since we must not think, M. Werner," answered I, "of re-establishing that union and friendship between Austria and France separately, which their interests, and their family connexion, demand; at least let us not renounce the hope of a general accommodation. Never perhaps was humanity threatened with a war so terrible: it will be a conflict to the death, not between army and army, but between nation and nation. The idea makes me tremble. The name of M. de Metternich is already celebrated; but with what glory would it be surrounded, if M. de Metternich, in becoming the mediator of Europe, should accomplish its pacification! And we, too, M. Werner, do you think we should not obtain a share in the blessings of the people? Let us lay aside our character of negotiators, and examine the situation of the belligerent powers, not as their agents, but as disinterested persons, as friends of humanity. You say, you have twelve hundred thousand fighting men; but we had a million in 1794, and shall have still. The love of honour and independence is not extinct in France; it will fire every heart, when the business is to repel the humiliating and unjust yoke, that you would impose on us. "If the picture I have drawn you of the state of France, and the patriotism with which she is animated, appear to you unfaithful, or exaggerated, come with me; I offer you a passport, and all the pledges you can require; we will travel together incognito; we will go wherever you please; we will hear, we will interrogate, the peasants, the townspeople, the soldiers, the rich, and the poor; and when you have seen, seen every thing with your own eyes, you may aver to M. de Metternich, that he has been deceived; and that the efforts of the allies, to impose upon us the law, can have no other result, than that of watering the ground in vain with blood." The emotion, that I could not restrain, had transfused itself into M. Werner: "I wish," said he to me with tenderness, "it was in my power to second your wishes, and to concur with you in stopping the effusion of human blood: but I dare not indulge this hope. However, I will give M. de Metternich an account of the energy, with which you have pleaded the cause of humanity: and, if he can accept the office of a mediator, I know so well the loftiness of his soul, to pledge myself to you, that he will not refuse it." Thus far, in order to accustom M. de Metternich to treat directly with me, I had avoided bringing forward M. Fouché. However, as he had directed me to make use of his letters, I took an opportunity of mentioning them to M. Werner. I read them to him; and took care to comment on them in such a way, as to destroy the unpleasant impression, which I foresaw the partiality of the praises lavished on Napoleon would make upon him. When we came to the passage, where M. Fouché discussed the inconveniences of a republic, M. Werner stopped me, and said, that I certainly had not conceived him rightly; that he had spoken to me merely indirectly of a republic, as it never entered into the thoughts of the allied monarchs, to give way to its re-establishment; for their endeavours would rather be exerted, to crush the seeds of a republican spirit, than to favour their dangerous germination. I reminded him of the conversation we had had on the subject; but, as it was of little importance to me, to prove myself in the right, I readily admitted myself to be in the wrong. "At any rate," said he, taking the letters, "the language of M. Fouché will greatly surprise M. de Metternich. He repeated to me again, the evening before I set out, that the Duke of Otranto had on all occasions expressed to him an inveterate hatred of Bonaparte; and that even in 1814 he blamed him, for not having caused him to be confined in some strong fortress; predicting to him, that he would return from the island of Elba, to ravage Europe anew. M. Fouché must be totally ignorant of what passes at Vienna, to believe in the Emperor's security: what he will learn from M. de Montron and M. Bresson will no doubt lead him to adopt a different opinion; and will make him sensible, that it will be for his own interest, as well as that of France, to second the efforts of the allies." "I know the connexions of the Duke of Otranto with those gentlemen," answered I: "he will not pay much credit to what they tell him. I regret that you were not commissioned to say so much to me on our first interview, it would unquestionably have made a very different impression on him; but what has not yet been done may be done; and, if you wish it, I will readily be your interpreter." "M. de Metternich," replied M. Werner, "did not positively inform me what he had commissioned those gentlemen to say to the Duke of Otranto; but I presume it could only be a repetition of what he directed me to say to you." "If this be the case," rejoined I, "you would be wrong, to flatter yourself with the least success. If the question related to Napoleon alone, we should not hesitate to sacrifice the cause of one man to that of a whole people: Napoleon, personally, is nothing to us; but his continuance on the throne is so connected with the happiness and independence of the nation, that we cannot betray him, without betraying our country at the same time; and this is a crime, of which M. Fouché and his friends will never render themselves guilty. "In short, M. Werner, I hope you will succeed in convincing our enemies, that they would attempt in vain to dethrone Napoleon by force of arms; and that the most prudent part that can be taken is, to be contented with tying his hands in such a manner, as to prevent him from oppressing France and Europe anew. "If M. de Metternich approve this step, he will find us disposed, secretly or openly to second his salutary views; and to join with him in rendering it morally and physically impossible for Napoleon, to recommence his tyranny. I will then return to Bâle, and I will go to Vienna, if you desire it: and in a word I will do every thing, that can be done, to arrive promptly at a secure result. "But if M. de Metternich will not enter frankly into a conference, and his sole intention be, to instigate treachery, his endeavours will prove fruitless; and M. Fouché requests, that M. de Metternich and the allies will spare him the trouble of convincing them of it." M. Werner assured me, that he would faithfully report to M. de Metternich all he had heard; and we parted, after promising to meet at Bâle again on the 1st of June. I gave the Emperor an account of this new conference. He appeared, to conceive some hopes from it. "These gentlemen," said he, "begin to soften, since they offer me the regency: my attitude imposes on them. Let them allow me another month, and I shall no longer have any fear of them." I did not forget to remark to him, that M. M. de Montron and Bresson had been charged with fresh communications for M. Fouché. "He has never opened his mouth to me on the subject," said Napoleon. "I am now persuaded, that he is betraying me. I am almost certain, that he is intriguing both at London and at Ghent: I regret, that I did not dismiss him, before he came to disclose to me the intrigues of Metternich: at present, the opportunity is gone by; and he would every where proclaim me for a suspicious tyrant, who had sacrificed him without any cause. Go to him: say nothing to him of Montron or Bresson; let him prate at his ease, and bring me a full account of all he says." The Emperor imparted this second interview to the Duke of Vicenza; and directed him, to send for M. de Montron, and M. Bresson, and endeavour to set them talking. The Duke de Vicenza having been able to get nothing out of them, the Emperor, as I have been informed, would see them himself; and, after having questioned and sounded them for four hours, he dismissed them both, without having heard any thing but accounts of the hostile dispositions of the allies, and the conversations they had had at Vienna with M. de Talleyrand and M. de Metternich, the substance of which was the same as that of my conferences with M. Werner. As the Emperor had rejected my first suspicions with so much indifference, I was flattered to see him sharing my distrust: but this gratification of self-love gave way to the most painful reflexions. I had conceived the highest opinion of the character and patriotism of the Duke of Otranto; I considered him as one of the first statesmen in France; and I bitterly regretted, that such qualities, and such talents, instead of being devoted to the good of his country, should be employed in favouring the designs of our enemies, and in coolly contriving with them the means of subjugating us. These reflexions, which ought to have inspired me with horror for M. Fouché, had on me an opposite effect: I was staggered by the enormity of the crime I ascribed to him. No, said I to myself, M. Fouché cannot be guilty of such baseness: he has received too many benefits from the Emperor, to be capable of betraying him, and has given too many proofs of attachment and affection to his country, to conspire its dishonour and ruin. His propensity to intrigue may have led him astray; but his intrigues, if reprehensible, are at least not criminal. Thus I repaired to the Duke of Otranto's in the persuasion, that I had judged him too severely. But his air of constraint, and his captious endeavours, to penetrate what M. Werner might have said to me, convinced me, that his conscience was not at ease; and I felt my just prejudices revived and increased[4]. The time I staid with him was spent in idle questions and dissertations on the probabilities of peace or war. It would be useless and tiresome, to recite them here. [Footnote 4: When the Duke of Otranto became minister to the King, and was appointed to make out lists of proscription, I was desirous of knowing, what I had to expect from his resentment; and wrote to him, to sound his intentions. He sent for me, received me with much kindness, and assured me of his friendship and protection. "You did your duty," said he to me, "and I did mine. I foresaw, that Bonaparte could not maintain his situation. He was a great man, but had grown mad. It was my duty, to do what I did, and prefer the good of France to every other consideration." The Duke of Otranto behaved with the same generosity towards most of the persons, of whom he had any reason to complain; and, if he found himself obliged, to include some of them in the number of the proscribed, he had at least the merit of facilitating their escape from death, or the imprisonment intended for them, by assisting them with his advice, with passports, and frequently with the loan of money.] The rising of the King of Naples became afterwards the subject of our conversation. "Murat is a lost man," said M. Fouché to me: "he is not strong enough, to contend with Austria. I had advised him, and I have written again lately to the Queen, to keep himself quiet, and wait the course of events: they would not listen to me, and have done wrong: they might have had it in their power to treat; now they cannot; they will be sent about their business without pity, and without any conditions." The Emperor, who had become uneasy, directed M. de Montron and M. Bresson to be watched. He was informed, that the latter had just been sent to England by order of the minister at war. The Prince of Eckmuhl, being questioned, said, that an English dealer had forty thousand muskets to sell; and he had commissioned M. Bresson, to go and examine them, and treat for their purchase. This mission, which did not at first excite the Emperor's attention, afterwards recurred to his mind: he first thought it strange, and then suspicious. "If Davoust," said he, "had not had some motive for concealing this business from me, he would have mentioned it: it is not natural: he is acting in concert with Fouché." This glimpse of light produced no effect. Napoleon contented himself with severely reprimanding the minister at war; and ordering him, never again to send any person whatever out of France, without his consent. A new incident occurred, to strengthen the Emperor's apprehensions. He was informed by the prefect of police, that M. Bor..., formerly one of the principal agents of the police, and one of the habitual confidants of the minister, had set off for Switzerland with a passport from M. Fouché. An order for arresting M. Bor... was transmitted by telegraph to General Barbanegre, who commanded at Huninguen: but it arrived too late; M. Bor..., as quick as lightning, had already passed the frontier. The Emperor no longer had any doubt of M. Fouché's treachery; but he was afraid the disclosure of it would occasion alarm and discouragement. In fact, people would not have failed to infer
his occupations, and forthcoming engagements. Then there were the book packets and the rolls of music to be examined; but by this time he had lit an after-breakfast cigarette, and was proceeding with something of indifference. Occasionally he strolled about the room, or went to the window and looked down into the roaring highway of Piccadilly, or across to the sunny foliage and pale-blue mists of the Green Park. And then, in the midst of his vague meditations, the following note was brought to him; it had been delivered by hand: "MY DEAR MR. MOORE,--I do so _awfully_ want to see you, about a matter of _urgent importance_. Do be good-natured and come and lunch with us--any time before half-past two, if possible. It will be _so_ kind of you. I hope the _morning performance_ has done you no harm. Yours, sincerely, ADELA CUNYNGHAM." Well, luncheon was not much in his way, for he usually dined at five; nevertheless, Lady Adela was an especial friend of his and had been very kind to him, and here was some serious business. So he hurried through what correspondence was absolutely necessary; he sent word to Green's stables that he should not ride that morning; he walked round to a certain gymnasium and had three quarters of an hour with the fencing-master (this was an appointment which he invariably held sacred); on his way back to his rooms he called in at Solomon's for a buttonhole; and then, having got home and made certain alterations in his toilet, he went out again, jumped into a hansom, and was driven up to the top of Campden Hill, arriving there shortly after one o'clock. He found Lady Adela and Miss Georgie Lestrange in the drawing-room, or rather just outside, on the little balcony overlooking the garden, and neither of them seemed any the worse for that masquerading in the early dawn; indeed, Miss Georgie's naturally fresh and bright complexion flushed a little more than usual when she saw who this new-comer was, for perhaps she was thinking of the very frank manner in which Damon had expressed his admiration for Pastora but a few short hours ago. "I have been telling Georgie all about the dresses at the drawing-room," said the tall young matron, as she gave him her hand and regarded him with a friendly look; "but that won't interest you, Mr. Moore. We shall have to talk about the new beauties, rather, to interest _you_." He was a little puzzled. "I thought, Lady Adela, you said there was something--something of importance--" "That depends," said she, with a pleasant smile in her clear, gray-blue eyes. "I think it of importance; but it remains to be seen whether the world is of the same opinion. Well, I won't keep you in suspense." She went to the piano, and brought back three volumes plainly bound in green cloth. "Behold!" He took them from her, and glanced at the title-page: "Kathleen's Sweethearts, a Novel, by Lady Arthur Castletown," was what he found there. "So it is out at last," said he, for he had more than once heard of this great work while it was still in progress. "Yes," said she, eagerly, "though it isn't issued to the public yet. The fact is, Mr. Moore, I want you to help me. You know all about professional people, and the newspapers, and so on--who better?--and, of course, I'm very anxious about my first book--my first big book, that is--and I don't want it to get just thrown aside without ever being glanced at. Now, what am I to do? You may speak quite freely before Georgie--she's just as anxious as I am, every bit, I believe--only what to do we can't tell." "All that I can think of," said the ruddy-haired young damsel, with a laugh, "is to have little advertisements printed, and I will leave them behind me wherever I go--in the stalls of a theatre, or at a concert, or anywhere. You know, Adela, you can _not_ expect me to turn myself into a sandwich-man, and go about the streets between boards." "Georgie, you're frivolous," said Lady Adela, and she again turned to Lionel Moore, who was still holding the three green volumes in his hands in a helpless sort of fashion. "You know, Mr. Moore, there are such a lot of books published nowadays--crowds!--shoals!--and, unless there is a little attention drawn beforehand, what chance have you? I want a friend in court--I want several friends in court--and that's the truth; now, how am I to get them?" This was plain speaking; but he was none the less bewildered. "You see, Lady Adela, the theatre is so different from the world of letters. I've met one or two newspaper men now and again, but they were dramatic critics--I never heard that they reviewed books." "But they were connected with newspapers?--then they must know the men who do," said this alert and intelligent lady. "Oh, I don't ask for anything unfair! I only ask for a chance. I don't want to be thrown into a corner unread or sold to the second-hand bookseller uncut. Now, Mr. Moore, think. You must know _lots_ of newspaper men if you would only _think_: why, they're always coming about theatres. And they would do anything for you, for you are such a popular favorite; and a word from you would be of such value to a beginner like me. Now, Mr. Moore, be good-natured, and consider. But first of all come away and have some lunch, and then we'll talk it over." When they had gone into the dining-room and sat down at table, he said, "Well, if it comes to that, I certainly know one newspaper man; in fact, I have known him all my life; he is my oldest friend. But then he is merely the head of the Parliamentary reporting staff of the _Morning Mirror_--he's in the gallery of the House of Commons, you know, every night--and I'm afraid he couldn't do much about a book." "Couldn't he do a little, Mr. Moore?" said Lady Adela, insidiously. "Couldn't he get it hinted in the papers that 'Lady Arthur Castletown' is only a _nom de plume_?" "Then you don't object to your own name being mentioned?" asked this simple young man. "No, no, not at all," said she, frankly. "People are sure to get to know. There are some sketches of character in the book that I think will make a little stir--I mean people will be asking questions; and then you know how a pseudonym whets curiosity--they will certainly find out--and they will talk all the more then. That ought to do the book some good. And then you understand, Mr. Moore," continued this remarkably naive person, "if your friend happened to know any of the reviewers, and could suggest how some little polite attention might be paid them, there would be nothing wrong in that, would there? I am told that they are quite gentlemen nowadays--they go everywhere--and--and indeed I should like to make their acquaintance, since I've come into the writing fraternity myself." Lionel Moore was silent; he was considering how he should approach the fastidious, whimsical, sardonic Maurice Mangan on this extremely difficult subject. "Let me see," he said, presently. "This is Wednesday; my friend Mangan won't be at the House; I will send a message to his rooms, and ask him to come down to the theatre: then we can have a consultation about it. May I take this copy of the book with me, Lady Adela?" "Certainly, certainly!" said she, with promptitude. "And if you know of any one to whom I should send a copy, with the author's name in it--my own name, I mean--it would be extremely kind of you to let me know. It's so awfully hard for us poor outsiders to get a hearing. You professional folk are in a very different position--the public just worship you--you have it all your own way--you don't need to care what the critics say--but look at _me_! I may knock and knock at the door of the Temple of Fame until my knuckles are sore, and who will take any notice--unless, perhaps, some friendly ear begins to listen? Do you think Mr. Mangan--did you say Mangan?--do you think he would come and dine with us some evening?" The artless ingenuousness of her speech was almost embarrassing. "He is a very busy man," he said, doubtfully, "very busy. He has his gallery work to do, of course; and then I believe he is engaged on some important philosophical treatise--he has been at it for years, indeed--" "Oh, he writes books too?" Lady Adela cried. "Then certainly you must bring him to dinner. Shall I write a note now, Mr. Moore--a Sunday evening, of course, so that we may secure you as well--" "I think I would wait a little, Lady Adela," he said, "until I see how the land lies. He's a most curious fellow, Mangan: difficult to please and capricious. I fancy he is rather disappointed with himself; he ought to have done something great, for he knows everything--at least he knows what is fine in everything, in painting, in poetry, in music; and yet, with all his sympathy, he seems to be forever grumbling--and mostly at himself. He is a difficult fellow to deal with--" "I suppose he eats his dinner like anybody else," said Lady Adela, somewhat sharply: she was not used to having her invitations scorned. "Yes, but I think he would prefer to eat it in a village ale-house," Lionel said, with a smile, "where he could make 'the violet of a legend blow, among the chops and steaks.' However, I will take him your book, Lady Adela; and I have no doubt he will be able to give you some good advice." It was late that evening when, in obedience to the summons of a sixpenny telegram, Maurice Mangan called at the stage-door of the New Theatre and was passed in. Lionel Moore was on the stage, as any one could tell, for the resonant baritone voice was ringing clear above the multitudinous music of the orchestra; but Mangan, not wishing to be in the way, did not linger in the wings--he made straight for his friend's room, which he knew. And in the dusk of the long corridor he was fortunate enough to behold a beautiful apparition, in the person of a young French officer in the gayest of uniforms, who, apparently to maintain the character he bore in the piece (it was that of a young prisoner of war liberated on parole, who played sad havoc with the hearts of the village maidens by reason of his fascinating ways and pretty broken English), had just facetiously chucked two of the women dressers under the chin; and these damsels were simpering at this mark of condescension, and evidently much impressed by the swagger and braggadocio of the miniature warrior. However, Mlle. Girond (the boy-officer in question) no sooner caught sight of the new-comer than she instantly and demurely altered her demeanor; and as she passed him in the corridor she favored him with a grave and courteous little bow, for she had met him more than once in Miss Burgoyne's sitting-room. Mangan returned the salutation most respectfully; and then he went on and entered the apartment in which Lionel Moore dressed. It was empty; so this tall, thin man with the slightly stooping shoulders threw himself into a wicker-work easy-chair, and let his eyes--which were much keener than was properly compatible with the half-affected expression of indolence that had become habitual to him--roam over the heterogeneous collection of articles around. These were abundantly familiar to him--the long dressing-table, with all its appliances for making-up, the mirrors, the wigs on blocks, the gay-colored garments, the fencing-foils and swords, the framed series of portraits from "Vanity Fair," the innumerable photographs stuck everywhere about. Indeed, it was something not immediately connected with these paraphernalia of an actor's existence that seemed to be occupying his mind, even as he idly regarded the various pastes and colors, the powder-puffs and pencils, the pots of vaseline. His eyes grew absent as he sat there. Was he thinking of the Linn Moore of years and years ago who used to reveal to the companion of his boyhood all his high aims and strenuous ambitions--how he was resolved to become a Mendelssohn, a Mozart, a Beethoven? Whither had fled all those wistful dreams and ardent aspirations? What was Linn Moore now?--why, a singer in comic opera, his face beplastered almost out of recognition; a pet of the frivolous-fashionable side of London society; the chief adornment of photographers' windows. "'Half a beast is the great god Pan,'" this tall, languid-looking man murmured to himself, as he was vacuously staring at those paints and brushes and cosmetics; and then he got up and began to walk indeterminately about the room, his hands behind his back. Presently the door was opened, and in came Lionel Moore, followed by his dresser. "Hallo, Maurice!--you're late," said Harry Thornhill, as he surrendered himself to his factotum, who forthwith began to strip him of his travelling costume of cocked hat, frogged coat, white leather breeches, and shining black boots in order to make way for the more brilliant attire of the last act. "Now that I am here, what are your highness's commands?" Mangan asked. "There's a book there--written by a friend of mine," Lionel said, as he was helping his dresser to get off the glittering top-boots. "She wants me to do what I can for her with the press. What do I know about that? Still, she is a very particular friend--and you must advise me." Mangan rose and went to the mantelpiece and took down Volume I. "Lady Arthur Castletown--" said he. "But that is not her real name," the other interposed. "Her real name is Lady Adela Cunyngham--of course you know who she is." "I have been permitted to hear the echo of her name from those rare altitudes in which you dwell now," the other said, lazily. "So she is one of your fashionable acquaintances; and she wants to secure the puff preliminary, and a number of favorable reviews, I suppose; and then you send for me. But what can I do for you except ask one or two of the gallery men to mention the book in their London Correspondent's letter?" "But that's the very thing, my dear fellow!" Lionel Moore cried, as he was getting on his white silk stockings. "The very thing! She wants attention drawn to the book. She doesn't want to be passed over. She wants to have the name of the book and the name of the author brought before the public--" "Her real name?" "Yes, certainly, if that is advisable." "Oh, well, there's not much trouble about that. You can always minister to a mind diseased by a morbid craving for notoriety if a paragraph in a country newspaper will suffice. So this is part of what your fashionable friends expect from you, Linn, in return for their patronage?" "It's nothing of the kind; she would do as much for me, if she knew how, or if there were any occasion." "Oh, well, it is no great thing," said Mangan, who was really a very good-natured sort of person, despite his supercilious talk. "In fact, you might do her ladyship a more substantial service than that." "How?" "I thought you knew Quirk--Octavius Quirk?" "But you have always spoken so disparagingly of him!" the other exclaimed. "What has that to do with it?" Mangan asked; and then he continued, in his indolent fashion: "Why, I thought you knew all about Quirk. Quirk belongs to a band of literary weaklings, not any one of whom can do anything worth speaking of; but they try their best to write up one another; and sometimes they take it into their heads to help an acquaintance--and then their cry is like that of a pack of beagles? you would think the press of London, or a considerable section of it, had but one voice. Why don't you take Lady Arthur's--Lady Constance's--what's her name?--why don't you take her book to the noble association of log-rollers? I presume the novel is trash; they'll welcome it all the more. She is a woman--she is not to be feared; she hasn't as yet committed the crime of being successful--she isn't to be envied and anonymously attacked. That's the ticket for you, Linn. They mayn't convince the public that Lady What's-her-name is a wonderful person; but they will convince her that she is; and what more does she want?" "I don't understand you, Maurice!" the young baritone cried, almost angrily. "Again and again you've spoken of Octavius Quirk as if he were beneath contempt." "What has that to do with it?" the other repeated, placidly. "As an independent writer, Quirk is quite beneath contempt--quite. There is no backbone in his writing at all, and he knows his own weakness; and he thinks he can conceal it by the use of furious adjectives. He is always in a frantic rush and flurry, that produces no impression on anybody. A whirlwind of feathers, that's about it. He goes out into the highway and brandishes a double-handed sword--in order to sweep off the head of a buttercup. And I suppose he expects the public to believe that his wild language, all about nothing, means strength; just as he hopes that they will take his noisy horse-laugh for humor. That's Octavius Quirk as a writer--a nobody, a nothing, a wisp of straw in convulsions; but as a puffer--ah, there you have him!--as a puffer, magnificent, glorious, a Greek hero, invincible, invulnerable. My good man, it's Octavius Quirk you should go to! Get him to call on his pack of beagles to give tongue; and then, my goodness, you'll hear a cry--for a while at least. Is there anything at all in the book?" "I don't know," said Harry Thornhill, who had changed quickly, and was now regaling himself with a little of Miss Burgoyne's lemonade, with which the prima-donna was so kind as to keep him supplied. "Well, now, I shall be on the stage some time; what do you say to looking over Lady Adela's novel?" "All right." There was a tapping at the door; it was the call-boy. But Lionel Moore did not immediately answer the summons. "Look here, Maurice; if you should find anything in the book--anything you could say a word in favor of--I wish you'd come round to the Garden Club with me, after the performance, and have a bit of supper. Octavius Quirk is almost sure to be there." "What, Quirk? I thought the Garden was given over to dukes and comic actors?" "There's a sprinkling of everybody in it," the young baritone said; "and Quirk likes it because it is an all-night club--he never seems to go to bed at all. Will you do that?" "Oh, yes," Maurice Mangan said; and forthwith, as his friend left the dressing-room, he plunged into Lady Adela's novel. The last act of "The Squire's Daughter" is longer than its predecessors; so that Mangan had plenty of time to acquire some general knowledge of the character and contents of these three volumes. Indeed, he had more than time for all the brief scrutiny he deemed necessary; when Lionel Moore reappeared, to get finally quit of his theatrical trappings for the night, his friend was standing at the fireplace, looking at a sketch in brown chalk of Miss Burgoyne, which that amiable young lady had herself presented to Harry Thornhill. "Well, what's the verdict?" Mangan turned round, rather bewildered; and then he recollected that he had been glancing at the novel. "Oh, _that_!" he said, regarding the three volumes with no very favorable air, "Mighty poor stuff, I should say; just about as weak as they make it. But harmless. Some of the conversation--between the women--is natural; trivial, but natural. The plain truth is, my dear Linn, it is a very foolish, stupid book, which should never have been printed at all; but I suppose your fashionable friend could afford to pay for having it printed." "But, look here, Maurice," Lionel said, in considerable surprise, "I don't see how it can be so very stupid, when Lady Adela herself is one of the brightest, cleverest, shrewdest, most intelligent women you could meet with anywhere--quite unusually so." "That may be; but she is not the first clever woman who has made the mistake of imagining that because she is socially popular she must therefore be able to write a book." "And what am I to say to Octavius Quirk?" "What are you to say to the log-rollers? Don't say anything. Get Lady Adela to ask one or two of them to dinner. You'll fetch Quirk that way easily; they say Gargantua was a fool compared to him." "I've seen him do pretty well at the Garden, especially about two in the morning," was the young baritone's comment; and then, as he began to get into his ordinary attire, he said, "To tell you the truth, Maurice, Lady Adela rather hinted that she would be pleased to make the acquaintance of any--of any literary man--" "Who could do her book a good turn?" "No, you needn't put it as rudely as that. She rather feels that, in becoming an authoress, she has allied herself with literary people--and would naturally like to make acquaintances; so, if it came to that, I should consider myself empowered to ask Quirk whether he would accept an invitation to dinner--I mean, at Cunyngham Lodge. It's no use asking you, Maurice?" he added, with a little hesitation. Maurice Mangan laughed. "No, no, Linn, my boy; thank you all the same, I say," he continued, as he took up his hat and stick, seeing that Lionel was about ready to go, "do you ever hear from Miss Francie Wright, or have you forgotten her among all your fine friends?" "Oh, I hear from Francie sometimes," he answered, carelessly, "or about her, anyway, whenever I get a letter from home. She's very well. Boarding out pauper sick children is her new fad; and I believe she's very busy and very happy over it. Come along, Maurice; we'll walk up to the Garden, and get something of an appetite for supper." When they arrived at the Garden Club (so named from its proximity to Covent Garden) they went forthwith into the spacious apartment on the ground floor which served at once as dining-room, newspaper-room, and smoking-room. There was hardly anybody in it. Four young men in evening dress were playing cards at a side-table; at another table a solitary member was writing; but at the long supper-table--which was prettily lit up with crimson-shaded lamps, and the appointments of which seemed very trim and clean and neat--all the chairs were empty, and the only other occupants of the place were the servants, who wore a simple livery of white linen. "What for supper, Maurice?" the younger of the two friends asked. "Anything--with salad," Mangan answered; he was examining a series of old engravings that hung around the walls. "On a warm night like this what do you say to cold lamb, salad, and some hock and iced soda-water?" "All right." Supper was speedily forthcoming, and, as they took their places, Mangan said, "You don't often go down to see the old people, Linn?" "I'm so frightfully busy!" "Has Miss Francie ever been up to the theatre--to see 'The Squire's Daughter,' I mean?"--this question he seemed to put rather diffidently. "No. I've asked her often enough; but she always laughs and puts it off. She seems to be as busy down there as I am up here." "What does she think of the great name and fame you have made for yourself?" "How should I know?" Then there was silence for a second or two. "I wish you'd run down to see them some Sunday, Linn; I'd go down with you." "Why not go down by yourself?--they'd be tremendously glad to see you." "I should be more welcome if I took you with me. You know your cousin likes you to pay a little attention to the old people. Come! Say Sunday week." "My dear fellow, Sunday is my busiest day. Sunday night is the only night I have out of the seven. And I fancy that it is for that very Sunday evening that Lord Rockminster has engaged the Lansdowne Gallery; he gives a little dinner-party, and his sisters have a big concert afterwards--we've all got to sing the chorus of the new marching-song Lady Sybil has composed for the army." "Who is Lady Sybil?" "The sister of the authoress whose novel you were reading." "My gracious! is there another genius in the family?" "There's a third," said Lionel, with a bit of a smile. "What would you say if Lady Rosamund Bourne were to paint a portrait of me as Harry Thornhill for the Royal Academy?" "I should say the betting was fifty to one against its getting in." "Ah, you're unjust, Maurice; you don't know them. I dare say you judged that novel by some high literary standard that it doesn't pretend to reach. I am sure of this, that if it's half as clever as Lady Adela Cunyngham herself, it will do very well." "It will do very well for the kind of people who will read it," said the other, indifferently. This was a free-and-easy place; when they had finished supper, Lionel Moore lit a cigarette, and his friend a briar-root pipe, without moving from the table; and Mangan's prayer was still that his companion should fix Sunday week for a visit to the little Surrey village where they had been boys together, and where Lionel's father and mother (to say nothing of a certain Miss Francie Wright, whose name cropped up more than once in Mangan's talk) were still living. But during this entreaty Lionel's attention happened to be attracted to the glass door communicating with the hall; and instantly he said, in an undertone: "Here's a stroke of luck, Maurice; Quirk has just come in. How am I to sound him? What should I do?" "Haven't I told you?" said Mangan, curtly. "Get your swell friends to feed him." Nevertheless, this short, fat man, who now strode into the room and nodded briefly to these two acquaintances, speedily showed that on occasion he knew how to feed himself. He called a waiter, and ordered an underdone beefsteak with Spanish onions, toasted cheese to follow, and a large bottle of stout to begin with; then he took the chair at the head of the table, thus placing himself next to Lionel Moore. "A very empty den to-night," observed this new-comer, whose heavy face, watery blue eyes, lank hair plentifully streaked with gray, and unwholesome complexion would not have produced a too-favorable impression on any one unacquainted with his literary gifts and graces. Lionel agreed; and then followed a desultory conversation about nothing in particular, though Mr. Octavius Quirk was doing his best to say clever things and show off his boisterous humor. Indeed, it was not until that gentleman's very substantial supper was being brought in that Lionel got an opportunity of artfully asking him whether he had heard anything of Lady Adela Cunyngham's forthcoming novel. He was about to proceed to explain that "Lady Arthur Castletown" was only a pseudonym, when he was interrupted by Octavius Quirk bursting into a roar--a somewhat affected roar--of scornful laughter. "Well, of all the phenomena of the day, that is the most ludicrous," he cried, "--the so-called aristocracy thinking that they can produce anything in the shape of art or literature. The aristocracy--the most exhausted of all our exhausted social strata--what can be expected from _it_? Why, we haven't anywhere nowadays either art or literature or drama that is worthy of the name--not anywhere--it is all a ghastly, spurious make-believe--a mechanical manufactory of paintings and books and plays without a spark of life in them--" [Illustration: "_When they had finished supper, Lionel Moore lit a cigarette, and his friend a brier-root pipe._"] Lionel Moore resentfully thought to himself that if Mr. Quirk had been able to do anything in any one of these directions he might have held less despairing views; but, of course, he did not interrupt this feebly tempestuous monologue. "--We are all played out, that is the fact--the soil is exhausted--we want a great national upheaval--a new condition of things--a social revolution, in short. And we're going to get it" he continued, in a sort of triumphant way; "there's no mistake about that; the social revolution is in the air, it is under our feet, it is pressing in upon us from every side; and yet at the very moment that the aristocracy have got notice to quit their deer-forests and their salmon-rivers and grouse-moors, they so far mistake the signs of the times that they think they should be devoting themselves to art and going on the stage! Was there ever such incomprehensible madness?" "I hope they won't sweep away deer-forests and grouse-moors just all at once," the young baritone said, modestly, "for I am asked to go to the Highlands at the beginning of next August." "Make haste, then, and see the last of these doomed institutions" observed Mr. Quirk, with dark significance, as he looked up from his steak and onions. "I tell you deer-forests are doomed; grouse-moors are doomed; salmon-rivers are doomed. They are a survival of feudal rights and privileges which the new democracy--the new ruling power--will make short work of. The time has gone by for all these absurd restrictions and reservations! There is no defence for them; there never was; they were conceived in an iniquity of logic which modern common-sense will no longer suffer. _Bona vacantia_ can't belong to anybody--therefore they belong to the king; that's a pretty piece of reasoning, isn't it? And if the crofter or the laborer says, '_Bona vacantia_ can't belong to anybody--therefore they belong to me'--isn't the reasoning as good? But it is not merely game-laws that must be abolished, it is game itself." "If you abolish the one, you'll soon get rid of the other," Maurice Mangan said, with a kind of half-contemptuous indifference; he was examining this person in a curious way, as he might have looked through the wires of a cage in the Zoological Gardens. "Both must be abolished," Mr. Octavius Quirk continued, with windy vehemence. "The very distinction that takes any animal _feræ naturæ_ and constitutes it game is a relic of class privilege and must go--" "Then Irish landlords will no longer be considered _feræ naturæ_?" Mangan asked, incidentally. "We must be free from these feudal tyrannies, these mediæval chains and manacles that the Norman kings imposed on a conquered people. We must be as free as the United States of America--" "America!" Mangan said; and he was rude enough to laugh. "The State of New York has more stringent game-laws than any European country that I know of; and why not? They wanted to preserve certain wild animals, for the general good; and they took the only possible way." Quirk was disconcerted only for a moment; presently he had resumed, in his reckless, _mouton-enragé_ fashion, "That may be; but the Democracy of Great Britain has pronounced against game; and game must go; there is no disputing the fact. Hunting in any civilized community is a relic of barbarism; it is worse in this country--it is an infringement of the natural rights of the tiller of the soil. What is the use of talking about it?--the whole thing is doomed; if you're going to Scotland this autumn, Mr. Moore, if you are to be shown all those exclusive pastimes of the rich and privileged classes, well, I'd advise you to keep your eyes open, and write as clear an account of what you see as you can; and, by Jove, twenty years hence your book will be read with amazement by the new generation!" Here the pot of foaming stout claimed his attention; he buried his head in it; and thereafter, sitting back in his chair, sighed forth his satisfaction. The time was come for a large cigar. And how, in the face of this fierce denunciation of the wealthy classes and all their ways, could Lionel Moore put in a word for Lady Adela's poor little literary infant? It would be shrivelled into nothing by a blast of this simulated simoom. It would be trodden under foot by the log-roller's elephantine jocosity. In a sort of despair he turned to Maurice Mangan, and would have entered into conversation with him but that Mangan now rose and said he must be going, nor could he be prevailed on to stay. Lionel accompanied him into the hall. "That Jabberwock makes me sick; he's such an ugly devil," Mangan said, as he put on his hat; and surely that was strange language coming from a grave philosopher who was about to publish a volume on the "Fundamental Fallacies of M. Comte." "But what am I to do, Maurice?" Lionel said, as his friend was leaving. "It's no use asking for his intervention at present; he's simply running amuck." "If your friend--Lady What's-her-name--is as clever as you say, she'll just twist that fellow round her finger," the other observed, briefly. "Good-night, Linn." And indeed it was not of Octavius Little, nor yet of Lady Adela's novel, that Maurice Mangan was thinking as he carelessly walked away through the dark London thoroughfares, towards his rooms in Victoria Street. He was thinking of that quiet little Surrey village; and of two boys there who had a great belief in each other--and in themselves, too, for the matter of that; and of all the beautiful and wonderful dreams they dreamed while as yet the far-reaching future was veiled from them. And then he thought of Linn Moore's dressing-room at the theatre; and of the paints and powder and vulgar tinsel that had to fit him out for exhibition before the footlights; and of the feverish whirl of life and the bedazzlement of popularity and fashionable petting; and somehow or other the closing lines of Mrs. Browning's poem would come ever and anon
are now about to enter. Of Michael's early years we have but a very meagre account. When he was about five years old his family removed from Newington Butts, and went to live in Jacob's Well Mews, Charles Street, Manchester Square, where they occupied rooms over a coach-house. James Faraday found employment at this time in Welbeck Street, while his young son passed his time, as children so circumstanced generally do, in playing in the streets; in after years, indeed, that son, become a prominent man, would point out where in Spanish Place he used to play at marbles, and where in Manchester Square he had at a later time been proud of having to take care of his younger sister, Margaret. It was from Jacob's Well Mews, too, that Michael went to school, and received such scant education as was to be his before it became necessary that he, as a youth of thirteen, should step into the ranks of the workers and begin the battle of life in earnest; such education as he received was of the "most ordinary description (to use his own words), consisting of little more than the rudiments of reading, writing, and arithmetic at a common day-school. My hours out of school were passed at home and in the streets." When Faraday was a boy nine years of age, in the first year of the present century, there was a time of much distress, when the rate of wages was very low, and the price of food very high: corn, indeed, which is at the present time about forty shillings per quarter, cost then as much as £9 for the same quantity. The distress, was felt very generally throughout the country, and the Faraday family severely felt the hard times; Michael, we are told, was allowed one loaf each week, and, it is added (poor Michael!), that the loaf had to last him that time. [Illustration: THE HOUSE IN JACOB'S WELL MEWS.] Near by where the Faraday family lived in Jacob's Well Mews there was, at No. 2, Blandford Street, a worthy bookseller named Riebau. In 1804, when Faraday was a boy of thirteen, he was employed as an errand boy by Mr. Riebau, "for one year on trial"--a trial that, as we shall shortly see, proved highly satisfactory. Michael's duty as errand boy, when he commenced, was to carry round the newspapers which were lent out by his master. He would get up very early each Sunday morning, and take the papers round, so that he might be able to call again for them while it was yet fairly early; frequently he would be told that he "must call again," as the paper was not done with. On such occasions he would beg to be allowed to have it at once, as the next place at which he had to call might be a mile off, and he would lose so much time going twice over his rounds that he would not be able to get home and make himself neat, so that he might go with his parents to their place of worship. Mr. Riebau's shop, it may be noted, has changed but little since the early part of this century, it is still a stationer's business, and on the front of the house is placed a plaque bearing the simple inscription "Michael Faraday, Man of Science," with the date of his apprenticeship there. This plaque has furnished the simple yet sufficient title for this volume. His father, it may here be noted, had joined the Sandemanian Church, or the followers of Robert Sandeman, who, with his father-in-law, the Reverend John Glas, had seceded from the Scotch Presbyterian Church, and with him had started the sect which was named after Sandeman, or, as they are still called in Scotland, Glasites. In joining the Sandemanian Church, James Faraday was following the family tradition, for the large family of Clapham Faradays, to whom we have referred, were all members of the same body. Michael's mother, although she had not formally become a member of the Church, used regularly to attend as one of the congregation. Michael, as we shall learn, joined the Church later on, and continued a devout and sincere member of it up to the time of his death. For about a year did young Faraday continue as Mr. Riebau's errand boy; for about a year, as Professor Tyndall puts it, "he slid along the London pavements, a bright-eyed errand boy, with a load of brown curls upon his head and a packet of newspapers under his arm." We learn from one of his nieces that in his later years he rarely saw a newsboy without making some kind remark about him; as he said on one such occasion, "I always feel a tenderness for those boys, because I once carried newspapers myself." He was reproached, he says, as a boy, with being a great questioner. "He that questioneth much," says Lord Bacon, "shall learn much;" but this truth is too often forgotten by their elders when children are "inquisitive," and, as in Faraday's case, what is but the natural questioning of an awakening mind is put down to idle curiosity, and the child is told (as we may often hear) "not to ask so many questions." Although Faraday says he was thus "charged with being a great questioner," he could not recall what kind of questions he put; though he tells one story against himself which shows that all questioning, even that of a young philosopher, is not necessarily wise. He had called at a certain house to leave a newspaper, and whilst waiting for the door to be opened he put his head between the iron bars that separated the house from the next, and while in that position asked himself, somewhat strangely, which side of the railing he was on? No sooner had he started the question than the door behind him opened, he drew suddenly back, and, hitting himself so as to make his nose bleed, he forgot all about his question, which, without being answered, was yet it would seem somewhat definitely settled. When his year as errand boy expired, Michael was apprenticed to Mr. Riebau to learn the trade of bookbinder and stationer. His indentures are dated October 7th, 1805, and contain in one line an excellent testimonial to his character: "In consideration of his faithful service no premium is given." Of the earlier part of his seven years' apprenticeship we know but little. His father wrote in 1809 to a brother at the old home at Clapham, "Michael is bookbinder and stationer, and is very active at learning his business. He has been most part of four years of his time out of seven. He has a very good master and mistress, and likes his place well. He had a hard time for some while at first going; but, as the old saying goes, he has rather got the head above water, as there are two boys under him." [Illustration: "MICHAEL FARADAY, MAN OF SCIENCE, APPRENTICE HERE."] In that he was placed within reach of many and good books, which should go a great way towards deciding his scientific and speculative bent of mind, a position such as that in Mr. Riebau's shop was as good a one as he could have had. Not only were many scientific books, that had hitherto been unavailable, now placed ready to his hand, but he had in Riebau a kind and considerate master; he was allowed, and it was a valuable privilege, to be out occasionally of an evening that he might attend the lectures on natural philosophy which a Mr. Tatum was delivering at that time at his house in Dorset Street, Fleet Street. Michael saw bills announcing the lectures in shop windows, and became anxious to hear them, which he was enabled to do owing to the kindness of his master, Mr. Riebau, and the generosity of his elder brother Robert, who at the time was following their father's business, and made Michael a present on several occasions of the shilling which was charged for entrance to the lectures. Towards the end of the year 1809 Faraday's family removed from Jacob's Well Mews, where their home had been for thirteen years, and went to live at 18, Weymouth Street, near Portland Place, and there, on October 30th of the following year, James Faraday died. He had been out of health for some years, and seems indeed to have been quite physically unfitted for so laborious an occupation as that of blacksmith. In 1807 he had written to a brother at Clapham, "I am sorry to say I have not had the pleasure of enjoying one day's health for a long time. Although I am very seldom off work for a whole day together, yet I am under the necessity (through pain) of being from work part of almost every day." He then concludes his letter in that spirit of simple yet earnest devotion that appears to have been characteristic of the whole family: "But we, perhaps, ought to leave these matters to the overruling hand of Him who has a sovereign right to do what seemeth good to Him, both in the armies of heaven and amongst the inhabitants of the earth." Michael's strong affection for his parents became, as he grew older, one of the most marked features of his character; his great love for his mother is shown in many ways, notably in every letter which he wrote to her. The following story illustrates, as do many others that are told of him, Faraday's depth of feeling with regard to his family. After he had become recognised by the world as the great man that he was, and when sitting to Noble for his bust, it happened that the sculptor, in giving the finishing touches to the marble, made a clattering with his chisels: noticing that his sitter appeared moved, he said he feared the jingling of the tools had distressed him, and that he was weary. "No, my dear Mr. Noble," said Faraday, putting his hand upon his shoulder, "but the noise reminded me of my father's anvil, and took me back to my boyhood." Gradually Faraday's interest widened in those matters which later on were to entirely engross his attention. His apprenticeship at first gave him many opportunities of reading philosophical and scientific works. "I loved," he afterwards wrote, referring to this time, "to read the scientific books which were under my hands, and, amongst them, delighted in Marcet's _Conversations in Chemistry_, and the electrical treatise in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. I made," he adds, and the item is interesting as giving us a first glimpse at his experiments, "I made such simple experiments in chemistry as could be defrayed in their expense by a few pence per week, and also constructed an electrical machine, first with a glass phial, and afterwards with a real cylinder, as well as other electrical apparatus of a corresponding kind." Watts' _On the Mind_, was, he said, the first thing that made him really think; while his thoughts were directed towards science by an article on electricity, which he lighted upon in an encyclopædia entrusted to him to bind. Such glimpses into the early reading--showing us how the bent of his genius is decided--are always interesting in the life of one who, as Tennyson says, "Has made by force his merit known." Into Faraday's early reading--or that part of his reading which bore upon the science with which his name is so intimately connected--we have indeed something more than a glimpse, for he compiled (during 1809-10) a note book in which he wrote down the names of such books and articles connected with the sciences as interested him. This note book he called, "_The Philosophical Miscellany_: being a collection of notices, occurrences, events, etc., relating to the arts and sciences, collected from the public papers, reviews, magazines, and other miscellaneous works; intended to promote both amusement and instruction, and also to corroborate or invalidate those theories which are continually starting into the world of science." Thus ambitiously did Michael Faraday, a youth of not yet twenty years, start upon his career as an investigator; thus early did he evince a desire to "corroborate or invalidate those theories which are continually starting into the world of science." Among books and articles to which reference is made in the interesting _Miscellany_, there are papers by Dr. Darwin,[1] papers on a "Description of a Pyro-pneumatic Apparatus," and "Experiment on the Ocular Spectra of Light and Colours," frequent references to "lightning," "electric fish," and other electrical phenomena, showing his early leaning towards this particular branch of investigation. There is a reference to the short essay on the _Formation of Snow_, which forms the reading for December 5th, in that interesting, and at the present time neglected, work, Sturm's _Reflections on the Works of God_. This book has perhaps been supplanted in a great measure by the many popular treatises on science and natural history which recent years have produced, but which, nevertheless, have not taken the place of the _Reflections_, the simplicity and directness of which give to the volume a perennial charm such as but few books can maintain. Other papers, such as that on "How to Loosen Glass Stopples," included in the _Miscellany_, show us Faraday's interest in the science of everyday life, to which in his later years we owe those delightfully interesting lectures on "The Chemical History of a Candle," lectures to which fuller reference is made later on in this volume. One other reference in the _Miscellany_ is at any rate worthy of passing note for obvious reasons, or for reasons which are obvious as soon as we learn how closely connected is the career of Faraday with that of his great benefactor and predecessor in the field of research, Sir Humphry Davy. The reference is from the _Chemical Observer_, to the effect that "Mr. Davy (he was knighted in 1812) has announced to the Royal Society a great discovery in chemistry--the fixed alkalies have been decomposed by the galvanic battery." From the lectures at Mr. Tatum's house our young philosopher gained something more than a knowledge of the subjects discussed--he gained several friends, intercourse and exchange of ideas with whom were to form no inconsiderable part of his education; that he might illustrate the lectures, too, he set to study perspective, being kindly assisted in his work by Mr. Masquarier, a French refugee artist who was lodging at the time at Mr. Riebau's, and whose kindness to him Faraday never in after years forgot to acknowledge. About a dozen lectures at Mr. Tatum's were spread over rather more than eighteen months (February, 1810--September, 1811). At them, Faraday became acquainted with Benjamin Abbott, a confidential clerk in the City--an acquaintance that ripened into life-long friendship; here also he met Huxtable, a medical student, to whom he addressed the earliest note of his which is extant. Other kindred spirits with whom Faraday entered into friendly relations at the Dorset Street lectures, were Magrath, Newton, Nichol, and many more. There is a perverted and ridiculous story told of Faraday's first hearing Davy lecture, to the effect that "Magrath happening, many years ago, to enter the shop of Mr. Riebau, observed one of the bucks of the paper bonnet zealously studying a book which he ought to have been binding. He approached; it was a volume of the old _Britannica_, open at 'Electricity.' He entered into talk with the journeyman, and was astonished to find in him a self-taught chemist, of no slender pretensions. He presented him with a set of tickets for Davy's lectures at the Royal Institution; and daily thereafter might the nondescript be seen perched, pen in hand, and his eyes starting out of his head, just over the clock opposite the chair. At last the course terminated; but Faraday's spirit had received a new impulse, which nothing but dire necessity could have restrained." This circumstantial yet exaggerated story, couched as it is in the worst of tastes, is yet quoted with approval in a recent work supposed of some authority. Magrath, as we have seen, Faraday had met earlier, and, as he tells us himself, the kindness of giving him tickets for Davy's lectures was done him by Mr. Dance.[2] The story quoted above says also that he might be seen _daily_, and that "at last" the course terminated. To show us how garbled is this account and in what it is true, we will turn to an account of this incident--this important incident--in his life, which Faraday himself wrote out later at the request of a correspondent. "During my apprenticeship," he says, "I had the good fortune, through the kindness of Mr. Dance, who was a customer of my master's shop, and also a member of the Royal Institution, to hear four of the last lectures of Sir H. Davy in that locality. The dates of these lectures were February 29th, March 14th, April 8th and 10th, 1812. Of these I made notes, and then wrote out the lectures in a fuller form, interspersing them with such drawings as I could make. The desire to be engaged in scientific occupation, even though of the lowest kind, induced me, whilst an apprentice, to write, in my ignorance of the world and simplicity of my mind, to Sir Joseph Banks, then President of the Royal Society. Naturally enough, 'no answer' was the reply left with the porter." The four lectures which Faraday heard during the spring of 1812 were, as we shall see in the next chapter, to mark an epoch in his life. At each of these lectures, we are told, the delighted youth listened to Sir Humphry Davy, from a seat in the gallery immediately over the clock directly facing the illustrious lecturer;[3] both speaker and listener being unaware of the close inter-connection there was destined to be between their two careers. But of this in the next chapter, for between Faraday's hearing Davy's lectures and his correspondence with that great man, there are one or two other interesting facts in connection with the life of our bookbinder's apprentice and would-be philosopher. In July of this year it was that Michael commenced his long and interesting series of letters to Benjamin Abbott, letters that show us how keenly alive Faraday was to all things connected with the work with which he was anxious to become more intimately connected, and at the same time how anxious he was to make up for his deficiencies of education. In all his letters we find a charm in the simple earnestness of the man, in his straightforward search for truth, in the unreserved openness which characterised him when corresponding with one whom he not only called a friend, but treated as such on all occasions. Simplicity, in its best and highest meaning, was, if we can in one word sum up the character of a man, the chief feature of Faraday in all his relations throughout life. Through all his letters to his intimate friends, too, there runs a vein of unaffected pleasantry which shows us at once that he was no "mere scientist," no "dry-as-dust" philosopher, which is a character too often given by thoughtless and careless persons to men who earn their laurels in any special field of research. We find that the great chemist or philosopher is not only a great scientist, but that he is also, as Faraday undoubtedly was, a man of a simple, earnest, reverent nature, a man whose married life was one series of years of love-making, who was a cheerful, pleasant friend and companion, and intense and earnest lover of children. Perhaps I cannot better conclude this chapter than by giving a few passages from his early letters, passages that will fully bear out much of what is said in the preceding paragraph. It was in July, 1812, three months before the articles of his apprenticeship ran out, that Faraday began his letters to Abbott; he was not as yet twenty-one years of age, his early education, as we have seen, had been chiefly the three R's, yet we find these letters eminently remarkable for their correctness and fluency, not less than for their kindness, courtesy, and candour. His first letter to Abbott is, indeed, doubly interesting, for it gives us the earliest account we have of any of his experiments. After writing a good deal on what he considers to be the advantage of a correspondence, he continues: "I have lately made a few simple galvanic experiments, merely to illustrate to myself the first principles of the science.... I, sir, I my own self, cut out seven discs of the size of halfpennies each! I, sir, covered them with seven halfpence, and I interposed between seven, or rather six, pieces of paper soaked in a solution of muriate of soda!!! But laugh no longer, dear A.; rather wonder at the effects this trivial power produced. It was sufficient to produce the decomposition of sulphate of magnesia--an effect which extremely surprised me; for I did not, could not, have any idea that the agent was competent to the purpose." Again, to the same friend, he writes: "What? affirm you have little to say, and yet a philosopher? What a contradiction! What a paradox! 'tis a circumstance I till now had no idea of, nor shall I at any time allow you to advance it as a plea for not writing. A philosopher cannot fail to abound in subjects, and a philosopher can scarcely fail to have a plentiful flow of words, ideas, opinions, etc., etc., when engaged on them; at least, I never had reason to suppose you deficient there. Query by Abbott: 'Then pray, Mike, why have you not answered my last before now since subjects are so plentiful?' 'Tis neither more nor less, dear A., than a want of time. Time, sir, is all I require, and for time will I cry out most heartily. Oh that I could purchase at a cheap rate some of our modern gents' spare hours, nay, days; I think it would be a good bargain both for them and me. As for subjects, there is no want of them. I could converse with you, I will not say for ever, but for any finite length of time. Philosophy would furnish us with matter; and even now, though I have said _nothing_, yet the best part of a page is covered." A little later he writes, acknowledging a letter from his friend, a letter which found him paper-hanging--"but what a change of thought it occasioned; what a concussion, confusion, conglomeration; what a revolution of ideas it produced--oh! 'twas too much; away went cloths, shears, paper, paste, and brush, all--all was too little, all was too light to keep my thoughts from soaring high, connected close with thine." This letter, after referring to his friend's electrical experiments, he finishes somewhat sadly, "You know I shall shortly enter on the life of a journeyman, and then I suppose time will be more scarce than it is even now." Little did he dream how great a change in his prospects one short half year would make. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [1] Erasmus Darwin, author of _The Botanic Garden_, _Loves of the Plants_, etc., and grandfather of the more famous Charles Darwin. [2] It may be noted here that there are several spurious stories told of Faraday's first visit to the Institution and his introduction to Davy. The story as told here is as Faraday himself told it to Davy's biographer. [3] It is interesting to note that Sir Humphry Davy was only thirteen years the senior of Michael Faraday. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. THE TURNING POINT. "And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: 'Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.' 'Come, wander with me,' she said, 'Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God!'" LONGFELLOW. There is a story told of Sir Humphry Davy, that, on being asked on a certain occasion to enumerate what he considered as his greatest discoveries, he named first one thing and then another,--now his wonderful safety-lamp, then some electrical discovery, finishing up with "but the greatest of all my discoveries was the discovery of Michael Faraday." In the autumn of 1812, as we have seen, Faraday was a bookbinder, whose apprenticeship was just at an end, and who was contemplating, as the only thing possible, the taking up of life as a journeyman at the craft at which for seven years he had been working; indeed, a journeyman bookbinder he became, for in October of that year he engaged himself to a Mr. De la Roche, who, though a quick-tempered, passionate man, seems to have really cared for Faraday, so much so, indeed, that he said to him, "I have no child, and if you will stay with me you shall have all I have when I am gone." But Michael was not thus to be tempted from the path which he desired to tread, as he wrote afterwards to Davy's biographer, "My desire to escape from trade, which I thought vicious and selfish, and to enter into the service of science, which I imagined made its pursuers amiable and liberal, induced me at last to take the bold and simple step of writing to Sir H. Davy, expressing my wishes and a hope that if an opportunity came in his way he would favour my views; at the same time, I sent the notes I had taken of his lectures." Shortly after Sir Humphry received Faraday's application, speaking to a friend--the honorary inspector of the models and apparatus--he said, "Pepys, what am I to do? Here is a letter from a young man named Faraday; he has been attending my lectures, and wants me to give him employment at the Royal Institution. _What can I do?_" "Do?" was Pepys' reply, "do? put him to wash bottles; if he is good for anything, he will do it directly; if he refuses, he is good for nothing." "No, no," said Davy, "we must try him with something better than that." Notwithstanding the fact that his similar application of some months before to Sir Joseph Banks had met with no answer, Faraday, in his desire to leave trade for science, had thus addressed another of the leading men of the day. Davy's reply was "immediate, kind, and favourable." It was this-- "_December 12th, 1812._ "To Mr. Faraday, "Sir,--I am far from displeased with the proof you have given me of your confidence, and which displays great zeal, power of memory, and attention. I am obliged to go out of town, and shall not be settled in town till the end of January; I will then see you at any time you wish. It would gratify me to be of any service to you; I wish it may be in my power. "I am, Sir, your obedient humble servant, "H. DAVY." [Illustration: SIR HUMPHRY DAVY.] The young bookbinder's delight on receiving the great and kindly-natured man's note may easily be imagined, as also may his anxiety for Davy's return. Five weeks, however, are soon passed, and Michael duly met Sir Humphry "by the window which is nearest to the corridor, in the ante-room to the theatre" at the Royal Institution. Davy was much impressed by the sincerity and modesty of the applicant, but yet advised him to continue at his bookbinding, going so far, indeed, as to say that he would get the Royal Institution binding for him, and would recommend him to his friends.[4] With this, for the present, Faraday had to be content. He returned to his binding, delighted that he had met and conversed with the greatest chemist of his time, but still anxious for an opportunity to leave that trade to which, as he had said, he was so averse, and to become wholly the servant of that science to which he was so attached. The change in his vocation was to come far more rapidly than he could have anticipated. He was still living, at this time (early in 1813), at 18, Weymouth Street, and one night, not very long after his interview with Davy, just as he was undressing to go to bed, there came a loud knock at the front door. Michael went to the window to see if there was any evidence as to whom the unwonted visitor might be. A carriage was there, from which a footman had alighted and left a note for "Mr. M. Faraday." It proved to be from Sir Humphry, who had already an opportunity of serving the young enthusiast. The note requested Michael to call on Davy the next morning. This he did, and learned that an assistant in the laboratory of the Royal Institution was required at once, the former assistant having been dismissed the day before. Michael instantly expressed his willingness to accept the position; he was to have twenty-five shillings a week salary, and two rooms at the top of the Institution building. It was not long before arrangements were all completed. A meeting of the managers of the Institution was held on March 1st; the following is entered in the minutes of that day's proceedings:--"Sir Humphry Davy has the honour to inform the managers that he has found a person who is desirous to occupy the situation in the Institution lately filled by William Payne. His name is Michael Faraday. He is a youth of twenty-two years of age. As far as Sir H. Davy has been able to observe or ascertain, he appears well fitted for the situation. His habits seem good, his disposition active and cheerful, and his manner intelligent. He is willing to engage himself on the same terms as those given to Mr. Payne at the time of quitting the Institution. _Resolved_:--That Michael Faraday be engaged to fill the situation lately occupied by Mr. Payne on the same terms." The duties of the assistant were specified by the managers in the following manner, his work being something other than the washing of bottles, which Pepys had recommended. It is a fact, also, that Faraday, almost from the commencement of his engagement, was concerned in more important work than that herein particularised. He was "to attend and assist the lecturers and professors in preparing for, and during, lectures; when any instruments or apparatus may be required, to attend to their careful removal from the model room or laboratory to the lecture-room, and to clean and replace them after being used, reporting to the manager such accidents as shall require repair, a constant diary being kept by him for that purpose. That, in one day in each week, he be employed in keeping clean the models in the repository, and that all the instruments in the glass cases be cleaned and dusted at least once within a month." As has been said, Faraday's work was almost from the first of a higher nature; he is reported to have set in order the mineralogical collection soon after his arrival. But a very short while elapsed between Michael's appointment as assistant and his taking up the duties of his post, for, on the 8th of March, he writes to Abbott, dating his letter from his new home, the two rooms at the top of the Institution. His letter tells us that he was already concerned in the active duties of his post, as the following passages show: "It is now about nine o'clock, and the thought strikes me that the tongues are going both at Tatum's and at the lecture in Bedford Street; but I fancy myself much better employed than I should have been at the lecture at either of those places. Indeed, I have heard one lecture already to-day, and had a finger in it (I can't say a hand, for I did very little). It was by Mr. Powell on mechanics, or rather, on rotatory motion, and was a pretty good lecture, but not very fully attended. "As I know you will feel a pleasure in hearing in what I have been or shall be occupied, I will inform you that I have been employed to-day, in part, in extracting the sugar from a portion of beetroot, and also in making a compound of sulphur and carbon--a combination which has lately occupied in a considerable degree the attention of chemists." About a month after writing the letter of which the above forms a part, Faraday again wrote to his friend Abbott, giving him an account of some experiments, in which he had been assisting Sir Humphry Davy, on "the detonating compound of chlorine and azote, and of four different and strong explosions of the substance, explosions from which neither he nor Davy had altogether escaped unhurt." "Of these," he says, "the most terrible was when I was holding between my thumb and finger a small tube containing 7-1/2 grains of the compound. My face was within twelve inches of the tube; but I fortunately had on a glass mask. It exploded by the slight heat of a small piece of cement that touched the glass above half-an-inch from the substance, and on the outside. The explosion was so rapid as to blow my hand open, bear off a part of one nail, and has made my fingers so sore that I cannot yet use them easily. The pieces of the tube were projected with such force as to cut the glass face of the mask I had on." In the other three experiments also they each of them got more or less cut about by the explosion of the "terrible compound," as Faraday calls it, Davy, indeed, in the last one, getting somewhat seriously cut. He writes thus frequently to Abbott during the summer of 1813, giving him in the later letters some well thought-out ideas on lectures and lecturing, which we shall have occasion to glance at when we are considering Faraday himself in the capacity of a lecturer,--one of the most popular and yet truly scientific lecturers of any time. In this year, his twenty-first, Faraday joined the City Philosophical Society, which had been founded about five years earlier by Mr. Tatum, at whose house the meetings were held. The Society consisted of some thirty or forty individuals, "perhaps all in the humble or moderate rank of life;" and certainly all of them anxious to improve themselves and add to their knowledge of scientific subjects. Once a week the members gathered together for mutual instruction; each member opening the discussion in his turn by reading a paper of a literary or philosophical nature, any member failing to do so at his proper time being fined half-a-guinea. In addition, the members had what they modestly called a "class book," but probably very like what we should now call a manuscript magazine; in this each member wrote essays, and the work was passed round from one to another. Michael, it will be seen, was not neglecting any opportunity of educating himself; as he had said in starting his correspondence with Abbott, one of his objects was to improve himself in composition and to acquire a clear and simple method of expressing that which he had to say. Yet another method had he of furthering his self-education. In the scanty notes which he wrote about his own life he says, "During this spring (1813) Magrath and I established the mutual improvement plan, and met at my rooms up in the attics of the Royal Institution, or at Wood Street at his warehouse. It consisted, perhaps, of half-a-dozen persons, chiefly from the City Philosophical Society, who met of an evening to read together, and to criticise, correct, and improve each other's pronunciation and construction of language. The discipline was very sturdy, the remarks very plain and open, and the results most valuable. This continued for several years." It is a matter for wonder how Faraday, with all these attempts to improve his language and method, and to avoid even
in the lower part of the city between College and Park Places, and was the original King's College of colonial days. All of the professors lived in the college buildings in a most unostentatious manner, and I readily recall frequent instances during my early childhood when, in company with my father, I walked to the college and took a simple six o'clock supper with Professor Anthon and his sisters. My mother met my father while visiting in New York, and the acquaintance eventually resulted in a runaway marriage. They were married on the 10th of June, 1818, and nine days later the following notice appeared in _The National Advocate_: _Married._ At Flushing, L.I., by the Rev. Mr. [Barzilla] Buckley, James Campbell esq. of this city, to Miss Mary Ann Hazard, daughter of John Hazard, esq. of Jamaica, Long Island. The objection of my Grandfather Hazard to my mother's marriage was not unnatural, as she was his only child, and being at this time well advanced in years he dreaded the separation. But the happy bride immediately brought her husband to live in the old home where she had been born, where the young couple began their married life under pleasing auspices, and my father continued his practice of law in New York. I had the misfortune of being a second daughter. Traditionally, I know that my grandfather most earnestly desired a grandson at that time, and when the nurse announced my birth, she was not sufficiently courageous to tell the truth, and said: "A boy, sir!" Her faltering manner possibly betrayed her, as the sarcastic retort was: "I dare say, an Irish boy." My ambitious parents sent me with my oldest sister, Fanny, at the early age of four, to a school in the village of Jamaica conducted by Miss Delia Bacon. My recollection of events occurring at this early period is not very vivid, but I still recall the vision of three beautiful women, Delia, Alice and Julia Bacon, who presided over our school. This interesting trio were nieces of the distinguished author and divine, the Rev. Dr. Leonard Bacon, who for fifty-seven years was pastor of the First Congregational Church of New Haven. Many years subsequent to my school days, Delia Bacon became, as is well known, an enthusiastic advocate of the Baconian authorship of Shakespeare's plays. I have understood that she made a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon hoping to secure the proper authority to reopen Shakespeare's grave, a desire, however, that remained ungratified. She was a woman of remarkable ability, and I have in my possession the book, written by her nephew, which tells the story of her life. I was Miss Bacon's youngest pupil, and attended school regularly in company with my sister, whither we were driven each morning in the family carriage. My studies were not difficult, and my principal recollection is my playing out of doors with a dog named Sancho, while the older children were busy inside with their studies. During my Long Island life, as a very young child, I was visiting my aunts in Jay Street, New York, when I was taken to Grant Thorburn's seed shop in Maiden Lane, which I think was called "The Arcade." There was much there to delight the childish fancy--canaries, parrots, and other birds of varied plumage. Thorburn's career was decidedly unusual. He was born in Scotland, where he worked in his father's shop as a nailmaker. He came to New York in 1794 and for a time continued at his old trade. He then kept a seed store and, after making quite a fortune, launched into a literary career and wrote under the _nom de plume_ of "Laurie Todd." FOOTNOTES: [1] Now Rutgers College. CHAPTER II NEW YORK AND SOME NEW YORKERS About 1828 my parents moved to New York, and immediately occupied the house, No. 6 Hubert Street, purchased by my father, and pleasantly located a short distance from St. John's Park, then the fashionable section of the city. This park was always kept locked, but it was the common play-ground of the children of the neighborhood, whose families were furnished with keys, as is the case with Gramercy Park to-day. St. John's Church overlooked this park, and the houses on the other three sides of the square were among the finest residences in the city. Many of them were occupied by families of prominence, among which were those of Watts, Gibbes, Kemble, Hamilton and Smedberg. Next door to us on Hubert Street lived Commander, subsequently Rear Admiral, Charles Wilkes, U.S.N., and his young family. His first wife was Miss Jane Jeffrey Renwick, who was a sister of Professor James Renwick of Columbia College, and after her death he married Mary Lynch, a daughter of Henry Lynch of New York and the widow of Captain William Compton Bolton of the Navy. This, of course, was previous to his naval achievements, which are such well known events in American history. In after life Admiral and Mrs. Wilkes moved to Washington, D.C., where I renewed my friendship of early days and where members of his family still reside, beloved and respected by the whole community. Mr. Thomas S. Gibbes of South Carolina, whose wife was Miss Susan Annette Vanden Heuvel, daughter of John C. Vanden Heuvel, a wealthy land owner, lived on Hudson Street, facing St. John's Park. Their elder daughter Charlotte Augusta, who married John Jacob Astor, son of William B. Astor, was an early playmate of mine, and many pleasant memories of her as a little girl cluster around St. John's Park, where we romped together. When I first knew the Gibbes family it had recently returned from a long residence in Paris, an unusual experience in these days, and both Charlotte Augusta and her younger sister, Annette Gibbes, sang in a very pleasing manner French songs, which were a decided novelty to our juvenile ears. Mrs. Gibbes's sisters were Mrs. Gouverneur S. Bibby and Mrs. John C. Hamilton. Directly opposite St. John's Park, on the corner of Varick and Beach streets, was Miss Maria Forbes's school for young girls, which was the fashionable school of the day. I attended it in company with my sister Fanny and my brother James who was my junior. Miss Forbes occasionally admitted boys to her school when accompanied by older sisters. Our life there was regulated in accordance with the strictest principles of learning and etiquette, and a child would have been deficient indeed who failed to acquire knowledge under the tuition of such an able teacher. School commenced promptly at eight o'clock and continued without intermission until three. The principal of the school was the daughter of John Forbes, who for thirty years was the librarian of the New York Society Library. He was a native of Aberdeen in Scotland, and was brought to this country in extreme youth by a widowed mother of marked determination and piety, with the intention of launching him successfully in life. He early displayed a fondness for books, and must have shown an uncommon maturity of mind and much executive ability, as he was only nineteen when he was appointed to the position just named. It is an interesting fact that he accepted the librarianship in 1798 with a salary of two hundred and fifty dollars a year in addition to the fines and two and a half per cent. upon all moneys collected, besides the use or rental of the lower front room of the library building. After many years of labor his salary was raised to five hundred dollars. Upon his death in October, 1824, the trustees, out of respect to his memory, voted to attend his funeral in a body and ordered the library closed for the remaining four days of the week. He married Miss Martha Skidmore, daughter of Lemuel Skidmore, a prominent iron and steel merchant of New York, and I have no doubt that Maria Forbes, their daughter and my early teacher, inherited her scholarly tastes from her father, of whom Dr. John W. Francis in his "Old New York" justly speaks as a "learned man." Miss Forbes was a pronounced disciplinarian, and administered one form of punishment which left a lasting impression upon my memory. For certain trivial offenses a child was placed in a darkened room and clothed in a tow apron. One day I was subjected to this punishment for many hours, an incident which naturally I have never yet been able to forget. On the occasion referred to Miss Forbes was obliged to leave the schoolroom for a few minutes and, unfortunately for my happiness, appointed my young brother James to act as monitor during her absence. His first experience in the exercise of a little authority evidently turned his head, for upon the return of our teacher I was reported for misbehavior. The charge against me was that I had smiled. It is too long ago to remember whether or not it was a smile of derision, but upon mature reflection I think it must have been. I knew, however, in my childish heart that I had committed no serious offense and, as can readily be imagined, my indignation was boundless. It was the first act of injustice I had ever experienced. Feeling that the punishment was undeserved, and smarting under it, with abundance of leisure upon my hands, I bit the tough tow apron into many pieces. When Miss Forbes after a few hours, which seemed to me an eternity, came to relieve me from my irksome position and noticed the condition of the apron, she regaled me with a homily upon the evils of bad temper, and gave as practical illustrations the lives of some of our most noted criminals, all of whom had expiated their crimes upon the gallows. In recalling these early school days it seems to me that the rudiments of education received far more attention then than now. Spelling was regarded as of chief importance and due consideration was given to grammar. There were no "frills" then, such as physical culture, manual training and the like, and vacation lasted but thirty days, usually during the month of August. Some of my earliest friendships were formed at Miss Forbes's school, many of which I have retained through a long life. Among my companions and classmates were the Tillotsons, Lynches, Astors, Kembles, Hamiltons, Duers, and Livingstons. But in spite of the severe discipline of Miss Forbes's school, her pupils occasionally engaged in current gossip. It was in her schoolroom I first made the discovery that this earth boasted of such valuable adjuncts to the human family as title-bearing gentlemen, and in this particular case it was a live Count that was brought to my notice. Count Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro had recently arrived in New York, and his engagement to Adelaide Lynch, a daughter of Judge James Lynch, of an old New York family, was soon announced. On the voyage to America he had made the acquaintance of a son of Lord Henry Gage of England, whose principal object in visiting this country was to make the acquaintance of his kinsman, Mr. Gouverneur Kemble. Through his instrumentality Tasistro was introduced into New York's most exclusive set, and soon became the lion of the hour. We girls discussed the engagement and subsequent marriage of the distinguished foreigner (_sub rosa_, of course), and to our childish vision pictured a wonderful career for this New York girl. The marriage, however, soon terminated unfortunately, and to the day of his death Tasistro's origin remained a mystery. He was an intellectual man of fine presence and skilled in a number of foreign languages. He claimed he was a graduate of Dublin College. Many years later, after I had become more familiar with title-bearing foreigners, Tasistro again crossed my path in Washington, where he was acting as a translator in the State Department; but after a few years, owing to an affection of the eyes, he was obliged to give up this position, and his condition was one of destitution. Through the instrumentality of my husband he obtained an annuity from his son, whom, by the way, he never knew; and for some years, in a spirit of gratitude, taught my children French. His last literary effort was the translation of the first two volumes of the Comte de Paris's "History of the Civil War in America." His devotion to my husband was pathetic, and I have frequently heard the Count say during the last years of his life that he never met him without some good fortune immediately following. After Mr. Gouverneur's death I received the following letter from Tasistro, which is so beautiful in diction that I take pleasure in inserting it: WASHINGTON, April 26, 1880. My dear Mrs. Gouverneur, Had I obeyed implicitly the impulses of my heart, or been less deeply affected by the great loss which will ever render the 5th of April a day of sad & bitter memories to me, I should perhaps have been more expeditious in rendering to you the poor tribute of my condolence for the terrible bereavement which it has pleased the Supreme Ruler of all things to afflict you with. My own particular grief in thus losing the best & most valued friend I ever had on earth, receives additional poignancy from the fact that, although duly impressed with an abiding sense of the imperishable obligation, conferred upon me by my lamented friend, I have been debarred, by my own physical infirmities, from proffering those services which it would have afforded me so much consolation to perform. I should be loath, however, to start on my own journey for that shadowy land whose dim outlines are becoming daily more & more visible to my mental eye, without leaving some kind of record attesting to the depth of my appreciation of all the noble attributes which clustered around your husband's character--of my intense & lasting gratitude for his generous exertions in my behalf, & my profound sympathy for you personally in this hour of sorrow & affliction. Hoping that you may find strength adequate to the emergency, I remain, with great respect, Your devoted servant, L. F. TASISTRO. A valued friend of my father's was Dr. John W. Francis, the "Doctor Sangrado" of this period, who, with other practitioners of the day, believed in curing all maladies by copious bleeding and a dose of calomel. He was the fashionable physician of that time and especially prided himself upon his physical resemblance to Benjamin Franklin. He had much dramatic ability of a comic sort, and I have often heard the opinion expressed that if he had adopted the stage as a profession he would have rivalled the comedian William E. Burton, who at this time was delighting his audiences at Burton's Theater on Chambers Street. In my early life when Dr. Francis was called to our house professionally the favorite dose he invariably prescribed for nearly every ailment was "calomel and jalap." One day during school hours at Miss Forbes's I was suddenly summoned to return to my home. I soon discovered after my arrival that I was in the presence of a tribunal composed of my parents and Dr. Francis. I was completely at a loss to understand why I was recalled with, what seemed to me, such undue haste, as I was entirely unconscious of any misdemeanor. I soon discovered, however, that I was in great trouble. It seems that a young girl from Santa Cruz, a boarding pupil at our school, had died of a malady known at this period as "iliac passion," but now as appendicitis. Her attending physician was Dr. Ralph I. Bush, a former surgeon in the British Navy, and I soon learned to my dismay that I was accused of having made an indiscreet remark in regard to his management of my schoolmate's case, although to this day I have never known exactly how Dr. Francis, as our family physician, was involved in the affair. I stood up as bravely as I could under a rigid cross-examination, but, alas! I had no remembrance whatever of making any remark that could possibly offend. At any rate, Dr. Bush had given Dr. Francis to understand that he was ready to settle the affair according to the approved method of the day; but Dr. Francis was a man of peace, and had no relish for the code. Possibly, with the reputed activity of Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Dr. Bush had already selected his seconds, as I have seldom seen a man more unnerved than Dr. Francis by what proved after all to be only a trifling episode. Soon after my trying interview, however, explanations followed, and the two physicians amicably adjusted the affair. It seems that this unfortunate entanglement arose from a misunderstanding. There were two cases of illness at Miss Forbes's school at the same time, the patient of Dr. Bush already mentioned and another child suffering from a broken arm whom Dr. Francis attended. He set the limb but, as he was not proficient as a surgeon, the act was criticized by the schoolgirls within my hearing. My sense of loyalty to my family doctor caused me to utter some childish remark in his defense which was possibly to the effect that he was a great deal better doctor than Dr. Bush, who had failed to save the life of our late schoolmate. In recalling this childish episode which caused me so much anxiety I am surprised that such unnecessary attention was paid to the passing remark of a mere child. Dr. Francis was as proficient in quoting wise maxims as Benjamin Franklin, whom he was said to resemble. One of them which I recall is the epitome of wisdom: "If thy hand be in a lion's mouth, get it out as fast as thou canst." I may here state, by the way, that in close proximity to Dr. Francis's residence on Bond Street lived Dr. Eleazer Parmly, the fashionable dentist of New York. He stood high in public esteem and a few still living may remember his pleasing address. He accumulated a large fortune and I believe left many descendants. The girls at Miss Forbes's school were taught needle work and embroidery, for in my early days no young woman's education was regarded as complete without these accomplishments. I quote from memory an elaborate sampler which bore the following poetical effusion: What is the blooming tincture of the skin, To peace of mind and harmony within? What the bright sparkling of the finest eye To the soft soothing of a kind reply? Can comeliness of form or face so fair With kindliness of word or deed compare? No. Those at first the unwary heart may gain, But these, these only, can the heart retain. It seems remarkable that after spending months in working such effusive lines, or others similar to them, Miss Forbes's pupils did not become luminaries of virtue and propriety. If they did not their failure certainly could not be laid at the door of their preceptress. Miss Forbes personally taught the rudiments but Mr. Luther Jackson, the writing master, visited the school each day and instructed his scholars in the Italian style of chirography. Mr. Michael A. Gauvain taught French so successfully that in a short time many of us were able to place on the amateur boards a number of French plays. Our audiences were composed chiefly of admiring parents, who naturally viewed the performances with paternal partiality and no doubt regarded us as incipient Rachels. I remember as if it were only yesterday a play in which I took one of the principal parts--"Athalie," one of Jean Racine's plays. This mode of education was adopted in Paris by Madame Campan, the instructor of the French nobility as well as of royalty during the First Empire. In her manuscript memoirs, addressed to the children of her brother, "Citizen" Edmond Charles Genet, who was then living in America, and of which I have an exact copy, she dwells upon the histrionic performances by her pupils, among whom were Queen Hortense and my husband's aunt, Eliza Monroe, daughter of President James Monroe and subsequently the wife of Judge George Hay of Virginia. She gives a graphic account of the Emperor attending one of these plays, when "Esther," one of Racine's masterpieces, was performed. The dancing master, who, of course, was an essential adjunct of every well regulated school, was John J. Charraud. He was a refugee from Hayti after the revolution in that island, and opened his dancing-school in New York on Murray Street, but afterwards gave his "publics" in the City Hall. He taught only the cotillion and the three-step waltz and came to our school three times a week for this purpose. Much attention was given to poetry, and I still recall the first piece I committed to memory, "Pity the Sorrows of a Poor Old Man." My father thoroughly believed in memorizing verse, and he always liberally rewarded me for every piece I was able to recite. I may state, by the way, that Blair's Rhetoric was a textbook of our school and the one which I most enjoyed. Miss Forbes had a number of medals which the girls were allowed to wear at stated periods for proficiency in their studies as well as for exemplary deportment. There was one of these which was known as the "excellence medal," and the exultant pupil upon whom it was bestowed was allowed the privilege of wearing it for two weeks. Upon it was inscribed the well known proverb of Solomon, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all." Among the pleasant memories of my early life are the dinners given by my father, when the distinguished men of the day gathered around his hospitable board. In New York at this time all the professional cooks and waiters in their employ were colored men. Butlers were then unknown. It was also before the days of _à la Russe_ service, and I remember seeing upon some of these occasions a saddle of venison, while at the opposite end of the table there was always a Westphalia ham. Fresh salmon was considered a _pièce de résistance_. Many different wines were always served, and long years later in a conversation with Gov. William L. Marcy, who was a warm friend of my father, he told me he was present on one of these occasions when seven different varieties of wine were served. I especially remember a dinner given by him in honor of Martin Van Buren. He was Vice-President of the United States at the time and was accompanied to New York by John Forsyth of Georgia, a member of Jackson's cabinet. Some of the guests invited to meet him were Gulian C. Verplanck, Thomas Morris, John C. Hamilton, Philip Hone and Walter Bowne. The day previous to this dinner my father received the following note from Mr. Van Buren: My dear Sir, Our friend Mr. Forsyth, is with me and you must send him an invitation to dine with you to-morrow if, as I suppose is the case, I am to have that honor. Yours truly, M. VAN BUREN. Sunday, June 9, '33. J. Campbell, Esq. Martin Van Buren was a political friend of my father's from almost his earliest manhood. Two years after he was appointed Surrogate he received the following confidential letter from Mr. Van Buren. As will be seen, it was before the days when he wrote in full the prefix "Van" to his name: _Private._ My dear Sir, Mr. Hoyt wishes me to quiet your apprehensions on the subject of the Elector.[2] I will state to you truly how the matter stands. My sincere belief is that we shall succeed; at the same time I am bound to admit that the subject is full of difficulties. If the members were now, and without extraneous influence, to settle the matter, the result would be certain. But I know that uncommon exertions have been, and are making, by the outdoor friends of Adams & Clay to effect a co-operation of their forces in favor of a divided ticket. Look at the "National Journal" of the 23d, and you will find an article, prepared with care, to make influence there. A few months ago Mr. Adams would have revolted at such a publication. It is the desperate situation of his affairs that has brought him to it. The friends of Clay (allowing Adams more strength than he may have), have no hopes of getting him (Clay) into the house, unless they get a part of this State. The certain decline of Adams in other parts & the uncertainty of his strength in the east alarm his friends on the same point. Thus both parties are led to the adoption of desperate measures. Out of N. England Adams has now no reason to expect more than his three or four votes in Maryland. A partial discomfiture in the east may therefore bring him below Mr. Clay's western votes, & if it should appear that he (Adams) cannot get into the house, the western votes would go to Crawford. If nothing takes place materially to change the present state of things, we hope to defeat their plans here. But if you lose your Assembly ticket, there is no telling the effect it may produce, & my chief object in being thus particular with you is to conjure your utmost attention to that subject. About the Governor's election there is no sort of doubt. I am not apt to be confident, & _I aver that the matter is so._ But it is to the Assembly that interested men look, and the difference of ten members will (with the information the members can have when they come to act) be decisive in the opinion of the present members as to the complexion of the next house. There are _other points of view_ which I cannot now state to you, in which the result I speak of may seriously affect the main question. Let me therefore entreat your serious attention to this matter. _Be careful of this._ Your city is a gossiping place, & what you tell to one man in confidence is soon in the mouths of hundreds. You can impress our friends on this subject without connecting me with it. Do so. Your sincere friend, M. V. BUREN. Albany, Octob. 28, 1824. James Campbell, Esq. The Mr. Hoyt referred to in the opening sentence of this letter was Jesse Hoyt, another political friend of my father's who, under Van Buren's administration, was Collector of the Port of New York. During my child life on Long Island he made my father occasional visits, and in subsequent years lived opposite us on Hubert Street. He was the first one to furnish me with a practical illustration of man's perfidy. As a very young child I consented to have my ears pierced, when Mr. Hoyt volunteered to send me a pair of coral ear-rings, but he failed to carry out his promise. I remember reading some years ago several letters addressed to Hoyt by "Prince" John Van Buren which he begins with "Dear Jessica." Table appointments at this time were most simple and unostentatious. Wine coolers were found in every well regulated house, but floral decorations were seldom seen. At my father's dinners, given upon special occasions, the handsome old silver was always used, much of which formerly belonged to my mother's family. The forks and spoons were of heavy beaten silver, and the knives were made of steel and had ivory handles. Ice cream was always the dessert, served in tall pyramids, and the universal flavor was vanilla taken directly from the bean, as prepared extracts were then unknown. I have no recollection of seeing ice water served upon any well-appointed table, as modern facilities for keeping it had yet to appear, and cold water could always be procured from pumps on the premises. The castors, now almost obsolete, containing the usual condiments, were _de rigueur_; while the linen used in our home was imported from Ireland, and in some cases bore the coat of arms of the United States with its motto, "_E Pluribus Unum_." My father's table accommodated twenty persons and the dinner hour was three o'clock. These social functions frequently lasted a number of hours, and when it became necessary the table was lighted by lamps containing sperm oil and candles in candelabra. These were the days when men wore ruffled shirt fronts and high boots. I still have in my possession an acceptance from William B. Astor, son of John Jacob Astor, to a dinner given by my father, written upon very small note paper and folded in the usual style of the day: Mr. W. Astor will do himself the honor to dine with Mr. Campbell to-day agreeable to his polite invitation. May 28th. James Campbell Esq. Hubert Street. I well remember a stag dinner given by my father when I was a child at which one of the guests was Philip Hone, one of the most efficient and energetic Mayors the City of New York has ever had. He is best known to-day by his remarkable diary, edited by Bayard Tuckerman, which is a veritable storehouse of events relating to the contemporary history of the city. Mr. Hone had a fine presence with much elegance of manner, and was truly one of nature's noblemen. Many years ago Arent Schuyler de Peyster, to whom I am indebted for many traditions of early New York society, told me that upon one occasion a conversation occurred between Philip Hone and his brother John, a successful auctioneer, in which the latter advocated their adoption of a coat of arms. Philip's response was characteristic of the man: "I will have no arms except those Almighty God has given me." In this connection, and _àpropos_ of heraldic designs and their accompaniments, I have been informed that the Hon. Daniel Manning, Cleveland's Secretary of the Treasury, used upon certain of his cards of invitation a crest with the motto, "Aquila non capit muscas" ("The eagle does not catch flies"). This brings to my mind the following anecdote from a dictionary of quotations translated into English in 1826 by D. N. McDonnel: "Casti, an Italian poet who fled from Russia on account of having written a scurrilous poem in which he made severe animadversions on the Czarina and some of her favorites, took refuge in Austria. Joseph II. upon coming in contact with him asked him whether he was not afraid of being punished there, as well as in Russia, for having insulted his high friend and ally. The bard's steady reply was 'Aquila non capit muscas.'" Sir Francis Bacon, however, was the first in the race, as long before either Manning or Casti were born he made use of these exact words in his "Jurisdiction of the Marshes." In my early days John H. Contoit kept an ice cream garden on Broadway near White Street, and it was the first establishment of this kind, as far as I know, in New York. During the summer months it was a favorite resort for many who sought a cool place and pleasant society, where they might eat ice cream under shady vines and ornamental lattice work. The ice cream was served in high glasses, and the price paid for it was twelve and one-half cents. Nickles and dimes were of course unknown, but the Mexican shilling, equivalent to twelve and one-half cents, and the quarter of a dollar, also Mexican, were in circulation. There were no such places as lunchrooms and tearooms in my early days, and the only restaurant of respectability was George W. Browne's "eating house," which was largely frequented by New Yorkers. The proprietor had a very pretty daughter, Mrs. Coles, who was brought prominently before the public in the summer of 1841 as the heroine of an altercation between August Belmont and Edward Heyward, a prominent South Carolinian, followed by a duel in Maryland in which Belmont is said to have been so seriously wounded as to retain the scars until his death. Alexander T. Stewart's store, corner of Broadway and Chambers Street, was the fashionable dry goods emporium, and for many years was without a conspicuous rival. William I. Tenney, Horace Hinsdale, Henry Gelston, and Frederick and Henry G. Marquand were jewelers. Tenney's store was on Broadway near Murray Street; Gelston's was under the Astor House on the corner of Barclay Street and Broadway; Hinsdale's was on the east side of Broadway and Cortlandt Street; and the Marquands were on the west side of Broadway between Cortlandt and Dey Streets. James Leary bore the palm in New York as the fashionable hatter, and his shop was on Broadway under the Astor House. As was usual then with his craft, he kept individual blocks for those of his customers who had heads of unusual dimensions. In his show window he sometimes exhibited a block of remarkable size which was adapted to fit the heads of a distinguished trio, Daniel Webster, General James Watson Webb, and Charles Augustus Davis. Miss Anna Leary of Newport, his daughter and a devout Roman Catholic, received the title of Countess from the Pope. The most prominent hostelry in New York before the days of the Astor House was the City Hotel on lower Broadway. I have been informed that the site upon which it stood still belongs to representatives of the Boreel family, descendants of the first John Jacob Astor. Another, but of a later period, was the American Hotel on Broadway near the Astor House. It was originally the town house of John C. Vanden Heuvel, a member of one of New York's most exclusive families. Upon Mr. Vanden Heuvel's death this house passed into the possession of his son-in-law, John C. Hamilton, who changed it into a hotel. Its proprietor was William B. Cozzens, who was so long and favorably known as a hotel proprietor. At this same time he had charge of the only hotel at West Point, and it was named after him. If any army officers survive who were cadets during Cozzens's _régime_ they will recall with pleasure his kindly bearing and attractive manner. Mr. Vanden Heuvel's country residence was in the vicinity of Ninetieth Street overlooking the Hudson River. His other daughters were Susan Annette, who married Mr. Thomas S. Gibbes of South Carolina, and Justine, who became the wife of Gouverneur S. Bibby, a cousin of my husband. As I first remember Union Square it was in the outskirts of the city. Several handsome houses had a few years previously been erected there by James F. Penniman, the son-in-law of Mr. Samuel Judd, the latter of whom amassed a large fortune by the manufacture and sale of oil and candles. Miss Lydia Kane, a sister of the elder De Lancey Kane and a noted wit of the day, upon a certain occasion was showing some strangers the sights of New York, and in passing these houses was asked by whom they were occupied. "That one," she responded, indicating the one in which the Pennimans themselves lived, "is occupied by one of the _illuminati_ of the city." Robert L. Stuart and his brother Alexander were proprietors of a large candy store on the corner of Chambers and Greenwich Streets, under the firm name of R. L. & A. Stuart. Their establishment was a favorite resort of the children of the day, who were as much addicted to sweets as are their more recent successors. "Broken candy" was a specialty of this firm, and was sold at a very low price. Alexander Stuart frequently waited upon customers, and as a child I have often chattered with him over the counter. He never married. The principal markets were Washington on the North River, and Fulton on the east side. The marketing was always done by the mistress of each house accompanied by a servant bearing a large basket. During the season small girls carried strawberries from door to door, calling out as they went along; and during the summer months hot
on the floor and jump up the walls. And in my kitchen he can see the cockroaches--hundreds of thousands, hundred thousand millions of them! Some day they'll fall into Pan Tiralla's food, and then the master will see them for himself." "Just you try to do it!" Tiralla raised his heavy hand as if to strike the maid, but she evaded him as adroitly as she before had evaded her mistress. It was so ludicrous to see her duck down behind her mistress and make use of her as a bulwark, that the uncouth man roared with laughter. "You needn't fear, you idiot," he said good-naturedly. "I'm not going to hit you. I know very well that you're a little devil, but I don't for a moment think you'll put any dirt into my plate." "Oh, no," she assured him ingenuously, "I won't do that," and she came out from behind her mistress. He pinched her firm cheek with his hairy hand. It hurt, and his rough fingers first left a white, then a burning red mark; but she put up with it in silence. No, the _gospodarz_ wasn't angry. He was really much [Pg 9] better than his wife. All at once Marianna thought that her master was to be pitied. She drew a little nearer to him and threw him a glance full of promise from under her half-closed lids. If the old man wanted she was quite willing. But Tiralla had only eyes for his wife. He continued to beg for a look from her. There was something ridiculous in the way this strong, already grey-haired man worried about this delicate, dainty little woman. "Sophia, my darling, what is the matter? Look at me, my dove, pray don't cry." He succeeded at length in taking the apron away from her face. But when he tried to kiss her cheek her eyes sparkled, and she spat at him like an angry cat. "Oh, you've hurt me! Pooh, how you smell of manure and tobacco, and of gin, too. You stink, you boor!" And she spat on the ground. "My darling," he said quite sadly, "what things you do say. I have only drunk one small--really, only one quite small glass--of gin to-day. I swear it by the Holy Mother." "Don't pollute the Holy Mother by calling on her," she cried in a cutting voice. "Rather blaspheme her, that she sends you the sooner to hell, where you belong. I shall not shed a single tear for you, I swear that." "What--what have I done to you?" the man stammered, quite terrified. "I've never done anything to you. I've bought you dresses, as many as you liked; I've taken you to balls as often as you liked; I've let you dance with whom you liked; I've never said 'no' when you've said 'yes'; and now you speak so horridly to me. You're ill, my dear; I'll send for the doctor." "Yes, ill!" she cried, sobbing bitterly. "You've made me ill--you, you, you!" She rushed at him [Pg 10] as though she wanted to scratch his face with her nails. "I don't like you! I detest you! I--I hate you!" she shrieked in a piercing voice. Her eyes sparkled; she clenched her hands and struck her breast, and then she thrust all her fingers into her beautifully smooth hair and tore it out. Her dainty figure trembled and swayed, and she turned so pale that he thought she was going to faint. The servant opened her eyes in amazement. What was the matter with her? Oh, how stupid she was, how stupid! Why shout it at the master if he hadn't noticed anything? Ay, now she had told him plainly enough--"I hate you!" And he, poor man (may God console him!), what did he do? Was it a laughing or a crying matter? Marianna Sroka did not know if she should think "Oh, you arrant fool!" or if she should wish, "If only he were _my_ husband, or, at least, my lover." For the _gospodarz_ was good, thoroughly good; he wouldn't stint, her--her and her two little ones. That woman was really too nasty. She didn't deserve such a good husband. Hitherto her mistress had always had her sympathy, but in a sudden revulsion of feeling she now felt much more drawn towards her master. It was a shame how that woman treated him. She must really have bewitched him, that he put up with such things. It would be better if he took off his big, leather slipper, with the wooden heel, and hit her over the head with it and stunned her, rather than that he should beg and implore in that way. Oh, yes, of course there was no doubt about it, the master was enchanted; the big, stout man had been bewitched by that little woman, that lean goat. She was a "mora," who could change herself into a cat, or into one of those creatures that fly down the chimney on a broomstick. [Pg 11] The priest ought to know it; he would soon put a spoke into her wheel. But there was a better plan than that. She, Marianna, would take the matter into her own hands, then she alone would earn the gratitude of Pan Tiralla. She would take the tip of her shift and rub the bewitched man's forehead with it three times, and then the spell would leave him. And who knows what then might happen? Perhaps he might turn the woman out of the house then, as she was so horrid to him, and always slept in another room, and banged the door in his face. Wasn't he as strong as an ox? Wasn't he rather a fine-looking man? Even if his hair were bristly and already grey, and his eyes rather watery, he was still a man for all that. And he had money--oh, such a lot. The servant's heart beat more rapidly when she thought of it. All the shops in Gradewitz could be bought up with it, and those in Gnesen as well, and--who knows?--perhaps even those in Posen. What a pity it was that this woman, this witch, would some day get all that money. The maid cast a sidelong look at her mistress, which made her pretty but coarse face positively ugly. Mrs. Sophia Tiralla stood weeping. Her shoulders drooped so dejectedly, and her head was bent so low, that you would have thought all the cares of the world were weighing her down. Her husband had given up his useless attempts to approach her, he stood as if rooted to the spot, and his pale blue, sleepy eyes wandered from the woman to the maid, and then from the maid to the woman in perplexed surprise. "If only I knew what was the matter, darling," he said at last in a dispirited voice. "Good heavens! what flea has bitten you?" The servant burst into a loud guffaw. How very comical it sounded. She couldn't compose herself [Pg 12] again, it really was too funny. A flea.--ha-ha, a flea! She thrust her fist into her mouth and bit it, so as to suppress her laughter. Her mistress cast her an angry look. "How dare you? Go to your work. _Dalej_, _dalej._" The maid grew frightened. Ugh, how furious her mistress looked! Her glance was as cold as steel. "Let that wicked look fall on the dog!" she murmured, protecting her face with her arm. And then the thought came to her, "Oh, dear, now she won't give me that apron!" All the same, it was better to keep on good terms with the mistress, she was the one who ruled the house. So she whispered in a tone of excuse: "I'm sorry, Pani, but it was so funny when _gospadarz_--big, fat _gospodarz_--compared himself to a tiny little flea. I couldn't help it, I had to laugh." And she gave a waggish laugh, in which Mrs. Tiralla this time joined. There was something merciless in the laughter of the two women. But Mr. Tiralla did not notice the mercilessness of it in his delight at seeing his wife in a better humour. He took her by the hand as if nothing had happened, and drew her into the room. And she allowed him to draw her in. If he, even now, didn't notice that she hated him, in spite of all she had done, didn't even notice it when she told him it to his face, then he should feel it. It was his own fault. A cruel smile played for a moment round her short upper lip, but then the tears again started to her eyes. As she was sitting there with him--he had tried to draw her on his knee, but she had adroitly evaded him, and had squeezed herself in between the table and the wall, so that he could not reach her so easily--certain thoughts were chasing each other with frightful [Pg 13] rapidity through her brain. She had often thought them out before, but they always made her tremble anew. A deep silence reigned in the room. But Mr. Tiralla did not desire any further entertainment. It was enough for him if she were there, if he had the feeling that he only required to stretch out his arm in order to grasp her with his strong hand, to draw her to him, to caress her, even if she did not want it. After all, he was the stronger. He had thrown himself full length on the bench near the stove, but he could scarcely find room there for his huge limbs, which stuck out on all sides. He sighed. He had already tramped across his fields that morning, and had seen that the winter corn was getting on all right, had heard the busy flails keeping time in the barn, had looked for a long time at the cows chewing the cud in the shed, and had stroked his two splendid horses. That had, indeed, been a day's work. Now he had a perfect right to rest a little. Besides, there was snow in the air, a big, thick, grey silence outside; so it was much more comfortable to lie in the warm room until the _barschtsch_, and the cabbage and the sausages were brought in. And after dinner it would be nice to lie down again, until it was time to go to the village inn. There he would meet the gentry, sometimes even the priest. His Reverence didn't disdain to drink a glass with them now and then, and talk over the news, although he didn't care for it to be mentioned later on that he had been there. Quite a sociable man, that priest, and not so strict as Sophia by a long way. Mr. Tiralla felt quite friendly towards him. _He_ wouldn't cast his wickedness in his teeth. Ah, Sophia really did exaggerate. Didn't he go to Mass every Sunday, and every festival, too? Nobody could really expect him to go to matins as well; [Pg 14] hadn't he to get out of his bed much too early both summer and winter as it was? And weren't his particular saints hanging in his room; and wasn't he always ready to give what the Church demanded? There was no reason for him to be a hypocrite into the bargain; and when a man has got a pretty wife he wants to see something of her as well. So it would be difficult for her to blacken him in the priest's eyes, as he very well knew what a healthy man required. Mr. Tiralla stretched his mighty limbs and opened his arms wide. Then he said, "Just come here, darling." "What do you want?" The man's spirit of enterprise vanished as he heard her icy tone. "Why don't you speak more kindly to me?" he said despondently. "You know I don't want anything from you. I--I only wanted to ask you if you would like a new dress for St. Stephen's Day? Or what would you say to a pair of ear-rings? Or would you, perhaps, like a new fur cloak when we drive to Posen to engage servants?" "I don't want anything," she answered in the same cold voice. "Just think it over, something will be sure to occur to you," he said encouragingly. "Only let me know what you want. Nothing will be too expensive for me if it's for you. Come, little woman, do come here." He again opened his arms. But she did not move. "Don't you want a new dress? I saw some beautiful materials in Gnesen. Rosenthal has a wonderful display in his window--oh my, such finery! Cherry-coloured cloth and black braid to trim it with. The prefect's wife wears such a dress on Sundays. Wouldn't you like to have the same, darling?" [Pg 15] Her eyes began to sparkle. New dresses! A dress like such a fine lady! She took a fancy to it; but only for a few moments, then the light in her eyes again died out. What was the good of that dress at the side of such a man? She shook her head energetically as she answered: "I won't have one." He saw he would never attain his object in that way. Although Mr. Tiralla hated getting up he soon saw that he would have to squeeze himself down beside her behind the table or drag her out by main force. And then if she cried out, that lovely little dove, "Go away! Leave me, you beast!" then he would have to close her mouth with a kiss, by main force. Mr. Tiralla cursed as he put one of his big feet down on the ground. It vexed him to have his peace disturbed in this way; but he could not resist her, she was too charming. He groaned as he rose from his seat. She noted his approach with terror. Oh, now he would clasp those big white arms round her, which were all covered with downy hairs, those arms into which her mother had delivered her whilst she was still young and harmless, and had only thought of the dear saints, and had felt no desire for any man. Now she was no longer young and harmless, and--a sudden thought flashed through her brain--oh, perhaps she could persuade him to buy poison then! Poison for the rats! She had often broached the subject before, but he had never wanted to do it. He did not believe in the rats, and even if they were to jump over his nose he would not bring any poison into the house. The thought was repugnant to him. When she wanted poison for the vermin on the farm she had never been able to get it, except by producing a paper signed by Mr. Tiralla himself. [Pg 16] She shuddered. She shook as though with terror. "Oh, those rats!" Then she got up hesitatingly. She sat down again, as if undecided--she fell back almost heavily into her chair; but then she gave herself a jerk. She rose quickly, went up to her husband, and sat down on his knee. The sudden change in her almost disconcerted him. But then he felt very happy. She had not been so nice to him for ever so long. She stroked his head, and he leant his forehead against her soft bosom, and felt it heave. "How fast your heart beats." "No wonder," she answered shortly. And then she kissed his bristly hair and fondled him. "My old man, my darling, you'll really buy me a new dress? Really?" He nodded eagerly, he was too comfortable to speak. "I should like," she continued, pressing his head still more firmly against her bosom, "I should like to wear such a cherry-coloured dress, trimmed with black braid, as the prefect's wife has. If she saw me in it in Gradewitz, or if your acquaintances in the town saw me, wouldn't they say, 'How well red suits Mrs. Tiralla. What a pretty wife Anton Tiralla has'!" He smirked. "But what good would it be to me?" she continued, and her voice sank and became quite feeble. "The rats would devour it." "Drat the rats! Leave them alone!" He jumped up angrily, in spite of his great love for her; she had bothered him too often and too much with her rats. "To the devil with you and your everlasting rats!" Once for all poison should never come into his house; rather a thousand rats than one grain of poison. [Pg 17] Where there's poison the Evil One has a hand in the game. But she again forced his head down on her bosom. He _must_ remain there. It was as if he were being bewitched by her hands as they played about on his head. He stammered like a child. "Leave the rats alone. Give me a kiss--there, there." He pointed to the back of his ears, to this place, that place, and she pinched her eyes together and pressed her mouth to his hair. She drew a deep and trembling breath, as if she were struggling for air. She opened wide her firmly closed eyes and stared at one particular point--always at one point. It must be! Then she said with a voice that sounded like a caress, while her face, which he could not see, was distorted with aversion: "Would you like to sleep, darling? There, lean on my arm. Let Marianna do the work alone, I'll stop with you. Oh, my darling, I'm so frightened." She clung to him more closely, so closely that her warm body seemed to wind itself round him. "The rats, ugh!" She gave a trembling sigh. "Those horrid rats! We'll put poison, won't we, darling? Poison for rats; but soon, or I shall die of fright." [Pg 18] CHAPTER II Mr. Trialla's farm lay some distance from the village, near the big pines and deep morass of Przykop. Starydwór was a large farm, and there were many in Starawies who envied Mrs. Tiralla. She had been as poor as a church mouse before her marriage--her mother was the widow of a village schoolmaster--and had not even possessed six sets of under-linen and a cart full of kitchen utensils, and now she had so much money! But however much her enemies might wish her ill, nobody had ever been able to say of her that she had been unfaithful to her old husband. The farmer was already getting on in years when he married her, and was a widower into the bargain with a big son. "That couldn't have been an easy matter either for the little thing," said those who were friendly towards Mrs. Tiralla. But she had behaved very well; anyhow, Mr. Tiralla had grown stout, and used to tell those who had warned him against proposing to the girl of seventeen, "that his Sophia was the sweetest woman in creation, and that he was living in clover." And he still said so, even now, after they had been married almost fifteen years. She had bewitched him. Her big eyes, that gleamed like dark velvet in her white face, played the fool with him. He could not be angry with her, although she often tried him sorely. And, all things considered, wasn't it rather nice of her that she was so coy and reserved? The owner of [Pg 19] Starydwór had, in the course of his life, come across enough women who had thrown themselves at his head. He could not even credit Hanusia, his first wife, with a similar modesty. And his Sophia was pretty. It flattered the elderly man's vanity immensely that nobody ever spoke of her as "Mrs. Tiralla," plain and simple, but always as "the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla." When he drove with her through Gradewitz--he on the box, she on the seat behind, in her veil and feather boa--everybody stared. And even in Gnesen the officers dining at the hotel used to rush to the window and crane their necks in order to see the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla drive past. Then Mr. Tiralla would crack his whip and look very elated. Let them envy him his wife. _They_ did not know--nobody knew--that he many an evening had received such a vigorous blow on the chest from her, when he had attempted to approach her, as nobody would ever have given such a delicate-looking woman credit for. On such occasions he would console himself with the thought that his Sophia never had cared for love-making. But she was a dear little woman, all the same, a beautiful woman, his own sweet wife, from whose hand the food tasted twice as good and agreed with him twice as well. And she was still as beautiful as on the first day; perhaps even more so now that she was over thirty, for she used to be much too thin and small, and did not weigh even seven stone. He could have carried her on his hand. He would have loved to deck her out in gay colours, like a show-horse, but she had the tastes of a lady. That was because she had had a good education. She spoke German very fluently, and could also write it without a single mistake. She knew quite long pieces of poetry by heart. She could speak of Berlin, although [Pg 20] she had never been there, and that made a wonderful impression upon her husband. Gnesen and Posen and Breslau were also big towns, but Berlin--_Berlin_! He felt very ignorant compared with her, although in his youth he had gone to the Agricultural College at Samter, and had understood pretty well how to make something out of the five hundred acres he had inherited from his father. The children--the son of his first wife and little Rosa--would never be obliged to earn their living among strangers. And, what was of more importance still, his beloved Sophia's future would be secured if he died before her, for he had made a will in her favour, as he had promised her mother he would. Mrs. Kluge had been able to close her eyes in peace, fully satisfied with having brought about this splendid match for her pretty daughter, for it was her wisdom and circumspection which had paved the way for it. Mrs. Kluge was of a better family than most of her neighbours. She had originally come from Breslau, but after her marriage with the schoolmaster from Posen she had had to wander about with him from one miserable Polish village to another, and had always been very poor. However, she had never allowed her little Sophia to play in the street with the other children, and the child had always had shoes and stockings to wear--rather suffer hunger in secret than go without them. When Sophia grew older, and the time drew near for her to receive the Holy Sacrament for the first time, she became the priest's avowed favourite. Mrs. Kluge was a pious woman, perhaps the most pious woman in Gradewitz, and whilst making dresses for the farmers' wives in order to support herself and her child her lips used to move the whole time in [Pg 21] silent prayer. It was owing to her dressmaking that she had become acquainted with farmer Tiralla's wife--maybe also owing to her piety. For did it not seem as if it were Providence itself that had brought Mr. Tiralla as well as his wife to her room when she was making Mrs. Tiralla's last dress? He had driven his wife over--she was in delicate health at the time--and, as it was bitterly cold, he had come in as well, and had left the horse standing outside. He could hardly get through the low door, and had quite filled her small room. Little Sophia was handing her mother the pins whilst the dress was being tried on, and had received a shilling and a look from Mr. Tiralla which had made her blush and lower her dark eyes without knowing the reason why. Sophia Kluge was modest; no young fellow in the neighbourhood could boast of being in her good graces. She did not even know why the lads and lasses used to steal out into the fields in the evenings, and why their tender songs should rise so plaintively to the starry skies. Sophia, with the black eyes and white face, which no sun, no country air had ever tanned, for she had always remained at home with her mother, was a pious child, so pious that the priest, still a young man with saint-like face, took a great deal of notice of her. He would send for this girl of eleven to come to him in his study, which the old housekeeper only got leave to enter three times a year. There he would speak to her of the joys of the angels and of the Heavenly Bridegroom, and enrapture himself and her with descriptions of heaven and of the streams of love which had flowed through the hearts of all the saints. Mrs. Kluge was proud of the preference shown to her daughter; but the salvation of her soul did not make her lose sight of her earthly lot. She had [Pg 22] suffered many privations in her life, and had had to give up very much, and she wished her daughter to have some enjoyment even on this earth. It seemed to her like a sign from the saints that Mrs. Tiralla was prematurely delivered of a child and died before she had worn her new dress. Then Mr. Tiralla began to look out for another wife, and when he came in person to pay the outstanding account for the dress, the clever woman noticed the complacent smile which he cast at the young beauty. She was well aware of her daughter's beauty, and knew how to value it. When Mr. Tiralla said to her, "Your daughter is devilish good-looking," she had answered, "Ah, but she's still so young." And when he came once more and said, "_Psia krew_, how sad it is to live alone on such a dreary farm," the wise woman replied, "You'll have to marry again. There are plenty of widows and elderly spinsters who would be pleased to marry you." That had angered him. He neither wanted widows nor elderly spinsters, he coveted the youngest of them all. Sophia had run to the priest and had wept and lamented when her mother had said to her, "Be happy, Mr. Tiralla wants to marry you." No, she wouldn't have him, she didn't want to marry at all. Even now, after the lapse of fifteen years, Mrs. Tiralla's heart swelled with bitterness when she lay awake at night and thought of the way she had been treated. Her mother had begged and implored her with tears in her eyes. "We shall then be out of all our misery." And when the girl continued to shake her head she had boxed her ears--the right and the left indiscriminately--and had told her in a peremptory voice, "You _shall_ marry Mr. Tiralla." And her friend, the priest? Ah! Mrs. Tiralla once [Pg 23] more pictured herself in that quiet room in which, with hot cheeks and enraptured gaze, she had so often listened, on her knees, to the legends of the saints. Once more she held the hem of the cassock between her fingers and watered it with her tears. She had wept, had resisted: "No, I will not marry him, I cannot!" Had not the priest always told her--nay, positively adjured her--to remain a virgin, to remain unmarried, and in this way secure for herself a place in heaven? She had kissed his hands, "Help me, advise me!" Then, she did not know herself how it had happened, then she had suddenly jumped up from her knees, confused and trembling, and had rushed to the door and had hidden her face in a tumult of undreamt-of feelings, which had almost stunned her with their sudden attack. All at once she was no longer a girl, she was a woman, who, trembling, ardent, feverish with desire, had become self-conscious. How blissful it was to be a--_his_ chosen one. To sit all one's life in that quiet room with the saints. In the girl's confused dreams the figure of her Heavenly Friend seemed to mingle with that of her earthly one. Oh, how exquisite he was, how beautiful! His hands were like ivory, his cheeks like velvet. And his kiss---- Instead of him Mr. Tiralla had come---- Mrs. Tiralla had placed a footstool in her bedroom under her picture of the Saviour carrying His flaming heart in His hand. The priest of her youth had left Starawies long ago--he had asked to be removed from the neighbourhood--but she still prayed a great deal. It was the morning after Mr. Tiralla had drunk a glass too much in his joy at her unusual display of tenderness, and as she got out of bed her first glance fell on the picture opposite. She crossed herself, and [Pg 24] then, gliding on her bare feet to the footstool, she knelt down and prayed for a long time. Mr. Tiralla had promised her faithfully, as he yesterday lay in her arms, that he would fill up the paper to-day and would drive over to Gnesen and fetch the poison for the rats himself. How was it that she felt so quiet about it? She could not understand it herself. Even if her heart did beat a little faster, it was not from fear, but only from expectation of something good, joyful, long hoped for. Fifteen years--ah, fifteen long years. She continued to murmur words of prayer, whilst her thoughts were with her husband on his way to the chemist's in Gnesen. But suddenly she pressed her lips tightly together. Her mouth looked very inflexible. She forgot that she was praying--her heart was filled with fierce curses and accusations. Her mother, who had sold her--sold her like one sells a young calf (why not call a spade a spade?)--was dead. Mrs. Kluge had not long been able to enjoy the thought that the little house which she had formerly rented at last was hers, and that she had no longer to make dresses at any price for the farmers' wives, who were everlastingly grumbling. She had not long been able to enjoy the thought, and that served her right! The woman's eyes gleamed as though with satisfaction. Her mother had had to leave everything behind which she had stipulated for as payment for her daughter. Now she had long ago turned to dust. But the other culprit, the buyer? Oh, Mr. Tiralla had grown stout, _he_ did not look as though he also would soon be lying under ground. "Holy saints! Holy Mother!" She raised her hands in prayer. She did not exactly know how she was to put her prayer into words, it would sound too [Pg 25] awful if she were to say, "Let him die; he _must_ die!" It was as though she were going to expose herself in her nakedness to the Holy Virgin and all the saints. No, that would not do. She let her hands fall in her perplexity. What now? But then it suddenly occurred to her, why need she tell everything to the saints? Why trouble them? Surely it would be enough if she secured their help. So she prayed: "Holy Mary, pure Virgin, oh, bring about by means of thy divine power and that of all the saints that he really goes to Gnesen, that he at last fetches the poison--the poison for the rats. I entreat thee, I implore thee!" She wrung her hands and wept bitterly; she hit her breast with such force that she hurt herself. What she had suffered from her husband, and would suffer again and again. He would not leave her in peace, and she hated him, she loathed his eager, outstretched hands. If only she could have gone into a convent, how happy she would have been there. All that filled her once more with horror. She had been so terrified on her wedding night, when her husband, intoxicated with joy and wine, had embraced her; so terrified when she felt she was about to become a mother against her will; so terrified when the nurse had laid the little live girl on her bosom. She had pulled herself together and endured it when she felt the little seeking mouth at her breast, although it was as if a stream of icy-cold water were running down her. But then, when her husband had appeared, had placed himself near the bed in which she lay so feeble, so weak, so at his mercy, and had said with such a satisfied smirk, "_Psia krew_, we've done that well!" then she could not restrain herself any longer. She had uttered a cry, a feeble, plaintive, yet piercing cry, and had [Pg 26] reared herself up with her last strength, so that the little creature on her breast had begun to whimper and whine like a young puppy. The nurse had hastened to the bedside, quite terrified, and had made the sign of the cross--"All good spirits!" No doubt she thought that the "Krasnoludki," the wicked dwarfs, wanted to steal the new-born child. She had quickly thrown her rosary round the infant's neck, and had sprinkled the bed with holy water. But the young mother had burst into tears--into hopeless, never-ending tears. Then Mrs. Tiralla had been very ill, so ill that her anxious husband had not only sent for the doctor from Gradewitz, but also for the best physician in Gnesen. Both doctors had assured him, however, that there was no danger, that his young wife was only very weak and nervous. Mr. Tiralla could not understand why. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mrs. Tiralla now got up from her prayers. It was high time to urge her husband to start for Gnesen. Perhaps he was still lying in bed. She dressed in angry haste. She did not arrange her thick hair with her usual care--her hands were trembling, she was in a hurry. No sound of wheels reached her attentive ear, the man could not be taking the carriage out of the coach-house. Her husband must still be sleeping. Hastily throwing on her skirt, and without waiting to fasten her blouse, she ran across the stone passage to the room into which she had been drawn as a trembling bride, and in which her little girl had been born. There he was, still lying in the big bed, snoring. "Get up!" She seized him by the shoulder and shook him. His hair stood up like bristles around his forehead. [Pg 27] "How horrible he looked!" she thought. And what did the room smell of? Drink. That disgusting smell came from him. No feeling of compassion softened her eyes. She stood bolt upright at the side of the bed and scanned him from top to toe with sparkling eyes. He would soon lie there again. A triumphant cry rose to her lips, but she suppressed it. Silence, silence. What would that inquisitive maid think if she rejoiced in this way? She seized hold of her husband once more with renewed strength, and shook him so vigorously that he started up. Mr. Tiralla stared around with eyes that were still quite dim. Who was there? Why didn't they leave him in peace? He wanted to sleep longer. "Get up!" she shouted to him. "You've to go out. It is time, high time!" "Who must go out? Not I," he stammered drowsily, and fell back on his pillow. He was so heavy that she could not lift him; her shaking and her cry of "Get up!" were of no avail. Then, in her anger, she poured some icy-cold water on his face. That helped. He opened his eyes
blows from the west you’ll get the scent of the turf smoke from Biddy’s cottage." She laid a large and grinning monkey tenderly down beside a one-legged driver. "Oh, my dears, and when the wind’s in the east, you’ll get the sea,"—she hid her face in a passion of woe—"and you’ll be hearing the trees whisp’rin’ and singin’ and your Sheila Pat far away in a great, dirty London, dead with stiflin’, and only streets to walk in!" She hugged up to her bosom a jaunty jockey, who had lost an eye and a nose. "I’ll put you on Mavourneen—your own Mavourneen—who won the Dalgerry race for you." She seized up Mavourneen and hugged her too. "You won’t mind waitin’ for me, under the earth; for isn’t it Irish earth, Mavourneen? And weren’t you born and bred on it? But I was, too! Oh, I was, too!" The old grey rock and the heather looked down upon a prone Atom—prone and shaking in a storm of bitter weeping—midst dogs and horses, jockeys, monkeys, and jaunting-car drivers. No one intruded on her there. Sheila Pat had not been known to cry since her babyhood. She scorned tears; no physical hurt could break down her sturdy self-control. In those last days she was often a ludicrous Atom. Grave, self-contained, her pig-tail immaculate, she would emerge from the burying-ground, facing the world with a brave little countenance and all unaware that it was adorned with patches and streaks of dirt. The pig-tail was generally crooked, but that was merely because Sheila Pat invariably plaited it herself. No one would do it for her; they did not approve of her mode of dressing her hair, but the Atom clung obstinately to her pig-tail, and serenely wore it over her left shoulder. Nell, in the omnibus, glanced across at the small, still figure opposite her; a great ache seized her throat. Suddenly Denis made a valiant effort. He broke the silence with a jocose— "This rivals Dinny O’Sullivan’s donkey barrow! My teeth are fairly rattling in my boots!" Nell said "yes" with weary dutifulness. The silence fell again. He rubbed his brow, and recognised the uselessness of worrying them with such palpably unreal cheerfulness. All his castles in Spain were, for the time being, razed to the ground. With the O’Briens there was no possibility of a story or two tumbling; the whole edifice had to tower to the skies or fall flat to the ground. The omnibus drew up outside No. 35, Henley Road. They got out, and stood a moment—a forlorn little group—looking at the tall, narrow house, with, to their eyes, such an unhappy air of being wedged in too tightly between the two neighbouring houses. "Run in and knock, while I pay up," Denis admonished them. They trailed slowly up the flight of steps. Nell knocked. There was a pause; then they heard a step approaching the door. With a sudden spasmodic burst of awakened conscience and courage Nell drew herself erect and tried to achieve a smile. The rattle of bars and chains that heralded the opening of the door was hideous to their unaccustomed ears; it shocked them with its clang of inhospitality—its suggestion of suspicion. Miss Kezia opened the door a cautious inch or two and peered out. Her face appeared to them, against the light, very long and very black. "It’s you," she said; "come in." Nell faltered, calling together all her stock of politeness, "I’m sorry that you had to sit up for us." Miss Kezia waved it aside with a curt response that a little loss of sleep would not hurt her. There was porridge waiting for them in the dining room. Too wretched, too apathetic to make the necessary stand against it, they sat down to the table and tried to eat. The dining room was furnished strictly for use and not for ornament. Heavy chairs and a heavier sideboard constituted all the furniture, save the table. The floor was covered with a cold linoleum. There was no flower in the room. Only one gas-burner was alight, and it left gloomy corners. There was a stiff look about it all, a poverty and bareness that was bewilderingly new to them. A beautiful little cocker spaniel, who pressed close to them with plaintive whimpers when they entered the room, looked quite out of place there. Miss Kezia eyed her with disfavour. She demanded, "Where will that dog sleep?" The want of due respect in the designation roused Sheila Pat. She said coldly, "Her name is Kate Kearney." "What a ridiculous name!" Miss Kezia ejaculated. The Atom was indignant. "Is it rickelous? And how about Kezia, then?" There was a pause. Denis interposed amusedly: "Perhaps you don’t know the song, Aunt Kezia? It’s like this—" Gaily his voice sang out:— "’Oh, did you not hear of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney—’ "Eh? Noise? _Noise_?" he murmured surprisedly. "Allow me just to whisper the lines that fit K.K. so beautifully:— "’For that eye is so modestly beaming You ne’er think of mischief she’s dreaming—’" Grim and portentous came an interruption. "Is it mischievous?" "Er—" said Denis, and his eye twinkled, "she was when she was a puppy, you see." "Um," observed Miss Kezia. "If it works any mischief here, it will have to be chained up in the garden." "Sure, then," burst wildly from the Atom, "’tis myself’ll be chained beside her!" "Sheila, do not be absurd!" "And she isn’t ’it’! If you call her ’it’ again, I’ll be callin’ you a Scotch bannock!" Nell roused to a perfunctory— "Oh, Sheila Pat!" Miss Kezia said coldly, "You are a very rude little girl." She turned to Denis. "Will you tell me where that dog is to sleep?" "On the mat outside Nell’s door." "I will not have a dog rampaging over my house to work what mischief it likes while we sleep." "She shall sleep on my bed," put in a very disdainful Atom. "Certainly she shall not! Disgusting! Unhealthy! Spoiling my counterpanes!" Nell looked at Miss Kezia, a weary wonder in her face. "She can sleep on the floor beside my bed," she said. Miss Kezia hesitated; her eyes met those of the Atom—wide, defiant, indomitable in her small, obstinate face. In her ears echoed some words of Mrs. O’Brien’s that Miss Kezia had privately labelled foolish. "Sheila Pat is delicate. Perhaps we have spoilt her a little. She is very strong-willed. She cannot be driven, but she can be led. Her feelings use her up—exhaust her." There had been a little sudden hopeless pause there; then—"I hope you will understand her." Miss Kezia had not noticed the pause or the pleading note—a note vibrating with the struggle against the speaker’s own conviction. She would not have understood, had she noticed, any more than she would ever understand the Atom of humanity who was defying her now. "Very well," she said, with a glance of dislike at poor K.K. Denis broke in with a solicitous air, and a tone reminiscent of the Blarney Stone:— "I do wish you would go to bed, Aunt Kezia! You do look so tired." Nell smiled suddenly. "Yes, do, Aunt Kezia," she urged demurely. Miss Kezia, after somewhat lengthy directions as to turning off the gas, shutting, locking, and hanging a huge burglar bell on the dining-room door, turned to leave the room. Sheila Pat, stiff, erect, followed her with warlike gaze. Miss Kezia paused and said:— "See that that baby goes to bed the minute she has finished her porridge. She ought not to have gone to the docks at all—" Nell flashed out a shaky interruption— "Others—thought she ought!" The Atom observed calmly:— "I am not a baby. At home, gerrels of six will not be babies. I’m not wantin’ the stirabout at all, thank you." "Sheila, you are speaking with an atrocious accent!" For the first time that night the Atom’s sombre eyes lit with a gleam of satisfaction. "Accent, is it? Sure and ’tisn’t me own native accent I’d be ashamed of then!" she retorted. "It isn’t the accent of ladies and gentlemen, Sheila! You are a rude and foolish little girl!" Calm and unabashed, the Atom responded with fervour. "’Tis the way many of my best friends spake at home—always—wakin’ and sleepin’ they spake like that, and I’ll be spakin’ like it, too." With her black little head well up, and her absurd pig-tail at an acute angle, she waited for Miss Kezia’s response. But Denis interposed from the doorway with a judicious appeal to her sense of economy. "I say, Aunt Kezia, I’ve lit your candle, and it’s spluttering like a dumb man asking for a tip!" Miss Kezia turned and hurriedly left the room. Molly suddenly pushed her bowl away with an angry clatter. She flung her arms out over the table and hid her face in them. "Oh, I can’t—help it!" she cried out wildly. "Everything’s so—awful!" and she burst into tears. Nell caught her underlip between her teeth and rose. "Shan’t we go to bed, Denis?" she said wearily. "Yes, come along. K.K. may as well have the porridge. We’ve been neglecting you, old lady, haven’t we, then?" The Atom sat rigid, her shocked gaze bent stiffly on Molly’s prone head. "Oh," sobbed Molly, "I shall die—in a week—here—I—hate Aunt Kezia—I hate this house—I hate—everything! Oh, I want mother—and dad—" The Atom got down stiffly from her chair, her gaze never leaving Molly. Nell, in pity of the little white face, tried to put Kate Kearney into her arms, but she drew back. "I don’t want her," she said. They crept upstairs and bade each other good night. "I—I’m sure I’ll be dead when I wake up in the morning!" Molly quavered wretchedly. "I—can’t breathe—in this place—there isn’t room to move—I shall suffocate." Sheila Pat was to share Nell’s room. She followed her in in silence. They undressed quickly. The Atom said her prayers and got into bed. Nell knelt down, but no prayers would come. She knelt and cried into the counterpane. After a while an austere voice smote upon her ear. "Nell O’Brien, I’m thinkin’ you’re keepin’ God up very late!" Nell said a prayer—a somewhat incoherent one—and scrambled into bed. An hour later she sat up and turned her pillow. She looked across at the little white bed that glimmered over by the window; then she burrowed her head despairingly down into the dry side of her pillow. The sight of it, as she had lifted it to turn it over, had brought to her mind the stout old rector at home. She remembered how Sheila Pat had once earnestly declared he was so nice to lean against—"just like a pillow." She quoted him beneath her breath, a humorous dimple denting her wet cheek. "’Let us now consider our blessings—never mind the bad things. Let them go. Consider the good things. The bad things will have more than their share of our thoughts, you may be very sure!’" So Nell got her hands into position to tick off her blessings. "First, there’s Denis." She paused; her slim body grew tense with sudden horror, as the thought gripped her: "Suppose Denis had gone, too!" With an impulsiveness that was characteristic she slipped from the bed to the floor, seized up her dressing-gown, ran out on to the landing and upstairs to his room. "Come in!" She opened the door and was nearly blown backward down the stairs by the gale that met her. Denis was sitting up in bed. "You, old girl? Anything up?" She stood in the doorway, her dressing-gown streaming out around her, her hair blowing across her face. She laughed uncertainly. "Come out of that! Shut the door, you goose. And why on earth don’t you furl your sails? Anything wrong with the Atom?" She shut the door with slow care. "No," she said; "she’s pretending to be asleep." There was a little pause. She buttoned up her dressing-gown slowly. "You’re not walking in your sleep, are you?" he suggested, with a little laugh. He swung himself off the bed and came towards her; he put his hands on her shoulders. "Now, twin, out with it! What did you come for, eh?" She gave a little childish struggle under his warm hands; she looked up into his face. "I had to, Denis! A dreadful conviction has come upon me that she’ll give us soft-boiled eggs for breakfast!" He swung her softly to and fro. "Well, you needn’t have come to give me nightmare just because you’re going to have it! Was it the action of a twin, I ask?" She laughed softly, irresistibly. "Oh, oh, Denis, your floor’s swamped! What will Aunt Kezia say?" He turned his head lazily and surveyed the floor over by the window. "It’ll dry," he observed with equanimity. She eyed the window, flung as wide as it would go. "You _mustn’t_ have it so wide, Denis! You really mustn’t!" "D’you want to murder your twin? Why, I’d be dying of suffocation! There’re _roofs_ all round, Nell! Beastly houses stuck all on top of us—almost in our back yard! I can’t get a breath of air even now!" The toilet cover was wildly fluttering its corners; a towel had been blown from the towel horse and danced merrily in a corner; one curtain was streaming, a wet limp rag, out into the night, the other was whirling in graceful curves across the room; Denis’s tie had twined itself round the leg of a chair. She gave a little laugh. "If you won’t shut the window, I will! And," glancing down at her bare toes, "I don’t feel the least bit inclined to paddle just now." "Then don’t." "But you _will_ shut it—" "But I won’t!" She looked out into the darkness where the curtain waved forlornly. "Seriously, Denis—" "Seriously, Nell, it’s in bed you ought to be, not to mention your poor twin!" "You see, I’ve got a conscience." "More noodle you! Go and sleep it off." "Sure now, asthore, you’ll not be refusin’ your own twin?" she cooed. "You’re a beastly little humbug!" He went across to the window and banged it down. The bang echoed startlingly in the night. "Oh, Denis, you’ve shut the curtain out!" "Eh? Oh, well, it can stay out." A loud whisper hissed with disconcerting suddenness through the keyhole. "Denis O’Brien, are you asleep?" Nell turned to him with a little gasp. "Denis, I—I can’t stand any more of her to-night!" Her small fingers caught his arm with sudden desperation. "Here, in you go!" He picked her up and deposited her in the bed. "Keep quiet," he said peremptorily. He emitted a loud and very realistic yawn. "Denis O’Brien!" "Is it dreaming I am?" he observed in a sleepy voice. "Apparently you are!" came the sharp retort through the keyhole. "Is that you, Aunt Kezia?" he queried in a surprised voice. "Isn’t it time you were in bed?" "I wish to speak to you at once!" "I’m here, close to the keyhole." "Open the door!" "Oh! Er—you know—my costume—rather primitive, you know—" His absurd air of coyness brought an irrepressible giggle from the bed. "Please don’t try to be funny! Unlock your door at once!" "It’s never locked at all." He opened it so suddenly that Miss Kezia nearly fell headlong into the room. He caught her in his arms. "Are you hurt? Sure? Well, what is it now? A mouse? Let me go and kill him!" Miss Kezia had righted herself; she stood, candle in hand, glaring at him angrily. The light flickered over her gaunt face and weird night-cap, over the severe and scanty folds of her sombre dressing-gown. "I heard a window closed," she began. "Window? I say, Aunt Kezia, don’t be nervous, but—er—don’t London burglars generally open windows? Let’s find a poker. I," quoth he, bravely, "will protect you." "It—wasn’t you?" Miss Kezia hesitated. Apparently he did not hear. He was gently but firmly ejecting her from his room. Together they searched the house, but found no suggestion of a burglar. Miss Kezia went back reluctantly to her bed. "Let us trust she’ll be visited with a plague of nightmare burglars!" Denis sent after her cheerfully. Nell, creeping back to her room, heard through the half-open door a murmur. She looked in, and saw a small pig-tailed figure sitting up in bed clasping something black to its bosom. "Oh, my own K.K.—did I say I wasn’t wantin’ you, asthore? ’Twas only because I was frightened I’d cry, like that silly Molly. I didn’t mean it, K.K. Oh, I didn’t! ’Twas cruel of me to say it, dear—" The murmur was broken, full of tears. Nell went back softly up a few stairs; then came down again, with a little stumble and an "Oh!" She could not help an apprehensive thought of Miss Kezia and burglars. When she entered the bedroom Sheila Pat lay still, apparently fast asleep. Trotting across the floor, back to the petticoat she had purloined from a chair, went a sedate little Kate Kearney. CHAPTER II "Four and threepence," said Denis, with his head up the chimney. "Sure?" said Nell, doubtfully. "I’ve added it up three times, and it hasn’t come to that once." "Then there’s no doubt about it; four and threepence ’tis, my dear!" A pause. A scream. "Oh, Denis, rescue them!" A horrible smell of burning ensued. Denis eyed the smoking stockings with equanimity. "O dear," sighed Nell, "and there was only one tiny hole in them. It’s all your fault, Denis. You shouldn’t be rude to me, when your head’s such a beautiful target." But Denis had emerged from the chimney, and was quietly smoking his cigarette in the open room. "Jolly good idea, old girl. Twig? Every time I want to do a smoke, we’ll burn a pair of stockings—they’d out-smell Patsy O’Driscoll’s cigars!" "Denis," Nell spoke with a puckered brow, "how much _is_ five cakes when they’re four for threepence halfpenny?" "Nell, your grammar! It makes me feel faint!" "’Are,’ then. You’re only trying to gain time. Oh, Atom, don’t move! Kate Kearney’s splendid like that. I _must_ get her." Denis looked over her shoulder as she dashed in a rapid pencil sketch. He glanced across at Molly and winked. It was a family joke that everything Nell began—accounts, sewing, tidying-up—ended, on the slightest possible pretext, in a sketch. "Oh, Denis," Molly besought nervously, "I _know_ Aunt Kezia will smell your cigarette!" He struck an attitude. "I defy her! Shall an O’Brien be cowed by a Scotch woman, and in his stronghold, too? Shall a young man who is also a bank clerk be frightened of a mere ignoramusess—oh, Lor’, Molly, hide me—hide me—here she comes!" Molly flung down the stocking she was darning. "Oh, Denis!" she gasped, jumping up and knocking over her chair. "Oh—" But Denis had subsided on to the old lounge, with his head buried in the cushion, and Molly realised she had been "had." She made a wild rush at him, K.K. joined in the fray, and Nell’s model was gone. "Pommel me as much as you like," cried he, weakly. "That’s the third time to-day you’ve swallowed Aunt Kezia!" "I should think she would be rather indigestible," opined Nell, putting in a few finishing touches. "Denis, what do you think of the way these chrysanthemums have faded? Only two days, and they cost half a crown!" "I’ll get you some more." Nell looked thoughtful; she stubbed her paper viciously. "I begin to fancy paupers oughtn’t to indulge in flowers." "Oh, Irish paupers ought," he declared airily. The Atom arose, shook out her skirts, and proceeded to the door. "Where are you going, Sheila Pat?" "Downstairs," was the staid reply. Once outside, she stopped to smooth her hair; then she stood considering, with a thoughtful brow. She went into her bedroom, dragged a chair to the toilet table, scrambled on to it, and anxiously examined the pair of slim legs displayed in the glass. What she saw displeased her; she stamped angrily, and toppled off the chair with a crash. "What’s up?" came a musical shout from the direction of the "Stronghold." "Nothin’ at all!" responded the Atom, with unabated dignity, though she was obliged for the moment to stand on one leg. She waited a minute, then lifting her loose frock, wiggled round and round in her efforts to unfasten her petticoat. She managed it at last, shook it down to her ankles, and mounted the chair again to view the effect. Her anxious face fell; she sighed heavily, and slowly climbed to the floor. She fumbled at the fastening of her petticoat, pulling it well up, then left the room. She went down the stairs till she reached the last flight that faced the front door. She sat down on the top stair and waited. The dusk deepened; the clock ticked on and on down in the hall, but the little pale face glimmered patiently at the top of the stairs. Presently a key grated in the lock of the door; Sheila Pat rose. The door opened, and a big broad man in a huge ulster came heavily in. Sheila Pat took a dignified step forward, missed, in the dusk, the stair, and rolled down and down to the big man’s feet. "Ach!" exclaimed the big man, and then he made noises that interested Sheila Pat, because they made her think of the hens in Biddy O’Regan’s cottage. She rose; her cheeks were scarlet with shame. "Are you hurrt?" exclaimed the big man. "Not at all. Please," said the Atom, with a dignity a good deal bigger than herself, "please don’t mention it. ’Tis a visit I’ve come to pay you," she added. "Ach!" said the big man again. Over a large and very fierce mustache, all grey bristles, his eyes were twinkling down at her. "Pray come in," he said, and opened the door of the room opposite the dining room. The Atom’s face kindled triumphantly as she looked round. Miss Kezia’s grim voice seemed to hover alluringly round the solid mahogany chairs and table. "You are not to enter this room. Remember, I have forbidden you." Sheila Pat climbed on to one of the big chairs and sat down with a complacent smile. Herr Schmidt eyed her anxiously. "You are quite sure you are not hurt, meine liebe? It was a bad fall, a very bad fall." Sheila Pat looked surprised. As a matter of fact her left elbow was smarting badly, and her left ankle bone, too, but in the O’Brien phraseology, this did not signify a "hurt." Moreover she objected to his alluding again to her undignified entrance into the hall. She gave her skirts a pull, and turned the conversation. "How-d’you-do?" she said. He came forward and gravely shook hands. "It is ze fine day, hein?" he observed, with a curious elephantine anxiety to be properly polite to his very polite visitor. The Atom’s eyes turned to the window and studied the brilliant pink sky beyond it. "The fine day, is it? It’s not so bad for London," she observed in a disparaging voice. "You come from Ireland?" "Yes." He peered into the rigid little face and understood. "I come from Shermany," he said gently. "Little one, you will return some day." The Atom said nothing. "You haf ze nice little dog." Herr Schmidt changed the conversation cheerfully. "What do you call him?" "She isn’t a him at all," the Atom said scornfully; "’tis herself’s a lady! An’ her name’s Kate Kearney." "Ach!" said Herr Schmidt. Sheila Pat looked at him gravely. "I am very small for my age," she began in an anxious voice. "I’m not very young really. I’m more than six. I’m quite nine weeks more." "Quite very old," he agreed heartily. "And now you will eat and drink with me, hein?" He was opening a cupboard. "It is a very goot cake. I am what you call an old sweet-teeth. And the drink will not harm you; it is sweet and hot—it is made by my old mother." He poured out two glasses and handed her one. "We will drink and be friends, eh?" She hesitated. "’Tis wondhring I am just what a lodger _is_," she explained. "I’ve never met one before, you see. Nell turned up her nose at you and said she’d never be dhramin’ Aunt Kezia was so bad as to have a lodger." "Your aunt is a very kind laty; she allows me to live here, while I am far from Shermany," he said gravely. The Atom looked interested; after a pause of wonder she dismissed the question of her aunt’s being a kind lady, and observed:— "Is that all? We’ll drink then and be friends. I hope you won’t mind if I don’t love you _very_ much, because you’re not Irish, you see." He declared he would be satisfied with what degree of affection she thought fit to bestow on him. She lifted her glass. "’Tis Sheila Patricia Kathleen O’Brien I’m called, but _you_ must be callin’ me Miss O’Brien." "Ach, so, of course. And I," he bowed deeply, "am Herr Schmidt, Miss O’Brien." The Atom’s heart rejoiced exceedingly. She put down her glass and slipped off her chair. Gravely she bowed her head, and the pig-tail stuck out with a rakish air of enjoyment. Reseating herself, she politely urged him to have some cake. "Now we are friends, I will interdruce you to my Snowy-Breasted Pearl, Mr. Hair Smitt. He is very beautiful. I couldn’t bring him with me, because, he preferred to stay in his cage." She eyed a red tooth-mark on her forefinger. "He is very high-spirited, you see. He is gold and brown and he has a white breast like pearls and snow, and he is white behind, too—just up over his extremes and both hind legs. Nell has painted him lots of times. You see, in the song, ’the snowy-breasted Pearl’ is a lady, but my _dear_ guinea-pig was so _’zact_, I crissened him that." "I wish you would be so goot as to sing the song to me, Miss O’Brien." "Is it me sing? Oh, yes. But it’s rather long. Do you think you’d get tired of it at all?" He denied such a possibility with horror. "My mouth is rather full of cake, Mr. Hair Smitt. Do you mind waitin’ a little?" The cake disposed of, she lifted up a sweet little voice, and sang:— "’There’s a colleen fair as May, For a year and for a day I have sought by ev’ry way Her heart to gain. "’There’s no art of tongue or eye Fond youths with maidens try, But I’ve tried with ceaseless sigh, Yet tried in vain.’" (Pause.) "I’m afraid I forget some," the Atom confessed, ashamed. "But I know all the parts about my guinea-pig," she added anxiously. "Will you sing those parts?" he asked courteously. She began again:— "’Oh, thou bloomin’ milk-white dove To whom I’ve given my love, Do not ever thus reprove My consancy. "’For if not mine, dear boy, Oh, snowy-breasted pearl, May I never from the fair With life return.’ "It _ought_ to be ’girl’ to rhyme with ’pearl,’ but, you see, he _isn’t_ a girl, so I made up ’boy’ myself. Doesn’t the song fit him _beautifully_?" The door had been left ajar; a small black nose inserted itself in the crack with a pathetic snort. "It is your little dog!" Herr Schmidt exclaimed. "Come in! Come in!" He gave a great fat laugh. "Come in!" Sheila Pat slipped to the floor. "She’s shy," she explained, and went and opened the door wide. Kate Kearney trotted in, sleek and black, giving little scriggles of love as she came. She rubbed herself against the Atom’s legs, she licked her hand, she lifted superlatively great innocent eyes. "Kate Kearney, what is it you’ve been doin’?" the Atom said. K.K. went into an ecstasy of adoration; she jumped and licked the Atom’s cheek, she wriggled, she ran to and fro, she gave short little whimpers, and she turned a reproachful, widely innocent gaze upon the Atom’s suspicious countenance. Sheila Pat laughed proudly. "She always looks burstin’ with goodness when she’s been doin’ somethin’ bad," she said. "She is a beautiful little dog." "She got first prize at the dog show, in the cocker spaniel puppy class, an’ a ’Highly Commended’ in the open class." "Ach!" said Herr Schmidt. "Aunt Kezia doesn’t like her. Molly says she would if she was a cat, because old maids always like cats, but Sarah says she won’t let her give scraps to the poor starvin’ creatures at all. Kate Kearney mostly stays in the Stronghold with us. Denis ’gested the name. Isn’t it a good one? It’s our very own room, you see, and Aunt Kezia’s the enemy we keep—" There was a jerk, a pause. Herr Schmidt, peering across at her, saw an agonised wave of red mount to her very brow. "I—I think I’d better be goin’ now," but she did not move. He took a step towards her. "Oh, oh, _please_ would you mind stayin’ there?" she cried out in a shrill little agitated voice. He stopped abruptly. "What is it, meine liebe?" "You have been very kind, indeed, Mr. Hair Smitt." The Atom’s exceedingly grown-up manner precluded any more questions. "Thank you very much. Would you mind turnin’ your back a minute?" He moved away and looked out of the window. Sheila Pat with trembling hands turned up her skirt and grasped the dangling petticoat beneath, but as she did it, a wicked black head emerged from beneath the table, and wicked white teeth closed on the flannel and pulled—pulled. "K.K.! I’ll _whip_ you! Drop it! Oh, _drop_ it, K.K.!" But whether it was that the Atom dared not raise her voice above a whisper, or whether K.K. just felt specially naughty—anyway, she did not leave go. And Sheila Pat’s proud soul was filled with very real agony. With a despairing "Please don’t turn round—I’m goin’!" she fled out into the hall, stumbling along, with K.K. and her petticoat dragging her sideways. She sank on to the lowest stair and let her petticoat go; she watched K.K. drag it down her legs, across the hall. He had treated her so beautifully! He had behaved as if she were a grown-up. All had gone so well—and what would he think of her now? A vision of Biddy O’Regan’s numerous babies trotting about with various garments dangling about their legs rose up before her eyes. Only babies let their things come down, the Atom thought, and she shuddered. K.K. brought the petticoat to her with a conciliatory wag, and laid it gently in her lap. The Atom took no notice. She was sure he had forgotten how she had tumbled down the stairs, and now—K.K. pushed a moist nose into her hand. "Oh, K.K., is it lovin’ me you are after _that_?" She pointed to the petticoat with a short but tragic finger. K.K. laid a sweet head on her knee, with upturned eyes adoring. CHAPTER III "I’m getting quite fond of our Stronghold," said Nell. "That’s crooked, Denis!" "What if it is, and you an artist! I’m not going to take the nail out,—no, not if it’s standing on its head. Isn’t my thumb pathetic pulp already?" "_Gerrls_ can’t use a hammer! _Gerrls_ always hit more thumb than anything else!" from the foot of the step-ladder came an impish voice. "That you, Atom?" Denis flung himself down the steps. Sheila Pat fled, squealing, down the stairs and into the garden. "_What_ we would have done without this room to call our own, my brain refuses to imagine!" Nell observed. "Wasn’t it just like mother to think of it?" queried Molly, wistfully. Nell nodded. "And our teas! Thank goodness, Aunt Kezia desires us to have tea up here, in case some of her friends
boxwood, to a green door opening directly into the house. There was no porch, and the entrance was only a step above the path. We were shown into a musty parlor, which felt damp and cold, although a small fire was burning in the grate. The windows were low and opened upon the garden, but the trees were bare and the flowers dead. There were pictures on the walls, and jars upon the tables and mantel, where bunches of withered grasses were displayed as relics of the summer. The carpet and furniture were old and faded. It did not look like the abode of wealth, and we saw no ground for hope. Observing the dejected look on Torry’s face, I tried to comfort him with the reflection that some of the wealthiest of the English live with the least ostentation. "I know it," he answered looking up. "The man may be worth a million, but I doubt it." There was a cough in the ball, and the sound of some one approaching with a walking stick. In a minute the door was opened, and an old man bent nearly double, and supporting himself with a cane, entered the room. "Two of you! I didn’t expect to see but one," he muttered, hobbling across the carpet without further salute, and then, as he hooked the handle of his stick into the leg of a chair, and pulled it up to the fire for himself, added: "Have seats." "My brother came with me, as we have always lived together," said Torrence, by way of explanation, "although I only sent my individual card, as it is you and I who have corresponded. I hope we find you well, Mr. Wetherbee, and that this damp weather doesn’t disagree with you." Wetherbee grunted, and poked the fire. "Nothing disagrees with me," he said after a minute. "I’ve been hardened to this climate for eighty years. It has done its best to kill me, and failed." Then with a grim smile, he added: "My figure isn’t quite as good as it used to be; but I’m not vain, Mr. Attlebridge; I’m not vain." "I suppose you’ve been a sufferer from rheumatism?" I suggested, by way of talk. Evidently he did not hear me, as he was raking cinders from the bottom of the grate. When he had finished, he said: "Did you come over from America in your air ship?" Torrence laughed. "Not this time, Mr. Wetherbee, but I expect to go back in it," he answered. "Great confidence! Great confidence!" exclaimed Wetherbee; "Well, I’m glad of it; nothing is ever accomplished without it." The old man leaned his head upon his hands, while his elbows rested on his knees. It was impossible for him to sit upright. His hair was white, and his face wrinkled; he looked his age. Certainly he was a different person from what Torrence had expected. "I suppose you have brought a model with you," continued Wetherbee; "you Yankees are so handy with such things." This was evidently intended as a compliment. "No," said Torrence, "I did not suppose it was necessary. The transportation would have been costly, and I knew that if you insisted, it could be shipped after me. My last effort was deficient in some minor details, which would have necessitated a thorough overhauling of the parts, with readjustment. My position now is that of absolute mastery of the subject, and I thought, with your assistance, that I might build a full-sized vessel at once. There is no longer any need to waste money on models, as the next machine will fly, full size." Mr. Wetherbee lifted his head a little. "How can you be sure of it?" he asked. "Because my last model did," answered Torrence. "And yet you admit there was an error." "There was a slight error of calculation, which impaired the power I hoped to evolve; but I know where the mistake lay and can remedy it. All my plans and formulas are with me. There is no vital principle at stake. The thing is assured beyond a doubt." "And what would be the size of the vessel you propose to build?" asked Wetherbee. "My idea is to construct a ship for practical aerial navigation, capable of carrying half a dozen passengers, with their luggage. Such a vessel would be about sixty feet long, with ten feet beam; while her greatest depth would be about eleven feet." "And how long a time would it take to construct such a craft?" "With everything at our hand, and all necessary funds forthcoming, I should say it would require about six weeks." The old man’s figure was growing wonderfully erect. His eyes shone with vivid intensity. I could see that my brother was making an impression, and hoped for a successful turn in affairs. "And what did you say would be the probable cost of such a machine?" inquired Wetherbee, his back still unrelaxed. "I did not say," answered Torrence; "but from the best of my knowledge—provided labor and material are no dearer over here than at home—I should estimate that the thing could be turned out ready for service, at an expense of—say, twenty thousand dollars." Wetherbee’s eyes were fixed intently upon the fire. He looked even more interested than our most sanguine expectations could have pictured. "That is—let me see!" he muttered. "About four thousand pounds," I answered. "And you will guarantee the result?" "Mr. Wetherbee," said Torrence, drawing his chair a little nearer the invalid’s, "I have not the means to make a legal guaranty; but this much I will say—so absolutely certain am I of success, that I will expend the few pounds I have with me, in a working model, provided I have your promise, in the event of my demonstrating satisfactorily the principle, to place the necessary means at my disposal for building and equipping a ship of the dimensions named. But let me repeat my assurance that such a model would be a waste of time and money. I have a large batch of evidence to prove all that I say." Here Wetherbee left his chair and hobbled about the room without his cane. He seemed to have forgotten it. Suddenly he stopped, and supporting himself by the table, while he trembled visibly, said: "What if it should fail?" "Why, in that event I should be the only loser!" answered Torrence. "But it cannot fail. I have not the slightest fear of it." The old man’s excitement was contagious. Here at last was an outcome for our difficulties; a balm for every disappointment. I pictured the airship soaring over land and sea, the wonder of the age, and my brother eulogized as the genius of the century. I could hear his name upon the lips of future generations, and I imagined the skies already filled with glittering fleets from horizon to horizon. Beyond all this I saw untold wealth, and a new era of prosperity for all men. My flight of imagination was interrupted by a long drawn sigh from Wetherbee, as he murmured: "Four thousand pounds! Ah! if I could only get it!" The dream of bliss was cut short by a rude awakening. I was dismayed. What did the man mean? "If I could only get it!" he repeated with a sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of his soul. Then he hobbled back to the fire and resumed his seat. I watched Torrence, from whose face all joy had fled. He was more solemn than ever before. Again Wetherbee stared into the coals. He had forgotten his surroundings. Neither Torrence nor I spoke, in the hope that he was considering the best manner of raising the money. The silence was ominous. A clock in a corner was forever ticking out the words—"_Four—thous—and—pounds_." I listened until it sounded as if gifted with human intelligence. Each minute was like an hour while waiting for our host to speak, feeling that our doom hung irrevocably upon his words. Suddenly we were startled by a sharp voice in the hall: "_Mr. Wetherbee, your soup is ready!_" The old man pulled himself together, as if aroused from a dream; picked up his cane and tottered toward the door. At its portal he stopped, and turning half around, said: "Gentlemen, I will consider your proposition, and if I can see my way to the investment—well, I have your address—and will communicate with you. Meanwhile there is a barn in one of my fields, which is sound and roomy. It is at your disposal, and I heartily hope you will be able to raise the money for your enterprise. The barn you shall have at a nominal rent, and you will find the swamps about here to be the best locality anywhere near London for your experiments. I wish you well. Should you conclude to use the barn, let me know, and I will turn the key over to you immediately. Meanwhile I wish you luck!" He went out without another word, leaving us alone with the talkative clock, and the dead grasses of the previous summer. I glanced at Torrence, who was pale, but with an indomitable look of courage in his eyes. I had seen it before. It was impossible to say from Wetherbee’s manner of departure, whether he intended to return or not. We could scarcely consider the interview ended, when we had made no movement toward going ourselves, and while deliberating what was best to do, there was a light step in the hall, and the door again opened, admitting a middle aged woman who approached us with a frown. We bowed. "May I inquire the nature of your errand?" she began, without addressing either one of us in particular; but Torrence, stepping forward, answered: "Our visit is hardly in the way of an errand, madam. We are here upon an important business engagement with Mr. Wetherbee, who I trust will soon return to give us an opportunity to continue our conversation." "I was afraid so!" she replied with a look of regret. She sat down in the same chair that Wetherbee had occupied, and asked us to resume our seats. There was something odd in her manner, which betrayed deep concern in our visit. Putting her hand in her pocket she drew out a spectacle case, and placed the glasses upon her nose. Then she looked at us each in turn with growing interest. "You need not conceal your business from me, gentlemen," she continued, "Mr. Wetherbee is my father. As you are aware, he is a very old man, and I am acting in the double capacity of nurse and guardian for him. He does nothing without my knowledge." Her manner was thoroughly earnest, and the expression of her face that of deep concern. Torrence replied after a moment’s hesitation as follows: "While not for a moment doubting your statement, madam, would it not be a little more regular to ask Mr. Wetherbee’s consent before speaking of a matter in which he is equally interested with ourselves? If he says so, I shall be more than willing to explain to you all that we have been talking about. Meanwhile I can only say that our business was upon a matter of great importance, which I should hardly feel at liberty to divulge without the agreement of all parties concerned." She did not answer for several minutes, during which time the hard look in her eyes softened; I even thought they were dimmed with tears. For a moment she averted her face and taking off her glasses polished them thoroughly, returning them to her pocket. Then she stared into the fire as if thinking how to proceed, and then without removing her eyes, said: "I shall not ask your business, gentlemen, but I will tell you something of mine. Mr. Wetherbee, my father, is, I am pained to confess, a monomaniac on the subject of inventions. His fortune, which once was ample, has been squandered in all manner of mechanical foolery, for I can call it by no other name. An inventor who could once gain his eye through the medium of print, or his ear, through that of speech, could wring whatever money out of him he chose. Finding that our means were becoming scattered, and our credit going, and my good father unable to see that he was imposed upon, I applied to the courts for his guardianship, on the ground of mental disability. He has no money whatever that he can call his own; the little that is left between us being at my disposal. Should you have plans requiring pecuniary aid, I must tell you frankly now, that it will be impossible to obtain it here." She stopped, and Torrence and I stared at each other aghast. "But, madam!" I exclaimed, unable to contain myself, "We have come all the way from America, and at great personal inconvenience and expense, in response to your father’s letters, and should he refuse to aid us now we are ruined." "It is impossible—quite impossible, I assure you, my dear sirs, to keep track of my father’s correspondence. He answers everything he finds in the papers relating to patents. It is unfortunate, deeply unfortunate, but cannot be helped. The public has repeatedly been warned against him through the newspapers, and we can do no more." "It is indeed most unfortunate," said Torrence; "but let me ask you, madam, if in the event of my being able to demonstrate, to your entire satisfaction, the inestimable value of my air ship, you could be induced to aid in its construction?" "Alas, my dear sir, I have not the means!" There was a painful silence, in which, to me, the end of all things was in sight. Mentally I ran over the account of our cash, and roughly estimated how long it would last. Much as we had abused Mrs. Twitcham’s lodging, I foresaw that we should have to leave it for a worse one. "Is there, then, nothing that could induce you to take an interest in our scheme? Remember it is the invention of the century. All the railways, all the telegraphs in existence will be counted trifling by comparison when it shall be built and given commercial value. Remember also, that the insignificant sum required, will be repaid ten times over within sixty days. Remember, my dear madam, that in refusing to aid us, you are throwing away the greatest material blessing that man can possibly acquire. It is the dream of the ages—the culmination of every hope. Think well before you refuse!" I was so wrought up that I spoke more earnestly than ever before, realizing that if we failed with Wetherbee & Hart, we were outcasts. But all my enthusiasm, and all my brother’s eloquence were futile. "It is not that I will not, it is that I cannot," repeated the lady, who really did not appear lacking in sympathy. or a due comprehension of the situation. "Then have you no friends," I persisted, "who might be induced to take a share in the invention, I should say discovery, for it is indeed more of a discovery than otherwise?" "Most of our friends have already lost money through my father’s infatuation, or weakness, and I dare not mention the subject to any of them." We got up to go, thanking the lady for her explanation, and the interest she had shown. At the door, Torrence stopped. "I was about to forget," he said; "your father told us of a barn which he would place at our disposal, should we need it for a workshop. Is the offer still open?" The lady smiled, and said she could not refuse so simple a thing, especially when we had come so far, and had a right to expect so much. We thanked her, bade her farewell and departed. We passed again down the cemented path between the boxwood bushes, and through the iron gate. When out once more upon the open highway, Torrence turned toward me, and with an air of surprising indifference, said: "It looks as though we were checkmated, old man, but we’re not. These people have only stirred up the mettle in me, and I shall build the air ship despite all of them." As I have said before, my brother was an extraordinary man; possessed of a fertile mind, an indomitable will, and withal a secretiveness which even showed itself occasionally to me. We walked on in silence; the future looked black and disheartening, I had not the courage to discuss it. It was dark when we reached the river, and the small Thames boat wended its way through innumerable lights, reflected across the water in long, trembling lines. The minutest object claimed my attention, and I fell to speculating on the mental condition of a fellow-passenger who was whistling a familiar tune at my elbow. I looked over the taffrail into the black water beneath, and wondered how it felt to drown, and how many people had tried it in these waters. I pictured their corpses still lying at the bottom, and made a rough calculation of how many years it would take to disintegrate a man’s skeleton, after the fishes had eaten all the flesh off his bones. Then in the dim light I saw Torrence walking past the man who held the tiller. He did not speak, and I did not disturb him. Possibly he did not see me, at all events we walked on opposite sides of the deck, each absorbed in his own thoughts. At last we met, as if by accident, although I had purposely wandered over to his side. "Well, old man! What’s the matter?" he cried with a heartiness that startled me. "Nothing," I answered; "I was only going to ask why you made that inquiry about the barn." "Because I thought it might be useful," he answered. "And for what, pray?" "Why, to build the air ship in, to be sure. Did you think I wanted it for a billiard room?" "And how can you build the air ship without Wetherbee & Hart?" I inquired. "I am not quite prepared to answer your question. But I have overcome difficulties before, and I shall overcome this one. Don’t fret, Gurt! the air ship will be built." His manner was confident, and showed such indifference to the gravity of our situation, that I looked at him in amazement. There was nothing more to say, and we wandered apart again. Once more I began an exhaustive study of my surroundings—the river—the lights—the boat itself, and finally of my fellow-passengers. Thus occupied I allowed several landings to pass unheeded, when suddenly I became interested in a low but animated conversation between two men who were opposite me, the one standing, the other sitting. It was nearly dark in that part of the deck where we were, but presently the man who was sitting, shifted his position slightly to make room for the other, when they both came in range of a dimly burning lantern, and I was surprised to see that one of the men was my brother. The stranger was a rough, dirty looking sailor, and the pair, as I say, were deeply absorbed in conversation, in which they had evidently been engaged for some time. "Yes, stranger," said the sailor, "you may believe me or not as you please, but I have proof enough of what I tell you; and three times I’ve been locked up with lunatics for stickin’ to the truth, and not lyin’." "And you say you can prove this?" inquired my brother in a low tone. "Ay, and _will do it_!" "It is too marvelous. You astound me! I cannot comprehend it!" said Torrence in a voice that was scarcely audible, and which I observed was purposely subdued. "And indeed you may well be all o’ that, an’ more too. I was good crazy for a spell when I first found it out, leastways I was nigh it, but I don’t talk about it no more since they locked me up, but when I heerd you fellers a gassin’ about a air ship, I ’lowed you was the kind, if ever there was any, as it wouldn’t hurt to tell. For my part, it don’t matter—I can’t live long no way—and I hate to have _that secret_ die with me. I’m a stoppin’ down the river on the Kangaroo, she’s a boat as is fitted up as a ’orspital for crippled seamen and the like. I’m tullable comfortable thar, and doubt as I’ll ever anchor to any other craft for a home this side o’ Davy Jones’." "But surely you’ll let me see you again," said Torrence, as the man made a move to leave the boat at the landing we were approaching. "Course’n I will. I won’t forgit ye," tapping his breast as if referring to a memorandum which I supposed Torrence had given him. "And I’ll keep my word, too, and prove every breath I’ve done breathed to you to-night. Ta-ta!" The man left the boat hurriedly, and the next landing was our own. III. It was snowing, and the ground was already white when we reached our humble lodgings. All the way from Gravesend I had been struck with my brother’s capricious manner, at one moment buoyant, the next meditative and despondent. Upon my inquiring after the singular acquaintance he had made upon the boat, he simply laughed, and said, "crank," entirely ignoring the scraps of conversation I had overheard between them. This being his mood, I decided to let him alone, feeling sure that if there were anything worth hearing, I should hear it. We made a hasty inspection of our property, to take care that nothing was disturbed in our absence, and then, with renewed confidence in the landlady, walked again into the storm in search of food. We had eaten nothing since early morning, and were nearly famished. Our restaurant was not hard to find, and the light and warmth within cheered even my dismal soul into hopefulness. Seating ourselves in an alcove by an appetizing table, Torrence pushed the bill of fare toward me, but I begged him to choose the dinner himself, and to select the cheapest and bulkiest dishes. "Rubbish!" he answered; "I’m hungry and am going to have another square feed. If we are to go to the devil, what difference can it possibly make whether we get there on Monday or Saturday?" I could never argue with Torrence; he had his own way in everything, and yet we never quarreled. An elaborate meal was placed before us, with a large jug of beer; the dinner costing more than the breakfast. "I don’t know how it is," said Torrence in the midst of a huge chop, "but something tells me that I was never born to be starved!" After dinner we lighted cigars, and continued to sit smoking over our coffee, having drawn the curtains of our alcove. We had been puffing away for some minutes when Torrence, putting his hand in his pocket drew out the money I had given him in the morning, together with his own, and placing the pile upon the table, said: "Now listen! We will divide this money into two equal parts, and each take our part. There is no telling what may become of us, and it is better to seek our fortunes separately than together. If we travel the same path, we will meet the some difficulties, but if we divide, there will be double the chance for luck, and whoever hits it first can help the other. It will cost no more than to live under the same roof, with the exception of having paid in advance for our beds, but other considerations will more than compensate for that loss, which may not be a loss after all. We may see a very tough time before we get through, but we will get through in the end, never fear. Now don’t starve yourself, old man, and don’t get down in the mouth, but dig—dig—dig. Push your manuscript—push a hand car—jump into anything you see, but don’t be discouraged, and above all things, write regularly and keep me posted." My heart was in my mouth, for I could not bear the thought of leaving Torrence. He had been the leading spirit in everything, and from my early childhood I had always believed that what Torrence could not do, could not be done. I had brought some manuscripts with me for which I hoped to find a publisher, but now the thought of it was abhorrent. I could not answer, and so Torrence continued: "To-morrow morning, after breakfast, I shall leave you. Don’t ask what I am going to do, because I don’t know; but I am off in search of luck, and shall rely largely on my Yankee brains to bring me out on top of the game. Don’t expect me ’till you see me, but I shall either write or return when there is anything to tell." "Are you going back to Gravesend?" I asked. "Probably; but don’t hamper me with questions. In the first place it won’t help you to know what I am doing; and in the second place, it won’t help me to have you know. You can picture me as building the air ship, or running a haberdashery, or anything you please; but remember that whenever I run my nose up against luck you’ll be sure to know it; and I only ask that you will do the same by me." I gave him my hand, and then we ordered two portions of brandy and a bottle of Apollinaris. While we were disposing of this, and still smoking our cigars, the _portières_ of our alcove were pulled suddenly apart, and a rough, unshaved face thrust in at the aperture, and as quickly withdrawn. Although it was for only an instant, I recognized the face as that of the sailor I had seen on the Thames boat. Torrence frowned, but did not look surprised. When we got up to go, Torrence insisted on paying the bill out of his portion, which he did; and then, just as we were about to pass out into the stormy street, the same rough, dirty looking sailor approached us from one of the alcoves. "Another word with you, stranger," said the man, advancing and touching his hat to Torrence. "Certainly," as if he had never seen the fellow before, and then turning to me, Torrence added: "Would you mind waiting a minute, Gurt, while I speak to this man?" and without another word, the twain entered one of the alcoves. I amused myself looking at some fish in an aquarium that stood near the entrance, and in watching the great flakes of snow falling against the glass panel of the door. How long I remained thus occupied is difficult to guess, but it seemed interminable. The sailor had taken the precaution to draw the curtains after him, so it was impossible to hear anything they said, and even the sound of their voices was drowned by the clatter of dishes, the tramping of waiters, and the noise of arriving and departing guests. At last the interview was ended, and my brother came out with rather a singular expression, as I thought, and we started for home. "And what does he want?" I asked as we trudged along the sidewalk. Torrence laughed; and then, as if thinking of how to reply, said: "Oh, he’s a lunatic! Wants the loan of twenty pounds on a house and lot he says he owns down in Deptford. Sailors are generally cranky, you know, and I thought I would talk with him a little just to get his ideas, and see if it would be worth our while to risk the venture, with the possibility of becoming the owner of his property. But I’m convinced the fellow’s a fraud." "If he’s a lunatic I think you must be a greater one!" I exclaimed, and then feeling sure that he was putting me off with nonsense to avoid questioning, I turned the subject, and commenced talking about the weather. We did not allude to the sailor again, and I concluded that Torrence had simply run across some poor fellow who he thought might be useful to him, although how, I could not imagine. The next morning we separated, and I waved Torrence a farewell as he took his seat on an omnibus, with Gladstone bag and umbrella. I stood watching him until the ’bus had turned a corner, and then directed my steps toward Paternoster row, with a bundle of MSS. under my arm. I do not propose to harrow myself with a recital of the bitter disappointments I underwent in that quarter of the city, nor is it important for the identification of the Attlebridges as the real participants in the marvels about to be recounted, that I should do more than allude to the fact that the firm of Crumb & Crumpet, after much haggling as to terms, long and tedious discussion regarding merit and character, finally refused my book, as well as all shorter papers submitted to them; a fact which those gentlemen will doubtless remember, should their attention be called to it. Our lodgings were dreary enough at best, but now that I was alone they seemed unbearable. Beyond my own gloomy feelings, I was made to participate in those of my landlady, who constantly annoyed me with accounts of her financial difficulties; her inability to pay her rent, and the dread that she would be evicted. Greatly against my better judgment, she succeeded in coaxing me into the loan of a pound, a thing I could not afford, but which I did, partly out of sympathy, and partly to get rid of her importunities. I now occupied myself in preparing a paper on the psychological evolution of the ape, which I hoped to be able to place with another publisher, and which, had it ever been finished, I cannot doubt would have succeeded; but circumstances intervened before the completion of the last pages, which compelled me to relinquish my work, and so the world must suffer. I continued my labor steadily for more than a week, and then began looking anxiously for my brother’s return, and took several long walks in the direction from which I believed he would be coming; but I did not meet him, and returned home, each time a little disheartened. During these evenings I retired early, having no one for company, and not being able to afford outside amusement. At the end of ten days I had been so economical that I was quite satisfied with the standing of my finances, and felt lighter-hearted than at any time since arriving. Still I had found nothing to do but write, and the future was uncertain. Sunday morning was dark and gloomy, and it having been nearly two weeks since Torrence had left, I began to wonder with increased anxiety what had become of him. I had a right to expect him by now, but had neither seen nor heard a word from him since his departure. Could anything have happened? I did not believe it, and knowing how averse he was to letter writing, set it down to the fact that he was busy; and I sincerely hoped profitably so. Still I passed the day in gloomy forebodings, and resolved to go to Gravesend the following morning. That night, however, as I was going to my room, the servant handed me a letter, and I did not realize until I had read it, how anxious I was becoming. The letter ran as follows: "20 NARROW LANE, GRAVESEND. Sunday Morning. "DEAR GURT: Sorry, but can’t get over to-day as I expected. Will try and come before next Lord’s day. How’s the book? Keep your mouth straight, and don’t get discouraged, Yours, "TORRY." It wasn’t much of a letter, but it was better than nothing, and I was thankful for it. I put it in my pocket, and gave up all thought of Gravesend for the present. Evidently Torrence had found something to occupy him, and I didn’t believe he was a man to work long for nothing, but felt provoked that he had not told me what it was. True, I had never written to him, which he had told me to do in Wetherbee’s care, should there be anything to write about; but as there wasn’t I felt justified in my silence. However, I should now see him soon, and comforted myself with the thought that all was well. During the ensuing week, I answered several advertisements, in the hope of finding employment, for despite the satisfaction felt in my ability to economize, there were moments when the reflection that I was making absolutely nothing would come upon me with such force, that I grew despondent, and would gladly have welcomed anything offering even the smallest return. But every effort to find work was unavailing; evidently London was overcrowded. Another week passed without Torrence, and when the following Sunday came and went without bringing him, I became not only impatient but provoked. Why could he not run up to see me? It certainly seemed strange. Had he not been so emphatic in requesting me to let him alone, I should have gone to Gravesend long before. But here was I scarcely daring to leave the house, fearing that he would come and go in my absence. A few days after this an incident occurred which placed me in a most unfortunate predicament. My landlady came to me with tears in her eyes, saying she would be dispossessed immediately if unable to raise ten pounds. She assured me that if I would advance her a part of the money she would—but why go into details—I was swindled out of much more than I could afford to lose; I had lost a friend, and injured my chances of success, and not only was the landlady dispossessed, but all her lodgers as well. I was obliged at once to find new quarters, and with greatly reduced means. Things now looked very squally, and I firmly believed the poorhouse was in the next block, and that I might stumble upon it any day, without warning. I wrote at once to Torrence to tell him of the change in my situation and circumstances, and urging him to come immediately for a consultation. By return mail, I got the following answer: "20 NARROW LANE, GRAVESEND. "DEAR GURT: Sorry to hear of your bad luck, but don’t fret about a trifle. A handful of gold more or less isn’t worth a thought. A begger can pick it up on London Bridge without being much the better for it, and as I told you before, a day or two sooner or later at his majesty’s hothouse won’t count much in eternity. I shall be with you in a day or two, and hunt you up in your new quarters. Now be thankful you got off so cheap, and don’t worry. I have been awfully busy. "Hastily Yours, T." My brother always took things easily, but in this letter he had quite eclipsed himself. I could not doubt that he had found some employment. Again I had been obliged to pay in advance for my new lodgings, and my stock of cash had dwindled alarmingly. If Torrence did not come soon, I should be arrested as a vagrant. About three days after this, just as I was about to start for Gravesend, having seen nothing of my brother since his letter, a hansom was driven to the door and Torrence alighted. "Well, old boy!" he said as cheery as possible; "glad to find you at last. But what made you move to such a place as this?" He looked with disfavor upon the dirty, sad-visaged house I had chosen for a residence. I explained everything as we went up the steps, even telling him to a penny the amount of money I had left. Instead of being dismayed, he only laughed, and turning to the cabby, tossed him his fare, with a liberal surplus,
a cause which their secret efforts tended on the contrary to destroy, but when thus pressed by the General, their embarrassment was extreme; they did not dare openly to refuse, and wished still less to say yes. It is a singular fact, though perfectly true, that those men who have grown rich with the greatest facility, cling the most to their fortunes. Of all the natives of the New World, the North American is the one who most craves money. He professes a profound love for the precious metals; with him money is everything, and to gain it he would sacrifice relatives and friends without remorse and without pity. It is the North American who invented that egotistic and heartless proverb, which so thoroughly displays the character of the people, _time is money_. Ask what you will of a North American, and he will give it you, but do not try to burrow a dollar of him, for he will bluntly refuse, however great the obligations he owes you may be. The great American bankruptcies which a few years back terrified the Old World by their cynical effrontery, edified us as to the commercial honesty of this country, which in its dealings never says, yes, and is so afraid of letting; its thoughts be penetrated, that even in the most frivolous conversations the people, through fear of compromising themselves by an affirmative, say at each sentence, "I suppose," "I believe," "I think." General Rubio, who had been a long time in Texas, and accustomed to daily dealings with the Americans, was perfectly well aware in what way he should treat them, hence he was not at all disturbed by their embarrassed denials, their protestations of devotion, or their downcast faces. After leaving them a few moments for reflection, seeing that they could not make up their minds to answer him, he continued in his calmest voice and with his most pleasant air-- "I see, Señores, that the reasons I have had the honour of laying before you have not had the good fortune to convince you, and I am really vexed at it. Unfortunately, we are in one of those fatal crises where long deliberations are impossible. Ever since the President of the Republic appointed me Military Chief of this State, I have ever been anxious to satisfy you, and not make you feel too heavily the weight of the power entrusted to me, taking on myself on several occasions, to modify any harshness in the orders I received from high quarters with reference to you. I venture to believe that you will do me the justice of saying that you have always found me kind and complaisant toward you." The merchants naturally burst into affirmations as the General continued. "Unfortunately it can no longer be so. In the face of this obstinate and unpatriotic refusal you so peremptorily give me, I am, to my great regret, constrained to carry out literally the orders I have received,--orders that concern you, Señores, and whose tenor, I repeat, I find myself utterly unable to modify." At this declaration, made in a sarcastic voice, the merchants began shivering; they understood that the General was about to take a brilliant revenge, although they did not know yet what was about to happen. For all that, they began to repent having accepted the invitation, and placed themselves so simply in the wolf's mouth. The General kept smiling, but the smile had something bitter and mocking in its expression, which was far from reassuring them. At this moment a clock, standing on a bracket, struck two. "Caramba," said the General, "is it so late as that already? How quickly time passes in your agreeable company. Señores, we must wind up the business. I should be in despair if I kept you longer from your homes--the more so, as you must be desirous of rest." "In truth," stammered the merchant who had hitherto spoken in the name of all, "whatever pleasure we feel at being here----" "You would feel greater still at being elsewhere," the General interrupted, with a laugh; "I perfectly understand that, Don Lionel, hence I will not abuse your patience much longer. I only ask you for a few minutes more, and then I will set you at liberty, so be kind enough to sit down again." The merchants obeyed, while exchanging a glance of despair on the sly. The General seemed on this night to be deaf and blind, for he saw and heard nothing. He struck a bell; at the summons a door opened, and an officer walked in. "Captain Saldana," the General asked, "is all ready?" "Yes, General," the Captain answered, with a respectful bow. "Señores," the Governor continued, "I have received from the Mexican Government orders to lay on the rich merchants of this town a war tax of sixty thousand piastres in cash. As you are aware, Señores a soldier can only obey. Still, I had taken on myself to reduce this contribution by one-half, desiring, as far as in me lay, to prove to you up to the last moment, the interest I take in you. You would not understand me; I am vexed at it, but nothing is now left me save obedience. Here is the order," he added, as he took a paper from the table and unfolded it, "it is peremptory; still, I am ready to grant you five minutes to make up your minds; but when that period has elapsed, I shall be compelled to do my duty, and you are sufficiently well acquainted with me, Señores, to know that I shall do it at all hazards." "But, General," the old merchant hazarded, "your Excellency will permit me to observe, that the sum is enormous." "Nonsense, Señores; there are thirty of you--it only amounts to two thousand piastres per head, which is only a trifle to you. I made you an offer to knock off half, but you were not willing." "Business has been very flat for some years, and money is becoming excessively scarce." "To whom do you say that, Don Lionel? I fancy I am better aware of that fact than anybody else." "Perhaps if you were to grant us a delay of a month or a fortnight, by collecting all our resources and making enormous sacrifices, we might manage to scrape together one-half the amount." "Unfortunately, I cannot even grant you an hour." "In that case, General, it is impossible." "Nonsense! I feel certain that you have not reflected. Besides, that is no affair of mine: in asking you for this money, I carry out the orders I have received, it is for your to judge whether you will consent or not. I, personally, am completely out of the affair." "Really, General," the old merchant continued, deceived, in spite of all his craft, by the Governor's tone, "really, it is impossible for us to pay the smallest amount." All bowed in affirmation, supporting the remarks of their spokesman. "Very good," the General continued, still in a coolly mocking tone, "that is clearly understood, then. Still, you will not, I trust, render me responsible for the consequences which this refusal may entail on you." "Oh, General, you cannot suppose that!" "Thanks. You heard, Captain?" he added, turning to the officer, who was standing motionless by the door; "order in the detachment." "Yes, General." And the officer quitted the room. The merchants gave a start of terror, for this mysterious order caused them to reflect seriously, and their anxiety became the greater, when they heard the clang of arms in the patios, and the heavy footfalls of approaching troops. "What is the meaning of this, General?" they cried in terror, "Can we have fallen into a trap?" "What do you mean?" the General said. "Oh, I beg your pardon, but I forgot to communicate to you the end of this order, which concerns you particularly, however, that will be soon done. I am instructed to have all persons shot, who refuse to subscribe to the loan demanded by the government, in order to get over the serious embarrassments the malcontents occasion it." At the same instant, the doors were thrown wide open, and a detachment of fifty men silently surrounded the American merchants. The latter were more dead than alive--they fancied they were having a frightful dream, or suffering from a horrible nightmare. Certain that the General would not hesitate to execute the threat he had made them, the merchants did not know how to get out of the scrape. The Governor himself had made no change in his demeanour--his face was still gracious, and his voice gentle. "Come, Señors," he said, "pray accept my heartfelt sympathy. Captain, lead away these gentlemen, and treat them with all the kindness their sad position claims." He then bowed, and prepared to leave the room. "One moment," the old merchant said, quite appalled by the approach of death; "are there no means of settling this business, General?" "I only know one--paying." "I am well aware of that," he said with a sigh; "but, alas! we are ruined." "What can I do? You know, and yourselves allowed, that I am quite unconnected with this unhappy affair." "Alas," the poor merchants exclaimed in chorus, "you will not kill us, surely, General; we are fathers of families, what will become of our wives and children?" "I pity you, but, unfortunately, can do no more than that." "General," they cried, falling at his knees, "in the name of what you hold dearest, have pity on us, we implore you." "I am really in despair at what has occurred, and should like to come to your aid; unhappily I do not see my way, and then, again, you do nothing to help me." "Alas!" they repeated, sobbing and clasping their hands desperately. "I am well aware that you have not the money, and there is the insurmountable difficulty, believe me. However, let us see," he added, apparently reflecting. The poor devils, who felt themselves so near death, looked at him with eyes sparkling with hope. There was a rather lengthened silence, during which you might have heard the heart throbs of these men, who knew that life and death depended on the man who held them panting under his eye. "Listen," he continued, "this is all I can do for you, and believe me, that, in acting thus, I assume an enormous responsibility; there are thirty of you, I think?" "Yes, Excellency," they exclaimed unanimously. "Well, only ten of you shall be shot. You shall select them yourselves, and those you designate will be immediately led into the patio and executed. But now ask me for nothing further, as I shall be constrained to refuse you; and that you may have time to make your selection carefully, I grant you ten minutes." This was a proof of incontestable cleverness on the part of the General. By breaking, through this decision, the agreement that had hitherto prevailed among the merchants, by opposing them to one another, he was certain of obtaining the result which, without, he would probably not have secured. For we prefer to suppose, for the honour of the General, whose career up to this day had been so free from excesses, and acts of this nature, that the threat of death was only a mode employed to cause these men, whom he knew to be opposed to the government he represented, into undoing their purse strings, and that he would not have been so cruel as to carry matters to extremities, and shoot in cold blood thirty of the most respectable townsmen. Whatever General Rubio's intentions might have been, however, the Americans believed him, and acted accordingly. After two or three minutes' hesitation, the merchants came one after the other, to give their consent to the loan. But their tergiversation had cost them a thousand dollars a-piece. It was dear, hence we must allow that they consented with very ill grace. But the soldiers were there ready to obey the slightest sign from their chief; the muskets were loaded, and the patio two paces off. There was no chance of getting out of it. Still, the General did not let them off so cheaply. The Americans were led home one after the other by four soldiers and an officer, whose instructions were to shoot the prisoner at the slightest attempted escape, and it was not till the General had the two thousand piastres in his hands that a second prisoner was sent home in the same fashion. This went on until the whole sum was collected, and the only persons remaining in the saloon were the General and old Lionel. "Oh, Excellency!" he said, reproachfully, "How is it possible that you, who have hitherto been so kind to us, could have had the thought of committing such an act of cruelty?" The General burst out laughing. "Do you imagine I would have done it?" he said, with a shrug of his shoulder. The merchant struck his forehead with a gesture of despair. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "We were idiots." "Hang it, did you have such a bad opinion of me? Caramba, Señor, I do not commit such acts as that." "Ah," the merchant said, with a laugh, "I have not paid yet." "Which means?" "That now I know what I have to expect. I shall not pay." "Really, I believed you cleverer than that." "Why so?" "What? You do not understand that a man may hesitate to execute thirty persons, but when it comes to only one man, who, like yourself, has a great number of misdeeds on his conscience, his execution is considered an act of justice, and carried out without hesitation?" "Then, you would shoot me?" "Without the slightest remorse." "Come, come, General, you are decidedly stronger than I am." "You flatter me, Señor Lionel." "No, I tell you what I think; it was cleverly played." "You are a judge." "Thanks," he answered, with a modest smile. "To spare you the trouble of having me executed, I will execute myself," he added, good temperedly, as he felt his coat pocket. He drew out a pocketbook crammed with Bank of England notes, and made up the sum of two thousand piastres, which he laid on the table. "I have now only to thank you," the General said, as he picked up the notes. "And I you, Excellency," he answered. "Why so?" "Because you have given me a lesson by which I shall profit when the occasion offers." "Take care, Señor Lionel," the General said, meaningly; "you will not, perhaps, come across a man so good-natured as myself." The merchant restored the portfolio to his pocket, bowed to the General, and went out. It was three o'clock; all had been finished in less than an hour; it was quick work. "Poor scamps, after all, those gringos," the General said, when he was alone; "oh, if we had not to deal with mountaineers and campesinos we should soon settle this population." "General," said an aide-de-camp, as he opened the door, "Colonel Melendez asks whether you will deign to receive him, in spite of the late hour?" "Is Colonel Melendez here?" the General asked in surprise. "He has this instant arrived, General; can he come in?" "Of course; show him in at once." In a few minutes the Colonel appeared. "Here you are at last," the General cried, as he went to meet him; "I fancied you were either dead or a prisoner." "It was a tossup that one of the two events did not happen." "Oh, oh! Then you have something serious to tell me." "Most serious, General." "Hang it, my friend, take a chair and let us talk." "Before all, General," the Colonel remarked, "do you know our position?" "What do you mean?" "Only, General, that you may possibly be ignorant of certain events that have happened." "I think I have heard grave events rumoured, though I do not exactly know what has happened." "Listen, then! The _Libertad_ corvette is in the hands of the insurgents." "Impossible!" the General exclaimed, bounding in his chair. "General," the young officer said, in a mournful voice, "I have to inform you of something more serious still." "Pardon me, my friend, perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems to me highly improbable that you could have obtained such positive news during the pleasure trip you have been making." "Not only, General, have the insurgents seized the _Libertad_, but they have also made themselves masters of the Fort of the Point." "Oh!" the General shouted, as he rose passionately, "this time, Colonel, you are badly informed; the Fort of the Point is impregnable." "It was taken in an hour by thirty Freebooters, commanded by the Jaguar." The General hid his face in his hands, with an expression of despair impossible to render. "Oh! It is too much at once," he exclaimed. "That is not all," the Colonel continued, sharply. "What have you to tell me more terrible than what you have just said?" "A thing that will make you leap with rage and blush with shame, General." The old soldier laid his hand on his heart, as if wishful to arrest its hurried beating, and then said to the Colonel, in a tone of supreme resignation-- "Speak, my friend; I am ready to hear all." The Colonel remained silent for some minutes; the despair of the brave old soldier made him shiver. "General," he said, "perhaps it would be better to defer till tomorrow what I have to say to you; you appear fatigued, and a few hours, more or less, are not of much consequence." "Colonel Melendez," the General said, giving the young officer a searching glance, "under present circumstances a minute is worth an age. I order you to speak." "The insurgents request a parley," the Colonel said, distinctly. "To parley with me?" the General answered, with an almost imperceptible tinge of irony in his voice. "These Caballeros do me a great honour. And what about, pray?" "As they think themselves capable of seizing Galveston, they wish to avoid bloodshed by treating with you." The General rose, and walked sharply up and down the room for some minutes. At length he stopped before the Colonel. "And what would you do in my place?" "I should treat," the young officer replied, unhesitatingly. CHAPTER III. THE RETREAT. After this frankly expressed opinion there was a rather lengthened silence, and the Colonel was the first to resume the conversation. "General," he went on, "you evidently know nothing of the events that have occurred during the last four and twenty hours." "How could I know anything? These demons of insurgents have organised Guerillas, who hold the country and so thoroughly intercept the communications, that out of twenty spies I have sent out, not one has returned." "And not one will return, be assured." "What is to be done, then?" "Do you really wish for my advice, General?" "On my honour, I desire to know your real opinion; for you are the only one among us, I fancy, who really knows what is going on." "I am aware of it. Listen to me, then, and do not feel astonished at anything you may hear, for all is positively true. The information I am about to have the honour of communicating to you was given me, by the Jaguar himself, scarce three hours back, at the Salto del Frayle, whither he invited me to come to converse about some matters in no way connected with politics." "Very good," the General remarked, with a slight smile. "Go on, I am listening to you with the deepest attention." The Colonel felt himself blush under his chief's slightly ironical smile; still he recovered himself, and continued-- "In two words, this is our position: while a few bold men, aided by a privateer brig under the American flag, carried by surprise the _Libertad_--" "One of the finest ships in our navy!" the General interrupted, with a sigh. "Yes, General, but unhappily it is now an accomplished fact. While this was taking place, other insurgents, commanded by the Jaguar in person, got into the Fort of the Point, and carried it almost without a blow." "But what you tell me is impossible!" the old soldier interrupted with a burst of passion. "I tell you nothing that is not rigorously true, General." "The vague rumours that have reached me, led me to suppose that the insurgents had dealt us a fresh blow but I was far from suspecting such a frightful catastrophe." "I swear to you, on my honour, as, a soldier, General, that I only tell you the most rigid truth:" "I believe you, my friend, for I know how brave and worthy of confidence you are. Still, the news you give me is so frightful, that, in spite of myself, I should like to be able to doubt it." "Unhappily, that is impossible." The General, suffering from a fury which was the more terrible as it was concentrated, walked up and down the room, clenching his fists, and muttering broken sentences. The Colonel looked after him sadly, not dreaming of offering him any of those conventional consolations which, far from offering any relief to pain, only render it sharper and more poignant. At the end of some minutes, the General succeeded so far in mastering his emotion as to draw back to his heart the annoyance he felt. He sat down again by the Colonel's side, and took his hand kindly. "You have not yet given me your advice," he said with a ghost of a smile. "If you really insist on my speaking, I will do so, General," the young man answered, "though I am convinced beforehand that our ideas are absolutely similar on this question." "That is probable. Still, my dear Colonel, the opinion of a man of your merits is always precious, and I should be curious to know if I really agree with you." "Be it so, General. This is what I think: we have but insufficient forces to sustain an assault effectively. The town is very badly disposed toward us: I am convinced that it only wants an opportunity to rise and make common cause with the insurgents. On the other hand, it would be a signal act of folly to shut ourselves up in a town with an issue, where we should be forced to surrender--an indelible stain for the Mexican army. For the present, we have no succour to expect from the government of Mexico, which is too much engaged in defending itself against the ambitious men of every description who hold it continually in check, to dream of coming effectively to our assistance, either by sending us reinforcements, or carrying out a diversion in our favour." "What you say is unfortunately only too true; we are reduced to reckon on ourselves alone." "Now, if we obstinately shut ourselves up in the town, it is evident to me that we shall be compelled eventually to surrender. As the insurgents are masters of the sea, it is a mere question of time. On the other hand, if we quit it of our free will, the position will be singularly simplified." "But, in that case, we shall be compelled to treat with these scoundrels?" "I thought so for an instant; but I believe we can easily avoid that misfortune." "In what way? speak, speak, my friend." "The flag of truce the insurgents send you, will not arrive at the cabildo till nine in the morning; what prevents you, General, evacuating the town, ere he makes his appearance?" "Hum!" said the General, growing more and more attentive to the young man's remarks. "Then you propose flight to me?" "Not at all," the Colonel retorted; "remember, General, that the position is admitted, that in war, recoiling is not flying. If we render ourselves masters of the country by leaving the town to the insurgents, by this skilful retreat we place them in the difficult position in which we are today. In the open plains, and through our discipline, we shall be enabled to hold our own against a force four times our strength, which would not be possible here; then, when we have obtained those reinforcements Santa Anna will probably himself bring us ere long, we will re-enter Galveston, which the insurgents will not attempt to defend against us. Such is my opinion, General, and the plan I should adopt, had I the honour to be Governor of this State." "Yes," the General answered, "the advice you offer would have some chance of success, were it possible to follow it. Unluckily, it would be madness to reckon on Santa Anna's support: he would allow us to be crushed, not perhaps of his own will, but compelled by circumstances, and impeded by the constant obstacles the Senate creates for him." "I cannot share your opinion on that point, General; be well assured that the Senate, ill-disposed though it may be to the President of the Republic, is no more desirous to lose Texas than he is. Besides, under the present circumstances, we must make a virtue of necessity; it would be great madness for us to await here the enemy's attack." The General seemed to hesitate for some minutes, then, suddenly forming a determination, he rang a bell. An aide-de-camp appeared. "Let all the general officers assemble here within half an hour," he said. "Begone." The aide-de-camp bowed, and left the room. "You wish it," the General continued, turning to the Colonel; "well, be it so. I consent to follow your advice. Besides, it is, perhaps, the only chance of safety left us at this moment." In Europe, where we are accustomed to see great masses of men come in contact on the field of battle, it would cause a smile to hear the name of army given to what, among us, would not even be a regiment. But we must bear in mind that the new world, excepting North America, is very sparely populated; the inhabitants are scattered over immense districts, and the most imposing regular forces rarely attain the number of five or six thousand men. An army is usually composed of fifteen to eighteen hundred troops, all told, infantry, cavalry, and artillery. And what soldiers! ignorant, badly paid, badly armed, only half obeying their Chiefs, whom they know to be as ignorant as themselves, and in whom they naturally have not the slightest confidence. In Mexico, the military profession, far from being honoured as it is in Europe, is, on the contrary, despised, so that the officers and soldiers are generally blemished men to whom every other career would be closed. The officers, with a few honourable exceptions, are men ruined by debt and in reputation, whose ignorance of their profession is so great, that one of our sergeants could give them lessons. As for the soldiers, they are only recruited among the leperos, thieves, and assassins. Hence the army is a real scourge for the country. It is the army that makes and unmakes the Governments, which succeed each other with perfectly headlong rapidity in Mexico; for, since its pretended emancipation, this unhappy country has witnessed nearly three hundred pronunciamentos, all organised in the army, and carried through for the benefit of the officers, whose only object is to be promoted. Still, what we say is not absolute. We have known several Mexican officers, highly educated and honourable men; unluckily their number is so limited, that they are impotent to remedy the evil, and are constrained to put up with what they cannot prevent. General Rubio was undeniably one of the most honourable officers in the Mexican army. Still, we have seen that he did not hesitate to plunder the very persons whom his duty obliged him to protect against all annoyance. My readers can judge by this example, selected from a thousand, what tricks the other Generals play. The corps d'armée placed under the command of General Rubio, and shut up with him in Galveston, only amounted to nine hundred and fifty officers and men, to whom might be found at a given signal some three hundred lanceros scattered in little posts of observation along the coast. Though incapable of effectually defending the town, this force, well directed, might hold in check for a long time the worse armed, and certainly worse disciplined insurgents. The General had rapidly seen the value of the Colonel's advice. The plan the latter proposed was, in truth, the only practicable one, and hence he accepted it at once. Still, it was necessary to act with vigour; the sun was rising, and the coming day was Sunday; hence it was important that the army should have evacuated the town before the end of mass, that is to say, eleven in the morning, for the following reason: In all the slave states, and especially in Texas, a strange custom exists, reminding us distantly of the Lupercalia of ancient Rome. On a Sunday masters grant their slaves entire liberty; one day in seven is certainly not much; but it is a great deal for the Southern States, where slavery is so sternly and strictly established. These poor slaves, who seek compensation for six days of hard servitude, enjoy with childish delight their few holiday hours: not caring a whit for the torrid heat that transforms the streets into perfect ovens, they spread over the town singing, dancing, or galloping at full speed in carts belonging to their masters which they have appropriated. On this day the town belongs to them, they behave almost as they please, no one interfering or trying to check their frolic. General Rubio rightly feared lest the merchants of Galveston, whom he had so cleverly compelled to disgorge, might try to take their revenge by exciting the slaves to mutiny against the Mexicans, and they would probably be ready enough to do so, delighted at finding a pretext for disorder, without troubling themselves further as to the more or less grave results of their mutiny. Hence, while his aide-de-camp performed the commission he had entrusted to him, General Rubio ordered Colonel Melendez to take with him all the soldiers on duty at the Cabildo, place himself at their head, and seize the requisite number of boats for the transport of the troops to the main land. This order was not difficult to execute. The Colonel, without losing a moment, went to the port, and not experiencing the slightest opposition from the captains and masters of the vessels, who were well aware, besides, that a refusal would not be listened to, assembled a flotilla of fifteen light vessels, amply sufficient for the transport of the garrison. In the meanwhile, the aide-de-camp had performed his duties with intelligence and celerity, so that within twenty minutes all the Mexican officers were collected at the General's house. The latter, without losing a moment, explained to them in a voice that admitted of no reply, the position in which the capture of the fort placed the garrison, the necessity of not letting the communication with the mainland be cut off, and his intention of evacuating the town with the least possible delay. The officers, as the General expected, were unanimous in applauding his resolution, for in their hearts they were not at all anxious to sustain a siege in which only hard blows could be received. Taking the field pleased them, on the contrary, for many reasons: in the first place, the pillage of the estancias and the haciendas offered them great profits, and then they had a hope of taking a brilliant revenge on the insurgents for the numerous defeats the latter had inflicted on them since they had been immured in the town. Orders were therefore immediately given by the General to march the troops down to the quay with arms and baggage; still, in order to avoid any cause for disorder, the movement was executed very slowly, and the Colonel, who presided over the embarkation, was careful to establish numerous posts at the entrance of each street leading to the port, so that the populace were kept away from the soldiers, and no disputes were possible between them. So soon as one boat had its complement of troops on board it pushed off, though it did not start, as the General wished the entire flotilla to leave the town together. It was a magnificent day, the sun dazzled, and the bay sparkled like a burning-glass. The people, kept at a distance by the bayonets of the soldiers, watched in gloomy silence the embarkation of the troops. Alarmed by this movement, which they did not at all understand, and were so far from suspecting the departure of the Mexican garrison, that they supposed, on the contrary, that the General was proceeding with a portion of his troops to make an expedition against the insurgents. When all the soldiers, with the exception of those intended to protect the retreat of their comrades, had embarked, the General sent for the alcade mayor, the Juez de letras, and the corregidor. These magistrates came to the General, concealing, but poorly, under a feigned eagerness, the secret alarm caused them by the order they had just received. In spite of the rapidity with which the troops effected their embarkation, it was by this time nearly nine o'clock. At the moment when the General was preparing to address the magistrates whom he had so unexpectedly convened, Colonel Melendez entered the cabildo, and after bowing respectfully to the Governor, said-- "General, the person to whom I had the honour of referring last night is awaiting your good pleasure." "Ah! Ah!" the General replied, biting his moustache with an ironical air, "Is he there, then?" "Yes, General; I have promised to act as his introducer to your Excellency." "Very good. Request the person to enter." "What!" the Colonel exclaimed, in surprise, "Does your Excellency intend to confer with him in the presence of witnesses?" "Certainly, and I regret there are not more here. Bring in the person, my dear Colonel." "Has your Excellency carefully reflected on the order you have done me the honour to give me?" "Hang it! I should think so. I am sure you will be satisfied with what I am about to do." "As you insist, General," the Colonel said with marked hesitation, "I can only obey." "Yes, yes, my friend, obey; do not be uneasy, I tell you." The Colonel withdrew without any further remark, and in a few moments returned, bringing John Davis with him. The American had changed his dress for one more appropriate to the circumstances. His demeanour was grave, and step haughty, though not arrogant. On entering the room he bowed to the General courteously, and prepared to address him. General Rubio returned his bow with equal courtesy, but stopped him by a sign. "Pardon me, sir," he said to him, "be kind enough to excuse me for a few moments. Perhaps, after listening to what I shall have the honour of saying to these Caballeros, you will consider your mission to me as finished." The American made no further reply than a bow, and waited. "Señores," the General then said, addressing the magistrates, "orders I have this moment received compel me to leave the town at once with the troops I have the honour to command. During my absence I entrust the direction of affairs to you, feeling convinced that you will act in all things prudently and for the common welfare. Still, you must be cautious not to let yourselves be influenced by evil counsels, or led by certain passions to which I will not allude now, particularly here. On my return, which will not be long delayed, I shall ask of you a strict account of your acts during my absence. Weigh my words carefully, and be assured that nothing you may do will be concealed from me." "Then, General," the Alcade said, "that is the motive of the movement of the troops we have witnessed this morning. Do you really intend to depart?" "You have heard me, Señor." "Yes, I have heard you, General; but in my turn, in my capacity as magistrate, I will ask you by what right you, the military governor of the state, leave one of its principal ports to its own resources in the present critical state of affairs, when the revolution is before our gates, and make not the slightest attempt to defend us? Is it really acting as defenders of this hapless town thus to withdraw, leaving it, after your departure, a prey to that
exclusion of these danglers on the skirts of good breeding. It is a sad thing, that we have such an abundance of _manners_ in the world, and so little _character_: that men think so little, they have mostly become frivolous and superficial: that frivolous and superficial manners, best become them. This is true however. We _have_ lost the substance, and taken the shadow; and now, in groping for it, we have got a substitute, without one of the virtues of its expatriated pre-occupant. But though the age is not one marked by any very severe exercise of thought, and though utilitarian principles are threatening to sweep away almost every kind of speculative knowledge, yet we are not greatly fearful as to the result. The system is revolving, and a better succession will soon be among us. And why? Our hope is, in the fast increasing intelligence of the world. Though we might, and, did we give our mind, we should, find complaint, in respect to many of the features of the spirit of the day, deeming it too clamorous, and active, as having a tendency to injure what is pure and beautiful, in the ideal world—still, intelligence is fast and widely diffused; and on the whole, doubtless, the good will predominate. Those rank plants among us, such as false taste, sickly sensibility, affectation, and the like, will be crowded out by those of healthier growth, and society put on a new aspect; while, as evils, we shall have too much of a captious, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which rejects every thing not immediately communicated, through the medium of the senses. This, however, will be counteracted in some degree, by the few that _do_ think: and, further, by that _other_ few, who in all states of society hold their own, uncontaminated by that which is about them. These are they who bring into existence with them, those susceptibilities of harmony in the natural and moral world—minds, which separate them from their fellows—feelings, which earth never appreciates—and aspirations, which carry them up to breathe in a purer atmosphere, where the bustle, ‘and hoarse enginery of Life’ cannot come. These, we say, have an influence in society, though they are above it—‘birds of heavenly plumage fair,’ that, stooping occasionally from higher regions, appear for a moment, and then are gone. In conclusion: the benefit of thought is most manifest, in that proper self-confidence, without which, there is no real dignity of character. To be a growing man, is to be a confident one; and the secret of greatness, lies in the consciousness of the ability to be great. We should be sorry to advocate folly,—modesty, we are taught from our cradles, is a virtue,—but by some unaccountable process, the thing has got to signifying something, better designated sheepishness; and hence, we have an _animal_ virtue. Different from these, however, are our ideas of modesty. True modesty is that proper appreciation of one’s own powers, which leads him never to offend, either by bashfulness or presumption: now, who so likely to hit the mark, as he who knows the strength of the bow. The workings of a great mind, conscious of its capacities—and its aspirations for eminence, are, in distinction to the greatness of little men, as opposite as possible—the one a mighty river, always overflowing, and enriching the soil through which it moves, with its abundant and generous fullness—the other an insignificant stream, always within its banks, as grudging the smallest pittance to the scene around. To be a modest man in a certain usage, is to be an ignorant one—for to underrate one’s self, and be honest in it, is to show ignorance of self; and he who knows not himself, has skipped the first page in the book of wisdom: but to be a modest man in a right sense, is to be a wise one—for it is a knowledge of self (which we suppose constitutes a wise man) that enables one to seize upon and retain, his proper station in society. It is this latter kind of modesty which is commendable. It is that of great men. It is that which, meet it where we will, we love to praise. Milton could stop, mid-word in one of his loudest invectives against the rotten fabric of Episcopacy, and speak of himself as ‘a poet sitting in the high regions of his fancy, with his garlands and singing robes about him’—and, with voice like the wild note of prophecy, proclaim ‘the great argument,’ as yet sleeping in the darkness of his vision; and of his confidence to produce a work ‘that posterity should not willingly let die.’ Was this folly? and yet, it was a full appreciation of what the great God had given him. No! It was knowledge—knowledge at home—knowledge gained by thought—the knowledge of energies proud enough, to build up a colossal monument to posterity—_and he did it_. These are some of the advantages, we think, of a substantial knowledge of ourselves; and when we look at the age, and see how headlong it is, and how dangerously practical it is becoming; too much cannot be said, and too loudly it cannot be spoken, that there is need of more reflection, and more forethought. ODE. THE BIRTH OF POESY. Spirit that floatest o’er me now, So beautiful, so bright, I know thee by that lip, that brow, That eye of beaming light. Hail! Sovereign of the golden lyre, Rapture-breathing God, All Hail! We bow beneath thy rod, Who dost, for aye, the glowing thought inspire. Hail! Radiant One, we welcome thee, Heaven-born, holy Poesy! Spirit who weavest Thy sweet spells so strong, Answer me, answer me, Spirit of Song, Where was thy birth-place, Where is thy home, Why, o’er the doom’d earth, Spirit, dost thou roam? “When the dewy earth was young, When the flowers of Eden sprung, When first woman’s smile exprest All the heaven of her breast, Then and there I had my birth, In the infancy of earth. “Angel-hands my cradle made, Woven gay from every flower, And they swung it in the shade, Sheltered from the noon-tide hour, While the balmy air that crept Murmuring thro’ the waving trees, Rocked me gently till I slept In the music of the breeze. “Then, a hollow shell they brought, Strung across with golden wires, Every chord with passion fraught, Thrills with joy, with hope inspires. Angel-songs at eve I heard Rise from many a circling hill, And my harp whene’er ’t is stirr’d Trembles to their cadence still! “I am the spirit of joy and of mirth, And I gladden the hearts of the sons of earth, I twine a chaplet of deathless flowers For the fair young brows of the laughing Hours, I show to the Poet’s dreaming eye, The shadowy realms of Phantasy, A charm o’er the earth and the air I fling,— Such are the offerings I bring. Beings that people the depths of air, Come when I speak my wizard prayer; I tell my will, and away! away! O’er the boundless fields of glowing day, Where the quivering sunbeams ever play, Onward and onward they wing their flight, Brightening towards the source of light. Beings that people the depths of sea, Rise at my call and bow before me, And they bear me down to their coral caves, Where ever the roll of Sapphire waves Thro’ vaulted roof and temples dim, Sounds forth a strange and solemn hymn. But would’st thou know where I love to dwell, And where I weave my strongest spell,— Where beameth the light of woman’s eye, Where flowers spring up, there, there, am I!” S. MACBETH. “There is some soul of goodness in things evil.”—_King Henry V._ Macbeth is a historical character. He is one of those who stand on the page of history as personifications of vice, rather than as men who possess any thing in common with ourselves. They distinguished themselves by a career of crime—in general that crime arose from ambition,—their names have become a proverb, and are associated in our minds with a particular form of vice as the entire and bare sum of their character. Yet when thus viewed, what are called examples affect us little more than a lifeless homily. They raise in us no sympathy, and of course no interest. They may indeed excite a hatred of that abstract form of vice, but against that we feel secure, and we make no attempt to derive from them any further benefit. Our abhorrence forbids; for we look upon them not as human beings with their varying hues, but as monsters, almost as monsters born. This horror, thus excited at personified vice, seems to speak well for our hearts, yet it will be found to prevent us from taking discriminating views of such characters, and from deriving any practical wisdom from them. We do not reflect that they were men like ourselves, that though deeply sunk in vice, they were once as innocent as we may suppose ourselves to be; that it was by objects working upon what is within every one of us, that they became what they were; that the deeper they were involved in the coil of wickedness, the more narrowly does it become us, would we derive true wisdom or true knowledge from them, to search out those places in the heart where its cords were first fastened on them; to find what was first effectually touched to make them what they were. Nor do we reflect that to obtain any practical knowledge of men, it is no way to separate whatever of good there may be in such characters, from the bad, however great it may be; since it is only to be obtained by observing the struggle between the two as they actually stand connected. Nor need we fear to admire too much, that, in the most vicious mind, which is worthy of our admiration; as if we should detest vice the less, for seeing the ruin it makes, or for detecting its insidiousness in undermining the fair qualities which may call forth our praise. An excellent means of thus presenting to us the characters of history, as they are in their original cast, and as they progress or change in the course of events, may be found in the drama. The living beings in all their “intensity of life,” are before us; with the circumstances of life about them—whether actual circumstances or not is of little importance, if they are such as might have been expected. The scenes of a whole life pass rapidly, yet distinctly and freshly before us, as imagination loves, and as we should review the eventful life of one whom we had well known. The tragedy before us moves towards its conclusion with a fearful rapidity, which we vainly wish to detain; and is invested with a stern and awful solemnity, disturbed only by thrilling scenes of horror. Macbeth, the kinsman of king Duncan, and general of his army, returning from a victorious battle, is met by three witches, two of whom hail him with titles of nobility, which are almost instantly confirmed, and the third with that of future king. Led by this and his own ambition, he, at the suggestion of his wife, murders at midnight the king whom he had entertained, and charges the deed upon his guards. He is crowned, and to maintain his crown, is led into a series of butcheries, which ends in his own death by the hand of Macduff, aided by the English, who had been invited over by the sons of the murdered Duncan. It might seem, at first view, that Macbeth is only one among the slaves of a vulgar ambition, which implies a mind already hardened, and which, attracted by some splendid object, sets itself, from purely selfish ends, to the attainment of it, and after some visitings of remorse, becomes thoroughly obdurate. The elements of such a character are gross and palpable; the representations obvious; and it is, we think, under this impression that this play has been pronounced to contain “no nice discriminations of character.”[1] But if we consider that Macbeth is in a great degree the subject of influence, acted upon rather than acting, and in some respects more sinned against than sinning; and how, at last, it is the sarcasm of his wife, and the fear of disappointing her whom he loves, full as much as his own ambition, which prevails on him to do the murder, the character becomes more complicated, and we are constrained to find the good and bad in it more evenly balanced, than we at first thought they could be. The truth about Macbeth seems to be, that with the peculiar openness of a hero, and with all his grandeur of intellect, together with nice discrimination of all that may become a man, he is wanting in that _energy of reflection_, which imparts integrity or moral entireness to the mind. In this respect, his conduct is well contrasted with that of Banquo, upon the reception of the infernal prediction. The want of this trait accounts also for the fact, that he is never self-possessed in his wickedness, and never acts properly upon a selfish plan. For this reason, when we mark the many pure and bright qualities, which might form the elements of a most noble character, and of whose value the ingenuous owner seems hardly conscious, we are tempted to exclaim in another sense, “O Fortunatus! sua si bona noverit!” And when we see these tarnished and obscured by means of deceit which he does not comprehend, or if he does, has not sufficient energy to dispel, though we cannot greatly respect, we can still admire and pity him. We cannot view him with the same feelings as we do Richard III, wholly remorseless, and self-possessed in wickedness absolutely unredeemed; nor as we do that cool, contriving villain, Iago. On account of his openness of mind also, his character will be best understood, not by formal analysis, but by following him through the various circumstances in which he is placed, and observing their effects on a mind too genial not to receive them, and withal too transparent to hide them. Let us take him then as he is first presented to us. He is a hero. This character also remains with him throughout. It is heroism which urges him to deeds of high daring, which prompts his mind to its lofty conceptions of greatness, which struggles long and hard with his conscience, but at last plunges him in guilt, propelling him deeper and deeper into it, and called out in its utmost grandeur and intensity in braving the cowardice of remorse. But with the hero’s bravery and lion strength, there is united also the “milk of human kindness,” and the tenderest pity; for who, other than he who copied from his own breast, would have conceived of it thus, even when it opposed directly his designs. And _pity_, like a _naked newborn babe_, Striding the blast, or heav’ns cherubim, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. But above all, as a hero he “is not without ambition.” Yet he is also “without the illness should attend it.” Naturally noble and ingenuous, his ambition up to this time had been rather than any thing else, an aimless, generous aspiring after that which should fill his own capacity, and sought no other reward for manly deeds than the doing them. It was consistent also with a state of high and pure moral feeling, as is not that which has always an end in view, and is always planning and plotting for it. Accordingly, we find it combined in him with great purity and ingenuousness of heart. “What he would highly, that would he holily.” Still it was dangerous, and, no guide to itself, was liable to take shape and direction from any conjunction of circumstances. Until now, however, he had gone with it securely and uprightly. He seems to have been kept in the path of duty and honor by the generous impulses of his nature, and perhaps more, with his peculiar openness, by the favorable influence of his kinsman the “good king Duncan,” whom he heartily loves and admires. But now the trial is to come; to come too with circumstances, and at a time exactly adapted to overcome _him_. In the midst of an intoxicating self-complacency at his victory, a state of mind peculiarly genial for the reception of any suggestions favoring his promotion, he is met by three supernatural beings, (to him at least they were such,) in whom, from childhood, he had had an unwavering faith. That faith is confirmed by the almost instant fulfillment of two of their predictions. The third is unavoidably suggested to his mind as a necessary consequence. A strong conviction, amounting to a belief of destiny, that it must be fulfilled, seems from that time to have taken hold of his mind. And how is it to be done. His mind shrinks with ingenuous horror from the only way: he must _murder_ the king. He strives to escape from the idea. His mind cannot, with all its ambition, and all its heroism, look clearly through the deed to its end. It cannot _see_ in the wrong direction. It is untaught and unskilled in the ways of cunning wickedness. He is not sufficient master of himself to climb over the horror which rises before him. Nor yet has he _energy_ enough to get away from it. That strong conviction of the necessity of the deed, full as much, at least, as the desirableness of its end, still enchains him. He might indeed have reflected that it lay with him to do it or not, but he does not, and perhaps it was hardly to be expected that _he should_. His ambition, which had been the habit of his life, and which he had hitherto trusted in as his good guide, has received a direction which he cannot change, towards a point from which he cannot divert it. He is as it were _spell-bound_. Still he cannot consent; he even decides not to do it. His newly-won honor, gratitude, reputation which was most dear to him, admiration for Duncan, and pity for him as his intended victim, all forbid. Here his wife comes in, and by some of the finest rhetoric of sophistry, sarcasm, and rebuke for his want of heroism, induces him to “bend himself up to the terrible feat.” The part of the play about this crisis is peculiarly fine. There is the dagger scene, in which conscience is seen exerting its full sway over a mind which owns it not. In the night scene, especially, the author seems to have exerted himself to bring in every thing that could add to the horror of the scene. Though we are not introduced to the murder, yet we are made so fully to participate in the horrors of the murderer, that the effect is greater than if it had been so. All indeed that is presented to the senses, is the most ordinary. The scene is rendered _hideous_ by the knocking at the door, and the ill-timed jollity of the unconscious porter, more, perhaps, than by any thing else. Of Macbeth little more need be said, nor are we inclined to pursue the subject farther. Yet amidst all the dark and “strange deeds,” in which his heroism and the destiny of guilt involve him, and amidst all his desperation, he still exhibits longings for his former state of innocence and peace. For the murdered Duncan his feelings are none other than those of respectful compassion. In the very midst also of his deeds of guilt, and amidst his struggles with remorse, he reveals to his wife his anguish with the utmost tenderness of reposing affection. These things throw a softening over a character which would otherwise be purely abhorrent to our feelings. The idea of fate still clings to him, and the belief that by the murder of Duncan, he had more closely associated himself with those hellish beings who had led him on, adds yet another shade to the darkness of his mind. In an agony of desperation he consults them to learn, “by the worst means the worst.” From that hour, we feel that his doom is fixed; knowing that though They “keep the words of promise to his ear,” They’ll “break it to his hope.” Thus it proves. Macbeth seeing one promise after another in which he had trusted, failing him, at last throws himself upon his own courage, which, as an acquired habit of the field at least, had never left him. With sword in hand he dies. Lady Macbeth, who by her amazing, and fearful energy of intellect, could suppress remorse as long as there was any object to be accomplished, when at length her mind is left objectless, feels it in its most terrible power. When upon such a mind remorse fastens its fangs, that mind turns upon its devourer with an energy strong as its own power to grasp, and enduring as its hold. Nothing sooner than death can end the struggle. And now that we are at the end of this fearful and gloomy history, we may just review the scene. Duncan, the meek and guileless father-king, shedding around him a cheerful, genial light! Macbeth, growing up in that light, and promising to reflect it back on its giver, and to add to its splendor! But that light is put out in darkness: a more fearful darkness comes over the _guilty man_, spreading to all about him, and gathering gloom, as we are hurried rapidly and certainly to the consummation. At length, when virtue reappears, though it be in the form of an avenger, the darkness begins to move away; and light, though mild and chastened, just gilds the scene as it closes. G. THE CASCADE. ‘It leapt and danced along all joyously, Till winter winds swept o’er it.——’ I saw, as I stood by a mountain’s side On a lovely summer day, When the light winds in the vale had died, And all was fresh and gay— A cascade beautiful and clear All gaily laughing in the sun, As it dashed upon its bed of stone, Sprinkling the wild flowers near. And I thought how sweet it were to dwell Beside that dashing stream, Watching the white foam where it fell, And vanished like a dream: To list as its murmurs flew along In all their thrilling harmony, And mingled in sweet symphony, With the wood-bird’s gushing song. · · · · · The autumn winds swept through that wood, With a sad and mournful sound; Decay was in its solitude, And dead leaves spread the ground:— And I sighed, and cast a sorrowing look, As I passed that spot again; For Winter had thrown his icy chain Across that gushing brook. _March 1st, 1836._ H. STORY AND SENTIMENT, OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION. No. 2. A WORD WITH THE READER. ‘Ho! how he prates of himself—listen!’ _Dryden’s Bride._ READER,— If I was so fortunate as to please thee with my former offering—how shall I, as I resume my labors of this month, so weave from the store-house of my fancy such another vision, as shall make thee extend the hand of amity, and give me a second approving smile. To scribble for another, when you know not his taste—to attempt to bring out such a ‘conceit,’ as shall catch his kindness, and hurry him along with you into good humor, has ever, since the earliest essays in story writing, been accounted a delicate business. And why? because what pleases you, fair lady, pleases not my fellow student; and what pleases you, fellow student, pleases not somebody else; so a man finds himself like the bundle of oats betwixt—no, no! (Apollo forgive me!) I mean like the ass betwixt two bundles, &c. Washington Irving (Heaven bless him! and pardon _me_ for whipping his name into my thoughtless lucubrations) has somewhere—finding himself in a similar predicament—made this remark; ‘if the reader find, here and there, something to please him, let him rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but should he find any thing to dislike, let him tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste.’ Allow me to say the same. You should know, I think, by this time, that I am devoted to thy interest, as completely so, as ever belted knight on plain of Palestine, to his ‘ladye love,’—that my feelings and sympathies go out to thee, as a bee to its bower, a bird to its forest-nest, or any other of the bright creatures of God to the home of their affections—(by the by, you may smile at this. Stop! I know you’re not my ‘ladye love,’ nor am I a bee, or a bird, or any such nonsense; but, by my ‘saying of this simile,’ as sweet Sir Philip hath it, I meant only to apprise thee of my extreme devotion. You understand?),—that I would do any thing, to witch from thee, the heart-ache, even to the disquiet of the pleasant comfortableness of one of my soft, selfish, afternoon reveries,—that I would spend the last drop of my—no! not my blood exactly, for much as I love you, I love myself better; but I mean, I would spend the last drop of my—_ink_, to please you; and that you know is much better—for the ink of a literary man, _id est_ a poetical one, is worth more than his blood and body together. But, though I have such a love for you, it would be sad, if, like the Paddy’s saddle-bags, it should all be found on one side; for I can no more prosper—and, if I must confess it, can no more love you without some remuneration, than a lover could kiss the turf on which his mistress had stepped, or make sonnets to her eye-brows, when she frowned on him. She is the sun of his existence, the centre, the cynosure of his passions, hopes, and dreams—to which, through the darkness that the world flings about him, he may send his longing eye, and his heart’s holiest aspirations. _You_ are the sun of _my_ being—the centre—cynosure—_et cetera, et cetera_; and it is equally impossible that I can make verses and stories for you, when every time I look up, I see that horrible scowl on your face—Pray, put it off. But I’ll not believe you hate me—and when you receive this fresh number, and open upon this page for the _morceau_ I have for you, I know ye’ll give me a pleasant smile, and, with the honest Scotchman, say, ‘Deil! but I winna gie ither than thanks to a daft callan like ye.’ But—to business. * * * * * Talking with my friend one day on the subject of dueling, he gave me the following story. THE DUEL.[2] ‘Men should wear softer hearts, And tremble at these licens’d butcheries, Even as other murders.’ _Bryant._ If there is one damning custom among the sons of men, ’tis dueling. Call it not murder—willful killing is murder; but this cool, calculating, exulting killing—killing not in madness, not in despair, when the heart tossed on a surge of passion, strikes, and repents next moment; but the coolly looking at the spot where the heart lies; the putting the dagger there calculatingly; and then, instead of pressing it home fiercely, thrusting it into the warm flesh, inch by inch, till the hot blood spurts over the fingers, and clots on the garments—this, what is this? Oh! call it not murder—murder is a thing of earth—earthly passions do it. But this—go to the pit where the damned shriek, and howl—select the most fiendish scheme of the prince of fiends—then, and then only, shall you have a parallel. It was once my lot, to be a secondary actor, in a case of ‘honorable butchery;’ and one so black in itself, so heart-rending in consequences, that it is graven into my brain as with a stamp of fire. God of Heaven! when I think of it, even at this distance of time—when I see my friend stiff, ghastly, and stretched on the wet sands—when I hear the groans, which I heard there—when I see innocence, beauty, confiding affection, hanging over the yet warm corse, and pouring forth tears, as if crushed from the bottom of a heart loaded with the agony of ages—and then see the same creature, the inmate of a mad-house, and hear the moans and ravings for the dead object—and, with the peculiar characteristic of such insanity, accusing the loved one of coldness, ingratitude, unfaithfulness, and the like,—I say again, ages could not wipe out the recollection. You are aware, that in the southern states, especially in the extreme south, men are guided more by their passions than at the north,—that there, dueling is little cared for,—that courageous is he who has shot his man,—that those only are cowards, who pale at blood, human blood, blood shed by their own hands. In no part of the south is this custom more prevalent, than at Natchez, on the Mississippi. New Orleans will not compare with it, or would not in the year 1816, the period of my story, and when I was a resident of that place. New Orleans, bad as it is, possessing greater means of indulgence, with its wealth to support theatres, gambling-houses, cock-pits, horse-races, and other such amusements—with its motley assemblage of inhabitants, Spanish, French, English, and Americans amalgamated,—with all these, it is not so bad as Natchez; and for this reason—that there are those, and in great numbers there, belonging to the northern and better regulated states, from whom, an imperceptible indeed, yet nevertheless great influence is sent into that community, and the people with more wickedness perhaps, have more conscience than any other of the extreme southern cities. Natchez, it will be remembered, is on the eastern side of the Mississippi, and on one of the bends of that magnificent river, withdrawn a little from its banks, and sloping handsomely down to its flowing waters. Above and below the immediate town, are many eligible and pleasant sites for country seats, should that part of the country ever possess wealth and taste enough, to think of building them. But at the period of my story, there was nothing of the kind. Dark pine groves, and impenetrable thicks of beech and sycamore, with their lofty branches intertwined in many a wild convolution, made a high and thick canopy for the wearied traveler; while the beautiful flowers of the region, among which was the splendid magnolia, gave the forest, the freshness and fragrance of a lady’s flower garden. From morn till night, the woods were alive with music, and over all, was that sweet harmonist of nature, the American mocking-bird, with its rising and falling, ever-varying modulations—now screaming like the startled vulture of the cliffs—and now sinking away with a witching alternation of soft, plaintive, heart-moving minstrelsy, sufficient, it would seem, to charm rocks and forest trees,—He who built Thebes, would have thrown away his instrument in despair, could he have heard but one note of this wild-wood melodist. I said there were no country seats there. I mistake. There was one bright spot, about twelve miles above Natchez, which, though it had small pretensions to the surpassing beauty of some of the fine superstructures on these northern rivers; nevertheless, for that day and place, it was, certainly, an elegant and hospitable mansion. That it was hospitable, many a man, yet living, can testify—for many were the travelers, visiting in that region, who spent days there, and enjoyed the rich hospitality and urbane attentions of its warm-souled, accomplished proprietor. This man, Charles Glenning, was certainly as gentlemanly a person as I ever knew. He was educated at the north—had spent his early days there—but for the sake of business, to which he betook him on leaving College, he went to the south, carrying with him as bright a bud of feminine loveliness, as ever God suffered to bloom in this uncongenial, ugly world. I cannot paint her—there’s no telling how beautiful she was. It wasn’t beauty of feature; neither was it beauty of mind—and yet, it was beauty of a high and ardent cast, which made you feel you were in the presence of a spirit, the moment you came near her. Forehead white as death—yet, neither intellectual nor otherwise,—soft blue eyes, that made you think they were little pieces cut out of the bluest summer sky,—complexion like ivory,—lips like the finest evening tints, in the back ground of one of Claude Lorraine’s landscapes,—and a figure as faultless as ever was hewn from the Pentelican marble, or set a painter a dreaming over his easel.—Imagine these, and you may get a glimpse of the laughing, bright-eyed Isabel Glenning. Her love for her husband was as strange as her beauty. O! the treasure—the full, proud treasures of such a heart as that! Dive into mines—bring up jewels—fill your dwelling—win sceptres—ride the world like Cæsar or Alexander—and then offer me the pure, deep, devoted, heart’s affection of such a spiritual creature as she was, and I would spurn them all as the dirty commerce of dirtier minds. She lived only for him—she dreamed only for him—he was all. Place her in a palace, in an Esquimaux hut; in a fairyland, in a desert; no matter where—only with him—him she had chosen to live and die with, and her cup was full. The circumstances which led me to their acquaintance were peculiar, and such as entwined me into their best feelings. They had been married about four summers; and the fruits of their union, was a little, crowing, curly headed boy, sweet as his mother’s beauty. I was hunting on the side of the Mississippi, one warm afternoon, when I observed something floating at a distance, which by means of my dog, was brought to land; and, to my surprise, were presented the lifeless, yet still warm features of this same little fellow. It seemed that playing near the river, he had fallen in, and was near about breathing his last. Taking him in my arms, I hurried home, and just in time to save him. From that hour, they loved me as a brother. My story now leads me a little from the straight track, I have kept thus far—but ’tis necessary to turn aside a little, for the sake of the dark catastrophe, which brought
ceased altogether to be spoken or even remembered, and together with them the Roman religion. The change is complete, as well it might be in that long time--as long as between the death of Charles I. and the accession of Edward VII. This blank in the history is all the more marked because no inscriptions have survived. We have a few--very few--examples of writing before the Romans left. We have not a line, not a letter, during those 250 years, and when we find anything again, the writers are Anglo-Saxon--the language is entirely changed, so entirely that not even one local name survives. It may be necessary to note here that some excellent authorities, finding certain traces of Roman law and customs existing in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have formed the opinion that such laws were relics of the Roman occupation. It would be interesting if we could accept this view, just as if, for example, we could say that Paternoster Row was so named by the Romans. But, as I shall have to point out a little further, the origin of such usages is obvious without any recourse to the revival of laws dead and buried centuries before; if, indeed, they ever existed among people whose very language had wholly died out and been forgotten. It is, to say the least, unlikely that a continuity should exist in this respect, while the language in which it must have been preserved, orally, if not in records, died out and left not a trace even in a local name. [Illustration: BRONZE PIN WITH CHRISTIAN EMBLEMS (ROMAN).] I had written so far when I received Mr. Gomme's very interesting volume on the Governance of London. I greatly regret to say I cannot make his views fit with most of the facts I have endeavoured to put into chronological order above. For example, Roman London, when walled, was a Christian city. When the Saxons had held it from about 457 to 609, it was, we know, a heathen city, and twice afterwards returned to the worship of Woden and Thor. Is this compatible with the survival of a Roman constitution? Or, again, is there any London custom or law which might not have come to it from the cities of Flanders and Gaul more easily than after the changes and chances of two or three centuries? This is not the place to discuss these and other similar questions, and I for one will be extremely glad if Mr. Gomme can prove his point in the face of so much which seems to tell against him. The East Saxons, it is pretty certain, made but little use of London. We only hear of it when the King of Kent, Ethelbert, set up Sebert, his sister's son, as King of Essex, and having become Christian himself, sent Mellitus, a Roman priest, to preach to Sebert and his people, making him Bishop of London. So much we learn from the _Chronicle_ under the year 609. Next, in Beda, we read that Ethelbert furthermore built the church of St. Paul in London for Mellitus, "where he and his successors should have their episcopal see." Beda also tells us that the Metropolis of the East Saxons is London; so that when we, at the present day, speak of it as the Metropolis, we mean it is the chief ecclesiastical city of Essex; which shows the absurdity of a phrase very common at the present day. Sebert lived till 616 or later, but there is no distinct mention of his life in London. His supposed burial, whether in St. Paul's or at Westminster, belongs to monkish legendary lore, and cannot be discussed as serious history. When his three sons turned back from Christianity they were attacked and slain by the men of Wessex, who seem to have acquired an ascendancy over the East Saxons which they retained till the Danish wars and the settlement of Alfred. When we next hear of a bishop, he is a missionary from the West Saxons. The brother of the great Chad, the bishop of the Mercians, Cedd, is invited to preach to the heathen East Saxons by Oswy, King of Northumbria. We may take Oswy as godfather of the East Saxon king, Sigebert; but there are many names with little certainty in the few contemporary records. In the confusion Sigebert is murdered, and of his successor we know nothing. He may have reigned at Kingsbury or at Tilbury, where--not in London--Cedd preached: at Colchester or at St. Albans. Then there comes a story of "simony," in which the influence of Worcester is again apparent. Then, at last, we have some documentary evidence. The kings, or kinglets, of Essex were usually two in number. At this time they were Sebbi and his colleague, Sighere, and they both witness a gift made by their cousin Hothilred to Barking Abbey. The document is printed by Kemble in _Codex Diplomaticus_ (vol. i.), and is dated by him in 692 or 693. After this date again the East Saxons--there is not a word about London--become pagans. Sighere and his people of the "East Saxon province" are mentioned by Beda. The subjects of Sebbi remain steadfast, and if we care to guess they will probably be found to have belonged to the "Middlesaxon province." It is mentioned in a document relating to Twickenham, which is described as in that part of the province, and is signed by Swaebred, King of the East Saxons, under the sanction of Coenred, King of Mercia. The same year that Hothilred gave his land to Barking, the great legendary benefactor of that nunnery died. This was Erkenwald, Abbot of Chertsey, who had become Bishop of London in 675. Two years before, in 673, there is a distinct mention of a church in London. The Archbishop of Canterbury consecrated a bishop of Dunwich "in the city of London." The next mention is by Beda, who tells us of the appointment of Erkenwald, and immediately after of the death of King Sebbi and his burial "in the church of the blessed apostle of the Gentiles." It thus appears likely that both Erkenwald and Sebbi lived in London. It does not follow that Erkenwald built or rebuilt Bishopsgate. Newgate was in existence under the name of Westgate very soon after. As it opened near the church, it is surely more likely that Erkenwald rebuilt it than the northern gate; but the history of this bishop is so overlaid with monkish legend that we do not require any guesswork. [Illustration: GOLD AND ENAMEL BROOCH (NINTH CENTURY). _Found in Thames Street._] In the same way Offa, King of Essex, son of Sighere, is constantly confused with Offa, the great King of Mercia. That one of the two had a house in London is very likely, and is noticed by Matthew Paris. But it is curious that the great Offa's biographers wholly omit to mention London. There were some half-dozen kings of the East Saxons after the abdication of Offa, of Essex, and there is some confusion among them and among the Saxon "dukes" after the submission to Egbert in 823, when we may suppose the Kinglets of Kent, Surrey, Sussex, and Essex assumed the lower title. Now, at last, we come to a document which throws light on the condition of London before the Danish war, and the passage quoted from Green's _Conquest of England_. This is a grant by Burhed, or Burgred, King of Mercia, afterwards styled Duke, who married a sister of Alfred, and no doubt abdicated the royal title when Egbert became king. In it Burgred gives to Bishop Alhun, of Worcester, a piece of land--"a little cabbage garden," as it may be translated--"in vico Lundoniæ; hoc est ubi nominatur Ceolmundingchaga," in the street of London where it is called the enclosure of Ceolmund, "qui est non longe from Uestgetum positus," which is not far from Westgate. We observe the scribe's ignorance of the Latin of "from," and his presumption that those who read the grant would be at least equally ignorant. This grant throws light on the condition of London before the great Danish inroad. There is no building of note along the principal thoroughfare between the modern Newgate and Coleman's enclosure, now, we may safely assume, represented by some part of Coleman Street. Moreover, such an enclosure was possible. Also the ground was occupied by a market garden. There is nothing about a Roman city. There is nothing about a government, municipal or otherwise; there is a king--not of London or of Essex, but of Mercia; and there is a bishop, but he is bishop of Worcester. The date is in full--April 18th, 857. Several other charters occur in which London is named more or less distinctly, and it is evident that the old desolation, if not quite at an end, was at least a circumstance worthy of remark. More than one of these documents speak of the port and of ships resorting to it, and we see the meaning of Green's allusion to the fact that, while London up to that time--namely, the end of the eighth century--had played but little part in English history, its position made it sure to draw both trade and population. Then came the great Danish invasion, the reign and victories of Alfred, the repair of the wall and a new London, England's main bulwark against foreign invasion. Asser and Stow point out clearly that Alfred's settlement came after a long period of ruin. This period was brought to an end by the renewal of the Roman wall. If we date the events as follows, the slow progress of the re-settlement is apparent. The Danes pervaded London and the neighbourhood in 872. Alfred drove them out twelve years later, in 884. In 886 Alfred commenced his repairs, and before his death in 901, the beginning of the tenth century, he may have seen houses and streets newly rising, some, it is possible, where Roman buildings had stood, but for the most part on wholly new lines. It would not have been like Alfred if he did not leave London with a settled government; and if there are certain foreign usages which can be traced to his time, they had probably been brought in with the concourse of foreign merchants who formed a large part, if not the majority, of the new citizens. A century and a half later they were described by the Norman conqueror as "burghers within London, French and English," and from the prevalence of certain names we find a large Danish element among them, while the term French indicates that perhaps the largest part were either Normans or Gauls from the opposite coast. It is possible that a careful survey of the early history of St. Paul's might bring a few facts to light, whether directly or by inference; but even after the reign of Alfred we have very little knowledge of the condition of the city and its port. It was never taken by the Danes. During the reign of Ethelred "the Unready," the King seems to have been shut up in London while the marauders ravaged the country round. Either the Londoners had great stores of provisions, or they had access to foreign markets. Edgar first recognised the importance of this trade, and no doubt the ill-advised Ethelred, his successor, was well advised in this respect. In years of comparative peace, Edward the Confessor built or rebuilt Westminster Abbey, and lived there; but London trade was not interrupted, and William the Norman was too wise to interfere with it. [Illustration: THE GATES OF THE CITY: BISHOPSGATE AND CRIPPLEGATE.] We have no remains of Saxon times in the city. The bridge continued to exist, and must have been well fortified. There is a story, which may be true, that Cnut dug a canal through or round Southwark, but as we have seen, this was probably no great feat. He did not succeed in taking London. Soon after, and down to Hastings, Normans, as well as Danes, settled in large numbers in the city, and their names are found in the oldest lists among those of the Saxon aldermen and leading citizens. In the laws of Ethelred, printed by Thorpe, we find two additions to the list of the gates. As we have seen, only two Roman gates are known on the landward side--the Westgate, later known as Newgate, which opened on the Watling Street; and the northern gate, said to have been rebuilt later on a slightly different site, and named Bishopsgate. Ethelred provides for guards at Cripplegate and Aldersgate. This provision seems to show that the gates were then new. Of Aldred, whose name was given to one of them, we have no special knowledge, and Stow supposes it was called "of alders growing there," a typical guess, but nothing to his guess about "Cripplesgate," so called "of cripples resorting there"! But "Crepul geat" is good Anglo-Saxon for a covered way, and the covered way here led to the Barbican. Both gave their names to wards of the city, and in the twelfth century Alwold was alderman of Cripplegate and Brichmar, "who coins the King's money," of Aldersgate, which is distinctly named "Ealdredesgate." The same document, in which these new gates are mentioned, also gives a few topographical particulars. Thus Billingsgate is mentioned as a place to which ships brought fish, and as being close to the bridge. This was probably what was left of the Roman bridge. It names the merchants of Rouen as entitled to certain consideration in the tax they pay on cargoes of wine. The cities of Flanders, of Normandy, and of France are named in that order, as well as Hogge (Sluys), Leodium (Liege), and Nivella (Nivelle), and there is special mention of the Emperor's men. If any imperial usages, any laws following Roman customs and differing from those of other English cities, prevailed in London it is probably hence that they came, and not through two periods of emptiness and desolation, lasting in all at least 250 years, and probably a good many more. IV.--NORMAN LONDON London comes more and more into prominence in the second half of the eleventh century. Whether this was on account of the increase of its trade and wealth when the Danes had ceased from troubling, or on account of the personal qualities of certain citizens, we cannot now distinguish. The French or Norman element increased, and it is possible to name a few individuals who are known to have lived within the walls both before and after Hastings. Among them are Albert the Lotharingian, after whom Lothbury is called. William "de Pontearch" and William Malet, both of whom are mentioned in histories of the Conquest, were citizens. Ansgar, the Staller, who was Portreeve the year of Hastings, appears to have been, like King Harold, of Danish descent. He was described in Edward the Confessor's great charter to Westminster Abbey as "Esgar, minister," so apparently filled several offices, as well as that of Portreeve. We begin about the same time to hear of a governing guild, and of reeveland, or a portsoken, as its endowment. Sired, a canon of St. Paul's, built a church on land belonging to the Knightenguild. There is mention, apparently, of a son of Sired, who was a priest, about the time of Hastings, among the documents preserved at St. Paul's; but I have, so far, failed to find any reference there to this guild, of which Stow has so much to tell. According to him, it was founded by Edward the Confessor, or perhaps by Edgar, and had a charter from William Rufus. Can it be commemorated in the name of the Guildhall which then fronted Aldermanbury? More authentic are the charter of the Conqueror and a few facts which go to prove that London and its trading and industrial citizens were but little disturbed by the change of government. Things went on as before. The bishop, himself an alderman, the Portreeve and the burghers, French and English, are addressed "friendly." The liberties, whatever they were--whether, as Mr. Gomme thinks, they had come down from Roman times, or whether, as seems to me so much more likely, they had come over from the cities of the continent--were confirmed to them, and everything went on as before. One other charter in Norman times may suffice to illustrate the position of the great walled city and its busy and wealthy port under the Norman kings. This was the grant of Middlesex to the citizens by Henry I. This grant, which was only abrogated in 1888 by Act of Parliament, gave London the same rights over the county that were held in those days by the earls and reeves of shires. Dr. Reginald Sharpe seems to think that this charter was granted for a heavy money payment. But there are other ways of looking at the matter. It would appear probable that King Henry recognised the help the city had given him; first, in obtaining the crown, and afterwards in maintaining his position. The King, no doubt, wanted money. The citizens did not expect favours without payment; it would have been contrary to all previous experience. But the gift was a very real boon, one which could not very well have been valued in gold. That a Norman king should have been willing to grant away the deer which his father was said to have loved like his children shows clearly that there was a strong sense of obligation in the King's mind. The constitution of the city during the reigns of the Norman kings, if we may judge by what we find in twelfth-century documents at St. Paul's and in thirteenth-century documents at the Guildhall, must have been, as Bishop Stubbs and Professor Freeman have pointed out, that of a county. The municipal unity was of the same kind as that of the shire and the hundred. The Portreeve accounted to the King for his dues. He was the justice, and owed his position to popular election as approved by the King. Under him were the aldermen of wards, answering very nearly to lords of manors. The people had their folkmote, answering to the shiremote elsewhere. Their weekly husting eventually became a "county court," and there was besides the wardmote, which still exists, and led eventually to the abolition of proprietary aldermen in favour of aldermen elected by the wards. At this period the buildings of the city began to assume a certain importance we do not hear of under the Saxons. St. Paul's became a notable example of what we now call Norman architecture. The nave survived until the fire in 1666. The church of St. Mary le Bow, in Cheap, still retains its Norman crypt. The great white tower, with which the Conqueror strengthened the eastern extremity of the Saxon and Roman wall, contains still its remarkable vaulted chapel. A few other relics of the style survive, but St. Bartholomew's is outside the line of the wall. [Illustration: THE GATES OF THE CITY: LUDGATE AND NEWGATE.] To the old gates must now be added one more--namely, Ludgate. "Ludgate" or "Lydgate" is like Crepulgate, a Saxon term, and signifies a postern, perhaps a kind of trap door opening with a lid. The exact date is unknown, but the building of a new street across the Fleet, with a bridge of access, is evident from documents mentioning the names of persons who dwelt "ultra fletam," which are found early in the reign of Henry I. Another gate was subsequently added--namely, Aldgate--in or about the beginning of the twelfth century. The names of both these gates have been subjects of much guesswork, not only by such topographers as Stukeley, but even by Stow. Ludgate was, of course, assigned to an imaginary King, Lud, celebrated in the great poem of the Welsh bard, who made London the foundation of descendants of Æneas of Troy. Much of this was extensively believed in the Middle Ages; and some of us imagined that Ludgate might have been called in honour of one of the heroes of the poem, until the real meaning of the word was pointed out. With regard to Aldgate, a meaningless name, we always find it spelled without the "d" in old manuscripts, and usually with an added "e." Stow perceived that to be consistent he must put the "e" in; but he did so in the wrong place, with the result that Alegate or Allgate, perhaps meaning a gate open free to all, is turned into Ealdgate, and has its age wholly mistaken. It was, no doubt, built when the Lea was bridged, traditionally by Queen Maud, about 1110. Previously the paved crossing, the Stratford, was reckoned dangerous, and passengers went out by Bishopsgate and sought a safer crossing at Oldford. The last of the city gates, Moorgate, was not opened till 1415. It was erected for the convenience of citizens passing out among the fields. It is evident that fortification had become a secondary object. Accordingly, it is often described as the most spacious and handsome of the city gates. The others, especially Ludgate and Newgate, were, we may be sure, judging by Roman and mediæval fortifications elsewhere, narrow and inconvenient. There was probably an overlapping tower in front of the exit, and the pathway described a semicircle, as we know was the case at the Tower, where the present arrangement, by which a vehicle can drive in, was not possible till the Lion Tower and its overlapping defence, the Conning Tower, were removed. That something of the same kind existed at the Old Bailey is evident on an inspection of the boundary of the ward in a good map, where the overlapping is clearly marked both at Ludgate and at Newgate. The roadways at both places were made straight, the larger archways opened, and the stately portals, suggested by Stukeley and others, erected, if ever, when the wall was no longer regarded as a fortification. This view may, in part at least, account for a statement that the Roman gate, which answered to Bishopsgate, was considerably to the eastward of the mediæval gate, removed in 1760. The Roman gate, to be useful and at the same time safe, probably consisted of a narrow passage, opening into the city at a point near the northern end of the road from the Bridge. The passage, guarded by towers, would have its exit some distance to the eastward, and probably, before it reached the outer country, passed back under the wall. We see arrangements of this kind at any place, like Pompeii, where a Roman fortification unaltered may be examined. We have thus, I hope, traced the beginnings of our great city, not so clearly as to its origin as could be wished, but sufficiently as to its development from a Roman fort or bridge head. Others will take up the tale here and show how the walls and gates, the churches and the great castle, the double market and riverside landing places, became by degrees the greatest city in the land. London, rather than royal Winchester, held the balance between Maud and Stephen, and with the election of Henry II., the first Plantagenet, we come upon the establishment of the modern municipal constitution and the long battle for freedom. The Londoner set a pattern to other English burghers. His keenness in trade, his vivacity, his tenacity of liberty and, perhaps above all, the combination of duty and credit which brought him wealth, have made his city what it is--the central feature of a world-wide empire. [Illustration: THE GATES OF THE CITY: MOORGATE AND ALDGATE.] THE TOWER OF LONDON BY HAROLD SANDS, F.S.A. It has been well and wisely said that "the history of its castles is an epitome of the history of a country," but the metropolis may proudly boast that it still possesses one castle whose history alone forms no bad compendium of the history of England, in the great fortress so familiarly known by the somewhat misleading appellation of "The Tower of London," of which the name of one portion (the keep) has gradually come into use as a synonym for the whole. Of the various fortress-palaces of Europe, not one can lay claim to so long or so interesting a history. The Louvre at Paris, though still in existence, is so as a comparatively modern palace, in which nothing now remains above ground of the castle of Philip Augustus, with its huge circular keep, erected by that monarch in 1204. The Alhambra at Granada is of a by no means so remote antiquity, as the earlier portion of it only dates from 1248, while the Kremlin at Moscow only goes back to 1367. Probably the sole building erected by a reigning monarch as a combined fortress and palace at all comparable with the Tower of London is the great citadel of Cairo, built in 1183 by Saladin, which, like it, is still in use as a military castle; but, secure in its venerable antiquity, the Tower is superior to all. The greater portion of the site upon which the Tower stands has been occupied more or less since A.D. 369, when, according to Ammianus, the Roman wall surrounding the city of London was built. At this point, which may be termed its south-eastern extremity, the wall crossed the gentle slope that descended to the Thames bank, on reaching which it turned westwards, the angle being probably capped by a solid buttress tower or bastion. Although Roman remains have been found at various points within the Tower area, it is not likely that any extensive fortification ever occupied the sloping site within the wall at this point, for the original Roman citadel must be sought for elsewhere, most probably upon the elevated plateau between the valley of the Wallbrook, and Billingsgate, where even now there stands in Cannon Street, built into a recess in the wall of St. Swithin's church, a fragment of the ancient Roman milestone, or _milliarium_ (known as "London Stone"), from which all distances along the various Roman roads of Britain are believed to have been reckoned. From what is known of the Roman system of fortification, it is obviously improbable that there should have been any extensive fortress erected upon the site where the Tower now stands. Not only would this have been opposed to the Roman practice of placing the _arx_, or citadel, as far as possible in a central and dominating position, but in the present instance it would actually have been commanded by higher ground to the north and west, while to the east free exit to the open country would have been seriously impeded by the extensive marshes (not as yet embanked and reclaimed) that then skirted the northern bank of the Thames. [Illustration: THE TOWER OF LONDON. _Engraved by Hollar, 1647._] According to the _Saxon Chronicle_,[1] King Alfred "restored" London in 886, and rebuilt the city wall, where it had become ruinous, upon the line of the ancient Roman one; and, until the Norman Conquest, it seems to have remained practically unaltered, nor does it appear to have been damaged by the various Danish attacks in 994, 1009, and 1016,[2] though frequently repaired afterwards during the Middle Ages. Without the wall was a wide and deep ditch, while between the edge of the ditch and the foot of the wall was the characteristic "berm," or external terrace, about ten feet in width.[3] There is every reason to suppose that this wall and ditch extended right across what is now the inner ward, or bailey of the Tower, as far as what was then the river bank, to a point somewhere near the site of the present Lanthorn Tower "k," where it turned to the west; for when, in 1895, the range of buildings of fourteenth century date (then known as the Great Wardrobe, "3") that formerly concealed the eastern face of the White Tower was removed, part of the ancient Roman wall was found to have been preserved within it, and a fragment, having the usual bonding courses of Roman tile bricks, has been spared, which may now be seen above ground close to the south-east angle of the keep, together with the remains of the Wardrobe Tower "s." If a line is drawn northward from this point[4] across the present moat, it will be found to meet what remains of the old city wall, which is still partly visible above ground in a yard known as "Trinity Place," leading out of the eastern side of Trinity Square, on Great Tower Hill. Such Roman remains as have been found within the Tower area do not tend to favour the supposition that any large buildings, save ordinary dwellings of the period, ever occupied the site. On his first approach to the city from Kent, when Duke William discovered that so long as he was unable to cross the Thames London could not be immediately reduced, after burning Southwark in order to strike terror into the citizens, he left it a prey to internal dissensions, and having in the meantime received the submission of the ancient Saxon capital of Winchester, he passed round, through Surrey, Berkshire, and Hertfordshire, by a route, upon which the ravages of the Normans are clearly indicated in _Domesday Book_,[5] to a position on the north of London, thus gradually severing its communications with the rest of England, so that neither men nor convoys of provisions could enter its walls. Placing camps at Slough, Edmonton, and Tottenham, William himself remained some distance to the rear of these last with the main body of the army, and it seems probable that the actual surrender of London took place at or near Little Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire,[6] some four miles to the east of Hatfield, and then about eighteen miles to the north of the city, which could be seen in the distance from the high ground hard by. According to Orderic, William, after his coronation at Westminster, spent some days at Berkhampstead, during which "some fortifications were completed in the city for a defence against any outbreaks by its fierce and numerous population."[7] Meagre in details as is the history of this early period, it would appear from the foregoing passage that William caused two castles to be erected, one at either end of the city, hard by the river bank, the western one becoming the castle of that Ralph Baynard who gave his name to it and to the ward; the eastern one (after the building of its stone keep) receiving the appellation of the Tower of London. When erected on new sites, the early castles seem to have consisted of a bailey, or court, enclosed by wooden palisades, and a lofty circular mound, having its apex crowned by a wooden tower dwelling, also within a stockade, the whole enclosed by a ditch common to both; but though nothing remains of these early castles in London, it seems probable that the mound was dispensed with, and that the angle of the wall was utilized to form a bailey, the side open to the city being closed by a ditch and bank, crowned by stout palisades of timber, while the Roman wall would be broken through where the ditch abutted upon it at either end, the whole bearing a strong resemblance (allowing for the difference in the site) to the castle of Exeter. Orderic goes on to say that William at once built a strong castle at Winchester, to the possession of which he evidently attached greater importance than that of London, where the great stone keep was probably not even commenced till quite a decade later, though Pommeraye, in a note to his edition of _Orderic_, tells us "that it was built upon the same plan as the old Tower of Rouen, now destroyed." The advantages of the site selected for the Tower were considerable, the utilization of the existing Roman wall to form two sides of its bailey, its ditch isolating it from the city, while it was so placed on the river as to command the approach to the Saxon trade harbour at the mouth of the Wallbrook, then literally the port of London, and with easy access to the open country should a retreat become necessary. It is much to be regretted that London was omitted from the Domesday Survey, for that invaluable record might have furnished us with some information as to the building of the Tower, and perhaps revealed in one of those brief but pithy sentences, pregnant with suggestion, some such ruthless destruction of houses as took place in Oxford and elsewhere[8] in order to clear a site for the King's new castle. Unless the site were then vacant, or perhaps only occupied by a vineyard (for these are mentioned in _Domesday Book_ as existing at Holborn and Westminster),[9] some such clearance must obviously have been made for even the first temporary fortifications of the Conqueror, although contemporary history is silent as to this. The _Saxon Chronicle_ tells us that "upon the night of August the 15th, 1077, was London burned so extensively as it never was before since it was founded,"[10] which may have determined William to replace the temporary eastern fortification by an enlarged and permanent castle, he having then completed the conquest of England and crushed the rebellions of his turbulent baronage. [Illustration: PLAN OF THE TOWER OF LONDON ABOUT 1597.] Although the art of the military engineer was then in its infancy, the Conqueror seems to have selected as his architect one already famous for his skill. Gundulf, then just appointed Bishop of Rochester, was no ordinary man. The friend and _protégé_ of Archbishop Lanfranc, by whom he had been brought to England in 1070, he had as a young man been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and doubtless profited by his travels and the opportunity afforded of inspecting some of the architectural marvels of the Romano-Byzantine engineers. Although Gundulf had rebuilt the cathedral of Rochester, to which he added the large detached belfry tower that still bears his name, built other church towers at Dartford, and St. Leonard's, West Malling (long erroneously supposed to have been an early Norman castle keep),[11] and founded at the latter place an abbey of Benedictine nuns, his reputation as an architect rests chiefly on his having designed the keep of the Tower of London (probably that of Colchester also), and built the stone wall round the new castle at Rochester for William Rufus. While engaged in superintending the erection of London keep, Gundulf lodged in the house of one Eadmer Anhoende,[12] a citizen of London, probably a friend of the Bishop, for we find his name occurring as a generous donor to Gundulf's new cathedral at Rochester, where, by his will, he directed his own body and that of his wife to be interred, and to have an obit annually. Gundulf's work therefore consisted of the great keep (afterwards called the White Tower), which he erected close to the line of the Roman city wall, and some fifteen or twenty feet within it. At first this was probably (like its sister keep at Colchester) only enclosed by a shallow ditch and a high earthen bank, crowned by a stout timber palisade, the city wall forming two sides of its perimeter, and probably broken through where the ditch infringed
credentials presented by this Norman knight are such as meet with your approval, but I would respectfully urge that no one should sit at our Council who has not attested his fidelity to our cause by services rendered in the field of battle; for when this is the case we have pledges which cannot be shaken off at pleasure." "A plague on your impudence, boy! You are too ready of the tongue! Let the elders speak if they have any objections to make!--but I am not in the habit of having my conduct called in question by a mere youth; and what is sufficient for me must be sufficient for such as you, and without cavil. What say our Danish allies? No objection, I see. Then let us proceed to business." So saying, he took his place at the head of the board, and the bulky Norman slid into a back seat. The question to deliberate upon was how to prosecute the war so auspiciously begun. The Council, however, proceeded to discuss the question in a very unpromising fashion, the discussion being characterised by a good deal of blatant braggadocio, and accompanied by a very free use of the wine-cup. The chief of the Danes reared aloft his stalwart form and said,-- "My lord, we Danes are wanting to know when we are to make a move south? We have wasted four good days in drivel and talk, when we should have been making good our vantage. We might by this time have sacked Shepfield, Leacaster, and Birmingam, where they tell me the gold-smiths', armourers', and weavers' crafts are flourishing, and where, to boot, the Normans have built themselves many pretty house places full of dainty stuff. All of which we might have pouched whilst this dog's whelp is abroad!" "Worthy thane," replied Waltheof, "we are waiting for Malcolm of Scotland and the young Prince Atheling, for we expect the Saxons of the south will rally to the standard of the Prince. We also have to remember that the Normans are more thickly posted farther south, and we must therefore have all our forces up." "Tut, tut! Cowardice is at the bottom of it all, as I thought. But what care we for the Norman dogs? and what care we for a baby prince who cannot be brought to the fray? We want the spoils, and there is none to be had cowering here like a fox in his hole. If we are not to move south at once, why then we take the tide the morn's even, and leave you to face the bear when he comes to his lair as best you can." At this juncture the attention of every member of the council was suddenly arrested by the advent of a messenger who suddenly burst into the room, with the perspiration pouring off him by reason of the hot haste with which he had ridden. "How now, fellow! what news hast thou which calls for such haste?" said Waltheof. "My lords," exclaimed the messenger, "I have ridden all speed to make known unto you that the Norman is back again in England, and that he is rapidly marching northwards at the head of an army; he being not more than two days' march to the south." If a thunderbolt had dashed into the room instead of this messenger, the effect could not have been greater. Waltheof turned pale as death, and peered nervously about the room, as though he expected to be instantly confronted by the dreaded presence of the king. Several also rose from their seats and promptly slid out of the room in dismay at the tidings. The Danish rovers were not slow to note this arrant cowardice, and one of them immediately jumped to his feet in fierce exasperation at this conduct, and sneeringly shouted, "Ha, ha! the Saxon caitiffs are slinking off at the mention of this dog of a Norman! Never mind, let the cowards go. I pledge me a health to the Danish warriors, who will dare to fight the cowardly Saxons' battle for them; but we'll see to't that the Danish war-ships shall bear away the spoil," and as he spoke he gulped down a huge draught of wine. "Excuse me, worthy thane," said Oswald, the young Saxon chieftain, starting to his feet at these taunts; "let me tell you the Saxons have their virtues, and valour too, not one whit behind that of your countrymen." "Whew! Virtues say you?" bawled the quarrelsome and half-drunken Dane. "Aye, marry! Saxons can preach you a homily with any shaveling priest in the land, or simper as chastely as any wench. Virtues! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! _Maugre!_ Virtues by the bushel, I warrant you, sirs. Marry, anything, in fact, but fight. Ha, ha! Virtues! Thou hast well said it, and aptly too, young suckling! If I were a Saxon I'd don my mother's petticoats." "Hear me, thane," retorted Oswald, repressing with great difficulty the rising choler. "You are our ally, and that shall be some excuse for your unseemly mouthing; but hark you to this for a moment. Your memory does not seem quite long enough to remember Battle-bridge and the precious figure cut by your countrymen on that occasion against the Saxon; and yet it is not more than four years agone. Hark you to this also, friend; I warrant you will find, ere this war be done, that Saxons can fight as bravely as any Dane that ever wielded sword." But the Dane persisted in his irritating and quarrelsome jesting. "Saxons fight?" he bawled, "Why, come, that is a joke, anyhow! I say, young Milkfed, tell me, if you can, what of this? How comes it to pass that either Norman or Dane, or even the tricky Scot, come when they list to crow on the Saxons' dunghill? How comes it also, my valiant Saxon cub, that you should ask us to come and help you fight this dog of a Norman? Read me that riddle, can you, boy? You besought us to come and help you, and here we are. I wish you joy of it. You'll be well rid when we go; for if we get not Norman booty, I warrant we will have Saxon, if we skin every Saxon churl in the island for it. What think you to that, young Sixfoot, eh?" The altercation seemed likely to develop into a serious quarrel, but at this juncture a Danish messenger crept slily into the room, and, nudging his leader's elbow, whispered something in his ear, at which he jumped to his feet and turned to his comrade, and between them a brief and excited conversation was carried on in an undertone; the result being that immediately the pair hurriedly withdrew from the room. Oswald, who had been watching these Danes with a suspicious eye, immediately turned to the leader, Waltheof; but he beheld with astonishment that the leader's chair was empty; Waltheof, amid the clamour of voices, having noiselessly slipped out of the room. "Ah, ah! what now?" he ejaculated, leaping to his feet and dragging his comrade Beowulf to the door. "There is something ominous in all this, Beowulf. It bodes no good to the Saxon cause, mark me." "What is it, think you, Oswald, that breeds this fear and distrust in the breasts of our leaders?" "I know not, Beowulf, but, by the rood! I cannot believe that the mere mention of the Norman's name breeds this cowardice and panic in the breasts of our leaders. 'Tis not fear that has overtaken these Danes, mark me, but something more potent. They are at best but hirelings, and are as treacherous as the foul fiend. They will not scruple to betray us for a paltry bribe if it be offered; and this Norman is astute enough to know that they have their price." "That is not the extent of the mischief, Oswald. I marked this Waltheof closely, and I like not his looks at all. The coward's blood forsook his cheek instantly at the mention of the Norman's name. I warrant him a coward and traitor at heart, or I know not a coward when I see him." "What is to be done, Beowulf!" "We must stand to it like men. We know our duty, and to turn tail like a whipped hound ere we have seen this Norman's face would be worse than cowardice." "Then we must place ourselves at the head of our men forthwith; for if any idle rumours reach their ears, I would not answer for it. Indeed, if William be within striking distance we must bestir ourselves, for if he find us unprepared, he knows well how to push his vantage against an unready foe." Thus this ill-starred Council came to an end, and it left the Saxons as a rope of sand, without cohesion, without any definite plan of attack or of defence--a ready prey for a wily and daring commander. In bitter dejection, and with forebodings of impending disaster, one by one the members passed out, each one to pursue his own course. When the Saxon members of the Council had one and all left the room, then uprose the bulky and sinister-looking figure of the Norman emissary, from a seat in a shaded corner, where, unobserved, he had been quietly taking note of the wretched divisions of the Saxon Council. As he came forward he burst into a hoarse and derisive laugh, and exclaimed, "Here's a go anyhow--ha, ha! A precious revolt it is! A man would be an ass to pin his fortunes to a quarrelsome rabble like this. Why, I warrant me they would cut one another's throats at a word! And then how the bubble burst up at the mere mention of the Conqueror's name! But where are my precious letters?" said he, fumbling in his doublet for something, and eventually pulling out a packet carefully folded with a silken band, and sealed in several places by a huge seal with the crest and quarterings of the famous Count De Montfort. "Ha, ha, my precious!" said he, turning the missive over and eyeing it with savage delight. "I'm glad I kept possession of you. You are a treasure! I'll not part with you yet awhile," and he carefully thrust the letter back again within his doublet. "Ha, ha!" said he, scowling demoniacally, "De Montfort will finger that missive no more until he makes good his bargain with me. I'll have his proud daughter as the price of this, or we'll see what will come to pass. I have my own belt to buckle as well as De Montfort; and I'll do it now after my own humour. I'll no longer dangle like a moonstruck suitor at my lady's skirts, and wag my tail like any spaniel if I should chance to get a word or a smile. I have been meek and humble long enough; but now Vigneau shall be first, for I have got him! Trapped, by ----! He thought he would play the traitor, did he? fool and dolt that he is! One would have thought him wiser than to do his treason second-hand. He makes pretence of wisdom, but he acts the fool at times as roundly as any clown. But I'll no more of this anyhow. I do believe the Saxon clowns have scurried off to their holes like a parcel of rats already. I must be off too, for if the _tanner's_ son should catch me at my present business, it will go bad with my hide I'm feared; and I should like to keep my skin whole a little longer, come what may. Ho, ho!" said he, bursting again into hoarse laughter. "I wonder what Odo or Fitz-Osborne would give to know of this little freak of De Montfort's! The wily Odo has ousted him from William's councils already, and if he had possession of this"--thumping his chest where the missive lay--"he'd have De Montfort's head in a trice. Enough! that will do for me." So saying, he vanished from the hall. Meanwhile, the second messenger, at whose communication the Danish sea-rovers had vanished from the Council, proved to be an emissary of the wily Conqueror--his purpose being to negotiate with the Danes, and with Waltheof, conditions on which they would retire from the fray. Scarcely were they outside than he said to these Danes,-- "My master offers to you five hundred ounces of beaten gold, and a free passage for your vessels, together with such plunder as you can wrest from the Saxons." "Five hundred ounces of gold is a sorry price for a wealthy king like your master to offer for such a service," said one of the Danes. "But come now, if your master will make it one thousand ounces, to be delivered over by sunset to-morrow; together with our plunder, and such as we can further gather; why then, within twenty-four hours our vessels shall be ploughing the northern seas for home." "Done!" said the messenger. "My hand on it. The gold shall be delivered over to you by sunset to-morrow, as you say." No sooner was this bargain made than the spy turned his attention to Waltheof, a man treacherous by instinct, and cowardly by nature. It is scarcely necessary to say, he grasped only too eagerly at the promised free pardon, coupled as it was with large grants of land and estates. With the Saxon forces thus weakened and demoralised, William knew the remnant of this powerful conspiracy would be crushed with the utmost ease by him. CHAPTER IV. DEFEAT. "What though the field be lost? All is not lost." _Paradise Lost._ Oswald the Saxon, and Beowulf the Saxon Dane, passed out into the night, and continued their course beyond the gates of the city, which were so broken down that they served no longer the purpose for which they were erected. The walls also for considerable distances were thrown down, and in a state of disrepair. The insurrectionary forces had determined to push forward in the king's absence, but in the meantime they were halting, waiting for Malcolm of Scotland, and for further counsel. They were encamped some miles away on the banks of the river running between York and the head of the estuary of the Humber, where the Danish war-vessels were anchored. The Danes held the head of the estuary, throwing out their forces Yorkward, but encamped sufficiently near to cover their vessels, in the event of an attack upon them. Waltheof, the leader and commander-in-chief of the Saxon forces, occupied a central position, having under his command the bulk of the rebels; whilst Oswald, Beowulf, and others, occupied the right wing, which to a certain extent covered the city. On the news of William's landing, the bridges were thrown down, but in many places the river was fordable, during dry weather, both for man and horse. But to effect this in the face of sturdy enemies was a most formidable task, and the Saxons were sufficiently numerous to guard the river effectually wherever it was fordable. Early in the morning, after the breaking up of the council of war, the scouts brought in the intelligence that William had arrived within six miles, and ere nightfall the pennants of the Normans were flying within sight of the Saxon forces. Very little of that night was spent by Oswald in rest. Twice he patrolled the whole length of the river under his command, visiting and cheering every outpost. But judge how great was his consternation, and that of his forces also, when, with the dawning of the morning, the fraction of the Saxons commanded by him were made painfully aware of the fact that the Normans had passed the river, unopposed, in the night; and worse than that, there began to be ominous rumours that this had arisen through the treachery of Waltheof--that he, having been bribed by the Conqueror, had left the remnant to their fate. In these straits time was precious, for the Normans were advancing up the river, doubling up the Saxon outposts, and throwing them back on the main body. Hastily a council of war was called, and not a few, in face of the danger and the hopelessness of their cause in the midst of such treachery, were for dispersing without a blow; but Oswald, addressing them, said,-- "I fear it is too true that there is treachery in our ranks; but as yet we know not its extent. If Waltheof has succumbed to William's bribes, there are still the Danes, who will be able to harass the rear of our enemy. Hourly, also, we are expecting Malcolm of Scotland and the Atheling, so that we need not despair. Let us make a bold stand; the battle is by no means lost if the Danes stand firm. Now, with our handful of men it is utterly impossible to meet the Normans in the open country; for they will double our left flank easily and surround us. But on the fringe of yonder dense wood, with our line extended under cover of the thicket, and where the enemy's horse will be absolutely useless--where also our men will be quite in their element and be able to ply their long bows with deadly effect, and their spears or swords at close quarters--we shall surely avoid, in any case, the wholesale slaughter of our men; and we shall administer a severe check to William's march." The force of this sage advice was seen at once by the leaders, and the forces accordingly retired to the wood in their rear, and took up their fighting attitude just within its shelter. The Saxons, who were brave individually, were still undisciplined and incapable of acting together with precision in the open; but they were wonderfully heartened by this movement, which gave them shelter from the onslaughts of the enemy's horse--a mode of warfare which has at all times had a demoralising effect upon untrained soldiers. So, having their right flank resting on the river, and in consequence shielded from any flank movement there, they threw out their left considerably, so as to prevent, if possible, any over-lapping by the Normans. They were the better able to do this, seeing that the enemy's horse were totally unable to charge through their attenuated lines; the jungle being an effectual barrier to this. Oswald arranged his men in two fighting lines. The foremost ranks, with spear and sword, were to resist the advance of the Normans. The second were bowmen, who were to cover the front ranks by letting fly their arrows in the faces of the foe; a most ingenious and effective expedient. To Beowulf he entrusted the command of the left wing, with instructions to in no case permit the Normans to outflank them, but, if necessary, to double in the left flank also, until it rested on the river. Scarcely had Oswald time to make this careful disposition of his men ere the vanguard of the Normans were upon them. But a shower of arrows from the Saxons at close quarters thoroughly disconcerted them. So fiercely were they met, and by a force whose numbers they had no means of gauging, that they deemed it prudent to retire beyond bowshot until the remainder of the forces advanced to their support. Then came a more determined assault on the Saxons' position. But, from behind trees and shrubs, the concealed defenders drave their short spears through each assailant, or clave them with their short Saxon swords or battle-axes. Oswald and others, who were clad in armour, boldly fronted them in every gap, making great havoc in the ranks of the men-at-arms, or singling out the Norman leaders and engaging them. In the midst of the fray, one noteworthy incident occurred. Oswald, to his amazement, saw the burly Norman, Vigneau, who had come with professions of help, now fighting fiercely against them. Immediately his blood was fired, and pressing steadily towards him, eventually they met face to face. "Ah, treacherous villain!" said Oswald. "This is your friendship for our cause, is it? I have a particular message for tricksters and sneaking traitors like you." "Come on, varlet of a Saxon, and don't stand prating like some gowky wench, and I'll quickly give thee thy quietus," said Vigneau savagely. Instantly there ensued a most desperate encounter between these two powerful combatants. Each of them, however, wore a suit of armour, and carried a shield, and each one was most skilful in the use of his weapons, so that, desperate and determined as they both were, no conclusive blow resulted. But whilst the duel progressed, the general body of the Normans made steady progress, in spite of the valour of the Saxons, and speedily Oswald was quite surrounded, though totally oblivious of the fact. One stalwart Saxon, however, who had fought by Oswald's side--by name Wulfhere--saw the imminent danger in which his leader was placed, and he rushed to his rescue, quickly cleaving his way through; and seizing Oswald, he exclaimed,-- "Master, you will be cut off if you don't keep in fighting line with us!" This fierce reminder awoke Oswald to the peril of his position, and he said to his antagonist, "Another time, villain, will come, when I hope we may effectually finish this quarrel." "Sooner and better, churl; but for the present your better plan is to run away," retorted Vigneau. In the meantime, although the Saxons had extended their lines to the utmost limits which the sparsity of their men would permit, the Normans surged round and completely overlapped them. So Beowulf was compelled to initiate the movement ordered by Oswald, and the left wing was gradually doubled back until it also converged on the river; and thus the line of battle was in the form of a semicircle. The Saxons fought with desperation, disputing every inch of the ground, and strewing the ground, yard by yard, with the Norman slain. The masterly skill with which their ground had been chosen and their defence planned, gave them great advantage, and enabled them to maintain the unequal contest for nearly an hour. But ultimately the quivers of the archers were emptied of every shaft, and the battle could no longer be maintained with advantage, but would probably end in complete massacre. So Oswald selected a spot where the river was fordable; then, he and a hundred stalwart Saxons stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping the enemy at bay whilst the rank and file crossed the stream. Then, gradually narrowing their own circle until every one had taken the river, the last half-dozen, with their faces to the foe, fought their way across. When they had reached the opposite side, the order was given for dispersal, and the gallant band melted away, and severally, or in bands, sought their distant homes. Thus ended in total failure, through cowardice and treachery, what at one time seemed, in its very marked success, a conspiracy that would ultimately wrest the kingdom from the usurper. CHAPTER V. DESPERATE RESOLVES. "Cowards die many times before their death The valiant never taste of death but once." Shakespeare. "The Saxon cause is lost, Wulfhere, by base-hearted cowardice and treachery," said Oswald, turning to the stalwart "freeman" already introduced to the reader. "Look to the rear, though I think the Normans have had such a taste of our quality that there will be no pursuit for the present; but henceforth we may look to it, for there will be--unless I greatly misjudge the Norman king--a bitter revenge exacted from us, and untempered in the least degree by mercy. We have our broadswords left to us, and we have proved this day that they have a keen edge and bite as sharp as ever. We have a few bowmen, also, who can shoot straight; but for our shelter I fear me we shall have but the dense forest, and the rugged hills of our native Craven for our defence. But they are a defence familiar to us, and no battering-ram or assault of besiegers will avail our foe. Let them drive the wolf to bay if they dare, and they shall find he has sharp teeth. Well, to me, Wulfhere, a life of valorous freedom is better than servile slavery and degraded serfdom." "I join you there, my lord. A ceorl born, a ceorl for ever. That is my charter. I will maintain it to the death," said Wulfhere. The conclusions of Oswald, with regard to the revenge which the Normans would exact, proved only too true. Like a conflagration, the sanguinary, mercenary host spread themselves over the northern part of the kingdom, and desolation and death spread their ghastly wings over the land. William's aim evidently was to decimate the population, and thus make any further revolt utterly impossible. I forbear, however, to enter into the details of the wholesale slaughter which followed after the Saxons were put to the rout at York, in mercy to the reader. So, at the word of command, the followers of Oswald moved away from the fatal field, with celerity, but in perfect order. The close of the second day brought them home again. Bitterly sad our hearts were at the tidings they brought us, and at sight of the thinned ranks of stout and hardy yeomen who went out from us on this last desperate venture. The Earl addressed the following words to them, as we stood together in the monastery grounds: "My trusty followers, my faithful friends,--We have probably not more than forty-eight hours before we shall be face to face again with the hated Norman foe--on our own lands, and at the thresholds of our own homes. Do not let us, because of this short respite, close our eyes to what will inevitably follow. Neither age nor sex will be spared, though we should crawl at their feet, and grovel in the dust. The only thing these Normans will respect is the broadsword, as it flashes at their breast, or the arrow, glancing unerringly through the branches of the trees in the forest fastnesses. I advise you to take to the hills; the caves will form in some respects a shelter for your wives and little ones. Carry your cattle along with you to the hills and mountain gorges. Your corn, your cooking utensils--in short, everything of value and of service--take along with you. There are men here from every corner of our domain. Tell your neighbours, and make haste; even the minutes are precious. I shall contrive, if I live, to protect you for the present, and until my castle is taken you will be absolutely safe." As the men moved slowly away to their homes in the distant hamlets, bearers of the sorrowful news, the Earl turned to Wulfhere. "Well, Wulfhere, my resolve is taken. I shall not cower before, or servilely beg for freedom at the hands of the proudest Norman of them all. Further, I shall not fly over sea, and sell my sword to a foreign potentate. Yonder, in the distance, I can descry the turrets of my castle. I was born there, and I shall defend it to the last; and when driven from it, it will still be a joy to sit on the hillsides and gaze upon the old home. There are likewise these followers of mine, who have followed me everywhere and blindly done my bidding. It were dastardly conduct to give them over now to sanguinary massacre. When, as a boy, with falcon on my arm and hound at my heel, I hied me o'er these lands, my faithful yeomen welcomed me everywhere, and their good wives brought out their daintiest morsel and their sweetest mead. We shall stand or fall together. Who knows? The Saxon star may some day be in the ascendant again, and we may push the Normans from our shores. What sayest thou, Wulfhere?" "Your purpose, my lord, if I understand you aright, is to defend the castle so long as you can, and then try to hold the Normans at bay by means of the shelter which the woods and the hills afford." "That is my present purpose. I can scarcely hope to hold the castle, except for a little while, but I may thus materially check the desolating march of the Normans. But ultimately I look to the woods and the hills for permanent safety. We are more fortunate than our countrymen in other parts of the kingdom. If we look to the north we see the stately Hanging-brow mountain, lifting itself to the sky and girdled with the clouds, and those dense woods, which, like a vast army clambering up its sides, will fight for us in our onslaught, and shield us in our flight. The waters also shed on its brow by the clouds which nestle well-nigh perpetually on its shoulders, and go leaping down its sides with the fierceness of a cataract, have ploughed into the mountain's seamy sides gorges impassable to untrained feet. Look, to the east a few miles we have the scarcely less remarkable Weirdburn hills. To the south, Baldby heights. Think also of the dense woods which everywhere abound in this Craven of ours. Then, like myself, you will see that in no other part of the land has Nature so combined to shelter the friendless and protect the oppressed. Further, we are quite two hundred and fifty miles from London. Though the Normans will come very surely to despoil the land, William will speedily draw off his forces, and we shall have but to cope with the Norman who usurps my lands and castle, holding it probably with a slender garrison. For the present we are unequal to the task of contending in open warfare with our foe. We will contend with him with the most effective weapons we possess; and these are cunning and evasion. There shall be no solid front presented to him at which he can aim an effective blow. But when the Normans have overrun the land, and the bulk of them gone hence, then we will present a bolder front, and assert our right to share the land, and cultivate the soil." "What do you purpose in this dire emergency, reverend Father?" said he, turning to me. "Have you any purpose of defending the Abbey?" "No, my lord," said I; "we are the disciples of the Prince of Peace, and we must follow His example. And indeed, carnal weapons would not protect us if we were minded to use them, and this sacred edifice would suffer irreparably by our resistance. Perhaps these untamed and bloody men may have some regard for the sanctity of these walls. We will throw open our gates to receive them. Those of our servants and followers who prefer to trust to the woods and the hills, as you advise, are free to do so. Those who prefer to stay--together with any unhappy fugitives who have fled hither for shelter--will join the monks in prayers and supplications, in the sanctuary. Perhaps God will give us favour in the eyes of our enemies." "Give us your blessing, Father," said Oswald, falling on his knees and meekly uncovering his head, all his followers humbly following his example. "Adieu, my son," said I, laying my hand upon his head. "May the God of our fathers nerve thy arm for the protection of thy humbler fellows, and give thee wisdom and discretion in this terrible day of thy country's visitation!" With tearful eyes I watched the receding form of this noble Saxon. No carnal offspring could be dearer to an earthly parent than he to me. I had watched over him from infancy, educated him, travelled with him in many foreign lands; and I hoped he would be a great leader in statesmanship, in learning, and in all the arts of peace. Now, alas! I fear circumstance will make him a man of war, and a stern leader of bloody and desperate men. CHAPTER VI. BARON VIGNEAU. "All is lost save honour." Early on the morrow, strange rumours and stories, which made the blood curdle, were brought to the monastery by refugees from far and near. Both gentle and simple fled hither, being buoyed up by the widespread, but in this case delusive notion, that sanctuary walls would be sacredly respected. Amongst the number was the lovely daughter of the worthy Thane Beowulf, who, along with his son, had been slain in resisting the advance of the Normans. My heart sank within me as I looked upon her great beauty, realising with painful vividness how helpless and impotent I was to protect her--well knowing that lust and rapine, let loose, would not be awed or restrained even by the sanctity of the Church. I had commanded the monks, with all refugees, to repair to the chapel for prayer, whilst I at the first summons repaired to the gate with some of the housecarles and lay brothers, and commanded the gates to be thrown open, when in poured a motley crowd of soldiers and men-at-arms, evidently bent on plunder, and totally uncontrolled by any sort of discipline. The crowd surged by me and carried me along, deriding my entreaties to be heard. One leader, in complete armour, and whom I afterwards ascertained to be Baron Vigneau, I appealed to in vain. He rudely pushed me aside with an oath, bidding me say my prayers to the devil, for he would soon have me and my monkish crew. One party made a dash for the northern extremity of the enclosure, where were the outbuildings, in which our cattle, sheep and goats, and numerous attendants were housed. These servants, however, made their exit, with all speed, from the northern gate, as they saw the Normans enter at the south. One, Badger as he was called by his companions, who was keeper of the hounds and hawks--a mighty hunter, who kept our larder well stocked with venison, and fish, and game of every kind--held his ground. A sly rogue was Badger--so called from his propensity for hunting these animals and clothing himself in their skins. For hunting, hawking, and fishing, he was a prodigy. He was well-nigh fleet as a hare, and could swim like an otter; and had wherewithal so sly a humour, and such shrewdness, that he was a great favourite with me, and I had taken pains to add such instruction as I thought would be serviceable to him. The reader will pardon me this digression. But this Badger was such an active agent in the subsequent troublous times, and served the Saxon cause so well, both by his matchless cunning and his rare valour, that I have taken the trouble to introduce the reader to him at such great length. A most grotesque figure he presented on this fateful morning, clothed as he was from head to foot in skins. "Hilloa!" roared one trooper to another, as they set eyes upon him. "What the deuce kind of an animal is this?" "The foul fiend, or one of his imps, by Moses!" rejoined the other. "Who are you, Satan?" said the first one, riding up to him and giving him a hearty thwack across the shoulders with the flat of his sword; at which Badger set up
spears. Over on the distant hillside the pines, navy blue under cloud shadows, hummed in the wind like bassoons; distant and muted cornets sang clear in the maples, and all about the feathery heads of the olive swamp cedars you caught the faint shrilling of fifes if you would but listen intently. Now and then the glocken-spiel tinkled in mellow yellow notes among the dry reeds on the marge, but these echoed but familiar runes. The tan-white bog grass that is so wild it never heard the swish of scythe, sang, soft and sibilant, an elfin song of the lonely and untamed. With the singing of the wind into the tender spring of the south side the day grew cold with clouds. The sky was no longer softly blue, but gray and chilling, the pond lost its sparkle and grew purple and numb with cold, and all among the bare limbs you heard the song of the promise of snow. But the clouds stopped at a definite line in the west and at setting the sun dropped below this and sent a golden flood rolling through the trees that mark the boundary between field and pond, lighting up all the bog with glory and gilding the muskrat teepees and the tall bog grass and the distant trees across the water till all the sere and withered leaves were bathed in serenity, as softly and serenely bright as if the golden age had come to us all. In this wise the crystal day, with its sheltered exultation of spring and its gray promise of winter’s snow all fused into one golden delight of sunset glory, marched on over the western hills trailing paths of gilded shadow behind it along which one walked the homeward way as if into the perfect day. CERTAIN WHITE-FACED HORNETS The lonesomest spot in all the pasture, the one which the winter has made most vacant of all, is the corner where hangs the great gray nest of the white-faced hornets. Its door stands hospitably open but it is no longer thronged with burly burghers roaring to and fro on business that cannot wait. It was wide enough for half a dozen to go and come at the same time, yet they used to jostle one another continually in this entrance, so great was the throng of workers and so vigorous the energy that burbled within them. While the warm sun of an August day shines a white-faced hornet is as full of pent forces, striving continually to burst him, as a steam fire-engine is when the city is going up in flame and smoke and the fire chief is shouting orders through the megaphone and the engineer is jumping her for the honor of the department and the safety of the community. He burbles and bumps and buzzes and bursts, almost, in just the same way. It is no wonder that people misunderstand such roaring energy, driving home sometimes too fine a point, and speak of _Vespa maculata_ and his near of kin the yellow jackets, and even the polite and retiring common black wasp, with dislike. In this the genial Ettrick Shepherd, high priest of the good will of the open world, does him, I think, much wrong. “O’ a’ God’s creatures the wasp,” he says, “is the only one that is eternally out of temper. There’s nae sic thing as pleasing him.” This opinion is so universal that there is little use in trying to controvert it, and yet these white-faced hornets which I have known, if not closely, at least on terms of neighborliness, do not seem to merit this opprobrium. That they are hasty I do not deny. They certainly brook no interference with their right to a home and the bringing up of the family. But I do not call that a sign of ill temper; I think it is patriotism. Probably the trouble with most of us is that we have happened to come into quite literal contact with white-face after the fashion of one of the early explorers of the country about Massachusetts Bay. Obadiah Turner, the English explorer and journalist, thus chronicles the adventure in the quaint phraseology of the year 1629. “Ye godlie and prudent captain of ye occasion did, for a time, sit on ye stumpe in pleasante moode. Presentlie all were hurried together in great alarum to witness ye strange doing of ye goode olde man. Uttering a lustie screme he bounded from ye stumpe and they, coming upp, did descrie him jumping aboute in ye oddest manner. And he did lykwise puff and blow his mouthe and roll uppe his eyes in ye most distressful waye. “All were greatlie moved and did loudlie beg of him to advertise them whereof he was afflicted in so sore a manner, and presentlie, he pointing to his foreheade, they did spy there a small red spot and swelling. Then did they begin to think yt what had happened to him was this, yt some pestigeous scorpion or flying devil had bitten him. Presentlie ye paine much abating he saide yt as he sat on ye stumpe he did spye upon ye branch of a tree what to him seemed a large fruite, ye like of wch he had never before seen, being much in size and shape like ye heade of a man, and having a gray rinde, wch as he deemed, betokened ripenesse. There being so manie new and luscious fruites discovered in this fayer lande none coulde know ye whole of them. And, he said, his eyes did much rejoice at ye sight. “Seizing a stone he hurled ye same thereat, thinking to bring yt to ye grounde. But not taking faire aime he onlie hit ye branch whereon hung ye fruit. Ye jarr was not enow to shake down ye same but there issued from yt, as from a nest, divers little winged scorpions, mch in size like ye large fenn flies on ye marshe landes of olde England. And one of them, bounding against hys forehead did give in an instant a most terrible stinge, whereof came ye horrible paine and agonie of wch he cried out.” Let go on the even tenor of his home-building and home-keeping way, white-face is another creature. One of his kind used to make trips to and from my tent all one summer, and we got to be good neighbors. At first I viewed him with distrust and was inclined to do him harm, but he dodged my blow and without deigning to notice it landed plump on a house-fly that was rubbing his forelegs together in congratulatory manner on the tent roof. He had been mingling with germs of superior standing, without doubt, this house-fly, but his happiness over the success of the event was of brief duration. There came from his wings just one tenuous screech of alarm followed by an ominous silence of as brief duration. Then came the deep roar of the hornet’s propellers as he rounded the curve through the tent door and gave her full-speed ahead on the home road. An hour later he was with me again, had captured another fly almost immediately, and was off. He came again, many times a day, and day after day, till I began to know him well and follow his flights with the interest of an old friend. He never bothered me or anyone else. He had no time for men; the capture of house-flies was his vocation and it demanded all his energy and attention. In fact that he might succeed it was necessary that he should put his whole soul into earnest endeavor, for he was not particularly well equipped for his work. He had neither speed nor agility as compared with his quarry, and if house-flies can hear and know what is after them, the roar of his machinery, even at slowest speed, must have given them ample warning. It was like a freighter seeking to capture torpedo boats. They could turn in a circle of a third the radius of his and could fly three miles to his one, yet he was never a minute in getting one. I think they simply took him for an enlarged edition of their own kind and never knew the difference until his mandibles gripped them. He used to go bumbling and butting about the tent in a near-sighted excitement that was humorous to the onlooker. He didn’t know a fly from a hole in the tentpole, and there was a tack in the ridgepole whose head he captured in exultation and let go in a sort of slow wonder every time he came in. He got to know me as part of the scenery and didn’t mind lighting on top of my head in his quest, and he never thought of stinging me. I timed his visits one sunny, still day and found that he arrived once in forty seconds. But this was only under most favorable weather conditions. A cloud over the sun delayed him and in wet weather he was never to be seen. His method with the fly in hand was direct and effective. The first buzz was followed by the snip-snip of his shear-like maxillaries. You could hear the sound and immediately see the gauzy wings flutter slowly to the tent floor. If the fly kicked much his legs went in the same way. Then white-face took a firmer grip on his prize and was off with him to the nest. The bee line is spoken of as a model of mathematical directness, but the laden bee seeking the hive makes no straighter course than did my hornet to his nest in the berry bush down in the pasture. Flies were plentiful and, knowing how many hornets there are in a nest, I expected at first that he would bring companions and perhaps overwhelm my hospitality with mere numbers, but he did nothing of the kind. I have an idea that he was detailed to the fly catching work just as other workers were busy gathering nectar and honey dew for the young and others still were nest and comb building. Later in the summer another did come, but I am convinced that he happened on the other’s game preserve by accident and was not invited. The two between them must have captured thousands of flies and carried them off alive to their nest. Thus their paper fort, hung from the twigs of a blueberry bush, had by September grown to the dimensions of a water-bucket and contained a prodigious [Illustration: Their paper fort had by September grown to the dimensions of a water-bucket and contained a prodigious swarm of valiant fighters] swarm of valiant fighters and mighty laborers, so much will persistent labor, even by near-sighted, dunder-headed hornets, accomplish. I say near-sighted, for the two specimens of _Vespa maculata_ who used to hunt flies in my tent were certainly that. I say also dunder-headed, for if not that they would have learned eventually the location of that tack head and ceased to capture it. Barring these failings, no doubt congenital, I know of no pasture people who show greater virtues or more of them than the white-faced hornets. The weak beginnings of their great community home in the berry bush were made in early May when a single lean and hungry queen mother crept from a crevice in the heart of a great hollow chestnut where she had survived the winter. She sunned herself for a time at the opening, then began eagerly chewing fibre from a gray and bare dead limb near by. She chewed this and when it was softened to a pulp she flew straight to the berry bush and began her long summer’s work. Laboring patiently she made and brought enough of the paper pulp moistened with her own saliva to form a nest half the size of an egg containing just a few cells in a single comb that was horizontal and opened downward. In these she laid an egg each, worker’s eggs. Always the first brood is of workers only, and it would seem that the mother hornet is able by some strange necromancy to lay an egg which shall produce, as she wills, a worker, a drone or another queen, for the hornet hive, like that of the honey-bee, has the three varieties. While these eggs hatch she completes the nest and then begins feeding the funny little white maggots which hang head down in the cells, stuck to the top by a sort of glue which was deposited with the egg. Honey and pollen is the food which the youngsters receive, varied as they grow up with a meat hash of insects caught by the mother and chewed fine. Soon they fill the cells, stop eating, and spin for themselves a sort of silk night shirt and a cap with which they close the mouth of the cell. Here they remain quiet for a few days, changing from grub to winged creature as does a butterfly during the chrysalis stage of its existence. Those were busy days for the queen mother, for she had the work and the care of the whole wee hive on her hands, and she showed herself capable not only of doing her own feminine part in the hive economy, but that of half a dozen workers as well, making paper, doing construction work, finding and bringing honey and pollen and insects for the food of the young grubs, and finally helping them cut away the seals to the cells and grasping the young hornets in her mandibles and hauling them out of their comb. These young hornets washed their faces, cleaned their antennæ, ate one more free meal and set to work. Thereafter the queen mother, having reared her retinue, worked no more, but kept the hive and produced worker eggs as new cells were provided for them, now and then perhaps feeding the children when the workers were busiest. The first care of the new-born workers was to clean out the once used cells and to build new ones. But there was no room for new comb within the thin paper envelope which the mother had built as a first hive. They therefore cut this away, chewing it to pulp again, and building new cells with a larger covering all about them. Then below the first comb they hung a second by paper columns so that there was space for them to pass between the two, standing on top of one comb while they fed the young hanging head down in the comb above. They also added cells to the sides of the old comb, making it much wider. The first little round egg-shaped nest was all of one color, a soft gray, but the new additions are apt to be lighter or darker in color, according to the idiosyncrasies of the individual worker. Some indeed have a faint touch of brown when newly added to the structure though these soon fade, yet you may recognize always the dividing line between one hornet’s work and another’s by the difference in shade. Thus the work went on during the summer, more cells being added to the existing combs, new combs being hung below, and always the surrounding envelope being cut away and replaced to accommodate the internal growth. Late August saw the last additions made. The hive then roared with life. The summer had been a good one and food was plentiful. Under the bounty of fierce summer heat and ample food the workers had developed a new faculty. I have given them the masculine pronoun in speaking of them, for they certainly seemed to deserve it. Surely only males could be at once so sharp and so blunt, so burly, so strenuous and so devoid of interest in anything but their work. Yet it is a fact that in August some of the workers began to lay eggs, and if the old proverb that “Like produces like” holds good they still deserve the masculine pronoun, for these eggs produced only males. At the same time the queen began to lay eggs which were destined to produce other queens. How all this could have been known about beforehand it is hard to tell, but such must have been the fact, for the cells in which these eggs were to be laid were made larger than the others as the greater size of males and females requires. Thus the climax of the work of the great paper hive was reached. The new queens had been safely reared and had reached maturity when the first chill days of autumn came. These days brought rain, and the change from bustling life to silence was most startling. Almost in a day the hive was deserted. It was as if the entire colony had swarmed, and so they had, but not as a hive of bees swarms. They had left the old home never to return, but not as a colony seeking a new land in which to prosper. The first chill of autumn laid the cold hand of death on their busy life. They went away as individuals and stopped, numbed with cold, wherever the chill caught them. Where they went it is hard to say, but one hornet or a thousand crawling into a crevice to escape the cold is easily lost in the great world of out-of-doors. No worker survives the winter. I think the intensity of their labors during the summer, the continued use of that energy that bubbles within them all summer long, exhausts them and they succumb easily, worked out. With the young queens it is different. Their work is yet to come, and the strong young life within them gives them vitality to endure the winter, though seemingly frozen stiff in their crevices. Yet only a few of these come through in safety. If the queens of one hive all built next year, the pasture would be a far too busy place for mere man to visit. It is just as well as it is, yet I am glad that each year sees at least one queen white-face pulp-making in the May sun. Pasture life without her uproarious progeny would lack spice. The great gray nest is pathetic in its emptiness, and I am glad to forget it and its bustling throng, remembering only the one busy worker that used to come into the tent and, having caught his fly, hang head downward from ridge-pole or canvas-edge by one hind foot while all his other feet were busy holding his lamb for the shearing. THIN ICE Toward midnight the pond fell asleep. All day long it had frolicked with the boisterous north wind, pretending to frown and turn black in the face when the cold shoulders of the gale bore down upon its surface, dimpling as the pressure left it and sparkling in brilliant glee as the low hung sun laughed across its ruffles. The wind went down with the sun, as north winds often do, and left a clear mirror stretching from shore to shore, and reflecting the cold yellow of the winter twilight. As this chill twilight iced into the frozen purple of dusk, tremulous stars quivered into being out of the violet blackness of space. The nebular hypothesis is born again in the heavens each still winter night. It must have slipped thence into the mind of Kant as he stood in the growing dusk of some German December watching the violet-gray frost vapors of the frozen sky condense into the liquid radiance of early starlight, then tremble again into the crystalline glints of unknown suns whirling in majestic array through the full night along the myriad miles of interstellar space. Standing on the water’s edge on such a night you realize that you are the very centre of a vast scintillating universe, for the stars shine with equal glory beneath your feet and above your head. The earth is forgotten. It has become transparent, and where before sunset gray sand lay beneath a half-inch of water at your toe-tips, you now gaze downward through infinite space to the nadir, the unchartered, unfathomable distance checked off every thousand million miles or so by unnamed constellations that blur into a milky way beneath your feet. The pond is very deep on still winter nights. If you will take canoe and glide out into the centre the illusion is complete. There is no more earth nor do the waters under the earth remain; you float in the void of space with the Pleiades for your nearest neighbor and the pole star your only surety. In such situations only can you feel the full loom of the universe. The molecular theory is there stated with yourself as the one molecule at the centre of incomputability. It is a relief to shatter all this with a stroke of the paddle, shivering all the lower half of your incomputable universe into a quivering chaos, and as the shore looms black and uncertain in the bitter chill it is nevertheless good to see, for it is the homely earth coming back to you. You have had your last canoe trip of the year, but it has carried you far. No wonder that on such a night the pond, falling asleep for the long winter, dreams. A little after midnight it stirred uneasily in its sleep and a faint quiver ran across its surface. A laggard puff of the north wind that, straggling, had itself fallen asleep in the pine wood and waked again, was now hastening to catch up. The surface water had been below the freezing point for some time and with the slight wakening the dreams began to write themselves all along as if the little puff of wind were a pencil that drew the unformulated thoughts in ice crystals. Water lying absolutely still will often do this. Its temperature may go some degrees below the freezing point and it will still be unchanged. Stir it faintly and the ice crystals grow across it at the touch. Strange to tell, too, the pond’s dreams at first were not of the vast universe that lay hollowed out beneath the sky and was repeated to the eye in its clear depths. Its dreams were of earth and warmth, of vaporous days and humid nights when never a frost chill touched its surface the long year through, and the record the little wind wrote in the ice crystals was of the growth of fern frond and palm and prehistoric plant life that grew in tropic luxuriance in the days when the pond was young. These first bold, free-hand sketches touched crystal to crystal and joined, embossing a strange network of arabesques, plants drawn faithfully, animals of the coal age sketched in and suggested only, while all among the figures great and small was the plaided level of open water. This solidified, dreamless, about and under the decorations, and the pond was frozen in from shore to shore. Thus I found it the next morning, level and black under one of those sunrises which seem to shatter the great crystal of the still atmosphere into prisms. The cold has been frozen out of the sky, and in its place remains some strange vivific principle which is like an essence of immortality. New ice thus formed has a wonderful strength in proportion to its thickness. It is by no means smooth, however. The embossing of the reproductions of these pond dreams of fern and palm and plesiosaurus makes hubbles under your steel as you glide over it, though little you care for that on your first skate of the year. The embossing it is, I think, that largely gives it its strength, and though it may crack and sag beneath you as you strike out, you know that its black texture is made up of interlacing crystals that slip by one another in the bending, but take a new grip and hold until your weight fairly tears them apart. The small boy knows this instinctively and applies it as he successfully runs “teetley-bendoes” to the amazement and terror of the uninitiated grown-ups. If you have the heart of the small boy still, though with an added hundred pounds in weight, you may yet dare as he does and add to the exhilaration born of the wine-sweet air the spice of audacity. An inch or so of transparent ice lies between you and a ducking among the fishes which dart through the clear depths, fleeing before the under water roar of your advance, for the cracks, starting beneath your feet and flashing in rainbow progress before you and to the right and left, send wild vibrations whooping and whanging through the ice all over the pond. Now the visible bottom drops away beneath you to an opaqueness that gives you a delicious little sudden gasp of fear, for you realize the depth into which you might sink; again it rises to meet you and here you may bear down and gain added impetus, for you know that the ice will be thicker in shallow water. So you go on, and ever on. It is not wise to retrace your strokes, for those ice crystals that gave to let you through and then gripped one another again to hold you up may not withstand a second impact; nor is it wise to stop. Mass and motion have given you momentum and you have acquired some of the obscure stability of the gyroscope. You tend to stay on your plane of motion, though the ice itself has strength to hold only part of your weight. Thus the wild duck, threshing the air with mighty strokes, glides over it, held up by the same obscure force. The ice has no time to break and let you through. You are over it and onto another bit of uncracked surface before it can let go. The day warmed a little with a clear sun but the frost that night bit deep again and the next morning the ice had nearly doubled in thickness and would not crack under any strain which my weight could put upon it. A second freezing, even though both be thin, gives a stronger ice than a single freezing of equal depth, just as the English bowmaker of the old days used to glue together a strip of lancewood and a strip of yew, or even two strips of the same wood, thus making a far stiffer bow than one made of a single piece of equivalent dimensions. This ice was much smoother too. That evaporation which is steadily going on from the surface of ice even in the coldest weather, the crystals passing to vapor without the intervening stage of water, had worn off the embossing. The ice instead of being black was gray with countless air bubbles all through its texture. You will always find these after a day’s clear sun on a first freezing. I fancy the ice crystals make minute burning glasses under the sun’s rays and thus cause tiny meltings within its own bulk, the steam of the fusing making the bubbles; or it may be that the air with which the north wind of two days before had been saturating the water was thus escaping from solution. It was midday of this second day of skating weather before I reached the pond. The sky was overcast, the wind piped shrill again, and there were snow-squalls about. The pond was empty and lone. I thought no living creature there beside myself, and it was only at the second call of a familiar voice that I believed I heard it. Then, indeed, I stopped and listened up the wind. It came again, a wild and lonely whistle that was half a shout, beginning on the fifth of the scale, sliding to the top of the octave, and then to a third above, and I heard it with amazement. The pond was firmly covered with young ice. Why should a loon be sitting out on it and hooting to me? There was silence for a space while I looked in vain, for the first flakes of a snow-squall were whitening the air and had made the distant shore indistinct. Then it spoke again, almost confidentially, that still lonely but more pleasing whinny, a sort of “Who-who-who-who” that is like a tremulous question, weird laughter, or a note of pain as best fits the mind of the listener. The voice came from the geographical centre of the pond’s loneliness, the one point where a wild bird like the loon, obliged to make a stand, would find himself farthest from all frequented shores. I skated up the wind in that direction, but the snow blew in my eyes and I could see but little. Suddenly right in front of me there was a wild yell of dismay, despair and defiance all mingled in a single loon note, but so clearly expressed that you could not fail to recognize them, then a quick splash, and I had almost skated into a hole in the ice, perhaps some ten feet across. Then I knew what had happened. A loon, wing-tipped by some poor marksman, had dropped into the pond before the freeze. He could dive and swim, no doubt, as well as ever but could not leave the water. When the pond began to freeze he did the only thing possible in his losing fight. That was to seek the loneliest spot in the surface and keep an opening in the ice when it began to form. I could see the fifteen-foot circle which had been his haven for the first night and day. Then with the second freezing night he had been obliged to shorten this. Two feet and a half of new ice showed his inner line of defence rimmed accurately within the greater circle and showing much splashing where he had, I thought, breasted it desperately all the long night in his brave fight to keep it open. How long without human intervention he might brave the elements and keep his narrowing circle unfrozen would of course depend on the weather. If it did not come on too severe he might live on there till his wing healed and by a miracle win again to flight and safety. The cold would not trouble him nor the icy water. The loon winters anywhere from southern Massachusetts south and, strong and well, has no fear of winter. But there entered into this the human equation. The next man along would likely go home and get a shotgun. As I noted all this a head appeared above the water in the pool. There was another shriek of alarm and it vanished in a flash and a splash. It was forty seconds by my watch before the bird appeared again. This time he rose almost fully to the surface and sounded a war cry, then dove again and was under for seventy seconds. And so as long as I stood my distance motionless he came and went, never above water for more than a few seconds, varying in length of time that he stayed below from half a minute to a minute and a quarter, and never going below without sounding the eerie heartbreak of his call. Then I skated away to get my camera and was gone three-quarters of an hour. Returning I saw him in the distance, for the snow had almost passed. He saw me too and dived. Gliding up I knelt at the very edge of the hole and was fixing the camera when he came up. He sat level on the surface for a second, seemingly not noticing me. Then, warned by a motion that I made in trying to adjust the focus, he sounded a wild and plaintive call that seemed to have in it mingled fear and defiance, heartbreak and triumph, and plunged beneath the surface with a vigor and decision that sent him far beneath the ice, his great webbed feet driving him with great jumps, as a frog swims. I saw him shoot away from the hole, trailing bubbles. I waited kneeling, watch in hand and thumb on bulb, a minute, two minutes, three, five, ten. The snow shut in again thick, the north wind sang a plaintive dirge and I realized that the picture would never be taken. Instead I was kneeling at the deathbed of a wild Northern spirit that perhaps deliberately took that way of ending the unequal struggle. The loon knows not the land. Even his nest he builds on the water’s edge and clambers awkwardly to it with wings and bill as well as feet. The air and water are his home, the water far more than the air, and he knows the underwater world as well as he does the surface. I shall never know whether my loon went so far in his flight beneath the ice that he failed to find his way back, or whether his strength gave out. Knowing his untamed and fearless spirit I am inclined to believe that he deliberately elected to die at home, in the cool depths that he loved rather than come back to his poor refuge in the narrowing ice circle and face that strange creature that knelt at the edge. WINTER FERN-HUNTING The spring of this, our new year of 1909, is set by the wise makers of calendars to begin at the vernal equinox, say the twenty-first of March, but the weatherwise know that on that date eastern Massachusetts is still in the thrall of winter, and spring, as they see it, is not due till a month later. Yet they are both wrong, and we need but go into the woods now to prove it. The spring in fact is already here. The new life in which it is to express itself in a thousand forms is already growing and much of it had its beginning in late August or early September of last year. The wind out of the north may retard it indeed, but it needs but a touch of the south wind to start it in motion again, and the deep snows that are yet to come and bury it so that the waves of arctic atmosphere that may roll over its head for weeks will never be able to touch it are a help. Many a hardy little spring plant blooms first, not in April as we are apt to think, but more likely in January, though it may be two feet deep beneath the snow and ice and unseen by any living creature. To go no farther than my own garden, I have known a late January thaw, rapidly carrying off deep snow, to reveal the “ladies’ delights” in bloom beneath an overarching crust of ice. The warm snow blankets had effectually insulated the autumn grown buds from the zero temperature two feet above, and the warmth of the earth beneath had not only passed through the frost but melted a little cavern beneath the snow, and there the hardy plants had responded to the impulse of the spring that was already with them. In this wise the chickweed blooms the year round though rarely are circumstances such that we note it in the winter months. Now and then the hepatica opens shy blue eyes beneath the enfolding snow and it is common in times of open weather in midwinter to read newspaper reports of the blooming of dandelions in December, or January. These are just as much in bloom on other winters but the snow covers them from sight and it takes a thaw which sweeps the ground clear of snow to reveal them. It is good now and then to get a green Christmas such as we have just had, for in it we may go forth into the fields and realize that the spring has not retreated to the Bahamas, but merely to the subsoil, whence it slips, full of warmth and thrill, on any sunshiny day. If we will but seek the right places we need not search long to find April all about us, though they may be cutting ten-inch ice on the pond and winter overcoats be the prevailing wear. To-day I found young and thrifty plants, green and succulent, of two varieties of fern that are not common in my neighborhood and that I had never suspected in that location. I had passed them amid the universal green of summer without noticing them, but now their color stood out among the prevailing browns and grays as vividly as yellow blossoms do in a June meadow. Yet I sought the greater ferns of my acquaintance in vain in many an accustomed place. Down by the fountain head is a spot where the black muck, cushioned with yielding sphagnum, slopes gently upward to firmer ground beneath the maples till these give way to the birches on the drier hillside. Here the ostrich fern waved its seven-foot fronds in feathery beauty amid the musky twilight of the swamp all summer long. It was as if giants, playing battledore, had driven a hundred green shuttlecocks to land in the woodcock-haunted shelter. The tangle of their fronds was chin high and you smashed your way through their woody stipes with difficulty, so strong and thick were they. Now they have vanished and scarcely a trace of their presence remains. Brown and brittle stalks rise a little from the earth here and there, and if you search among fallen leaves you may find the ends of their rootstalks with the growth for next year coiled in compact bundles there, ready to unfold. From these rootstalks spring in all directions slender underground runners whence will grow new plants. But none of this is visible. The only reminder of that once luxurious thicket is the brittle, brown stalks that still, here and there, protrude from the fallen leaves. It is difficult to see where they all went, but there is something savoring of the supernatural about ferns, anyway. Shakspeare says: “We have the receipt of fern-seed; we walk invisible.” For men to use this receipt the seed must be garnered on St. John’s eve in a white napkin with such
no king, prince, nor potentate to protect them; and who in the beginning had not among themselves any man of renown or literature, but relying on their integrity, and trusting to God alone; have at length triumphed over the malice of their opposers, by suffering, (which rose to that degree that it was at the expense of the lives of many of them,) under violent oppression from high and low, and the opposition of learned and unlearned. All this after much search, being found out by assiduous diligence, appeared so wonderful to me, that I resolved to give a relation thereof, notwithstanding the great labour I soon perceived this work required. To this may be added, that when I considered that several authors, both Germans and others, had published books and accounts of this people stuffed with gross untruths, I was the more spurred on thereby to set down in due order, for my countrymen’s sake, what I knew of the matter; for it seems indeed to be of small advantage that when any thing is well known to us, we keep that knowledge only to ourselves,[1] without imparting it to others. [1] Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter.--_Pers. Sat._ 1. Now how difficult soever I found it, yet having made a beginning, I resolved to go on; and so I did, though often stopped by several accidents, and also other work: for during this labour I have not only translated several bulky books into Dutch, besides Rennet’s Antiquities of Rome, but also composed several treatises of moment, and among these my great dictionary, English and Low Dutch. And notwithstanding all these impediments, I continually resumed this work by intervals so often, that I have written it almost thrice to make it complete; for doubting of somethings, and finding others defective, it made me write to England for better information; which having gotten at length, after much pains and long writing, I was several times obliged to lay aside part of my former description and make a new one; which happened so often, that had I not been supported by an unwearied application, the difficulty of the labour, which had been much greater in Holland, than if I had composed the work in England, would have made me give it over. But I went on, and so finished this history in that form as it now appears. And I am not without thoughts, that I was prepared to be instrumental for such a work as this: for several remarkable things I have made use of, I had noted down before ever I thought of composing such a history; and even in my young years, when I was in England, I copied out from manuscripts several pieces and letters, which are inserted in this history: it may be hardly to be found elsewhere. At the first sight perhaps some will be ready to think that I might have superseded this labour, since the learned world hath long ago seen a book written by Gerard Croese, with the title of Historia Quakeriana. But be it known to the reader, that though the author got the chief contents thereof from me, yet that relation which he gives of the rise and progress of the Quakers, is very imperfect and defective; and that he presumed to relate things of which he had no true knowledge. I gave him indeed many things in writing, but not all I had collected; besides having since that time written to my acquaintance in England, I got narratives of many remarkable occurrences given forth in print there, and many authentic pieces in manuscript. Now though this collection was, as Ovid calls the chaos, ‘_Rudis indigestaque moles_,’ ‘a rude undigested heap;’ yet from thence, and from my own collection of matters known to me, I have compiled the greatest part of this history: but as to the life and transactions of G. Fox, who is largely treated in this work, I took them chiefly from his journal; and the greatest part of other occurrences, or the lives and transactions of others, I have taken from the works of deceased authors; and out of abundance of small books published in print not long after the things happened, and not contradicted by whatever I could learn. Thus I have endeavoured to assert nothing but what I had good authority for; which in regard of some circumstances, would have been yet far more difficult after the expiration of some years: for now time gave opportunity to be informed of many things, which some ancient people had yet remembrance of, and which after their decease perhaps would have been buried in oblivion. I cannot well omit here publicly to acknowledge the signal kindness and diligence of my well-beloved and much esteemed friend Theodore Ecclestone, of London, who hath furnished me with abundance of materials, not only very useful, but also absolutely necessary for the compiling of this work: from him I had intelligence on that account, and have exchanged a multitude of letters. And thus by a long continued correspondence I came to be acquainted with many things and circumstances, which after some years might have been more difficult to obtain. Add to this, that I have described several things well known to me, which few besides myself within these thirty or forty years had better knowledge of. I have also mentioned several remarkable cases, which I noted down from the mouths of credible persons who have been dead many years, and thought not that at any time I should have published them in print. In the meanwhile I took account of what seemed to me worthy to be left upon record, and collected a great quantity of books, wherein many occurrences mentioned in this history were related. Of such kind of relations and accounts I have made use of, without taking from thence all that was remarkable; for it hath not been for want of matter that this history hath not run out further, since I could have made it thrice as big, if I had been minded so to do. But as I was unwilling to extend my work any further than my strength and health in all probability should permit, so I would not glut my reader with many things of one and the same nature: but have endeavoured by variety of matter, to quicken his appetite; and therefore have intermixed the serious part sometimes with a facetious accident. Yet I have not thought myself bound to take notice of every odd case that may have happened among the Quakers, so called: for there have conversed among them such who acted some particular things that were not approved of by those of that society. And if any one, swayed by human passion, commits any excess which is disapproved of by his fellow members of the church, such an act may not be duly imputed to the people he makes profession with. Among such particulars may be reckoned the case of one Hester Biddle, which Croese makes mention of about the end of his history. For though it was told him from the relation she gave of it at Amsterdam, not with any intention that he should publish it, yet this was a particular case which she herself must be responsible for; since experience hath taught that imagination sometimes works so powerfully on the mind, that one thinks himself obliged to do a thing which were better left undone. Yet for all that, it is true, that men fearing God, may mistake, and through ignorance do something, which others not without reason might judge not commendable. Also it may happen that some again, from a godly fear, have omitted what others, no less pious, would not have scrupled. And though some among the Quakers, in the beginning of their rise, for fear of transgressing Christ’s command, “Be not ye called Rabbi, for one is your Master, even Christ,” speaking to persons in authority, called them by the name of Friend; yet others of the same persuasion have not therefore thought themselves bound to refuse to magistrates their distinguishing titles of magistracy. Nay, if any, for some special reason, may not have given a full or direct answer to a query, yet others of the same society have not looked upon this as a pattern to imitate. For the most eminent valiants among this people in the beginning, were not men of note or learning, though of great courage: insomuch that their immoveable steadfastness sometimes so exasperated their enemies, that their fear of doing or omitting any thing which they judged would displease God, often hath been stamped with the odious denomination of stubbornness and stiffneckedness; but they have borne this patiently, believing that it was their duty to persevere immoveably in minding their Christian profession, and in frequenting their religious assemblies. And that such a steadfastness was the duty of a Christian, seems also to have been the judgment of the authors of the confession of faith of the reformed churches in the Netherlands, Art. xxviii. where it is said, that it is the office or duty of all believers, to separate themselves according to the word of God, from those that are not of the church; and to join to this congregation, in what place soever God hath placed them, though the magistrates and edicts of princes were against it; and that death or any corporeal punishment was annexed to it. It is true, there have been such among the Quakers, who were exceeding bold in representing to their enemies their evil behaviour and deportment; but this hath been a peculiar talent of pious men, of whom examples are extant in the book of martyrs, viz. that some of them in very plain terms told their persecutors of their wickedness. Very remarkable in that respect is the speech of John Molleus, who about the year 1653, being prisoner at Rome, without any dissimulation exposed to public view the wicked lives of the cardinals and bishops, who were ordered by the pope to examine him. The like boldness appears also in the letter of Hans van Ovendam, to the magistrates of Ghent in Flanders, as may be seen in the Mirror of Martyrs of the Baptists; from whence it appears, that the Quakers have not been the only people who have told their persecutors very boldly of their wicked deportment and cruelty. It cannot be denied that there have been at times among this society some people of an odd behaviour, who in process of time embraced strange opinions and perverse notions; but that is no new thing, since this hath happened also among those of other persuasions, though none of these would allow that this was the consequence or effect of their doctrine. We find in Sacred Writ, that even in the primitive Christian church there were apostates; either such as maintained strange doctrine, as the Nicholatians; or such who finding the straight way too narrow for them, left it, and like Demas, falling in love again with the world, entered into the broad way. And therefore it can now, no more than then, be argued from thence, that the exorbitancies to which some launched out, were the effects of the doctrine they forsook. Since in this history some predictions are also mentioned, and some biassed by prejudice will perhaps look upon them as frivolous, imagining that the Quakers pretend to have the spirit of prophecy; I will answer to this, that though among thousands of them there may have been one that prophetically foretold a thing, which afterwards truly, happened; yet others of that society presumed to have that gift no more than to have that of being a preacher; and are not called to that work. There must be antecessors and leaders in the religious economy, as well as in the politic state; for if every one not qualified should assume the office of governing, things would soon run into confusion. Now though some have had this false conceit, that to be able to predict future things was a quality the Quakers attributed to themselves; as proceeding from their doctrine, that Christians ought to be led by the Spirit of God; yet this is a very sinister and preposterous conceit; for what they say concerning the leading and guiding of the Spirit of God, is agreeable with the doctrine of the apostle, who saith, “As many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God.” And this was also the doctrine of the first reformers. What must we think then of those who will not be led by this spirit, but call this doctrine by the odious denomination of enthusiasm? The same apostle tells us also, “If any have not the Spirit of Christ he is none of his.” And he saith also, “The manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal.” But from thence it doth in no wise follow that the spirit of prophecy is given to every one; neither that although it might please God to reveal to one a thing which yet was to come, such an one therefore was endued with such a prophetical spirit, that he was able at any time to predict future things. If this position be true, then those of other persuasions might also lay claim to that prerogative; because among them sometimes there have been pious men who predicted remarkable things, which afterwards really happened; as among the rest, James Usher, archbishop of Armagh, and primate of Ireland, who foretold the rebellion in Ireland forty years before it came to pass; besides the intestine war and miseries that befel England, and other things that were fulfilled: which leads us not to reject as frivolous his prediction of the dreadful persecution that would fall upon all the Protestant churches by the Papists; for though one of his friends once objected to him, that since Great Britain and Ireland had already suffered so deeply, there was reason to hope that the judgments of God in respect of these kingdoms might have been past; yet he replied to it, ‘Fool not yourselves with such hopes, for I tell you all you have yet seen hath been but the beginning of sorrows, to what is yet to come upon the Protestant churches of Christ, who will ere long fall under a sharper persecution than ever yet hath been upon them. And therefore look you be not found in the outward court, but a worshipper in the temple before the altar: for Christ will measure all those that profess his name, and call themselves his people; and the outward worshippers he will leave out, to be trodden down by the Gentiles. The outward court is the formal Christian, whose religion lies in performing the outside duties of Christianity, without having an inward life and power of faith and love, uniting them to Christ: and these God will leave to be trodden down and swept away by the Gentiles. But the worshippers within the temple and before the altar, are those who indeed worship God in spirit and in truth: whose souls are made his temples, and he is honoured and adored in the most inward thoughts of their hearts; and they sacrifice their lusts and vile affections, yea, and their own wills to him; and these God will hide in the hollow of his hand, and under the shadow of his wings. And this shall be the great difference between this last, and all the other preceding persecutions; for in the former the most eminent and spiritual ministers and Christians did generally suffer most, and were most violently fallen upon; but in this last persecution these shall be preserved by God as a seed to partake of that glory which shall immediately follow and come upon the church, as soon as ever this storm shall be over; for as it shall be the sharpest, so it shall be the shortest persecution of them all, and shall only take away the gross hypocrites and formal professors; but the true spiritual believers shall be preserved till the calamity be over past.’ If any now-a-days should speak at this rate, it is credible that many who think themselves to be good Christians, would decry this as mere enthusiasm. But the said bishop is still in such great repute with the learned, and hath obtained such an high esteem by his writings, that his words are likely to be of more weight with many, than those of other pious men. And therefore I was willing to renew them, and revive his memory, if perhaps this might make some impression upon the minds of any: for this is a certain truth, that no outward performances will avail any, if they do not worship God in spirit and in truth; for such worshippers God seeks, according to what our Saviour himself said; besides, that “not every one that saith to him, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven:” nay, when many in that day will say to him, “Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name?” He will say to them, “I never knew you; depart from me ye that work iniquity.” As the many singular cases related in this history will afford no unpleasing entertainment to curious readers, so they will be found also instructive; for we shall not only meet with instances of true piety and love to one’s neighbour, and of saints triumphing on their death beds, and also with remarkable examples of sinners truly penitent at the hour of death; but we may also find here abundance of proofs of a peaceable behaviour: for the Quakers, so called, have not plotted against the government, nor meddled with treasonable practices or rebellions; and how much soever they were oppressed, yet they always were quiet, and never made any resistance; but with an harmless patience they have borne their most heavy oppressions and injuries, and so at length overcame: for to be subject to magistracy hath always been one of their principles; and that they were really dutiful subjects, they have showed at all times, by paying obedience to the higher power, in all they could do with a good conscience. And when any thing was required of them, which from a reverential respect to God they durst not do, or omit; they have showed their obedience by suffering, without making any resistance, or joining with others who were inclined thereto. Now though many have made it their business to represent them in odious colours, and to write great untruths concerning them; nay, to fasten doctrines upon them which they never approved, and that not a few of the learned have contended against them with their pens; yet among these there have also been such, who though they never joined with, yet gave a good account and favourable testimony concerning them, as may be seen in Richard Claridge’s answer to a book of Edward Cockson, page 266, and seq. And at Amsterdam in Holland, many years ago, a learned man published a book called, Lucerna super Candelabrum, wherein he very eminently defended the doctrine of the inward light; and this book was published in Dutch, and afterwards also into English, with the title of The Light upon the Candlestick: and since the name of William Ames, a zealous preacher among the Quakers, was placed upon the title, many have believed him to be the author of that book, because his doctrine of the divine and inward light was so effectually asserted therein. That he approved the contents of the book I know; but I know also that it never proceeded from his pen. And many years afterwards it was published under the name of one Peter Balling as the author, though there were those who fathered it upon Adam Boreel, because it is found printed in Latin among his Scripta Postuma. And this opinion is not altogether improbable, for among his works are found also some other writings that contain several positions asserted by the Quakers; besides, he and some other of the collegians, and among these also Dr. Galenus Abrahamson, were so effectually convinced of the doctrine preached by William Ames when he first came to Amsterdam, that they approved of it; though afterwards from a misapprehension they opposed it. Now if we presuppose that Adam Boreel was the author of the said Latin book, Peter Balling might be the translator thereof into Dutch; for that it was originally written in Latin seems to me very probable. But however this be, it appears plainly, that the author would not publicly be known; for the title seemed designedly composed so that the readers should believe W. Ames to be the author of it, viz. The Light on the Candlestick, serving for Illustration of the principal matters in the Book called, The Mysteries of the Kingdom of God, &c. against Galenus Abrahamson and his Assenters, treated of, and written by W. Ames. And this name stood in capital letters underneath, in such a manner as the name of an author is usually placed upon a title; though the publisher meant no more but that W. Ames was the author of the book called, The Mysteries of the Kingdom of God. And there was no printer’s name added to it, but only, Printed for the author, 1662. Now though I cannot tell certainly who was the author, yet I have thought fit, since the said book is not easily to be got in Latin, to insert it in the appendix of this history; from whence it may appear, as well as from the writings of some others, that there have been such as either commended the Quakers, or defended their doctrine, though they themselves never could resolve to join with them publicly. But notwithstanding all this, there have been others, who, to render the deportment and carriage of the Quakers suspected and odious, have been ready to represent their honest behaviour and religious life as Pharisaical righteousness; although Christ and his apostles earnestly recommended such a life. Pray, what mean these words of our Saviour, “Be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect;” but that we ought to endeavour, to the utmost of our power, to lead a virtuous and godly life? when those that heard the apostle Peter preach, were thereby pricked in their hearts, and said, “Men and Brethren, what shall we do?” he answered, “Repent.” And at another time, “Repent, ye, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out.” The apostle Paul saith, “Be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind.” And the apostle Peter, agreeable to this, saith, “As obedient children, not fashioning yourselves according to the former lusts in your ignorance; but as he which hath called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation;” all which clearly implieth, that a Christian ought to be very strict and careful in his conversation; and of this judgment were also the first reformers: and that Archbishop Tillotson was also of the same mind appears from many passages that are to be found in his sermons. But though the Quakers have endeavoured to make their life and conversation agree with their Christian profession, yet this hath raised envy, grudge, and malice against them: and among the clergy there have been such, who, to render them odious, did not stick to represent them as disguised Papists, notwithstanding these were none of their meanest enemies. For, after a due reflection and consideration, it hath seemed to me, that when king Charles the second was on the throne, the Romanists, and such among the church of England as favoured them, were the chief promoters of persecution. And these, to pursue their wicked ends, would not proceed according to law, in the trials of the imprisoned Quakers; but they continually strove to introduce an arbitrary power, and so, from time to time, they did not omit to prosecute the Quakers severely: thinking that, when they were once suppressed, the other dissenters must fall of necessity, though they were not for non-resistance. But Providence acted very remarkably; for, when a popish prince afterwards would introduce liberty of conscience, the eyes of the most moderate maintainers of the church of England came to be so opened, that, in the reign of King William III. they promoted a general liberty of conscience, by which the people called Quakers at length obtained liberty to perform their public worship without molestation. Thus far the limits of this history are extended; and being arrived there, I did not think myself bound to enlarge any further; what follows being no more than an overplus. I have related nothing in this work but what I believed to be unquestionably true: for what seemed doubtful to me, I rather chose to pass by; having never been of so credulous a temper, as easily to take things on trust, without due examination: for we often see that high soaring imaginations make people believe things that are far from being true. But for all that, we ought not to reject as untrue every thing that appears strange or unusual; since experience convinceth us of the contrary, viz. that sometimes we have seen a thing which, if we had not beheld with our own eyes, we could hardly have believed. Wherefore I would not reject as untrue what was extraordinary or unusual, when it was told me by credible persons, or confirmed by eye-witnesses. And therefore, though my reader may meet with some very singular occurrences, yet this is true, that I have endeavoured to the utmost to relate nothing but what, after a nice inquiry, seemed to me to be true, or at least very probable. And yet I have silently passed over some cases which I did not question to be true, lest any might think me too credulous. As to the transactions of state affairs, I have taken them mostly from the history of the rebellion and the civil wars in England, written by Edward Earl of Clarendon, and from the memoirs of Edward Ludlow. Yet some few things relating to state affairs, that have not been mentioned by them, nor in any other public history that I know of, I thought worthy to be delivered to posterity by my pen. For my style, I know it is but indifferent: I do not pretend to elegancy in the English tongue; for, being a foreigner, and never having been in England but about the space of ten months, and that near fifty years ago, it ought not to be expected that I should write English so well as Dutch, my native language. If therefore my pen hath sometimes been guilty of a Belgicism, I beg excuse of my reader. And since my absence hath hindered me from correcting the printer’s mistakes, either in omissions or other errors, such faults I do not think myself responsible for, because I have been fain to trust the oversight and correction of my work to others, who may have been more liable to let errors escape than myself should have been. This I hope will suffice to excuse me with discreet persons. What the envious may judge of this work I little care for, well knowing that the most eminent authors have been exposed to envy, and been obnoxious to the censures of pedantic critics. Whatever any may think, this I am well assured of, that my chief scope hath been by the relation of many unusual occurrences, not only to delight my reader but also to lead him to virtue. If I may be so happy as to have contributed thereto, I shall think my pains well rewarded; and if not, I shall have at least this satisfaction, that according to my ability, I have endeavoured to be beneficial to others, and to edify my fellow-mortals in that which is good; which I cannot but think to be well pleasing to God. And if I have performed any thing that is good, the honour and glory thereof belongs to him, who is the Giver of all good gifts; and it is from Him alone I have received all my ability to do any good thing. Thus concluding, I wish the reader discretion, and an impartial judgment. THE FIRST BOOK. 1415-1650. 1415-1623. That the wonderful Work of Reformation was small and of very little account in its beginning, and yet hath been advanced with remarkable progress, will, I believe be denied by none, that have with attention and due consideration read the history of its first rise; since God the beginner and author of this glorious work, proceeding by steps and degrees, used therein such singular wisdom and prudence, that every circumstance duly considered, instead of censuring any part thereof, we shall be obliged to cry out, Thou, O Lord, alone knowest the right times and seasons to open the eyes of the people, and to make them capable of thy truth! If we look to the first beginnings, to go back no further than John Huss, we shall find, that though in many things he was considerably enlightened, yet he remained still in several gross errors; for although he had a clear sight of the vain doctrines of purgatory, praying to, and worshipping of images, &c. nevertheless it is reported of him that he favoured the invocation of saints, the seven sacraments, auricular confession, and other tenets of the church of Rome; and yet Christian charity constrains us to believe, (though we find Protestant writers who deny him the name of a martyr,) that by his death, which he suffered in the flames at Constance in Germany, on the 6th of the month called July, in the year 1415, he was an acceptable sacrifice unto God: and with what a sedate and well composed mind he suffered death, may be concluded from this, that seeing a country fellow very zealously carrying wood to burn him, he said, with a smiling countenance, O holy simplicity! And after the fire was kindled, he sang with joy in the flames, his mind being firmly established on God; for he had been faithful according to his knowledge, and had not hid his talent in the earth, but improved it, having shown himself a zealous promoter of that small illumination which God was pleased to grant him; it being without question great enough in that grievous night of darkness, when idolatry had so universally blinded mankind, that, morally speaking, it would have been impossible for them to have understood the declaration of an entirely reformed religion; whereas it is evident that the most sober and discreet people of that age were capable to understand the doctrine and sermons of that honest man. To give a clearer prospect into this matter, let it be considered, that if a man had been kept shut up a long time in a dark prison, where he could neither behold the light of the sun nor moon, and should have been let out on a sudden at clear noon day, he would not only not be able to endure the bright day light, but would also, if he strove to open his eyes by force, be endangered of losing his sight, and falling into a worse condition than he was in before; whereas if he had been brought into the open air at the time of twilight, he would by degrees, have learned to discern the objects, and come to an ability of beholding every thing in a clear day aright. Agreeably to this, in the reigns of Kings Henry the VIIIth, and the bloody Queen Mary, the principal test in England was, whether a man owned the corporal presence of Christ in the sacrament; and he who denied this, was to be burnt as an heretic. Also in the Netherlands, it was enough to bring a man to the stake, if he confessed he had been re-baptized. In so much that it seems the Lord did raise in those days zealous men chiefly to testify against the idolatry of the host, and the error of infant baptism, and that so gradually he might break down the great structure of human inventions. Now, how small soever the beginnings of this great work of Reformation were, yet it increased from time to time; and oftentimes singular instances were seen of the workings of the power and Spirit of God. In the year 1513, I find that one John Le Clerc, of Meaux in France, being at Metz in Lorrain, was filled with such zeal against idolatry, that he broke to pieces the images in a chapel, which the next day were to have been worshipped in a very solemn manner. And being taken prisoner for this fact, and cruelly tortured to death, he was so eminently strengthened, even to the amazement of the beholders, that in the height of the torments, being torn with red hot pincers, he said, from Ps. cxv. “Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men’s hands.” Not less was the zeal of one Aymond à Vie, imprisoned in France about the year 1541, because he had preached the gospel undauntedly; and though he had been advised to fly, yet he would not be persuaded thereto, but said with an heroic mind, ‘I would rather never have been born, than commit such a base act; for it is the duty of a good pastor not to fly from danger, but to stay in it, lest the sheep be scattered.’ He was tortured cruelly to betray his fellow believers; but no torment how great soever, could extort the name of any from him; and he suffered death valiantly for the testimony of Jesus, feeling himself very powerfully strengthened by the Spirit of God, which worked so gloriously in the martyrs of those times, that those of Merindol in Provence said, ‘The Holy Ghost is an infallible teacher, by whose inspiration all Christians receive the knowledge of truth: this spirit dwells in them, he regenerates them to a new life, he slayeth the old man in them, and he makes them alive to every good work, consoling them in tribulations, and strengthening them in adversities,’ &c. And the pious professors at Meaux, I find mentioned in the year 1546, that though a great number of men and women were led prisoners by but a few, they yet made no resistance, but showed themselves harmless, not sad with grief, but singing with joy. Nay, so powerfully did God work in Gabriel Beraudin, who was executed at Chambery in Savoy, in the year 1550, that after his tongue was cut off by the hangman, he spoke intelligibly to the people, and celebrated God’s praise in a miraculous manner. Claude Morier being burnt very cruelly at Lyons in France, wrote whilst in his prison, ‘Let us pray our heavenly Father continually, that he create in us a clean heart, that he give us a new heart, that he guide our will by the leadings of his Spirit.’ Very remarkable it is also, that Godfried de Hammelle, a year after that, being imprisoned at Tournay in the Netherlands, and being told that the Apostle in his Epistle to the Ephesians, had called marriage a sacrament, said in a letter, ‘That though at first this had puzzled him, yet the Lord had not long left him in this difficulty, but put him in mind by his Spirit, that the word there was not sacrament, but mystery.’ For the martyrs of those times did not stick to profess, with the primitive Christians, that the children of God must be led by his Spirit. Peter Schryver, burnt at Lyons about the year 1552, wrote from prison, ‘That he having heard God’s pure word preached, believed it, because the Spirit of God gave him a testimony [or evidence] of it in his heart: and did so confirm it to him, and he could not question it in the least.’ He also says in his letter, ‘That once having prayed to God, he had been so refreshed by the virtue of his Spirit, and so strengthened, that though he sat in a dark nasty place, yet he felt such consolation and joy, that overcame all sorrow and anguish. Nay, said he, the least comfort and joy I feel now in my bonds, surpasseth all the joys that ever I had in my life; for now the Holy Ghost puts me in mind of those gracious promises that are made to those who suffer for his name’s sake.’ And being asked how he knew that which he asserted to be the pure word of God, he answered, ‘Because it did agree with the doctrine of the prophets and apostles, and that of Jesus Christ; and that the Holy Ghost gave him a certain evidence thereof.’ Concerning the indwelling of God’s Spirit in man, he also speaks very notably in his letter to John Chambon, (whose wonderful conversion in prison, was an eminent proof of the truth of his sayings,) telling him, ‘That his heavenly Father was near him, and by his Spirit dwelt in his heart.’ That this was also the doctrine of John Calvin, appears from his letters to the said man and his fellow-prisoners, where he
the same. Their use of the body is often abuse, and not only of the body, but of the voice as well. The influence on the singing voice of a rightly used or rightly trained body is almost beyond the ability of man to put in words. All singing should be rhythmical. These flexible bodily movements develop rhythm. All singing should be the result of vitalized energy and never of muscular effort. These movements arouse energy and make direct effort unnecessary. Singing should be restful, should be the result of power in repose or under control. These movements, and these movements alone, make such conditions possible. All singing should be idealized, should be the result of self-expression, of an expression of the emotions. This is impossible except through correct bodily action. "By nature the expression of man is his voice, and the whole body through the agency of that invisible force, sound, expresses the nobility, dignity, and intellectual emotions, from the foot to the head, when properly produced and balanced. Nothing short of the whole body can express this force perfectly in man or woman." These movements develop in a common-sense way the power of natural forces, of all the forces which Nature has given to man for the production and use of the voice. Rigid, set muscles, or relaxed, limp muscles dwarf and limit in every way the powers of the singer, physical, mental, and emotional; the physical action is wrong, the thought is wrong, and the expression is wrong. A trained, developed muscle responds to thought, to right thought, in a free, natural manner. A rigid or limp muscle is, in a certain sense, for the time being, actually out of use. An important point to consider in this connection is the fact that there is no strength properly applied without movement; but when right movements are not used, the voice is pushed and forced by local effort and by contraction of the lung cells and of the throat. This of course means physical restraint, and physical restraint prevents self-expression. Singing is more psychological than physiological; hence the importance of free self-expression. Direct physical effort produces physical effect; relaxation produces depression. All artistic tone is reinforced sound. There are two ways of reinforcing tone. First, by direct muscular effort, the wrong way; second, by expansion and inflation, the added resonance of air in the cavities, the right way. This condition of expansion and inflation is the distinguishing feature of many great voices, and is possible only through right bodily position and action. These movements are used by many great artists, who develop them as they themselves develop, through giving expression to thought, feeling, and emotion, through using the impressive, persuasive tone, the fervent voice. This brings into action the entire vocal mechanism, in fact all the powers of the singer; hence these movements become a part of the great artist. He may not be able to give a reason for them, but he knows their value. The persuasive, fervent voice demands spontaneity and automatic form and adjustment; these conditions are impossible without flexible, vitalized movements. The great artist finds by experience that the throat was made to sing and not to sing with; that he must sing from the body through the throat. He finds that the tone must be allowed and not made to sing. Hence in the most natural way he develops vitalized bodily energy. Next in importance to absolute freedom of voice, which these movements give, is the fact that through them absolute, automatic, perfect breath-control is developed and mastered. These movements give the breath without a thought of breathing, for they are all breathing movements. The singer cannot lift and expand without filling the lungs naturally and automatically, unless he purposely resists the breath. The conscious breath unseats the voice, that is, disturbs or prevents correct adjustment, and thus compels him to consciously hold it; but this very act makes it impossible to give the voice freedom. Through these movements, through correct position, we secure automatic adjustment, which means approximation of the breath bands, the principle of the double valve in the throat, which secures automatic breath-control. In other words, the singer whose position and action are correct need never give his breathing a thought. This is considered by many as the greatest problem--for the singer--solved in the nineteenth century. To study and master these movements and apply them practically, the singer needs to know absolutely nothing of the mechanism of his vocal organs. He need not consider at all the physiological side of the question. Of course the study of these movements must at first be more or less mechanical, until they respond automatically to thought or will. Then they are controlled mentally, the thought before the action, as should be the case in all singing; and finally the whole mechanism, or all movements, respond naturally and freely to emotional or self-expression. These flexible, vitalized movements are not generally understood or used, because they have not been in the line of thought or study of the rigid muscular school or the limp relaxed school; and yet they are destined to influence sooner or later all systems of singing. They have been used more or less in all ages by great artists. It is strange that they are not better understood by the profession. * * * * * In this connection it might be well to speak of the importance of physical culture for the singer. A series of simple but effective exercises should be used, exercises that will develop and vitalize every muscle of the body. There are also nerve calisthenics, nervo-muscular movements, which strengthen and control the nervous system. These nerve calisthenics generate electrical vitality and give life and confidence. "The body by certain exercises and regime may be educated to draw a constantly increasing amount of vitality from growing nature." A singer to be successful must be healthy and strong. He should take plenty of out-door exercise. Exercise, fresh air, and sunlight are the three great physicians of the world. But beside this, all singers need physical training and development, which tense and harden the muscles, and increase the lung capacity; that training which expands all the resonance cavities, especially the chest, and which directly develops and strengthens the vocal muscles themselves, particularly the extrinsic and intrinsic muscles of the throat. As we have learned, a trained muscle responds more spontaneously to thought or will than an uneducated one; flexible spontaneity the singer always needs. Beyond a doubt, the singer who takes a simple but effective course of physical training in connection with vocal training will accomplish twice as much in a given time, in regard to tone, power and control, as he could possibly do with the vocal training alone. This is the day of physical training, of physical culture in all things; and the average vocal teacher will have to awake to the fact that his pupils need it as much as, or more than, they need the constant practice of tone. Of course it is not possible to give a system of physical training in a small work like this. The student of the voice can get physical training and physical culture from many teachers and many books. It may not be training that will so directly and definitely develop and strengthen the vocal muscles and the organ of sound itself, or training that will so directly influence the voice as does our system, which is especially arranged for the singer; but any good system of physical development, any system that gives the student health and strength, is good for the singing voice. "Activity is the source of growth, both physical and mental." "Strength to be developed, must be used. Strength to be retained, must be used." RAISON D'ÊTRE. Since writing my last book, "Position and Action in Singing," and after four or five years more of experience, I have been doubly impressed and more than convinced of the power and influence of certain things necessary to a right training and use of the voice. Herbert Spencer says, "Experience is the sole origin of knowledge;" and my experience has convinced me, not only that certain things are necessary in the training of the voice, but that certain of the most important principles or conditions demanded by Nature, are entirely wanting in most systems of singing. Singers, as a rule, are artificial and unnatural. They do not use all the powers with which Nature has endowed them. This has been most forcibly impressed upon my mind by the general lack of vitality, or vital energy, among singers; by a general lack of physical vitality, and, I venture to say, largely of mental vitality, and undoubtedly of emotional vitality, often, but mistakenly, called temperament. These things have been forced upon me by the general condition of depression which prevails. Vitality, however, or vitalized energy, is in fact the true means or device whereby the singer is enabled to arouse his temperament, be it great or otherwise; to arouse it, to use it, and to make it felt easily and naturally. Out of every hundred voices tried I am safe in saying that at least ninety are physically depressed, are physically below the standard of artistic singing. Singing, it is true, is more mental than physical, and more emotional than mental; but a right physical condition is absolutely necessary, and the development of it depends upon the way the pupil is taught to think. Singing is a form of self-expression, of an expression of the emotions. This is impossible when there is physical depression. The singer must put himself and keep himself upon a level with the tone and upon a level with his song, the atmosphere of his song; upon a level with the sentiment to be expressed, physically, mentally and emotionally. This cannot be done, or these conditions cannot prevail, when there is depression. There is, to my mind, but one way to account for this condition of depression among singers. That is, the way they think, or are taught to think, in regard to the use of their bodies in singing. The way in which they breathe and control the breath, the way in which they drive and control the tone. It is the result of rigid muscular effort or relaxation, and both depress not only the voice but the singer as well. The tonal result is indisputable evidence of this. Knowledge comes through experience; and my experience in studying both sides of this question has convinced me that there is but one way to develop physical, mental and emotional vitality in the singer, and that is through some system of flexible, vitalized bodily movements. There must be flexible firmness, firmness without rigidity. The movements as given in my book, "Position and Action in Singing," and as here given, develop these conditions. They give the singer physical vitality, freedom of voice, spontaneity, absolute automatic breath control, and make self-expression, emotional expression, and tone-color, not only possible but comparatively easy. Singing is self-expression, an expression of thought and feeling. There must be a medium, however, for the expression of feeling aroused through thought; that medium is the body and the body alone. Therefore it is easy to see the importance of so training the body that it will respond automatically to the thought and will of the singer. The opposite of depression, which local effort develops, is vitalized energy, the singer's sensation, that which I have called the third power, and which is a revelation to those who have studied both sides of the question. These things, as I have said, have been given to the vocal world in my book, "Position and Action in Singing." Many have understood them, have used them, and are enthusiastic advocates of the idea. Others have not fully understood them, as was and is to be expected. For that reason I have written this little book in the hope that it might make things plainer to all. I have endeavored to embody these practical, natural, necessary movements in the formula of study given in this book. The formula which follows is systematically and logically arranged for the study and development of fundamental principles through or by the means of these flexible vitalized movements. In this way I hope to make these ideas plainer and more definite to pupil and teacher. Every correct system of voice-training is based upon principle, theory, and the devices used to develop the principles. There are certain fundamental principles of voice, which are Nature's laws laid down to man, and which cannot be violated. Upon these principles we formulate theories. The theories may be right or wrong, as they are but the works of man. If they are right, the devices used are more apt to be right. If they are wrong, wrong effort is sure to follow, and the result is disastrous. After all, the most important question for consideration is that of the devices used to develop and train the voice. All depends upon whether the writer, the teacher, and the pupil study Nature's laws through common-sense methods or resort to artificiality. If the devices used are right, if they develop vitality, emotional energy, if they avoid rigidity and depression, then the singer need not know so much about principle and theory. But with the teacher it is different. He must know what to think and how to think it before he can intelligently impart the ideas to his pupils. Hence a system based upon correct principle, theory, and device is absolutely necessary for the teacher who hopes to succeed. The following system, as formulated, is largely the outgrowth of my summer work at Point Chautauqua, on Lake Chautauqua. There we have a school every summer, not only for the professional singer and teacher, but for those who desire to become such. Beside the private lessons we give a practical normal course in class lessons. There the principles, the theory, and the devices used are studied and worked out in a practical way by lecture, by illustration, and by the study of all kinds of voices. Many who have taught for years have there obtained for the first time an idea, the true idea, of flexible vitalized movements, the devices demanded by nature for giving the voice vitality, freedom, ease, etc. These teachers who are thus aroused become the most enthusiastic supporters of, and believers in, our system of flexible vitalized movements. It is, therefore, through the Chautauqua work that I have been impressed with the importance of placing this system in a plainer and more definite way, if possible, before the vocal world. PART SECOND. _VITALITY._ ARTICLE ONE. THE FIRST PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE--PRODUCTION. The first principle of artistic tone-production is _The Removal of All Restraint_. The theory founded upon this principle is as follows: Correct tone is the result of certain conditions demanded by Nature, not man's ideas. These conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment; and form and adjustment, to be right, must be automatic, and not the result of direct or local effort. The devices used for developing the above conditions are simple vocal exercises which are favorable to correct form and adjustment, and are studied and made to influence the voice through correct position and action. A correct system for training and developing the voice must be based upon principle, theory, and device; upon the principles of voice which are Nature's laws, upon the theories based upon these principles, and upon the devices for the study and development of such principles. My purpose in this little work is to give just enough musical figures or exercises to enable us to study and apply the movements, the practical part of our system. The first principle of artistic tone-production is the removal of all restraint. This no one can deny without stultifying himself. The removal of all restraint means absolute freedom, not only of form and action, but of tone. It is evident, then, that any local hardening or contracting of muscle, any tension or contraction which would prevent elasticity, would make the removal of all restraint impossible. Hence we find that this first principle is an impossibility with the rigid local-effort school. On the other hand, relaxation, while it may remove restraint, makes artistic control and tonicity impossible. Hence artistic tone, based upon this first principle, is an impossible condition with the limp or relaxed school. That tone is the result of certain conditions demanded by Nature, and that these conditions are dependent upon form and adjustment, cannot be denied; but unless form and adjustment give freedom to the voice, unless they result in the removal of all restraint, then the manner or method in which they are secured must surely be wrong. Local effort or contraction cannot do this. Relaxation cannot secure the true conditions. There is and can be but one principle which makes true form and adjustment possible: All form and adjustment must be automatic, and not the result of direct or local effort. This brings us to a study of devices; and devices, to influence correctly not only the voice but the individual, must be in accordance with natural and not artificial conditions. The singer must put himself and keep himself upon a level with the tone--upon a level with the tone physically, mentally and emotionally. The device which we use, or the formula, is, _lift, expand, and let go_. With the singer who contracts the throat muscles during the act of singing, that which may be called the center of gravity or of effort is at the throat. With the singer who carries a consciously high chest and a drawn-in or contracted diaphragm, the center of gravity is at the chest. With the singer who takes a conscious full breath, and hardens and sets the diaphragm to hold it, the center of gravity is at the diaphragm. In none of these cases is it possible to remove all restraint; for they all result in contraction, especially of the throat muscles, and make flexible expansion--a condition necessary to absolute freedom--impossible. Place the center of gravity, by thought and action, at the hips. Everything above the hips must be free, flexible, elastic and vitalized when singing. We say, _lift, expand, and let go_, which must be in the following proportion: Lift a little, expand more than you lift, and let go entirely. The lift is from the hips up, and must be done in a free, flexible manner, with a constant study to make the body lighter and lighter, and the movement more elastic and flexible. Do not lift as though lifting a weight, but lift lightly as though in response to thought or suggestion. Expand the entire body in a flexible, elastic manner. This will bring into action every muscle of the body, and apply strength and support to the voice; for, as we have found, there is no strength correctly applied except through right movement. When we lift and expand properly, we expand the body as a whole, and not the chest alone, nor the diaphragm, nor the sides. These all come into action and expand with proper movement; but there must be no conscious thought of, nor conscious local effort of, any particular part of the body. When we lift and expand properly the chest becomes active, the diaphragm goes into a singing position, and every muscle of the body is on the alert and ready to respond to the thought or desire of the singer. Not only this; when we lift and expand properly, we influence directly the form and adjustment of all the vocal muscles, and especially the organ of sound itself. In this way the voice is actually and artistically tuned for the production of correct tone, as is the violin in the hands of the master before playing. _Lift, expand, and let go_. This brings us to a consideration of the third part of this expression, _let go_. This is in some respects the most important of the three; for unless the singer knows how to let go properly, absolute freedom or the removal of all restraint is impossible, and the true conditions of tone are lacking. The _let go_ does not mean relaxation, for there must be flexible firmness without rigidity. With the beginner the tendency is to lift, expand, and harden or contract all the muscles. This, of course, means restraint. The correct idea of _let go_ may be studied and better understood by the following experiment or illustration. Stand with the right arm hanging limp by the side. Lift it to a horizontal position, the back of the hand upward. While lifting, grip and contract every muscle of the arm and hand out to the finger-tips. This is much like the contraction placed upon the muscles of the body and of the throat by the conscious-breathing, local-effort school. Lift the arm again from the side, and in lifting have the thought or sensation of letting go all contraction of the muscles. Make the arm light and flexible, and use just enough strength to lift it, and hold it in a horizontal position. This should be the condition of all the muscles of the body under the influence of correct, _lift, expand, and let go_. Lift the arm the third time without contraction or with the sensation of letting go, hold it in a horizontal position, the back of the hand upward. Now will to devitalize the entire hand from the wrist to the finger-tips. Let the hand drop or droop, the arm remaining in a horizontal position. This condition of the hand is the _let go_, or the condition of devitalization, which should be upon the muscles of the face, the mouth, the tongue, the jaw, and the extrinsic muscles of the throat during the act of singing. Thus, when we say, _lift, expand, and let go_, we mean lift from the hips, the center of gravity, in an easy, flexible manner; expand the body with a free movement without conscious thought of any part of it; have the sensation of letting go all contraction or rigidity, and absolutely release the muscles of the throat and face. The _let go_ is in reality more a negative than a positive condition, and virtually means, when you lift and expand, do not locally grip, harden, or set any muscle of the body, throat, or face. The _lift, expand, and let go_ must be in proportion to the pitch and power of the tone. This, if done properly, will result in automatic form and adjustment, the removal of all restraint, and open, free throat and voice. This is the only way in which it is possible to truly vitalize, to arouse the physical, mental and emotional powers of the singer. This is the only way in which it is possible to put yourself and keep yourself upon a level with the tone--upon a level, physically, mentally and emotionally. This is in truth and in fact the singer's true position and true condition; this is in truth and in fact self-assertion; and this, and this only, makes it possible to easily and naturally _arouse_ "the singer's sensation," the true sensation of artistic singing. We will take for our first study a simple arpeggio, using the syllables Ya ha, thus: [Illustration: FIRST STUDY. Ya, ha....] We use Ya on the first tone, because when sung freely it helps to place the tone well forward. Ya is pronounced as the German _Ja_. We use ha on all other tones of this study for the reason that it is the natural staccato of the voice. Think it and sing it "in glossic" or phonetically, thus: hA, very little h but full, inflated, expanded A. A full explanation for the use of Ya and ha may be found in "Position and Action in Singing," page 117. All the studies given in this little work for the illustration and study of the movements of our system should be sung on all keys as high and as low as they can be used without effort and without strain. It has been said that "the production of the human voice is the effect of a muscular effort born of a mental cause." Therefore it is important to know what to think and how to think it. We say, put yourself and keep yourself constantly upon a level with the tone, mentally, physically and emotionally. For the present we have to do with the mental and physical only. Stand in an easy, natural manner, the hands and arms hanging loosely by the sides. You desire to sing the above exercise. Turn the palms of the hands up in a free, flexible manner, and lift the hands up and out a little, not high, not above the waist line. When moving the hands up and out, move the body from the hips up and out in exactly the same manner and proportion. The hands and arms must not move faster than the body; the body must move rhythmically with the arms. This rhythmical movement of body and arms is highly important. In moving, the sensation is as though the body were lifted lightly and freely upon the palms of the hands. The hands say to the body, "Follow us." In this way, _lift, expand, and let go_. Do not raise the shoulders locally. The movement is from the hips up. The entire body expands easily and freely by letting go all contraction of muscle. Do not first lift, and after lifting expand, and then finally try to let go, as is the habit of many; but lift, and when lifting expand, and when lifting and expanding let go as directed. Three thoughts in one movement--three movements in one--lifting, expanding, and letting go simultaneously as one movement, which in fact it must finally become. This is the only way in which it is possible to secure all true conditions of tone. With this thought in mind, and having tried the movement without singing, sing the above exercise. Start from repose, as described, and by using the hands and body in a free, flexible manner, move to what you might think should be the level of the first tone. Just when you reach the level of the first tone let the voice sing. Move up with the arpeggio to the highest note, using hands, body, and voice with free, flexible action; then move body and hands with the voice down to the lowest note of the arpeggio; when the last tone is sung go into a position of repose. The movement from repose to the level of the first tone is highly important, for the reason that it arouses the energies of the singer, and secures all true conditions through automatic form and adjustment. Do not hesitate, do not hurry. All movement must be rhythmical and spontaneous, and never the result of effort. In singing the arpeggio the tones of the voice must be strictly staccato; but the movement of the hands and body must be very smooth, even, and continuous--no short, jerky movements. The movement of the body is very slight, and at no time, in studying these first exercises, should the hands be raised above the level of the hips or of the waist line. Of course with beginners these movements may be more or less exaggerated. When singing songs, however, they do not show, at least not nearly as much as wrong breathing and wrong effort. They simply give the singer the appearance of proper dignity, position, and self-assertion. By all means use the hands in training the movements of the body. You can train the body by the use of the hands in one-fourth of the time that it is possible to do it without using them. Be careful, however, not to raise the hands too high, as is the tendency; when lifted too high the energy is often put into the hands and arms instead of the body; in this way the body is not properly aroused and influenced, and of course true conditions are not secured. "Practical rules must rest upon theory, and theory upon nature, and nature is ascertained by observation and experience." Now, if you will practice this arpeggio with a free, flexible movement of hands and body, getting under the tone, as it were, and moving to a level of every tone, you will soon find by practice and experience that these movements are perfectly natural, that they arouse all the forces which nature gave us for the production of tone, that they vitalize the singer and give freedom to the voice. By moving properly to a level of the first tone you secure all true conditions of tone; and if you have placed yourself properly upon a level with the high tone, when that is reached you will have maintained those true conditions--you will have freedom, inflation and vitality instead of contraction and strain. By moving with the voice in this flexible manner we bring every part of the body into action, and apply strength as nature demands it, without effort or strain. Remember, there is no strength properly applied in singing without movement. In this way the voice is an outward manifestation of an inward feeling or emotion. "The voice is your inner or higher self, expressed not _at_ or _by_ but _through_ the vocal organs, aided by the whole body as a sound-board." Our next study will be a simple arpeggio sung with the _la_ sound, thus: [Illustration: SECOND STUDY. La....] This movement, of course, must be sung with the same action of hands and body, starting from repose to the level of the first tone, and keeping constantly upon a level with the voice by ascending and descending. Sing this exercise first semi staccato, afterwards legato. The special object of this exercise is to relax the jaw, the face, and the throat muscles. A stiff, set jaw always means throat contraction. In this exercise, if sung in every other respect according to directions, a stiff jaw would defeat the whole thing, and make impossible a correct production of every high tone. In singing the _la_ sound, the tip of the tongue touches the roof of the mouth, just back of the upper front teeth. Think the tone forward at this point, and let the jaw rise and fall with the tongue. Devitalize the jaw and the muscles of the face, move up in a free, flexible manner to the level of every tone, and you will be surprised at the freedom and ease with which the high tones come. The moving up in the proper way applies strength, and secures automatic form and adjustment; develops or strengthens the resisting or controlling muscles of the voice; in fact, gives the voice expansion, inflation, and tonicity. Remember that one can act in singing; and by acting I mean the movements as here described, lifting, expanding, etc., without influencing the voice or the tone, without applying the movements to the voice; of course such action is simply an imitation of the real thing. Herein, however, lies the importance of correct thinking. The thought must precede the action. The singer must have some idea of what he wants to sing and how he wants to sing it. A simple chance, a simple hit or miss idea, will not do. Make your tone mean something. Arouse the singer's sensation, and you can soon tell whether the movement is influencing the tone or not. Of course these movements are all more easily applied on the middle and low tones than on the higher tones, but these are the great successful movements for the study and development of the high tones. As we have learned in our former publications, there are but three movements in singing,--ascending, descending, and level movements. We have so far studied ascending and descending movements or arpeggios. We will now study level movements on a single tone, thus: [Illustration: THIRD STUDY. Ah.] Place yourself in a free, flexible manner upon a level with the tone by the use of the movements as before described; lift, expand, and let go without hurrying or without hesitation, and just when you reach that which you feel to be the level of the tone let the voice sing. All must be done in a moment, rhythmically and without local effort. Sing spontaneously, sing with abandon, trust the movements. They will always serve you if you trust them. If you doubt them, they are doubtful; for your very doubt brings hesitation, and hesitation brings contraction. Sing from center to circumference, with the thought of expansion and inflation, and not from outside to center. The first gives freedom and fullness of form, the latter results in local effort and contraction. The first sends the voice out full and free, the latter restrains it. Expansion through flexible movement is the important point to consider. When the tone is thus sung, it should result in the removal of all restraint, especially from the face, jaw, and throat. In this way the tone will come freely to the front, and will flow or float as long as the level of the tone is maintained without effort. Remember the most important point is the movement from repose to the level of the tone. If this is done according to directions, all restraint will be removed and all true conditions will prevail. Never influence form. Let form and adjustment be automatic, the result of right thought, position, and action. Study to constantly make these movements of the body easier and more natural. Take off all effort. Do not work hard. It is not hard work. It is play. It is a delight when properly done. Make no conscious, direct effort of any part of the body. Never exaggerate the movement or action of one part of the body at the sacrifice of the true position of another. The tendency is to locally raise the chest so high that the abdomen is unnaturally drawn in. This, of course, is the result of local effort, and is not the intention of the movements. The center of gravity must be at the hips; and all movement above that must be free, flexible, and uniform.[1] [Footnote 1: In this connection, see Supplementary Note, page 135.] Do not give a thought to any wrong thing you may be in the habit of doing in singing, but place your mind upon freeing the voice, upon the removal of all restraint through these flexible vitalized movements: think the ideal tone and sing. When the right begins to come through these movements the wrong must go. Over and against every wrong there is a right. We remove the wrong by developing the right. Sing in a free, flexible manner, the natural power of the voice. Make no effort to suppress the tone or increase its power. After the movements are understood and all restraint is removed, then study the tone on all degrees of power, but remember when singing soft and loud, and especially loud, that the first principle of artistic singing is the removal of all restraint. ARTICLE TWO. THE SECOND PRINCIPLE OF ARTISTIC TONE-PRODUCTION. The second principle of artistic tone-production is _Automatic Breathing and Automatic Breath-Control._ _Theory._--The singing breath should be as unconscious,--or, rather, as sub-conscious,--as involuntary, as the vital or living breath. It should be the result of flexible action, and never of local muscular effort. The muscular breath compels muscular control; hence throat contraction. The nervous breath, nervous control; hence relaxation and loss of breath. _Devices._--_Expand to breathe. Do not breathe to expand._ Expand by flexible, vitalized movements; control by position the level of the tone, and thus balance the two forces, "pressure and resistance." In this way is secured automatic adjustment and absolute automatic breath-control. More has probably been written and said upon this important question of breathing in singing than upon any other question in the broad field of the vocal art; and yet the fact remains that it is less understood than any of the really great principles of correct singing. This is due to the fact that most writers, teachers, and singers believe that they must do something--something out of the ordinary--to develop the breathing powers. The result is, that most systems of breathing are artificial; therefore unnatural. Most systems of breathing attempt to do by direct effort that which Nature alone can do correctly. Most breathing in singing is the result of direct conscious effort. The conscious or artificial breath is a muscular breath, and compels muscular control. The conscious breath--the breath that is taken locally and deliberately (one might almost say maliciously) before singing--expands the body unnaturally, and thus creates a desire to at once expel it. In order to avoid this, the singer is compelled to harden and tighten every muscle of the body; and not only of the body, but of the throat as well. Under these conditions the first principle of artistic tone-production--the removal of all restraint--is impossible. As the breath is taken, so must it be used. Nature demands--aye, compels--this. If we take (as we are so often told to do) "a good breath, and get ready," it means entirely too much breath for comfort, to say nothing of artistic singing. It means a hard, set diaphragm, an undue tension of the abdominal muscles, and an unnatural position and condition of the chest. This of course compels the hardening and contraction of the throat muscles. This virtually means the unseating of the voice; for under these conditions free, natural singing is impossible. The conscious, full, muscular breath compels conscious, local muscular effort to hold it and control it. Result: a stiff, set, condition of the face muscles, the jaw, the tongue and the larynx. This makes automatic vowel form, placing, and even freedom of expression, impossible. The conscious, artificial breath is a handicap in every way. It compels the singer to directly and locally control the parts. In this
parts are sent to the factory in the city, and quickly put together into complete watches. That is what my father told me, and he must know, I'm sure." "Yes, that is the work of the people around Geneva," answered Carl. "I have never been to that city yet, but I hope to go there before long." "We stayed there a week. Nearly every one I met spoke in French, while you talk German all the time, Carl. That seems so queer. You live in the same country, and yet you speak in different languages. Why, father says we shall soon visit another part of Switzerland where I shall hear nothing but Italian." "I suppose it must seem strange to you," replied Carl, thoughtfully, "yet we all love our country, and each other. We would fight promptly to save Switzerland, or to help any part in time of danger. We even have different religious beliefs; but while we of our village are Catholics, and try to do as the good priests tell us, there are many others not far away who are Protestants. Yet we are at peace with one another. Oh, I believe our country is the freest and best in all the world. Excuse me, please; I can't help thinking so." Ruth laughed. "I like you all the better, Carl, for feeling in this way. Of course, I love America the best, and shall be glad to get home again after we have travelled awhile longer. But I think your country is the most beautiful I have ever seen. And father says we Americans can learn some good lessons from Switzerland. I shall understand more about that, however, when I am older." "How long have you been here in Switzerland?" Carl asked. "It is two months, I think. But we haven't been travelling all the time. Mother wasn't well and we stayed most of the time at the queerest place I ever heard of. This was so mother could drink the waters and get cured." "Do you remember the name of the place?" asked Carl. "Yes, it is called the Leuken Baths." "I've often heard of those waters. They are boiling as they come bursting out of the ground, aren't they?" "Yes, but that is not the odd part of it, because there are many other boiling springs in the world. It is the way that people are cured at these baths that made me laugh. Why, Carl, some of them stay in the water _all day long_! They wear flannel gowns and sit soaking while they play games on floating tables, and even eat their dinners there. The men smoke, while the women laugh and chat. The hot water brings out a rash all over the body, and the blood, after a while, becomes purer." Carl laughed when he pictured the food on floating tables and people sitting around them with only heads and shoulders out of water. "Did your mother do like these others?" he asked, and he turned his head toward the beautifully dressed lady who sat talking with his parents. "No, she said that was too much, but she drank a good deal of the water, and she feels better than she has for years," replied Ruth. "Come, come, my dear, we have stayed a long time. I fear we have kept these good people from their work. We must thank them, and go back to the town." It was Ruth's father who said these words. He was standing in the doorway, and ready to start. "I shall not forget you, Carl," said the little girl. "I shall often think of this little cottage up on the mountain, with the pretty flowers growing around it and the cows feeding near by." After they had gone, Carl hastily picked a bunch of Alpine roses. "She thought they were beautiful," he said to himself. "Perhaps she will press one of them, and keep it to remember me by." Then with strong bounds and leaps the little boy overtook the party before they had gone very far. When he reached them, however, he was suddenly overcome with shyness. He hastily put the flowers into the hands of Ruth's mother, and was far away again before she could thank him. "He is a dear little fellow," said the lady. "He will make a strong man, and a good one, too, I believe. We will always keep these beautiful flowers. Perhaps we may come here again in a year or two, Ruth. Then we can tell Carl how much we thought of his little gift." CHAPTER III. THE SCHOOLMASTER'S VISIT "GOOD news! good news!" cried Carl, as he came running into the house, quite out of breath. "The schoolmaster is coming, mother. I know it must be he. Come, Franz, let's go to meet him." The sun was just hiding his head behind the mountain-tops, and the little family were about to sit down to their evening meal. "Do go at once, my dear boys," said Carl's mother. "Tell the good teacher how glad we are at his coming." It was not a complete surprise, for the schoolmaster had promised Carl to spend a week with him on the mountain pastures, if it were possible. Another place was quickly set at the table. In a few minutes the boys returned, and with them was a man with a kind face and a hearty voice. "Welcome, welcome! my friend," said Rudolf. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you here. What news is there from the good folks of our village?" "They are all well, and send greetings. Even poor little Gretel, the cretin, seemed to understand where I was coming, and she sent you her love." What is a cretin, you wonder? A person of weak mind is so called in Switzerland. You often find such people who are not as bright as they should be. The mind is dull and dark, it cannot see and understand like others. Why is it that cretins are often found in the homes of the poor? Some think it is because the Swiss are such hard workers, and yet do not have the nourishing food they should. "Have you been at home all summer?" asked Rudolf. "No, I had business that took me over the St. Bernard Pass. It was a hard journey, even in this summer-time, for I travelled most of the way on foot." "O, how I wish I could have gone with you," cried Franz. "I have always longed to visit the good monks and see their brave dogs." "It must be a terrible tramp over the mountain in winter," the schoolmaster went on. "Yet every year there are some people who need to go that way at that season. How much worse it would be, however, if the monastery were not there, with the priests living in it and giving their lives to help others." "They say that the cold is so great that the monks cannot stand more than a few years of such a life," said Rudolf. "It is true," replied the schoolmaster. "Many of them die before their time, while others must after a while go down to warmer lands. The noble dogs that they raise stand the cold much better." "I have often made a picture for myself of a snow-storm on the St. Bernard," said Carl, thoughtfully. He had not spoken for a long time. "How the drifts pile up and fill the pathway. The snow falls thick and fast, and after a while the poor traveller cannot tell which way to turn. He grows cold and numb; he is quite tired out. At last he gives up hope, and perhaps he sinks down, and perhaps he loses all sense of where he is. Now is the very time that the good monks, watching the storm, loose the dogs. But first, food and reviving drink are fastened to the collars of the trusty animals. "Off they bound, down the mountainside, scenting the air on every side. They understand their duty and work faithfully. They find the poor traveller in time to save his life and guide him to the home of the priests. Ah! how I love these good men and their faithful dogs." "Your cheeks have grown quite rosy with the story, my boy," said the schoolmaster. "The picture in your mind must be bright, indeed. But we cannot praise too highly both the monks and their loving deeds. Sometimes, alas! the dogs do not find the travellers in time, however. Then they can only drag their dead bodies to the monastery, where they will stay till friends of the travellers come to claim them. But enough of this sad thought for to-night; let us talk of other things." "Dear master," said Franz, "please tell us of other things you have seen this summer. We always love to hear your stories." "Let me see. O, yes, now I think of something that will interest you boys. I travelled for quite a distance with a hunter. He had been in search of chamois, but he says they are getting very scarce now. He was bringing home only one." [Illustration: "'FOLLOWING ITS MASTER ABOUT JUST LIKE A DOG.'"] "It seems a shame to kill the poor creatures," said Carl's father. "They are gentle and harmless, and take pleasure in living where others find only danger. Once I came suddenly upon a herd of them. They seemed to be having a game of chase together, and were frolicking gaily. But at the sound of my footstep they fled like the wind over the snow and ice. In a moment, almost, they were out of sight." "Why can they climb where no one else is able to go?" asked Carl. "Behind each hoof there is another called the false hoof," replied the schoolmaster. "I looked at those of the dead chamois the hunter was carrying home. These extra hoofs give the creature the power to hold himself in places which would not be safe without their aid. Their bodies are very light and their legs are slim, while they seem to be entirely without fear of anything save men." "Poor little things," exclaimed Franz. "We are taught to be kind to the birds and to protect them in every way. I never in my life knew of a Swiss harming a bird's nest. We ought to be kind to the chamois as well. I once knew a boy who had a tame one for a pet. His father caught it when it was very young. It was the dearest little thing, following its master about just like a dog. In summer its hair was yellowish brown, but in winter it grew darker and was almost black." "Did you know that the chamois always have a sentinel on guard while they are feeding?" asked the schoolmaster. "No, sir," said both boys together. "Yes, it is true, the hunters have told me so. If this chamois guard hears the slightest sound or discovers even a footprint, he at once gives an alarm. Away flees the herd in search of safety. "But, dear me! it is growing late and you must be up early in the morning. Then you must show me your store of cheeses," he added, turning to Carl's mother. "The cows are looking fine; they must enjoy the pastures here. And now, good night. May you all sleep well in the care of the loving Father." In a few minutes every one in the little cottage was resting quietly. CHAPTER IV. THE BRAVE ARCHER IT was a bright summer day. In the morning Carl's father had said to the boys: "You may have a holiday and may go where you please with the schoolmaster. I will attend to the cows all the day." So they had taken a lunch and had climbed to the summit of the mountain. Their kind teacher had told them stories of the flowers and the stones. "They never seemed so much alive to me before," said Carl, as they sat resting on a big gray rock, far up above the pastures. "I like to hear you talk in school, dear master, but it is far better up here among the grand mountains and in the fresh air. Perhaps William Tell himself once stood on this very spot." "It is quite likely," replied the schoolmaster. "You know that his home was not many miles from our village. He was never so happy as when wandering among the mountains. Those were wonderful times in which he lived. But there is the same feeling now as then. We Swiss love freedom best of all, and are ever ready to give our lives for it, if there be need." "How cruel the Austrians were! They thought that because theirs was a large and powerful country they could do with us as they pleased. But they found themselves mistaken after awhile, didn't they?" said Franz. "Yes, my boy, but never forget that our freedom started in the work of _three_ men, and three only, who joined together with brave hearts. They worked with no selfish feeling, and, before the end came, they had filled all Switzerland with the daring to be free." "Yes, yes, we will always remember that. And only think! one of those three men lived here in our Canton. I am always proud to think of it." "Boys, look at our country now, and then turn back to the sad times long ago. Can you imagine the way those three men felt when they met in the dark night on the field of Rütli? Can you not see them pledging themselves to their country in throwing off the yoke of Austria? "They hated their rulers so much that a peacock was not allowed to live in Switzerland. That was, you know, because a peacock feather was the emblem of Austria." "Wasn't it about that time that William Tell lived?" asked Carl. "Yes, and he was known through all the country as a brave man and a skilful archer. It was very natural that he should refuse to show honour to the Austrian governor." "It makes me angry whenever I think of Gessler," cried Franz. "It seems to me only another name for cruel power. But is it possible that he really had his hat stuck up on a pole in the market-place of Altdorf, and that every Swiss who passed by was ordered to bow down before it?" "I believe so, although some people think the whole story of William Tell is only a legend, and that is a part of it. Our history shows, however, that this brave man really lived." "Won't you repeat the story?" asked Franz. "I love to hear it over and over again." "Yes, if you like." "After Gessler's hat had been stuck on the pole, William Tell was one of those who passed by. Bow before the hat of the cruel tyrant! It was not to be thought of. Tell took no notice of it whatever. He did not appear to know it was there. "Now it happened that one of Gessler's spies stood near by. He watched Tell closely. He sent word to his master at once that there was one Swiss who would not give him proper honour. You know what followed, my boys. Tell was seized and bound. "Gessler must have said to himself, 'I will make an example of this insolent peasant.' For Tell was brought before him and ordered to stand at a great distance from his little son and shoot at an apple on the boy's head. If he struck the apple he was to be allowed to go free. "Do you think Tell feared he could not do it? No, he was too good an archer. But his child was so dear to him that his very love might make his hand tremble. Think again! the boy might move from fright, and then the arrow would enter his body instead of the apple on his head. "It was a terrible thing to think of. But William Tell made ready for the trial. The time came. A crowd of people gathered to see the test. The boy did not move a muscle. The arrow went straight to its mark. The people shouted with joy. "Then it was that Gessler, who had been watching closely, noticed that Tell held a second arrow. "'Why didst thou bring more than one, thou proud peasant?' angrily asked the tyrant. "'That I might shoot thee had I failed in cleaving the apple,' was the quick answer. "'Seize him! Bind him hand and foot, and away with him to the dungeon!' shouted the enraged governor. "His men seized Tell, and strong chains made the noble Swiss helpless. He was carried to a boat already waiting on the shore, for the dungeon was across the deep, blue waters of Lake Lucerne. "Ah! how sad must have been the hearts of our people as they watched Gessler and his servants get into the boat and row away. They thought they would never see the brave archer again. "But this was not God's will. A sudden storm arose before the party had gone very far. The wind blew fearfully, and the little boat was tossed about on the waves as though it were a feather. The rowers could not keep the boat in her course. It seemed as though, every moment, she would be dashed against the rocks and destroyed. Then it was that Gessler remembered that Tell was as skilful with a boat as he was with a bow and arrow. "'Take off the peasant's chains,' he cried. 'Let him guide us to a safe landing-place. It is our only chance of being saved.' "Tell was made free. His quick mind told him what to do. He seized the oars, and with strong strokes soon brought the boat close to the shore. Then, springing out, he pushed the boat off into the water. "Would Gessler be saved? Tell wondered if it were possible. Then he said to himself, 'If the tyrant is not destroyed, he must go home through the pass in the mountains.' "With this thought, he hurried up over the crags, and hid himself behind a great rock. He waited patiently. At last he heard footsteps and voices. His enemy was drawing near. He stood ready with bent bow. As Gessler came into view, whizz! flew the arrow straight into the tyrant's heart! He could never again harm Switzerland or the Swiss." "Brave Tell! Brave Tell!" shouted Carl. "Dear master, have you ever visited the chapel which stands to-day in honour of this great countryman of ours?" "Yes, Carl, and when you come back to the lowlands in the fall, you shall visit it with me. You and Franz must also go to look at the stone on which Tell stepped as he sprang from Gessler's boat. Even now, we can seem to feel Tell's joy when he wandered among the mountains, and thought of plans by which he could help his country. For after Gessler was killed, there was the whole army of Austria to be driven out." "People needn't tell me that the story of William Tell and the apple is only a legend," exclaimed Franz. "I believe every word of it, don't you, Carl?" "Indeed I do. Won't you tell us another story? Look! the sun is still high in the sky. We need not go home for an hour yet." "Let me see, boys. Shall it be a tale of old Switzerland and of her struggles with her enemies?" "Yes, yes," cried both boys. "We are never tired of hearing of the lives of our great men." "Very well, then, you shall listen to the story of Arnold of Winkelried. "It was a time of great danger. The Austrians were pouring into our country. Their soldiers, protected by the strongest steel armour, bore fearful weapons. Our people were poor, and had only slings or bows and arrows with which to defend themselves. What should be done? There was the Austrian army, closely drawn up, with shields glistening in the sunlight,--here were the Swiss, few and unprotected, but burning with love for their country. "It seemed as though all chance of saving Switzerland was hopeless. Then the brave Arnold spoke. "'Friends,' said he, 'I am ready to give my life for my country. I will rush into the ranks of our enemies and make an entrance for you. Be ready; follow with all your might, and you may throw them into confusion. You who live after me must take care of my wife and children when I am gone.' "There was not a moment to be lost. "'Make way for Liberty!' cried Arnold, then ran with arms extended wide, as if to clasp his dearest friend. "A hundred spears were thrust toward him. He gathered as many as he could in his hands and arms. They entered his body on all sides, but before the hero fell he had made an opening into the ranks of the enemy through which his comrades dashed. Thrown into confusion, the Austrians fled, and were driven out of our loved country. "Switzerland was saved for us, my lads, through the sacrifice of that noble man, Arnold von Winkelried. May you live to do him honour!" "I can see him now, as he rushed into the midst of the cruel Austrians," cried Carl, jumping to his feet. "Noble, noble Arnold! I do not believe any other land has such a hero. Dear master, I will try to be braver and truer all my life, and be ready to serve my country faithfully in time of need." "I, too," exclaimed Franz, "will be more of a man from this very moment." "Well said, my dear boys. But come, it is growing late and you will be needed at home." CHAPTER V. THE HAYMAKERS "MOTHER! mother! here come the mowers," called Carl, as he came toward the house with a pail of milk in each hand. The wooden milking-stool was still strapped around the boy's waist, and its one leg stuck out behind like a little stiff tail. You would have laughed at the sight, as did the two haymakers who had by this time reached the hut. "What, ho! Carl," said one of the men, "are you changing into a monkey now you have come up to the highlands for the summer?" "I was so busy thinking," replied the boy, "that I forgot to leave the stool in the stable when I had finished the milking. I am glad you are here to-night. How does the work go?" "Pretty hard, my boy, pretty hard, but I love it," answered the younger man of the two mowers. "Still, I shouldn't advise you to be a haymaker when you grow up. It is too dangerous a business." "It isn't such hard work gathering the hay in these parts as it is in most places," said the older man. "Ah! many a time I have worked all day long on the edge of a precipice; it is a wonder I am living now." "It is not strange that the law allows only one person in a family to be a haymaker," said Carl's mother, who had come to the door to welcome her visitors. "I am very glad my husband never chose the work. I should fret about him all through the summer. But come in, friends, and lay down your scythes. We are glad to see you." The two mowers were on their way to higher places up on the mountain. They were cutting the wild hay which could be found here and there in little patches among the rocks and cliffs. Could this work be worth while? We wonder if it is possible. But the Swiss value the mountain hay greatly. It is sweet and tender and full of fine herbs, while the higher it grows, the better it is. The cattle have a treat in the winter-time when they have a dinner of this wild mountain hay. Carl's friends had large nets tied up in bundles and fastened to their backs. Their shoes had iron spikes in the strong soles. These would keep their feet from slipping, as they reached down over the edge of a sharp cliff or held themselves on some steep slope while they skilfully gathered the hay and put it in the nets. But, even then, they must not make a false step or grow dizzy, or let fear enter their heads. If any of these things should happen, an accident, and probably a very bad one, too, would surely follow. When all the nets were filled, they would be stored in safe nooks until the snow should come. Then for the sport! For the mowers would climb the mountains with their sledges, load them with the nets full of hay, and slide down the slopes with their precious stores. "May I go with you when you collect the hay in November?" Carl asked his friends. "I won't be afraid, and it is such fun travelling like the wind." "It will take your breath away, I promise you," said the boy's father. He had come into the house just in time to hear what was being said. "I will risk you, Carl, however. You would not be afraid, and he who is not afraid is generally safe. It is fear that causes most of the accidents. But come, my good wife has made the supper ready. Let us sit down; then we can go on talking." "How good this is!" said one of the visitors, as he tasted the bread on which toasted cheese had been spread. Carl's mother did not sit down to the table with the others. She had said to herself, "I will give the mowers a treat. They are not able to have the comforts of a home very often." So she stood by the fire and held a mould of cheese close to the flames. As fast as it softened, she scraped it off and spread it on the slices of bread. Every one was hungry, so she was kept busy serving first one, then another. She smiled at the men's praise. They told her they had spent the night before with two goatherds who lived in a cave. It was only a few miles away on the west slope of the mountain. "They have a fine flock of goats," said one of the men, "and they are getting quantities of rich milk for cheese. But it cannot be good for them to sleep two or three months in such a wretched place. They look pale, even though they breathe this fine mountain air all day long." "Carl and Franz don't look sickly, by any means," laughed Rudolf, as he pointed to the boys' brown arms. The sleeves of their leather jackets were short and hardly reached to their elbows. The strong sunshine and wind had done their work and changed the colour of the fair skin to a deep brown. "You will have good weather for haying, to-morrow," said Franz, who was standing at the window and looking off toward a mountain-top in the distance. "Pilatus has his hood on to-night." "A good sign, surely," said Rudolf. "We shall probably see a fine sunrise in the morning. You all know the old verse, "'If Pilatus wears his hood, Then the weather's always good.'" The "hood" is a cloud which spreads out over the summit of the mountain and hides it from sight. Carl has often looked for this the night before a picnic or festival. If he saw it, he would go to bed happy, for he felt sure it would be pleasant the next day. "I shouldn't think Pilatus would be happy with such a name," said Franz. "I wonder if it is really true that Pilate's body was buried in the lake up near its summit." "That is the story I heard when I was a little boy at my mother's knee," said the old hay-cutter. "I have heard it many times since. It may be only a legend, but it seems true to me, at any rate." "Tell it to us again," said Rudolf. "There are no stories like the ones we heard in our childhood." "It was after the death of our Master," said the mower, in a low, sad voice. "Pilate saw too late what he had done. He had allowed the Wise One to be put to death. He himself was to blame, for he could have saved Him. He could not put the thought out of his mind. At last, he could bear it no longer, and he ended his own life. "His body was thrown into the Tiber, a river that flows by the city of Rome. The river refused to let it stay there, for it was the body of too wicked a man, so it cast it up on the shore. Then it was carried to the Rhine, but this river would not keep it, either. What should be tried now? Some one said, 'We will take it to the summit of a mountain where there is a deep lake, and drop it in the dark waters.' "It was done, and the body found a resting-place at last." "You did not finish the story," said Rudolf. "It is said that the restless spirit of Pilate is allowed to arise once each year and roam through the mountains for a single night on a jet-black horse. On that night the waters of the lake surge and foam as if a terrible storm were raging." "Are you going to the party to-morrow night?" asked the younger mower. "The goatherds told me about it. I wish we could be there, but our work is too far away. The villagers are getting ready for a good time." "What party?" cried Carl and Franz together. They were excited at the very idea. "Why, haven't you heard about it? You know there is a little village about two miles below the pasture where those goatherds live. The young folks have planned to have a dance and a wrestling match. I am surprised you have not heard about it. They expect all the herders and mowers to come from near and far. You will certainly be invited in the morning." And so it was. Before the cows were let out to pasture, a horn was heard in the distance. "Hail, friends!" it seemed to call. Carl rushed into the house for his own horn and gave a strong, clear blast, then another and another. It was an answering cry of welcome and good-will. A boy about twelve years old soon came into view. He wore a tight-fitting leather cap and heavy shoes with iron-spiked soles like Carl's. He came hurrying along. "There is to be a party at our village to-night," he said, as soon as he was near enough for Carl to hear. "It will be moonlight, you know, and we will have a jolly time. All your folks must come, too." Carl and Franz were soon talking with the boy as though they had always known him, yet they had never met before. "My folks came near forgetting there was any one living here this summer," the strange boy said. "They only thought about it last night, but they very much wish you to come." He stayed only a few moments, as he had been told to return at once. "There is plenty to do, you know, to get ready for a party," he said. "Besides, it will take me a good hour to go back by the shortest path around the slope, it winds up and down so much. But you will come, won't you?" Carl's father and mother were as much pleased by the invitation as were the boys. The milking was done earlier than usual, and the cows were locked up in the stable before the sunset light had coloured the snowy tops of the distant mountains. It was quite a long tramp for Carl's mother, but she only thought how nice it would be to join in dance and song again. The wrestling match took place in the afternoon. The father would not have missed that for a good deal, so he left home three hours, at least, before the others. The boys stayed behind to help the mother in the milking and to show her the way to the village afterward. The party was a merry one. They drank cup after cup of coffee, and all the good old songs of Switzerland were sung with a will. Carl's mother showed she had not forgotten how to dance. Carl and Franz were too shy to join in the dancing, but it was fun enough for them to watch the others. Oh, yes, it was a merry time, and the moon shone so brightly that it lighted the path homeward almost as plainly as though it were daytime. "Next week we return to our own little village in the valley," said Rudolf, as the family walked back after the party. "Our old friends will be glad to see us as well as the fine store of cheese we shall bring. Then for another merrymaking. Carl, you must show us then what you learned at the gymnasium last year." The boy's father was proud of Carl's strength and grace. "How fine it is," he often said to himself, "that every school in our country has a gymnasium, so that the boys are trained in body as well as in mind. That is the way to have strong men to defend our country and to govern it. I will buy Carl a rifle for his very own. The boy deserves it, he has worked so hard and so well all summer. He can shoot well already, and I will train him myself this winter, and in a year or two more he can take part in the yearly rifle match. I am very glad I have a son." CHAPTER VI. THE MARMOT IT was the week after Carl got back to the village. What a busy day it had been for his mother! You would certainly think so if you had looked at the wide field back of the house. A great part of it was covered with the family wash. Sheets, sheets, sheets! And piece after piece of clothing! What could it all mean? And did this little family own so much linen as lay spread out on the grass to-day? It was indeed so. In Carl's village it is the custom to wash only twice a year. Of course, chests full of bedding are needed to last six months, if the pieces are changed as often in Switzerland as they are in our country. When Carl's mother was married, she brought enough linen to her new home to last for the rest of her life. Carl's grandmother had been busy for years getting it ready for her daughter. A Swiss woman would feel ashamed if she did not have a large quantity of such things with which to begin housekeeping. When the washing had been spread out on the grass, Carl's mother went into the house feeling quite tired from her day's work. The two women who had been helping her had gone home. She sat down in a chair to rest herself, and closed her eyes. Just then she heard steps outside. "It is Carl getting home from school," she thought, and she did not look up, even when the door opened. "Well, wife, we have caught you sleeping, while it is still day. Wake up, and see who has come to visit us." She opened her eyes, and there stood not only her husband and Carl, but a dear brother whom she had not seen for years. How delighted she was! He had changed from a slim young fellow into a big, strong man. [Illustration: CLIMBING THE MATTERHORN.] "O, Fritz, how glad I am to see you," she cried. "Do tell us about all that has happened. We have not heard from you for a long time. What have you been doing?" "I have spent part of my time as a guide among the highest mountains of the Alps. There is not much work of that kind to do around here; the passes are not dangerous, you know. Most of the travellers who come to this part of Switzerland are satisfied if they go up the Rigi in a train. But I have taken many dangerous trips in other parts of the country, and been well paid for them." "Have you ever been up the Matterhorn?" asked Carl. "Only once, my boy. It was the most fearful experience of my whole life. I shudder when I think of it. There was a party of three gentlemen besides another guide and myself. You know it is the shape of that mountain that makes it so dangerous to climb. It reaches up toward the heavens like a great icy wedge. "Of course, we had a long, stout rope to pass from one to another. It was fastened around the waist of each of us, as soon as we reached the difficult part. Our shoes had iron spikes in the soles to help us still more, while each one carried a stout, iron-shod staff. The other guide and myself had hatchets to use in cutting steps when we came to a smooth slope of ice. "Think of it, as we sit here in this cozy, comfortable room. There were several times that I was lowered over a steep, ice-covered ridge by a rope. And while I hung there, I had to cut out steps with my hatchet. "There was many a time, too, that only one of us dared to move at a time. In case the footing was not safe, the others could pull him back if he made a misstep and fell." "Did you climb that dangerous mountain in one day?" asked Rudolf. "I thought it was impossible." "You are quite right. We went the greater part of the distance the first day, and then camped out for
shattered almost beyond hope of repair, there was one body of men in the old kingdom of Lotharingia whose interests had been singularly favoured by the coming of the Danes--the great lay proprietors. Thrifty men who for years past by purchase, by marriage, by promises of protection, by means of loans in times of stress, by hook or by crook, by fair means sometimes, and sometimes by foul, had been gradually gathering into their own hands the freehold tenements of their weaker brethren; strong men who, instead of turning tail when Hungarian or Dane threatened them, bared their breasts to the foe, and with their swords in their hands defended alike their own property and the property of their neighbours; astute men, who knew very well, from personal experience, what an exceedingly profitable pastime it sometimes is to fish in troubled waters. For them the coming of the Danes had been almost a godsend; at all events, a blessing in disguise; and their departure left them free to reap the rich harvest which these rude northerners had unwittingly sown--to obtain, that is, a vast increase of their landed estates and a no less vast increase of privileges, immunities, authority, and of political and social prestige. In the first place they had little difficulty in making themselves masters, in fact if not in name, of the abbey lands. Many of the monks had been slain or had fled, and so fearful were the remnant that remained of further depredation that they were glad enough to hand over the administration of their estates to the only men who were strong enough to defend them. Thus, by the close of the eight hundreds almost all the monastic domains of Lotharingia had in reality become the property of laymen who, as the monks' _avoués_ or stewards, took up their abode in their cloisters, received and expended their revenues, became participators in their rights and immunities, and exercised jurisdiction in their name over their vassals and dependants. To obtain control of the secular clergy was a matter no less easy of accomplishment, for although the cathedral chapters still retained the right to choose their own bishops, so great was the power and influence of the landowners that they had become practically irresistible, and were almost always able to secure the election of their own nominees, and thus were enabled, through them, to rule the Church. But this was not all, such of them as were invested with civil authority now began to exercise it in their own names, and the emperors, whose power and prestige had long ago been impaired by the fratricidal strife of the children of Louis the Mild, had been so enfeebled by the recent invasions that they were unable to offer any effectual resistance. Thus were laid on the ruins of Imperialism the foundations of that feudal system which was destined later on to play so great a part in the civilisation of Europe. CHAPTER III _The House of Long Col_ Foremost among the landowners, who at this time were laying the foundations of dynasties, was Régnier au Long Col, the great ancestor of the Counts of Hainault and of the Counts of Brussels and Louvain, the man to whom all the sovereigns of Brabant, from Lambert Longbeard to Francis II., traced their descent:[2] the son of one Count Giselbert, who, in the middle of the eight hundreds, had made his fortune by carrying off a daughter of the Emperor Lothaire, he was the owner of vast estates in Hainault, in Hesbaye, in Ardennes, and lay-abbot to boot of three great monastic domains. Of the vassals and serfs who dwelt on his lands some, then, were Teutons and some were Celts, and he himself, who spoke the language of each race, was perhaps unable to say to which stock he belonged, and herein lay his strength: he was a man whose nationality was merged in the great feudal chief. [2] The reigning sovereign of Belgium, King Leopold II., is a descendant of Régnier au Long Col. (_See_ Genealogical Table VI.) Such a one could alone command the confidence of the mixed race which inhabited Lotharingia, and when presently the Emperor Arnulph set up a German king in the person of his illegitimate son, Zwentibold (895), and Régnier unfurled the standard of revolt, the discontented feudal lords to a man rallied round him. A stranger in a strange land, without the means to purchase the goodwill and support of the native chiefs, since their fathers had already received in bribes the whole of the royal domains, from the first the new sovereign had to fight for his throne, and from the first the issue of the conflict was a foregone conclusion. Zwentibold fell in an obscure skirmish on August 13, 900, and Régnier became virtual ruler of Lotharingia, and though he had no legal sanction for the authority which he exercised, before his death he had so consolidated his power that when that event took place (915) his son Giselbert stepped quietly into his shoes, and presently the reigning Emperor Henry I. acknowledged him Duke and gave him the hand of his daughter Gerberge, and with it, by way of dowry, large estates, including among other tenements, the castles of Brussels and Louvain. If Henry believed that he had thereby definitely bound his redoubtable vassal to the imperial house, he little knew with whom he had to deal. A contemporary chronicler has left us his portrait, and it is not a flattering one. 'Giselbert,' he tells us, 'was small of stature but strongly built, always in movement, and with eyes so keen and so shifty that no man knew their colour. Eaten up with ambition, audacious, crafty, false, he cared not what means he took to compass his ends.' The goal that he was striving for was, in all probability, a royal crown: the darling wish of his heart was to re-establish the kingdom of Lotharingia. His whole life had hitherto been one long course of treachery and intrigue, and though after his marriage he kept faith with Henry, when that prince died he soon showed that he was still the same Giselbert as of yore; in spite of an oath of allegiance, and in spite of his imperial wife, he proved himself as false to Otho the Great, the son of his benefactor, as he had been in former days to Rodolphe of Burgundy and to Charles the Simple of France. Of this last act of treason the outcome was death. Surprised by the imperial forces at Andernach, on the Rhine, and hemmed in on all sides, he made his horse plunge into the water, hoping to reach the further bank and so make his escape, but the current was too strong for him, and horse and rider were swept away. Thus died Duke Giselbert (939), and at his death the star of his house for a while waned. His only son, an infant whom Otho placed under ward, died shortly afterwards, and though his nephew, Régnier III. of Hainault, seized his widow's dower, he was not strong enough to grasp the reins of government, and presently the Emperor Otho conferred the duchy on Conrad the Red, a native of Franconia, who, like his predecessor, was allied by marriage to the imperial house (944). Conrad was an energetic and capable man, but rude, passionate, vindictive, and, as the issue showed, untrustworthy. At first, however, all went well: the new duke rigidly enforced order, any attempt at rebellion he crushed with an iron hand, and for some ten years the land had peace; and then, having taken it into his head that Otho had treated him badly, he himself turned rebel. Whereat Régnier of Hainault, and the rest who had experienced Conrad's lash, taking heart, banded together against him and drove him from their midst (953). If Régnier believed that the Emperor would recompense his services by restoring him to the throne of his ancestors, he was doomed to signal disappointment. Otho was in no way deceived by the specious loyalty of his Lotharingian vassals. He knew very well that, in helping him to crush Conrad, they had in reality made him the instrument of their vengeance against one whom they hated, not on account of his recent rebellion, but because of his zeal for law and order and his former loyal service, and he refused to reward these lawless men by setting over them a chief as lawless as themselves, and one too, who, by reason of his popularity, would have all the more power to work mischief; nor would he confer the duchy on another German vassal, for such would be not unlikely to follow the example of Conrad. Henceforth he would govern Lotharingia by means of the Church. True, the Church had ceased to be the power which she had been in Charlemagne's day. Her authority was no longer enhanced by the glamour of wealth and the glamour of learning and the glamour of political prestige. Her spiritual life had waned. She had lost much of her pristine fervour, something of her child-like faith. Her sanctuaries had been ruined; she had been robbed of her treasure; a considerable portion of her landed property had been appropriated by laymen, and it needed all her tact and all her vigilance to safeguard the rest, a task the more difficult from the fact that many bishops owed their appointment to harpies eager to despoil them. But for all that she was still a power to be reckoned with--an ally whose friendship was not to be despised. If only she could be freed from the feudal incubus which was strangling her, she might yet do yeoman service for the Crown. This then was the task which Otho set himself to perform, and the method which he adopted to accomplish it was a bold and an effectual one: he rendered it henceforth impossible for his vassals to interfere with episcopal elections by naming the bishops himself, and at the same time he took good care to appoint none but worthy, capable and reliable men, entirely devoted to his interests. But this was not all; if the bishops were to hold their own in their perennial conflict with the barons, their hands would have to be strengthened; and henceforth it became Otho's policy, and the policy too of his successors, as opportunity offered, to gradually enlarge their boundaries, to endow them with fresh sources of revenue, to increase their temporal authority, and to shower on them all sorts of civil and political rights. Nor was the result disproportionate to the Emperor's expectations--the bishops of Lotharingia became their most faithful and devoted servants. 'If the Emperor were to pluck out my right eye,' cried Bishop Wazon of Liége (1042-1048) in an outburst of enthusiastic loyalty, 'I would still use the left in his honour and service.'[3] That was the spirit which animated all of them, and for a hundred and fifty years they were able to keep the wolf at bay. [3] _Anselme_, _Gesta episcop. Leod., Mon. Germ. Hist. Script._, t. vii. p. 225. The man on whose head Otho now placed the ducal crown was his brother Bruno, a clerk in holy orders, on whom he also conferred the metropolitan See of Cologne, which included among its suffragans Utrecht, Liége and Cambrai, thus making him supreme alike in Church and State (953). The success of Otho's policy in Lotharingia was in great measure, if not entirely, due to the energy, the perseverance, the courage, and, above all, to the consummate tact and the marvellous administrative capacity of this great man. His work was essentially a constructive one, out of chaos he brought order, and his success as an organiser and administrator was only equalled by his success as an educator. 'His schools at Cologne,' says M. Pirenne, 'were frequented not only by clerks who aspired to ecclesiastical dignities, but also by young nobles--for many of the feudal lords confided their sons to his care--and all of them returned reconciled to the Empire and entirely subjugated by the charm of the Archbishop-Duke.'[4] In the twelve years during which he governed Lotharingia--he died in 965--he succeeded not only in pacifying that rebellious province, but, if we may trust his biographer, in working a marvellous change in the lives and morals of its inhabitants: 'he found them,' says Ruotger, 'rugged and fierce, and he left them gentle and tame'; and though the conversion of the vast majority was sufficiently short-lived--when the benign influence of Bruno was withdrawn they soon relapsed into their old blood-thirsty and lawless ways--the grandeur of his work is sufficiently appreciable when we compare such ruffians as Régnier au Long Col, for instance, or his slippery son Giselbert, with one who came immediately under Bruno's influence, whose character, indeed, he formed--his friend and disciple Ansfried, Count of Louvain, who, after having been for long years a faithful and devoted servant of the Emperor, at last took orders, became Bishop of Utrecht, and died in the odour of sanctity; or to men like Godfrey of Verdun, the most perfect type of those nobles whom Bruno had reconciled to the imperial cause, a man who had no more sympathy for feudal aspirations than had Bruno himself, and whose staunch loyalty may be gauged from the message he sent to his wife when he was a captive in a French prison, and which has been preserved for us in the Memoirs of Gerbert--who afterwards became Pope Sylvester II. (997-1003)--whom he charged to deliver it:--'Remain staunch in your fidelity to the ever august Empress and her son. Make no truce with the French; hold your forts firm against their king, and let not the hope of restoring your husband and your son to liberty diminish the energy of your resistance.'[5] [4] _Histoire de Belgique_, vol. i. ch. iii. p. 57 (Brussels, 1902). [5] _Lettres de Gerbert_, ed. J. Havet, No. 50, p. 47 (Paris, 1889). I.--Genealogical Table of the House of Long-Col $Régnier au Long-Col.$, _d._ 915 \| +-----------+-+------+ \| \| \| Louis d'Outremer, = Gerberge = Gislebert, Régnier II. \| King of France \| (daughter \| Duke of \| \| \| of Henry \| Lotharingia, \| a daughter = Bérenger, \| the \| _d._ 939 \| Count of \| Fowler) \| \| Namur \| a son \| +--------------+--+ _d._ in infancy \| \| \| \| Lothaire, Charles, Duke of Régnier III. _d._ 958 King of Lower Lotharingia, \| (in exile in France, _d._ 992 \| Bohemia) _d._ 987 \| \| \| \| \| \| +--------+-------+ +---------+----------+ \| \| \| \| Otho, Duke of Gerberge = Lambert Longbeard, Régnier IV., Count Lower Lotharingia, first hereditary of Hainault, _d._ 1012 Count of Louvain, _d._ 1013 _d._ 1015 _Facing page_ 19. Between Régnier of Hainault, that half-tamed leader of rebels, and the gentle scholar and polished gentleman, Saint Bruno of Cologne--men whose dispositions were so different and whose interests and ideals were so diametrically opposed, the one the incarnation of feudal chaos and feudal license, and the other the representative of imperial liberty and imperial law, each of them endowed with unflagging perseverance, and an indomitable will--no treaty of peace would have been possible, even if Régnier had not believed that the Emperor had ungratefully bestowed on Bruno the inheritance which was lawfully his, and from the first they were at daggers drawn. As was natural, the man who had been rejected did all in his power to thwart his successful rival and to frustrate his projects of reform. For three years the conflict continued and then Bruno was able to pluck the thorn from his side. Fortune delivered his tormentor into his hands and he forthwith banished him to Bohemia and detained him there until he went the way of all flesh. But the house of Long Col was not extinguished by the death of its chief--the old count had two sons, Régnier and Lambert, who, when their father was captured and his estates confiscated, found an asylum in France at the Court of King Lothaire. The French monarchs, as direct heirs of Charlemagne, had always regarded Lotharingia as their own inheritance, and Lothaire himself and his brother Charles were the sons of Duke Giselbert's widow Gerberge by her second husband, Louis d'Outremer. Thus ties of kindred and a common grievance disposed the French king to befriend the children of Régnier of Hainault, and at his Court they remained for fifteen years nourishing their enmity against Bruno and the Emperor, and praying for an opportunity of vengeance. At last the day of reckoning came. The strong and gentle hand of Bruno had been removed by death in 965, and Otho the Great was gathered to his fathers in 973. Taking advantage of the confusion incident on this last event Charles of France now claimed his mother's dowry, and Régnier and Lambert their father's estates, and presently they invaded Lotharingia to make good their demands at the sword's point. Welcomed by the feudal chiefs and backed by the power of France, so formidable were the invaders that Otho II. deemed it prudent to treat with them and at last restored their paternal heritage to Régnier and Lambert and conferred the duchy on Charles. Two considerations made him the more ready to grant this last concession. Charles on his father's side was a descendant of Charlemagne and as such was likely to be a _persona grata_ to the nobles, many of whom had Carolingian blood in their veins, and through his mother he was the grandson of Henry the Fowler, thus first cousin to Otho himself, and hence there was reason to believe that he would prove a loyal vassal. Otho's hopes, however, were only partly realised. He had no reason to suspect Charles's good faith, but the feudal chiefs, with Régnier and Lambert at their head, so far from acknowledging the new duke, did all in their power to second the desperate efforts which Lothaire was making to annex Lotharingia, efforts which in despite of his allies were doomed to disappointment. True he at one time succeeded in reaching the imperial palace at Aachen, and there 'had the satisfaction of eating a dinner which had been prepared for Otho himself,' but he was forced to beat a hasty retreat, and his death, which took place shortly afterwards, followed as it was by the death of his only son, left the Emperor master of the situation (987), and Duke Charles heir to a crown which he was never able to wear. Hugh Capet, who for years past had been drawing nearer and nearer to the French throne, had himself proclaimed king at Noyon, and though Charles fought valiantly for his heritage, and there seemed every likelihood that his efforts would meet with success, he failed, almost in the hour of triumph: treacherously delivered into the hands of the usurper by the Bishop of Laon, he was cast into prison at Orléans where he shortly afterwards died (992). This unfortunate prince is the first ruler whose name is intimately associated with Brussels. Tradition says that he was born there, and he certainly made it his chief place of abode. His palace was situated on a little island between two branches of the Senne, somewhere about the site now occupied by the Place Saint Géry, and that little island contained the whole of the settlement called Brussels, for in those days Brussels was not a town, it was little more than a castle and a cluster of huts:--the dwellings of such of the ducal servants and court officials as were not lodged in the castle itself and of those who catered for the ducal household and maybe also the homesteads of a few farmers whom a sense of greater security had induced to settle there. Charles was succeeded in the Duchy of Lotharingia by his only son Otho, and when he died childless twenty years afterwards (1012), Lambert Long Col, who had married Charles's eldest daughter Gerberge, claimed his heritage as next-of-kin. He did not obtain the dukedom--that dignity fell to Godfrey of Ardennes, the son of Bruno's pupil, Godfrey the Captive--but he managed to make good his claim to a very considerable portion of his father-in-law's maternal heritage--the rich dowry which Henry the Fowler had bestowed on his daughter, the elder Gerberge, on her marriage with Duke Giselbert, and which later the Emperor Otho II. had granted to Duke Charles, her son by her second marriage. The castles of Louvain and Vilvorde and Brussels, and all the adjoining territory, fell to Lambert's share, and this vast and rich domain, called until the close of the century sometimes the county of Brussels, more often the county of Louvain, was the nucleus of the Duchy of Brabant. CHAPTER IV _The Making of the Duchy of Brabant_ In obtaining legal recognition of his right to the county of Louvain, Lambert I., as we must now call him, had accomplished something, but the house of Long Col had not yet realised, nor was it ever to wholly realise, the darling dream of its ambition--the establishment in Lotharingia of an independent realm, although that cherished wish did, in later days, receive some measure of fulfilment: in their long contest with the Empire the triumph of the barons was presently assured, and with the title of Duke the Counts of Louvain at last obtained practical independence. It was on the Church, as we have seen, that the emperors mainly relied for the maintenance of their authority in Lotharingia, and by a strange irony of fate it was to the Church that the overthrow of that authority was in great measure due. Not that the bishops belied their trust: against tremendous odds they held the fortress which had been confided to their keeping for over a hundred years, and only at last surrendered when their master's breach with the papacy gave to his turbulent vassals what had before been lacking to them--a legitimate excuse for rebellion. Given the conjunction of events, no other issue was possible. The bishops had no choice: the quarrel concerning investiture broke the back of imperial rule. Amongst the clergy the monks alone had succeeded in endearing themselves to the native population, and the power which they wielded was immense. The bishops--learned, capable, God-fearing men as most of them undoubtedly were, had never been able to gain the confidence of the people: save to the higher clergy, whom they had formed, and to a handful of the lay aristocracy who had received their education at Liége or Cologne, they were almost unknown to them. It could hardly have been otherwise, they were strangers in a strange land, they were the standard-bearers of order amid a barbarous people, whose lawlessness filled them with horror and contempt, and of whose very language they were in many cases ignorant. Well might they bewail their lot in the words of Tetdon of Cambrai, for a moment cast down at the hopelessness of the task before him, 'O wretched man that thou art, in vain didst thou quit thy native land for this land of savages!' The lot of the regular clergy, and the conditions under which they laboured were altogether different. The strong man who by his marvellous energy, his burning zeal, his eloquence, his sweetness, his piety, and, above all, by the example of his stainless life, had made of the undisciplined rabble, who, calling themselves monks, scoffed at the Evangelical counsels, and hardly believed in the Gospel, an army of humble, hard-working men, ever ready to spend themselves and be spent in the service of Christ, was himself nurtured in the bosom of feudalism: Gerard of Brogne wore a coat of mail before he put on the monk's frock. One day out hunting in his own domain along with his master, Count Bérenger of Namur, a son-in-law of Régnier au Long Col, he had turned into a wayside chapel to pray, whilst the rest of the party were dining. Presently he fell asleep, and dreamed that St. Peter bid him build a church there and dedicate it to St. Eugène. That was the origin of the famous abbey of Brogne, and Gerard became its first abbot (923). Presently the rumour spread abroad that a band of monks who kept their rule had established themselves in the Forest of Namurois, and that their leader was a saint. Strangers flocked from far and wide to see if such things could be, and Brogne became a place of pilgrimage. Soon the fame of Gerard's holiness outstepped the borders of Namur: at the request of Duke Giselbert (915-939) he reformed the abbeys of Lotharingia; later on (965-976) summoned to Cambrai by Bishop Tetdon, and to Flanders by Arnulph the Great,[6] he accomplished a like work in their domains; before his death, towards the close of the century, there was hardly a religious house from the Meuse to the sea which he had not set in order. Nor was this all, so great was his influence with the feudal lords that many of them who held ecclesiastical appointments resigned them, and everywhere the right of free election was restored; a host of new monasteries were founded, some due to the munificence of the feudal aristocracy, others to that of their political opponents, the bishops; and so great was the religious enthusiasm of the people that they gave their time and labour freely for the erection of these buildings. Gerard was crowned with the aureole of sanctity--that was the secret of his success: he loved God with his whole heart and his neighbour as himself; he was inspired by 'that wisdom which proceedeth from the mouth of the Most High, and reacheth from end to end, and mightily and sweetly setteth all things in order.' [6] See _The Story of Bruges_, ch. iii. The great reformer's interpretation of the rule of St. Benedict, a rule which leaves much to the discretion of local superiors, was large, mild, tolerant, without exaggerated asceticism. His disciples, like their master, in touch with baron and bishop, were careful not to compromise their good relations with the Episcopate by any expression of sympathy with the ideals of feudalism. Indeed, St. Gerard's anonymous biographer, who most likely was a monk of his own abbey at Brogne, does not even spare Duke Giselbert, his master's chief benefactor, averring that his untimely end was a just punishment for his rebellion:--'Sicque completur vaticinium psalmigraphi qui dicit _Homo cum in honore esset, non intellexit_. Ob ambitionem quipe regni circa eos istud obvenit.' Such was the monasticism of Gerard of Brogne and such was the spirit which for half a century after his death inspired his disciples. The work which they accomplished was immense. The influence which they exercised is almost incredible. The Low Countries became for the time more devout than any other region of Europe; in the eyes of the people the monk alone was the true servant of God, the incarnation in his own person of the mystical body of Christ. A wave of religious enthusiasm swept over the land, and it prepared men's minds to receive later on a more drastic reform of which the consequences were momentous. Lavish in alms-deeds, given to hospitality, a loyal friend to the poor and oppressed, upright, virtuous, dogged, keen, ever ready to do battle for justice sake, contemned and worshipped, beloved and loathed, such was the monk of Cluny. Uncompromising in his championship of the rights of the clergy and of the rights of the apostolic See, clerical laxity and lay interference alike stank in his nostrils, for him the bishop whom the Emperor had named was a Simonist, and the married clerk an adulterer. Gentle to others sometimes, always stern to himself, strait was the gate and narrow the way by which he went to Paradise. To fast, to labour, to keep silence, to submit, these things were to him meat and drink; his one earthly consolation was in the sweetness of his psalmody and the splendour of his ritual, and in magnifying the glory of the priesthood collectively he perhaps found some compensation for his complete abasement of self. His manner of life, he averred, was in strict accord with the spirit of the old Benedictine rule, he alone of the monks of his day had discovered its true meaning, but for better or worse the reform of Cluny constituted in fact a new order, for one essential feature of Benedictine life, the family tie, was all but blotted out: wherever Cluniac discipline prevailed the local abbot ceased to be his own master, he obeyed the Abbot of Cluny, and the monk no longer regarded his own monastery as his only home--he was a member of a vast international community, and in each of the hundred homes of his Order he was sure of a welcome as a son of the house. Inaugurated at the beginning of the nine hundreds by William of Aquitaine, who had exchanged a ducal coronet for a monk's cowl, perfected by a series of capable rulers, who were possessed of that faith which removes mountains and whose consistency of life inspired respect, the new order rapidly spread from province to province and realm to realm till at length it became a power in Christendom. Early in the ten hundreds 'the sweet savour of its good report' began to fascinate the monks of the Netherlands, and though some of the elder brethren who remembered St. Gerard or had been trained by his immediate disciples had little liking for these new-fangled French ways, monastery after monastery adopted them. A wave of enthusiasm swept the land and bore down all opposition. The people from honest conviction were heart and soul with the movement, the lay lords who saw in Clunyism a weapon to further their own ends favoured it with no less zeal; the bishops, in spite of their imperialism, were carried along with the stream, and by the close of the century there was hardly a religious house in the Netherlands which had not adopted the new rule. Notwithstanding their conversion to Clunyism the bishops were still at heart true to their old political creed, or may be their ingrained loyalty to the Empire was stronger than their religious belief, certain it is that they did not at first translate their new theories into action. When the investiture quarrel broke out, they were among the staunchest of the Emperor's adherents, but as the relations between their master and the Holy See became more and more strained they began to falter, uncertain which road to take, and at last the time came when no further choice was left them--in spite of themselves they were constrained to separate their cause from his: the lay aristocracy were in open rebellion, the people aroused by the preaching of the monks were raging against the married clergy and 'those Simonists the bishops,' with a violence past belief; Godfrey the Hunchback, the one man who might perhaps have quelled the storm, had been struck down by the hand of an assassin. If that rickety, misshapen dwarf had lived, the course of events might have been different. Duke Godfrey was a man of marvellous enterprise, undaunted courage and indomitable will; a man, too, of infinite tact--shrewd, long-headed, keen, and withal a convinced believer in the justice of the imperial cause. Through good report and evil report he had been true to Henry; he was his intimate counsellor and devoted friend, and the only man who had any influence over him for good. He always showed himself a staunch supporter of the bishops, and during the six years of his government of Lotharingia (1070-1076), with their aid he had kept the feudal lords at bay. If he had lived out his days he might perhaps have been able to curb alike the violence of Henry and of his vassals, and thus have averted the terrible chastisement which afterwards overtook his master's misdeeds. He was the last Duke of Lotharingia who exercised, as such, any real power in the land, and his death was the deathblow of imperialism in this quarter of Europe, but the agony was not a short one: it was prolonged for thirty years, and then came the funeral. Though circumstances had compelled the bishops to withdraw their support from the Emperor, there was one amongst them, Otbert of Liége, who clung to him to the bitter end. Cut off from the society of Christian men, deserted by his wife, a fugitive from his own son, it was in Otbert's episcopal city that the old Emperor found a refuge during the closing months of his chequered career. Inspired by their bishop, the men of Liége banded together to defend him, and with such success that they drove young Henry from the town. Nor was this all. So great was their pity for the misfortunes of the fallen Emperor that they altogether forgot the follies and the crimes which had produced them. In their eyes, the sinner had become a saint; and when he died they pressed round his coffin to touch his poor lifeless body as though it were some holy thing, and strewed over it their seed-corn, firmly convinced that by so doing they would insure a bountiful harvest. Henry was excommunicate, and as such it was impossible to give him Christian burial. They laid him to rest in a small unconsecrated chapel beyond the city walls, without dirge or requiem, and his mournful funeral, to quote the words of Pirenne, was the funeral of imperial rule in Lotharingia. When Duke Godfrey the Hunchback died in 1076, Henry IV., perhaps because at that time he mistrusted Godfrey of Bouillon, the late Duke's nephew, and the next in the line of succession, had conferred the Duchy of Lotharingia on his own son Conrad, a child of two years old, thus, to all intents and purposes, leaving the throne vacant--a false move, which Henry himself recognised too late: when, in 1089, he set the crown on the head of the rightful heir, the feudal lords, who for thirteen years had been accustomed to the sweets of anarchy, refused to acknowledge him, Godfrey, who lacked what had always been the mainstay of his predecessors--episcopal co-operation, was not strong enough to coerce them, and the old imperial dukedom became little more than an empty title. The man who held it was almost a nonentity
ask began to fill itself with dead grandfathers. Then the man had to pull them all out and have them buried, and for this purpose he had to use up again all the money he had received. And when he was through, the cask broke, and he was just as poor as before. Note: "The Magic Cask" is a traditionally narrated tale. In Northern China wooden casks or barrels are unknown. Large vessels, open at the top, of earth or stone are used to hold water and other liquids. VI THE FAVORITE OF FORTUNE AND THE CHILD OF ILL LUCK Once upon a time there was a proud prince who had a daughter. But the daughter was a child of ill luck. When it came time for her to marry, she had all her suitors assemble before her father's palace. She was going to throw down a ball of red silk among them, and whoever caught it was to be her husband. Now there were many princes and counts gathered before the castle, and in their midst there was also a beggar. And the princess could see dragons crawling into his ears and crawling out again from his nostrils, for he was a child of luck. So she threw the ball to the beggar and he caught it. Her father asked angrily: "Why did you throw the ball into the beggar's hands?" "He is a favorite of Fortune," said the princess, "I will marry him, and then, perhaps, I will share in his good luck." But her father would not hear of it, and since she insisted, he drove her from the castle in his rage. So the princess had to go off with the beggar. She dwelt with him in a little hut, and had to hunt for herbs and roots, and cook them herself, so that they might have something to eat; and often they both went hungry. One day her husband said to her: "I will set out and seek my fortune. And when I have found it, I will come back again and fetch you." The princess was willing, and he went away, and was gone for eighteen years. Meanwhile the princess lived in want and affliction, for her father remained hard and merciless. If her mother had not secretly given her food and money, no doubt she would have starved to death during all that time. But the beggar found his fortune, and at length became emperor. He returned and stood before his wife. She however, no longer recognized him: She only knew that he was the powerful emperor. He asked her how she were getting along. "Why do you ask me how I am getting along?" she replied. "I am too far beneath your notice." "And who may your husband be!" "My husband was a beggar. He went away to seek his fortune. That was eighteen years ago, and he has not yet returned." "And what have you done during all those long years?" "I have been waiting for him to return." "Do you wish to marry some one else, seeing that he has been missing so long?" "No, I will remain his wife until I die." When the emperor saw how faithful his wife was, he told her who he was, had her clothed in magnificent garments, and took her with him to his imperial palace. And there they lived in splendor and happiness. After a few days the emperor said to his wife: "We spend every day in festivities, as though every day were New Year." "And why should we not celebrate," answered his wife, "since we have now become emperor and empress?" Yet his wife was a child of ill luck. When she had been empress no more than eighteen days, she fell sick and died. But her husband lived for many a long year. Note: "The Favorite of Fortune and the Child of Ill Luck" is a traditionally narrated fairy-tale. The dragon is the symbol of imperial rule, and the New Year's feasts, which old and young celebrate for weeks, is the greatest of Chinese festivals. VII THE BIRD WITH NINE HEADS Long, long ago, there once lived a king and a queen who had a daughter. One day, when the daughter went walking in the garden, a tremendous storm suddenly came up and carried her away with it. Now the storm had come from the bird with nine heads, who had robbed the princess, and brought her to his cave. The king did not know whither his daughter had disappeared, so he had proclaimed throughout the land: "Whoever brings back the princess may have her for his bride!" Now a youth had seen the bird as he was carrying the princess to his cave. This cave, though, was in the middle of a sheer wall of rock. One could not climb up to it from below, nor could one climb down to it from above. And as the youth was walking around the rock, another youth came along and asked him what he was doing there. So the first youth told him that the bird with nine heads had carried off the king's daughter, and had brought her up to his cave. The other chap knew what he had to do. He called together his friends, and they lowered the youth to the cave in a basket. And when he went into the cave, he saw the king's daughter sitting there, and washing the wound of the bird with nine heads; for the hound of heaven had bitten off his tenth head, and his wound was still bleeding. The princess, however, motioned to the youth to hide, and he did so. When the king's daughter had washed his wound and bandaged it, the bird with nine heads felt so comfortable, that one after another, all his nine heads fell asleep. Then the youth stepped forth from his hiding-place, and cut off his nine heads with a sword. But the king's daughter said: "It would be best if you were hauled up first, and I came after." "No," said the youth. "I will wait below here, until you are in safety." At first the king's daughter was not willing; yet at last she allowed herself to be persuaded, and climbed into the basket. But before she did so, she took a long pin from her hair, broke it into two halves and gave him one and kept the other. She also divided her silken kerchief with him, and told him to take good care of both her gifts. But when the other man had drawn up the king's daughter, he took her along with him, and left the youth in the cave, in spite of all his calling and pleading. The youth now took a walk about the cave. There he saw a number of maidens, all of whom had been carried off by the bird with nine heads, and who had perished there of hunger. And on the wall hung a fish, nailed against it with four nails. When he touched the fish, the latter turned into a handsome youth, who thanked him for delivering him, and they agreed to regard each other as brothers. Soon the first youth grew very hungry. He stepped out in front of the cave to search for food, but only stones were lying there. Then, suddenly, he saw a great dragon, who was licking a stone. The youth imitated him, and before long his hunger had disappeared. He next asked the dragon how he could get away from the cave, and the dragon nodded his head in the direction of his tail, as much as to say he should seat himself upon it. So he climbed up, and in the twinkling of an eye he was down on the ground, and the dragon had disappeared. He then went on until he found a tortoise-shell full of beautiful pearls. But they were magic pearls, for if you flung them into the fire, the fire ceased to burn and if you flung them into the water, the water divided and you could walk through the midst of it. The youth took the pearls out of the tortoise-shell, and put them in his pocket. Not long after he reached the sea-shore. Here he flung a pearl into the sea, and at once the waters divided and he could see the sea-dragon. The sea-dragon cried: "Who is disturbing me here in my own kingdom?" The youth answered: "I found pearls in a tortoise-shell, and have flung one into the sea, and now the waters have divided for me." "If that is the case," said the dragon, "then come into the sea with me and we will live there together." Then the youth recognized him for the same dragon whom he had seen in the cave. And with him was the youth with whom he had formed a bond of brotherhood: He was the dragon's son. "Since you have saved my son and become his brother, I am your father," said the old dragon. And he entertained him hospitably with food and wine. One day his friend said to him: "My father is sure to want to reward you. But accept no money, nor any jewels from him, but only the little gourd flask over yonder. With it you can conjure up whatever you wish." And, sure enough, the old dragon asked him what he wanted by way of a reward, and the youth answered: "I want no money, nor any jewels. All I want is the little gourd flask over yonder." At first the dragon did not wish to give it up, but at last he did let him have it, after all. And then the youth left the dragon's castle. When he set his foot on dry land again he felt hungry. At once a table stood before him, covered with a fine and plenteous meal. He ate and drank. After he had gone on a while, he felt weary. And there stood an ass, waiting for him, on which he mounted. After he had ridden for a while, the ass's gait seemed too uneven, and along came a wagon, into which he climbed. But the wagon shook him up too, greatly, and he thought: "If I only had a litter! That would suit me better." No more had he thought so, than the litter came along, and he seated himself in it. And the bearers carried him to the city in which dwelt the king, the queen and their daughter. When the other youth had brought back the king's daughter, it was decided to hold the wedding. But the king's daughter was not willing, and said: "He is not the right man. My deliverer will come and bring with him half of the long pin for my hair, and half my silken kerchief as a token." But when the youth did not appear for so long a time, and the other one pressed the king, the king grew impatient and said: "The wedding shall take place to-morrow!" Then the king's daughter went sadly through the streets of the city, and searched and searched in the hope of finding her deliverer. And this was on the very day that the litter arrived. The king's daughter saw the half of her silken handkerchief in the youth's hand, and filled with joy, she led him to her father. There he had to show his half of the long pin, which fitted the other exactly, and then the king was convinced that he was the right, true deliverer. The false bridegroom was now punished, the wedding celebrated, and they lived in peace and happiness till the end of their days. Note: "The Bird With Nine Heads" is a traditionally narrated fairy-tale. The long hair needle is an example of the halved jewel used as a sign of recognition by lovers (see No. 68, "Yang Gui Fe"). The "Fish" in the cave is the dragon's son, for like East Indian _Nagaradjas_, the Chinese dragons are often sea-gods. Gourd flasks often occur as magic talismans in Chinese fairy-tales, and spirits who serve their owners are often imprisoned in them. See No. 81. VIII THE CAVE OF THE BEASTS Once upon a time there was a family in which there were seven daughters. One day when the father went out to gather wood, he found seven wild duck eggs. He brought them home, but did not think of giving any to his children, intending to eat them himself, with his wife. In the evening the oldest daughter woke up, and asked her mother what she was cooking. The mother said: "I am cooking wild duck eggs. I will give you one, but you must not let your sisters know." And so she gave her one. Then the second daughter woke up, and asked her mother what she was cooking. She said: "Wild duck eggs. If you will not tell your sisters, I'll give you one." And so it went. At last the daughters had eaten all the eggs, and there were none left. In the morning the father was very angry with the children, and said: "Who wants to go along to grandmother?" But he intended to lead the children into the mountains, and let the wolves devour them there. The older daughters suspected this, and said: "We are not going along!" But the two younger ones said: "We will go with you." And so they drove off with their father. After they had driven a good ways, they asked: "Will we soon get to grandmother's house?" "Right away," said their father. And when they had reached the mountains he told them: "Wait here. I will drive into the village ahead of you, and tell grandmother that you are coming." And then he drove off with the donkey-cart. They waited and waited, but their father did not come. At last they decided that their father would not come back to fetch them, and that he had left them alone in the mountains. So they went further and further into the hills seeking a shelter for the night. Then they spied a great stone. This they selected for a pillow, and rolled it over to the place where they were going to lie down to sleep. And then they saw that the stone was the door to a cave. There was a light in the cave, and they went into it. The light they had seen came from the many precious stones and jewels of every sort in the cave, which belonged to a wolf and a fox. They had a number of jars of precious stones and pearls that shone by night. The girls said: "What a lovely cave this is! We will lie right down and go to bed." For there stood two golden beds with gold-embroidered covers. So they lay down and fell asleep. During the night the wolf and fox came home. And the wolf said: "I smell human flesh!" But the fox replied: "Oh, nonsense! There are no human beings who can enter our cave. We lock it up too well for that." The wolf said: "Very well, then let us lie down in our beds and sleep." But the fox answered: "Let us curl up in the kettles on the hearth. They still hold a little warmth from the fire." The one kettle was of gold and the other of silver, and they curled up in them. When the girls rose early in the morning, they saw the wolf and the fox lying there, and were much frightened. And they put the covers on the kettles and heaped a number of big stones on them, so that the wolf and the fox could not get out again. Then they made a fire. The wolf and the fox said: "Oh, how nice and warm it is this morning! How does that happen?" But at length it grew too hot for them. Then they noticed that the two girls had kindled a fire and they cried: "Let us out! We will give you lots of precious stones, and lots of gold, and will do you no harm!" But the girls would not listen to them, and kept on making a bigger fire. So that was the end of the wolf and the fox in the kettles. Then the girls lived happily for a number of days in the cave. But their father was seized with a longing for his daughters, and he went into the mountains to look for them. And he sat right down on the stone in front of the cave to rest, and tapped his pipe against it to empty the ashes. Then the girls within called out: "Who is knocking at our door?" And the father said: "Are those not my daughters' voices?" While the daughters replied: "Is that not our father's voice?" Then they pushed aside the stone and saw that it was their father, and their father was glad to see them once more. He was much surprised to think that they should have chanced on this cave full of precious stones, and they told him the whole story. Then their father fetched people to help him carry home the jewels. And when they got home, his wife wondered where he had obtained all these treasures. So the father and daughters told her everything, and they became a very wealthy family, and lived happily to the end of their days. Note: "The Cave of the Beasts" is traditionally narrated. IX THE PANTHER Once upon a time there was a widow who had two daughters and a little son. And one day the mother said to her daughters: "Take good care of the house, for I am going to see grandmother, together with your little brother!" So the daughters promised her they would do so, and their mother went off. On her way a panther met her, and asked where she were going. She said: "I am going with my child to see my mother." "Will you not rest a bit?" asked the panther. "No," said she, "it is already late, and it is a long road to where my mother lives." But the panther did not cease urging her, and finally she gave in and sat down by the road side. "I will comb your hair a bit," said the panther. And the woman allowed the panther to comb her hair. But as he passed his claws through her hair, he tore off a bit of her skin and devoured it. "Stop!" cried the woman, "the way you comb my hair hurts!" But the panther tore off a much larger piece of skin. Now the woman wanted to call for help, but the panther seized and devoured her. Then he turned on her little son and killed him too, put on the woman's clothes, and laid the child's bones, which he had not yet devoured, in her basket. After that he went to the woman's home, where her two daughters were, and called in at the door: "Open the door, daughters! Mother has come home!" But they looked out through a crack and said: "Our mother's eyes are not so large as yours!" Then the panther said: "I have been to grandmother's house, and saw her hens laying eggs. That pleases me, and is the reason why my eyes have grown so large." "Our mother had no spots in her face such as you have." "Grandmother had no spare bed, so I had to sleep on the peas, and they pressed themselves into my face." "Our mother's feet are not so large as yours." "Stupid things! That comes from walking such a distance. Come, open the door quickly!" Then the daughters said to each other: "It must be our mother," and they opened the door. But when the panther came in, they saw it was not really their mother after all. At evening, when the daughters were already in bed, the panther was still gnawing the bones he had brought with him. Then the daughters asked: "Mother, what are you eating?" "I'm eating beets," was the answer. Then the daughters said: "Oh, mother, give us some of your beets, too! We are so hungry!" "No," was the reply, "I will not give you any. Now be quiet and go to sleep." But the daughters kept on begging until the false mother gave them a little finger. And then they saw that it was their little brother's finger, and they said to each other: "We must make haste to escape else he will eat us as well." And with that they ran out of the door, climbed up into a tree in the yard, and called down to the false mother: "Come out! We can see our neighbor's son celebrating his wedding!" But it was the middle of the night. Then the mother came out, and when she saw that they were sitting in the tree, she called out angrily: "Why, I'm not able to climb!" The daughters said: "Get into a basket and throw us the rope and we will draw you up!" The mother did as they said. But when the basket was half-way up, they began to swing it back and forth, and bump it against the tree. Then the false mother had to turn into a panther again, lest she fall down. And the panther leaped out of the basket, and ran away. Gradually daylight came. The daughters climbed down, seated themselves on the doorstep, and cried for their mother. And a needle-vender came by and asked them why they were crying. "A panther has devoured our mother and our brother," said the girls. "He has gone now, but he is sure to return and devour us as well." Then the needle-vender gave them a pair of needles, and said: "Stick these needles in the cushion of the arm chair, with the points up." The girls thanked him and went on crying. Soon a scorpion-catcher came by; and he asked them why they were crying. "A panther has devoured our mother and brother," said the girls. "He has gone now, but he is sure to return and devour us as well." The man gave them a scorpion and said: "Put it behind the hearth in the kitchen." The girls thanked him and went on crying. Then an egg-seller came by and asked them why they were crying. "A panther has devoured our mother and our brother," said the girls. "He has gone now, but he is sure to return and devour us as well." So he gave them an egg and said: "Lay it beneath the ashes in the hearth." The girls thanked him and went on crying. Then a dealer in turtles came by, and they told him their tale. He gave them a turtle and said: "Put it in the water-barrel in the yard." And then a man came by who sold wooden clubs. He asked them why they were crying. And they told him the whole story. Then he gave them two wooden clubs and said: "Hang them up over the door to the street." The girls thanked him and did as the men had told them. In the evening the panther came home. He sat down in the armchair in the room. Then the needles in the cushion stuck into him. So he ran into the kitchen to light the fire and see what had jabbed him so; and then it was that the scorpion hooked his sting into his hand. And when at last the fire was burning, the egg burst and spurted into one of his eyes, which was blinded. So he ran out into the yard and dipped his hand into the water-barrel, in order to cool it; and then the turtle bit it off. And when in his pain he ran out through the door into the street, the wooden clubs fell on his head and that was the end of him. Note: "The Panther" in this tale is in reality the same beast as "the talking silver fox" in No. 49, and the fairy-tale is made up of motives to be found in "Little Red Riding-Hood," "The Wolf and the Seven Kids," and "The Vagabonds." X THE GREAT FLOOD Once upon a time there was a widow, who had a child. And the child was a kind-hearted boy of whom every one was fond. One day he said to his mother: "All the other children have a grandmother, but I have none. And that makes me feel very sad!" "We will hunt up a grandmother for you," said his mother. Now it once happened that an old beggar-woman came to the house, who was very old and feeble. And when the child saw her, he said to her: "You shall be my grandmother!" And he went to his mother and said: "There is a beggar-woman outside, whom I want for my grandmother!" And his mother was willing and called her into the house; though the old woman was very dirty. So the boy said to his mother: "Come, let us wash grandmother!" And they washed the woman. But she had a great many burrs in her hair, so they picked them all out and put them in a jar, and they filled the whole jar. Then the grandmother said: "Do not throw them away, but bury them in the garden. And you must not dig them up again before the great flood comes." "When is the great flood coming?" asked the boy. "When the eyes of the two stone lions in front of the prison grow red, then the great flood will come," said the grandmother. So the boy went to look at the lions, but their eyes were not yet red. And the grandmother also said to him: "Make a little wooden ship and keep it in a little box." And this the boy did. And he ran to the prison every day and looked at the lions, much to the astonishment of the people in the street. One day, as he passed the chicken-butcher's shop, the butcher asked him why he was always running to the lions. And the boy said: "When the lions' eyes grow red then the great flood will come." But the butcher laughed at him. And the following morning, quite early, he took some chicken-blood and rubbed it on the lions' eyes. When the boy saw that the lions' eyes were red he ran swiftly home, and told his mother and grandmother. And then his grandmother said: "Dig up the jar quickly, and take the little ship out of its box." And when they dug up the jar, it was filled with the purest pearls and the little ship grew larger and larger, like a real ship. Then the grandmother said: "Take the jar with you and get into the ship. And when the great flood comes, then you may save all the animals that are driven into it; but human beings, with their black heads, you are not to save." So they climbed into the ship, and the grandmother suddenly disappeared. Now it began to rain, and the rain kept falling more and more heavily from the heavens. Finally there were no longer any single drops falling, but just one big sheet of water which flooded everything. Then a dog came drifting along, and they saved him in their ship. Soon after came a pair of mice, with their little ones, loudly squeaking in their fear. And these they also saved. The water was already rising to the roofs of the houses, and on one roof stood a cat, arching her back and mewing pitifully. They took the cat into the ship, too. Yet the flood increased and rose to the tops of the trees. And in one tree sat a raven, beating his wings and cawing loudly. And him, too, they took in. Finally a swarm of bees came flying their way. The little creatures were quite wet, and could hardly fly. So they took in the bees on their ship. At last a man with black hair floated by on the waves. The boy said: "Mother, let us save him, too!" But the mother did not want to do so. "Did not grandmother tell us that we must save no black-headed human beings?" But the boy answered: "We will save the man in spite of that. I feel sorry for him, and cannot bear to see him drifting along in the water." So they also saved the man. Gradually the water subsided. Then they got out of their ship, and parted from the man and the beasts. And the ship grew small again and they put it away in its box. But the man was filled with a desire for the pearls. He went to the judge and entered a complaint against the boy and his mother, and they were both thrown into jail. Then the mice came, and dug a hole in the wall. And the dog came through the hole and brought them meat, and the cat brought them bread, so they did not have to hunger in their prison. But the raven flew off and returned with a letter for the judge. The letter had been written by a god, and it said: "I wandered about in the world of men disguised as a beggar woman. And this boy and his mother took me in. The boy treated me like his own grandmother, and did not shrink from washing me when I was dirty. Because of this I saved them out of the great flood by means of which I destroyed the sinful city wherein they dwelt. Do you, O judge, free them, or misfortune shall be your portion!" So the judge had them brought before him, and asked what they had done, and how they had made their way through the flood. Then they told him everything, and what they said agreed with the god's letter. So the judge punished their accuser, and set them both at liberty. When the boy had grown up he came to a city of many people, and it was said that the princess intended to take a husband. But in order to find the right man, she had veiled herself, and seated herself in a litter, and she had had the litter, together with many others, carried into the market place. In every litter sat a veiled woman, and the princess was in their midst. And whoever hit upon the right litter, he was to get the princess for his bride. So the youth went there, too, and when he reached the market place, he saw the bees whom he had saved from the great flood, all swarming about a certain litter. Up he stepped to it, and sure enough, the princess was sitting in it. And then their wedding was celebrated, and they lived happily ever afterward. Note: "The Great Flood" is traditionally narrated and a diluvian legend seems to underlie it. Compare with Grimm's fairy-tale (No. 73) "The Queen of the Bees." XI THE FOX AND THE TIGER Once a fox met a tiger. The latter bared his teeth, stretched out his claws, and was about to devour him. But the fox spoke and said: "My dear sir, you must not think that you are the only king of beasts. Your courage does not compare with my own. Let us walk together, and do you keep behind me. And if men catch sight of me and do not fear me, then you may devour me." The tiger was willing, and so the fox led him along a broad highway. But the travelers, when they saw the tiger in the distance, were all frightened and ran away. Then the fox said: "How about it? I went in advance, and the men saw me and had not as yet seen you." And thereupon the tiger drew in his tail and ran away himself. The tiger had remarked quite well that the men were afraid of the fox, but he had not noticed that the fox had borrowed the terror he inspired from him. Note: This universally known fable is traditionally narrated. Animal fables are very rare in China. XII THE TIGER'S DECOY That the fox borrowed the terror he inspired from the tiger is more than a simile; but that the tiger has his decoy is something we read about in the story books, and grandfathers talk about a good deal, too. So there must be some truth in it. It is said that when a tiger devours a human being, the latter's spirit cannot free itself, and that the tiger then uses it for a decoy. When he goes out to seek his prey, the spirit of the man he has devoured must go before him, to hide him, so that people cannot see him. And the spirit is apt to change itself into a beautiful girl, or a lump of gold or a bolt of silk. All sorts of deceptions are used to lure folk into the mountain gorges. Then the tiger comes along and devours his victim, and the new spirit must serve as his decoy. The old spirit's time of service is over and it may go. And so it continues, turn by turn. Probably that is why they say of people who are forced to yield themselves up to cunning and powerful men, in order that others may be harmed: "They are the tiger's decoys!" Note: This tale is traditionally narrated. XIII THE FOX AND THE RAVEN The fox knows how to flatter, and how to play many cunning tricks. Once upon a time he saw a raven, who alighted on a tree with a piece of meat in his beak. The fox seated himself beneath the tree, looked up at him, and began to praise him. "Your color," he began, "is pure black. This proves to me that you possess all the wisdom of Laotzse, who knows how to shroud his learning in darkness. The manner in which you manage to feed your mother shows that your filial affection equals that which the Master Dsong had for his parents. Your voice is rough and strong. It proves that you have the courage with which King Hiang once drove his foes to flight by the mere sound of his voice. In truth, you are the king of birds!" The raven, hearing this, was filled with joy and said: "I thank you! I thank you!" And before he knew it, the meat fell to earth from his opened beak. The fox caught it up, devoured it and then said, laughing: "Make note of this, my dear sir: if some one praises you without occasion, he is sure to have a reason for doing so." Note: Traditionally narrated, it may be taken for granted that this is simply Æsop's fable in Chinese dress. The manner of presentation is characteristically Chinese. For "the wisdom of Laotzse" compare, p. 30, "The Ancient's Book of Wisdom and Life": "Who sees his light, yet dwells in darkness." Master Dsong was King Dsi's most faithful pupil, renowned for his piety. The raven is known in China as "the bird of filial love," for it is said that the young ravens bring forth the food they have eaten from their beaks again, in order to feed the old birds. XIV WHY DOG AND CAT ARE ENEMIES Once upon a time there was a man and his wife and they had a ring of gold. It was a lucky ring, and whoever owned it always had enough to live on. But this they did not know, and hence sold the ring for a small sum. But no sooner was the ring gone than they began to grow poorer and poorer, and at last did not know when they would get their next meal. They had a dog and a cat, and these had to go hungry as well. Then the two animals took counsel together as to how they might restore to their owners their former good fortune. At length the dog hit upon an idea. "They must have the ring back again," he said to the cat. The cat answered: "The ring has been carefully locked up in the chest, where no one can get at it." "You must catch a mouse," said the dog, "and the mouse must gnaw a hole in the chest and fetch out the ring. And if she does not want to, say that you will bite her to death, and you will see that she will do it." This advice pleased the cat, and she caught a mouse. Then she wanted to go to the house in which stood the chest, and the dog came after. They came to a broad river. And since the cat could not swim, the dog took her on his back and swam across with her. Then the cat carried the mouse to the house in which the chest stood. The mouse gnawed a hole in the chest, and fetched out the ring. The cat put the ring in her mouth and went back to the river, where the dog was waiting for her, and swam across with her. Then they started out together for home, in order to bring the lucky ring to their master and mistress. But the dog could only run along the ground; when there was a house in the way he always had to go around it. The cat, however, quickly climbed over the roof, and so she reached home long before the dog, and brought the ring to her master. Then her master said to his wife: "What a good creature the cat
ft of elephant grass (at least, I speak for myself). At last, to my intense relief, the smoke and fires of a village came in view. It proved to be Karwassa--Karwassa strongly entrenched behind its mud walls and a bamboo palisade. After some parley we were admitted by the chowkidar (or watchman), and presently surrounded by the villagers, a poverty-stricken crew, with a depressed, hunted look. “Once more a party of sahibs come to shoot the man-eaters,” they exclaimed. “Ah, many sahibs had come and come and gone, and naught availed them against the Bagh. He was no Janwar--but an evil spirit.” “But two days ago,” said the Malgoozar, or head-man--a high-caste Brahmin, with a high-bred face--“he had taken a boy from before his mother’s eyes, as she tilled the patch of vegetables; the screams of the child--he had heard them himself. Ah, ye-yo!” And he shook his enormous orange turban, and his handsome dignified head, in a truly melancholy fashion. “Moreover, the tiger had taken the woman’s husband--there was not a house in the village that had not lost at least one inmate.” “Why did they not go away?” I asked. “Yea--truly, others had abandoned their houses and lands, and fled--but to what avail? The thing was not a Janwar, but a devil.” A murmur of assent signified that the villagers had accepted their scourge, with the apathetic fatalism of their race. We were presently conducted to an empty hut, provided with broad string beds--and a light. Our Christmas dinner was simple; it consisted of chuppatties and well water, and our spirits were in keeping with our fare; the surrounding misery had infected us. We were even indebted for our present lodgings to the tiger--he had dined upon its former tenant about a month previously. By all accounts he was old, and lame of one hind leg, and had discovered that a human being is a far easier prey than nimble cattle, or fleeting deer. He had studied the habits of his victims, and would stalk the unwary, or the loiterer, like a great cat. Alas! many were the tragedies; with success he had grown bolder, and even broad noonday, and the interior of the village itself, now afforded no protection from his horrible incursions. The next morning our carts arrived, and we unpacked (the salt, tea, and corkscrew had been forgotten). Afterwards we set out to explore, first the vegetable patches, then the meagre crops, and finally we were shown the dry river bed, the tiger’s high-road to Karwassa. We tracked him easily in the soft, fine, white sand; there were his three huge paws, and a fainter impression of the fourth. Also, there were marks of something dragged, and several dark brown splashes; it was here that he had carried off the wife of one of our present guides, who had looked on,--being powerless to save her. Needless to say, we were filled with a raging thirst for the blood of this beast--Algy especially. He jawed, he bribed, he gesticulated, he held long conferences with the villagers, with Nuddoo the shikari--an active, leather-skinned man, with a cast in his left eye, who spoke English fluently, and wore a tiger charm. Algy accommodated himself to circumstances with astonishing facility. Most of the night we sat up in a machan, or platform in a tree, over a fat young buffalo, hoping to tempt the man-eater after dark. Subsequently Algy slept soundly on his native charpoy, breakfasted on milk and chuppatties, and sallied forth, gun on shoulder, to tramp miles over the surrounding country. He was indefatigable, and easily wore _me_ out. As I frankly explained, I could not burn the candle at both ends, and sit curled up in a tree till two o’clock in the morning, and then walk down game that self-same afternoon. He never seemed to tire, and he left the champagne and whisky to us, and shot on milk or cold cocoa. His newly acquired Spartan taste declined our imported dainties (tinned and otherwise), and professed to prefer, in deference to our surroundings, a purely vegetable diet. It was an odd fancy, which I made no effort to combat. Naturally there was more truffled turkey and _pâté de foie gras_ and boar’s head for _us_! Algy was a successful shot, and reaped the reward of his energy in respectable bags of black buck, hares, sand grouse, chickhira, bustard, peacock--no, though sorely tempted, he refrained from bagging the bird specially sacred to his hosts. Days and nights went by, and so far we were as unsuccessful as our forerunners. In spite of our fat and enticing young buffalo, whom we sometimes sat over from sunset until the pale wintry dawn glimmered along the horizon, we never caught one glimpse of the object of our expedition. Algy was restless, Nuddoo at his wits’ end, whilst Jones had given up the quest as a bad job! One evening we all gathered round the big fire in the village “chowk” (for the nights were chilly), having a “bukh” with the elders, and, being encompassed by a closely investing audience of the entire population--including, of course, infants in arms--our principal topic was the brute that had so successfully eluded us. “He will never be caught save by one bait,” remarked a venerable man, wagging his long white beard. “And what is that, O my father?” I asked. “A man or a woman,” was the startling reply; “and those we cannot give.” “Yea, but we can!” cried a shrill voice. There was a sudden movement in the crowd, and a tall female figure broke out of the throng, and pushed her way into the open space and the full light of the fire. She wore the usual dark red petticoat, short-sleeved jacket, and blue cloth or veil over her head. This she suddenly tossed aside, and, as she stood revealed before us, her hair was dishevelled, her black eyes blazed with excitement; but she was magnificently handsome. No flat-faced Gond this, but a Marathi of six-and-twenty years of age--supremely beautiful. “Protectors of the poor,” she cried, flinging out her two modelled arms, jingling with copper bangles, “here am _I_. I am willing, and thou shalt give _me_. The shaitan has slain my man and my son. When the elephant is gone, why keep the goad? This devil of tigers has eaten more than one hundred of our people, and I gladly offer my life in exchange for his. Cattle! no”--with scorn. “He seeks not our flocks; he seeks _us_! Have we not learned that, above all, he prefers women folk and young? Therefore, behold I give myself”--looking round with a dramatic gesture of her hand--“to save all these.” “It is Sassi,” muttered the Malgoozar, “the widow of Gitan. Since seven days her mind hath departed. She is mad.” “Nay, my father, but I am wise! Truly, it is the sahib’s shikari who is foolish, and of but little wit. He knows not the ground. There is the stream close to the forest and the crops. The sahibs shall sit above in the old bher tree, with their guns. They shall tie me up below. Lo, I will sing, yea, loudly, and perchance the tiger will come. He is now seven days without food from our village. Surely he must be an-hungered. I will sing, and bring him to the great lords’ feet--even to his death and mine. Then will my folk be avenged, and my name remembered--Sassi the Marathi, who gave her life for her people!” She paused, and every eye was fixed upon her as she stood amidst a breathless silence, awaiting our answer, as immovable as a statue. “Truly, what talk is so foolish as the talk of a woman?” began the Malgoozar, fretfully. “Small mouth, big speech----” “Nay, my father,” interrupted Nuddoo, eagerly, “but she speaks words of wisdom, and ’tis I that am the fool. The lord sahib returns in two days’ time--and we have done naught.” As he spoke, his best eye was fixed on Sassi with an expression of ravenous greed not to be described. Apparently he saw the five hundred rupees now within a measurable distance! “She can lure him, she shall stand on the stack of Bhoosa that pertains to Ruckoo, the chowkidar; she will sing--the nights are still. The Bagh will hear, he will come, and, ere he can approach, the sahibs will shoot him. After all”--with a contemptuous shrug--“it is but a mad woman and a widow.” “Nuddoo,” shouted Algy, “if I ever hear you air those sentiments again, I’ll shoot you. We don’t want that sort of bait; and, if we did, I would sooner tie _you_ up, than a woman and a widow.” Nuddoo’s eager protestations, and Algy’s expostulations, were loud and long, and during them a stern-faced old hag placed her hand on Sassi’s shoulder, drew her out of the crowd, and the episode was closed. Our expedition that night was, as usual, fruitless. We climbed into our tree platform, the now accustomed buffalo dozed in his place undisturbed. Evidently Algy’s mind dwelt on the recent scene at the chowk, and he harangued me from time to time, in an excited whisper, on the subject of Sassi’s heroism, her wonderful beauty, and Nuddoo’s base suggestion. He was still whispering, when I fell asleep. And now it had come to our last day but one. Jones looked upon further effort as supreme folly. He wanted, for once, a night’s unbroken rest, and at six o’clock we left him lying on his string bed, on the flat of his back, smoking cigarettes and reading a two-shilling novel--a novel dealing with smart folk in high life--a book that carried his thoughts far, far from a miserable mud village in the C.P. and its living scourge. How I envied Jones! I would thankfully have excused myself, but Algy was _my_ cousin; he had taken command of the trip, and of me, ever since we had quitted the great trunk road--and I was entirely under his orders. Nuddoo was not above accepting a hint; this time our machan was lashed into a big pepul tree on the border of the forest, and the edge of a stream that had its home in the hills. We were about two miles from Karwassa as the crow flies, and, as we were rather early, we had ample time to look about us; the scene was a typical landscape in the Central Provinces. To our left lay the hills, covered with dense woodlands, from whose gloomy depths emerged the now shallow river, which trickled gently past us over its bed of dark blue rock and gravel. Beyond the stream, and exactly facing us, lay a vast expanse of grain--_jawarri_, _gram_, and vetches--as far as the eye could reach, the monotonous stretch being broken, here and there, by a gigantic and solitary jungle tree. To the right, and on our side of the bank, was an exquisite sylvan glade, a suitable spot to which the forest fairies might issue invitations to the neighbouring elves to “come and dance in the moonbeams.” Between the great trees, the waving crops, and the murmuring brook, I could almost have imagined myself in the midlands of England--save for certain tracks in the sand beneath our tree. Its enormous roots were twisted among rocks and boulders, and, where a spit of gravel ran out into the clear water, were many footprints, which showed where the bear, hyena, tiger, and jackal had come to slake their thirst. I noticed that Nuddoo seemed restless and strange, and that his explanations and answers were incoherent, not to say foolish. “This looks a likely enough place,” said Algy, with the confidence of a man who had been after tiger for years. “But, I say, Nuddoo, where’s the chap with the buffalo--where is our tie-up?” “Buffalo never started yet--plenty time--coming by-and-by, at moonrise,” stammered Nuddoo; and, as I climbed into the machan, and he took his place next me, with our rifles, it struck me that Nuddoo was not sober. He smelt powerfully of raw whisky--our whisky--his lips were cracked and dry, and his hand shook visibly. What had he been doing? “It will be an awful sell if there is no tie-up, and the tiger happens to go by,” said Algy, irritably. “The gara will be here without fail, your honour’s worship. It will be all right, I swear it by the head of my son. Moreover, we will get the tiger--to-night he touches his last hour.” There was no question that Nuddoo, for the first time in my experience, was very drunk indeed. Presently the full moon rose up and illuminated the lonely landscape, the haunted jungle, the crops, the glade, and turned the forest stream to molten silver. It was nine o’clock, and, whilst Nuddoo slumbered, Algy and I held our breath, as we watched a noble sambur stag come and drink below us. He was succeeded by an old boar, next came a hyena; it was a popular resort; in short, every animal appeared but the one we wanted--and _he_ was undoubtedly in the neighbourhood, for the deer seemed uneasy. It was already after ten, and Algy was naturally impatient, and eagerly looking out for our devoted “gara.” He and I were bending forward, listening anxiously; the forest behind us seemed full of stealthy noises, but we strained our ears in vain for the longed-for sound of buffalo hoofs advancing from the front. Nuddoo still slept soundly, and at last Algy, in great exasperation, leant over and shook him roughly. “Ay,” he muttered, in a sleepy grunt, “it is all right, sahib, the gara will come without fail.” Even whilst he spoke, we heard, not fifty yards away, the voice of a woman singing in the glade, and Nuddoo now started up erect, and began to tremble violently. It was light as day, as we beheld Sassi advancing slowly in our direction, singing in a loud clear voice an invocation to Mahadeo the Destroyer! When she had approached within earshot she halted, and, raising her statuesque face to her namesake the moon, chanted-- “O great lords in the pepul tree, whereto Nuddoo, the drunkard, hath led you, Behold, according to my promise, lo! I have come. I sing to my gods, and perchance I will bring the tiger to your honours’ feet.” For the space of three heart-beats, we remained motionless--paralyzed with horror,--and then Nuddoo, who was gibbering with most mysterious terror, gave me a sudden and an involuntary push. There, to the left, was _something_ coming rapidly through the crops! The grain parted and waved wildly as it passed; in a moment a huge striped animal, the size of a calf, had crossed the river with a hurried limp. “Kubberdar! Bagh! Bagh!” roared Algy to the woman. To me, “You’ve got him!” Undoubtedly it was _my_ shot, but I was excessively flurried--it was new to me to have a human life hanging on my trigger; as he sprang into the open glade I fired--and missed. I heard my cousin draw in his breath hard; I saw the woman turn and face us. The tiger’s spring and Algy’s shot seemed simultaneous; as the echo died away, there was not another sound--the great brute lay dead across the corpse of his victim. I was now shaking as much as Nuddoo; my bad aim had had a frightful result. Before I could scramble down, Algy, with inconceivable rashness, was already beside the bodies, where they lay in the middle of the glade--the monster stretched above his voluntary prey. The news spread to the village in some miraculous manner. Had the birds of the air carried the great tidings? The entire community were instantly roused by the intelligence. Man, woman, yea, and child, came streaming forth, beating tom-toms and shouting themselves hoarse with joy. They collected about the tiger--who was evidently of far more account than the woman--they kicked him, cursed him, spat on him, and secretly stole his whiskers for a charm against the evil eye. They thrummed the tom-toms madly as they marched round and round Algy--the hero of the hour. Nuddoo had now entirely forgotten his tremors, he was almost delirious with excitement; the five hundred rupees were his, he could live on them--and on his reputation as the slayer of the great Karwassa man-eater--for the remainder of his existence. He talked till he frothed at the corners of his mouth, he boasted here, he boasted there. He declared that “_he_ had encouraged Sassi, and given her an appointment as the gara, or tie-up. Yea, she had spoken truly--there was no other means!” Released from his honours and the transports of the tom-toms, these fatal words fell on Algy’s ears, and he went straight for Nuddoo. What he said or did, I know not, but this I know, that from that moment I never saw Nuddoo again until weeks later, when he came to me by stealth in Kori, exceedingly humble and sober, and received, according to Algy’s instructions, “five hundred rupees; but if he asks you for a chit,” wrote Algy, “kick him out of the compound.” The tiger was big and heavy, he required twenty coolies to carry him back to Karwassa--for his last visit. Sassi was borne on the frame of our machan--ere she was placed there, an old hag covered the beautiful dead face with her veil, and slipped off her sole ornaments, the copper bangles, in a business-like fashion. “Give me one of those,” said Algy, who was standing by. “I will pay you well. Were you her mother?” “Her grandmother,” replied the crone. “She was mad. Lo, now she is gone, I shall surely starve!” and she began to whimper for the first time. Truly, she knew this sahib was both rich and open-handed. Algy and I slept soundly for the remainder of that eventful night; but it is my opinion that the villagers never went to rest at all. The moment we set foot in the street the next morning, a vast crowd surged round my cousin; every one of them carried a string of flowers or--highest compliment--a gilded lime. Women brought their children, from the youngest upwards, and Algy was soon the centre of the village nursery. All these little people were solemnly requested “to look well upon that honoured lord, and to remember when they were old, and to tell it to their children, that their own eyes had rested on the great sahib who had killed the shaitan of Karwassa.” Algy was loaded with honours and flowers; I must confess that he bore them modestly, and he, on his side, paid high tribute to Sassi the Marathi. He commanded that she should have a splendid funeral. The most costly pyre that was ever seen in those parts was erected, the memory of the oldest inhabitant was vainly racked to recall anything approaching its magnificence. The village resources, and the resources of three other hamlets, were strained to the utmost tension to provide sandal-wood, oil, jewels, and dress. If Algy’s London “pals” could hear of him spending fifty pounds on the burning of a native woman, how they would laugh and chaff him! I hinted as much, and got a distinctly nasty reply. He was quite right; roughing it _had_ a bad effect upon his temper. At sundown the whole population assembled by the river bank to witness the obsequies of Sassi the widow of Gitan; they marvelled much (and so did I) to behold my cousin standing by, bare-headed, during the entire ceremony. We set out on our return journey that same evening--travelling by moonlight had no dangers now! Algy distributed immense largesse among his friends, viz. the entire community (he also paid all our expenses like a prince). He and the inhabitants of Karwassa parted with many good wishes and mutual reluctance; indeed, a body of them formed a running accompaniment to us for nearly a dozen miles. Our spoil, the tiger’s skin, was a poor specimen. The stripes had a dull, faded appearance; but it measured, without stretching, a good honest ten feet from nose to tip of tail. Once we were out of the jungle, and back in the land of bungalows, daily posts, and baker’s bread, Algy relapsed from a keen and intrepid sportsman into an indolent, drawling dandy. The day after our return to Kori, he took leave of me in these remarkable words-- “Well, good-bye, Perky. You are not a bad sort, though you are not much of a chap to shoot or rough it. However, I have to thank you for taking me off the beaten track, and showing me something which I shall never forget,--and that was entirely out of the common.” “THE MISSUS.” A DOG TRAGEDY. When the Royal British Skirmishers were quartered in Bombay, their second in command was Major Bowen, a spare, grizzled, self-contained little soldier, who lived alone in one of those thatched bungalows that resemble so many monstrous mushrooms, bordering the racecourse. “The Major,” as he was called _par excellence_, was best described by negatives. He was not married. He was not a ladies’ man. Nor was he a sportsman; nor handsome, young, rich, nor even clever--in short, he was not remarkable for anything except, perhaps, his dog. No one could dispute the fact that Major Bowen was the owner of an uncommon animal. He and this dog had exchanged into “the Skirmishers” from another regiment six years previously, and though the pair were at first but coldly received, they adapted themselves so admirably to their new surroundings that ere long they had gained the esteem and goodwill of both rank and file; and, as time wore on, there actually arose an ill-concealed jealousy of their old corps, and a disposition to ignore the fact that they had not always been part and parcel of the gallant Skirmishers. Although poor, and having but little besides his pay, the Major was liberal--both just and generous; and if he was mean or close-fisted with any one, that person’s name was Reginald Bowen. He had an extremely lofty standard of honour and of the value of his lightest word. He gave a good tone to the mess, and though he was strict with the youngsters, they all liked him. Inflexible as he could look on parade or in the orderly-room, elsewhere he received half the confidences of the regiment; and many a subaltern had been extricated from a scrape, thanks to the little Major’s assistance--monetary and otherwise. He was a smart officer and a capital horseman, and here was another source of his popularity. He lent his horses and ponies, with ungrudging good faith, to those impecunious youths who boasted but the one hard-worked barrack “tat;” and many a happy hour with hounds, or on the polo-ground, was spent on the back of the Major’s cattle. Major Bowen did not race or hunt, and rarely played polo; in fact, he was not much interested in anything--although upwards of forty, he was supremely indifferent to his dinner!--the one thing he really cared about was his _dog_: a sharp, well-bred fox-terrier, with bright eyes and lemon-coloured ears,--who, in spite of the fact that her original name was “Minnie,” had been known as “the Missus” for the last five years. This name was given to her in joke, and in acknowledgment of her accomplishments; the agreeable manner in which she did the honours of her master’s bungalow, and the extraordinary care she took of him, and all his property. It was truly absurd to see this little creature--of at most sixteen pounds’ weight--gravely lying, with crossed paws, in front of the Major’s sixteen hands “waler,” whilst he was going round barracks, or occupied in the orderly-room. Her pose of self-importance distinctly said, “The horse and syce are in _my_ charge!” She went about the compound early every morning, and rigorously turned out vagrants, suspicious-looking visitors to the servants’ quarters, and all dogs and goats! She accompanied her master to mess, and fetched him home, no matter how late the hour--and through the rains (and they are no joke in Bombay) it was just the same; there was the chokedar, with his mackintosh and lantern; and there was also, invariably, the shivering, sleepy little Missus. It was of no avail to tie her up at home; not only were her heartrending howls audible for a quarter of a mile, but on one occasion she actually arrived under the dinner-table, chain and all, to the discomfort of the Colonel’s legs, the great scandal of the mess-sergeant, and her own everlasting disgrace! So she was eventually suffered--like wilful woman--to have her way. Her master’s friends were her friends, and took the Missus quite seriously--but she drew the line at dogs. It must be admitted that her manners to her own species were--not nice. She had an unladylike habit of suddenly sitting down when she descried one afar off, and sniffing the, so to speak, tainted air, that was nothing more nor less than a deliberate insult to any animal with the commonest self-respect; many a battle was fought, many a bite was given and received. The Missus was undeniably accomplished; she fetched papers and slippers, gave the paw, and in the new style--on a level with her head, walked briskly on her hind legs, could strum on the piano, and sing, accompanying herself to a clear, somewhat shrill, soprano. There was a little old pianette in the Major’s sitting-room, on which she performed amid great applause. It was _not_ true that the instrument had been purchased solely for her use, or that she practised industriously for two hours a day. No--the pianette had been handed over to her master by a young man (who had subsequently gone to the dogs) as the only available payment of a sum the Major had advanced for him. Battered old tin kettle as it was, that despised piano had cost one hundred pounds! But no one dreamt of _this_ when they laughed at its shortcomings. The Missus was passionately fond of music, and escorted her owner to the band; but she escorted him almost everywhere--to the club, round the barracks, the racecourse, to church--here she was ignominiously secured in the syce’s “cupra,” as she had a way of stealthily peeping in at the various open doors, and endeavouring to focus her idol, which manœuvre--joined with her occasional assistance in the chanting--proved a little trying to the gravity of the congregation. Of course she went to the hills--where she had an immense acquaintance; she had also been on active service on the Black Mountain, and when one night a prowling Afridi crept on his hands and knees into the Major’s tent, he found himself unexpectedly pinned by a set of sharp teeth,--he carried the mark of that bite to his grave. Major Bowen was not the least ashamed of his affection for his dog. She was his weak point--even the very Company’s dhobies approached him through her favour. He was president of the mess, and in an excellent manner had officiated for years in that difficult and thankless office; a good man of business--prompt, clear-headed, methodical, and conscientious. No scamping of accounts, no peculations overlooked, a martinet to the servants, and possibly less loved than feared. But this is a digression from the Missus. Her master was foolishly proud of her good looks--very sensitive respecting her little foibles (which he clumsily endeavoured to conceal), and actually touchy about her age! When the Missus had her first, and only, family, it was quite a great local event. The Major’s establishment was turned completely upside down; there was racing and chasing to procure two milch goats for the use of the infants and their mother, and a most elegant wadded basket was provided as a cradle. But, alas! the Missus proved a most indifferent parent. She deserted her little encumbrances at the end of one day, and followed her master to the Gymkana ground. He was heartily ashamed of her, and positively used to remain indoors for the sake of keeping up appearances. He could not go to the club, and have the Missus waiting conspicuously outside with the pony, when all the world knew that she had no business to be there, but had four young and helpless belongings squealing for her at home! She accorded them but little of her company, and appeared to think that her nursery cares were entirely the affair of the two milch goats! One of her neglected children pined, and dwindled, and eventually died, was placed in a cigar-box, and buried in a neat little grave under a rose-bush in the compound, whilst its unnatural mamma looked on from afar off, a totally uninterested spectator! The three survivors were handsome puppies, and the Major exhibited them with pride to numerous callers, and finally bestowed them among his friends (entirely to please their mother, whom they bored to death). They were gratefully accepted, not merely on their own merits, but also as being a public testimonial of their donor’s high opinion and esteem. * * * * * It was towards the end of the monsoon, when the compound was almost afloat, and querulous frogs croaked in every corner of the verandahs, that Major Bowen became seriously ill with low malarious fever. He had been out ten years--“five years too long,” the doctor declared; “he must go home at once, and never return to India.” This was bad news for the regiment, and still worse for the invalid, who helped a widowed sister with all he could spare from his colonial allowances. There would not be much margin on English pay! He was dangerously ill in that lofty, bare, whitewashed bedroom in Infantry Lines. He would not be the first to die there. No,--not by many. His friends were devoted and anxious. The Missus was devoted and distracted. She lay all day long at the foot of his cot, watching and listening, and following his slightest movement with a pair of agonized eyes. At length there was a change--and for the better. The patient was promoted into a cane lounge in the sitting-room, to solids, and to society--as represented by half the regiment. He looked round his meagrely furnished little room with interested eyes. There was not a speck of dust to be seen, everything was in its place, to the letter-weight on the writing-table, and the old faded photos in their shabby leather frames. Missus’s basket was pushed into a far corner. She had not used it for weeks. He and Missus were going home, and would soon say good-bye for ever to the steep-roofed thatched bungalow, the creaking cane chairs, the red saloo purdahs, to the verandahs, embowered in pale lilac “railway” creeper, to the neat little garden--to the regiment--to Bombay. Their passages were taken. They were off in the _Arcadia_ in three days. * * * * * That afternoon, the Major had all his kit and personal property paraded in his sitting-room, in order that the packing of his belongings (he was a very tidy man) should take place under his own eyes. The bearer was in attendance, and with him his slave and scapegoat--the chokra. The bearer was a stolid, impassive-looking Mahomedan, with a square black beard, and a somewhat sullen eye. “Abdul,” said his master, as his gaze travelled languidly from one neatly folded pile of clothes to another--from guns in cases to guns not in cases, to clocks, revolvers, watches, candlesticks--the collection of ten years, parting gifts, bargains, and legacies--“you have been my servant for six years, and have served me well. I have twice raised your wages, and you have made a very good thing out of me, I believe, and can, no doubt, retire and set up a ticca gharry, or a shop. I am going away, and never coming back, and I want to give you something of mine as a remembrance--something to remember me by, you understand?” The bearer deliberately unfolded his arms, and salaamed in silence. “You may choose anything you like out of this room,” continued the Major, with unexampled recklessness. Abdul’s eyes glittered curiously--it was as if a torch had suddenly illumined two inky-black pools. “Sahib never making joke--sahib making really earnest?”--casting on him a glance of almost desperate eagerness. The glance was lost on his master, whose attention was fixed on a discarded gold-laced tunic and mess-jacket. “Of course,” he said to himself, “Abdul will choose them,” for gold lace is ever dear to a native heart, it sells so well in the bazaar, and melts down to such advantage. “Making earnest!” repeated the invalid, irritably. “Do I ever do otherwise? Look sharp, and take your choice.” “Salaam, sahib,” he answered, and turned quickly to where the Missus was coiled up in a chair. “I take my choice of anything in this room. Then I take--the--dog.” “The--_dog_!” repeated her owner, with a half-stupefied air. “Verily, I am fond of Missy. Missy fond of master. The dog and I will remember the sahib together, when he is far away.” The sahib felt as if some one had suddenly plunged a knife in his heart. In Abdul’s bold gaze, in Abdul’s petition, he, too late, recalled the solemn (but despised) warning of a brother-officer: “That bearer of yours is a vindictive brute; you got his son turned out of the mess, and serve him right, for a drunken, thieving hound! But sleek as he looks, Abdul will have it in for you yet;” and this was accomplished, when he said, “The dog and I, sahib,
uded to was of a military cast, for it is there expressly said, that he was rewarded "for his faithful and _valiant_ service," a term, perhaps, implying the heroism of our poet's ancestor in the field of Bosworth. That the property, thus bestowed upon the family of Shakspeare, descended to John, the father of the poet, and contributed to his influence and respectability, there is no reason to doubt. From the register, indeed, and public writings relating to Stratford, Mr. Rowe has justly inferred, that the Shakspeares were of good figure and fashion there, and were considered as gentlemen. We may presume, however, that the patrimony of Mr. John Shakspeare, the parent of our great dramatist, was not very considerable, as he found the profits of business necessary to his support. He was, in fact, a wool-stapler, and, there is reason to suppose, in a large way; for he was early chosen a member of the corporation of his town, a situation usually connected with respectable circumstances, and soon after, he filled the office of high bailiff or chief magistrate of that body. The record of these promotions has been thus given from the books of the corporation. "Jan. 10, in the 6th year of the reign of our sovereign lady Queen Elizabeth, John Shakspeare passed his Chamberlain's accounts." "At the Hall holden the eleventh day of September, in the eleventh year of the reign of our sovereign lady Elizabeth, 1569, were present Mr. John Shakspeare, High Bailiff."[2:A] It was during the period of his filling this important office, that he first obtained a grant of arms; and, in a note annexed to the subsequent patent of 1596, now in the College of Arms[2:B], it is stated that he was likewise a justice of the peace, and possessed of lands and tenements to the amount of 500_l._ The final confirmation of this grant took place in 1599, in which his shield and coat are described to be, _In a field of gould upon a bend sable, a speare of the first, the poynt upward, hedded argent_; and for his crest or cognisance, _A falcon with his wyngs displayed, standing on a wrethe of his coullers, supporting a speare armed hedded, or steeled sylver_.[3:A] Mr. John Shakspeare married, though in what year is not accurately known, the daughter and heir of Robert Arden, of Wellingcote, in the county of Warwick, who is termed, in the Grant of Arms of 1596, "a gentleman of worship." The Arden, or Ardern family, appears to have been of considerable antiquity; for, in Fuller's Worthies, Rob. Arden de Bromwich, ar. is among the names of the gentry of this county returned by the commissioners in the twelfth year of King Henry the Sixth, 1433; and in the eleventh and sixteenth years of Elizabeth, A. D. 1562 and 1568, Sim. Ardern, ar. and Edw. Ardrn, ar. are enumerated, by the same author, among the sheriffs of Warwickshire.[3:B] It is well known that the woodland part of this county was formerly denominated Ardern, though, for the sake of euphony, frequently softened towards the close of the sixteenth century, into the smoother appellation of Arden; hence it is not improbable, that the supposition of Mr. Jacob, who reprinted, in 1770, the Tragedy of Arden of Feversham, a play which was originally published in 1592, may be correct; namely that Shakspeare, the poet, was _descended by the female line_ from the unfortunate individual whose tragical death is the subject of this drama; for though the name of this gentleman was originally Ardern, he seems early to have experienced the fate of the county district, and to have had his surname harmonized by a similar omission. In consequence of this marriage, Mr. John Shakspeare and his posterity were allowed, by the College of Heralds, to impale their arms with the ancient arms of the Ardrns of Wellingcote.[3:C] Of the issue of John Shakspeare by this connection, the accounts are contradictory and perplexed; nor is it absolutely ascertained, whether he had only one wife, or whether he might not have had two, or even three. Mr. Rowe, whose narrative has been usually followed, has given him _ten_ children, among whom he considers _William_ the poet, as the _eldest_ son.[4:A] The Register, however, of the parish of Stratford-upon-Avon, which commences in 1558, is incompatible with this statement; for, we there find _eleven_ children ascribed to John Shakspeare, _ten_ baptized, and _one_, the baptism of which had taken place before the commencement of the Register, buried.[4:B] The dates of these baptisms, and of two or three other events, recorded in this Register, it will be necessary, for the sake of elucidation, to transcribe: "_Jone_, daughter of John Shakspere, was baptized Sept. 15, 1558. "_Margaret_, daughter of John Shakspere, was buried April 30, 1563. "WILLIAM, son of John Shakspere, was baptized April 26, 1564. "_Gilbert_, son of John Shakspere, was baptized Oct. 3, 1566. "_Jone_[4:C], daughter of John Shakspere, was baptized April 15, 1569. "_Anne_, daughter of Mr. John Shakspere, was baptized Sept. 28, 1571. "_Richard_, son of Mr. John Shakspere, was baptized March 11, 1573-4. "_Edmund_, son of Mr. John Shakspere, was baptized May 3, 1580. "_John Shakspere_ and Margery Roberts were married Nov. 25, 1584. "_Margery_, wife of John Shakspere, was buried Oct. 29, 1587. "_Ursula_, daughter of John Shakspere, was baptized March 11, 1588. "_Humphrey_, son of John Shakspere, was baptized May 24, 1590. "_Philip_, son of John Shakspere, was baptized Sept. 21, 1591. "Mr. _John Shakspere_ was buried Sept. 8, 1601. "_Mary Shakspere_, widow, was buried Sept. 9, 1608." Now it is evident, that if the ten children which were baptized, according to this Register, between the years 1558 and 1591, are to be ascribed to the father of our poet, he must necessarily have had _eleven_, in consequence of the record of the decease of his daughter Margaret. He must also have had three wives, for we find his second wife, Margery, died in 1587, and the death of a third, Mary, a widow, is noticed in 1608. It was suggested to Mr. Malone[5:A], that very probably, Mr. John Shakspeare had a son born to him, as well as a daughter, before the commencement of the Register, and that this his eldest son, was, as is customary, named after his father, John; a supposition which, (as no other child was baptized by the Christian name of the old gentleman,) carries some credibility with it, and was subsequently acquiesced in by Mr. Malone himself. In this case, therefore, the marriage recorded in the Register, is that of John Shakspeare the _younger_ with Margery Roberts, and the three children born between 1588 and 1591, Ursula, Humphrey, and Philip, the issue of this John, not by the first, but by a second marriage; for as Margery Shakspeare died in 1587, and Ursula was baptized in 1588-9, these children must have been by the Mary Shakspeare, whose death is mentioned as occurring in 1608, and as she is there denominated a _widow_; the younger John must consequently have died before that date. The result of _this_ arrangement will be, that the father of our poet had only _nine_ children, and that WILLIAM was not the eldest, but the _second_ son. On either plan, however, the account of Mr. Rowe is equally inaccurate; and as the introduction of an elder son involves a variety of suppositions, and at the same time nothing improbable is attached to the consideration of this part of the Register in the light in which it usually appears, that is, as allusive solely to the father, it will, we think, be the better and the safer mode, to rely upon it, according to its more direct and literal import. This determination will be greatly strengthened by reflecting, that old Mr. Shakspeare was, on the authority of the last instrument granting him a coat of arms, living in 1599; that on the testimony of the Register, taken in the common acceptation, he was not buried until September 1601; and that in no part of the same document is the epithet _younger_ annexed to the name of John Shakspeare, a mark of distinction which there is every reason to suppose would have been introduced, had the father and a son of the same Christian name been not only living at the same time in the same town, but the latter likewise a parent. That the circumstances of Mr. John Shakspeare were, at the period of his marriage, and for several years afterwards, if not affluent, yet easy and respectable, there is every reason to suppose, from his having filled offices of the first trust and importance in his native town; but, from the same authority which has induced us to draw this inference, another of a very different kind, with regard to a subsequent portion of his life, may with equal confidence be taken. In the books of the corporation of Stratford it is stated, that— "At the hall holden Nov. 19th, in the 21st year of the reign of our sovereign lady Queen Elizabeth, it is ordained, that every Alderman shall be taxed to pay weekly 4_d._, saving _John Shakspeare_ and Robert Bruce, who shall not be taxed to pay any thing; and every burgess to pay 2_d._" Again, "At the hall holden on the 6th day of September, in the 28th year of our sovereign lady Queen Elizabeth: "At this hall William Smith and Richard Courte are chosen to be Aldermen in the places of John Wheler and John Shakspeare, for that Mr. Wheler doth desire to be put out of the company, and Mr. Shakspeare doth not come to the halls, when they be warned, nor hath not done of long time."[6:A] The conclusion to be drawn from these memoranda must unavoidably be, that, in 1579, ten years after he had served the office of High Bailiff, his situation, in a pecuniary light, was so much reduced, that, on this account, he was excused the weekly payment of 4_d._; and that, in 1586, the same distress still subsisting, and perhaps in an aggravated degree, he was, on the plea of non-attendance, dismissed the corporation. The causes of this unhappy change in his circumstances cannot now, with the exception of the burthen of a large and increasing family, be ascertained; but it is probable, that to this period is to be referred, if there be any truth in the tradition, the report of Aubrey, that "William Shakspeare's father was a butcher." This anecdote, he affirms, was received from the neighbours of the bard, and, on this account, merits some consideration.[7:A] We are indebted to Mr. Howe for the first intimation concerning the trade of John Shakspeare; his declaration, derived also from tradition, that he was a "considerable dealer in wool," appears confirmed by subsequent research. From a window in a room of the premises which originally formed part of the house at Stratford, in which Shakspeare the poet was born, and a part of which premises has for many years been occupied as a public-house, with the sign of the Swan and Maidenhead, a pane of glass was taken, about five and forty years ago, by Mr. Peyton, the then master of the adjoining Inn called The White Lion. This pane, now in the possession of his son, is nearly six inches in diameter, and perfect, and on it are painted the arms of the merchants of the wool-staple—_Nebule on a chief gules, a lion passant or_. It appears, from the style in which it is finished, to have been executed about the time of Shakspeare, the father, and is undoubtedly a strong corroborative proof of the authenticity of Mr. Rowe's relation.[7:B] These traditionary anecdotes, though apparently contradictory, may easily admit of reconcilement, if we consider, that between the employment of a wool-dealer, and a butcher, there is no small affinity; "few occupations," observes Mr. Malone, "can be named which are more naturally connected with each other."[8:A] It is highly probable, therefore, that during the period of John Shakspeare's distress, which we know to have existed in 1579, when our poet was but fifteen years of age, he might have had recourse to this more humble trade, as in many circumstances connected with his customary business, and as a great additional means of supporting a very numerous family. That the necessity for this union, however, did not exist towards the latter part of his life, there is much reason to imagine, both from the increasing reputation and affluence of his son William, and from the fact of his applying to the College of Heralds, in 1596 and 1599, for a grant of arms; events, of which the first, considering the character of the poet, must almost necessarily have led to, and the second directly pre-supposes, the possession of comparative competence and respectability. The only remaining circumstance which time has spared us, relative to the personal conduct of John Shakspeare, is, that there appears some foundation to believe that, a short time previous to his death, he made a confession of his faith, or spiritual will; a document still in existence, the discovery and history of which, together with the declaration itself, will not improperly find a place at the close of this commencing chapter of our work. About the year 1770, a master-bricklayer, of the name of Mosely, being employed by Mr. Thomas Hart, the fifth in descent, in a direct line, from the poet's sister, Joan Hart, to new-tile the house in which he then lived, and which is supposed to be that under whose roof the bard was born, found hidden between the rafters and the tiling of the house, a manuscript, consisting of six leaves, stitched together, in the form of a small book. This manuscript Mosely, who bore the character of an honest and industrious man, gave (without asking or receiving any recompense) to Mr. Peyton, an alderman of Stratford; and this gentleman very kindly sent it to Mr. Malone, through the medium of the Rev. Mr. Davenport, vicar of Stratford. It had, however, previous to this transmission, unfortunately been deprived of the first leaf, a deficiency which was afterwards supplied by the discovery, that Mosely, who had now been dead about two years, had copied a great portion of it, and from his transcription the introductory parts were supplied.[9:A] The daughter of Mosely and Mr. Hart, who were both living in the year 1790, agreed in a perfect recollection of the circumstances attending the discovery of this curious document, which consists of the following fourteen articles. 1. "In the name of God, the Father, Sonne and Holy Ghost, the most holy and blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, the holy host of archangels, angels, patriarchs, prophets, evangelists, apostles, saints, martyrs, and all the celestial court and company of heaven: I John Shakspear, an unworthy member of the holy Catholic religion, being at this my present writing in perfect health of body, and sound mind, memory, and understanding, but calling to mind the uncertainty of life and certainty of death, and that I may be possibly cut off in the blossome of my sins, and called to render an account of all my transgressions externally and internally, and that I may be unprepared for the dreadful trial either by sacrament, pennance, fasting, or prayer, or any other purgation whatever, do in the holy presence above specified, of my own free and voluntary accord, make and ordaine this my last spiritual will, testament, confession, protestation, and confession of faith, hopinge hereby to receive pardon for all my sinnes and offences, and thereby to be made partaker of life everlasting, through the only merits of Jesus Christ my saviour and redeemer, who took upon himself the likeness of man, suffered death, and was crucified upon the crosse, for the redemption of sinners. 2. "_Item_, I John Shakspear doe by this present protest, acknowledge, and confess, that in my past life I have been a most abominable and grievous sinner, and therefore unworthy to be forgiven without a true and sincere repentance for the same. But trusting in the manifold mercies of my blessed Saviour and Redeemer, I am encouraged by relying on his sacred word, to hope for salvation, and be made partaker of his heavenly kingdom, as a member of the celestial company of angels, saints, and martyrs, there to reside for ever and ever in the court of my God. 3. "_Item_, I John Shakspear doe by this present protest and declare, that as I am certain I must passe out of this transitory life into another that will last to eternity, I do hereby most humbly implore and intreat my good and guardian angell to instruct me in this my solemn preparation, protestation, and confession of faith, at least spiritually, in will adoring and most humbly beseeching my Saviour, that he will be pleased to assist me in so dangerous a voyage, to defend me from the snares and deceites of my infernal enemies, and to conduct me to the secure haven of his eternal blisse. 4. "_Item_, I John Shakspear doe protest that I will also passe out of this life, armed with the last sacrament of extreme unction: the which if through any let or hindrance I should not then be able to have, I doe now also for that time demand and crave the same; beseeching his Divine Majesty that he will be pleased to anoynt my senses both internall and externall with the sacred oyle of his infinite mercy, and to pardon me all my sins committed by seeing, speaking, feeling, smelling, hearing, touching, or by any other way whatsoever. 5. "_Item_, I John Shakspear doe by this present protest, that I will never through any temptation whatsoever despaire of the divine goodness, for the multitude and greatness of my sinnes; for which, although I confesse that I have deserved hell, yet will I steadfastly hope in God's infinite mercy, knowing that he hath heretofore pardoned many as great sinners as myself, whereof I have good warrant sealed with his sacred mouth, in holy writ, whereby he pronounceth that he is not come to call the just, but sinners. 6. "_Item_, I John Shakspear do protest, that I do not know that I have ever done any good worke meritorious of life everlasting: and if I have done any, I do acknowledge that I have done it with a great deale of negligence and imperfection; neither should I have been able to have done the least without the assistance of his divine grace. Wherefore let the devill remain confounded: for I doe in no wise presume to merit heaven by such good workes alone, but through the merits and bloud of my Lord and Saviour Jesus, shed upon the cross for me most miserable sinner. 7. "_Item_, I John Shakspear do protest by this present writing, that I will patiently endure and suffer all kind of infirmity, sickness, yea, and the paine of death itself: wherein if it should happen, which God forbid, that through violence of paine and agony, or by subtilty of the devill, I should fall into any impatience or temptation of blasphemy, or murmuration against God, or the Catholic faith, or give any signe of bad example, I do henceforth, and for that present, repent me, and am most heartily sorry for the same: and I do renounce all the evill whatsoever, which I might have then done or said; beseeching his divine clemency that he will not forsake me in that grievous and paignefull agony. 8. "_Item_, I John Shakspear, by virtue of this present testament, I do pardon all the injuries and offences that any one hath ever done unto me, either in my reputation, life, goods, or any other way whatsoever; beseeching sweet Jesus to pardon them for the same; and I do desire that they will doe the like by me whome I have offended or injured in any sort howsoever. 9. "_Item_, I John Shakspear do here protest, that I do render infinite thanks to his Divine Majesty for all the benefits that I have received, as well secret as manifest, and in particular for the benefit of my creation, redemption, sanctification, conservation, and vocation to the holy knowledge of him and his true Catholic faith: but above all for his so great expectation of me to pennance, when he might most justly have taken me out of this life, when I least thought of it, yea, even then, when I was plunged in the durty puddle of my sinnes. Blessed be therefore and praised, for ever and ever, his infinite patience and charity. 10. "_Item_, I John Shakspear do protest, that I am willing, yea, I do infinitely desire and humbly crave, that of this my last will and testament the glorious and ever Virgin Mary, mother of God, refuge and advocate of sinners, (whom I honour specially above all saints,) may be the chiefe executresse, togeather with these other saints, my patrons, (Saint Winefride,) all whome I invoke and beseech to be present at the hour of my death, that she and they comfort me with their desired presence, and crave of sweet Jesus that he will receive my soul into peace. 11. "_Item_, In virtue of this present writing, I John Shakspear do likewise most willingly and with all humility constitute and ordaine my good angell for defender and protector of my soul in the dreadfull day of judgment, when the finall sentence of eternall life or death shall be discussed and given: beseeching him that, as my soule was appointed to his custody and protection when I lived, even so he will vouchsafe to defend the same at that houre, and conduct it to eternall bliss. 12. "_Item_, I John Shakspear do in like manner pray and beseech all my dear friends, parents, and kinsfolks, by the bowells of our Saviour Jesus Christ, that since it is uncertain what lot will befall me, for fear notwithstanding least by reason of my sinnes I be to pass and stay a long while in purgatory, they will vouchsafe to assist and succour me with their holy prayers and satisfactory workes, especially with the holy sacrifice of the masse, as being the most effectual means to deliver soules from their torments and paines; from the which, if I shall by God's gracious goodnesse, and by their vertuous workes, be delivered, I do promise that I will not be ungratefull unto them for so great a benefitt. 13. "_Item_, I John Shakspear doe by this my last will and testament bequeath my soul, as soon as it shall be delivered and loosened from the prison of this my body, to be entombed in the sweet and amorous coffin of the side of Jesus Christ; and that in this life-giving sepulcher it may rest and live, perpetually enclosed in that eternall habitation of repose, there to blesse for ever and ever that direful iron of the launce, which, like a charge in a censore, formes so sweet and pleasant a monument within the sacred breast of my Lord and Saviour. 14. "_Item_, Lastly I John Shakspear doe protest, that I will willingly accept of death in what manner soever it may befall me, conforming my will unto the will of God; accepting of the same in satisfaction for my sinnes, and giving thanks unto his Divine Majesty for the life he hath bestowed upon me. And if it please him to prolong or shorten the same, blessed be he also a thousand thousand times; into whose most holy hands I commend my soul and body, my life and death: and I beseech him above all things, that he never permit any change to be made by me John Shakspear of this my aforesaid will and testament. Amen. "I John Shakspeare have made this present writing of protestation, confession, and charter, in presence of the blessed Virgin Mary, my angell guardian, and all the celestial court, as witnesses hereunto: the which my meaning is, that it be of full value now presently and for ever, with the force and vertue of testament, codicill, and donation in course of death; confirming it anew, being in perfect health of soul and body, and signed with mine own hand; carrying also the same about me, and for the better declaration hereof, my will and intention is that it be finally buried with me after my death. "Pater noster, Ave maria, Credo. "Jesu, son of David, have mercy on me.—Amen."[14:A] If the intention of the testator, as expressed in the close of this will, were carried into effect, then, of course, the manuscript which Mosely found, must necessarily have been a copy of that which was buried in the grave of John Shakspeare. Mr. Malone, to whom, in his edition of Shakspeare, printed in 1790, we are indebted for this singular paper, and for the history attached to it, observes, that he is unable to ascertain, whether it was drawn up by John Shakspeare the father, or by John his _supposed_ eldest son; but he says, "I have taken some pains to ascertain the authenticity of this manuscript, and, after a very careful inquiry, am perfectly satisfied that it is genuine."[15:A] In the "Inquiry," however, which he published in 1796, relative to the Ireland papers, he has given us, though without assigning any reasons for his change of opinion, a very different result: "In my conjecture," he remarks, "concerning the writer of that paper, I certainly was mistaken; for I have since obtained documents that clearly prove it could not have been the composition of any one of our poet's family."[15:B] In the "Apology" of Mr. George Chalmers "for the Believers in the Shakspeare-Papers," which appeared in the year subsequent to Mr. Malone's "Inquiry," a new light is thrown upon the origin of this confession. "From the sentiment, and the language, this confession appears to be," says this gentleman, "the effusion of a Roman Catholic mind, and was probably drawn up by some Roman Catholic priest.[15:C] If these premises be granted, it will follow, as a fair deduction, that the family of Shakspeare were Roman Catholics; a circumstance this, which is wholly consistent with what Mr. Malone is now studious to inculcate, viz. "that this confession could not have been the composition of any of our poet's family." The thoughts, the language, the orthography, all demonstrate the truth of my conjecture, though Mr. Malone did not perceive this truth, when he first published this paper in 1790. But, it was the performance of a _clerke_, the undoubted work of the family-priest. The conjecture, that Shakspeare's family were Roman Catholics, is strengthened by the fact, that his father declined to attend the corporation meetings, and was at last removed from the corporate body."[16:A] This conjecture of Mr. Chalmers appears to us in its leading points very plausible; for that the father of our poet might be a Roman Catholic is, if we consider the very unsettled state of his times with regard to religion, not only a possible but a probable supposition: in which case, it would undoubtedly have been the office of the spiritual director of the family to have drawn up such a paper as that which we have been perusing. It was the fashion also of the period, as Mr. Chalmers has subsequently observed, to draw up confessions of religious faith, a fashion honoured in the observance by the great names of Lord Bacon, Lord Burghley, and Archbishop Parker[16:B]. That he declined, however, attending the corporation-meetings of Stratford from religious motives, and that his removal from that body was the result of non-attendance from _such a cause_, cannot readily be admitted; for we have clearly seen that his defection was owing to pecuniary difficulties; nor is it, in the least degree, probable that, after having honourably filled the highest offices in the corporation without scruple, he should at length, and in a reign too popularly protestant, incur expulsion from an avowed motive of this kind; especially as we have reason to suppose, from the mode in which this profession was concealed, that the tenets of the person whose faith it declares, were cherished in secret. From an accurate inspection of the hand-writing of this will, Mr. Malone infers that it cannot be attributed to an earlier period than the year 1600[16:C], whence it follows that, if dictated by, or drawn up at the desire of, John Shakspeare, his death soon sealed the confession of his faith; for, according to the register, he was buried on September 8th, 1601. Such are the very few circumstances which reiterated research has hitherto gleaned relative to the father of our poet; circumstances which, as being intimately connected with the history and character of his son, have acquired an interest of no common nature. Scanty as they must be pronounced, they lead to the conclusion that he was a moral and industrious man; that when fortune favoured him, he was not indolent, but performed the duties of a magistrate with respectability and effect, and that in the hour of adversity he exerted every nerve to support with decency a numerous family. Before we close this chapter, it may be necessary to state, that the very orthography of the name of Shakspeare has occasioned much dispute. Of Shakspeare the father, no autograph exists; but the _poet_ has left us several, and from these, and from the monumental inscriptions of his family, must the question be decided; the latter, as being of the least authority, we shall briefly mention, as exhibiting, in Dugdale, three varieties,—_Shakespeare_; _Shakespere_, and _Shakspeare_. The former present us with _five_ specimens which, singular as it may appear, all vary, either in the mode of writing, or mode of spelling. The first is annexed to a mortgage executed by the poet in 1613, and appears thus, _W{m} Shakspe{a}_: the second is from a deed of bargain and sale, relative to the same transaction, and of the same period, and signed, _William Shaksper̄_: the third, fourth, and fifth are taken from the _Will_ of Shakspeare executed in March 1616, consisting of three _briefs_ or sheets, to each of which his name is subscribed. These signatures, it is remarkable, differ considerably, especially in the surnames; for in the first brief we find _William Shackspere_; in the second, _Willm Shakspe re_, and in the third, _William Shakspeare_. It has been supposed, however, that, according to the practice in Shakspeare's time, the name in the first sheet was written by the scrivener who drew the will. In the year 1790, Mr. Malone, from an inspection of the mortgage, pronounced the genuine orthography to be _Shakspeare_[17:A]; in 1796, from consulting the deed of sale, he altered his opinion, and declared that the poet's own mode of spelling his name was, beyond a possibility of doubt, that of _Shakspere_, though for reasons which he should assign in a subsequent publication, he should still continue to write the name _Shakspeare_.[18:A] To this decision, relative to the genuine orthography, Mr. Chalmers cannot accede; and for this reason, that, "when the testator subscribed his name, for the _last time_, he _plainly_ wrote Shakspe_a_re."[18:B] It is obvious, therefore, that the controversy turns upon, whether there be, or be not, an _a_ introduced in the second syllable of the last signature of the poet. Mr. Malone, on the suggestion of an anonymous correspondent, thinks that there is not, this gentleman having clearly shown him, "that though there was a superfluous stroke when the poet came to write the letter _r_ in his last signature, probably from the tremor of his hand, there was no _a_ discoverable in that syllable; and that this name, like both the other, was written _Shakspere_."[18:C] From the annexed plate of autographs, which is copied from Mr. Chalmers's Apology, and presents us with very perfect fac-similes of the signatures, it is at once evident, that the assertion of the anonymous correspondent, that the last signature, "_like both the other_, was written Shakspere," cannot be correct; for the surname in the first brief is written Sha_c_kspere, and, in the second, Shakspe re. Now the _hiatus_ in this second signature is unaccounted for in the fac-simile given by Mr. Malone[18:D]; but in the plate of Mr. Chalmers it is found to have been occasioned by the intrusion of the word _the_ of the _preceding line_, a circumstance which, very probably, might prevent the introduction of the controverted letter. It is likewise, we think, very evident that something more than _a superfluous stroke_ exists between the _e_ and _r_ of the last signature, and that the variation is, indeed, too material to have originated from any supposed tremor of the hand. Upon the whole, it may, we imagine, be safely reposed on as a fact, that Shakspeare was not uniform in the orthography of his own name; that he sometimes spelt it _Shakspere_ and sometimes _Shakspeare_; but that no other variation is extant which can claim a similar authority.[19:A] It is, therefore, nearly a matter of indifference which of _these two_ modes of spelling we adopt; yet, as his last signature appears to have included the letter _a_, it may, for the sake of consistency, be proper silently to acquiesce in its admission. FOOTNOTES: [2:A] Communicated to Mr. Malone by the Rev. Mr.
his little dog more than all his other pets. He is the dearest little fellow, and wishes to follow his young master wherever he goes. He looks somewhat like a spaniel, except that he is white. His nose is turned up at the end, so that he looks all the time as if he would say, "Humph! I am very wise. You poor people don't know much." And he looks all this in such a way as to make you wish to laugh. Toyo's mamma has made a big scarlet ruff for the dog's neck, and it makes him feel very fine, I dare say. His master has fastened a wooden label on his collar to tell where he belongs. I know you will be disappointed when you learn that Lotus Blossom's dear little kitten cannot play with her tail. No fun for her, poor kitty, you are thinking. But why is it? Because she _has_ no tail, or at least only the stub of one. So of course she is quite calm and solemn--that is, for a kitten. But then she lives in Japan, and so she ought to be more dignified than kittens of other lands. Don't you think so? We must leave all these pets now and go to church, or rather to the temple, with Toyo, Lotus Blossom, and their parents. There is no set day for worship, for there is no such thing as Sunday in Japan. The temples are always open, and the children are fond of going to them to offer prayers, and also to have a good time. As they near the temple they see stands of sweetmeats and good things of all kinds. The way is lined on both sides with these stands. Great numbers of people, rich and poor, high and low, are coming and going. Pigeons are flying in and out of the sacred building, and no one harms them. Toyo stops and buys a yen's worth of corn and scatters it for the birds to eat. They flock around him without fear. They are so tame that the children could catch them with no difficulty. But Lotus Blossom and Toyo pass on to the entrance, and, bowing low, take off their clogs. The inside of the building is almost bare. There are no statues of gods or goddesses, no ornaments,--nothing except an altar with some queer sticks standing upon it. Festoons of white paper hang from these wands, or "gohei," as the Japanese call them. A priest stands behind the altar, and a large cloth is spread out on the floor in front of it. Lotus Blossom and Toyo clap their hands. This is to call the attention of the gods. Then they say a little prayer and throw some money upon the cloth. If they are very good and devout children, perhaps the gods will descend into the temple. The queer papers on the wands are to be the clothing of these great beings. No images are needed, you see, only plenty of paper. Rather hard to understand this, and yet all that is necessary for Toyo and Lotus Blossom is to worship their ancestors properly, and believe that the great spirits are working everywhere in nature. This is the reason they are taught to obey their parents at all times, and never to harm anything living. The children are also taught to believe that the Mikado, the Emperor of Japan, is descended from god-kings who once ruled over the country. This is why such great honour is paid him wherever he goes. Until a few years ago the people thought him so sacred that they ought not to look at him, so he was obliged to stay inside his beautiful palace like a prisoner. But times have changed, and his subjects have a little more common sense nowadays. After our little cousins have said their prayers and given their money, they go to a dance-hall in another part of the temple. You know by this time that the Japanese like to enjoy themselves. But isn't it a strange idea to have dancing, praying, and feasting in the same place? The dancers are dressed like butterflies. They have beautiful red and gold wings. They are very graceful, but the music is unpleasant to us. Toyo thinks it is fine, and wishes he could play as well. Now for a good dinner in the restaurant in the next hall, for the boy's father has promised to treat his family to all the dainties of the season,--candied lotus-leaves, and everything they like best. It is a happy day, and the children wish they could go to the temple oftener. One morning not long after this, poor little Lotus Blossom woke up with a bad pain in her stomach. Her face and hands were hot. She was not able to get up and go to school. Mamma felt very sad, and at once sent to ask the priest for something to make her little daughter well. You say at once, "Is the priest in Japan a doctor? And will he prepare medicine marked in some such way as this: 'One teaspoonful to be taken each hour?'" No, indeed. Lotus Blossom's mamma received from her queer physician two "moxas," with orders that one of them should be placed on the back of the sick child, and the other on her foot. The direction of the priest was followed, although it made Lotus Blossom very unhappy. I think you would not like it, if you were in her place, for a moxa makes a burn far worse than a mustard plaster does. You know the punk that you use on the Fourth of July to light your firecrackers and fireworks? The moxas are made of a certain kind of pith, and burn slowly just as the punk does. The Japanese believe in the use of moxas for many things,--bad children, sickness, and I can't tell you what else. The impolite boy I told you about, at the beginning of the story, was burned with a moxa, in such a way that he never forgot himself again. As for fevers, why, the moxa is certain to drive away the bad spirits that cause them. No doubt you wonder at it, as I do myself, but Lotus Blossom got well enough in two or three days to sit up and be dressed. But she did not care for her dolls or games; she felt tired all the time. Her loving and most honoured father said a change of air would do her good. It would be well for her to spend some days at the house of an aunt who lived several miles out in the country. Toyo was allowed to go, too. How were they to get there? In steam or electric cars? What can you be thinking of to ask such questions? Two jinrikishas were brought to the door; one was for Lotus Blossom and one for her brother. Strong men were hired to draw them. I wonder if you ever saw anything like a jin-riki-sha, or man-power-carriage, for that is what the word means. They are very comfortable, much like baby-carriages, and are lined with soft cushions. The men look strong and kind. They are nearly naked, so that they can run easily and rapidly. It will take only an hour to carry the children to their aunt's, if they do not stop on the way. But there are so many things to see to-day that Lotus Blossom forgets all about her sickness and burns, and wants her runners to stop every few minutes to rest. The children spend at least five minutes bidding their mother a proper good-bye. Then, at the word, off they go, down "Dog" Street into "Turtle" Street. There are no sidewalks, but they are not needed, for horses and wagons are rarely seen. [Illustration: THE CANDY MAN.] But look! Here is a man standing in the middle of the street, dancing and singing a funny song. The sober Japanese who are passing stop and laugh. The man has a little stand by his side, and on this stand are a dish of wheat-gluten and a bamboo reed. As Lotus Blossom and Toyo draw near, the man ends his song and calls out, "Now who wants me to blow him a candy dog? Or shall it be a monkey eating a nut? You, my most honoured little lady, want one surely." This he said to Lotus Blossom, who was sitting up straight in the jinrikisha, full of interest. She thought a moment or two, and then asked for a stork with wings spread out to fly. She had hardly stopped speaking before the man seized a bamboo reed, dipped it in the sticky paste, and blowing now this way, now that, fashioned the graceful bird. Pinching it here and there to make it more perfect, he put on some touches of colour from a box of paints. It was wonderfully done. Lotus Blossom gave him five yen for the candy toy, the runners took hold of the jinrikisha, and away the children went on their journey. They came soon to another crowd of boys and girls gathered about a batter-cake man. He had a little stand on which a pan of charcoal was burning. A large griddle rested over the coal, and a tiny little urchin was standing on his tiptoes and baking cakes. The man cut them out for him in pretty shapes. See the pleasure on the youngster's face! All this fun for ten yen, or one cent. The other children watch him in envy. As Toyo and Lotus Blossom draw near, the jinrikisha men make a place for them in the crowd, and Toyo jumps out to get a lunch. He has the next turn, and so he asks the pleasant-faced man to cut his batter-cakes in the shape of turtles. Lotus Blossom does not wish any, but lies back in her easy carriage under her pretty sunshade, and watches Toyo cook and eat them. Umbrellas and sunshades are of the same material in Japan. They are made of several layers of tough, strong paper, and will last a long time. When they are worn out, they are thrown away just as the paper handkerchiefs are, and new ones are bought for a very small sum of money. In stormy weather Lotus Blossom and Toyo not only carry umbrellas, but wear long capes of oiled paper to keep off the rain, while very poor people have coats made of grasses. Funny looking things these are! If you should see a man with one of them over his shoulders, and a queer mushroom-shaped hat on his head, you would feel like laughing, I know,--that is, if you had not already acquired some of the politeness of the Japanese themselves. But let us return to Turtle Street and find out what is now attracting the attentions of our little cousins. Would you believe it? They can't be in very much of a hurry to get to aunty's, for they have stopped again. You would also stop if you saw what they do. A travelling street show is entertaining numbers of men, women, and children. Babies are on the backs of some of them, laughing and crowing, too. See that clever fellow in the middle. He is making butterflies of coloured paper and blowing them up into the air. He keeps them flying about, now in one direction, now in another, by waving his fan. It seems as though they must be alive, he does this so cleverly. That yellow butterfly is made to alight on a baby's hand. Hear the little fellow crow with delight. Another flies over Lotus Blossom's jinrikisha, and then, by the dexterous waving of the showman's fan, goes off in another direction before she can catch it. [Illustration: AUNT OCHO'S GARDEN.] After the butterfly show another man performs some wonderful tricks with a ladder. He places the ladder upright on the ground without any support; he climbs it, rung by rung, keeping its balance all the time. Finally he reaches the very top and stands on one foot, bowing and gracefully waving a fan. There is not time to tell you all the wonderful feats of the Japanese. Toyo and Lotus Blossom are delighted, although they have seen performances like these many times before. But they must really hasten on their journey, for aunty will be expecting them, and it will soon be sunset. In a few moments they leave the city behind and are out in the beautiful country. They pass tea plantations. The glossy green leaves are almost ready to pick. See the man in that field, running wildly about, making hideous noises. Is he crazy? Our little cousins do not seem disturbed as they pass by, for he is only a hired scarecrow. You remember that the people in Japan think it wrong to kill any living thing. But there are great numbers of birds in the country which are likely to eat the crops and do much damage. So men are hired to act as scarecrows and make noises to frighten the birds away. At last Uncle Oto's rice plantation is reached. The children draw up in front of a large, low house with wide verandas. It is more beautiful than their own home. The roof is magnificent with carvings, and must have cost a great deal of money. It is the pride of Aunt Ocho. The gardens contain the choicest plants and trees, besides a pond and an artificial waterfall. Lotus Blossom and Toyo are sure of a good time and much fun. They will have a great deal to tell their mamma when they return to their home. * * * * * Time passes by. The children have been back in their own home a long time. They are now looking forward to New Year's day. Everything is excitement about the house. Mamma has hired an extra servant to help clean the house from right to left; not from top to bottom, as we say, for there are no stairways or rooms overhead. Everything is on one floor, remember. The screens are carefully wiped, the mats receive an extra shaking, and then mamma brings out her choicest vase from the storehouse and places it on a beautiful, ebony stand in the place of honour. The Japanese are not at all like us. They are so simple in their tastes, and love beautiful things so much, that they have only one or two pieces, at the most, on view at a time. They think they can enjoy them more fully in this way. The most honoured father orders some workmen to come and set up some tall pine branches in front of the gateway. One is of black, the other of red pine, and tall bamboo reeds are placed beside them. A grass rope is stretched from one reed to the other, and some funny strips of white paper are hung on it. You saw many of these papers at the temple where the children worship. This work is very important to the childlike people. They think that the rope, with papers fastened to it, will keep away all the evil spirits that are ever ready to spoil the happiness of human beings. They are demons, who take the shape of foxes, badgers, and wolves, and are frightful enough to the imagination of Lotus Blossom and her brother. Of course, the children are glad that the evil spirits are to be surely kept away. Other things are hung on the rope for good luck. There is a piece of charcoal and some seaweed, and a "lucky bag" filled with chestnuts, a bit of herring and some dried fruit. All these things will make the gods understand they are not forgotten. The day before New Year's some men come to the house with an oven and proceed to make the grand New Year's cake. It must not be eaten, however, until the 11th of January. The children stand around and watch the men pound the sticky rice-paste with a heavy mallet. At last it is smooth enough, and then it is cut into rounds and built up into a pyramid. I hear you say, "Well, I'd rather have my mother's plum-cake, any time." But not so with Lotus Blossom and Toyo. They watch their mother anxiously as she places it with great care on a lacquered stand, to remain until the time comes to eat it. Now they are allowed to put on their clogs and go to buy the "harvest ship," which they will hang up in the house instead of the holly and evergreens you like to see at Christmas time. The Japanese believe that on New Year's eve a wonderful ship comes sailing into port. Of course, it is sent by the gods. No one has ever really seen it. That does not matter; there are pictures of it, nevertheless, and no New Year's decorations are complete without a miniature harvest ship. The shops are as full of them as our markets are of evergreen trees at Christmas time. They are made of grasses and trimmed with gaily coloured papers. The selection of this ship is a very exciting event, not only for Lotus Blossom and Toyo, but also for their mother. How anxiously they look at one after another as the shopkeeper shows them. Finally one is chosen that suits the children's mother as to price and beauty. But the shopping is by no means ended, for presents must be bought for friends and playmates. And now, children of America, please don't get envious of all the pretty things which your cousins can buy for a few pennies. Lotus Blossom and Toyo have been saving money for a long time. Each has a number of square copper coins strung on a string. They are not like our pennies, for they are larger and thinner, and each one has a square hole in the centre. Ten of these are equal in value to one of our cents, and there are many pretty things that Japanese children can buy for a yen, as this piece of money is called. Such pretty picture-books made of the lovely Japanese paper! Dolls that are dressed in the same fashion as the two children, only the dresses are of paper; pictures of the Japanese gods and goddesses; games and tops and candies. At length the shopping is over and the last yen has been spent. The family are glad to go home and take a hot bath and nap, for they are very tired. On New Year's morning Lotus Blossom and her brother receive their own presents, and although they do not shout and jump up and down as you do when you are very happy, they are much pleased. Toyo has a drum, some lovely books and a new game of battledore and shuttlecock, which is the game of all games to be played at New Year's. The shuttlecock is a large gilded seed with feathers stuck all around it; the battledore is a bat, flat on one side to strike with, while the other side has a raised figure of a beautiful dancing-girl. Lotus Blossom has, among other things, a doll which her mother has dressed in flowered silk, and a set of lacquered drawers in which to keep her ornaments. But the greatest surprise to the children is a white rabbit. These little creatures are the dearest of all pets in Japan, because they are so rare. It cost the loving father several dollars, but he is more than repaid by his children's delight. Lotus Blossom's mamma has spent many weeks in embroidering gowns for each member of the family. They are of silk, and are worn for the first time on New Year's day. This good mamma has had her hair arranged for the grand occasion with the greatest of care. You would hardly believe it, but the hair-dresser spent hours upon it, rolling it up in wonderful shapes, sticking it in place with a kind of paste, and fastening many ornaments in it. It was done two days ago, and you may be sure that the Japanese lady placed her head very carefully on the pillow every night so that nothing should disarrange it. She has had her teeth blackened afresh for the greatest holiday of the year, while both she and her little daughter paint their necks and faces white and their cheeks red before their toilets are finished. I believe I have not yet told you that the pretty Japanese women spoil their good looks as soon as they are married by colouring their teeth black! Isn't it a shame? I'm glad we don't have this custom in our country, aren't you? And now the New Year's calls begin. What a bowing and bending! Men, women, and children are all calling and lavishing many-worded compliments on each other. Refreshments are passed, and then there is a "show" to amuse everybody. Some men have been hired to come to the house. They dance and sing many songs. After this comes the funny part of the entertainment. One man puts on a mask and makes believe he is an animal. He rolls around on the floor at the ladies' feet, makes queer noises, and everybody laughs and is delighted. The big folks like it as much as the children. Perhaps the funny man will now put on two masks and represent different things at the same time,--on one side he will look like a dancing-girl, while on the other he will appear as some strange beast. He will change about rapidly, and keep the company watching him with excited interest. Night comes to very tired and happy people, but it does not end the fun by any means. Lotus Blossom's papa will not do any business for a week at least, and there will be new pleasures each day that he is at home with his wife and children. After the festival is over, the family settle down to their daily work until the coming of another holiday. The children go to school again, but that does not trouble them. They love their teacher and try to please him. The school is closed at noon. Lotus Blossom and Toyo start out every morning with little satchels over their backs. In these they carry their books, a cake of India ink, and a paint-brush. When they arrive at their schoolroom, they are met by a quiet, kindly man with big glasses over his eyes. The children instantly bow down to the ground before him, for he is their teacher. Of course the low bow is to show great respect. Japanese children are taught to treat their instructors, as well as their parents, with honour and regard. And now they enter the schoolroom. But what a schoolroom! No desks, no platform, no seats! The teacher sits down upon a mat with a small lacquered stand beside him. The children squat on the floor around him and begin to study. What queer letters in the books! You would not be able to read one word. Lotus Blossom and Toyo have already learned their alphabets. You smile, perhaps, and think, "H'm! that isn't much." Well, just wait till I tell you there are forty-seven different characters in one alphabet, while in another there are several times as many. The easy alphabet is the only one that girls must know, while boys learn both. But Lotus Blossom is a very bright child, so she studies the more difficult characters as well. Japanese books are printed very differently from ours. The lines run up and down the page, and keep the eyes of the reader busily moving. The children don't have many examples to perform, for the Japanese do not consider arithmetic so important as Americans do. Do you sigh now, and wish you could get your education in that far-away land where long division is not a daily trial? But wait till I tell you about the writing, or rather painting, lessons. You will certainly be envious. When the schoolmaster gives the signal, the children take the brushes and the cakes of India ink from their satchels. They mix a little of the ink with water, and then are ready to paint their words on the beautiful paper made in their country. Many people think that the Japanese are such fine artists because their hands are trained to use the brush from the time they are babies. It would make you laugh if I should tell you how the teacher directs the children to write letters to their friends. They must begin by writing something very poetical about the weather. They must then compose some very flowery compliments to the friend who is addressed; a sheet or two, at least, must be used in this way before they are allowed to tell the news, etc. But throughout the letter, as in fact in all conversations, Lotus Blossom and Toyo are taught to speak of themselves as very mean and humble creatures. Their kind school-teacher ends the morning lessons with proverbs. You know what these are, of course, but the ones which our Japanese cousins learn are especially about duty to their parents, and kindness to all living creatures. It would be a great sin for Toyo to tease the cat or kill a fly. His parents would be shocked beyond expression. [Illustration: A LESSON IN ARRANGING FLOWERS.] "How about punishment in the Japanese school?" I hear a little boy ask. My dear child, it is hardly ever needed, but when it does come, it is not being kept after school; it is not a whipping. The child is burned! The teacher takes a moxa, which I told you is a kind of pith, and sticks it on the naughty child's hand. He then sets the moxa on fire to burn slowly. It is a long, sad punishment for any one who is so bad as to deserve it. It does not need to be given every day. Lotus Blossom and Toyo, as well as their little schoolmates, are very attentive to their work, and try their hardest to please the teacher. When school is done, what will the children do throughout the long afternoon? Lotus Blossom must work a certain time in embroidery, and take a short lesson with her mamma in arranging flowers. Why, there are whole books on this subject in Japan. The people are very fond of flowers, and study how to arrange them in the most graceful manner. They would never think of bunching many together without their leaves in an ugly bouquet, nor would they dream of cruelly twisting wires around their poor little stems. In Japan it is thought an art to know how to place one spray in a vase in such a way as to show all its beauty. While his sister is doing her work, Toyo is practising on his koto. This is a musical instrument of which the Japanese are very fond. It looks much like a harp. Toyo strikes the strings with pieces of ivory fastened on his finger-tips. Listen! Do you call those sounds music? It is enough to set one's teeth on edge. Yet Toyo's music-teacher says that he is doing finely and shows great talent. If that is so, I fear we would not care to go to many concerts in Japan, for the Japanese idea of music is very different from ours. Hurrah! The children are now ready for play, and there are so many nice things to do. If it is winter and there is snow on the ground, Lotus Blossom and Toyo gather together with their little friends to make a snow man. Not an Irish gentleman with a pipe in his mouth, such as you like to build, but a figure of Daruma, who was a disciple of Buddha. It is easy to make this, for it is believed that Daruma lost his legs from sitting too long in one position. So the snow man has no legs. When it is made, the children knock it down with snow-balls, just as you do. Spring comes, and with it, tops, and kites, and stilts. The stilts are very high, and Toyo puts his toes through parts of the wooden lifts. He and the other boys run races and even play games on stilts, and think it great fun. But the kites! Yours are just babies beside them. Some of them are so large that it takes two men to sail them. In fact, grown-up people, in Japan, seem as fond of kite-flying as the children. Many of these toys have neither tails nor bobs. You wonder how they manage to get up in the air at all, till you see that the strings are pulled in such a way as to raise them. They are of all shapes. The boys sometimes play a game with their kites. They dip the strings in glue and afterward in powdered glass; then they run with the kites and try to cross each other's strings and cut them. The boy who succeeds wins the other's kite. Toyo lost his the other day, and what do you think he did? Pout, or exclaim, as you sometimes do, "I don't care, that isn't fair?" By no means! He made three beautiful bows and gave up his kite with a polite smile. Maybe he did not feel any happier about it than you would, for it was a fine new one, but he wouldn't show his grief, at any rate. Toyo sometimes wrestles with the other boys, but they are not rough and noisy about it. They wrestle gently, if you can imagine such a thing. They have often seen the trained wrestlers at the shows; such big, fat men. They must weigh at least three hundred pounds. The fat fairly hangs upon them. The Japanese people are generally slim and rather small, but if a man is going to train himself to be a wrestler, he eats everything that will help to make him fat. I should think they could not get hurt, for they look as though they were cushioned in fat. The boys of Japan have marbles and tops, just as you do; in fact, nearly all the games which you like best were played by your far-away cousins long before there was a white child on this great continent of ours. "Blind man's buff," "Hide the thimble," and "Puss in the corner," are great favourites with the Japanese. Instead of hiding the thimble, however, they use a slipper, and instead of puss in the corner, they play that it is the devil. You must not forgot that the Japanese believe there are many devils, or bad spirits, as well as good ones who are ready to help. They even think of them in their games. How many holidays have we in a whole year? Stop and count. Not a great number, we must admit. Lotus Blossom and Toyo have so many that they can count on their fingers the number of days between any two of them. Next best to New Year's, our little girl cousin likes the Feast of Dolls. It comes on the third day of the third month. At that time the stores are filled with dolls,--big dolls, little dolls, dolls dressed like princesses with flounced silk gowns, dolls made up as servants, as dancing-girls, and dolls the very image of the Mikado, the ruler of Japan,--nothing but dolls and dolls' furniture. When the great day arrives, Lotus Blossom's mamma makes a throne in the house. She brings out the two dolls that she herself received when she was born, besides those of her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother! They have been carefully packed away in soft papers in the family storehouse. What a sight they are, with all the new ones that have been bought for Lotus Blossom. The Mikado doll is first placed on his throne, surrounded by his court, and then the soldiers and dancers and working people are made to stand at either side. They are dressed in the proper clothing that belongs to their position. But this grand array is not all. There are all kinds of doll's furniture, too,--little tables only four inches high, with dolls' tea-sets, the tiniest, prettiest china dishes. There are the wadded silk quilts for the dolls to sleep on, and wooden pillows on which the doll-heads can rest. Yes, there are dolls' fans, and even dolls' games. On this great occasion there is a dinner-party for the whole family of dolls. Lotus Blossom and her little friends, as well as her father and mother, are quite busy serving their guests with rice, fish, soup, and all kinds of sweet dainties. Somehow or other, all these nice things are eaten. What wonderful dolls they have in Japan, don't they? Toyo enjoys the day as well as Lotus Blossom, but still he is looking forward to the fifth of May. That will be his favourite time of all the year. By that time the girls' dolls will be put away, and the stores will be filled with boys' playthings,--soldiers, tents, armour, etc. Toyo's father will place a tall bamboo pole in front of the house, and hang an immense paper fish on the top of it. The fish's mouth will be wide open, so that the air will fill his big body. At some of the other houses there will be a banner instead of a fish. There are figures of great warriors who fought in olden times on these banners. When Toyo was a baby his father bought him a banner stand. It has been kept very carefully, and is now put in the place where the doll's throne stood a little while ago. The banners of great generals are hung up, and figures of soldiers are placed on the stand. You see Toyo has dolls as well as his sister. Everything is done to remind boys of war at this Festival of Banners. They have processions in the streets. They play a game in which they form armies against each other. Every boy carries a flag, and those of one company try to seize the flags of the boys in the other. Of course the side wins which first succeeds in gaining the flags of the other. A festival which everybody loves is the Feast of Lanterns. It is in the summer time, and the children are dressed in their gayest clothes. They form processions and march through the streets singing with all their might. Every child carries a large paper lantern and keeps it swinging all the time. It is such a pretty sight in the evening light,--the bright dresses, the graceful figures, the gorgeous lanterns. Oh, Japan is the land of happy children, young and old. One pleasant summer afternoon, as Lotus Blossom and Toyo were playing on their veranda, they noticed some one stopping at the gateway and then coming up the walk to the house. It was the man-servant who worked at the home of a friend of theirs, whose father was very rich. Toyo whispered, "Oh, Lotus Blossom, I believe he's bringing us an invitation to Chrysanthemum's party. You know she is going to have one on her birthday." Sure enough, the man came up to the children, and, making a low bow, presented them with two daintily folded papers and then departed. They hastened to open them, and found, with delight, that they were really and truly asked to their friend's party. It was to be at three o'clock in the afternoon of the following Thursday. Lotus Blossom ran to her mother, just as her American cousins might do, and cried, "Oh, mamma, my precious, honourable mother, what shall I wear? See this; do look at my invitation." It was a rare thing indeed to see the child so excited. Her mother smiled, and answered, "My dear little pearl of a Lotus Blossom, I have almost finished embroidering your new silk garment. It shall be finished, and you shall have a new yellow crape kerchief to fold about your throat. A barber shall arrange your long hair about your head; and I will buy you white silk sandals to be tied with ribbons. Even though your friend is more wealthy than ourselves, you shall not disgrace your honoured father. Toyo, too, must have a new garment." All was made ready, and Thursday came at last. The children were sent to the party in jinrikishas, so that they should not get dusty. They looked very pretty. Their little hostess and her mamma received the guests with smiles and with many long phrases of politeness. Lacquered trays were brought in and placed in front of each one. On these were beautiful china cups with no handles. What do you think was served in them? Don't get up your hopes now and say "lemonade," or "sherbet," for you will surely be disappointed. It was tea,--simply tea, without milk or sugar. The children drank it in honour of their hostess and her mamma. But something better still was to come. The tea was removed, and fresh trays, covered with dainty pink papers, were brought in. A cake made of red beans lay on the middle of each tray, and around it were placed sugar maple leaves coloured red and green. They looked pretty enough to keep, but the little guests ate them, leaves and all. After these
too clever for that. But if you do really want a little light, I'd have you remember this--that Archibold Masterman was never frightened yet by threats, and when he fights he fights fair." III THE BIG STRONG BEAST The next morning Masterman wrote a letter to the overjoyed trustees of the Orchard Green Church, offering to make good without cost all defects of workmanship in the building which might be justly charged to him. He was careful to explain that while they had no legal claim on him, he regarded this work as a debt of honour. He had just finished the letter when Arthur came into the office. Arthur's manner was constrained and almost timid. Masterman, on the contrary, was in his most jovial mood. He had just performed an act which was not only good in itself, but wise and politic; for, of course, he knew that his action toward the Orchard Green trustees would become public, and would be quoted to his credit. "Well," he began, "getting a bit tired of doing nothing? Not that I grudge you your liberty, you know. I promised you a year to look around, before you settle to your life-work, and I shall stick to my bargain. But I confess it will be a glad day for me when I write 'Masterman & Son' over my doors." "I'm very far from doing nothing, sir," he answered. "Oxford is one world, and London quite another. I am learning every day a lot of things Oxford never taught me." "Of course you are. London's a big world, and the things it has to teach are the things that count. Not that Oxford isn't worth while too. It gives a man a start in life nothing else can give. That's why I sent you there, you know." "Yes, I know, father, and I am grateful to you." "Nothing to be grateful for, my boy. I owed it to you." His face softened with a musing look very unusual with him. "I got no kind of start myself, you know," he continued. "At fifteen I was working in a brickfield. When I went home at night, my father used to beat me. I don't think I ever hated any one as I hated my father. One day I struck back, and ran away from home. Queer thing--I was always sorry for that blow. I used to lie awake at nights for weeks after, wondering if I really hurt the old man. From that day to this I never saw him any more. But I'm still sorry for that blow. Sons shouldn't hit their parents, anyway. I ought to have let him go on beating me; he'd got the habit, and I could have stood it all right. Well, well, it's such a long time ago that I can hardly believe it ever happened." He stopped suddenly, with a lift of the shoulders, as if he shook off the burden of that squalid past. But the rude words had left the son inexpressibly touched. A swift picture passed before his mind of a gaunt boy toiling over heavy tasks, ill-paid, cruelly used, wandering out into the world lonely and unguided, and a strong passion of pity and of wonder shook his heart. Above all, those artless words, "Sons shouldn't hit their fathers, anyway," fell upon him with the weight of a reproach. Had he not already condemned his father in his thoughts? He had known very well to whom Clark alluded in his sermon, and yet he had approved. He had entered the office that morning with the fixed intent of endorsing Clark's tacit accusation of his father. And now he found himself suddenly disarmed. That old sense of something big about his father came back to him with redoubled force. To start like that, shovelling clay in a brickyard for twelve hours a day, and to become what he was--oh! it needed a big man to do that, an Esau who was scarcely to be judged by the standards of smooth-skinned, home-staying Jacobs. "I didn't know you had suffered all that, father. You never told me that before." "There's a sight of things I've suffered that I wouldn't like you to know. But they were all in the day's work, and I don't complain. And that's one thing I want to say to you, and I may as well say it now. You've got a start I never had, and you won't suffer what I suffered, but I want you to know that the world's a pretty hard place to live in anyway. You can't go through it without being badly hurt somewhere. You've got to take what you want, or you won't get it. Talking isn't going to mend things: life's a big strong beast, and it isn't words but a bit and bridle and a whip a man needs who is going to succeed. Now you're at the talking stage, and I don't complain. You admire talkers like Clark, and you think they are doing no end of good, don't you? Well, you'll learn better presently. You'll find that the world goes on much the same as it ever did, in spite of the talkers. I want you to digest that fact just as soon as you can, and then you'll be ready to step down into the thick of life where I am, and help me do the things I want to do." "But, father, is what Clark said concerning you true?" "Do you want to discuss it with me?" "No; I have no right to ask that." "Yes, you have. I want you to join in the business when you're ready, and you've a right to know what kind of business it is, and, if you like to put it so, what kind of person your partner is." "He is my father, and I love him. That is enough," said Arthur proudly. "No, it isn't enough. I had a father, and I didn't love him. But as to this business of Clark's. He found out something against me, and instead of coming to me about it, he preached a sermon on it, and for that I don't forgive him. Well, what was it he found out? No more than this--that ten years ago I had to do a cheap job, and I did it cheaply. My work has held together ten years, which is about all that could be expected at the price. Now I'll tell you what I've done. I've agreed to do the work over again for nothing. There's the letter which I've just written. You had better read it." Arthur took the letter, and read it slowly. His father had risen from his desk, and stood watching him narrowly. Perhaps until that moment he had never quite realised how much his heart was set on having his son in the business with him. And he wanted above all things to win the son's approval. Perhaps there was some underlying thought of this kind in his mind when he wrote the letter. Not that he meant to alter all the methods of his business to suit his son. Once in the business, Arthur would learn what these were by imperceptible degrees, and would grow accustomed to them. But just now the father's heart was wholly set upon concession and conciliation. He remembered, with a rush of tenderness, how he had long ago taught the boy to swim. He could still see the slight, childish form shivering on the rock above the swimming-pool. He had begun with threats, but had soon found them useless. Then he had used persuasion and cajolery, until at last the boy had slipt into the pool, and in a week was swimming with the best of them. Well, it was like that now. If he could but cajole him into the deep stream of life, that was enough; when the deep water heaved beneath his feet, he would have to do what the others did in pure self-defence. "Well?" he said at last. Arthur laid down the letter and turned a shining face upon his father. "It is a noble letter, father. Forgive me that I misjudged you." "That's all right, then." "You have taught me a lesson. I shall not forget it." "Oh! don't take it too seriously, my boy. It is only a small affair, after all." But each knew that it was not a small affair. In that moment these two opposite natures were nearer together than they had ever been before, and, although neither knew it, nearer than they would ever be again. Arthur left his father with a strong sense of exaltation. The cloud of misgiving concerning his father's methods of business had miraculously dissolved. In the quick rebound of feeling he was inclined to judge himself intolerant and unjust, and his father's image glowed before his mind, endued with heroic virtues. He shuddered when he thought of his father's youth, with its dreadful disabilities; he kindled with admiring ardour when the thought of his father's triumph over a weight of circumstance which would have crushed a weaker man. If some of the mire of the pit yet clung to him, if in many things he was crude, violent, narrow, it was not surprising; the marvel was that his faults were not more numerous and more unpardonable. As Arthur went to his room, he caught a vision of himself in the mirror of his wardrobe--a slight figure admirably clothed, a face fresh and unlined, with white forehead and close curling hair, the picture of youth delicately nurtured, upon whom the winds of life had not blown roughly--and he was filled with compunction at the contrast afforded by that other picture of a poor drudging boy toiling in a brickfield and beaten by a drunken parent. In spite of all his superficial superiorities, he seemed a creature of small significance beside this Titanic father of his. It was an exquisite spring morning, one of those mornings when London draws her first fresh, unimpeded breath after the long, choking fogs of winter. The lawn lay green beneath the window, presided over by a busy thrush, who flirted his wings in the strong sunlight, and stopped at intervals to address a long mellow note of rapture to the blue sky; the japonica had hung the garden wall with crimson blossoms; the poplars took the light upon their slender spires, till each burned with yellow flame. Nature, unconquered by the gross antipathy of man, was invading the brick Babylon, flinging brocades of light upon the beaten ways, and filling them with the music of the pipes of Pan. Arthur could not resist the call. He felt a need of solitude. He had many thoughts that cried aloud for readjustment. He stepped out in the blither air, and took his way to Hampstead Heath. Soon the narrow streets were left behind, the long hill rose above him, and his feet trod the furze-clad slopes, little altered since the day when Roman legions camped upon their crests, and eighteenth-century highwaymen concealed themselves among their hollows. He walked far and fast, meditating much on life. It seemed a wonderful thing to be alive, where so many generations of men had fought and perished, to be for a little time sole possessor of a world that had cast off such myriads of tenants; and there came to him, with an almost painful wonder, the sense of the richness of his opportunity. He would make his own life something worthy. It was true, as his father had said, that he started at a point of vantage not given to every one. By so much that he started higher, he must soar higher, go farther. But in the midst of all his exultant thoughts there intruded his father's terse picture of life as a big strong beast only to be mastered by bit and whip and bridle. And at that thought the tide of exaltation began to leave him. He walked more slowly, became listless, was conscious of weariness. It no longer seemed an easy and a rapturous thing to live; life rose before him as a menace. In the early afternoon he came to the Spaniards' Inn, and entered it. Coming from the brilliant air into the dim room of the inn, he did not at first recognise a man already seated there, finishing a frugal meal of bread and cheese and ale. The man was tall, with somewhat stooping shoulders; his face was long and bearded, his forehead high, with thin dark hair, his eyes dark and penetrating. He wore a flannel shirt with a silk tie of some indeterminate colour akin to dull crimson. He held a book in one hand, and read as he ate. As Arthur entered the room he looked up. "You don't know me, I suppose," he said genially. "But I know you by sight at least. My name is Hilary Vickars." So this was Hilary Vickars, of whom he had heard Scales speaking at the deacon's tea. Now that he looked at him more closely he recognised him at once. Among the crowd of ordinary faces in the church, that face had stood out with a singular distinctness. It was a face at once grave and composed, sad and humorous; the face of a man who had striven much and suffered much, but had retained through all a certain vivacity, which was distinct from gaiety while including it. And all these qualities seemed to rest upon a deeper quality of composure, so that the final impression was of a man who through suffering had won his way to some secret knowledge which gave him an air of gentle authority. "I have often wished to know you," said Arthur. "And I you." "Why should you wish to know me?" "Oh! a fancy of mine. It is my business to study people. And you do not look like the run of folk in Highbourne Gardens. Most of the folk in Highbourne Gardens are dear, good, comfortable folk, but stodgy. They are as alike as peas. I could tell you their exact method of life, even to what they have for breakfast. They are products of manufacture, all turned out just alike to the last hair, and all doing just the same things every day, without the least variation. That is what stodginess means." "And I am not stodgy?" Arthur laughed. "No; you are fluid. You have not hardened into shape yet. You are a problem." Arthur looked at the dark, ironic face, and felt a sudden friendliness for the man. It was a long time since he had conversed with a man of ideas; he had scarcely done so since he had left Oxford. The church young men he had found distasteful to him. They were good young men for the most part, much enamoured of respectability, laboriously virtuous, cherishing many mild scruples about the use of the world and inclined to judge it by standards quite foreign to their real tastes; but they had no mental horizons. They were also inclined to be a little shy of him, as a rich man's son with a superior education; a little envious, too, and not at home in his presence, so that intercourse with them had not been easy. But here was a man who spoke another kind of language; it was that language of ideas which at once asserts kinship, among those to whom it is intelligible. Arthur drew his chair to the table, and soon found himself absorbed in conversation. Hilary Vickars talked slowly, with hesitating pauses--a trick which lent emphasis to what he said. It was as though he fumbled for the right word, and then flashed it out like a sudden torch. Arthur noticed, too, that he occasionally did not pronounce a word in the way common among educated men. The variation was slight; it could scarcely have been called erroneous; but it suggested some deficiency of early training. Perhaps the boy's face betrayed his surprise too ingenuously, for after one of these variations Vickars said abruptly: "I envy you. It was my dream to go to Oxford. I didn't dream true in that case." "Perhaps you have done just as well without Oxford," said Arthur generously. "No, I have never cherished that--delusion. Deprivations in middle life don't matter; but deprivations in early life can never be made up." He paused a moment, and then added. "I was a gardener before I became an author." Arthur looked his surprise, whereat Vickars laughed. "Oh! I assure you," he said, "even gardeners have their dreams. Mine, as I said, was Oxford, for I spent my youth within sight of her spires, within sound of her bells. I believed I could become a scholar; indeed, I still believe my old belief not quite foolish. I spent all my money on grammars and dictionaries which I did not know were obsolete, got to know the classics in a crude fashion, and went on imagining that some day I might enter the University. Of course it was all an absurd dream; you do not need to be told that. My first real discovery in life was that learning is the privilege of wealth. That led me to some other discoveries of the same nature, the sum of which was that the great mass of mankind are born disinherited, and that I was one of them. It hurt me dreadfully at the time, but in the long run it was the making of me. It set me studying life as it is, not as it once was in ancient times. And the more I studied it, the more I came to admire common men and women, until at last I was glad that I belonged to them. It is a great thing to know just to whom you belong; no man does any kind of good work till he knows that." "But you are not a common man," Arthur interrupted. "You are a writer." "Oh! I have some aptitudes that are not common, no doubt; I am immodest enough to think that. But if I am a writer, I write of common people. It is common life that interests me, the virtues, vices, trials, heroisms, debasements, and nobilities of plain people. But I did not mean to talk about myself, and you must forgive me." "There is nothing to forgive. What you say deeply interests me. My father said a thing to-day about life which has been in my thoughts a good deal, and you make me recall it. By the way, do you know my father?" "Yes, I know him." He spoke the words with a certain caustic accent which did not pass unnoticed. "You mean you do not like him," Arthur replied with a flash of anger. "No, I don't say that. I know him merely as a type. But what did he say?" "He said life was a hard business, in which one was sure to be hurt; that it was a big strong beast which could only be subdued by whip and bridle." "An excellent definition. Life is strong and cruel and hard. Men who really live soon discover that." "Have you found it so?" "Yes. And I've seen the big strong beast tread thousands down--the people who haven't got the whip and bridle." He spoke the words with remarkable intensity. They were flashed from him rather than spoken. Then, as if ashamed of his display of feeling, he rose from the table, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The evening is coming on. I must be going." They went out of the inn together. The long gray road with its groups of trees and dim houses lay before them; and, as the darkness deepened, the distant lights of London flung a yellow conflagration on the sky. "That's where the big strong beast lies," said Vickars. "You can hear his mighty hooves at work." And, as he spoke, from that great caldron of life, that lay packed and mist-swathed to the eastward of the road, there did come up a sound as of waves upon a groaning beach, a sound of crashing and rending, mingled with the dull thud of wheels and the demoniac shriek of engine and of factory whistles. But he did not recur to the theme. The talk became trivial, commonplace; once only did it touch a theme of interest, when Vickars recalled how Coleridge and Keats and Haydon and Leigh Hunt had trodden that same road, each with his own separate vision of what life meant, and what man was meant to do in it. It was nearly dark when they reached the neighbourhood of Highbourne Gardens. Presently Vickars stopped before a small house, one of many, in a long gravelled street. The houses were all alike; each had its strip of garden, its bow-window, its door with glass panels, its aspect of decent mediocrity. There was still enough light to see that though the houses were comparatively new, a kind of premature decay had overtaken them. The iron garden-gates sagged upon their hinges, and the bricks appeared to be joined with sand, which errand-boys had picked out in deep grooves while waiting in the porch for orders. The dilapidation of age may be respectable and even romantic, but in this dilapidation of newness there was something inexpressibly depressing. "This is where I live," said Vickars. "I don't think I was ever in this street before," said Arthur. "It must have been built while I was at Oxford." "It was," said Vickars. "Your father built it." They said good-night and parted. IV MRS. BUNDY A few days after Arthur's memorable conversation with his father, Archibold Masterman entered on one of his recurring fits of gloom. He went about the house silently, ate and drank in silence, took little notice of any member of his family, and sat alone in his office till long past midnight. The causes of his silence were, as usual, inscrutable. Sometimes he looked on Arthur with a long, brooding, wistful gaze, as if he would like to confide in him, but the confidence never came. Possibly if he had followed up his recent burst of tenderness with complete confidence, the boy might have been won. But in Masterman's nature there was a curious element of perversity, which often prevailed over the dictates of reason and even of self-interest. It was this element of perversity that lay at the root of much that seemed complex in his character, exhibiting itself sometimes in gusty tenderness, sometimes in unscrupulous hardness, so that to the casual observer he appeared a man of formidable moods, none of whose actions could be predicated from any precedent experience. Once, when Arthur said timidly, "Can I be of any help to you in the office, sir?" he replied curtly, "None whatever. I'll tell you when I want you," and the boy said no more. His sister had gone away to spend some weeks with a friend, his mother was as silent as his father, and he was left more completely to himself than he had ever been. It was little wonder that he turned eagerly from that gloomy house to the society of such friends as were available. Among these was Hilary Vickars, for whom he had conceived a strong liking. He walked with him occasionally in the afternoons, but as yet Arthur had not visited the house. Another friend, whose house was always open to him, and had been since he was a boy, was a certain Mrs. Bundy, a motherly, cheerful, eccentric Scotchwoman. She was a person of extraordinary slovenliness and good-humour, indefatigably kind, generous, and light-hearted, who had been so used to carrying burdens herself that she cheerfully shouldered other people's burdens as a kind of right. Every one knew where Mrs. Bundy lived; lonely Scotch youths who had come to London to push their fortunes found in her an ardent sympathiser; and should one come to her sick with the shame of some sudden defeat of virtue, he never failed to find in her a shrewd and optimistic friend. Over such youths she exercised a directorship as complete as that of a Jesuit Father; she inspected with a jealous eye their morals and their underwear; mended for them, dosed them when they had colds, fed them with anything that came to hand, took charge of their money, made them small loans, and addressed them with apostolic fervour upon the perils and the pitfalls of London life. "Poor laddies!" she would say, "they need mothering," and her ample breast swelled with pity at the picture of their loneliness in shabby London lodgings, where they did unequal battle with rapacious land-ladies. Not that she herself was childless; she was the proud mother of two of the most odious children in the locality, who spent their whole time in making life intolerable to their neighbours. But to her, of course, they were merely riotous young angels, whose mischief was the proof of hearty spirits, and whose worst faults reposed upon a solid base of good intentions. Life for these youngsters was merely a joke and an adventure, and, to tell the truth, Mrs. Bundy's view of life was not unlike theirs. Her whole existence had been fugitive and precarious, for her husband was a speculator who had followed for thirty years the will-o'-the-wisp of sudden fortune. He was a solemn little man, with large, dreamlike eyes, whose immense power of industry had been almost uniformly turned in wrong directions. At the whisper of gold, silver, lead, coal, nitrates, oil, land-booms, he was ready at a moment's notice to wander off into the most inaccessible places of the earth, from which he returned sometimes penniless, and sometimes with a profusion of spoil which he soon contrived to lose again. Most women would have tired of these fruitless quests, but Mrs. Bundy's faith in her husband never faltered, and all the strange caprices of his fortune did not disconcert her. When her adventurer returned with bags of gold, she at once rose to the occasion, moved into a larger house, rode in her carriage for a few weeks, and thoroughly enjoyed the sunshine while it lasted. When the luck failed, she went back contentedly to the cheapest house she could find, used up her fine gowns in household service, and waited hopefully for the return of Bundy. He always came back, though more than once he had been away a whole year; and his return was sometimes dramatic--as, for instance, when he appeared at midnight, and flung a diamond necklace round her throat, while she hid in her pocket a county-court summons for a year's milk bills which she could not pay. "Come in wi' you, my bonny lad," was the usual greeting to Arthur, and she would lead him into the kitchen with the air of a duchess introducing him to a salon; for it should be said that at this time the Bundy star was in eclipse. And then she would sit down and tell him wondrous tales of people she had known, much too grotesque and tragic for any reasonable world, with stories still more grotesque of the wanderings of Bundy in Brazil and South Africa, and the narrow escapes he had had of being a multimillionaire. Just now, it appeared, he was engaged on some mysterious business in Canada, where a handful of dollars judiciously expended might purchase an estate as large as England. And she would tell these stories with such a vivid art, and with such good faith and humour, that Arthur would roar with laughter, which perhaps was what she wished him to do, for he often came to her with a clouded brow. "It's small good staying in England these days, if you want to prosper," she would remark. "What wi' all the ships upon the sea and all the new lands that lie beyond, it's a shame for a youth to sit at home. You don't get any fun out of life that way." Arthur might have retorted that there did not seem to be much fun in a kind of life that left Mrs. Bundy sole tenant of a ruinous old house in Lion Row, whose rent she could scarcely pay, while Bundy wandered in Brazil or Canada, but Mrs. Bundy was so unaffectedly enamoured of her lot that he never said it. On the contrary, there was sown in his mind a little germ of adventure which was to ripen later on, and he got exhilarating glimpses of the romance and bigness of life. She examined his hand one night, for she affected a knowledge of palmistry, and ended by saying, "You'll have your adventures before long"; and in spite of his entire scepticism, a pleasurable thrill shot through his veins at the prophecy. "You've got a hand like Bundy's," she remarked; whereat he laughed, and said rather rudely that he had no wish to resemble Bundy. "Bundy's had his bad times," she retorted, "but he's had his good times too. But if you asked him, I don't think he'd regret anything, and he'd live the same life again if he had the choice. And so would I, for that matter." And then she swept across the kitchen in her soiled silk dress with the air of pride and dignity that would have become a palace, and Arthur was left reflecting on the happy courage of her temperament as something to be greatly envied. He learned much from Mrs. Bundy in those weeks, and above all he learned to love her. She was, in spite of all her eccentricities, so motherly, and such a fountain of inexhaustible sympathy, that he got into the way of confiding to her many of his private thoughts. One night he spoke to her about his father, and of his father's plans for him. "He wants me to enter the business," he said. "And why not, laddie?" "Frankly, I don't like it." "That's neither here nor there. You've got to live, and as long as a business is honest, one business is as good as another." "But is it honest?" He had not meant to ask the question. It came from him unawares. It was a long-silent, long-concealed thought, suddenly become audible. "What is dishonest in it?" "I can't quite tell. But I do know that my father buys land for speculative building, and puts up houses that are built of the rottenest material, and sells them to ignorant people." "Aye, laddie, your father's like the man in the parable, 'an austere man, gathering where he has not strawed.' But he's a strong man, is your father. There's few stronger men than Archibold Masterman. "Strong, but is he good? I mean, is his way of life right?" "I canna' tell about that, laddie. But if I was you, I think I wouldn't ask that question about my father. There's a lot of goodness in men, and my conviction is that most men are about as good as they know how to be. There's many people wouldn't call Bundy good, because he's what they call a speculator, and has to live with wild men, and doesn't go to church when he's home; but I know he's got a heart of gold. He never cheated any man knowingly. He's lost himself much more than men have lost by him. And he'd always give away his last penny to the poor." "Ah, but that's not the point. I know my father is good in that way. Why, only the other day he rebuilt a church entirely at his own expense for people who had no legal claim at all on him. But it's his business, it's the method of it. And I must find an answer, for I must join him in the business or refuse it." "Well, if you feel like that, refuse it, laddie. Not that I'll say you're wise, nor even right. Fathers have some claims on their sons after all, and these claims ought to come before your own tastes. Only if you know you couldn't draw together with your father, and would only make him and yourself unhappy trying to, then the best thing is to say so at once." "I suppose you are right," he said in a lugubrious voice. And then he added, "There's another trouble, too. How am I to get my living?" "You'll find that out fast enough when you become acquainted with hunger," she said with a laugh. "But if I don't go into my father's business, God only knows what I can do. I don't seem to be fitted for anything in particular." "I wouldn't worry about that, either," she replied. "There's very few men do the things they think they're fitted for; but they find out how to do other things that are just as important. There's Bundy, now; you'll never guess what he thought himself fitted for when I married him." "Well, what?" "A clergyman." Arthur laughed profanely. The thought of the nefarious Bundy, whose life had been spent in the promotion of companies of a singular collapsibility, as a clergyman was too ridiculous. "Ah! you may laugh, but let me tell you he'd have made a first-rate parson if he'd gone to college, and started fair." She spoke with heat, which immediately passed into laughter, as she caught a glimpse of the whimsicality of the thing. "Ye canna' say Bundy has not a fine flow of language when he chooses, and he can look as solemn as a bishop, and I'm sure he would have had a fine bedside manner," she continued. "But my belief is that a man who can do one thing well can do any other thing just as well." "That's a consoling faith, at any rate." "It isn't a faith, it's a fact. It's just a question of ability. The worst of you London-bred lads is that you all want a place made for you, and you don't see that the strong man makes a place for himself." Arthur did not quite like that, and he liked it the less because he knew that it was true. For was not he London bred? Had not his path been made easy for him? And how could that happen without some emasculation of nature? To grow up in streets, carefully paved and graded, punctually lit at night; to live in houses where a hundred conveniences sprang up to meet the idle hand, to be guarded from offence, provided for without exertion--ah, how different that life from the primitive life of man, familiar with rain and tempest, with a hundred rude and moving accidents, always poised upon the edge of peril, and existing instant by instant by an indomitable exercise of will and strength! For the first time he caught a vital glimpse of the primeval life of man, and recognised its self-sufficing dignity. For the first time he realised that the essence of all true living lay in daring. It was a truth which neither London nor Oxford had imparted to him. He had not even learned it through his own father, whom he knew conventionally rather than really. Strangely enough, it came to him now through the talk of Mrs. Bundy, wise with a wisdom which vicissitude alone could teach, and through the somewhat sorry epic of her husband's hazardous adventures. "The strong man makes a place for himself"--it was sound doctrine and indubitable fact as well; but was he one of the strong? The question hung upon the confines of his mind, a whispered interrogation, which disturbed and sometimes tortured him. Youth is always a little
asaki and Yokohama; had bandied Yankee slang and bought drinks for the damosels of the "Barbary Coast" in San Francisco, and applauded the gyrations of the dancing houris of the Near East; but these were but diversions of the moment and had left no impression on the heart. Women of the more respectable sort he had met casually on ocean passages, but he had never allowed himself to become enamored of any. The inequality of his position as a poor sea-ranging mate; the lack of opportunity for becoming acquainted on short voyages, and drastic regulations of duty and ship-board intercourse, precluded all ideas of marrying. On a salary of twelve pounds per month, with uniforms to buy and shore living to pay, a man cannot fraternize with his feminine equals in the social scale and Alec McKenzie never tried it. He was a handsome man, well-built, broad-shouldered, with blonde curly hair, a flowing silky moustache and clipped beard. With his light hair, tanned skin, keen blue eyes, high forehead and cheekbones and straight, determined mouth, he looked a veritable viking--a modern example of atavistic character descending from those Norse raiders who found the Scots Highlands congenial habitation for permanent residence. Thirty-eight years of age, and celebrated as "the smartest mate that ever took a ship out the Clyde," Alec McKenzie felt that in Baillie Ross's maid he had met his affinity, and next evening he boldly called at the servants' entrance to the Ross home and inquired of the old cook who answered the door "if Miss Janet was in?" (That was the only name he knew so far.) He was ushered into the servants' parlor in the basement of the house, and Janet awaited his overtures with astonishment, not unmixed with suspicion as to his motives. Blushing and more abashed than he had ever felt in his life, he came to the point with a sailor's straightforwardness. "I saw you last night, Miss Janet, and I like you. I'd like to know you better. My name is McKenzie--Alec McKenzie--and I'm a chief officer on one of Sutton's ships. What is your name, may I ask?" Still surprised and confused, Janet had murmured, "Jeanette McKinnon, sir!" (Janet had absorbed some of her master's ideas and 'Jeanette' sounded more aristocratic.) "Well, Miss McKinnon," said Alec, more at ease, "if you care to, we might go to a play or a music hall to-night. What do you say?" Miss McKinnon consented, and thus the wooing was begun. When she doffed the cap and apron of domestic servitude and donned her "walking out" clothes, Janet, with her shapely figure, her dark hair and sparkling brown eyes, and the rich Highland bloom in her cheeks, was a woman deserving of more than a passing glance. She had many admirers, but they were of the class whose business brought them to the kitchen door, and she would have none of them. The butcher, the grocer, the gas-meter man, and the police officer on the beat had all made a set for the alderman's pretty maid only to be haughtily rebuffed in the manner affected by the poor but beautiful heroines in the _feuilletons_ of the Glasgow Weekly Herald or the Heartsease Library. Sailor Alec, absolutely unaffected by the conservatism of class and setting no value upon aristocratic connections, felt that there was nothing out of the way in his courting a domestic servant. There was no sign of plebeian origin in Miss McKinnon's manners and pleasant Inverness-shire speech; her hands were small and well-kept, and she had a neat foot in spite of the bare feet and "brogans" of youthful days. In his eyes, she was pretty, intelligent, and desirable, and he made up his mind that he would ask her to marry him at the first opportunity. For almost a year, McKenzie courted Janet McKinnon, and during the week his ship was in Glasgow between voyages to New York, he would spend every evening with her. The old cook, who had a sailor brother, connived at the meetings, kept guard over the parlor, and helped Janet to get off duty when McKenzie called, but she would damp Miss McKinnon's spirits every once in a while by remarking what "a harum-scarum lot them sailors was" and what great chaps they were "for drinkin' an' spendin' their money on furrin wimmin oot in Chinay, Injy, Rio Grandy an' sich-like heathen parts!" It was a somewhat hazardous wooing, and many were the occasions when McKenzie would be waiting for Janet in the servants' parlor downstairs, during which time his lady-love would be waiting on his brother David at the baillie's table upstairs. David was blissfully unconscious of Alec's doings when in port, as neither of the brothers kept intimate touch with each other. David looked upon Alec as a "puir waster" and the latter sympathized with David for living the life of a "crab"--"jewing and shrivelling his soul for dollars." "Poor Dave," he would say to Janet. "Working day and night over his books in a dusty, dingy hole of an office. Chopping down expenses in the miserable hookers his firm runs. Scratching, grubbing and saving money--that's all he lives for. Poor chap! He doesn't know what life is! He's never seen the world or its beauties. He'll fetch up as a miserable miser some of these days!" When David thought of Alec, which was not often, it was with scorn and irritation. "Shiftless beggar! No ambition! Sooner waste his life and talents at sea working for someone else rather than save his money and have someone working for him. Suttons pay their mates too well. As long as he has money to spend he'll chuck it around like a drunken sailor and some of these days when he is played out he'll come to me to help him!" David, in a way, was a better judge of human nature than Alec. Though a splendid seaman and navigator, Alec was not aggressive nor overly ambitious. He needed prodding. At sea, he carried out his duties faithfully and well because they were prescribed for him, and he hoped for the day when Suttons would give him a command. He would wait for it to come to him, rather than work to speed the day. When the command came, he would ask Janet to marry him. On a mate's pay, he couldn't save anything, but when he got a ship of his own, he would take the plunge, marry, and fit out a home on his first month's pay as master. However, man proposes and God disposes. It was one of the red-headed imps of the baillie's progeny who precipitated matters. This youngster awoke about ten o'clock one evening feeling hungry. He had vivid recollections of the cook baking a batch of lovely "traykle scones" during the afternoon and he made his way to the basement with feline tread and upon robbery intent. The half-opened door of the servants' parlor revealed a most astonishing tableau to his inquisitive vision and, recognizing the actors, he felt that it was worth while securing an audience to share the sight with him. Creeping upstairs to his father's library, he astonished the worthy baillie and his wife, and almost stunned David, who happened to be there that evening, by shouting excitedly, "Yon yella-heided Captun that was at oor hoose fur dinner wi' Mister McKinzie a while syne is doon-stairs in the slavey's room wi' Jinnut on his knee!" Janet and Alec received a rude shock a minute later when the astounded baillie, his wife, brother David and the red-headed Ross hopeful sallied into the sitting-room and caught the lovers in the act of embracing. "Captun McKinzie!" stuttered the baillie. "Whit is the meanin' o' this?" Alec jumped to his feet, blushing furiously, but withal, deadly calm. "Why, nothing at all, baillie. But isn't this rather unceremonious? Should have knocked, don't you think?" When the baillie commenced to stammer in confusion, Mrs. Ross felt that it was her place to talk and she applied herself to Janet. "McKinnon," she said icily. "I'm surprised an' deesgusted! I niver thocht ye were that sorrt of a gyurl! You'll pack yer traps an' get away frae here immediately! Sich carryin'-ons in ma hoose!" And she snorted in contemptuous indignation. Poor Janet's eyes filled with tears. She was deathly pale, but held her head high with something of the dignity of her Highland forebears. "There have been no carrying-ons, madam!" "Don't gie me ony of yer impertinence, ye trollop!" cried madam, and David interjected, staring coldly at his brother, "I should have thought, Alec, that you would have shown more delicacy and respect for your family than to be carrying on a clandestine--er--ah--" He stammered and racked his brains for a word which would fit without being too crude, when Alec interrupted him. "I know what you were going to say, dear David," he retorted coolly, "but just let me warn you not to say it! Miss McKinnon"--he turned and bowed slightly to the baillie's wife--"will pack up her things and leave here immediately, for to-morrow she'll become my wife!" "Your _wife_!" chorused the trio. Young Ross was temporarily absent--having found the treacle scones. "Yes, my _wife_!" answered Alec, drawing the weeping Janet to him, and raising his eyebrows, challenged, "Is there anything so very extraordinary in that?" David laughed bitterly--a harsh, mirthless cackle. "Your wife," he sneered. "A common slavey! Don't be foolish, Alexander. If you believe that is _necessary_"--he emphasized the word--"I think we could fix it up without disgracing our family." Alec stepped quickly before his brother and in the ominous glint in his eye and in the grim set of his jaw, David saw an expression he had never viewed before in the "shiftless waster," and he recoiled involuntarily. "Look here, Dave," said the other, with menace in his tones, "don't you dare make such beastly insinuations. I'm going to marry Miss McKinnon. I have always intended to marry her, and my relations with her have been square and above-board. I don't consider I'm disgracing the family, and family doesn't enter into the thing at all. If you feel hurt about my affairs, you are at liberty to up hook and part company, that's all. I don't want to hear another word about it from anybody!" David's pale face grew dark. He was furious, but his fury was kindled by pure selfishness and not through any affection for Alec or interest in his welfare. He felt that his brother had disgraced him in the eyes of the Ross family. He was afraid the incident would become the subject of vulgar gossip and tasty quip to scarify his dignity among the brokers on "the Street" and the Shipbrokers Association. They would be sure to stop him and remark callously, "Heard a brother of yours got in a mess with Baillie Ross's slavey and had to marry her!" To his mean, narrow soul there could be no other viewpoint. Clean-hearted love and honor had no place in his shifty mentality. He almost screamed in excess of rage, "Very well, Alexander! If that's your intention, go ahead! From this hour I absolutely disown you as a brother. You are nothing to me from now on. Go to the devil your own way!" And he turned to the others, "Come, Mrs. Ross! Come, Baillie! Let's leave this fellow and his woman!" That night, Alec took Janet to a hotel and left her there after caressing her tears and fears away. Next morning, he was down to his ship early and borrowed five pounds from the chief engineer. He saw his skipper and secured two days leave of absence, and was in his berth packing up a few necessary clothes in a portmanteau when the steward announced that a gentleman would like to see him. Thinking it was David, Alec said, "Send him in!" and waited, prepared for a stormy session. But it was not David--David was through with him. It was Baillie Ross, and he fussed into the narrow berth, red-faced and perspiring. "Ma puir laddie!" he puffed sympathetically. "I was real sorry aboot last nicht, ye ken. I didny know ye were coortin' Jinnut, and I'm no blamin' ye. She's a nice lass--a guid lass--a rale comely yin! Noo, laddie, ye're gettin' merrit to-day, ye say? Huv ye ony money?" "I've got enough to get married on, anyway, sir," replied Alec. "Aye, aye, laddie, but that'll no be much, I'm thinkin'. Weel, weel, Jinnut is a nice lass an' she was wi' us fur a guid mony years, sae here's a wee bit weddin' present tae th' baith o' ye! Guid luck tae ye, an' if ye ever want help, dinna be frichtit tae gie me a call. Tellyphone me at ma office first though. I widny want Mistress Ross or yer brither tae ken I was seein' ye. Guid luck an' guidbye!" He fussed out again leaving the astonished Alec gazing at the two ten pound notes which the good-natured alderman had thrust into his hands. They were married quietly that afternoon and spent a brief honeymoon around Loch Katrine. Three days later, McKenzie was at his station on the fo'c'sle-head of the _Ansonia_ watching the tug straighten her out on the first mile of the run from Plantation Quay to the East River wharves. He was supremely happy, and as his ship swung down the roily river, his thoughts were of his bride of three days awaiting his return in a quiet but inexpensive lodging-house, and facing the future on an income of twelve pounds per month. CHAPTER TWO Janet made Alec McKenzie a good wife. She supplied the ambition and aggressiveness which her husband lacked. No one could say he lowered himself by marrying Janet McKinnon, for she was quick to realize her husband's assets in the way of family connections and genuine ability, and she carried herself as if she were the accepted niece, by marriage, of the Laird of Dunsany. Other mates' wives called on her, more out of curiosity than kindness, but she would have none of them and treated them coldly. Her demeanor impressed the visitors, as it had already impressed the landlady, and the latter bruited the story that her lodger was the daughter of a "Hielan' Chief--somewhat rejuced in circumstances." Mrs. McKenzie did not deny the story; she rather accepted it and even hinted at it in casual conversation with gossipy callers. Alec was a first-class chief officer, but that wasn't good enough for Janet. She longed for the day when she could be referred to as "Mrs. McKenzie--wife of Captain McKenzie of the S.S. _So-and-so_," and she worked skilfully to that end. After much manoeuvering, she struck up an acquaintanceship with Mrs. Duncan, wife of the marine superintendent of the Sutton Line, and never missed an opportunity to impress upon that simple lady the fact that Alec was a nephew of Sir Alastair McKenzie, and brother to David McKenzie the ship-owner on Bothwell street. Though McKenzie longed for promotion, yet he was cursed with a sailor's bashfulness in seeking office, and of his own volition he would make no move which would cause his skipper to eye him askance as a man to be watched. He had known over-ambitious mates who had been "worked out" of the Line by superiors who felt that their positions were imperilled by such aspiring underlings, and he abhorred the thought of being classed as an "owner licker." But Janet had no such scruples. She was out to speed the day, and before she had been a year married, she had called on her late employer, Baillie Ross, and sought his interest in Alec's favor. Ross was climbing in municipal politics and had recently been elected a director of the Sutton Line, and he appreciated Janet's efforts to "rise in the warl'." At the first opportunity, he casually mentioned to the Managing Director of Suttons' that they had "a maist promisin' young officer in Mr. McKinzie, chief mate o' the _Ansonia_. He's a nephew o' Sir Alastair McKinzie an' a brither tae David McKinzie--the risin' ship-broker. He wad mak' a fine upstaundin' Captun fur wan o' yer boats some day, and _I wad like tae see him get on_!" The Managing Director was wise in his day and generation and made a note of McKenzie's name, but he was too much of a Scotch business man to promote officers unless they had ability. Captain Duncan was called in one day and engaged in casual conversation by the manager. "What do you know of McKenzie, chief officer of the _Ansonia_?" Duncan had been primed by his wife. "A fine smert officer, sir," answered the marine superintendent. "Keeps a nate shup and always attends to his wark." "Drink?" "No, sir! I've never heard tell o' him bein' a man that used liquor." "How does he stand in seniority?" "There's twa or three mates ahead o' him in length o' service, but nane ahead in smertness. He's well connectit, sir. Nephew tae Sir Alastair McKenzie and he's merrid on a Hielan' Chief's dochter--a fine bonny leddy, sir!" The Managing Director turned over a fyle of papers. "McCallum, master of the _Trantonia_, has knocked the bows off his ship in going out of Philadelphia and it has cost us a lot of money. When the _Ansonia_ comes in this time, you can find a new chief officer for her. We'll sack McCallum and give McKenzie command of the _Trantonia_." Duncan told his wife the news that evening over the tea table and that worthy lady bustled over with the tidings to Janet. "Mrs. McKenzie," she gasped, blowing and puffing as she flopped down in Janet's parlor-bedroom. "Jeck cam' hame th' nicht an' tells me yer husband's tae be made captun o' th' _Trantonia_! Ye'll can ca' yersel' Mistress Captun McKenzie efter this!" Janet felt like embracing her visitor, but restrained her delight and murmured. "So kind of you to come over and tell me, Mrs. Duncan. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I must write to-night and inform his uncle, Sir Alastair, of the promotion"--the latter was a white fib for Mrs. Duncan's benefit--"he'll be pleased, I'm sure." When Alec arrived home, he was delighted with his good fortune even though the _Trantonia_ was one of the smallest and oldest steamers in the Line and had long been relegated to the cargo trade. But she was a ship, and size made no difference in the status of ship-masters. The pay--seventeen pounds per month--would enable them to take up house. Everything was glorious and Alec marvelled at his good luck in being promoted ahead of mates senior to him in service, and he was not above voicing regrets for the unfortunate officers who suffered through his advancement. "Poor old Johnson," he said. "Been due for a command these ten years. This will break his heart. Moore is ahead of me and should have got the next vacancy, for he's a smart, able man. And old McCallum, whose shoes I jump into. I'm awfully sorry for him, for he's got a large family and nothing laid by. He'll have to go mate again in his old age or take a job as watchman around the docks. It's cruel hard, but this is the mill of the British Merchant Service these days. We jump ahead over the bodies of the poor devils who slip on the ladder, and God help those who slip!" Janet did not share his sympathies and felt rather annoyed. "Why should you fret about them? They wouldn't worry about you. Now, let's go and look for a house, dear. There's a lovely three-room-and-kitchen to let in Ibrox, which is a nice neighbourhood and many Captains live there." She did not enlighten him as to how he got his promotion. With Janet spurring him on, McKenzie rose from command to command. For three years he ran the gamut of the Company's old crocks until, when Donald Percival was born, he was master of a big five-thousand tonner in the River Plate trade and drawing a salary of twenty pounds per month. McKenzie was happy then, and would have been quite content to remain as master of a Sutton freighter doing the run from Glasgow to the Plate. It was an easy fine-weather trade and he was drawing twenty a month, and occasionally making a pound or two in commissions. There was only his wife and Donald to support, and he had a comfortable home in Ibrox--three rooms and kitchen on the second flat, with hot and cold water, and a vestibule door off the stair landing--a real snug spot. At sea, he was not over-worked, having a purser to write out manifests and bills of lading, and he had plenty of time to read and smoke and take it easy. But with the coming of Donald Percival, Janet's ambition expanded. "Percival must have a nurse," she wrote to her husband, "and there are several expenses to be met in connection with our darling boy. You must get out of the cargo trade and into the passenger ships, dear. Mrs. Davidson tells me her husband is getting thirty pounds a month as captain of the _Zealandia_ in the Canadian emigrant service. You must think of your connections. I shudder when I imagine you coming up from Buenos Ayres with your ship full of smelly cattle and sheep... the passenger ships are more genteel... the doctor's bill is quite heavy, dear, and I have retained the services of a good nurse, as I do not feel equal to housework yet and Percival requires much care and attention...." His wife's letter contained a memorandum of the expenses attendant upon the ushering of Donald Percival into this mundane sphere, and it caused McKenzie to break out into a cold sweat. "Raising kids is a devilish expensive business," he confided to the mate, who had "raised" six. "This youngster of mine stands me something like sixty pounds!" "Saxty poonds?" gasped Mr. McLeish. "Losh, mon, but yer mistress mun be awfu' delicate! Mistress McLeish brings them tae port ivery year an' five quid covers the hale business.... Saxty poonds for yin bairn? I c'd raise a dizzen for that amoont o' siller. Ye'll need tae be lucky, Captun, an' fall across some disabled shups yince in a while if ye're plannin' tae have a family. Saxty poonds? Ma conscience!" It was through a streak of God-given luck that the sixty pounds was paid, and Donald could thank the Fates for sending an Italian emigrant ship with a broken tail-end shaft across the path of his worried Daddy. McKenzie picked her up in a gale of wind south of Madeira, and he had his boats out and a hauling line aboard her ahead of a hungry Cardiff tramp who had been standing-by for eight hours waiting for the weather to moderate. "Sixty pounds has to be earned," muttered McKenzie in his beard, "and there's no Welsh coal-scuttle going to prevent me from getting it." After a strenuous time, and parting hawser after hawser, McKenzie plucked the Italian into Madeira, and the salvage money that came to him afterwards ensured his son's future as a free-born citizen. The incident was used by Janet as a stepping-stone to her ambitions. After the salvage money had been awarded, she chased her husband "up to the office" and made him interview the Managing Director and ask for a command in the passenger trade. The official listened courteously to McKenzie's plea (dictated by Janet) and as Suttons had benefitted considerably by the Captain's picking up the helpless Italian, the promotion was forthcoming. With a sigh of regret, McKenzie carted his belongings from the comfortable River Plate freighter to the master's quarters on the _Ansonia_--the old ship he had served in as chief officer. The _Ansonia_ was not the smart flyer of his younger days, but she still carried passengers. Second cabin and continental steerage thronged her decks outward from the Clyde to Boston, and four-footed passengers occupied the same decks homeward. Those were the days of the cheap emigrant fares--when the dissatisfied hordes of Central Europe were transported to the Land of Liberty for three pounds fifteen--and the _Ansonia_ would ferry them across in eleven days. McKenzie drove her through sunshine and fog, calm or blow, and took chances. There was no money in slow passages at the cut-rates prevailing, and Alec often wished he were jogging to the south'ard in his nine-knot freighter with but little to worry him. In the _Ansonia_, the first grey streaks came in his blonde hair, and the lines deepened around his mouth and eyes. Janet was happy for a time, but Suttons had better and faster ships than the one her husband was commanding. Their skippers were getting more money and were able to maintain "self-contained villas" and keep a servant. The return cargo of cattle which was the _Ansonia's_ paying eastward freight offended Janet's sensibilities. She did not care to have Mrs. Sandys--wife of the master of the Sutton "crack" ship--asking her at a select "Conversazione" or "high tea"--"How many head of cattle did your husband lose last voyage?" or "I don't suppose you visit your husband's ship, Mrs. McKenzie. Those cattle boats are simply impossible!" Janet, in her younger days, was not above laboring in odoriferous cattle byres, but, with her exalted station in life, the mere thought of the _Ansonia's_ cluttered decks and the honest farm-yard aroma which pervaded her and could be smelt a mile to loo'ard on a breezy day, gave her a sinking feeling and dampened her social ambitions. She felt that she had exhausted all her "string pulling" resources, so she applied herself to imbuing her husband with more aggressiveness. Though passionately fond of his wife, yet there were times when McKenzie felt that he was being _hounded_ ahead. Every cent he earned was spent in what his wife called "style," and what Alec called "dog." Janet dressed expensively and did much entertaining, and young Donald Percival was petted, spoiled, and cared for in a manner far beyond the rightful limits of a master mariner's pay. "Make yourself popular with the passengers, dear," counselled his wifely mentor, "and drive your ship. Suttons like fast passages--" "Aye," interrupted Alec somewhat bitterly, "but they don't like accidents. You know what happened to poor Thompson of the _Syrania_? Driving his ship in a fog to make fast time he cut a schooner in half and stove his bows in. Suttons lost a pile of money over that, and Thompson got the sack and is black-listed. His ticket was taken from him and he barely escaped being tried by an American court for manslaughter. I saw the poor chap in Boston this time, and what d'ye think he was doing? Timekeeping for a stevedore firm and getting ten dollars a week! A man who had commanded an Atlantic greyhound!" Janet listened impatiently. "Oh, that was just his ill-fortune. I heard that he was in his bunk when the accident happened--" Her husband made a gesture of mild irritation. "Good heavens, Janet! A man must sleep sometime," he said. "Thompson had been on the bridge for sixty hours and was utterly played out. But that made no difference. It was his fault. He was driving her full speed in a fog and that's where they got him--even though Suttons were driving him with their unwritten instructions--'Be careful with your ship, Captain, but we expect you to make good passages!' Drive your ship, but look-out if anything happens to her! That's the English of that!" By persistent urging, Janet's exhortations had effect. McKenzie hounded the old _Ansonia_ back and forth along the western ocean lanes and grew more grey hairs and deeper lines on his face with the worry and anxiety of long vigils on her bridge staring into the clammy mists through which his ship was storming. With a chief engineer who loved her wonderful old compound engines and who was willing to drive them, McKenzie commenced clipping down the _Ansonia's_ runs until one day she raced into Boston harbor an hour ahead of her best record twelve years before, and two days ahead of a rival company's crack ship, which had left Glasgow at the same time. The Boston newspapers, heralding the feat and containing a cut of Captain McKenzie and the ship, were forwarded to head office by the Boston agents. The Managing Director was delighted over the defeat of the rival company's crack ship, for the American papers played it up strong, with two-column, heavy type head-lines and exaggerated description. After perusal, the canny Scotch manager gave some thought to McKenzie--the Yankee reporter dilated on the sub-head, 'Scotch baronet's nephew commands Sutton record breaker,' (Alec had never opened his mouth about the relationship)--and he began to consider him seriously as master for the Sutton New York-Glasgow express steamship _Cardonia_. A wealthy American, returning to the States after a lease of Dunsany Castle, unconsciously gave Alec the promotion which the manager had considered and postponed. The American was rich and fussy, and when booking his passage, had demanded to do so through the manager. "I want a suite amidships, sir, 'n I want tew travel in a ship that kin travel along, as I ain't none too good a sailor. I want to sail with a skipper that'll make her travel some. 'N bye-the-bye, I saw by a Boston paper that one of yewr skippers is related to Sir Alastair McKenzie. I leased the old boy's castle for a while 'n a fine old bird he is. I'd like mighty fine tew cross the pond with this here McKenzie if he's on a fast packet, but ain't he on one of those twelve-day hookers to Boston?" The manager had made up his mind. A man with McKenzie's connections would bring lucrative business and be popular in the New York trade. The other masters in line for promotion would have to wait. "Captain McKenzie _was_ in the _Ansonia_--one of our intermediate ships--but we have now placed him in command of our New York Express steamship _Cardonia_ and we can fix you up splendidly in her." The American booked passage, and McKenzie commanded the _Cardonia_. With the promotion came a substantial increase in salary and Janet felt that her ambitions were realized--for a time at least. New worlds to conquer would suggest themselves bye-and-bye. The flat in the Terrace was given up, and a somewhat pretentious eight-roomed red sandstone villa in a suburban locality was rented, expensively decorated and furnished, and Mrs. McKenzie, with Donald Percival and a capable Highland "general," moved in and laid plans for attaining the rank of first magnitude in the firmament of the local social stars. CHAPTER THREE Donald Percival McKenzie was eight years old when the red sandstone villa became his habitation. He was glad to leave the Terrace where they formerly lived as his life in that locality, as far as relations with lads of his own age were concerned, had been none too happy. The migration to Kensington Villa, as the red sandstone eight-roomer was called, was accompanied by a determined ultimatum from young McKenzie that his mother drop the name "Percival" altogether and call him "Donald" in future. As the ultimatum was presented with considerable howling and crying and threats of atrocious behavior, the mother felt that she would have to make the concession. With this bar to congenial juvenile fraternization removed, Donald felt free to begin life on a new plane. The youthful residents of the suburb he now lived in were "superior." They did not run around barefooted in summer, nor wear "tackety" or hobnailed boots in winter. Not that Donald scorned either of these pedal comforts. Bare feet were fine and cool and "tackety" boots gave a fellow a grand feeling of heftiness in clumping around the house, in kicking tin cans, and in scuffling up sparks through friction with granolithic sidewalks. Though superior in mode of living and dress compared with the less favored lads of Donald's former habitation, yet his new chums were very much akin to the latter in their scorn and hatred for anything savoring of "English," and Donald hadn't been in the neighborhood two days before he had to prove his citizenship in fistic combat with a youthful Doubting Thomas. The other lad was bigger and older than Donald and had the name of being a fighter. He gave young McKenzie a severe drubbing and the latter had to go home with his clothes torn and his nose bleeding. The mother was furious and intended to see the other boy's parents about it, but Donald wouldn't allow her to do so. Instead, he remained home for an hour or two, changed into a garb less likely to spoil or hinder the free swing of his arms, and then slipped out to have another try at defending his name. Once again, Donald, in pugilistic parlance, "went to the mat for the count," but in rising he announced his intention of coming back at his fistic partner later--"after I take boxing lessons an' get my muscle up." Donald's determination, and possibly the threat, had considerable effect upon Jamie Sampson, who immediately made conciliatory advances. "I don't want tae hit ye any more," he said. "Ye're a wee fella'--" "Am I Scotch?" queried Donald aggressively. "Shair, ye're Scoatch!" Jamie admitted heartily--adding, "And I'll punch any fella's noase that says ye're no. Let me brush ye doon, Donal'!" Through the exertion of the "fecht" Donald caught a cold and was laid up for two weeks, but he felt that it was worth it as he had gained the friendship of Jamie Sampson--"the best fighter on the Road, mamma, and you should see how he can dunt a ba' with his heid!" Donald's description of Jamie's prowess in
physician should accompany him to the front. “Patriotism” in this sense, however, seems to have had no charms for the Pergamene, and he pleaded vigorously to be excused. Eventually, the Emperor gave him permission to remain at home, entrusting to his care the young prince Commodus. Thereafter we know little of Galen’s history, beyond the fact that he now entered upon a period of great literary activity. Probably he died about the end of the century. [Sidenote: Subsequent History of Galen’s Works.] Galen wrote extensively, not only on anatomy, physiology, and medicine in general, but also on logic; his logical proclivities, as will be shown later, are well exemplified in his medical writings. A considerable number of undoubtedly genuine works of his have come down to us. The full importance of his contributions to medicine does not appear to have been recognized till some time after his death, but eventually, as already pointed out, the terms Galenism and Greek medicine became practically synonymous. A few words may be devoted to the subsequent history of his writings. [Sidenote: Byzantine Medicine.] During and after the final break-up of the Roman Empire came times or confusion and of social reconstruction, which left little opportunity for scientific thought and research. The Byzantine Empire, from the 4th century onwards, was the scene of much internal turmoil, in which the militant activities of the now State-established Christian church played a not inconsiderable part. The Byzantine medical scholars were at best compilers, and a typical compiler was Oribasius, body-physician to the Emperor Julian (4th century, A.D.); his excellent _Synopsis_ was written in order to make the huge mass of the Galenic writings available for the ordinary practitioner. [Sidenote: Arabian Medicine.] Greek medicine spread, with general Greek culture, throughout Syria, and from thence was carried by the Nestorians, a persecuted heretical sect, into Persia; here it became implanted, and hence eventually spread to the Mohammedan world. Several of the Prophet’s successors (such as the Caliphs Harun-al-Rashid and Abdul-Rahman III) were great patrons of Greek learning, and especially of medicine. The Arabian scholars imbibed Aristotle and Galen with avidity. A partial assimilation, however, was the farthest stage to which they could attain; with the exception of pharmacology, the Arabians made practically no independent additions to medicine. They were essentially systematizers and commentators. “_Averrois che il gran comento feo_”[2] may stand as the type _par excellence_ of the Moslem sage. Avicenna (Ebn Sina), (10th to 11th century) is the foremost name in Arabian medicine: his “Book of the Canon in Medicine,” when translated into Latin, even overshadowed the authority of Galen himself for some four centuries. Of this work the medical historian Max Neuburger says: “Avicenna, according to his lights, imparted to contemporary medical science the appearance of almost mathematical accuracy, whilst the art of therapeutics, although empiricism did not wholly lack recognition, was deduced as a logical sequence from theoretical (Galenic and Aristotelian) premises.” [Sidenote: Introduction of Arabian Medicine to the West. Arabo-Scholastic Period.] Having arrived at such a condition in the hands of the Mohammedans, Galenism was now destined to pass once more to the West. From the 11th century onwards Latin translations of this “Arabian” Medicine (being Greek medicine in oriental trappings) began to make their way into Europe; here they helped to undermine the authority of the one medical school of native growth which the West produced during the Middle Ages—namely the School of Salerno. Blending with the Scholastic philosophy at the universities of Naples and Montpellier, the teachings of Aristotle and Galen now assumed a position of supreme authority: from their word, in matters scientific and medical, there was no appeal. In reference to this period the Pergamene was referred to in later times as the “Medical Pope of the Middle Ages.” It was of course the logical side of Galenism which chiefly commended it to the mediaeval Schoolmen, as to the essentially speculative Moslems. [Sidenote: The Renascence.] The year 1453, when Constantinople fell into the hands of the Turks, is often taken as marking the commencement of the Renascence. Among the many factors which tended to stimulate and awaken men’s minds during these spacious times was the rediscovery of the Greek classics, which were brought to Europe by, among others, the scholars who fled from Byzantium. The Arabo-Scholastic versions of Aristotle and Galen were now confronted by their Greek originals. A passion for Greek learning was aroused. The freshness and truth of these old writings helped to awaken men to a renewed sense of their own dignity and worth, and to brace them in their own struggle for self-expression. Prominent in this “Humanist” movement was the English physician, Thomas Linacre (_c._ 1460-1524) who, having gained in Italy an extraordinary zeal for the New Learning, devoted the rest of his life, after returning to England, to the promotion of the _litterae humaniores_, and especially to making Galen accessible to readers of Latin. Thus the “_De Naturalibus Facultatibus_” appeared in London in 1523, and was preceded and followed by several other translations, all marked by minute accuracy and elegant Latinity. Two new parties now arose in the medical world—the so-called “Greeks” and the more conservative “Arabists.” [Sidenote: Paracelsus.] But the swing of the pendulum did not cease with the creation of the liberal “Greek” party; the dazzling vision of freedom was to drive some to a yet more anarchical position. Paracelsus, who flourished in the first half of the 16th century, may be taken as typifying this extremist tendency. His one cry was, “Let us away with all authority whatsoever, and get back to Nature!” At his first lecture as professor at the medical school of Basle he symbolically burned the works of Galen and of his chief Arabian exponent, Avicenna. [Sidenote: The Renascence Anatomists.] But the final collapse of authority in medicine could not be brought about by mere negativism. It was the constructive work of the Renascence anatomists, particularly those of the Italian school, which finally brought Galenism to the ground. Vesalius (1514-64), the modern “Father of Anatomy,” for dissecting human bodies, was fiercely assailed by the hosts of orthodoxy, including that stout Galenist, his old teacher Jacques Dubois (Jacobus Sylvius). Vesalius held on his way, however, proving, _inter alia_, that Galen had been wrong in saying that the interventricular septum of the heart was permeable (_cf._ present volume, p. 321). Michael Servetus (1509-53) suggested that the blood, in order to get from the right to the left side of the heart, might have to pass through the lungs. For his heterodox opinions he was burned at the stake. Another 16th-century anatomist, Andrea Cesalpino, is considered by the Italians to have been a discoverer of the circulation of the blood before Harvey; he certainly had a more or less clear idea of the circulation, but, as in the case of the “organic evolutionists before Darwin,” he failed to prove his point by conclusive demonstration. [Sidenote: William Harvey (1578-1657).] William Harvey, the great Englishman who founded modern experimental physiology and was the first to establish not only the fact of the circulation but also the physical laws governing it, is commonly reckoned the Father of Modern Medicine. He owed his interest in the movements of the blood to Fabricio of Acquapendente, his tutor at Padua, who drew his attention to the valves in the veins, thus suggesting the idea of a circular as opposed to a to-and-fro motion. Harvey’s great generalisation, based upon a long series of experiments _in vivo_, was considered to have given the _coup de grâce_ to the Galenic physiology, and hence threw temporary discredit upon the whole system of medicine associated therewith. Modern medicine, based upon a painstaking research into the details of physiological function, had begun. [Sidenote: Back to Galen!] While we cannot sufficiently commend the results of the long modern period of research-work to which the labours of the Renascence anatomists from Vesalius to Harvey form a fitting prelude, we yet by no means allow that Galen’s general medical outlook was so entirely invalidated as many imagine by the conclusive demonstration of his anatomical errors. It is time for us now to turn to Galen again after three hundred years of virtual neglect: it may be that he will help us to see something fundamentally important for medical practice which is beyond the power even of our microscopes and _X_-rays to reveal. While the value of his work undoubtedly lies mainly in its enabling us to envisage one of the greatest of the early steps attained by man in medical knowledge, it also has a very definite intrinsic value of its own. [Sidenote: Galen’s Debt to his Precursors.] No attempt can be made here to determine how much of Galen’s work is, in the true sense of the word, original, and how much is drawn from the labours of his predecessors. In any case, there is no doubt that he was much more than a mere compiler and systematizer of other men’s work: he was great enough to be able not merely to collect, to digest, and to assimilate all the best of the work done before his time, but, adding to this the outcome of his own observations, experiments, and reflections, to present the whole in an articulated “system” showing that perfect balance of parts which is the essential criterion of a work of art. Constantly, however, in his writings we shall come across traces of the influence of, among others, Plato, Aristotle, and writers of the Stoic school. [Sidenote: Influence of Hippocrates on Galen.] Although Galen is an eclectic in the best sense of influence of the term, there is one name to which he pays a very special tribute—that of his illustrious forerunner Hippocrates. Him on quite a number of occasions he actually calls “divine” (_cf._ p. 293). “Hippocrates,” he says, “was the first known to us of all who have been both physicians and philosophers, in that _he was the first to recognise what nature does_.” Here is struck the keynote of the teaching of both Hippocrates and Galen; this is shown in the volume before us, which deals with “the _natural_ faculties”—that is with the faculties of this same “Nature” or vital principle referred to in the quotation. [Sidenote: “The Natural Faculties.”] If Galen be looked on as a crystallisation of Greek medicine, then this book may be looked on as a crystallisation of Galen. Within its comparatively short compass we meet with instances illustrating perhaps most of the sides of this many-sided writer. The “Natural Faculties” therefore forms an excellent prelude to the study of his larger and more specialised works. [Sidenote: Galen’s “Physiology.”] What, now, is this “Nature” or biological principle upon which Galen, like Hippocrates, bases the whole of his medical teaching, and which, we may add, is constantly overlooked—if indeed ever properly apprehended—by many physiologists of the present day? By using this term Galen meant simply that, when we deal with a living thing, we are dealing primarily with a unity, which, _quâ_ living, is not further divisible; all its parts can only be understood and dealt with as being _in relation to_ this principle of unity. Galen was thus led to criticise with considerable severity many of the medical and surgical specialists of his time, who acted on the assumption (implicit if not explicit) that the whole was merely the sum of its parts, and that if, in an ailing organism, these parts were treated each in and for itself, the health of the whole organism could in this way be eventually restored. Galen expressed this idea of the unity of the organism by saying that it was governed by a _Physis_ or Nature (ἡ φύσις ἥπερ διοικεῖ τὸ ζῷον), with whose “faculties” or powers it was the province of φυσιολογία (physiology, Nature-lore) to deal. It was because Hippocrates had a clear sense of this principle that Galen called him master. “Greatest,” say the Moslems, “is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.” “Greatest,” said Galen, “is the Physis, and Hippocrates is its prophet.” Never did Mohammed more zealously maintain the unity of the Godhead than Hippocrates and Galen the unity of the organism. [Sidenote: Galen’s Physics.] But we shall not have read far before we discover that the term _Physiology_, as used by Galen, stands not merely for what we understand by it nowadays, but also for a large part of _Physics_ as well. This is one of the chief sources of confusion in his writings. Having grasped, for example, the uniqueness of the process of _specific selection_ (ὁλκὴ τοῦ οἰκείου), by which the tissues nourish themselves, he proceeds to apply this principle in explanation of entirely different classes of phenomena; thus he mixes it up with the physical phenomenon of the attraction of the lodestone for iron, of dry grain for moisture, etc. It is noteworthy, however, in these latter instances, that he does not venture to follow out his comparison to its logical conclusion; he certainly stops short of hinting that the lodestone (like a living organ or tissue) _assimilates_ the metal which it has attracted! Setting aside, however, these occasional half-hearted attempts to apply his principle of a φύσις in regions where it has no natural standing, we shall find that in the field of biology Galen moves with an assurance bred of first-hand experience. [Sidenote: The Mechanical Physicists.] Against his attempt to “biologize” physics may be set the converse attempt of the mechanical Atomist school. Thus in Asclepiades he found a doughty defender of the view that physiology was “merely” physics. Galen’s ire being roused, he is not content with driving the enemy out of the biological camp, but must needs attempt also to dislodge him from that of physics, in which he has every right to be. [Sidenote: The Anatomists.] In defence of the universal validity of his principle, Galen also tends to excessive disparagement of morphological factors; witness his objection to the view of the anatomist Erasistratus that the calibre of vessels played a part in determining the secretion of fluids (p. 123), that digestion was caused by the mechanical action of the stomach walls (p. 243), and dropsy by induration of the liver (p. 171). [Sidenote: Characteristics of the Living Organism.] While combating the atomic explanation of physical processes, Galen of course realised that there were many of these which could only be explained according to what we should now call “mechanical laws.” For example, non-living things could be subjected to φορά (passive motion), they answered to the laws of gravity (ταῖς τῶν ὑλῶν οἰακιζόμενα ῥοπαῖς, p. 126). Furthermore, Galen did not fail to see that living things also were not entirely exempted from the operation of these laws; they too may be at least partly subject to gravity (_loc. cit._); a hollow organ exerts, by virtue of its cavity, an attraction similar to that of dilating bellows, as well as, by virtue of the living tissue of its walls, a specifically “vital” or selective kind of attraction (p. 325). As a type of characteristically vital action we may take _nutrition_, in which occurs a phenomenon which Galen calls _active motion_ (δραστικὴ κίνησις) or, more technically, _alteration_ (ἀλλοίωσις). This active type of motion cannot be adequately stated in terms of the passive movements (groupings and re-groupings) of its constituent parts according to certain empirical “laws.” Alteration involves _self-movement_, a self-determination of the organism or organic part. Galen does not attempt to explain this fundamental characteristic of _alteration_ any further; he contents himself with referring his opponents to Aristotle’s work on the “Complete Alteration of Substance” (p. 9). The most important characteristic of the Physis or Nature is its τέχνη—its artistic creativeness. In other words, the living organism is a creative artist. This feature may be observed typically in its primary functions of _growth_ and _nutrition_; these are dependent on the characteristic _faculties_ or powers, by virtue of which each part draws to itself what is proper or appropriate to it (το οἰκεῖον) and rejects what is foreign (το ἀλλότριον), thereafter appropriating or assimilating the attracted material; this assimilation is an example of the _alteration_ (or qualitative change) already alluded to; thus the food eaten is “altered” into the various tissues of the body, each of these having been provided by “Nature” with its own specific faculties of attraction and repulsion. [Sidenote: The Three Categories.] Any of the operations of the living part may be looked on in three ways, either (_a_) as a δύναμις, faculty, potentiality; (_b_) as an ἐνέργεια, which is this δύναμις in operation; or (_c_) as an ἔργον, the product or effect of the ἐνέργεια.[3] [Sidenote: Galen’s Method.] Like his master Hippocrates, Galen attached fundamental importance to clinical observation—to the evidence of the senses as the indispensable groundwork of all medical knowledge. He had also, however, a forte for rapid generalisation from observations, and his logical proclivities disposed him particularly to deductive reasoning. Examples of an almost Euclidean method of argument may be found in the _Natural Faculties_ (_e.g._ Book III. chap. i.). While this method undoubtedly gave him much help in his search for truth, it also not unfrequently led him astray. This is evidenced by his attempt, already noted, to apply the biological principle of the φύσις in physics. Characteristic examples of attempts to force facts to fit premises will be found in Book II. chap. ix., where our author demonstrates that yellow bile is “virtually” dry, and also, by a process of exclusion, assigns to the spleen the function of clearing away black bile. Strangest of all is his attempt to prove that the same principle of specific attraction by which the ultimate tissues nourish themselves (and the lodestone attracts iron!) accounts for the reception of food into the stomach, of urine into the kidneys, of bile into the gall-bladder, and of semen into the uterus. These instances are given, however, without prejudice to the system of generalisation and deduction which, in Galen’s hands, often proved exceedingly fruitful. He is said to have tried “to unite professional and scientific medicine with a philosophic link.” He objected, however, to such extreme attempts at simplification of medical science as that of the Methodists, to whom diseases were isolated entities, without any relationships in time or space (_v._ p. xv. _supra_). He based much of his pathological reasoning upon the “humoral theory” of Hippocrates, according to which certain diseases were caused by one or more of the four humours (blood, phlegm, black and yellow bile) being in excess—that is, by various _dyscrasiae_. Our modern conception of “hormone” action shows certain resemblances with this theory. Besides observation and reasoning, Galen took his stand on _experiment_; he was one of the first of experimental physiologists, as is illustrated in the present book by his researches into the function of the kidneys (p. 59 _et seq._). He also conducted a long series of experiments into the physiology of the spinal cord, to determine what parts controlled movement and what sensibility. As a practitioner he modelled his work largely on the broad and simple lines laid down by Hippocrates. He had also at his disposal all the acquisitions of biological science dating from the time of Aristotle five hundred years earlier, and reinforced by the discoveries in anatomy made by the Alexandrian school. To these he added a large series of researches of his own. Galen never confined himself to what one might call the academic or strictly orthodox sources of information; he roamed the world over for answers to his queries. For example, we find him on his journeys between Pergamos and Rome twice visiting the island of Lemnos in order to procure some of the _terra sigillata_, a kind of earth which had a reputation for healing the bites of serpents and other wounds. At other times he visited the copper-mines of Cyprus in search for copper, and Palestine for the resin called Balm of Gilead. By inclination and training Galen was the reverse of a “party-man.” In the _Natural Faculties_ (p. 55) he speaks of the bane of sectarian partizanship, “harder to heal than any itch.” He pours scorn upon the ignorant “Erasistrateans” and “Asclepiadeans,” who attempted to hide their own incompetence under the shield of some great man’s name (_cf._ p. 141). Of the two chief objects of his censure in the _Natural Faculties_, Galen deals perhaps less rigorously with Erasistratus than with Asclepiades. Erasistratus did at least recognize the existence of a vital principle in the organism, albeit, with his eye on the structures which the scalpel displayed he tended frequently to forget it. The researches of the anatomical school of Alexandria had been naturally of the greatest service to surgery, but in medicine they sometimes had a tendency to check progress by diverting attention from the whole to the part. [Sidenote: The Pneuma or Spirit.] Another novel conception frequently occurring in Galen’s writings is that of the _Pneuma_ (_i.e._ the breath, _spiritus_). This word is used in two senses, as meaning (1) the inspired air, which was drawn into the left side of the heart and thence carried all over the body by the arteries; this has not a few analogies with oxygen, particularly as its action in the tissues is attended with the appearance of the so-called “innate heat.” (2) A vital principle, conceived as being made up of matter in the most subtle imaginable state (_i.e._ air). This vital principle became resolved into three kinds: (_a_) πνεῦμα φυσικόν or _spiritus naturalis_, carried by the veins, and presiding over the subconscious vegetative life; this “natural spirit” is therefore practically equivalent to the φῦσις or “nature” itself. (_b_) The πνεῦμα ζωτικόν or _spiritus vitalis_; here particularly is a source of error, since the air already alluded to as being carried by the arteries tends to be confused with this principle of “individuality” or relative autonomy in the circulatory (including, perhaps, the vasomotor) system. (_c_) The πνεῦμα ψυχικόν or _spiritus animalis_ (anima = ψυχή), carried by longitudinal canals in the nerves; this corresponds to the ψυχή. This view of a “vital principle” as necessarily consisting of matter in a finely divided, fluid, or “etheric” state is not unknown even in our day. Belief in the fundamental importance of the Pneuma formed the basis of the teaching of another vitalist school in ancient Greece, that of the Pneumatists. [Sidenote: Galen and the Circulation of the Blood.] It is unnecessary to detail here the various ways in which Galen’s physiological views differ from those of the Moderns, as most of these are noticed in footnotes to the text of the present translation. His ignorance of the circulation of the blood does not lessen the force of his general physiological conclusions to the extent that might be anticipated. In his opinion, the great bulk of the blood travelled with a to-and-fro motion in the veins, while a little of it, mixed with inspired air, moved in the same way along the arteries; whereas we now know that all the blood goes outward by the arteries and returns by the veins; in either case blood is carried to the tissues by blood-vessels, and Galen’s ideas of tissue-nutrition were wonderfully sound. The ingenious method by which (in ignorance of the pulmonary circulation) he makes blood pass from the right to the left ventricle, may be read in the present work (p. 321). As will be seen, he was conversant with the “anastomoses” between the ultimate branches of arteries and veins, although he imagined that they were not used under “normal” conditions. [Sidenote: Galen’s Character.] Galen was not only a man of great intellectual gifts, but one also of strong moral fibre. In his short treatise “That the best Physician is also a Philosopher” he outlines his professional ideals. It is necessary for the efficient healer to be versed in the three branches of “philosophy,” viz.: (_a_) _logic_, the science of how to think; (_b_) _physics_, the science of what is—_i.e._ of “Nature” in the widest sense; (_c_) _ethics_, the science of what to do. The amount of toil which he who wishes to be a physician must undergo—firstly, in mastering the work of his predecessors and afterwards in studying disease at first hand—makes it absolutely necessary that he should possess perfect self-control, that he should scorn money and the weak pleasures of the senses, and should live laborious days. Readers of the following pages will notice that Galen uses what we should call distinctly immoderate language towards those who ventured to differ from the views of his master Hippocrates (which were also his own). The employment of such language was one of the few weaknesses of his age which he did not transcend. Possibly also his mother’s choleric temper may have predisposed him to it. The fact, too, that his vivisection experiments (_e.g._ pp. 59, 273) were carried out apparently without any kind of anaesthetisation being even thought of is abhorrent to the feelings of to-day, but must be excused also on the ground that callousness towards animals was then customary, men having probably never thought much about the subject. [Sidenote: Galen’s Greek Style.] Galen is a master of language, using a highly polished variety of Attic prose with a precision which can be only very imperfectly reproduced in another tongue. Every word he uses has an exact and definite meaning attached to it. Translation is particularly difficult when a word stands for a physiological conception which is not now held; instances are the words _anadosis_, _prosthesis_, and _prosphysis_, indicating certain steps in the process by which nutriment is conveyed from the alimentary canal to the tissues. Readers will be surprised to find how many words are used by Galen which they would have thought had been expressly coined to fit modern conceptions; thus our author employs not merely such terms as _physiology_, _phthisis_, _atrophy_, _anastomosis_, but also _haematopoietic_, _anaesthesia_, and even _aseptic_! It is only fair, however, to remark that these terms, particularly the last, were not used by Galen in quite their modern significance. [Sidenote: Summary.] To resume, then: What contribution can Galen bring to the art of healing at the present day? It was not, surely, for nothing that the great Pergamene gave laws to the medical world for over a thousand years! Let us draw attention once more to: (1) The high ideal which he set before the profession. (2) His insistence on immediate contact with nature as the primary condition for arriving at an understanding of disease; on the need for due consideration of previous authorities; on the need also for reflection—for employment of the mind’s eye (ἡ λογικὴ θεωρία) as an aid to the physical eye. (3) His essentially broad outlook, which often helped him in the comprehension of a phenomenon through his knowledge of an analogous phenomenon in another field of nature. (4) His keen appreciation of the unity of the organism, and of the inter-dependence of its parts; his realisation that the vital phenomena (physiological and pathological) in a living organism can only be understood when considered in relation to the _environment_ of that organism or part. This is the foundation for the war that Galen waged _à outrance_ on the Methodists, to whom diseases were things without relation to anything. This dispute is, unfortunately, not touched upon in the present volume. What Galen combated was the tendency, familiar enough in our own day, to reduce medicine to the science of finding a label for each patient, and then treating not the patient, but the label. (This tendency, we may remark in parenthesis, is one which is obviously well suited for the _standardising_ purposes of a State medical service, and is therefore one which all who have the weal of the profession at heart must most jealously watch in the difficult days that lie ahead.) (5) His realisation of the inappropriateness and inadequacy of physical formulae in explaining physiological activities. Galen’s disputes with Asclepiades over τὰ πρῶτα ἐκεῖνα σώματα τὰ ἀπαθῆ, over the ἄναρμα στοιχεῖα καὶ ληρώδεις ὄγκοι, is but another aspect of his quarrel with the Methodists regarding their pathological “units,” whose primary characteristic was just this same ἀπάθεια (impassiveness to environment, “unimpressionability”). We have of course our Physiatric or Iatromechanical school at the present day, to whom such processes as absorption from the alimentary canal, the respiratory interchange of gases, and the action of the renal epithelium are susceptible of a purely physical explanation.[4] (6) His quarrel with the Anatomists, which was in essence the same as that with the Atomists, and which arose from his clear realisation that that primary and indispensable desideratum, a view of the whole, could never be obtained by a mere summation of partial views; hence, also, his sense of the dangers which would beset the medical art if it were allowed to fall into the hands of a mere crowd of competing specialists without any organising head to guide them. [1] _On the Affections of the Mind_, p. 41 (Kühn’s ed.). [2] “Averrhoës who made the great Commentary” (Dante). It was Averrhoës (Ebn Roshd) who, in the 12th century, introduced Aristotle to the Mohammedan world, and the “Commentary” referred to was on Aristotle. [3] What appear to me to be certain resemblances between the Galenical and the modern vitalistic views of Henri Bergson may perhaps be alluded to here. Galen’s vital principle, ἡ τεχνικὴ φύσις (“creative growth”), presents analogies with _l’Evolution créatrice_: both manifest their activity in producing qualitative change (ἀλλοίωσις, _changement_): in both, the creative change cannot be analysed into a series of static states, but is one and continuous. In Galen, however, it comes to an end with the _development of the individual_, whereas in Bergson it continues indefinitely as the _evolution of life_. The three aspects of organic life may be tabulated thus:— δύναμις ἐνέργεια ἔργον Work to be done. Work being done. Work done, finished. Future aspect. Present aspect. Past aspect. Function. Structure. The _élan vital_. A “thing.” A changing which cannot be understood as a sum of static parts; a constant becoming, never stopping—at least till the ἔργον is reached. Bergson’s Bergson’s Bergson’s “outlook “teleological” “philosophical” of physical aspect. aspect. science.” Galen recognized “creativeness” (τέχνη) in the _development_ of the individual and its parts (ontogeny) and in the maintenance of these, but he failed to appreciate the creative _evolution_ of species (phylogeny), which is, of course, part of the same process. To the teleologist the possibilities (δυνάμεις) of the Physis are limited, to Bergson they are unlimited. Galen and Bergson agree in attaching most practical importance to the middle category—that of Function. While it must be conceded that Galen, following Aristotle, had never seriously questioned the fixity of species, the following quotation from his work _On Habits_ (chap. ii.) will show that he must have at least had occasional glimmerings of our modern point of view on the matter. Referring to _assimilation_, he says: “Just as everything we eat or drink becomes _altered in quality_, so of course also does the altering factor itself become altered.... A clear proof of the assimilation of things which are being nourished to that which is nourishing them is the change which occurs in plants and seeds; this often goes so far that what is highly noxious in one soil becomes, when transplanted into another soil, not merely harmless, but actually useful. This has been largely put to the test by those who compose memoirs on farming and on plants, as also by zoological authors who have written on the changes which occur according to the countries in which animals live. Since, therefore, not only is the nourishment altered by the creature nourished, but the latter itself also undergoes some slight alteration, _this slight alteration must necessarily become considerable in the course of time_, and thus properties resulting from prolonged habit must come to be on a par with natural properties.” Galen fails to see the possibility that the “natural” properties themselves originated in this way, as activities which gradually became habitual—that is to say, that the effects of _nurture_ may become a “second nature,” and so eventually _nature_ itself. The whole passage, however, may be commended to modern biologists—particularly, might one say, to those bacteriologists who have not yet realised how extraordinarily _relative_ is the term “specificity” when applied to the subject-matter of their science. [4] In terms of filtration, diffusion, and osmosis. BIBLIOGRAPHY Codices Bibliothèque Nationale. Paris. No. 2267. Library of St. Mark. Venice. No. 275. Translations Arabic translations by Honain in the Escurial Library, and in the Library at Leyden. Hebrew translation in the Library at Bonn. Latin translations in the Library of
, the road was an absurdity. Then, only a few months before the time of our narrative, the railroad world began to wake up. Commodore Durfee, one of “the big fellows,” surprised the Southwest by buying in the H. D. & W. (which meant, and will always mean, the High, Dry, and Wobbly). The surprise was greater when the Commodore began building southwestward, in the general direction of Red Hills. As usual when the big men are playing for position, the public and the wise-acres, even Wall Street, were mystified. For the S. & W. was so obviously the best and shortest eastern connection for the C. & S. C.,--the H. D. & W. would so plainly be a differential line,--that it was hard to see what the Commodore was about. He had nothing to say to the reporters. Old General Carrington, of the C. & S. C., the biggest and shrewdest of them all, was also silent. And Daniel De Reamer couldn’t be seen at all. And finally, by way of a wind-up to the first skirmish of the picturesque war in which our engineers were soon to find themselves taking part, there was a western breeze and a flurry of dust in Wall Street. Somebody was fighting. S. & W. shares ran up in a day from twenty-two to forty-six, and, which was more astonishing, sold at that figure for another day before dropping. Other mysterious things were going on. Suddenly De Reamer reappeared in the Southwest, and that most welcome sign of vitality, money,--red gold corpuscles,--began to flow through the arteries of the S. & W. “system.” The construction work started up, on rush orders. Paul Carhart was specially engaged to take out a force and complete the track--any sort of a track--to Red Hills. And as he preferred not to take this rush work through very difficult country on any other terms, De Reamer gave him something near a free hand,--ordered Chief Engineer Tiffany to let him alone, beyond giving every assistance in getting material to the front, and accepting the track for the company as fast as it was laid. And as Tiffany was not at all a bad fellow, and had admired Carhart’s part in the Rio Grande fight (though he would have managed some things differently, not to say better, himself), the two engineers seemed likely to get on very well. Carhart’s three trains would hardly get over the five hundred miles which lay between Sherman and the end of the track in less than twenty-seven or twenty-eight hours. “The private car,” as the boys called it, was of an old type even for those days, and was very uncomfortable. Everybody, from the chief down, had shed coat and waistcoat before the ragged skyline of Sherman slipped out of view behind the yellow pine trees. The car swayed and lurched so violently that it was impossible to stand in the aisle without support. As the hours dragged by, several of the party curled up on the hard seats and tried to sleep. The instrument and rod and stake men and the pile inspectors, mostly young fellows recently out of college or technical institute, got together at one end of the car and sang college songs. Carhart was sitting back, his feet up on the opposite seat, watching for the pines to thin out, and thinking of the endless gray chaparral and sage-brush which they would find about them in the morning,--if the train didn’t break down,--when he saw Tiffany’s big person balancing down the aisle toward him. Tiffany had been quiet a long time; now he had a story in his eye. “Well,” he said, as he slid down beside Carhart, “I knew the old gentleman would pull it off in time, but I never supposed he could make the Commodore pay the bills.” Carhart glanced up inquiringly. “Didn’t you hear about it? Well, say! I happen to know that a month ago Mr. De Reamer actually didn’t have the money to carry this work through. Even when Commodore Durfee started building for Red Hills, he didn’t know which way to turn. The Commodore, you know, hadn’t any notion of stopping with the H.D.& W.” “No,” said Carhart, “I didn’t suppose he had.” “He was after us, too--wanted to do the same as he did with the High and Dry, corner the stock.” Tiffany chuckled. “But he knew he’d have to corner Daniel De Reamer first. If he didn’t, the old gentleman would manufacture shares by the hundred thousand and pump ’em right into him. There’s the Paradise Southern,--that’s been a regular fountain of stock. You knew about that.” Carhart shook his head. “We passed through Paradise this noon.” “Yes, I know the line. It runs down from Paradise to Total Wreck. But I didn’t know it had anything to do with S. & W. capital stock.” “Didn’t, eh?” chuckled Tiffany. “Mr. De Reamer and Mr. Chambers own it, you know, and they’re directors in both lines. The old game was for them, as P. S. directors, to lease the short line to themselves as S. & W. directors. Then the S.& W. directors pay the P. S. directors--only they’re it both ways--in S. & W. stock. Don’t you see? And it’s only one of a dozen schemes. The old gentleman’s always ready for S. & W. buyers.” Carhart smiled. The car lurched and shivered. Such air as came in through the open door and windows was tainted with the gases of the locomotive, and with the mingled odors of the densely packed laborers in the cars ahead. “That’s really the only reason they’ve kept up the Paradise Southern--for there isn’t any business on the line. Well, as I was saying, the Commodore knew that the first thing he had to do was corner Mr. De Reamer, and keep him from creating stock. So he came down on him all at once, with a heap of injunctions and court orders. He did it thorough: restrained the S. & W. board from issuing any more stock, or from completing any of the transactions on hand, and temporarily suspended the old gentleman and Mr. Chambers, pending an investigation of their accounts, and ordered ’em to return to the treasury of the company the seventy thousand shares they created last year. There was a lot more, but that’s the gist of it. He did it through Waring and his other minority directors on the board. And right at the start, you see, when he began to buy, he made S. & W. stock so scarce that the price shot up.” “Seems as if he had sewed up the S. & W. pretty tight,” observed Carhart. “Didn’t it, though? But the Commodore didn’t know the old gentleman as well as he thought. Mr. De Reamer and Mr. Chambers got another judge to issue orders for them to do everything the Commodore’s judge forbid--tangled it all up so that everything they did or didn’t do, they’d be disobeying somebody, and leaving it for the judges to settle among themselves. Then they issued ten million dollars in convertible bonds to a dummy, representing themselves, turned ’em right into stock,--and tangled that transaction up so nobody in earth or heaven will ever know just exactly _what_ was done,--and sold ‘most seventy thousand shares of it to Commodore Durfee before he had a glimmer of where it was coming from. And then it was too late for him to stop buying, so he had to take in the whole hundred thousand shares. I heard Mr. Chambers say that when the Commodore found ’em out, he was so mad he couldn’t talk,--stormed stormed around his office trying to curse Daniel De Reamer, but he couldn’t even swear intelligent.” “So Mr. De Reamer beat him,” said Carhart. “Beat him?--I wonder--” “But that’s not all, surely. Commodore Durfee isn’t the man to swallow that.” “He _had_ to swallow it.--Oh, he did kick up some fuss, but it didn’t do him any good. His judge tried to jerk up our people for contempt, but they were warned and got out of Mr. De Reamer’s Broad Street office, and over into New Jersey with all the documents and money.” Tiffany’s good-humored eyes lighted up as his mind dwelt on the fight. Never was there a more loyal railroad man than this one. Daniel De Reamer was his king, and his king could do no wrong. “Not that they didn’t have some excitement getting away,” he continued. “They say,--mind, I don’t know this, but _they_ say that Mr. De Reamer’s secretary, young Crittenden, crossed the ferry in a cab with four million five hundred thousand dollars _in bills_--just tied up rough in bundles so they could be thrown around. And there you are,--Commodore Durfee is paying for this extension that’s going to cut him out of the C. & S. C. through business. The money and papers are out of his reach. The judges are fighting among themselves, and will be doing well if they ever come to a settlement. And now if that ain’t pretty slick business, I’d like to know what the word ‘slick’ means.” Carhart almost laughed aloud. He turned and looked out the window for a few moments. Finally he said, “If you have that straight, Tiffany, it’s undoubtedly the worst defeat Commodore Durfee ever had. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that the S. & W. is through with him.” “Maybe not,” Tiffany replied, “but I’ll bet proper on the old gentleman.” Carhart’s position as the engineer in charge of a thousand and more men would be not unlike that of a military commander who finds himself dependent for subsistence on five hundred miles of what Scribner called “very sketchy” single track. It would be more serious; for not only must food, and in the desert, water, be brought out over the line, but also the vast quantity of material needed in the work. It would be the business of Peet, as the working head of the operating department, to deliver the material from day to day, and week to week, at the end of the last completed section, where the working train would be made up each night for the construction work of the following day. If the existing track was sketchy, the new track would be worse. Everything was to be sacrificed to speed. The few bridges were to be thrown up hastily in the form of primitive wooden trestles. There would be no masonry, excepting the abutments of the La Paz bridge,--which masonry, or rather the stone for it, was about the only material they would find at hand. All the timber, even to the cross ties, would have to be shipped forward from the long-leaf-pine forests of eastern Texas and western Louisiana. Ordinarily, Carhart would not have relished undertaking such a hasty job; but in this case there were compensations. When he had first looked over the location maps, in Daniel De Reamer’s New York office, his quiet eyes had danced behind their spectacles; for it promised to be pretty work, in which a man could use his imagination. There was the bridge over the La Paz River, for instance. He should have to send a man out there with a long wagon train of materials, and with orders to have the bridge ready when the track should reach the river. He knew just the man--John B. Flint, who built the Desplaines bridge for the three I’s. He had not heard from John since the doctors had condemned his lungs, and ordered him to a sanatorium in the Adirondacks, and John had compromised by going West, and hanging that very difficult bridge between the walls of Brilliant Gorge in the Sierras. Carhart was not sure that he was still among the living; but a few searching telegrams brought out a characteristic message from John himself, to the effect that he was very much alive, and was ready to bridge the Grand Cañon of the Colorado at a word from Paul Carhart. Then there was always to be considered the broad outline of the situation as it was generally understood in the railway world. Details apart, it was known that Commodore Durfee and Daniel De Reamer were fighting for that through connection, and that old General Carrington,--czar of the C. & S. C., holder of one and owner of several other seats in the Senate of these United States, chairman of the National Committee of his party,--that General Carrington was sitting on the piazza of his country house in California, smoking good cigars and talking horse and waiting to see whether he should gobble Durfee or De Reamer, or both of them. For the general, too, was represented on the directorate of the Sherman and Western; and it was an open question whether his minority directors would continue to support the De Reamer interests or would be ordered to ally themselves with the Durfee men. Either way, there would be no sentiment wasted. But it seemed to Carhart that so long as De Reamer should be able to hold up his head in the fight General Carrington would probably stand behind him. Commodore Durfee was too big in the East to be encouraged in the West. And yet--there was no telling. It was very pretty indeed. Carhart was a quiet man, given more to study than to speech; but he liked pretty things. CHAPTER III AT MR. CARHART’S CAMP “It takes an Irishman, a nigger, and a mule to build a railroad,” said Tiffany. With Young Van, he was standing in front of the headquarters tent, which, together with the office tent for the first division, where Old Van would hold forth, and the living and mess tents for the engineers, was pitched on a knoll at a little distance from the track. “The mule,” he continued, “will do the work, the nigger will drive the mule, and the Irishman’ll boss ’em both.” Young Van, keyed up by this sudden plunge into frontier work, was only half listening to the flow of good-natured comment and reminiscence from the chief engineer at his elbow. He was looking at the steam-shrouded locomotive, and at the long line of cars stringing off in perspective behind it. Wagons were backed in against this and the few other trains which had come in during the day; other wagons were crawling about the track almost as far as he could see through the steam and the dust. Men on horseback--picturesque figures in wide-brimmed hats and blue shirts and snug-fitting boots laced to the knee--were riding in and out among the teams. The old track ended in the immediate foreground, and here old Van was at work with his young surveyors, looking up the old stakes and driving new ones to a line set by a solemn youngster with skinny hands and a long nose. Everywhere was noise--a babel of it--and toil and a hearty sort of chaos. One line of wagons--laden with scrapers, “slips” and “wheelers,” tents and camp equipage, the timbers and machinery of a pile-driver, and a thousand and one other things--was little by little extricating itself from the tangle, winding slowly past head-quarters, and on toward the low-lying, blood-red sun. This was the outfit of the second division, and Harry Scribner, riding a wiry black pony, was leading it into corral on “mile two,” preparatory to a start in the early morning. From the headquarters cook tent, behind the “office,” came savory odors. Farther down the knoll, near the big “boarding house” tents, the giant Flagg and the equally sturdy Charlie could be seen moving about a row of iron kettles which were swinging over an open fire. The chaos about the trains was straightening out, and the men were corralling the wagons, and unharnessing the mules and horses. The sun slipped down behind the low western hills, leaving a luminous memory in the far sky. In groups, and singly, the laborers--Mexicans, Italians, Louisiana French, broken plainsmen from everywhere, and negroes--came straggling by, their faces streaked with dust and sweat, the negroes laughing and singing as they lounged and shuffled along. Carhart, who had been dividing his attention between the unloading of the trains and the preparations of his division engineers, came riding up the knoll on “Texas,” his compact little roan, a horse he had ridden and boasted about in a quiet way for nearly four years. John Flint, thin and stooping of body, with a scrawny red mustache and high-pitched voice, soon rode in over the grade from the farther side of the right of way, where he was packing up his outfit for the long haul to the La Paz River. The instrument men and their assistants followed, one by one, and fell in line at the tin wash-basin, all exuberant with banter and laughter and high-spirited play. And at last the headquarters cook, a stout negro, came out in front of the mess tent and beat his gong with mighty strokes; and Harry Scribner, who was jogging back to camp from his corral, heard it, dug in his spurs, and came up the long knoll on the gallop. There was no escaping the joviality of this first evening meal in camp. In the morning the party would break up. Scribner would ride ahead a dozen miles to make a division camp of his own; John Flint would be pushing out there into the sunset for the better part of a week, across the desert, through the gray hills, and down to the yellow La Paz. The youngsters were shy at first; but after Tiffany had winked and said, “It’ll never do to start this dry, boys,” and had produced a bottle from some mysterious corner, they felt easier. Even Carhart, for the time, laid aside the burden which, like Christian, he must carry for many days. A good many stories were told, most of them by Tiffany, who had run the gamut of railroading, north, south, east, and west. “That was a great time we had up at Pittsburgh,” said he, “when I stole the gondola cars,”--he placed the accent on the _do_,--“best thing I ever did. That was when I was on the Almighty and Great Windy that used to run from Pittsburg up to the New York State line. I was acting as a sort of traffic superintendent, among other things,--we had to do all sorts of work then; no picking and choosing and no watching the clock for us.” He turned on the long-nosed instrument man. “That was when you were just about a promising candidate for long pants, my friend.” “We had a new general manager--named MacBayne. He didn’t know anything about railroading,--had been a telegraph operator and Durfee’s nephew,--yes, the same old Commodore, it was,--and, getting boosted up quick, that way, he got into that frame of mind where he wouldn’t ever have contradicted you if you’d said he _was_ the Almighty and Great Windy. First thing he did was to put in a system of bells to call us to his office,--but I didn’t care such a heap. He enjoyed it so. He’d lean back and pull a little handle, and then be too busy to talk when one of us came running in--loved to make us stand around a spell. Hadn’t but one eye, MacBayne hadn’t, and you never could tell for downright certain who he was swearing at. “The company had bought a little railroad, the P. G.--Pittsburg and Gulf,--for four hundred and fifty thousand. Just about such a line as our Paradise spur, only instead of the directors buying it personal, they’d bought it for the company. “One day my little bell tinkled, and I got up and went into the old man’s office. He was smoking a cigar and trying to look through a two-foot wall into Herb Williams’s pickle factory. Pretty soon he swung his one good eye around on me and looked at me sharp. ‘Hen,’ he said, ‘we’re in a fix. We haven’t paid but two hundred thousand on the P.G.--and what’s more, that’s all we can pay.’ “‘Well, sir,’ said I, ‘what’s the trouble?’ It’s funny--he’s always called me Hen, and I’ve always called him sir and Mister MacBayne. He ain’t anybody to-day, but if I went back to Pittsburg to-morrow and met him in Morrison’s place, he’d say, ‘Well, Hen, how’re you making it?’ and I’d say, ‘Pretty well, Mister MacBayne.’--Ain’t it funny? Can’t break away from it. “I’ve just had a wire from Black,’ said he,--Black was our attorney up at Buffalo,--‘saying that the sheriff of Erie County,’ over the line in New York State, ‘has attached all our gon_do_la cars up there, and won’t release ’em until we pay up. What’ll we do?’ “‘Hum!’ said I. ‘We’ve got just a hundred and twenty gon_do_las in Buffalo to-day.’ A hundred and twenty cars was a lot to us, you understand--just like it would be to the S. & W. Imagine what would happen to you fellows out here if Peet had that many cars taken away from him. So I thought a minute, and then I said, ‘Has the sheriff chained ’em to the track, Mister MacBayne?’ “‘I don’t know about that,’ said he. “‘Well,’ said I, ‘don’t you think it would be a good plan to find that out first thing?’ “He looked at me sharp, then he sort o’ grinned. ‘What’re you thinking about, Hen?’ he asked. “I didn’t answer direct. ‘You find that out,’ I told him, ‘and let me know what he says.’ “About an hour later the bell tinkle-winkled again. ‘No,’ he said, when I went in his office, ‘they ain’t chained down--not yet, anyway. Now, what’ll we do?’ “‘Why don’t you go up there?’ said I. ‘Hook your car on to No. 5’--that was our night express for Buffalo, a long string of oil and coal cars with a baggage car, coach, and sleeper on the end of it. It ran over our line and into Buffalo over the Southeastern. “‘All right, Hen,’ said he. ‘Will you go along?’ “‘Sure,’ I told him. “On our way out we picked up Charlie Greenman too. He was superintendent of the State Line Division--tall, thin man, very nervous, Charlie was. “Next morning, when we were sitting over our breakfast in the Swift House, the old man turned his good eye on me and said, ‘Well, Hen, what next?’ I’d brought him up there, you see, and now he was looking for results. “‘Well,’ said I, speaking slow and sort of thinking it over, ‘look here, Mister MacBayne, why don’t you get a horse and buggy and look around the city? They say it’s a pretty place. Or you could pick up a boat, you and Charlie, and go sailing on Lake Erie. Or you might run over and see the falls--Ever been there?’ “The old man was looking on both sides of me with those two eyes of his. ‘What are you up to, Hen?’ he said. “‘Nothing,’ I answered, ‘not a thing. But say, Mister MacBayne, I forgot to bring any money. Let me have a little, will you,--about a hundred and fifty?’ “When I said that, the old man gulped, and looked almost scared. I saw then, just what I’d suspected, that he wouldn’t be the least use to me. I’d ‘a’ done better to have left him behind. ‘Why, yes, Hen,’ said he, ‘I can let you have that!’ He went out, and pretty soon he came back with the money in a big roll of small bills. “‘Well, good morning, gentlemen,’ said I. ‘I’ll see you at five o’clock this afternoon.’ “I went right out to the Erie yards, where they were unloading twenty-two of our coal cars. Jim Harvey was standing near by, and he gave me a queer look, and asked me what I was doing in Buffalo. “‘Doing?’ said I, ‘I’m looking after my cars. What did you suppose? And see here, Jim, while you were about it, don’t you think you might have put ’em together. Here you’ve got twenty-two of ’em, and there’s forty over at the Lake Shore, and a lot more in Chaplin’s yards? There ain’t but one of me--however do you suppose I’m going to watch ’em all, even see that the boys keep oil in the boxes?’ ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said he. “‘Well now, look here, Jim,’ said I, ‘how many more of these cars have you got to unload?’ ‘Twelve,’ said he. ‘How soon can you get it done--that’s my question?’ ‘Oh, I’ll finish it up to-morrow morning.’ ‘Well, now, Jim,’ said I, ‘I want you to put on a couple of extra wagons and get these cars emptied by five o’clock this afternoon. Then I want you to get all our cars together over there in Chaplin’s yards, where I can keep an eye on ’em!’ ‘Oh, see here,’ said he, ‘I can’t do that, Hen. The sheriff--’ “‘Damn the sheriff,’ said I. ‘I ain’t going to hurt the sheriff. What I want is to get my cars together where I can know what’s being done to ’em.’ “Well, he didn’t want to do it, but some of the long green passed and then he thought maybe he could fix me up. There was a lot of other things I had to do that day--and a lot of other men to see. The despatcher for the Buffalo and Southwestern was one of ’em. Then at five o’clock, or a little before, I floated into the Swift House office and there were MacBayne and Charlie Greenman sitting around waiting for me. The old man had his watch in his hand. Charlie was walking up and down, very nervous. I came up sort of offhand and said:-- “‘Charlie, I want two of your biggest and strongest engines, and I want ’em up in Chaplin’s yard as soon as you can get ’em there.’ “‘What,’ said he, ‘on a foreign road?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, offhand like. Then I turned to the old man. ‘Now, Mister MacBayne,’ said I, ‘I want you to tell Charlie here that when those engines pass out of his division, they come absolutely under my control.’ “‘Oh, that’s all right, Hen,’ said Charlie, speaking up breathless. “‘Yes, I know it is,’ said I, ‘but I want you to hear Mister MacBayne say it. Remember, when those engines leave your division, they belong to me until I see fit to bring ’em back.’ “The old man was looking queerer than ever. ‘See here, Hen,’ said he, ‘what devilment are you up to, anyway?’ “‘Nothing at all,’ said I. ‘I just want two engines. You can’t run a railroad without engines, Mister MacBayne.’ “‘Well,’ said he, then, ‘how about me--what do you want of me?’ “‘Why, I’ll tell you,’ said I. ‘Why don’t you hook your car on to No. 6 and go back to Pittsburg to-night?’ You should have seen his good eye light up at that. Getting out of the state suited him about as well as anything just then, and he didn’t lose any time about it. When he had gone, Charlie said:-- “‘Now, Hen, for heaven’s sake, tell me what you’re up to?’ “‘Not a bit of it,’ said I. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours. You belong back on your division.’ “‘Well, I ain’t going,’ said he. ‘I’m going wherever you go to-night.’ “‘All right,’ said I; ‘I’m going to Shelby’s vaudeville.’ “That surprised him. But he didn’t say anything more. You remember old Shelby’s show there. I always used to go when I was in Buffalo of an evening. “But about 11:30, when the show was over, Charlie began to get nervous again. ‘Well, Hen,’ he said, ‘where next?’ “‘I don’t know about you,’ said I, ‘but I’m going to stroll out to Chaplin’s yard before I turn in, and take a look at our cars. You’d better go to bed.’ “‘Not a bit of it,’ he broke out. ‘I’m going with you.’ “‘All right,’ said I, ‘come along. It’s a fine night.’ “Well, gentlemen, when we got out to the yards, there were our cars in two long lines on parallel tracks, seventy on one track and fifty on another--one thing bothered me, they were broken in four places at street crossings--and on the two next tracks beside them were Charlie’s two engines, steam up and headlights lighted. And, say, you never saw anything quite like it! The boys they’d sent with the engines weren’t anybody’s fools, and they had on about three hundred pounds of steam apiece--blowing off there with a noise you could hear for a mile, but the boys themselves weren’t saying a word; they were sitting around smoking their pipes, quiet as seven Sabbaths. “When Charlie saw this laid out right before his eyes, he took frightened all of a sudden--his knees were going like that. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the shadow. “‘Hen, for heaven’s sake, let’s get out of here quick. This means the penitentiary.’ “‘You can go,’ said I. ‘I didn’t invite you to the party.’ “Right beside the tracks there was a watch-box, shut up as if there wasn’t anybody in it, but I could see the light coming out at the top. It was going to be ticklish business, I knew that. We had to haul out over a drawbridge, for one thing, to get out of the yards, and then whistle for the switch over to the southwestern tracks. Had to use the signals of the other roads, too. But I was in for it. “‘Well, Hen,’ said Charlie, ‘if you’re going to do it, what in ---- are you standing around for now?’ “‘Got to wait for the Lake Shore Express to go through,’ said I. “Charlie sort of groaned at this and for an hour we sat there and waited. I tried to talk about the oil explosion down by Titusville, but Charlie, somehow, wasn’t interested. All the while those engines were blowing off tremendous, and the crews were sitting around just smoking steady. “Finally, at one o’clock, I went over to the engineer of the first engine. ‘How many men have you got?’ said I. “‘Four brakemen,’ he said, ‘each of us.’ “‘All right,’ said I. ‘I guess I don’t need to tell you what to do.’ “They all heard me, and say, you ought to have seen them jump up. The engineer was up and on his engine before I got through talking; and he just went a-flying down the yard, whistling for the switch. The four brakemen ran back along the fifty-car string. You see they had to couple up at those four crossings and that was the part I didn’t like a bit. But I couldn’t help it. The engineer came a-backing down very rapid, and bumped that front car as if he wanted to telescope it. “Well, sir, they did it--coupled up, link and pin. The engineer was leaning ‘way out the window, and he didn’t wait very long after getting the signal, before he was a-hiking it down the yard, tooting his whistle for the draw. Heaven only knows what might have happened, but nothing did. He got over the draw all right with his fifty cars going clickety--clickety--clickety behind him, and then I could see his rear lights and hear him whistling for the switch over to the southwestern tracks. Then I gave the signal for the other engine. Charlie, all this time, was getting worse and worse. He was leaning up against me now, just naturally hanging on to me, looking like a somnambulist. You could hear his knees batting each other. And the engineer of that second engine turned out to be in the same fix. He was so excited he never waited for the signal that the cars were all coupled up, and he started up with a terrific toot of his whistle and a yank on the couplings, leaving thirty cars and one brakeman behind. But I knew it would never do to call him back. “Well, now, here is where it happened. That whistle was enough to wake the sleeping saints. And just as the train got fairly going for the draw, tooting all the way, the door of that watch-box burst open and three policemen men came running out, hard as they could run. Of course there was only one thing to do, and that’s just the thing that Charlie Greenman didn’t do. He turned and ran in the general direction of the Swift House as fast as those long legs of his could carry him. Two of the officers ran after him and the other came for me. I yelled to Charlie to stop, but he’d got to a point where he couldn’t hear anything. The other officer came running with his night-stick in the air, but my Scotch-Irish was rising, and I threw up my guard. “‘Don’t you touch me,’ I yelled; ‘don’t you touch me!’ “‘Well, come along, then,’ said he. “‘Not a bit of it,’ said I. ‘I’ve nothing to do with you.’ “‘Well, you ran,’ he yelled; ‘you ran!’ “I just looked at him. ‘Do you call this running?’ said I. “‘Well,’ said he, ‘the other fellow ran.’ “‘All right,’ said I, ‘we’ll run after him.’ So we did. Pretty soon they caught Charlie. And I was a bit nervous, for I didn’t know what he might say. But he was too scared to say anything. So I turned to the officer. “‘Now,’ said I, ‘suppose you tell us what it is you want?’ “‘We want you,’ said one of them. “‘No, you don’t,’ said I. “‘Yes, we do,’ said he. “It seemed to be getting time for some bluffing, so I hit right out. ‘Where’s your headquarters?’ said I. “‘Right over here,’ said he. “‘All right,’ said I, ‘that’s where we’re going, right now. We’ll see if two railroad men can’t walk through Chaplin’s yards whenever they feel like it.’ “And all the while we were talking I could hear that second train a-whooping it up for the state line--clickety--clickety--whoo-oo-oo! --clickety--clickety--getting fainter and fainter. “There was a big captain dozing on a bench in the station house. When he saw us come in, he climbed up behind his desk so he could look down on us--they like to look down at you, you know. “‘Well, Captain,’ said the officer, ‘we’ve got ’em.’ “‘Yes,’ the captain answered, looking down with a grin, ‘I think you
was going to say to you. MIRA. I thank you heartily, heartily. WIT. No, but prithee excuse me:—my memory is such a memory. MIRA. Have a care of such apologies, Witwoud; for I never knew a fool but he affected to complain either of the spleen or his memory. FAIN. What have you done with Petulant? WIT. He’s reckoning his money; my money it was: I have no luck to-day. FAIN. You may allow him to win of you at play, for you are sure to be too hard for him at repartee: since you monopolise the wit that is between you, the fortune must be his of course. MIRA. I don’t find that Petulant confesses the superiority of wit to be your talent, Witwoud. WIT. Come, come, you are malicious now, and would breed debates. Petulant’s my friend, and a very honest fellow, and a very pretty fellow, and has a smattering—faith and troth, a pretty deal of an odd sort of a small wit: nay, I’ll do him justice. I’m his friend, I won’t wrong him. And if he had any judgment in the world, he would not be altogether contemptible. Come, come, don’t detract from the merits of my friend. FAIN. You don’t take your friend to be over-nicely bred? WIT. No, no, hang him, the rogue has no manners at all, that I must own; no more breeding than a bum-baily, that I grant you:—’tis pity; the fellow has fire and life. MIRA. What, courage? WIT. Hum, faith, I don’t know as to that, I can’t say as to that. Yes, faith, in a controversy he’ll contradict anybody. MIRA. Though ’twere a man whom he feared or a woman whom he loved. WIT. Well, well, he does not always think before he speaks. We have all our failings; you are too hard upon him, you are, faith. Let me excuse him,—I can defend most of his faults, except one or two; one he has, that’s the truth on’t,—if he were my brother I could not acquit him—that indeed I could wish were otherwise. MIRA. Ay, marry, what’s that, Witwoud? WIT. Oh, pardon me. Expose the infirmities of my friend? No, my dear, excuse me there. FAIN. What, I warrant he’s unsincere, or ’tis some such trifle. WIT. No, no; what if he be? ’Tis no matter for that, his wit will excuse that. A wit should no more be sincere than a woman constant: one argues a decay of parts, as t’other of beauty. MIRA. Maybe you think him too positive? WIT. No, no; his being positive is an incentive to argument, and keeps up conversation. FAIN. Too illiterate? WIT. That? That’s his happiness. His want of learning gives him the more opportunities to show his natural parts. MIRA. He wants words? WIT. Ay; but I like him for that now: for his want of words gives me the pleasure very often to explain his meaning. FAIN. He’s impudent? WIT. No that’s not it. MIRA. Vain? WIT. No. MIRA. What, he speaks unseasonable truths sometimes, because he has not wit enough to invent an evasion? WIT. Truths? Ha, ha, ha! No, no, since you will have it, I mean he never speaks truth at all, that’s all. He will lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of quality’s porter. Now that is a fault. SCENE VII. [_To them_] COACHMAN. COACH. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? BET. Yes. COACH. Three gentlewomen in a coach would speak with him. FAIN. O brave Petulant! Three! BET. I’ll tell him. COACH. You must bring two dishes of chocolate and a glass of cinnamon water. SCENE VIII. MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD. WIT. That should be for two fasting strumpets, and a bawd troubled with wind. Now you may know what the three are. MIRA. You are very free with your friend’s acquaintance. WIT. Ay, ay; friendship without freedom is as dull as love without enjoyment or wine without toasting: but to tell you a secret, these are trulls whom he allows coach-hire, and something more by the week, to call on him once a day at public places. MIRA. How! WIT. You shall see he won’t go to ’em because there’s no more company here to take notice of him. Why, this is nothing to what he used to do:—before he found out this way, I have known him call for himself— FAIN. Call for himself? What dost thou mean? WIT. Mean? Why he would slip you out of this chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to him. As soon as your back was turned—whip he was gone; then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice; where he would send in for himself; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself, nay, and what’s more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself. MIRA. I confess this is something extraordinary. I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a coming; oh, I ask his pardon. SCENE IX. PETULANT, MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD, BETTY. BET. Sir, the coach stays. PET. Well, well, I come. ’Sbud, a man had as good be a professed midwife as a professed whoremaster, at this rate; to be knocked up and raised at all hours, and in all places. Pox on ’em, I won’t come. D’ye hear, tell ’em I won’t come. Let ’em snivel and cry their hearts out. FAIN. You are very cruel, Petulant. PET. All’s one, let it pass. I have a humour to be cruel. MIRA. I hope they are not persons of condition that you use at this rate. PET. Condition? Condition’s a dried fig, if I am not in humour. By this hand, if they were your—a—a—your what-d’ee-call-’ems themselves, they must wait or rub off, if I want appetite. MIRA. What-d’ee-call-’ems! What are they, Witwoud? WIT. Empresses, my dear. By your what-d’ee-call-’ems he means Sultana Queens. PET. Ay, Roxolanas. MIRA. Cry you mercy. FAIN. Witwoud says they are— PET. What does he say th’are? WIT. I? Fine ladies, I say. PET. Pass on, Witwoud. Harkee, by this light, his relations—two co-heiresses his cousins, and an old aunt, who loves cater-wauling better than a conventicle. WIT. Ha, ha, ha! I had a mind to see how the rogue would come off. Ha, ha, ha! Gad, I can’t be angry with him, if he had said they were my mother and my sisters. MIRA. No? WIT. No; the rogue’s wit and readiness of invention charm me, dear Petulant. BET. They are gone, sir, in great anger. PET. Enough, let ’em trundle. Anger helps complexion, saves paint. FAIN. This continence is all dissembled; this is in order to have something to brag of the next time he makes court to Millamant, and swear he has abandoned the whole sex for her sake. MIRA. Have you not left off your impudent pretensions there yet? I shall cut your throat, sometime or other, Petulant, about that business. PET. Ay, ay, let that pass. There are other throats to be cut. MIRA. Meaning mine, sir? PET. Not I—I mean nobody—I know nothing. But there are uncles and nephews in the world—and they may be rivals. What then? All’s one for that. MIRA. How? Harkee, Petulant, come hither. Explain, or I shall call your interpreter. PET. Explain? I know nothing. Why, you have an uncle, have you not, lately come to town, and lodges by my Lady Wishfort’s? MIRA. True. PET. Why, that’s enough. You and he are not friends; and if he should marry and have a child, yon may be disinherited, ha! MIRA. Where hast thou stumbled upon all this truth? PET. All’s one for that; why, then, say I know something. MIRA. Come, thou art an honest fellow, Petulant, and shalt make love to my mistress, thou shalt, faith. What hast thou heard of my uncle? PET. I? Nothing, I. If throats are to be cut, let swords clash. Snug’s the word; I shrug and am silent. MIRA. Oh, raillery, raillery! Come, I know thou art in the women’s secrets. What, you’re a cabalist; I know you stayed at Millamant’s last night after I went. Was there any mention made of my uncle or me? Tell me; if thou hadst but good nature equal to thy wit, Petulant, Tony Witwoud, who is now thy competitor in fame, would show as dim by thee as a dead whiting’s eye by a pearl of orient; he would no more be seen by thee than Mercury is by the sun: come, I’m sure thou wo’t tell me. PET. If I do, will you grant me common sense, then, for the future? MIRA. Faith, I’ll do what I can for thee, and I’ll pray that heav’n may grant it thee in the meantime. PET. Well, harkee. FAIN. Petulant and you both will find Mirabell as warm a rival as a lover. WIT. Pshaw, pshaw, that she laughs at Petulant is plain. And for my part, but that it is almost a fashion to admire her, I should—harkee—to tell you a secret, but let it go no further between friends, I shall never break my heart for her. FAIN. How? WIT. She’s handsome; but she’s a sort of an uncertain woman. FAIN. I thought you had died for her. WIT. Umh—no— FAIN. She has wit. WIT. ’Tis what she will hardly allow anybody else. Now, demme, I should hate that, if she were as handsome as Cleopatra. Mirabell is not so sure of her as he thinks for. FAIN. Why do you think so? WIT. We stayed pretty late there last night, and heard something of an uncle to Mirabell, who is lately come to town, and is between him and the best part of his estate. Mirabell and he are at some distance, as my Lady Wishfort has been told; and you know she hates Mirabell worse than a quaker hates a parrot, or than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. Whether this uncle has seen Mrs. Millamant or not, I cannot say; but there were items of such a treaty being in embryo; and if it should come to life, poor Mirabell would be in some sort unfortunately fobbed, i’faith. FAIN. ’Tis impossible Millamant should hearken to it. WIT. Faith, my dear, I can’t tell; she’s a woman and a kind of a humorist. MIRA. And this is the sum of what you could collect last night? PET. The quintessence. Maybe Witwoud knows more; he stayed longer. Besides, they never mind him; they say anything before him. MIRA. I thought you had been the greatest favourite. PET. Ay, tête-à-tête; but not in public, because I make remarks. MIRA. You do? PET. Ay, ay, pox, I’m malicious, man. Now he’s soft, you know, they are not in awe of him. The fellow’s well bred, he’s what you call a—what d’ye-call-’em—a fine gentleman, but he’s silly withal. MIRA. I thank you, I know as much as my curiosity requires. Fainall, are you for the Mall? FAIN. Ay, I’ll take a turn before dinner. WIT. Ay, we’ll all walk in the park; the ladies talked of being there. MIRA. I thought you were obliged to watch for your brother Sir Wilfull’s arrival. WIT. No, no, he comes to his aunt’s, my Lady Wishfort; pox on him, I shall be troubled with him too; what shall I do with the fool? PET. Beg him for his estate, that I may beg you afterwards, and so have but one trouble with you both. WIT. O rare Petulant, thou art as quick as fire in a frosty morning; thou shalt to the Mall with us, and we’ll be very severe. PET. Enough; I’m in a humour to be severe. MIRA. Are you? Pray then walk by yourselves. Let not us be accessory to your putting the ladies out of countenance with your senseless ribaldry, which you roar out aloud as often as they pass by you, and when you have made a handsome woman blush, then you think you have been severe. PET. What, what? Then let ’em either show their innocence by not understanding what they hear, or else show their discretion by not hearing what they would not be thought to understand. MIRA. But hast not thou then sense enough to know that thou ought’st to be most ashamed thyself when thou hast put another out of countenance? PET. Not I, by this hand: I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt or ill-breeding. MIRA. I confess you ought to think so. You are in the right, that you may plead the error of your judgment in defence of your practice. Where modesty’s ill manners, ’tis but fit That impudence and malice pass for wit. ACT II.—SCENE I. _St. James’s Park_. MRS. FAINALL _and_ MRS. MARWOOD. MRS. FAIN. Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we will be happy, we must find the means in ourselves, and among ourselves. Men are ever in extremes; either doting or averse. While they are lovers, if they have fire and sense, their jealousies are insupportable: and when they cease to love (we ought to think at least) they loathe, they look upon us with horror and distaste, they meet us like the ghosts of what we were, and as from such, fly from us. MRS. MAR. True, ’tis an unhappy circumstance of life that love should ever die before us, and that the man so often should outlive the lover. But say what you will, ’tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old. For my part, my youth may wear and waste, but it shall never rust in my possession. MRS. FAIN. Then it seems you dissemble an aversion to mankind only in compliance to my mother’s humour. MRS. MAR. Certainly. To be free, I have no taste of those insipid dry discourses with which our sex of force must entertain themselves apart from men. We may affect endearments to each other, profess eternal friendships, and seem to dote like lovers; but ’tis not in our natures long to persevere. Love will resume his empire in our breasts, and every heart, or soon or late, receive and readmit him as its lawful tyrant. MRS. FAIN. Bless me, how have I been deceived! Why, you profess a libertine. MRS. MAR. You see my friendship by my freedom. Come, be as sincere, acknowledge that your sentiments agree with mine. MRS. FAIN. Never. MRS. MAR. You hate mankind? MRS. FAIN. Heartily, inveterately. MRS. MAR. Your husband? MRS. FAIN. Most transcendently; ay, though I say it, meritoriously. MRS. MAR. Give me your hand upon it. MRS. FAIN. There. MRS. MAR. I join with you; what I have said has been to try you. MRS. FAIN. Is it possible? Dost thou hate those vipers, men? MRS. MAR. I have done hating ’em, and am now come to despise ’em; the next thing I have to do is eternally to forget ’em. MRS. FAIN. There spoke the spirit of an Amazon, a Penthesilea. MRS. MAR. And yet I am thinking sometimes to carry my aversion further. MRS. FAIN. How? MRS. MAR. Faith, by marrying; if I could but find one that loved me very well, and would be throughly sensible of ill usage, I think I should do myself the violence of undergoing the ceremony. MRS. FAIN. You would not make him a cuckold? MRS. MAR. No; but I’d make him believe I did, and that’s as bad. MRS. FAIN. Why had not you as good do it? MRS. MAR. Oh, if he should ever discover it, he would then know the worst, and be out of his pain; but I would have him ever to continue upon the rack of fear and jealousy. MRS. FAIN. Ingenious mischief! Would thou wert married to Mirabell. MRS. MAR. Would I were. MRS. FAIN. You change colour. MRS. MAR. Because I hate him. MRS. FAIN. So do I; but I can hear him named. But what reason have you to hate him in particular? MRS. MAR. I never loved him; he is, and always was, insufferably proud. MRS. FAIN. By the reason you give for your aversion, one would think it dissembled; for you have laid a fault to his charge, of which his enemies must acquit him. MRS. MAR. Oh, then it seems you are one of his favourable enemies. Methinks you look a little pale, and now you flush again. MRS. FAIN. Do I? I think I am a little sick o’ the sudden. MRS. MAR. What ails you? MRS. FAIN. My husband. Don’t you see him? He turned short upon me unawares, and has almost overcome me. SCENE II. [_To them_] FAINALL _and_ MIRABELL. MRS. MAR. Ha, ha, ha! he comes opportunely for you. MRS. FAIN. For you, for he has brought Mirabell with him. FAIN. My dear. MRS. FAIN. My soul. FAIN. You don’t look well to-day, child. MRS. FAIN. D’ye think so? MIRA. He is the only man that does, madam. MRS. FAIN. The only man that would tell me so at least, and the only man from whom I could hear it without mortification. FAIN. Oh, my dear, I am satisfied of your tenderness; I know you cannot resent anything from me; especially what is an effect of my concern. MRS. FAIN. Mr. Mirabell, my mother interrupted you in a pleasant relation last night: I would fain hear it out. MIRA. The persons concerned in that affair have yet a tolerable reputation. I am afraid Mr. Fainall will be censorious. MRS. FAIN. He has a humour more prevailing than his curiosity, and will willingly dispense with the hearing of one scandalous story, to avoid giving an occasion to make another by being seen to walk with his wife. This way, Mr. Mirabell, and I dare promise you will oblige us both. SCENE III. FAINALL, MRS. MARWOOD. FAIN. Excellent creature! Well, sure, if I should live to be rid of my wife, I should be a miserable man. MRS. MAR. Ay? FAIN. For having only that one hope, the accomplishment of it of consequence must put an end to all my hopes, and what a wretch is he who must survive his hopes! Nothing remains when that day comes but to sit down and weep like Alexander when he wanted other worlds to conquer. MRS. MAR. Will you not follow ’em? FAIN. Faith, I think not, MRS. MAR. Pray let us; I have a reason. FAIN. You are not jealous? MRS. MAR. Of whom? FAIN. Of Mirabell. MRS. MAR. If I am, is it inconsistent with my love to you that I am tender of your honour? FAIN. You would intimate then, as if there were a fellow-feeling between my wife and him? MRS. MAR. I think she does not hate him to that degree she would be thought. FAIN. But he, I fear, is too insensible. MRS. MAR. It may be you are deceived. FAIN. It may be so. I do not now begin to apprehend it. MRS. MAR. What? FAIN. That I have been deceived, madam, and you are false. MRS. MAR. That I am false? What mean you? FAIN. To let you know I see through all your little arts.—Come, you both love him, and both have equally dissembled your aversion. Your mutual jealousies of one another have made you clash till you have both struck fire. I have seen the warm confession red’ning on your cheeks, and sparkling from your eyes. MRS. MAR. You do me wrong. FAIN. I do not. ’Twas for my ease to oversee and wilfully neglect the gross advances made him by my wife, that by permitting her to be engaged, I might continue unsuspected in my pleasures, and take you oftener to my arms in full security. But could you think, because the nodding husband would not wake, that e’er the watchful lover slept? MRS. MAR. And wherewithal can you reproach me? FAIN. With infidelity, with loving another, with love of Mirabell. MRS. MAR. ’Tis false. I challenge you to show an instance that can confirm your groundless accusation. I hate him. FAIN. And wherefore do you hate him? He is insensible, and your resentment follows his neglect. An instance? The injuries you have done him are a proof: your interposing in his love. What cause had you to make discoveries of his pretended passion? To undeceive the credulous aunt, and be the officious obstacle of his match with Millamant? MRS. MAR. My obligations to my lady urged me: I had professed a friendship to her, and could not see her easy nature so abused by that dissembler. FAIN. What, was it conscience then? Professed a friendship! Oh, the pious friendships of the female sex! MRS. MAR. More tender, more sincere, and more enduring, than all the vain and empty vows of men, whether professing love to us or mutual faith to one another. FAIN. Ha, ha, ha! you are my wife’s friend too. MRS. MAR. Shame and ingratitude! Do you reproach me? You, you upbraid me? Have I been false to her, through strict fidelity to you, and sacrificed my friendship to keep my love inviolate? And have you the baseness to charge me with the guilt, unmindful of the merit? To you it should be meritorious that I have been vicious. And do you reflect that guilt upon me which should lie buried in your bosom? FAIN. You misinterpret my reproof. I meant but to remind you of the slight account you once could make of strictest ties when set in competition with your love to me. MRS. MAR. ’Tis false, you urged it with deliberate malice. ’Twas spoke in scorn, and I never will forgive it. FAIN. Your guilt, not your resentment, begets your rage. If yet you loved, you could forgive a jealousy: but you are stung to find you are discovered. MRS. MAR. It shall be all discovered. You too shall be discovered; be sure you shall. I can but be exposed. If I do it myself I shall prevent your baseness. FAIN. Why, what will you do? MRS. MAR. Disclose it to your wife; own what has past between us. FAIN. Frenzy! MRS. MAR. By all my wrongs I’ll do’t. I’ll publish to the world the injuries you have done me, both in my fame and fortune: with both I trusted you, you bankrupt in honour, as indigent of wealth. FAIN. Your fame I have preserved. Your fortune has been bestowed as the prodigality of your love would have it, in pleasures which we both have shared. Yet, had not you been false I had e’er this repaid it. ’Tis true—had you permitted Mirabell with Millamant to have stolen their marriage, my lady had been incensed beyond all means of reconcilement: Millamant had forfeited the moiety of her fortune, which then would have descended to my wife. And wherefore did I marry but to make lawful prize of a rich widow’s wealth, and squander it on love and you? MRS. MAR. Deceit and frivolous pretence! FAIN. Death, am I not married? What’s pretence? Am I not imprisoned, fettered? Have I not a wife? Nay, a wife that was a widow, a young widow, a handsome widow, and would be again a widow, but that I have a heart of proof, and something of a constitution to bustle through the ways of wedlock and this world. Will you yet be reconciled to truth and me? MRS. MAR. Impossible. Truth and you are inconsistent.—I hate you, and shall for ever. FAIN. For loving you? MRS. MAR. I loathe the name of love after such usage; and next to the guilt with which you would asperse me, I scorn you most. Farewell. FAIN. Nay, we must not part thus. MRS. MAR. Let me go. FAIN. Come, I’m sorry. MRS. MAR. I care not. Let me go. Break my hands, do—I’d leave ’em to get loose. FAIN. I would not hurt you for the world. Have I no other hold to keep you here? MRS. MAR. Well, I have deserved it all. FAIN. You know I love you. MRS. MAR. Poor dissembling! Oh, that—well, it is not yet— FAIN. What? What is it not? What is it not yet? It is not yet too late— MRS. MAR. No, it is not yet too late—I have that comfort. FAIN. It is, to love another. MRS. MAR. But not to loathe, detest, abhor mankind, myself, and the whole treacherous world. FAIN. Nay, this is extravagance. Come, I ask your pardon. No tears—I was to blame, I could not love you and be easy in my doubts. Pray forbear—I believe you; I’m convinced I’ve done you wrong; and any way, every way will make amends: I’ll hate my wife yet more, damn her, I’ll part with her, rob her of all she’s worth, and we’ll retire somewhere, anywhere, to another world; I’ll marry thee—be pacified.—’Sdeath, they come: hide your face, your tears. You have a mask: wear it a moment. This way, this way: be persuaded. SCENE IV. MIRABELL _and_ MRS. FAINALL. MRS. FAIN. They are here yet. MIRA. They are turning into the other walk. MRS. FAIN. While I only hated my husband, I could bear to see him; but since I have despised him, he’s too offensive. MIRA. Oh, you should hate with prudence. MRS. FAIN. Yes, for I have loved with indiscretion. MIRA. You should have just so much disgust for your husband as may be sufficient to make you relish your lover. MRS. FAIN. You have been the cause that I have loved without bounds, and would you set limits to that aversion of which you have been the occasion? Why did you make me marry this man? MIRA. Why do we daily commit disagreeable and dangerous actions? To save that idol, reputation. If the familiarities of our loves had produced that consequence of which you were apprehensive, where could you have fixed a father’s name with credit but on a husband? I knew Fainall to be a man lavish of his morals, an interested and professing friend, a false and a designing lover, yet one whose wit and outward fair behaviour have gained a reputation with the town, enough to make that woman stand excused who has suffered herself to be won by his addresses. A better man ought not to have been sacrificed to the occasion; a worse had not answered to the purpose. When you are weary of him you know your remedy. MRS. FAIN. I ought to stand in some degree of credit with you, Mirabell. MIRA. In justice to you, I have made you privy to my whole design, and put it in your power to ruin or advance my fortune. MRS. FAIN. Whom have you instructed to represent your pretended uncle? MIRA. Waitwell, my servant. MRS. FAIN. He is an humble servant to Foible, my mother’s woman, and may win her to your interest. MIRA. Care is taken for that. She is won and worn by this time. They were married this morning. MRS. FAIN. Who? MIRA. Waitwell and Foible. I would not tempt my servant to betray me by trusting him too far. If your mother, in hopes to ruin me, should consent to marry my pretended uncle, he might, like Mosca in the _Fox_, stand upon terms; so I made him sure beforehand. MRS. FAIN. So, if my poor mother is caught in a contract, you will discover the imposture betimes, and release her by producing a certificate of her gallant’s former marriage. MIRA. Yes, upon condition that she consent to my marriage with her niece, and surrender the moiety of her fortune in her possession. MRS. FAIN. She talked last night of endeavouring at a match between Millamant and your uncle. MIRA. That was by Foible’s direction and my instruction, that she might seem to carry it more privately. MRS. FAIN. Well, I have an opinion of your success, for I believe my lady will do anything to get an husband; and when she has this, which you have provided for her, I suppose she will submit to anything to get rid of him. MIRA. Yes, I think the good lady would marry anything that resembled a man, though ’twere no more than what a butler could pinch out of a napkin. MRS. FAIN. Female frailty! We must all come to it, if we live to be old, and feel the craving of a false appetite when the true is decayed. MIRA. An old woman’s appetite is depraved like that of a girl. ’Tis the green-sickness of a second childhood, and, like the faint offer of a latter spring, serves but to usher in the fall, and withers in an affected bloom. MRS. FAIN. Here’s your mistress. SCENE V. [_To them_] MRS. MILLAMANT, WITWOUD, MINCING. MIRA. Here she comes, i’faith, full sail, with her fan spread and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders.—Ha, no, I cry her mercy. MRS. FAIN. I see but one poor empty sculler, and he tows her woman after him. MIRA. You seem to be unattended, madam. You used to have the _beau monde_ throng after you, and a flock of gay fine perukes hovering round you. WIT. Like moths about a candle. I had like to have lost my comparison for want of breath. MILLA. Oh, I have denied myself airs to-day. I have walked as fast through the crowd— WIT. As a favourite just disgraced, and with as few followers. MILLA. Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes, for I am as sick of ’em— WIT. As a physician of a good air. I cannot help it, madam, though ’tis against myself. MILLA. Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit. WIT. Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I confess I do blaze to-day; I am too bright. MRS. FAIN. But, dear Millamant, why were you so long? MILLA. Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have asked every living thing I met for you; I have enquired after you, as after a new fashion. WIT. Madam, truce with your similitudes.—No, you met her husband, and did not ask him for her. MIRA. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old fashion to ask a husband for his wife. WIT. Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit; I confess it. MRS. FAIN. You were dressed before I came abroad. MILLA. Ay, that’s true.
serve this oak coffin, pronounced to be not less than two thousand years old; and those pieces of woollen cloth of the same date. Look at that skeleton of a stag’s head, discovered in the peat. “There is nothing in that,” says an Hibernian, fresh from Dublin. “Did you ever see the great fossil elk in Trinity College Museum?” Ay! but there is something more interesting about this stag’s head, nevertheless. Examine it closely. Imbedded in the bone of the jaw, see, there is a flint arrow-head; the bow that sped that arrow must have been pulled by a nervous arm. This “stag that from the hunter’s aim had taken some hurt,” perhaps retreated into a sequestered bog to languish, and sunk, by his weight, into the bituminous peat, and was thus embalmed by nature as a monument of a very early and rude period. Presently we get among the gold ornaments. There the Irishman is completely “shut up.” “The Museum of Trinity College,” and “Museum of the Royal Irish Academy,” are beaten hollow. Nay, to leave no room for boasting, facsimiles of the gold head and neck ornaments in Dublin are actually placed here side by side with those discovered in Denmark. The weight of some of the armlets and necklets is astonishing. Here is a great gold ring, big enough for the waist; but it has no division, like the armlets, to enable the wearer to expand it, and fit it to the body; moreover, the inner side presents a sharp edge, such as would inconvenience a human wearer. “That,” said Professor Thomsen, seeing our difficulty, “must have been the waistband of an idol; which, as there was no necessity for taking it off, must have been soldered fast together, after it had once encircled the form of the image.[2]” “What can be the meaning of these pigmy ornaments and arms?” said I. “Why, that is very curious. You know the ancient Scandinavian chieftain was buried with his sword and his trinkets. This was found to be expensive, but still the tyrant fashion was inflexible on the subject; so, to comply with her rules, and let the chief have his properties with him in the grave, miniature swords, &c., were made, and buried with him; just in the same way as some of your ladies of fashion, though they have killed their goose, will still keep it; in other words, though their diamonds are in the hands of the Jews, still love to glitter about in paste.” “Cunning people those old Vikings,” thought I. “Yes,” continued our obliging informant, “and look at these,” pointing to what looked like balls of gold. “They are weights gilt all over. The reason why they were gilt was the more easily to detect any loss of weight, which a dishonest merchant, had discovery not been certain, might otherwise have contrived to inflict on them.” Those mighty wind-instruments, six feet long, are the war-horns (Luren) of the bronze period; under these coats of mail throbbed the bosoms of some valorous freebooters handed down to fame by Snorro. “Look here,” continued he, “these pieces of thick gold and silver wire were used for money in the same way as later the links of a chain were used for that purpose. Here is a curious gold medal of Constantine, most likely used as a military decoration. The reverse has no impress on it.” This reminded me of the buttons and other ornaments in Thelemarken, which are exact copies of fashions in use hundreds of years ago. Here again are some Bezants, coins minted at Byzantium, which were either brought over by the ships of the Vikings, or were carried up the Volga to Novgorod, a place founded by the Northmen, and so on to Scandinavia, by the merchants and mercenary soldiers who in early times flocked to the East. Gotland used to be a gathering-place for those who thus passed to and fro, and to this Wisby owes its former greatness. Many of these articles of value were probably buried by the owner on setting out upon some fresh expedition from which he never returned, and their discovery has been due to the plough or the spade, while others have been unearthed from the barrows and cromlechs. Here, again, are some primstavs, or old Scandinavian wooden calendars. You see they are of two sorts--one straight, like the one I picked up in Thelemarken, while another is in the shape of an elongated ellipse. If you compare them, you will now find how much they differed, not only in shape, but also in the signs made to betoken the different days in the calendar. “You have heard of our Queen Dagmar. Here is a beautiful enamelled cross of Byzantine workmanship which she once wore around her neck. You have travelled in Norway? Wait a moment,” continued the voluble Professor, as he directed an attendant to open a massive escritoir. “You are aware, sir, that it is the custom in Norway and Sweden for brides to wear a crown. I thought that, before the old custom died, I would secure a memento of it. I had very great difficulty, the peasants were so loth to part with them, but at last I succeeded, and behold the result, sir. That crown is from Iceland, that from Sweden, and that from Norway. It is three hundred years old. That fact I have on the best authority. It used to be lent out far and near for a fixed sum, and, computing the weddings it attended at one hundred per annum, which is very moderate, it must have encircled the heads of thirty thousand brides on their wedding-day. Very curious, Excellence!” he continued, giving the Russian grandee a sly poke in the ribs. The idea seemed to amuse the old gentleman of the stars and green velvet collar wonderfully. “Sapperlot! Potztannsend noch ein mal!” he ejaculated, with great animation, while the antiquarian dust seemed to roll from his eyes, and they gleamed up uncommonly. In the same case I observed more than one hundred Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian spoons of quaint shape, though they were nearly all of what we call the Apostle type. But we must take leave of the museum with the remark that, to see it thoroughly, would require a great many visits. To an Englishman, whose country was so long intimately connected with Scandinavia,--and which has most likely undergone pretty nearly the same vicissitudes of civilization and occupancy as Scandinavia itself--this collection must be intensely interesting, especially when examined by the light thrown upon it by Worsaae and others. Indeed, if England wishes to know the facts of her Scandinavian period, it is to these people that she must look for information. “Ten per cent. for my money!” That, alas! is too often an Englishman’s motto now-a-days; “and I can’t get that by troubling my head about King Olaf or Canute.” While I write this I am reminded of an agreeable, good-looking young Briton whom I met here; he is a physician making four thousand a-year by administering doses of soft sawder. Thrown by circumstances early on the world, he has not had the opportunity of acquiring ideas or knowledge out of the treadmill of his profession. He is just fresh from Norway, through which he has shot like a rocket, being pressed for time. “How beautiful the rivers are there,” he observed; “so rapid. By-the-bye, though, your river at Oxford must be something like them. The poet says, ‘Isis rolling rapidly!’” Leaving the museum, I dined at the great restaurant’s of Copenhagen, Jomfru Henkel’s, in the Ostergade; it was too crowded for comfort. Dinner is _à la carte_. Some convicts were mending the roadway in one of the streets; their jackets were half black, half yellow, trousers ditto, only that where the jacket was black, the inexpressibles were yellow on the same side, and _vice versâ_. Their legs were heavily chained. Many carriages were assembled round the church of the Holy Ghost; I found it was a wedding. All European nations, I believe, but the English, choose the afternoon for the ceremony. Thorwaldsen’s colossal statues in white marble of our Saviour and his Apostles which adorn the Frue Kirke, are too well known to need description. At the Christianborg, or Palace of King Christian, the lions that caught my attention first were the three literal ones in massive silver, which always figure at the enthronization of the Danish monarchs. Next to them I observed the metaphorical lions, viz., the sword of Gustavus Adolphus, the cup in which Peter the Great used to take his matutinal dram, the portrait of the unhappy Matilda, and of the wretched Christian VII. Blush Oxford and Cambridge, when you know that on the walls of this palace, side by side with the freedom of the City of London and the Goldsmiths’ Company (but the London citizens are of course not very particular in these matters), hang your diplomas of D.C.L., engrossed on white satin, conferred upon this precious specimen of a husband and king. That evening I went to see a comedy of Holberg’s at the theatre, _Jacob von Tybö_ by name. It seemed to create immense fun, which was not to be wondered at, for the piece contained a rap at the German customs, and braggadocio style of that people in vogue here some hundred years ago. The taste for that sort of thing, as may readily be imagined, no longer exists here. Roars of laughter accompanied every hit at Tuskland. The two Roskilds and Madame Pfister acquitted themselves well. The temperature of the building was as nearly as possible that of the Black Hole of Calcutta, as far as I was able to judge by my own feelings compared with the historical account of that delectable place. A lady next me told me that they had long talked of an improved building. Next day I visited the Seamen’s Burial Ground, where, clustering about an elevated mound, are the graves of the Danish sailors who fell in 1807. I observed an inscription in marble overgrown with ivy:-- Kranz som Fadrelandet gav, Den visner ei paa falden Krieger’s Grav. The chaplet which their fatherland once gave Shall never fade on fallen warrior’s grave. True to the motto, the monuments are decked every Saturday with fresh flowers. Fuchsias were also growing in great numbers about. The different spaces of ground are let for a hundred years; if the lease is not renewed then, I presume the Company will enter upon the premises. There were traces about, I observed, of English whittlers. Our countrymen seem to remember the command of the augur to Tarquinius, “cut boldly,” and the King cut through. CHAPTER III. The celebrated Three Crowns Battery--Hamlet’s grave--The Sound and its dues--To Fredericksborg--Iceland ponies--Denmark an equine paradise--From Copenhagen to Kiel--Tidemann, the Norwegian painter--Pictures at Düsseldorf--The boiling of the porridge--Düsseldorf theatricals--Memorial of Dutch courage--Young heroes--An attempt to describe the Dutch language--The Amsterdam canals--Half-and-half in Holland--Want of elbow-room--A New Jerusalem--A sketch for Juvenal--The museum of Dutch paintings--Magna Charta of Dutch independence--Jan Steen’s picture of the _fête_ of Saint Nicholas--Dutch art in the 17th century--To Zaandam--Traces of Peter the Great--Easy travelling--What the reeds seemed to whisper. The name of the steamer which took me past the celebrated Three Crowns Battery, and along to the pretty low shores of Zealand to Elsineur (Helsingör), was the _Ophelia_, fare three marks. In the Marielyst Gardens, which overhang the famed Castle of Kronborg, is a Mordan’s-pencil-case-shaped pillar of dirty granite, miscalled “Hamlet’s grave.” Yankees often resort here, and pluck leaves from the lime-trees overhanging the mausoleum, for the purpose of conveyance to their own country. But this is not the only point of interest for Brother Jonathan. Look at the Sound yonder, refulgent in the light of the evening sun, with the numberless vessels brought up for the night, having been warned by the bristling cannon to stop, and pay toll. I don’t wonder that those scheming, go-ahead people, object to the institution altogether--albeit the proceeds are a vital question for Denmark. On the steamer, I fell into conversation with a Danish pilot about this matter. I found that he, like others of his countrymen, was very slow to acknowledge that ships are forced to stop opposite the castle. He said that only ships bound to Russia do so, because the Czar insists on their having their papers _viséd_ by the Danish authorities before they are permitted to enter his ports.[3] Finding there was no public conveyance to Fredericksborg, which I purposed visiting, I must fain hire a one-horse vehicle at the Post. It was a sort of mail phaeton, of the most cumbrous and unwieldy description--I don’t know how much dearer than in Norway--so slow, too. On the road we pass the romantic lake of Gurre, the scene of King Valdemar’s nightly hunt. Some storks remind the traveller of Holland. Right glad I was when we at length jogged over divers drawbridges spanning very green moats, and through sundry gates, and emerged upon a large square, facing the main entrance to the castle. The private apartments, I found, were, by a recent regulation, invisible, as his Majesty has taken to living a good deal here. But I was shown the chapel, in which all the monarchs of Denmark are crowned, gorgeous with silver, ebony, and ivory; and the Riddersaal over it, one hundred and sixty feet long, with its elaborate ceiling, and many portraits: and, marvellous to relate, the custodian would have nothing for his trouble but thanks. In the stable were several little Iceland ponies, which looked like a cross between the Norsk and Shetland races. They were fat and sleek, and, no doubt, have an easy time of it; indeed, Denmark is a sort of equine paradise. What well-to-do fellows those four strapping brown horses were that somnambulized with the diligence that conveyed us to Copenhagen. That their slumbrous equanimity might not be disturbed, the very traces were padded, and, instead of collars, they wore broad soft chest-straps. The driver told me they cost three hundred and fifty dollars each. That flat road, passing through numerous beech-woods was four and a-half Danish miles long, equal to twenty English, and took us more than four hours to accomplish. Bidding adieu to Copenhagen, I returned by rail to Korsör, and embarked in the night-boat _Skirner_, from thence to Kiel. As the name of the vessel, like almost every one in Scandinavia, is drawn from the old Northern mythology, I shall borrow from the same source for an emblem of the stifling state of the atmosphere in the cabin. “A regular Muspelheim!” said I to a Dane, as I pantingly look round before turning in, and saw every vent closed. A fog retarded our progress, and it was not till late the next afternoon that I found myself in Hamburg. Some few hours later I was under the roof of mine host of the “Three Crowns,” at Düsseldorf, where I purposed paying a visit to Tidemann, the Norwegian painter. Unfortunately, he was not returned from his summer travels, so that I could not deliver to him the greeting I had brought him from his friends in the Far North. His most recent work, which I had heard much of, the “Wounded Bear-hunter returning Home, having bagged his prey,” was also away, having been purchased by the King of Sweden. At the Institute, however, I saw several sketches and paintings by this master. Anna Gulsvig is evidently the original of the “Grandmother telling Stories.” Bagge’s “Landscape in Valders,” and Nordenberg’s “Dalecarlian Scenes,” brought back for a moment the land I had quitted to my mind and vision. “The Mother teaching her Children,” and “The Boiling of the Porridge,” also by Tidemann, proclaim him to be the Teniers of Norway. Though while he catches the national traits, he manages to represent them without vulgarity. But perhaps this lies in the nature of the thing. The heavy-built Dutchman anchored on his square flat island of mud can’t possibly have any of that rugged elevation of mind, or romance of sentiment, that would belong to the child of the mountain and lake. The school of Düsseldorf--if such it can be called--has turned out some great artists, _e.g._, Kaulbach and Cornelius; but the place has never been itself since it lost its magnificent collection of pictures, which now grace the Pinacothek at Munich. As I sipped a cup of coffee in the evening, I read a most grandiloquent account of the prospects of the Düsseldorf Theatre for the ensuing winter. The first lover was perfection, while the tragedy queen was “unübertrefflich” (not to be surpassed). The part of tender mother and matron was also about to be taken by a lady of no mean theatrical pretensions. This self-complacency of the inhabitants of the smaller cities is quite delightful. On board the steamer to Emmerich was a family of French Jews, busily engaged, not in looking about them, but in calculating their expenses, though dressed in the pink of fashion. Here I am at Amsterdam. In the Grand Place is a monument in memory of Dutch bravery and obstinacy evinced in the fight with Belgium. This has only just been erected, with great fêtes and rejoicings. Well, to be sure! this reminds me of the Munich obelisk, in memory of those luckless thirty thousand Bavarians who swelled Napoleon’s expedition to Russia, and died in the cause of his insatiable ambition. “Auch sie starben für das Vaterland” is the motto. V. Ruyter and V. Speke are both monumented in the adjoining church. The former, who died at Syracuse from a wound, is described in the inscription as “Immensi tremor Oceani,” and owing all to God, “et virtuti suæ.” The warlike spirit of Young Amsterdam seems to be effectually excited just now. As I passed through the Exchange at a quarter to five P.M., the merchants were gone, and in their room was an obstreperous crowd of _gamins_, armed “with sword and pistol,” like Billy Taylor’s true love (only they were sham), and thumping their drums, and the drums thumping the roof, and the roof and the drum together reverberating against the drum of my ear till I was fairly stunned. “Where are the police?” thought I, escaping from the hubbub with feelings akin to what must have been those of Hogarth’s enraged musician, or of a modern London householder, fond of quiet, with the Italian organ-grinders rending the air of his street. Dutch is German in the Somersetshire dialect; so I managed to comprehend, without much difficulty, the short instructions of the passers-by as to my route to various objects of interest. By-the-bye, here is the house of Admiral de Ruyter, next to the Norwegian Consulate. Over the door I see there is his bust in stone. As I pass along the canals, it puzzles me to think how the Dutchman can live by, nay, revel in the proximity of these seething tanks of beastliness and corruption. That notion about the pernicious effects of inhaling sewage effluvia must be a myth, after all, and the sanitary commission a regular job. Indeed, I always thought so, after a conversation I once had with a fellow in London, the very picture of rude health, who told me he got his living by mudlarking and catching rats in the sewers, for which there was always a brisk demand at Oxford and Cambridge, in term time. Look at these jolly Amsterdamers. I verily believe it would be the death of them if you separated them from their stinking canals, or transported them to some airy situation, with a turbulent river hurrying past. Custom is second nature, and that has doubtless much to do with it: but the nature of the liquids poured down the inner man perhaps fortifies Mynheer against the evil effects of the semi-solid liquid of the canals. Just after breakfast I went into the shop of the celebrated Wijnand Fockink, the Justerini and Brooks of Amsterdam, to purchase a case of liqueurs, when I heard a squabby-shaped Dutchman ask for a glass of half-and-half. It is astonishing, I thought with myself, how English tastes and habits are gaining ground everywhere. Of course he means porter and ale mixed. The attendant supplied him with the article he wanted, and it was bolted at a gulp. Dutch half-and-half, reader, is a dram of raw gin and curaçoa, in equal portions. What a crowd of people, to be sure. “Holland is over-peopled,” said a tradesman to me. “Why, sir, you can have a good clerk for 20_l._ per annum. The land is ready to stifle with the close packing.” “Yes,” said I, “so it appears. That operation going on under the bridge is a fit emblem of the tightness of your population.” As I spoke, I pointed to a man, or rather several men, engaged in a national occupation: packing herrings in barrels. How closely they were fitted, rammed and crammed, and then a top was put on the receptacle, and so on, _ad infinitum_. We are now in the Jewish quarter. “Our people,” as the Israelites are wont to call themselves, formerly looked on Amsterdam as a kind of New Jerusalem. Indeed, they are a very important and numerous part of the population. The usual amount of dirt and finery, young lustrous eyes, and old dingy clothes, black beards and red beards, small infants and big hook noses, are jumbled about the shop-doors and in the crowded thoroughfares. Here are some fair peasant girls, Frieslanders, I should think, or from beyond the Y, judging by their helmet-shaped head-dresses of gold and silver plates, with the little fringe of lace drawn across the forehead, just over the eyebrows, the very same that Gerard Dow and Teniers have placed before us. If they were not Dutch women, and belonged to a very wide-awake race, I should tremble for them, as they go staring and sauntering about in rustic simplicity, for fear of that lynx-eyed Fagan with the Satyr nose and leering eye fastened upon them, who is clearly just the man to help to despoil them of their gold and silver, or something more precious still, in the way of his trade. As we walk through the streets, the chimes, that ever and anon ring out from the old belfries, remind us that we are in the Low Countries; and if that were not sufficient, the showers of water on this bright sunny day descending from the house-sides, after being syringed against them by some industrious abigail, make the fact disagreeably apparent to the passer-by. This will prepare me for my visit to Broek; not that there is so much to be seen there--and Albert Smith has brought the place bodily before us--but if one left it out, all one’s friends that had been there would aver, with the greatest possible emphasis and solemnity, that I had omitted seeing _the_ wonder of Holland. So I shall _do_ it, if all be well. Here is the Trippenhuus, or Museum of Dutch paintings, situated, of course, on a canal. Van der Helst’s picture of the “Burgher Guard met to celebrate the Treaty of Münster”--the Magna Charta of Dutch independence, pronounced by Sir Joshua to be the finest of its kind in the world--of course claims my first attention. The three fingers held up, emblematic of the Trinity, is the continental equivalent to the English taking Testament in hand upon swearing an oath. But as everybody that has visited Amsterdam knows all about this picture, and those two of Rembrandt’s, the “Night-watch,” and that other of the “Guild of Cloth Merchants,” this mention of them will suffice. That picture is Jan Steen’s “Fête of St. Nicholas,” a national festival in Holland. The saint is supposed to come down the chimney, and shower bonbons on the good children, while he does not forget to bring a rod for the naughty child’s back. De Ruyter is also here, with his flashing eye, contracted brow, and dark hair. While, of course, the collection is not devoid of some of Vandervelde’s pictures of Holland’s naval victories when Holland was a great nation. There must have been great genius and great wealth in this country wherewith to reward it, in the seventeenth century. In this very town were born Van Dyk, Van Huysum, and Du Jardin; in Leyden, G. Douw, Metzu, W. Mieris, Rembrandt, and J. Steen. Utrecht had its Bol and Hondekoeter; while Haarlem, which was never more than a provincial town with 48,000 inhabitants, produced a Berghem, a Hugtenberg, a Ruysdael, a Van der Helst, and a Wouvermans. In proof of the _sharpness_ of the Amsterdamers, I may mention that most of the diamonds of Europe are cut here. Next day, I took the steamer to Zaandam, metamorphosed by us into Saardam, pretty much on the same principle, I suppose, that an English beefsteak becomes in the mouths of the French a “biftek.” The tumble-down board-house, with red tile roof, built by the semi-savage Peter, in 1632, will last all the longer for having been put in a brick-case by one of the imperial Russian family. I always look on Peter’s shipwright adventures, under the name of Master Baas, as a great exaggeration. He perhaps wanted to make his subjects take up the art, but he never had any serious thoughts of carpentering himself. He only was here three days, and, as the veracious old lady who showed the place told me, he built this house himself, so what time had he for the dockyards? When some of your great folks go to the Foundling Hospital, and eat the plum-pudding on Christmas-day, or visit Woolwich and taste the dietary, and seem to like it very much, that is just such another make-believe. “Nothing is too little for a great man,” was the inscription on the marble slab over the chimney-piece, placed there by the very hand of Alexander I. of Russia. In the room are two cupboards, in one of which Peter kept his victuals, while the other was his dormitory. If Peter slept in that cupboard, and if he shut the door of it, all I have to say is, the ventilation must have been very deficient, and how he ever survived it is a wonder. The whole hut is comprised in two rooms. In the other room are two pictures of the Czar. In the one, presented in ’56 by Prince Demidoff, the Czar, while at work, axe in hand, is supposed to have received unwelcome intelligence from Muscovy, and is dictating a dispatch to his secretary. The finely chiselled features, pale complexion, and air of refinement, here fathered on this ruffian, never belonged to him. The other picture, presented by the munificent and patriotic M. Van der Hoof, is infinitely more to the purpose, and shows you the man as he really was, and in short, as he appears in a contemporary portrait at the Rosenborg Slot. Thick, sensual lips--the very lips to give an unchaste kiss, or suck up strong waters--contracted brow, bushy eyebrows, coarse, dark hair and moustache--that is the real man. He wears broad loose breeches reaching to the knee, and on the table is a glass of grog to refresh him at his work. Ten minutes sufficed for me to take the whole thing in, and to get back in time for the returning steamer, otherwise I should have been stranded on this mud island for some hours, and there is nought else to see but a picture in the church of the terrible inundation; the ship-building days of Zaandam having long since gone by, and passed to other places. By this economy of time I shall be enabled to take the afternoon treckshuit to Broek. A ferry-boat carries us over the Y from Amsterdam, a distance of two or three hundred yards, to Buiksloot, the starting-place of the treckshuit, when, to my surprise, each passenger gives an extra gratuity to the boatman. This shows to what lengths the fee-system may go. And yet Englishmen persist in introducing it into Norway, where hitherto it has been unknown. Entering into the little den called cabin, I settled down and looked around me. On the table were the Lares, to wit, a brass candlestick, beyond it a brass stand about a foot high, with a pair of snuffers on it, and then two brasiers containing charcoal, the whole shining wonderfully bright. Opposite me, sitting on the puffy cushions, was a substantial-looking peasant, immensely stout and broad sterned, dressed in a dark jacket and very wide velveteen trousers. He wore a large gold seal, about the size and shape of a half-pound packet of moist sugar, and a double gold brooch, connected by a chain. As the boat seemed a long time in starting, I emerged again from this odd little shop to ascertain the cause of the delay, when I found to my surprise that we were already under way. So noiselessly was the operation effected, that I was not aware of it. Dragged by a horse, on which sat a sleepy lad, singing a sleepy song, the boat glided mutely along. The only sound beside the drone of the boy was the rustling of the reeds, which seemed to whisper, “What an ass you are for coming along this route. You, who have just come from the land of the mountain and the flood, to paddle about among these frogs.” Really, the whole affair is desperately slow, and there is nothing in the world to see but numerous windmills, with their thatched roof and sides, whose labour it is to drain the large green meadows lying some feet below us, on which numerous herds of cows are feeding. CHAPTER IV. Broek--A Dutchman’s idea of Paradise--A toy-house for real people--Cannon-ball cheeses--An artist’s flirtation--John Bull abroad--All the fun of the fair--A popular refreshment--Morals in Amsterdam--The Zoological Gardens--Bed and Breakfast--Paul Potter’s bull--Rotterdam. I was not sorry when the captain, who of course received a fee for himself besides the fare, called out “Broek!” The stagnation of water, and sound, and life in general, on a Dutch canal, is positively oppressive to the feelings; it would have been quite a relief to have had a little shindy among the passengers and the crew, such as gave a variety to the canal voyage of Horace to Brundusium. To enliven matters, supposing we tell you a tale about Broek, which I of course ferreted out of a drowsy Dutch chronicle, but which the ill-natured Smelfungus says has been already told by Washington Irvine. In former times, the people of the place were sadly negligent of their spiritual duties, and turned a very deaf ear to the exhortations of the clergyman. A new parson at last arrived, who beholding all the people given to idolatry in the shape of washing, washing, washing all the day long, and apparently thinking of nothing else, hit upon a new scheme for reforming them. He bid them be righteous and fear God, and then they should get to Paradise, and he described what joys should be theirs in that abode of bliss. This was the old tale, and the congregation were on the point of subsiding into their usual sleep. “The abode of bliss,” continued the preacher, “and cleanliness, and everlasting washing.” The Dutchmen opened their eyes. “Yes,” proceeded the preacher; “the joys of earth shall to the good be continued in heaven. You will be occupied in washing, and scrubbing, and cleaning, and in cleaning, and washing, and scrubbing, for ever and ever, amen.” He had hit the right chord; the parson became popular, the church filled, and a great reformation was wrought in Broek. Sauntering along the Grand Canal, from which, as from a backbone, ribbed out divers lesser canals, I entered, at the bidding of an old lady, one of the houses of the place, with the date of 1612 over it. Of course its floor was swept and garnished, and the little pan of lighted turf was burning in the fireplace; and there was the usual amount of china vases, and knickknacks of all descriptions scattered about to make up a show. And then she showed me the bed like a berth, which smelt very fusty, and the door, which is never opened except at a burial or bridal. After this, I walked into a little warehouse adjoining, all painted and prim, and saw eight thousand cannon-ball-shaped cheeses in a row, value one dollar a piece, each with a red skin, like a very young infant’s. This colour is obtained, I understand, by immersing them in a decoction of Bordeaux grape husks, which are imported from France for the purpose. I next went to the bridge over the canal, and tried to sketch the avenue of dwarf-like trees and the row of toy-houses, and the old man brushing away two or three leaves that had fallen on the sward. At this moment came by a buxom girl in the genuine costume of the place, who exclaimed, “Lauk, he’s sketching!” (in Dutch) and stood immovable before me, and so of course I proceeded incontinently to sketch her in the foreground, she keeping quite still, and then coming and peeping over my shoulder, to see how she looked on paper. Finding it was late, I hurried back to catch the return boat, faster, I should think, than anybody ever ventured before to go in Broek; at least, I judged so from the looks of sleepy astonishment and almost displeasure which seemed to gather on the Lotos-eater-like countenances of the citizens I met. As it was, I just saved the boat, and am now again gliding smoothly back to Amsterdam. As I look through the windows of the cabin, I perceive a few golden plover and stints basking listlessly among the reeds, undisturbed by our transit. This time, however, there was more bustle on board. There were two foreigners who were very full of talk, and who, though they were speaking to a Dutchman in French, I knew at once to be English. As I finished up my sketch, I heard one of these gentlemen say, “Ah! I am an Englishman; you would not have thought it, but so it is. Few English speak French with a correct accent, but I, maw (moi?); jabbeta seese ann ong France, solemong pour parlay lar lang, ay maw jay parl parfaitmong biong.” I differed from him.
personalities, and keep a strict reserve upon family matters. Avoid, if you can, seeing the skeleton in your friend’s closet, but if it is paraded for your special benefit, regard it as a sacred confidence, and never betray your knowledge to a third party. If you have traveled, although you will endeavor to improve your mind in such travel, do not be constantly speaking of your journeyings. Nothing is more tiresome than a man who commences every phrase with, “When I was in Paris,” or, “In Italy I saw----.” When asking questions about persons who are not known to you, in a drawing-room, avoid using adjectives; or you may enquire of a mother, “Who is that awkward, ugly girl?” and be answered, “Sir, that is my daughter.” Avoid gossip; in a woman it is detestable, but in a man it is utterly despicable. Do not officiously offer assistance or advice in general society. Nobody will thank you for it. Ridicule and practical joking are both marks of a vulgar mind and low breeding. Avoid flattery. A delicate compliment is permissible in conversation, but flattery is broad, coarse, and to sensible people, disgusting. If you flatter your superiors, they will distrust you, thinking you have some selfish end; if you flatter ladies, they will despise you, thinking you have no other conversation. A lady of sense will feel more complimented if you converse with her upon instructive, high subjects, than if you address to her only the language of compliment. In the latter case she will conclude that you consider her incapable of discussing higher subjects, and you cannot expect her to be pleased at being considered merely a silly, vain person, who must be flattered into good humor. Avoid the evil of giving utterance to inflated expressions and remarks in common conversation. It is a somewhat ungrateful task to tell those who would shrink from the imputation of a falsehood that they are in the daily habit of uttering untruths; and yet, if I proceed, no other course than this can be taken by me. It is of no use to adopt half measures; plain speaking saves a deal of trouble. The examples about to be given by me of exaggerated expressions, are only a few of the many that are constantly in use. Whether you can acquit yourselves of the charge of occasionally using them, I cannot tell; but I dare not affirm for myself that I am altogether guiltless. “I was caught in the wet last night, the rain came down in torrents.” Most of us have been out in heavy rains; but a torrent of water pouring down from the skies would a little surprise us, after all. “I am wet to the skin, and have not a dry thread upon me.” Where these expressions are once used correctly, they are used twenty times in opposition to the truth. “I tried to overtake him, but in vain; for he ran like lightning.” The celebrated racehorse Eclipse is said to have run a mile in a minute, but poor Eclipse is left sadly behind by this expression. “He kept me standing out in the cold so long, I thought I should have waited for ever.” There is not a particle of probability that such a thought could have been for one moment entertained. “As I came across the common, the wind was as keen as a razor.” This is certainly a very keen remark, but the worst of it is that its keenness far exceeds its correctness. “I went to the meeting, but had hard work to get in; for the place was crowded to suffocation.” In this case, in justice to the veracity of the relater, it is necessary to suppose that successful means had been used for his recovery. “It must have been a fine sight; I would have given the world to have seen it.” Fond as most of us are of sight-seeing, this would be buying pleasure at a dear price indeed; but it is an easy thing to proffer to part with that which we do not possess. “It made me quite low spirited; my heart felt as heavy as lead.” We most of us know what a heavy heart is; but lead is by no means the most correct metaphor to use in speaking of a heavy heart. “I could hardly find my way, for the night was as dark as pitch.” I am afraid we have all in our turn calumniated the sky in this manner; pitch is many shades darker than the darkest night we have ever known. “I have told him of that fault fifty times over.” Five times would, in all probability, be much nearer the fact than fifty. “I never closed my eyes all night long.” If this be true, you acted unwisely; for had you closed your eyes, you might, perhaps, have fallen asleep, and enjoyed the blessing of refreshing slumber; if it be not true, you acted more unwisely still, by stating that as a fact which is altogether untrue. “He is as tall as a church-spire.” I have met with some tall fellows in my time, though the spire of a church is somewhat taller than the tallest of them. “You may buy a fish at the market as big as a jackass, for five shillings.” I certainly have my doubts about this matter; but if it be really true, the market people must be jackasses indeed to sell such large fishes for so little money. “He was so fat he could hardly come in at the door.” Most likely the difficulty here alluded to was never felt by any one but the relater; supposing it to be otherwise, the man must have been very broad or the door very narrow. “You don’t say so!--why, it was enough to kill him!” The fact that it did not kill him is a sufficient reply to this unfounded observation; but no remark can be too absurd for an unbridled tongue. Thus might I run on for an hour, and after all leave much unsaid on the subject of exaggerated expressions. We are hearing continually the comparisons, “black as soot, white as snow, hot as fire, cold as ice, sharp as a needle, dull as a door-nail, light as a feather, heavy as lead, stiff as a poker, and crooked as a crab-tree,” in cases where such expressions are quite out of order. The practice of expressing ourselves in this inflated and thoughtless way, is more mischievous than we are aware of. It certainly leads us to sacrifice truth; to misrepresent what we mean faithfully to describe; to whiten our own characters, and sometimes to blacken the reputation of a neighbor. There is an uprightness in speech as well as in action, that we ought to strive hard to attain. The purity of truth is sullied, and the standard of integrity is lowered, by incorrect observations. Let us reflect upon this matter freely and faithfully. Let us love truth, follow truth, and practice truth in our thoughts, our words, and our deeds. CHAPTER II. POLITENESS. Real politeness is the outward expression of the most generous impulses of the heart. It enforces unselfishness, benevolence, kindness, and the golden rule, “Do unto others as you would others should do unto you.” Thus its first principle is love for the neighbor, loving him as yourself. When in society it would often be exceedingly difficult to decide how to treat those who are personally disagreeable to us, if it were not for the rules of politeness, and the little formalities and points of etiquette which these rules enforce. These evidences of polite breeding do not prove hypocrisy, as you may treat your most bitter enemy with perfect courtesy, and yet make no protestations of friendship. If politeness is but a mask, as many philosophers tell us, it is a mask which will win love and admiration, and is better worn than cast aside. If you wear it with the sincere desire to give pleasure to others, and make all the little meetings of life pass off smoothly and agreeably, it will soon cease to be a mask, but you will find that the manner which you at first put on to give pleasure, has become natural to you, and wherever you have assumed a virtue to please others, you will find the virtue becoming habitual and finally natural, and part of yourself. Do not look upon the rules of etiquette as deceptions. They are just as often vehicles for the expression of sincere feeling, as they are the mask to conceal a want of it. You will in society meet with men who rail against politeness, and call it deceit and hypocrisy. Watch these men when they have an object to gain, or are desirous of making a favorable impression, and see them tacitly, but unconsciously, admit the power of courtesy, by dropping for the time, their uncouth ways, to affect the politeness, they oftentimes do not feel. Pass over the defects of others, be prudent, discreet, at the proper time reserved, yet at other times frank, and treat others with the same gentle courtesy you would wish extended to yourself. True politeness never embarrasses any one, because its first object is to put all at their ease, while it leaves to all perfect freedom of action. You must meet rudeness from others by perfect politeness and polish of manner on your own part, and you will thus shame those who have been uncivil to you. You will more readily make them blush by your courtesy, than if you met their rudeness by ill manners on your own part. While a favor may be doubled in value, by a frankly courteous manner of granting it, a refusal will lose half its bitterness if your manner shows polite regret at your inability to oblige him who asks the favor at your hand. Politeness may be extended to the lowest and meanest, and you will never by thus extending it detract from your own dignity. A _gentleman_ may and will treat his washerwoman with respect and courtesy, and his boot-black with pleasant affability, yet preserve perfectly his own position. To really merit the name of a polite, finished gentleman, you must be polite at all times and under all circumstances. There is a difference between politeness and etiquette. Real politeness is in-born, and may exist in the savage, while etiquette is the outward expression of politeness reduced to the rules current in good society. A man may be polite, really so in heart, yet show in every movement an ignorance of the rules of etiquette, and offend against the laws of society. You may find him with his elbows upon the table, or tilting his chair in a parlor. You may see him commit every hour gross breaches of etiquette, yet you will never hear him intentionally utter one word to wound another, you will see that he habitually endeavors to make others comfortable, choosing for them the easiest seats, or the daintiest dishes, and putting self entirely aside to contribute to the pleasure of all around him. Such a man will learn, by contact with refined society, that his ignorance of the rules which govern it, make him, at times, disagreeable, and from the same unselfish motive which prompts him to make a sacrifice of comfort for the sake of others, he will watch and learn quickly, almost by instinct, where he offends against good breeding, drop one by one his errors in etiquette, and become truly a gentleman. On the other hand, you will meet constantly, in the best society, men whose polish of manner is exquisite, who will perform to the minutest point the niceties of good breeding, who never commit the least act that is forbidden by the strictest rules of etiquette; yet under all this mask of chivalry, gallantry, and politeness will carry a cold, selfish heart; will, with a sweet smile, graceful bow, and elegant language, wound deeply the feelings of others, and while passing in society for models of courtesy and elegance of manner, be in feeling as cruel and barbarous as the veriest savage. So I would say to you, Cultivate your heart. Cherish there the Christian graces, love for the neighbor, unselfishness, charity, and gentleness, and you will be truly a gentleman; add to these the graceful forms of etiquette, and you then become a _perfect_ gentleman. Etiquette exists in every corner of the known world, from the savages in the wilds of Africa, who dare not, upon penalty of death, approach their barbarous rulers without certain forms and ceremonies, to the most refined circles of Europe, where gentle chivalry and a cultivated mind suggest its rules. It has existed in all ages, and the stringency of its laws in some countries has given rise to both ludicrous and tragic incidents. In countries where royalty rules the etiquette, it often happens that pride will blind those who make the rules, and the results are often fatal. Believing that the same deference which their rank authorized them to demand, was also due to them as individuals, the result of such an idea was an etiquette as vain and useless as it was absurd. For an example I will give an anecdote: “The kings of Spain, the proudest and vainest of all kings of the earth, made a rule of etiquette as stupid as it was useless. It was a fault punishable by death to touch the foot of the queen, and the individual who thus offended, no matter under what circumstances, was executed immediately. “A young queen of Spain, wife of Charles the Second, was riding on horseback in the midst of her attendants. Suddenly the horse reared and threw the queen from the saddle. Her foot remained in the stirrup, and she was dragged along the ground. An immense crowd stood looking at this spectacle, but no one dared, for his life, to attempt to rescue the poor woman. She would have died, had not two young French officers, ignorant of the stupid law which paralyzed the Spaniards, sprung forward and saved her. One stopped the horse, and whilst he held the bridle, his companion disengaged from its painful position the foot of the young queen, who was, by this time, insensible from fear and the bruises which she had already received. They were instantly arrested, and while the queen was carried on a litter to the palace, her young champions were marched off, accompanied by a strong guard, to prison. The next day, sick and feeble, the queen was obliged to leave her bed, and on her knees before the king, plead for the pardon of the two Frenchmen; and her prayer was only granted upon condition that the audacious foreigners left Spain immediately.” There is no country in the world where the absurdities of etiquette are carried to so great a length as in Spain, because there is no nation where the nobility are so proud. The following anecdote, which illustrates this, would seem incredible were it not a historical fact: “Philip the Third, king of Spain, was sick, and being able to sit up, was carefully placed in an arm chair which stood opposite to a large fire, when the wood was piled up to an enormous height. The heat soon became intolerable, and the courtiers retired from around the king; but, as the Duke D’Ussede, the fire stirrer for the king, was not present, and as no one else had the right to touch the fire, those present dared not attempt to diminish the heat. The grand chamberlain was also absent, and he alone was authorized to touch the king’s footstool. The poor king, too ill to rise, in vain implored those around him to move his chair, no one dared touch it, and when the grand chamberlain arrived, the king had fainted with the heat, and a few days later he died, literally roasted to death.” At almost all times, and in almost all places, good breeding may be shown; and we think a good service will be done by pointing out a few plain and simple instances in which it stands opposed to habits and manners, which, though improper and disagreeable, are not very uncommon. In the familiar intercourse of society, a well-bred _man_ will be known by the delicacy and deference with which he behaves towards females. That man would deservedly be looked upon as very deficient in proper respect and feeling, who should take any physical advantage of one of the weaker sex, or offer any personal slight towards her. Woman looks, and properly looks, for protection to man. It is the province of the husband to shield the wife from injury; of the father to protect the daughter; the brother has the same duty to perform towards the sister; and, in general, every man should, in this sense, be the champion and the lover of every woman. Not only should he be ready to protect, but desirous to please, and willing to sacrifice much of his own personal ease and comfort, if, by doing so, he can increase those of any female in whose company he may find himself. Putting these principles into practice, a well-bred man, in his own house, will be kind and respectful in his behaviour to every female of the family. He will not use towards them harsh language, even if called upon to express dissatisfaction with their conduct. In conversation, he will abstain from every allusion which would put modesty to the blush. He will, as much as in his power, lighten their labors by cheerful and voluntary assistance. He will yield to them every little advantage which may occur in the regular routine of domestic life:--the most comfortable seat, if there be a difference; the warmest position by the winter’s fireside; the nicest slice from the family joint, and so on. In a public assembly of any kind, a well-bred man will pay regard to the feelings and wishes of the females by whom he is surrounded. He will not secure the best seat for himself, and leave the women folk to take care of themselves. He will not be seated at all, if the meeting be crowded, and a single female appear unaccommodated. Good breeding will keep a person from making loud and startling noises, from pushing past another in entering or going out of a room; from ostentatiously using a pocket-handkerchief; from hawking and spitting in company; from fidgeting any part of the body; from scratching the head, or picking the teeth with fork or with finger. In short, it will direct all who study its rules to abstain from every personal act which may give pain or offence to another’s feelings. At the same time, it will enable them to bear much without taking offence. It will teach them when to speak and when to be silent, and how to behave with due respect to all. By attention to the rules of good breeding, and more especially to its leading principles, “the poorest man will be entitled to the character of a gentleman, and by inattention to them, the most wealthy person will be essentially vulgar. Vulgarity signifies coarseness or indelicacy of manner, and is not necessarily associated with poverty or lowliness of condition. Thus an operative artizan may be a gentleman, and worthy of our particular esteem; while an opulent merchant may be only a vulgar clown, with whom it is impossible to be on terms of friendly intercourse.” The following remarks upon the “Character of a Gentleman” by Brooke are so admirable that I need make no apology for quoting them entire. He says; “There is no term, in our language, more common than that of ‘Gentleman;’ and, whenever it is heard, all agree in the general idea of a man some way elevated above the vulgar. Yet, perhaps, no two living are precisely agreed respecting the qualities they think requisite for constituting this character. When we hear the epithets of a ‘fine Gentleman,’ ‘a pretty Gentleman,’ ‘much of a Gentleman,’ ‘Gentlemanlike,’ ‘something of a Gentleman,’ ‘nothing of a Gentleman,’ and so forth; all these different appellations must intend a peculiarity annexed to the ideas of those who express them; though no two of them, as I said, may agree in the constituent qualities of the character they have formed in their own mind. There have been ladies who deemed fashionable dress a very capital ingredient in the composition of--a Gentleman. A certain easy impudence acquired by low people, by casually being conversant in high life, has passed a man current through many companies for--a Gentleman. In taverns and brothels, he who is the most of a bully is the most of--a Gentleman. And the highwayman, in his manner of taking your purse, may however be allowed to have--much of the Gentleman. Plato, among the philosophers, was ‘the most of a man of fashion;’ and therefore allowed, at the court of Syracuse, to be--the most of a Gentleman. But seriously, I apprehend that this character is pretty much upon the modern. In all ancient or dead languages we have no term, any way adequate, whereby we may express it. In the habits, manners, and characters of old Sparta and old Rome, we find an antipathy to all the elements of modern gentility. Among these rude and unpolished people, you read of philosophers, of orators, of patriots, heroes, and demigods; but you never hear of any character so elegant as that of--a pretty Gentleman. “When those nations, however, became refined into what their ancestors would have called corruption; when luxury introduced, and fashion gave a sanction to certain sciences, which Cynics would have branded with the ill mannered appellations of drunkenness, gambling, cheating, lying, &c.; the practitioners assumed the new title of Gentlemen, till such Gentlemen became as plenteous as stars in the milky-way, and lost distinction merely by the confluence of their lustre. Wherefore as the said qualities were found to be of ready acquisition, and of easy descent to the populace from their betters, ambition judged it necessary to add further marks and criterions for severing the general herd from the nobler species--of Gentlemen. “Accordingly, if the commonalty were observed to have a propensity to religion, their superiors affected a disdain of such vulgar prejudices; and a freedom that cast off the restraints of morality, and a courage that spurned at the fear of a God, were accounted the distinguishing characteristics--of a Gentleman. “If the populace, as in China, were industrious and ingenious, the grandees, by the length of their nails and the cramping of their limbs, gave evidence that true dignity was above labor and utility, and that to be born to no end was the prerogative--of a Gentleman. “If the common sort, by their conduct, declared a respect for the institutions of civil society and good government; their betters despised such pusillanimous conformity, and the magistrates paid becoming regard to the distinction, and allowed of the superior liberties and privileges--of a Gentleman. “If the lower set show a sense of common honesty and common order; those who would figure in the world, think it incumbent to demonstrate that complaisance to inferiors, common manners, common equity, or any thing common, is quite beneath the attention or sphere--of a Gentleman. “Now, as underlings are ever ambitious of imitating and usurping the manners of their superiors; and as this state of mortality is incident to perpetual change and revolution, it may happen, that when the populace, by encroaching on the province of gentility, have arrived to their _ne plus ultra_ of insolence, irreligion, &c.; the gentry, in order to be again distinguished, may assume the station that their inferiors had forsaken, and, however ridiculous the supposition may appear at present, humanity, equity, utility, complaisance, and piety, may in time come to be the distinguishing characteristics--of a Gentleman. “It appears that the most general idea which people have formed of a Gentleman, is that of a person of fortune above the vulgar, and embellished by manners that are fashionable in high life. In this case, fortune and fashion are the two constituent ingredients in the composition of modern Gentlemen; for whatever the fashion may be, whether moral or immoral, for or against reason, right or wrong, it is equally the duty of a Gentleman to conform. And yet I apprehend, that true gentility is altogether independent of fortune or fashion, of time, customs, or opinions of any kind. The very same qualities that constituted a gentleman, in the first age of the world, are permanently, invariably, and indispensably necessary to the constitution of the same character to the end of time. “Hector was the finest gentleman of whom we read in history, and Don Quixote the finest gentleman we read of in romance; as was instanced from the tenor of their principles and actions. “Some time after the battle of Cressy, Edward the Third of England, and Edward the Black Prince, the more than heir of his father’s renown, pressed John King of France to indulge them with the pleasure of his company at London. John was desirous of embracing the invitation, and accordingly laid the proposal before his parliament at Paris. The parliament objected, that the invitation had been made with an insidious design of seizing his person, thereby to make the cheaper and easier acquisition of the crown, to which Edward at that time pretended. But John replied, with some warmth, that he was confident his brother Edward, and more especially his young cousin, were too much of the GENTLEMAN, to treat him in that manner. He did not say too much of the king, of the hero, or of the saint, but too much of the GENTLEMAN to be guilty of any baseness. “The sequel verified this opinion. At the battle of Poictiers King John was made prisoner, and soon after conducted by the Black Prince to England. The prince entered London in triumph, amid the throng and acclamations of millions of the people. But then this rather appeared to be the triumph of the French king than that of his conqueror. John was seated on a proud steed, royally robed, and attended by a numerous and gorgeous train of the British nobility; while his conqueror endeavored, as much as possible, to disappear, and rode by his side in plain attire, and degradingly seated on a little Irish hobby. “As Aristotle and the Critics derived their rules for epic poetry and the sublime from a poem which Homer had written long before the rules were formed, or laws established for the purpose: thus, from the demeanor and innate principles of particular gentlemen, art has borrowed and instituted the many modes of behaviour, which the world has adopted, under the title of good manners. “One quality of a gentleman is that of charity to the poor; and this is delicately instanced in the account which Don Quixote gives, to his fast friend Sancho Pancha, of the valorous but yet more pious knight-errant Saint Martin. On a day, said the Don, Saint Martin met a poor man half naked, and taking his cloak from his shoulders, he divided, and gave him the one half. Now, tell me at what time of the year this happened. Was I a witness? quoth, Sancho; how the vengeance should I know in what year or what time of the year it happened? Hadst thou Sancho, rejoined the knight, anything within thee of the sentiment of Saint Martin, thou must assuredly have known that this happened in winter; for, had it been summer, Saint Martin would had given the whole cloak. “Another characteristic of the true gentleman, is a delicacy of behaviour toward that sex whom nature has entitled to the protection, and consequently entitled to the tenderness, of man. “The same gentleman-errant, entering into a wood on a summer’s evening, found himself entangled among nets of green thread that, here and there, hung from tree to tree; and conceiving it some matter of purposed conjuration, pushed valorously forward to break through the enchantment. Hereupon some beautiful shepherdesses interposed with a cry, and besought him to spare the implements of their innocent recreation. The knight, surprised and charmed by the vision, replied,--Fair creatures! my province is to protect, not to injure; to seek all means of service, but never of offence, more especially to any of your sex and apparent excellences. Your pretty nets take up but a small piece of favored ground; but, did they inclose the world, I would seek out new worlds, whereby I might win a passage, rather than break them. “Two very lovely but shamefaced girls had a cause, of some consequence, depending at Westminster, that indispensably required their personal appearance. They were relations of Sir Joseph Jeckel, and, on this tremendous occasion, requested his company and countenance at the court. Sir Joseph attended accordingly; and the cause being opened, the judge demanded whether he was to entitle those ladies by the denomination of spinsters. ‘No, my Lord,’ said Sir Joseph; ‘they are lilies of the valley, they toil not, neither do they spin, yet you see that no monarch, in all his glory, was ever arrayed like one of these.’ “Another very peculiar characteristic of a gentleman is, the giving place and yielding to all with whom he has to do. Of this we have a shining and affecting instance in Abraham, perhaps the most accomplished character that may be found in history, whether sacred or profane. A contention had arisen between the herdsmen of Abraham and the herdsmen of his nephew, Lot, respecting the propriety of the pasture of the lands wherein they dwelled, that could now scarce contain the abundance of their cattle. And those servants, as is universally the case, had respectively endeavored to kindle and inflame their masters with their own passions. When Abraham, in consequence of this, perceived that the countenance of Lot began to change toward him, he called, and generously expostulated with him as followeth: ‘Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, or between my herdsmen and thy herdsmen; for we be brethren. If it be thy desire to separate thyself from me, is not the whole land before thee? If thou wilt take the left hand, then will I go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left.’ “Another capital quality of the true gentleman is, that of feeling himself concerned and interested in others. Never was there so benevolent, so affecting, so pathetic a piece of oratory exhibited upon earth, as that of Abraham’s pleading with God for averting the judgments that then impended over Sodom. But the matter is already so generally celebrated, that I am constrained to refer my reader to the passage at full; since the smallest abridgment must deduct from its beauties, and that nothing can be added to the excellences thereof. “Honor, again, is said, in Scripture, peculiarly to distinguish the character of a gentleman; where it is written of Sechem, the son of Hamor, ‘that he was more honorable than all the house of his father.’ “From hence it may be inferred, that human excellence, or human amiableness, doth not so much consist in a freedom from frailty as in our recovery from lapses, our detestation of our own transgressions, and our desire of atoning, by all possible means, the injuries we have done, and the offences we have given. Herein, therefore, may consist the very singular distinction which the great apostle makes between his estimation of a just and of a good man. ‘For a just or righteous man,’ says he, ‘one would grudge to die; but for a good man one would even dare to die.’ Here the just man is supposed to adhere strictly to the rule of right or equity, and to exact from others the same measure that he is satisfied to mete; but the good man, though occasionally he may fall short of justice, has, properly speaking, no measure to his benevolence, his general propensity is to give more than the due. The just man condemns, and is desirous of punishing the transgressors of the line prescribed to himself; but the good man, in the sense of his own falls and failings, gives latitude, indulgence, and pardon to others; he judges, he condemns no one save himself. The just man is a stream that deviates not to the right or left from its appointed channel, neither is swelled by the flood of passion above its banks; but the heart of the good man, the man of honor, the gentleman, is as a lamp lighted by the breath of GOD, and none save GOD himself can set limits to the efflux or irradiations thereof. “Again, the gentleman never envies any superior excellence, but grows himself more excellent, by being the admirer, promoter, and lover thereof. Saul said to his son Jonathan, ‘Thou son of the perverse, rebellious woman, do not I know that thou hast chosen the son of Jesse to thine own confusion? For as long as the son of Jesse liveth upon the ground, thou shalt not be established, nor thy kingdom; wherefore send and fetch him unto me, for he shall surely die.’ Here every interesting motive that can possibly be conceived to have an influence on man, united to urge Jonathan to the destruction of David; he would thereby have obeyed his king, and pacified a father who was enraged against him. He would thereby have removed the only luminary that then eclipsed the brightness of his own achievements. And he saw, as his father said, that the death of David alone could establish the kingdom in himself and his posterity. But all those considerations were of no avail to make Jonathan swerve from honor, to slacken the bands of his faith, or cool the warmth of his friendship. O Jonathan! the sacrifice which thou then madest to virtue, was incomparably more illustrious in the sight of God and his angels than all the subsequent glories to which David attained. What a crown was thine, ‘Jonathan, when thou wast slain in thy high places!’ “Saul of Tarsus had been a man of bigotry, blood, and violence; making havoc, and breathing out threatenings and slaughter, against all who were not of his own sect and persuasion. But, when the spirit of that INFANT, who laid himself in the manger of human flesh, came upon him, he acquired a new heart and a new nature; and he offered himself a willing subject to all the sufferings and persecutions which he had brought upon others. “Saul from that time, exemplified in his own person, all those qualities of the gentleman, which he afterwards specifies in his celebrated description of that charity, which, as he says, alone endureth forever. When Festus cried with a loud voice, ‘Paul, thou art beside thyself, much learning doth make thee mad;’ Paul stretched the hand, and answered, ‘I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth of these things, before whom also I speak freely; for I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest.’ Then Agrippa said unto Paul, ‘Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.’ And Paul said, ‘I would to God that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were not only almost but altogether such as I am,--except these bonds.’ Here, with what an inimitable elegance did this man, in his own person, at once sum up the orator, the saint, and the gentleman! “From these instances, my friend, you must have seen that the character, or rather quality of a GENTLEMAN, does not, in any degree, depend on fashion or mode, on station or opinion; neither changes with customs, climate, or ages. But, as the Spirit of God can alone inspire it into man, so it is, as God is the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever.” In concluding this chapter I would say: “In the common actions and transactions of life, there is a wide distinction between the well-bred and the ill-bred. If a person of the latter sort be in a superior condition in life, his conduct towards those below him, or dependent upon him, is marked by haughtiness, or by unmannerly
torture him a moment with breathless dread, and then suppress themselves in the seeming of a tragic death. He remembered the warnings of Dr. Malbone,--he must close his mind upon the past, must find in the present only the light with which the world is filled, and must aim for a sane and useful future. All this consumed but a moment. At once there burst upon him the awful reality of the tragedy that had worked itself out so logically before him. Humanity cried aloud within him. He sprang toward his hut, procured an axe, and plunged down the slope of the talus, taking no heed of the crude but surer trail that he had made from the road to his hut. He slipped, fell, gathered himself up, fell again, but rapidly neared his goal. He paused when he had reached the prostrate tree. Through the branches his peering revealed a crushed, still heap. He pushed his head and shoulders within and called. There was no response. He was at the rear of the wagon, and soon saw that it had been crushed into an indeterminate mass of wood and iron. By pushing apart the more yielding branches he brought to view the up-turned face of the man, whose eyes, fixed in death, stared horribly from a head curiously and grotesquely unshaped by the crush of the branches. The young man drew back. He gasped for breath; he called upon his self-command to bear him up in this strenuous time. He attacked the branches with his axe and cleared them away. He half wondered that the eyes of the dead remained open while they filled with particles of the bark riven by the axe. Presently the body came within reach. With unspeakable repulsion the young man placed his hand upon the stranger’s chest. There was no sign of life. Indeed, he wondered that he had taken any trouble to ascertain what he already knew. All this time the young man’s dread and terror, heightened by a sense of utter loneliness in the presence of the dead, had driven the woman from his mind. He had not yet seen the slightest trace of her. Did he have the strength to behold a woman mangled as he had found the man... Still, they should have decent interment; that was his duty as a man. And further, it was necessary that their identity be ascertained, in order that their friends might be informed. There was something else. Far back in the mountains, that wilder wilderness of the Trinity range, and in the Siskiyou range, beyond them, there were huge gray wolves, fierce and formidable. Now and then a daring hunter had come out of those mountains with the skin of a great gray wolf. There were old stories in the mountains that when the snow had been deep and of prolonged duration, the gray wolves came down to the tamer reaches inhabited by men, driven thither by hunger, for the game upon which they subsisted had fled before the snow to find herbage. The first to come out had been deer; soon after them had come the wolves. As the deer fell before the rifles of the settlers, the wolves had been driven to depredations on cattle and horses. There were ugly tales, too, of men attacked by them. Out of all this had grown the legend of a she-wolf that bore away children to her wolf-pack. After the wind now raging in the mountains would come the snow, silent, deep, and implacable, to hide the work of the fallen tree below the hut; but would it hide everything so well that the great gray wolves, if driven by hunger from the remoter mountains, would fail to find what hunger required them to seek? Wilder again attacked the tree with his axe,--another one lay dead there, and she must be found; and there was heavy and horrifying work ahead before the wind should cease and the snow begin to fall. At first the young man resumed his attack with the furious energy that had hitherto sustained his effort; but wisdom and caution came now to his aid. He realized his feebleness of mind, spirit, and body. He had devoted weeks of arduous work to the construction of his hut, and that had lent a certain strength to his muscles and buoyancy to his soul. Still, he was hardly more than a shadow of his old self, before his life had been wrecked a year ago, and he had come into the mountains to make a sturdy fight for self-mastery, for the regeneration of whatever shreds of manhood were left within him, and for their patching and binding into a fabric that should take its place in the ranks of men and work out a man’s destiny. He went about his task with greater deliberation. He forced himself to regard with calmness the distorted dead face upturned toward him. He worked with that slowness which makes greater haste in achievement. This brought a surer judgment and an economy of effort and time. He cut the branches one by one and dragged them away. Soon the woman’s form appeared. In the extreme moment of the catastrophe she had evidently sprung forward; this had brought her body, face downward, between the horses; they, in being crushed under the trunk of the tree, fallen across them, had nevertheless given her a certain protection; the trunk, in breaking the backs of the horses, had missed her head. As for the rest, she was so closely wedged between the horses that it would be difficult to extricate her. This, however, was finally accomplished after great labor. The woman’s face and clothing were blood-stained. So much worse did she look than the man, that Wilder had a new struggle with himself to command courage and strength for the task. He dragged her out to a clear place in the road, and made the same perfunctory examination as in the case of the man. While he was doing so the woman moved and gasped, and this unexpected indication of life was the greatest shock of the tragedy. But it was one of those shocks which bring new life and strength. Whereas, before he had been facing, without daring to contemplate, the awful duty that he owed the dead, here now was the most precious thing that the world then could have offered him,--here was Life, human life, fleeting, perhaps, but infinitely precious. Wilder knelt beside the unconscious woman and with eager hands loosened her clothing. He ran to the river, dipped his handkerchief in the water, bathed her face, and removed some of the blood that covered it. He chafed her hands and wrists, anxiously watching for the slightest change. This came rapidly and progressed steadily. Removed from the crushing pressure of the horses, her chest found its natural expansion, and the rhythm of deep, slow breathing was established. Wilder had learned numerous elementary things from Dr. Malbone; he saw that, although the sufferer was so grievously hurt as to be unconscious, life was yet strong within her. Time, then, was the precious element here. The sufferer must be taken at once to the hut, and Dr. Malbone summoned. As for the dead man, there was no present danger on his account, and the living demanded first attention. A formidable task now confronted the young man. First, he had to bear the unconscious woman up the steep trail to the hut; then he should have to go many miles afoot to summon Dr. Malbone. The young man thought nothing of the difficulties, but all of the doing. He was about to assail the task of getting the woman upon his shoulder, when it occurred to him that her injuries might possibly be aggravated by his manner of carrying her. He thereupon made a hasty examination. The head was bleeding. The face bore no visible injuries. The bones of the arms were whole. The left leg, however, was broken above the knee. What the particular cause of the sufferer’s unconsciousness was he could only guess. Perhaps it was merely a condition of temporary congestion, produced by the fearful pressure to which she had been subjected between the horses. A bleeding at the ears and nose seemed to the young man a bad sign. Her condition having been thus approximately ascertained, the next problem was to bear her to the hut in a way that should do the least harm to her injuries. The first necessary thing to be done, therefore, was to prevent any mobility in the region of the fracture. To this end he burrowed again into the débris and brought forth some boards that had served as the bottom of the wagon. Tearing strips from the woman’s clothing, he bound the boards to her in a way to protect her from harm in moving her. The strain upon his attentiveness sharpened and strengthened him in every way. He formed the whole plan of his bearing her to the hut, making her temporarily comfortable, summoning Dr. Malbone, and attending to the details of nursing her back to health. To lift her gently upon a bowlder; to bend forward and adjust her upon his back with infinite care; to proceed with her up the laborious ascent,--all this was skilfully and expeditiously done. Serious difficulties began soon to embarrass him. He discovered that she was above the average height and weight of women, heavier than he, although he was the taller. He found that the numerous abrupt steps in the trail laid a heavy tax upon his strength, and that some steep places proved slippery under the burden that he bore. In addition, the muscles of his arms strained and cramped; and long before he had reached the shelf upon which his hut was perched he fell to his knees a number of times from exhaustion. But the end came at last when he staggered into his hut, dragged a cover from his bed to the floor, and gently laid his burden upon it. CHAPTER THREE DURING all this time the fury of the storm had not abated in the least. That, indeed, had been one of the worst obstacles with which he had contended in mounting the steep to his hut. Immediately upon laying his charge on the floor he had begun to prepare his bed for the guest, but weakness from exhaustion overcame him. He reeled; a red blindness assailed him; and, in spite of a fierce effort to maintain command of his strength and faculties, he found himself plunging headlong upon his bed. A moan recalled him to consciousness, and it was not until later that he realized the distressing length of time that he had lain unconscious. He remembered that when he fell he was very warm from the exertion of ascending the slope, and that when he awoke he was excessively cold. Furthermore, twilight had come. Dismayed over the loss of time, he proceeded at once to make his charge comfortable. He prepared his bed for her and placed her upon it. She was still unconscious, but he saw that she was rallying. He suddenly realized that it was now impossible for him to summon Dr. Mal-bone, for the fury of the storm had been steadily increasing, and the crash of falling trees still sounded above the roaring of the wind. It would be worse than foolhardy for him to brave the storm and the darkness. At any moment she might recover consciousness and find herself alone and suffering in this strange place; and a whole night and day would hardly have been sufficient for him to fetch the surgeon, had that been a physical possibility. So the young man realized that he alone, with no training in the surgeon’s and physician’s art, must take this woman’s life in his hands, and for a long time to come be her physician and nurse, cook and housekeeper, mother and confidant, father and protector. That realization was sufficiently cruel and taxing, but the ordeal that now confronted him was the most trying of all. He had not yet given any attention to the appearance of his charge, further than to ascertain to what extent she was hurt. When he now lighted a candle and held it to her face, he saw that she was a young and handsome woman. He noted the high-bred patrician face through the grime, the abundant dark-brown hair, the black brows but slightly arched and nearly meeting between the eyes, the fine nose, the habitual, half-hidden curve of scorn at the corners of her mouth, and the firm, strong, elegantly moulded chin. It was evident that the man and the woman were father and daughter, for the resemblance between the distorted dead face and the grimy living one was strong; the manifest difference in ages finished the conclusion. Was she fatally hurt? What if she should die? What effect would the knowledge of her father’s death have upon her? How long would she remain helpless on the couch, held by her injuries; and how long, after her possible recovery, would she be held a prisoner by the impassable condition of the roads? Would she be cheerful and brave through it all? She was growing more and more restless; wise haste was now the crowning necessity. First of all, she must have suitable clothing, and it must be provided before he made his bungling efforts to set her broken bone. How could he hope to perform this difficult surgical feat with no more knowledge of its requirements than he had secured while serving a few times as Dr. Malbone’s untrained assistant in the mountains, and with the most inadequate understanding of the use of such splints, bandages, needles, and ligatures as Dr. Malbone had given him for his use upon himself in case of an emergency, and with an imperfect knowledge of the narcotics, stimulants, febrifuges, and other medicines with which Dr. Malbone had provided him? The sufferer had youth and superb health; but how could he feel the smallest assurance that, in the event he should secure a knitting of the fracture, crookedness and deformity from improper adjustment would not result? But there was nothing to do but try, and to bring every intelligent force of his nature to the task. He hoped that she would not regain consciousness before he should make another trip to the scene of the tragedy and secure her luggage. The twilight was deepening. He threw logs on the smouldering fire in the chimney-place and started to leave. He paused a moment at the door to watch his patient. She was again stirring and moaning. “A sedative would be safer,” he reflected. And then, when he had poured it with great difficulty down her throat, he wondered if he had given her too much, and if it would have a bad effect in depressing her vitality and working against her rallying. He waited until she had become still and quiet, and then hastened down to the road. The storm had been gradually changing in character. He had expected the snow to wait until the wind had fallen, but a hurricane was still blowing, and snow was coming down in long gray slants. Already it had begun to whiten and fill crevices into which the wind was driving it. It would have been better had he brought a lantern, but there was no time for that; and the wind doubtless would have made its use impossible. At the wreck he found his axe and cleared away more branches. Only a very faint suggestion of the dead white face peering up at him came through the twilight; and there was work to be done in that quarter to-morrow, however much snow might be lodged and packed in the branches. Soon he found two large and heavy travelling bags, one larger than the other; this, he reasoned, must be the woman’s; his strength to carry both to the hut was inadequate now, and he needed all possible steadiness of nerve for the task ahead. A laborious climb brought him back to the hut with the bag and his axe. By the light of a candle he anxiously read the name on a silver tag attached to the handle of the bag. It was,--“Laura Andros, San Francisco.” It was with awe and reverence that he opened the bag and in a gingerly fashion drew forth its contents and carefully laid them aside. He had already noted in a vague way that his guest was a woman of wealth and elegance, and he now observed that, although the articles he disclosed were intended in large part for vigorous mountain use, an unmistakable stamp of daintiness and refinement was upon them all. Having now found garments in which he could make her comfortable after his surgical work was done, he proceeded with the stupendous task that awaited him. He wondered how much precious time he had lost, if any, through sheer dread of his duty. But whatever the delay, and whatever its causes, it had been useful in preparing him for the ordeal. Up to this moment an unaccountable and distressing trembling of all his members at frequent intervals had alarmed him, but strength and steadiness came with his nearer approach to the task. Commanding his soul to meet the need of the hour, he went sturdily about his work. He knew how desperately painful were operations for the setting of fractured bones, and how great was the skill required for the administering of an anæsthetic. He had never known even a skilled surgeon to undertake alone what he must now do without either skill or assistance. It would not be sufficient should he do his best: his best must be perfectly done. He produced his store of splints, bandages, stimulants, and anaesthetics, and arranged them conveniently to hand, as he had seen Dr. Malbone do. He examined his patient’s pulse; it was too quick and weak to give him high confidence. He made a good fire, for the night was cold; and he called heavily upon his store of candles to furnish as much light as possible. His bed, upon which she lay, was a most crude and inadequate affair. It was of his own construction, and had been intended to serve its part in the life of severe austerity that he had made for himself in the mountains. It was made of rough boards nailed to wooden posts. To serve for mattress, fragrant pine-needles filled it. Upon this were spread sheets and blankets. The pillow also was made of pine-needles. Thus, without springs, the bed was hard and unfit for a daintily reared woman; more so because of the illness that she would suffer and the great length of time that she would be confined to the bed; but it was the best he had. As the hut was very small and had but one room, this bed had been fitted snugly into a corner. Wilder moved it out, that he might be able to work freely on both sides of it. This cramped the hut all the more. The examination that he had made in the road was for the purpose of discovering broken bones. There he had found the bone of the left thigh broken at some undetermined point between the knee and the hip. But broken bones are not all the hurts that one may receive in such an accident,--cuts and contusions might prove equally dangerous if overlooked. With exquisite care he prepared her for the work that he must do. As she was fully dressed, this required patience from his unskilled hands. Finally, this part of the task, inexpressibly hard for a man of his delicacy of feeling, was accomplished. What anguish he suffered on his own account and in foreseeing her confusion and possible resentment upon realizing that he, an utter stranger, and not a physician, had done all this for her, it were idle to set forth here. To his great relief he found that the bone of the left thigh was, so far as he could judge, the only one that had suffered fracture; but a careful inspection revealed several bruises; and at last, in searching for the source of the blood that had covered her face when he drew her from the débris, he found a cut in her crown. His first work must be there. Covering her comfortably, he washed the blood from her hair and face, and, bearing in mind the pride that she must have cherished for her glorious hair, he quickly shaved as small a space on her crown as possible. He first tried adhesive plaster to bring the edges of the cut together; but the water and his handling of the wound started the hemorrhage afresh, and this compelled him to close the wound with ligatures. He was pleased to observe that the hemorrhage was stopped. This made him so well satisfied and so confident that the greater magnitude of the remaining work appalled him less. Indeed, that had begun to exercise a scientific fascination that abnormally sharpened his wits and steadied his nerves. It was this task that he now attacked. All this time the sufferer had lain unconscious. This was a blessing, unless the state had been induced by causes worse than consciousness of the pain from setting the bone. There was time hereafter to consider all that. The one present duty was to proceed with the operation without another moment’s delay, for inflammation had already set in. While, with infinite care, he was fitting, as best he could, the ends of the broken bone, he was startled out of all self-command by a scream of agony from her, half-strangled, and therefore made all the more terrifying, by the bandage under her chin; and she was sitting up, staring at him. Every one of the young man’s faculties was temporarily paralyzed. A benumbing coldness was upon him. With a mighty effort he gathered himself up, but his breathing was difficult, and sweat streamed down his face. He firmly laid her back upon the pillow, and said,-- “Be quiet; you shall not be hurt again.” She was singularly docile, although he could see by the wildness of her eyes and a fluttering in her throat that something was raging within her. With one hand he gently pressed her eyelids down, and with the other he wetted a handkerchief from a bottle of chloroform and held it just clear of her mouth and nostrils. For a moment she rebelled against the stifling vapor and tried to drag his hand away; but, finding him determined, she yielded, and soon was stupefied. The work must be rapid now. There was no time to wonder if she had comprehended anything or seen in him a stranger. No interruption could come from her now; that was the vital thing; but the anaesthetic would soon lose its force. He resumed his work, taking great care, in matching the injured member with the sound one, to avoid crippling her for life. He then adjusted the splints, keeping the member straight. Finally, he secured it against bending at the knee by adjusting a board on the under side of the leg throughout its entire length. He finished his work by binding the upper part of her body to the bed-frame, to prevent her rising. Then, extinguishing his candles, making her as comfortable as possible on the hard bed, and putting more wood on the fire, he sat down to watch. Everything seemed to be going well. By this time the night was far advanced. The wind was still blowing a terrific gale. An aching, irresistible weariness stole over the watcher. He drew his chair close to the bed and anxiously observed his charge. He examined her pulse; it was rising; her skin was hot and dry. She had passed from under the influence of the anaesthetic, and was now sleeping restlessly. He waited in dread for her awaking, for the unexpected situation in which the young man found himself was complex and difficult. It was essential that his patient should be as tranquil as possible. Knowledge of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence she must be deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the young man’s nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must be done. She must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed to bear the miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the young man would post notices along the road, calling for help from the first persons passing. CHAPTER FOUR MUCH thinking and planning had to be done, for the unexpected situation in which the young man found himself was complex and difficult. It was essential that his patient should be as tranquil as possible. Knowledge of her father’s death might prove disastrous. Hence she must be deceived, and yet deception was unspeakably repugnant to the young man’s nature. But now it was a duty, which above all things must be done. She must be buoyed with hope. All her fortitude would be needed to bear the miserable conditions of her imprisonment. Meantime, the young man would post notices along the road, calling for help from the first persons passing. Already the road was wholly impassable, and it would grow worse. None of the friends or relatives of the dead man and his daughter could have been informed of their leaving the lakes. The natural conclusion from their absence would be that an early winter of unusual severity had compelled them to remain until spring. The people in the mountains would have no way of learning that the two had failed to reach the railway. Thus had the travellers been completely blotted out of their world. No relief parties would be sent out to search for them. Not until the unlikely discovery of the notices that Wilder would post could there be the slightest knowledge of the tragedy. More than that, the road upon which Wilder’s hut looked down was only one of two that penetrated the wilderness in that direction. In the summer it had a small travel, but by reason of its crookedness, narrowness, and sharp grades it was avoided by heavy traffic. It would be the last road to be cleared. Snow-shoes were practically unknown in these mountains, for seasons of long snow blockades were rare; but there would be no occasion for snow-shoe travel over this road. The only prospect for the escape of Wilder and his charge was on foot, after the lapse of the months that would be required for her recovery, and after the snow was gone. Innumerable domestic perplexities presented themselves to the young man’s mind. His charge, being perfectly helpless, must depend entirely upon him for her every want. Would she have the wisdom and goodness to accept the situation cheerfully, or would its humiliation and hardships gnaw constantly at her strength and patience, and delay her recovery or precipitate her death? How could she possibly accept the situation philosophically? She would find a bitter contrast between this life and the one of luxury and indulgence to which she had been accustomed. Even should she develop the highest order of fortitude, the rude food, in small variety, that he had to give her, cooked badly, could hardly tempt her appetite, and thus build up her strength. Then, her bed was a wretched affair, and there was serious danger that its hardness alone, without regard to her possible resignation to its discomforts, would produce hurtful physical results. If only wise and helpful Dr. Malbone could know and come! Let the days bring forth what they would, Wilder would do his duty as he knew it. The fire crackled cheerily on the hearth and filled the hut with its warmth and glow and peace. The walls were tight and strong, and were holding firm against the storm. The agonizing strain of the last twelve hours was over, and all strength must be saved for the future. In the flickering firelight the young man studied the face of his charge at leisure, and he saw that she was singularly handsome; but there seemed to be a certain hardness in her face, relaxed in unconsciousness though it was. Perhaps it was only because there stood out before his memory the one face in all the world that, with its infinite gentleness and sweetness, embodied every grace for which his spirit yearned. It was not so beautiful and brilliant a face as this,--but there came up Dr. Malbone’s warning, uttered over and over with the most earnest impressiveness: “As you value your reason and life, as you value the possibilities of your happiness and your usefulness to humanity, turn your face from the past, and with all the courage and will of a man confront the future. Nature is kind to all of her children who love her and seek her. She heaps our past with wreckage, only to train and prepare us for a noble future. There can be no peace where there has been no travail. There would be no strength were there no weakness in need of its help. The man who fails to the slightest extent in his duties to humanity and himself burdens his life to that extent. Be brave and hopeful and helpful, as it becomes a man to be, and labor incessantly for the best, as it becomes a man to do.” And the man with the curiously-twisted face peering out from the tree-branches, what had been the aim of his life, that it should find such an end? After all, was there any taint of unmanliness in that end? Doubtless even now he was covered deep under snow. If he should be left there, the great gray wolves might come down and find him. They were big and powerful, and men who had seen them hungry told fearful tales of their daring and ferocity. If the snow should drive them down, they would find the dead horses under the tree; and after that there would be but one house here where they could find human beings. There need be no dread of them; but suppose that some night there should come a scratching at the door of the hut,--that would mean the gaunt shewolf, who bore away children to the wolf-pack. She would beg for a rind of bacon to eat, and a corner on the hearth to sleep. She would bear ugly wounds from her struggles with men and beasts, and these would have to be dressed, and rents in her hide stitched; and if there were broken bones, they must be set. Would she be patient under the torture, or would she snap and howl after the manner of wolves?... Wilder was startled to full consciousness by a moan. He bent over his patient and looked into her open eyes. She gazed up at him vacantly. He took her hand; it was hot. He placed a hand upon her forehead; it was burning. A haggard look of pain and distress sat upon her face. An eager appeal was in her glance, and her lips moved feebly. He bent his ear to them. She was faintly whispering-- “Water, water!” His heart bounding with gladness, he brought cold water. With difficulty he restrained her eagerness, lest she discover that she was crippled and bound. He covered her eyes with a napkin, for he observed that her glance was becoming strained and curious. She submitted quietly, while he gave her the water with a spoon. After that she sighed in weariness and content, but her deep inspiration was checked by pain. Her burning skin and an uneasiness throughout her entire frame warned him that she had a fever. He gave her a remedy for that. It was not until daylight had come that, after watching her for hours as she lay awake and seemingly halfconscious, he observed her finally drift into sound slumber. The young man rose and found himself weak and dizzy; but after he had prepared and eaten a simple breakfast he felt stronger. Seemingly by a miracle, he had gone through his task in safety thus far. He must now leave his patient for a while, to discharge a grim duty that awaited him in the road below,--a duty from which his every sensibility recoiled with unspeakable repugnance. Lest an untoward accident should happen in his absence, he gave his patient a stupefying drug. He dreaded to open the front door of his hut. When he did, he found the thing that he feared: the wind had ceased after midnight, and the snow had been falling ever since, and still was falling. It had whitened the walls of the canon, and, before the wind had ceased, had eddied and drifted about the hut in a way that filled the young man with alarm for the future. Would his strength be sufficient to fight it if the storm should be greatly prolonged, to the end that he and his charge should not be buried alive? He put this dread away, and with a heavy heart followed the steep trail down to the road. CHAPTER FIVE NOON was near at hand when the guest of the hut waked to full consciousness. Her first impulse was to cry out with the pain that tortured her; but her strong will assumed command, and she looked inquiringly into the anxious face beside her Obviously she realized that a catastrophe had overtaken her, and she was now silently demanding an explanation. Wilder had not expected this. Her calmness, and, more than that, her silent demand, were so different from the childish and unreasonable petulance that he had expected, that he was unprepared and confused. “You have been hurt,” he stammered; “and it will be necessary for you to keep very quiet for a time.’ “How was I hurt?” she faintly asked. “The horses were frightened by the storm and ran away.” “Oh, the storm! I remember.” Then she looked quickly and anxiously about. “My father,” she said,--“where is he?” For a moment the oddly distorted face in the branches came grimacing between Wilder and his duty, but with a gasp and a repelling gesture he drove it away,--not so dexterously but that his struggle was seen. “He--has gone to bring help,” he said. Then, quickly leaving the bedside to conceal his weakness and the shame of the lie that choked him, he added hastily, “Yes, he was not hurt; and when he and I had brought you to this hut he went to find help. He will return as soon as possible.” He felt that her glance was upon him with merciless steadiness. “Now,” said he, returning to the couch, “I will remove these bandages,”--referring to the cords that bound her to the bed;--“but you must promise me not to move except under my direction. Do you?” She slightly nodded an assent, and he unbound her. “Come,” he added, “you must have some of this broth. No, don’t try to rise; I will feed you from this spoon. It is not too hot, is it? That is good. Presently you will feel much better. You are not in much pain now, are you?” “I am not a child,” she answered, with a slight touch of disdain and reproof. But he cheerily said,-- “Excellent, excellent! That is the way to feel!” She lay silent for a while, looking up at the roof. Presently she said,-- “I imagine that I am badly hurt. Please tell me how and where I am injured.” “Well, your left leg was hurt, and we shall have to keep it bandaged and your knee from bending. And there were some bruises on your side, and an injury to the scalp.” “My scalp?” she quickly asked, raising her hand and asking, “Surely you did not shave my head?” “No,” he replied, smiling amusedly; “except a small spot, and you can cover that until the hair grows out.” She was not fully satisfied until she had felt the splendid wealth of hair that lay massed upon the pillow. “May I ask who you are?” This was the question that he had dreaded most of all; but before he could stammer out the truth a light broke over her face, and she astounded him with this exclamation: “Oh, you are the famous Dr. Mal-bone! This is extraordinary! I am very, very fortunate.” Wilder had never conceived a lie so dazzling and happy as this mistake. Between wonder at his stupidity for not having thought of it, and a great delight that she had so naturally erred, he was too bewildered either to affirm or deny. He only realized that she had unwittingly solved the most difficult of his present problems. Had she been looking at him, she might have wondered at the strange expression that lighted up his face, and particularly the crimson temporarily displacing the death-like pallor that she had observed. “Yes,” she resumed, after a pause, “I am fortunate; for I suppose that my injuries are a great deal worse than you have given me to believe, and that such skill as yours is needed.” She turned her glance again full upon him; but he had recovered his address, and now met her look with an approach to steadiness. “But,” she said, “you are a much younger man than I had expected to see; and you don’t look so crabbed as I might have inferred you were from the message you sent me a month ago.” She paused, evidently expecting him to make some explanation; but he was silent, and looked so distressed that she smiled. “You may remember,” she continued, “that a young lady at the lakes sent for you to treat her for bruises sustained in a fall, and that you told her messenger to give her your compliments and say that cold-water applications, an old woman, and God would do as well with such a
pieces as possible, and put them into a stewpan with a little boiling water, rather highly salted. When the marrow has boiled for a minute, drain the water away through a fine strainer. Have ready a slice of lightly-toasted bread, place the marrow on it, and put it into a Dutch oven before the fire for five minutes, or until it is done. Sprinkle over it a little pepper and salt, and a small teaspoonful of parsley, chopped fine. The toast must be served very hot. CHICKEN IN ASPIC JELLY. Cut the white part of a cold boiled chicken, and as many similar pieces of cold ham, into neat rounds, not larger than a florin. Run a little aspic jelly into a fancy border mould, allow it to set, and arrange a decoration of boiled carrot and white savoury custard cut crescent shape, dipping each piece in melted aspic. Pour in a very little more jelly, and when it is set place the chicken and ham round alternately, with a sprig of chervil, or small salad, here and there. Put in a very small quantity of aspic to keep this in place, then, when nearly set, sufficient to cover it. Arrange another layer, this time first of ham then of chicken, fix them in the same way, and fill up the mould with aspic jelly. When the dish is turned out fill the centre with cold green peas, nicely seasoned, and garnish round with chopped aspic and little stars of savoury custard. To make this, soak a quarter of an ounce of Nelson's Gelatine in a gill of milk, dissolve it over the fire, and stir in a gill of thick cream, season to taste with cayenne pepper and salt, and, if liked, a little grate of nutmeg. Pour the custard on to a large dish, and when cold cut it into the required shapes. VEAL CUTLETS IN WHITE SAUCE. Cut six or seven cutlets, about half-an-inch thick, from a neck of veal, braise them in half-a-pint of good white stock with an onion, a small bunch of herbs, a bacon bone, and two or three peppercorns, until they are done. Let the cutlets get cool in the liquor, then drain them. Strain the liquor and make a white sauce with it; add a tablespoonful of thick cream and a quarter of an ounce of Nelson's Gelatine, dissolved in a gill of milk; season with salt and cayenne pepper, stirring occasionally until quite cold. Dip the cutlets in, smoothly coating one side, and before the sauce sets decorate them with very narrow strips of truffle in the form of a star. Cut as many pieces of cooked tongue or ham as there are cutlets, dish them alternately in a circle on a border of aspic, fill the centre with a salad composed of all kinds of cold cooked vegetables, cut with a pea-shaped cutter and seasoned with oil, vinegar, pepper, and salt. Garnish with aspic jelly cut lozenge shape and sprigs of chervil. KIDNEYS SAUTÉS. Like many other articles of diet, kidneys within the last ten years have been doubled in price, and are so scarce as to be regarded as luxuries. The method of cooking them generally in use is extravagant, and renders them tasteless and indigestible. Kidneys should never be cooked rapidly, and those persons who cannot eat them slightly underdone should forego them. One kidney dressed as directed in the following recipe will go as far as two cooked in the ordinary manner--an instance, if one were needed, of the economy of well-prepared food. Choose fine large kidneys, skin them and cut each the round way into thin slices: each kidney should yield from ten to twelve slices. Have ready a tablespoonful of flour highly seasoned with pepper and salt and well mixed together; dip each piece of kidney in it. Cut some neat thin squares of streaked bacon, fry them _very slowly_ in a little butter; when done, put them on the dish for serving, and keep hot whilst you _sauté_ the kidneys, which put into the fat the bacon was cooked in. In about a minute the gravy will begin to rise on the upper side, then turn the kidneys and let them finish cooking slowly; when they are done, as they will be in three to four minutes, the gravy will again begin to rise on the side which is uppermost. Put the kidneys on the dish with the bacon, and pour over them a spoonful or two of plain beef gravy, or water thickened with a little flour, boiled and mixed with the fat and gravy from the kidneys in the frying-pan. If there is too much fat in the pan, pour it away before boiling up the gravy. Serve the kidneys on a hot-water dish. TINNED KIDNEYS WITH MUSHROOMS. (_Tomoana Brand._) Dry a half-tin of champignons in a cloth, or, if convenient, prepare a similar quantity of fresh button mushrooms; add to these a few pieces of dried mushrooms, previously soaked for ten minutes in tepid water, put them into a stewpan with a slice of butter, and stir constantly for six minutes, then add two or three kidneys cut in small neat pieces, in the shape of dice is best, and continue stirring until the kidneys are hot through, taking care to do them slowly; at the last moment season with pepper and salt, and serve very hot. Garnish the dish with fried sippets of bread. KIDNEYS WITH PICCALILLI SAUCE. (_Tomoana Brand._) Take the kidneys out of the gravy, and cut them into six slices. Mix a small teaspoonful of curry powder with three teaspoonfuls of fine flour and a small pinch of salt. Dip each slice in this mixture, and when all are done put them in the frying-pan with a little butter, and let them get slowly hot through. When done, put the kidneys in the centre of a hot dish, and pour round them a sauce made as follows: Boil up the gravy of the kidneys, and stir into it sufficient minced piccalilli pickles to make it quite thick, add a teaspoonful of flour to a tablespoonful of the piccalilli vinegar, stir into the sauce, and when all has boiled up together, pour it round the kidneys. BROILED KIDNEYS. These are quite an epicure's dish, and care must be taken to cook them slowly. Having skinned the kidneys (they must not be split or cut) dip them for a moment in boiling fat, place them on the gridiron over a slow fire, turning them every minute. They will take ten to fifteen minutes to cook, and will be done as soon as the gravy begins to run. Place them on a hot dish rubbed over with butter, salt and pepper them rather highly. It must be understood that kidneys thus cooked ought to have the gravy in them, and that when they are cut at table it should run from them freely and in abundance. LAMB'S FRY. A really proper fry should consist not only of sweetbreads and liver, but of the heart, melt, brains, frill, and kidneys, each of which requires a different treatment. It is quite as easy to cook a fry properly as to flour and fry it hard and over-brown, as is too frequently done. Trim the sweetbreads neatly, and simmer them for a quarter of an hour in good white stock with an onion. When they are done take them up and put the brains in the gravy, allowing them to boil as fast as possible in order to harden them; let them get cold, then cut into slices, egg and bread-crumb them, and fry with the sweetbread in a little butter. After the brains are taken out of the gravy, put the slices of heart and melt in, and let them stew slowly until tender. When they are ready, flour them, and fry with the liver and frill until brown. Lastly, put the kidneys, cut in slices, into the pan, and very gently fry for about a minute. Shake a little flour onto the pan, stir it about until it begins to brown; then pour on to it the gravy, in which the sweetbreads, etc., were stewed, see it is nicely seasoned, and pour round the fry, which should be neatly arranged in the centre of the dish. Garnish with fried parsley. LAMB'S SWEETBREADS. These make an admirable breakfast dish, and can be partly prepared over-night. Trim and wash the sweetbreads, put them into a saucepan with sufficient well-flavoured stock to cover them, a minced onion and a sprig of lemon-thyme; boil gently for fifteen minutes, or a little longer if necessary. Take them up, drain, dip in egg and finely-sifted bread-crumbs mixed with a little flour, pepper, and salt. Fry very carefully, so as not to make it brown or hard, some small slices of bacon, keep warm whilst you fry the sweetbreads in the fat which has run from it, adding, if required, a little piece of butter or lard. For a breakfast dish, the sweetbreads should be served without gravy, but if for an _entrée_ the liquor in which they were stewed, with slight additions and a little thickening, can be poured round them in the dish. Calves' sweetbreads are prepared in the same manner as the above, and can either be fried, finished in a Dutch oven, or served white, with parsley and butter, or white sauce. VEAL À LA CASSEROLE. For this dish a piece of the fillet about three inches thick will be required, and weighing from two to three pounds. It should be cut from one side of the leg, without bone; but sometimes butchers object to give it, as cutting in this manner interferes with cutlets. In such a case a piece must be chosen near the knuckle, and the bone be taken out before cooking. For a larger party, a thick slice of the fillet, weighing about four pounds, will be found advantageous. With a piece of tape tie the veal into a round shape, flour, and put it into a stewpan with a small piece of butter, fry until it becomes brown on all sides. Then put half a pint of good gravy, nicely seasoned with pepper and salt, cover the stewpan closely, and set it on the stove to cook very slowly for at least four hours. When done, the veal will be exquisitely tender, full of flavour, but not the least ragged. Take the meat up, and keep hot whilst the gravy is reduced, by boiling without the lid of the saucepan, to a rich glaze, which pour over the meat and serve. BROWN FRICASSÉE OF CHICKEN. This is a brown fricassée of chicken, and is an excellent dish. No doubt the reason it is so seldom given is that, although easy enough to do, it requires care and attention in finishing it. Many of the best cooks, in the preparation of chickens for fricassée, cut them up before cooking, but we prefer to boil them whole, and afterwards to divide them, as the flesh thus is less apt to shrink and get dry. The chicken can be slowly boiled in plain water, with salt and onions, or, as is much better, in white broth of any kind. When the chicken is tender cut it up; take the back, and the skin, pinions of the wings, and pieces which do not seem nice enough for a superior dish, and boil them in a quart of the liquor in which it was boiled. Add mushroom trimmings, onions, and a sprig of thyme; boil down to one-half, then strain, take off all fat, and stir over the fire with the yolk of two eggs and an ounce of fine flour until thickened. Dip each piece of chicken in some of this sauce, and when they are cold pass them through fine bread-crumbs, then in the yolk of egg, and crumb again. Fry carefully in hot fat. Dish the chicken with a border of fried parsley, and the remainder of the gravy poured round the dish. This dish is generally prepared by French cooks by frying the chicken in oil, and seasoning with garlic; but unless the taste of the guests is well known, it is safer to follow the above recipe. CHICKEN SAUTÉ. Put any of the meat of the breast or of the wings without bone into a frying-pan with a little fresh butter or bacon fat. Cook them very slowly, turning repeatedly; if the meat has not been previously cooked it will take ten minutes, and five minutes if a _réchauffé_. Sprinkle with pepper, and serve with mushrooms or broiled bacon. The legs of cooked chickens are excellent _sautés_, but they should be boned before they are put into the pan. POTATO HASH. Put some cold potatoes chopped into the frying-pan with a little fat, stir them about for five minutes, then add to them an equal quantity of cold meat, cut into neat little squares, season nicely with pepper and salt, fry gently, stirring all the time, until thoroughly hot through. DRY CURRY. Fry a minced onion in butter until lightly browned, cut up the flesh of two cooked chicken legs, or any other tender meat, into dice, mix this with the onions, and stir them together over the fire until the meat is hot through; sprinkle over it about a small teaspoonful of curry-powder, and salt to taste. Having thoroughly mixed the meat with the curry-powder, pour over it a tablespoonful of milk or cream, and stir over the fire until the moisture has dried up. Celery salt may be used instead of plain salt, and some persons add a few drops of lemon-juice when the curry is finished. CROQUETTES. Croquettes of all kinds, fish, game, poultry or any delicate meats, can be successfully made on the following model: Whatever material is used must be finely minced or pounded. Care is required in making the sauce, if it is too thin it is difficult to mould the croquettes, and ice will be required to set it. Croquettes of game without any flavouring, except a little salt and cayenne, are generally acceptable as a breakfast dish. Preserved lobster makes very good croquettes for an _entrée_, and small scraps of any kind can thus be made into a very good dish. Put one ounce of fine flour into a stewpan with half a gill of cold water, stir this over a slow fire very rapidly until it forms a paste, then add one ounce of butter, and stir until well incorporated. Mix in a small teaspoonful of essence of shrimps or anchovies, with a pinch of salt and pepper. Take the stewpan off the fire, and stir the yolk of an egg briskly into the sauce; thoroughly mix it with half-a-pound of pounded fish or meat, spread it out on a plate until it is cool. Flour your hands, take a small piece of the croquette mixture, roll into a ball or into the shape of a cork, then pass it through very finely-sifted and dried bread-crumbs. Repeat the process until all the mixture is used; put the croquettes as you do them into a wire frying-basket, which shake very gently, when all are placed in it, in order to free them from superfluous crumbs. Have ready a stewpan half-full of boiling fat, dip the basket in, gently moving it about, and taking care the croquettes are covered with fat. In about a minute they will become a delicate brown, and will then be done. Turn them on a paper to absorb any superfluous fat, serve them on a napkin or ornamental dish paper. No more croquettes than will lie on the bottom of the basket without touching each other should be fried at once. MEAT CAKES À L'ITALIENNE. Mix very fine any kind of cold meat or chicken, taking care to have it free from skin and gristle, add to it a quarter of its weight of sifted bread-crumbs, a few drops of essence of anchovy, a little parsley, pepper and salt, and sufficient egg to moisten the whole. Flour your hands, roll the meat into little cakes about the size of a half-crown piece, then flatten the cakes with the back of a spoon, dip them in egg and fine bread-crumbs, and fry them in a little butter until lightly browned on the outside. Put them on a hot dish and garnish with boiled Italian paste. RAISED PORK PIE. Take a pound of meat, fat and lean, from the chump end of a fine fore-loin of pork, cut it into neat dice, mix a tablespoonful of water with it, and season with a large teaspoonful of salt and a small one of black pepper. To make the crust, boil a quarter of a pound of lard or clarified dripping in a gill and a half of water, and pour it hot on to one pound of flour, to which a good pinch of salt has been added. Mix into a stiff paste, pinch off enough of it to make the lid, and keep it hot. Flour your board and work the paste into a ball, then with the knuckles of your right hand press a hole in the centre, and mould the paste into a round or oval shape, taking care to keep it a proper thickness. Having put in the meat, join the lid to the pie, which raise lightly with both hands so as to keep it a good high shape, cut round the edge with a sharp knife, and make the trimmings into leaves to ornament the lid; and having placed these on, with a rose in the centre, put the pie on a floured baking-sheet and brush it over with yolk of egg. The crust of the pie should be cool and set before putting it into the oven, which should be a moderate heat. When the gravy boils out the pie is done. An hour and a half will bake a pie of this size. Make a little gravy with the bones and trimmings of the pork, and to half-a-pint of it add a quarter of an ounce of Nelson's Gelatine, and nicely season with pepper and salt. When the pie is cold remove the rose from the top, make a little hole, insert a small funnel, and pour in as much gravy as the pie will hold. Replace the rose on the top, and put the pie on a dish with a cut paper. If preferred, the pie can be made in a tin mould; but the crust is nicer raised by the hand. A great point to observe is to begin moulding the crust whilst it is hot, and to get it finished as quickly as possible. VEAL AND HAM PIE. Prepare the crust as for a pork pie. Cut a pound of veal cutlet and a quarter of a pound of ham into dice, season with a teaspoonful of salt and another of black pepper, put the meat into the crust, and finish as for pork pie. Add a quarter of an ounce of Nelson's Gelatine--previously soaked in cold water, and then dissolved--to a teacupful of gravy made from the veal trimmings. PORK SAUSAGES. When a pig is cut up in the country, sausages are usually made of the trimmings; but when the meat has to be bought, the chump-end of a fore-loin will be found to answer best. The fine well-fed meat of a full-grown pig, known in London as "hog-meat," is every way preferable to that called "dairy-fed pork." The fat should be nearly in equal proportion to the lean, but of course this matter must be arranged to suit the taste of those who will eat the sausages. If young pork is used, remove the skin as thinly as you can--it is useful for various purposes--and then with a sharp knife cut all the flesh from the bones, take away all sinew and gristle, and cut the fat and lean into strips. Some mincing-machines require the meat longer than others; for Kent's Combination, cut it into pieces about an inch long and half-an-inch thick. To each pound of meat put half a gill of gravy made from the bones, or water will do; then mix equally with it two ounces of bread-crumbs, a large teaspoonful of salt, a small one of black pepper, dried sage, and a pinch of allspice. This seasoning should be well mixed with the bread, as the meat will then be flavoured properly throughout the mass. Arrange the skin on the filler, tie it at the end, put the meat, a little at a time, into the hopper, turn the handle of the machine briskly, and take care the skin is only lightly filled. When the sausages are made, tie the skin at the other end, pinch them into shape, and then loop them by passing one through another, giving a twist to each as you do them. Sausage-skins, especially if preserved, should be well soaked before using, or they may make the sausages too salt. It is a good plan to put the skin on the water-tap and allow the water to run through it, as thus it will be well washed on the inside. Fifteen to twenty minutes should be allowed for frying sausages, and when done they should be nicely browned. A little butter or lard is best for frying, and some pieces of light bread may be fried in it when the sausages are done, and placed round the dish by way of garnish. Cooks cannot do better than remember Dr. Kitchener's directions for frying sausages. After saying, "They are best when quite fresh made," he adds: "put a bit of butter or dripping into a clean frying-pan; as soon as it is melted, before it gets hot, put in the sausages, and shake the pan for a minute, and keep turning them. Be careful not to break or prick them in so doing. Fry them over a very slow fire till they are nicely browned on all sides. The secret of frying sausages is to let them get hot very gradually; they then will not break if they are not stale. The common practice to prevent them bursting is to prick them with a fork, but this lets the gravy out." PUDDINGS. *** CUSTARD PUDDING. We give this pudding first because it affords an opportunity for giving hints on making milk puddings generally, and because, properly made, there is no more delicious pudding than this. It is besides most useful and nutritious, not only for the dinner of healthy people, but for children and invalids. But few cooks, however, make it properly; as a rule too many eggs are used, to which the milk is added cold, and the pudding is baked in a quick oven. The consequence is that the pudding curdles and comes to table swimming in whey; or, even if this does not happen, the custard is full of holes and is tough. In the first place, milk for all puddings with eggs should be poured on to the eggs boiling hot; in the next, the baking must be very slowly done, if possible, as directed in the recipe; the dish containing the pudding to be placed in another half-full of water. This, of course, prevents the baking proceeding too rapidly, and also prevents the pudding acquiring a sort of burned greasy flavour, which is injurious for invalids. Lastly, too many eggs should not be used; the quantity given, two to the pint of milk, is in all cases quite sufficient, and will make a fine rich custard. We never knew a pudding curdle, even with London milk a day old, if all these directions were observed; but it is almost needless to say, that the pudding made with new rich milk is much finer than one of inferior milk. Boil a pint and a half of milk with two ounces of lump sugar, or rather more if a sweet pudding is liked, and pour it boiling hot on three eggs lightly beaten--that is, just sufficiently so to mix whites and yolks. Flavour the custard with nutmeg, grated lemon-peel, or anything which may be preferred and pour it into a tart-dish. Place this dish in another three-parts full of boiling water, and bake slowly for forty minutes, or until the custard is firm. There is no need to butter the dish if the pudding is baked as directed. SOUFFLÉ PUDDING. This is a delicious pudding, and to insure its success great care and exactness are required. In the first place, to avoid failure it is necessary that the butter, flour, sugar, and milk, should be stirred long enough over a moderate fire to make a stiff paste, because if this is thin the eggs will separate, and the pudding when done resemble a batter with froth on the top. Before beginning to make the pudding, prepare a pint tin by buttering it inside and fastening round it with string on the outside a buttered band of writing-paper, which will stand two inches above the tin and prevent the pudding running over as it rises. Melt an ounce of butter in a stewpan, add one ounce of sifted sugar, stir in an ounce and a half of Vienna flour, mix well together, add a gill of milk, and stir over the fire with a wooden spoon until it boils and is thick. Take the stewpan off the fire, beat up the yolks of three eggs with half a teaspoonful of extract of vanilla, and stir a little at a time into the paste, to insure both being thoroughly mixed together. Put a small pinch of salt to the whites of four eggs, whip them as stiff as possible, and stir lightly into the pudding, which pour immediately into the prepared mould. Have ready a saucepan with enough boiling water to reach a little way up the tin, which is best placed on a trivet, so that the water cannot touch the paper band. Let the pudding steam very gently for twenty minutes, or until it is firm in the middle, and will turn out. For sauce, boil two tablespoonfuls of apricot jam in a gill of water, with two ounces of lump sugar, stir in a wine-glassful of sherry, add a few drops of Nelson's Vanilla Flavouring, pour over the pudding and serve. OMELET SOUFFLÉ. Put the yolks of two eggs into a basin with an ounce of sifted sugar and a few drops of Nelson's Vanilla Essence; beat the yolks and sugar together for six minutes, or until the mixture becomes thick. Then whip the whites very stiff, so that they will turn out of the basin like a jelly. Mix the yolks and whites lightly together, have ready an ounce of butter dissolved in the omelet-pan, pour in the eggs, hold this pan over a slow fire for two minutes, then put the frying-pan into a quick oven and bake until the omelet has risen; four minutes ought to be sufficient to finish the omelet in the oven; when done, slide it on to a warm dish, double it, sift sugar over, and serve instantly. SPONGE SOUFFLÉ. Cover the bottom of a tart-dish with sponge-cakes, pour over a little brandy and sherry; put in a moderate oven until hot, then pour on the cakes an egg whip made of two packets of Nelson's Albumen, beaten to a strong froth with a little sugar. Bake for a quarter of an hour in a slow oven. CABINET PUDDING. Butter very thickly a pint pudding-basin, and cover it neatly with stoned muscatel raisins, the outer side of them being kept to the basin. Lightly fill up the basin with alternate layers of sponge-cake and ratafias, and when ready to steam the pudding, pour by degrees over the cake a custard made of half-a-pint of boiling milk, an egg, three lumps of sugar, a tablespoonful of brandy, and a little lemon flavouring. Cover the basin with a paper cap and steam or boil gently for three-quarters of an hour. Great care should be taken not to boil puddings of this class fast, as it renders them tough and flavourless. BRANDY SAUCE. Mix a tablespoonful of fine flour with a gill of cold water, put it into a gill of boiling water, and, having stirred over the fire until it is thick, add the yolk of an egg. Continue stirring for five minutes, and sweeten with two ounces of castor sugar. Mix a wine-glass of brandy with two tablespoonfuls of sherry, stir it into the sauce, and pour it round the pudding. If liked, a grate of nutmeg may be added to the sauce, and, if required to be rich, an ounce of butter may be stirred in before the brandy. WARWICKSHIRE PUDDING. Butter a pint-and-a-half tart-dish, lay in it a layer of light bread, cut thin, on this sprinkle a portion of two ounces of shred suet, and of one ounce of lemon candied-peel, chopped very fine. Fill the dish lightly with layers of bread, sprinkling over each a little of the suet and peel. Boil a pint of milk with two ounces of sugar, pour it on two eggs, beaten for a minute, and add it to the pudding just before putting it into the oven; a little of Nelson's Essence of Lemon or Almonds may be added to the custard. Bake the pudding in a very slow oven for an hour. VANILLA RUSK PUDDING. Dissolve, but do not oil, an ounce of butter, mix in a quarter of a pound of sifted sugar, stir over the fire for a few minutes, add an egg well beaten, and half a teaspoonful of Nelson's Vanilla Extract, or as much as will give a good flavour to the paste, which continue stirring until it gets thick. Spread four slices of rusk with the vanilla paste, put them in a buttered tart-dish. Boil half-a-pint of new milk, pour it on to an egg well beaten, then add it to the rusk, and put the pudding to bake in a slow oven for an hour. Turn out when done, and sift sugar over the pudding. If a superior pudding is desired, boil a tablespoonful of apricot jam in a teacupful of plain sugar syrup, add a little vanilla flavouring, and pour over the pudding at the moment of serving. JUBILEE PUDDING. Pour a pint of boiling milk on two ounces of Rizine, stir over the fire for ten minutes, add half an ounce of butter, the yolks of two eggs, an ounce of castor sugar, and six drops of Nelson's Essence of Almonds. Put the pudding into a buttered pie-dish, and bake in a moderate oven for a quarter of an hour. When taken from the oven, spread over it a thin layer of apricot jam, and on this the whites of the eggs beaten to a strong froth, with half an ounce of castor sugar. Return the pudding to a slow oven for about four minutes, in order to set the meringue. NATAL PUDDING. Soak half-an-ounce of Nelson's Gelatine in half-a-pint of cold water until it is soft, when add the grated peel of half a lemon, the juice of two lemons, the beaten yolks of three eggs, and six ounces of lump sugar dissolved in half-a-pint of boiling water. Stir the mixture over the fire until it thickens, taking care that it does not boil. Have ready the whites of the eggs well whisked, stir all together, pour into a fancy mould, which put into a cold place until the pudding is set. QUEEN'S PUDDING. Half-a-pound of bread-crumbs, a pint of new milk, two ounces of butter, the yolks of four eggs, and a little Nelson's Essence of Lemon. Boil the bread-crumbs and milk together, then add the sugar, butter, and eggs; when these are well mixed, bake in a tart-dish until a light brown. Then put a layer of strawberry jam, and on the top of this the whites of the eggs beaten to a stiff froth, with a little sifted sugar. Smooth over the meringue with a knife dipped in boiling water, and bake for ten minutes in a slow oven. CHOCOLATE PUDDING. Boil half-a-pound of light stale bread in a pint of new milk. Stir continually until it becomes a thick paste; then add an ounce of butter, a quarter of a pound of sifted sugar, and two large teaspoonfuls of Schweitzer's Cocoatina, with a little Nelson's Essence of Vanilla. Take the pudding off the fire, and mix in, first, the yolks of three eggs, then the whites beaten to a strong froth. Put into a buttered tart-dish and bake in a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour. COCOA-NUT PUDDING. Choose a large nut, with the milk in it, grate it finely, mix it with an equal weight of finely-sifted sugar, half its weight of butter, the yolks of four eggs, and the milk of the nut. Let the butter be beaten to a cream, and when all the other ingredients are mixed with it, add the whites of the eggs, whisked to a strong froth. Line a tart-dish with puff-paste, put in the pudding mixture and bake slowly for an hour. Butter a sheet of paper and cover the top of the pudding, as it should not get brown. RASPBERRY AND CURRANT PUDDING. Stew raspberries and currants with sugar and water, taking care to have plenty of juice. Cut the crumb of a stale tin-loaf in slices about half-an-inch thick and put in a pie-dish, leaving room for the bread to swell, with alternate layers of fruit, until the dish is full. Then put in as much of the juice as you can without causing the bread to rise. When it is soaked up put in the rest of the juice, cover with a plate, and let the pudding stand until the next day. When required for use turn out and pour over it a good custard or cream. The excellence of this pudding depends on there being plenty of syrup to soak the bread thoroughly. This is useful when pastry is objected to. THE CAPITAL PUDDING. Shred a quarter of a pound of suet, mix it with half a pound of flour, one small teaspoonful each of baking-powder and carbonate of soda, then add four tablespoonfuls of strawberry or raspberry jam, and stir well with a gill of milk. Boil for four hours in a high mould, and serve with wine or fruit sauce. The latter is made by stirring jam into thin butter sauce. ITALIAN FRITTERS. Cut slices of very light bread half-an-inch thick, with a round paste-cutter, divide them into neat shapes all alike in size. Throw them into boiling fat and fry quickly of a rich golden brown, dry them on paper, place on a dish, and pour over orange or lemon syrup, or any kind of preserve made hot. Honey or golden syrup may be used for those who like them. DUCHESS OF FIFE'S PUDDING. Boil two ounces of rice in a pint of milk until quite tender. When done, mix with it a quarter of an ounce of Nelson's Gelatine soaked in a tablespoonful of water. Line the inside of a plain mould with the rice, and when it is set fill it up with half-a-pint of cream, whipped very stiff and mixed with some nice preserve, stewed fruit, or marmalade. After standing some hours turn out the pudding, and pour over it a delicate syrup made of the same fruit as that put inside the rice. WELSH CHEESECAKE. Dry a quarter of a pound of fine flour, mix with two ounces of sifted loaf-sugar, and add it by degrees to two ounces of butter beaten to a cream; then work in three well-beaten eggs, flavour with Nelson's Essence of Lemon. Line patty-pans with short crust, put in the above mixture, and bake in a quick oven. FRIAR'S OMELET. Make six moderate-sized apples into sauce, sweeten
ieved, was a Belgian and a widow. We drew up before a small house of neat appearance. I was shown a chamber, where, no longer dreaming of supper, I fell across a cushion like an overthrown statue. I felt as if a good month must have passed since I possessed a home. I had in pocket about thirty sous. The philosopher was right enough when he said, "Traveling lengthens one's life;" only he should have added, "It shortens one's purse." On awakening next morning the linnets and finches communicated through the window a pleasanter sentiment. Nature was gay and inspiring on this lovely May-day. By a perversity quite natural with me, my letter to Berkley, which it was my first care to write and post, contained but a slight reflection of my woes. My need of a passport only appeared in a postscriptum, wherein I begged him to arrange that little affair for me in some way by correspondence. The bulk of my communication was a eulogy of May, of youth, of flowers, of birds, all of which were saluting me as I scribbled from the beautiful little grove outside my casement. Treating the diplomate as an intimate friend--a caprice of the moment on my part--I begged him to go back with me to Marly, promising him the joys described in old Thomas Randolph's invitation to the country: We'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made-- How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir: The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes. We will all sport _enjoy_, which others but _desire_. [Illustration: THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS.] I engaged to furnish him his regimen of whey, and did not omit to quote from the same poem, apropos of that mild Anacreontic drink, the lines which happen to introduce his name: And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble _Barkley's_ health. "The cup," I continued, "shall be at once your toast and your medicine, and the whey shall be fresh. If you want to make a Tartar of yourself, and feed on koemiss, I will have the milk fermented." To the baron of Hohenfels I wrote with equal gayety, begging him to plant the stakes of his tent in my garden until my own nomadic career should be finished. A third letter, as my reader may imagine, was directed to the Rue Scribe, and addressed to the American banker, the beloved of all money-needing compatriots--Mr. John Munroe. My letters committed to a domestic, I felt absolutely relieved from care. I breathed freely, and recovered all my self-possession. Sing loud, little birds! it is a comrade who listens to you. With two days, perhaps three, of enforced leisure before me, I undertook in a singular spirit of deliberation the criticism of my surroundings. I began with my bed-chamber. It contained both a stove and a fireplace. The fireplace was like all other fireplaces, but not so the stove. Stark and straight, rising from floor to ceiling, it was fixed immovably in the wall, a pilaster of porcelain. No stove-door interrupted its enameled shaft: only a register of fretwork for the emission of heat, and quite dissociated from the cares of fire-building, relieved the ennui of this sybaritic length of polish. It was kindled--and that is the special merit of this famous invention--from without, in the corridor which borders the line of rooms. If you put the idea to profit, O overtoasted friends of Flemming, I shall not regret my forced inspection of Carlsruhe. I would distinguish less honorably that small oblique looking-glass inserted in the bevel of the window-jamb, and common to all the dwellings of Carlsruhe--a handy article, an entertaining distraction, a discreet but immoral spy, which places at your mercy all the mysteries of the public street. This contrivance, which enables you to see the world without being seen, certainly gives you a tempting advantage over the untimely caller or the impertinent creditor; but it encourages, in my opinion, a habit of vision better adapted to a sultan's seraglio than to the discreet eyes of Western folk. [Illustration: THE TALE OF BRICKS.] This reflection, by which I satisfied my perhaps exalted moral sense, was no sooner made than I found myself peeping to right and to left in my double mirror, not without a lively sense of curiosity. At first I saw--what Flemming, indeed, was wont to see when he consulted the Fountain of Oblivion--only streets and moss-grown walls and trembling spires, like those of the great City of the Past, and children playing in the gardens like reverberations from one's lost youth. Soon a nearer image approached. From a troop of blond girls, who dragged after them little chariots resembling baby-wagons, one damsel drew apart, allowing the others to pass on. She neared my window. Who is the maiden with the anachronic baby-cart? She is the milkmaid of the country. Here in Germany Perrette does not poise her milk upon her head or weigh it in a balance, in order to afford by its overthrow a fable to La Fontaine. She can dream at her ease as she draws it behind her. My fair-haired neighbor paused. A tall lad thereupon emerged from the neighboring trees, and, replacing Perrette at her wagon, he fitted himself dexterously into her maiden dream and into the shafts of her equipage. As the avenue was deserted for the instant, his arm enlaced her figure, with the obvious and commendable purpose of sustaining her in her walk, and with his lips close to her smiling, rosy ones he contributed a gentle note to the hymeneal chorus that was twittered from the trees. [Illustration: THE FLY-BRUSH.] Who could remain long shut up from such an out-of-doors? Directly I was in the open air, scenting the fresh breath from the parks. I inspected the streets, the factories, the people, the houses. A prolonged and deliberate examination of Carlsruhe enables me to assert that it is the most easy-going, slow-paced, loitering, temporizing, procrastinating capital outside of Dreamland. A young workingman was assisting some bricklayers in an extension adjacent to the foundry of Christofle and Company. I saw him going, with a slow and lounging pace, toward the brick-pile, stopping by the way to quench his thirst at a hydrant, whose stream was so slender that a good many applications of the cup of Diogenes were necessary to allay the heat concentred in the fellow's thick throat. Arrived finally at the heap of bricks, the goal of his promenade, he took up precisely six, and proceeded with a lordly, lounging step to bear them back to the masons. Then, folding his arms, he watched the imbedding of those bricks in their plaster with a sovereign calm like that of Vitellius eating figs at the combats of the gladiators. When he consented to take up again his serene march, it was the turn of the bricklayers to fold their arms. At each errand he consulted the hydrant, and the builders watched all his movements with sympathy and approval. I photograph the moving figures in the street with the same simple fidelity which I have employed to represent the trouble-saving conveniences of my chamber. Take another hero, equally worthy of Capua. The placid personage who assisted me to a bath in my room was as happy a dullard as my waiter in the _Baden_, and both of them caressed their job as Narcissus caressed the fountain. [Illustration: THE KNIGHT OF THE BATH] A large cart drew up before the door, containing twelve kegs, thoroughly bunged. Any stranger would take the load for one of beer, but a tub among the kegs acted as interpreter. The young man from the baths in the first place saw to his horse. He walked around it: the drive having heated the animal, he covered it with a cloth, and guaranteed its head against the flies with several plumes of foliage, beneath which Dobbin, blinded but content, showed only the paralytic flapping of his pendulous, negro-like lips. These indispensable cares despatched, the young man from the baths brought up the tub after a short gossip with the kitchen-maid, who was going out to market. He asked her if there were a stable attached where he could put up the horse during the taking of the bath: being answered in the negative, he then, with an almost painful inconsequence of argument, chucked the girl under the chin. He next inquired if she had any soap-fat. At length he consented to lumber up the steps with one of his little kegs: the tenacity of the bung was so exemplary that a long time was consumed in getting the advantage over it, and the water on its part was but tardy in leaping toward the tub in a series of strangulations. This formula, interrupted by minute attentions to the horse, had to be repeated twelve times, and the bath, which commenced as a warm bath, received its guest as a cold one. Such was the result when to the languor of the individual was added the national complication of apparatus. [Illustration: GANYMEDE.] The deliberate spectator--or, if you will, the imprisoned spectator like myself, with his artificial leisure--asks himself how long a time was consumed by this little country of Baden, by this people so lumpish in its labor, so restricted in its movements, so friendly to its own ease, in building its elegant metropolis of mansions and palaces? There is something piquant in learning that the city is the hastiest construction on the continent. It only dates from the year 1715. [Illustration: ARRESTED MOTION.] Carlsruhe reminds the American traveler of Washington. In place of the tortuous plan and picturesque inconvenience of the antique capitals, it offers a predetermined and courteous radiation of broad streets from the grand-ducal palace, much like the fan of avenues that spreads away from the Capitol building. Formal as it is, and recent as it is, Carlsruhe affords as pretty a legend as any fairy-founded city of dimmest ancestry. The margrave Charles of Baden, hunter and warrior, returned from victory to bathe his soul in the sylvan delights of the chase. One day, as he coursed the stag in the Haardt Forest, he lay down with a sudden sense of fatigue, and fell asleep: an oak tree shadowed him with its broad canopies. Dreaming, he saw the green boughs separate, and in the zenith of the heavens descried a crown blazing with incredible jewels, and inscribed with letters that he felt rather than spelled: "This is the reward of the noble." All around the crown, hanging in air like sculptured cloudwork, spread a splendid city with towers: a noble castle, with open portal and stairway inviting his princely feet, stood at the centre, and the spires of sacred churches still sought, as they seek on earth, to pierce the unattainable heaven. When he awoke his courtiers were around him, for they had searched and found their lord while he slept. He related his dream, and declared his ducal will to build on that very spot a city just as he had seen it, with a splendid palace for central point, and streets like the spokes of light that spread from the sinking sun. So he said, and gave his whole soul to building this graceful capital and developing it with the arts of peace; for heretofore he had thought only of war, and had meant to patch up a seat of government in the little town of Durlach. [Illustration: THE PIPERS.] The Haardtwald still spreads around Carlsruhe ("Charles's Rest") to the eastward, but the bracken and underbrush have given way to beaten roads, which prolong with perfect regularity the fan of streets. An avenue of the finest Lombardy poplars in Germany, the trees being from ninety to a hundred and twenty feet high, extends for two miles to Durlach. Around the city spread rich plum and cherry orchards, yielding the "lucent sirops" from which is distilled the famous Kirschwasser. The reputation for drunkenness, in my opinion, has been very erroneously fastened upon the German population. During my sojourn in Carlsruhe I have paid many a visit to the beer-shops, from the petty taverns frequented by the poor to the lofty saloons where Ganymedes in white skirts shuffled with huge tankards through a perfect forest of orange trees in tubs; for, worse luck to my morals, I have not seen a single frightful example, not one individual balancing dispersedly over his legs. In the grand duchy of Baden the debauch is punished by a law of somewhat harsh logic, which commits to prison both drunkards and those who have furnished the wherewithal to excess. The common people form a nation of drinkers, not drunkards. The beer-tables are usually placed in the open air, with shelter for the patrons in case of bad weather. The out-door air is almost indispensable to correct the evils which might proceed from such an artillery of pipes all fired in concert. [Illustration: INCENSE AT THE ALTAR.] For Germany, if not a land of intoxication, is certainly one of fumigation. The face of a German is composed invariably of the following features: two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a pipe. Whichever of these features is movable, the pipe at least is a fixture. Fortified by this vital organ, he lives, loves and moves. EDWARD STRAHAN. [TO BE CONTINUED.] AUTUMN VOICES. Seemeth the chorus that greets the ear A dirge for the dying hours, That wake no more for the passing year, Spring's voices of birds and flowers? Or is it a psalm of love upborne From this grateful earth of ours? Unfold us the burden of your song, Grasshoppers, chirping so Tender and sweet the whole day long! Is it of joy or woe, The music that breathes from each blade of grass In undertone deep and low? Vainly I list for a jarring tone, All is so blest to me-- From the cricket that answers, beneath the stone, The brown toad hid in the tree, To the tiniest insect of them all That helps with the harmony. Never a pause in the serenade! Like the glory of ripened corn, It filleth the air through sunshine and shade; And from twilight till peep of morn Is a rhythmical pulse in the dreamful night, That of satisfied life seems born. As the gold of the summer about us floats, Soft melody crowneth the haze Of the yellow ether with choral notes Through these tuneful autumn days. Speak, sphinx of the hearthstone, cricket dear! Is the song of sorrow or praise? Of this I am sure, that you bring to me Thoughts the sweetest of any I know: Of this I am sure, that you sing to me, In minor tones tenderly low, Of things the dearest that life has brought, And dearest that hopes bestow. MARY B. DODGE. SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. II. BATAVIA. "Batavia, ho! and just ahead at that!" exclaimed the captain of our gallant East Indiaman as the entire party of passengers sprang to the quarter-deck on the first cry of "Land ahead!" It was scarcely five o'clock in the morning--not dawn between the tropics--but our impatience could brook no delay, and despite impromptu toilettes and yet unswabbed decks, with sluices of sea-water threatening us at every turn, we hastened forward to catch the earliest possible glimpse of the quaint old city of which we had heard such varied accounts. "You'll think a good part of it was built in Holland three centuries ago," said our captain, "then boxed up, sent across the waters, and dropped down, pell-mell, in the midst of the jungle." We all laughed incredulously at the time, but remembered his words afterward. Batavia, one of the strongholds of Dutch power in the East, occupies the north-western extremity of the island of Java. It is composed of two distinct settlements, known, respectively, as the "Old City" and the "New City." The former, built directly on the seaboard, consists mainly of warehouses; stores and government offices, with a pretty extensive mingling of native dwellings and bazaars. The business-houses occupied by Europeans are all built in the old Dutch style of centuries ago, and their venerable appearance is largely augmented by the mould and discoloration of the sea-air; while the _tout ensemble_ presents an ancient and dilapidated aspect strangely at variance with the luxuriant verdure of the tropical scenery and the brilliant tints of the picturesque Oriental costumes everywhere visible. The New City is a terrestrial Paradise, with broad avenues shaded by majestic trees, spacious parks, and palace-dwellings of indescribable elegance--a quaint commingling of city and country, of Oriental luxuriousness with the Hollander's characteristic love of solidity. In truth, the New City is not a city at all, but a continuous succession of beautiful villas embowered in orange groves, and surrounded by palms and banians, upon which climb and clamber flowering vines and creepers innumerable, while birds are singing, bees humming and butterflies fluttering their gauzy wings, utterly regardless of the proprieties of city life. At eight o'clock we found ourselves in the custom-house, surrounded by Dutch revenue-officers, whose insignia of office seemed to consist of the huge bunches of keys with which they were armed. Their stylish uniforms and fair pale faces were singularly in contrast with the chocolate-colored skins, naked busts, scarlet girdles and green or yellow turbans of the crowds of native porters who stood ready to take charge of the baggage as fast as it was examined. Having seen our effects disposed of, we set out for our quarters in the New City, attended by the Bengalese comprador who was to serve as guide and purveyor-general during our stay in the island. We were driven in the neatest of pony palanquins, drawn by horses scarcely larger than Newfoundland dogs, over smooth, well-shaded roads, amid luxuriant fields and meadows, and for a good portion of the route by the banks of a beautiful canal, all aglow with busy life. Here and there were sampans and _budgerows_, some loaded with merchandise, and others with passengers, their light sails spread and pennons gayly flaunting in the breeze, while men, women and children, bathing and swimming in the smooth waters, sported like fish in their native element, and never dreamed of the possibility of danger. [Illustration: A STREET IN BATAVIA (THE NEW CITY).] Among the majestic trees that formed natural archways above our heads, shutting out completely the sun's fervid rays, we noted especially the banians and cotton trees, the latter frequently besprinkling our heads and shoulders with what seemed at first glance a shower of _bonâ fide_ snow, but on examination proved only the light, fleecy down of sea-island cotton. Conspicuous among the trees we encountered on that pleasant morning drive was the _Palmier du voyageur_, more generally known as the _talipat_ or priestly palm, which was described in a recent number of this magazine. [Illustration: A canal in Batavia] One characteristic feature of Javanese residences is their superb baths. The pools are usually of marble or granite, of such huge dimensions that one may float and flounder like fish in a pond, while the superintendent of the bath keeps in constant play a brace of jets that send their sparkling spray over the bather's head and shoulders with most refreshing results. The water is clear as crystal, and sufficiently cool for the relaxed state of the system in a tropical clime. Everybody bathes three times a day, and one would far sooner dispense with a meal than do without either of these stated baths. [Illustration: THE TALAPAT PALM.] The usual routine of European life in India is to rise at "gun-fire" (five o'clock), go out for an airing in boat or palanquin for two full hours, bathe and dress at eight, take breakfast at nine, lunch at one, and siesta from two to four, when everybody retires, and, whether one wishes to sleep or not, he is secure of interruption, and has the full benefit of being _en déshabillé_ for the two most oppressive hours of the day. At four the second bath is taken; at five all go out in full dress in open carriages, and after a rapid drive over some of the public thoroughfares, the horses are walked slowly up and down the esplanade, where all the fashionable world assemble at this hour to see and be seen, and exchange passing courtesies or comments. At half-past six "the course" is deserted, and brilliantly-lighted dining-rooms are thronged with guests eager to test the quality of the rich and varied delicacies of which an Oriental dinner consists. [Illustration: A "GAMMELANG," OR JAVANESE CONCERT.] This is the principal meal of the day, and, occupying often two or three hours, it is made not merely an epicurean feast, but also an intellectual and social banquet. Strong coffee, served in the tiniest of porcelain cups, follows the guests on their return to the drawing-rooms, and music, conversation, reading and company fill up the hours till midnight, when the third bath is taken immediately before retiring. This routine is seldom varied, except by the arrival of strangers, bent, like our party at Batavia, on sight-seeing. _We_ soon wearied of the very voluptuousness of this stereo-typed course of indulgence, and welcomed in preference the fatigues and annoyances of exploring the thousand objects of interest that were beckoning us onward to jungle, mountain or sea-coast. Our friends, who were old residents, shook their heads knowingly, and prophesied sunstroke or jungle fever; but we went sight-seeing continually, filled our specimen baskets, and escaped both fever and sunstroke. The climate of Batavia is, however, extremely insalubrious for Europeans: a deadly miasma everywhere overshadows its luxuriant groves and lurks among the petals of its brightest flowers, rendering absolutely necessary regular habits of life. Before the occupation of the New City, when merchants and officers all resided on the seaboard, in the immediate vicinity of their business-places, the mortality was fearful, till utter depopulation seemed to threaten the colony. The inland location of the New City is more salubrious, and the extensive grounds that surround each dwelling give abundant freedom for ventilation, while the few hours passed by business or professional gentlemen at their offices--and those the best hours of the day, from breakfast to luncheon--are not deemed specially detrimental to health, even for foreigners. The Malays, Chinese and East Indians generally reside anywhere with impunity. [Illustration: LIEUTENANT OF THE SULTAN'S GUARD.] As our ship would be several weeks in port, discharging and taking in cargo, we availed ourselves of so fortunate an opportunity to explore some of the native settlements in the interior of the island. A Dutch officer, long resident in Java, kindly offered his escort, and obtained for us such passes and other facilities as were needed. Our first stopping place was at Bandong, the capital of one of the finest provinces of Java. It is under the nominal control of a native prince, who bears the title of "regent," holding his office under the government of Holland, from which he receives, an annuity of about forty thousand dollars. Among the natives he maintains the state of a grand Oriental monarch, and his subjects prostrate themselves in profoundest reverence before him; but both he and his domain are really controlled by half a dozen resident Hollanders, at the head of whom is the prefect. The palace of the regent is a massive structure, completely surrounded by beautiful gardens; and just beneath the windows where we sat I noticed a picturesque little lake, about which were sporting joyously at the evening hour a group of the young maidens of the palace. They were graceful and lovely in the careless abandon of their glee, but they no sooner perceived the white faces of the foreigners looking down at them than they fled like frightened doves, hiding themselves in a grove of bananas, in any single leaf of which one of these dainty demoiselles might have clothed herself entire. We found the regent surrounded by crowds of native attendants, among whose prostrate forms we wended our way to his presence. He was seated on a raised dais at the upper end of the audience-hall, and received us with the courteous dignity of a well-bred gentleman. His dress was that ordinarily worn by Malayan rajahs--brocade silk _saráng_ fastened by a rich girdle, a loose upper garment of fine muslin, and a massive turban of blue silk wrought in figures of gold. Costly but clumsy Arabic sandals, and a diamond-hilted _kris_ or dagger of fabulous value, completed a costume that looked both graceful and comfortable for a warm climate. He greeted the ladies of our party with marked _empressement_, thanked them for their visit, and conducted them in person to the entrance of the seraglio to make the acquaintance of his wives and daughters. [Illustration: SOLDIER OF THE SULTAN'S GUARD.] The next evening we were all invited to be present at the _gammeláng_, or orchestral and dramatic entertainment, in the harem of this prince. The invitation was gladly accepted, and so novel an exhibition I have seldom witnessed. Many of the musicians were masked, and wore queer-looking, conical caps that looked like exaggerated extinguishers, and a sort of light armor in which their unaccustomed limbs were evidently ill at ease. Occupying a conspicuous position in the very front, I noticed a Siamese _raknát_-player, robed in the native dress--or rather _un_dress--of his country, and his hair cut _à la_ Bangkok. He was singularly expert in the use of his instrument; and I learned afterward that, though taken to Java as a slave, his great musical talents had won for him not only liberty, but the highest favor of the regent of Bandong. He was the only rahnát-player in the gammeláng, but there were some two hundred timbrels, half a dozen drums, ten or twelve tom-toms, twenty violins, sixteen pairs of cymbals, and any imaginable number of horns, flutes and flageolets. I leave the reader to imagine the amount of noise produced by such a combination: my ears did not cease tingling for a week. But everybody praised the music, and evidently enjoyed the fun. The dancing was like all Oriental dancing, very voluptuous and enthusiastic, adapted especially to display the exquisite charms of the performers and move the passions of the audience. The play that followed possessed no merit, except in the bewildering beauty of the girlish actresses, and their superb adornments of natural flowers artistically arranged in coronets and wreaths, with costly pearls and diamonds. The play itself was simply a farce--a series of ridiculous passages between some lovesick swains and their rather tantalizing lady-loves, who eventually escaped, amid a shower of roses and bon-bons, from their pursuers, and disappeared behind a huge palm tree, which the next instant had vanished into air, roots, branches and all. After a somewhat adventurous ascent of Mount Tan-kon-bau-pra-hou, a hurried visit to the volcanoes of Merbabou and Derapi (the former nine thousand feet high, the latter eight thousand five hundred), and a glimpse at the sacred woods of Wah-Wons, we turned our faces toward Sourakarta and Djokjokarta, the two grand principalities of Java still remaining under native rule. Each is governed by an independent sultan, whom the Dutch have never been able to subjugate; and they are allowed, only by sufferance, to keep a diplomatic agent or "resident" at the courts of these monarchs. We had been forewarned, ere setting out on our tour, of the state maintained by these proud Oriental princes, and the utter impossibility of obtaining an audience without fulfilling to the very letter all the requirements of courtly usage. So we had sent forward some costly presents to each of the sultans, with letters written in Arabic and French, praying for the honor of an interview. Our messenger to the court of Sourakarta soon returned, accompanied by a native officer and five soldiers in full uniform, with a courteous letter of welcome from the sultan to his capital. He did not say to his _court_, and we were left in doubt as to whether we should see him, after all. But the day of our entrée was a most propitious one, as on that very morning this renowned monarch had been made the happy father of his twenty-eighth child. To this fortunate event we doubtless owed our reception at the court of this very exclusive potentate, who, we were told, almost invariably declined the proffered civilities of foreigners. Bonfires, illuminations and processions seemed the order of the day, business was suspended, bells were ringing, gongs sounding, and everybody was taking holiday, in commemoration of an event that seemed to have lost none of its novelty even after nearly a score and a half of repetitions. The palace is built in pagoda form, with abundant architectural adornments, and is surrounded by a semicircle of smaller buildings of much the same appearance, though somewhat less imposing. The grandest view is at night, when the whole immense pile, from base to turret, is one blaze of light that but for the abundant tropical growth might be seen for miles away. The sultan is a well-informed and courtly gentleman, with a polish of mind and manners we were quite unprepared to find hidden away in the heart of Java. He is said to be the most distinguished of all the Malayan princes of this isle. He conversed with readiness on the general aspect of political affairs in Europe and America, inquired for the latest intelligence, and before we left invited us to be present at a grand military review on the following day. The garb of the troops, both officers and men, consists of long silken sarángs confined by embroidered girdles, gold or silver _bangles_ in lieu of boots, and costly turbans adorned with precious stones--a garb that looked; better suited to the harem than the battle-field but their manoeuvres certainly did credit to their royal instructor in military tactics. The distinguishing weapon of Malayan soldiers, both in Java and elsewhere, is the kris, worn at the back and passed into the girdle. This is always carried both by officers and men, and very frequently civilians: the long sword is worn only by officers. After the review we were presented to the sultan's eldest son, a tall slender young man, somewhat over twenty, with fierce, gleaming black eyes, and a profusion of black hair falling below his shoulders. His countenance indicated both intelligence and firmness, and his appearance might have been _distingué_ but for his strangely effeminate dress of damask silk made like a girl's, his anklets and bracelets, gold chains and jeweled girdle, and a mitre-shaped _coiffure_ of black and gold studded with enormous diamonds, any one of which would make the fortune of a Pall-Mall pawnbroker. A score of attendants about his own age were standing at the back of the young heir, while four diminutive dwarfs and four jesters in comic garb crouched at his feet, and innumerable other subordinates--such as the fan-holder, the handkerchief-holder, the tea- and bouquet-holders, etc. etc.--made up the retinue of this youthful dignitary. At a subsequent interview the _sonsouhounan_ presented me to his mother and several other ladies of the royal harem. The sultan was first married at the age of twelve, and had at the time of our visit forty-eight wives. [Illustration: THE ELDEST SON OF THE SULTAN OF SOURAKARTA.] There is very much to interest the tourist in this Javanese city, so unlike the Anglo-Oriental settlements one meets elsewhere in the East, nor does he soon weary of its noble sultan and splendid Oriental court; but time forbade our tarrying longer than the third day, after which we pressed onward to the neighboring principality of Djokjokarta. This is the name most conspicuous in Javanese history, since there, from 1825 to 1830, floated victoriously the colors of the revolt, and victory was purchased at last only by the blood of fifteen thousand soldiers, of whom eight thousand were Europeans, and Djokjokarta remained as it was before, an independent sovereignty. The sultan, who belongs to an ancient family, is fine-looking, with a somewhat martial air, and a native dignity evidently the heritage of high birth. On our first interview he wore above the ordinary silk saráng a tight-fitting jacket of French broadcloth (blue), richly embroidered and trimmed with gold lace. [Illustration: THE SULTAN OF DJOKJOKARTA.] He displayed also a collection of crosses, stars, and other decorations conferred by various European powers, the French predominating. He had evidently a partiality for _la belle France_, and exhibited with no little pride an album containing photographs of Louis Philippe and Louis Napoleon. He conversed well in several languages, readily using either Arabic or French in lieu of his vernacular, and was evidently up to time in regard to the current political topics of the day. He introduced the ladies of our party to his young and beautiful sultana, and invited them to accompany her to the inner apartments of the harem. We found the private apartments of the seraglio, like so many others I visited all over the East, superbly magnificent in the display of gold and jewels, in costly carpets and exquisite hangings, in the most lavish exhibition of pictures, mirrors, statuettes and bijouterie generally. There were glowing tints and warm, rich colors, but all was sensuous: wealth and splendor were everywhere visible, but neither modesty nor true womanly refinement. The sultan afterward entertained us by the exhibition of a curious collection of monkeys and apes. Some were of huge proportions, full four feet in height, and looking as fierce as if just captured from their native jungles, while the tiny marmosets were scarcely eight inches long. The orang-outangs and long-armed apes had been trained to go through a variety of military exercises; and when one of us expressed surprise at their seeming intelligence, the sultan said gravely, "They are as really _men_ as you and I, and have the power of speech if _they chose to exercise it_. They do not talk, because they are unwilling to work and be made slaves of." This strange theory is generally believed by the Malays, in whose language _orang-outang_ is simply "_man_ of the woods." FANNIE R. FEUDGE. LONDON BALLS BY A LONDONER
horse, he heard the young men of his acquaintance say to one another:-- “There’s a lucky man. He is rich and handsome, and is to marry, so they say, Mademoiselle Evangelista. There are some men for whom the world seems made.” When he met the Evangelistas he felt proud of the particular distinction which mother and daughter imparted to their bows. If Paul had not secretly, within his heart, fallen in love with Mademoiselle Natalie, society would certainly have married him to her in spite of himself. Society, which never causes good, is the accomplice of much evil; then when it beholds the evil it has hatched maternally, it rejects and revenges it. Society in Bordeaux, attributing a “dot” of a million to Mademoiselle Evangelista, bestowed it upon Paul without awaiting the consent of either party. Their fortunes, so it was said, agreed as well as their persons. Paul had the same habits of luxury and elegance in the midst of which Natalie had been brought up. He had just arranged for himself a house such as no other man in Bordeaux could have offered her. Accustomed to Parisian expenses and the caprices of Parisian women, he alone was fitted to meet the pecuniary difficulties which were likely to follow this marriage with a girl who was as much of a Creole and a great lady as her mother. Where they themselves, remarked the marriageable men, would have been ruined, the Comte de Manerville, rich as he was, could evade disaster. In short, the marriage was made. Persons in the highest royalist circles said a few engaging words to Paul which flattered his vanity:-- “Every one gives you Mademoiselle Evangelista. If you marry her you will do well. You could not find, even in Paris, a more delightful girl. She is beautiful, graceful, elegant, and takes after the Casa-Reales through her mother. You will make a charming couple; you have the same tastes, the same desires in life, and you will certainly have the most agreeable house in Bordeaux. Your wife need only bring her night-cap; all is ready for her. You are fortunate indeed in such a mother-in-law. A woman of intelligence, and very adroit, she will be a great help to you in public life, to which you ought to aspire. Besides, she has sacrificed everything to her daughter, whom she adores, and Natalie will, no doubt, prove a good wife, for she loves her mother. You must soon bring the matter to a conclusion.” “That is all very well,” replied Paul, who, in spite of his love, was desirous of keeping his freedom of action, “but I must be sure that the conclusion shall be a happy one.” He now went frequently to Madame Evangelista’s, partly to occupy his vacant hours, which were harder for him to employ than for most men. There alone he breathed the atmosphere of grandeur and luxury to which he was accustomed. At forty years of age, Madame Evangelista was beautiful, with the beauty of those glorious summer sunsets which crown a cloudless day. Her spotless reputation had given an endless topic of conversation to the Bordeaux cliques; the curiosity of the women was all the more lively because the widow gave signs of the temperament which makes a Spanish woman and a Creole particularly noted. She had black eyes and hair, the feet and form of a Spanish woman,--that swaying form the movements of which have a name in Spain. Her face, still beautiful, was particularly seductive for its Creole complexion, the vividness of which can be described only by comparing it to muslin overlying crimson, so equally is the whiteness suffused with color. Her figure, which was full and rounded, attracted the eye by a grace which united nonchalance with vivacity, strength with ease. She attracted and she imposed, she seduced, but promised nothing. She was tall, which gave her at times the air and carriage of a queen. Men were taken by her conversation like birds in a snare; for she had by nature that genius which necessity bestows on schemes; she advanced from concession to concession, strengthening herself with what she gained to ask for more, knowing well how to retreat with rapid steps when concessions were demanded in return. Though ignorant of facts, she had known the courts of Spain and Naples, the celebrated men of the two Americas, many illustrious families of England and the continent, all of which gave her so extensive an education superficially that it seemed immense. She received her society with the grace and dignity which are never learned, but which come to certain naturally fine spirits like a second nature; assimilating choice things wherever they are met. If her reputation for virtue was unexplained, it gave at any rate much authority to her actions, her conversation, and her character. Mother and daughter had a true friendship for each other, beyond the filial and maternal sentiment. They suited one another, and their perpetual contact had never produced the slightest jar. Consequently many persons explained Madame Evangelista’s actions by maternal love. But although Natalie consoled her mother’s persistent widowhood, she may not have been the only motive for it. Madame Evangelista had been, it was said, in love with a man who recovered his titles and property under the Restoration. This man, desirous of marrying her in 1814 had discreetly severed the connection in 1816. Madame Evangelista, to all appearance the best-hearted woman in the world, had, in the depths of her nature, a fearful quality, explainable only by Catherine de Medici’s device: “Odiate e aspettate”--“Hate and wait.” Accustomed to rule, having always been obeyed, she was like other royalties, amiable, gentle, easy and pleasant in ordinary life, but terrible, implacable, if the pride of the woman, the Spaniard, and the Casa-Reale was touched. She never forgave. This woman believed in the power of her hatred; she made an evil fate of it and bade it hover above her enemy. This fatal power she employed against the man who had jilted her. Events which seemed to prove the influence of her “jettatura”--the casting of an evil eye--confirmed her superstitious faith in herself. Though a minister and peer of France, this man began to ruin himself, and soon came to total ruin. His property, his personal and public honor were doomed to perish. At this crisis Madame Evangelista in her brilliant equipage passed her faithless lover walking on foot in the Champes Elysees, and crushed him with a look which flamed with triumph. This misadventure, which occupied her mind for two years, was the original cause of her not remarrying. Later, her pride had drawn comparisons between the suitors who presented themselves and the husband who had loved her so sincerely and so well. She had thus reached, through mistaken calculations and disappointed hopes, that period of life when women have no other part to take in life than that of mother; a part which involves the sacrifice of themselves to their children, the placing of their interests outside of self upon another household,--the last refuge of human affections. Madame Evangelista divined Paul’s nature intuitively, and hid her own from his perception. Paul was the very man she desired for a son-in-law, for the responsible editor of her future power. He belonged, through his mother, to the family of Maulincour, and the old Baronne de Maulincour, the friend of the Vidame de Pamiers, was then living in the centre of the faubourg Saint-Germain. The grandson of the baroness, Auguste de Maulincour, held a fine position in the army. Paul would therefore be an excellent introducer for the Evangelistas into Parisian society. The widow had known something of the Paris of the Empire, she now desired to shine in the Paris of the Restoration. There alone were the elements of political fortune, the only business in which women of the world could decently co-operate. Madame Evangelista, compelled by her husband’s affairs to reside in Bordeaux, disliked the place. She desired a wider field, as gamblers rush to higher stakes. For her own personal ends, therefore, she looked to Paul as a means of destiny, she proposed to employ the resources of her own talent and knowledge of life to advance her son-in-law, in order to enjoy through him the delights of power. Many men are thus made the screens of secret feminine ambitions. Madame Evangelista had, however, more than one interest, as we shall see, in laying hold of her daughter’s husband. Paul was naturally captivated by this woman, who charmed him all the more because she seemed to seek no influence over him. In reality she was using her ascendancy to magnify herself, her daughter, and all her surroundings in his eyes, for the purpose of ruling from the start the man in whom she saw a means of gratifying her social longings. Paul, on the other hand, began to value himself more highly when he felt himself appreciated by the mother and daughter. He thought himself much cleverer than he really was when he found his reflections and sayings accepted and understood by Mademoiselle Natalie--who raised her head and smiled in response to them--and by the mother, whose flattery always seemed involuntary. The two women were so kind and friendly to him, he was so sure of pleasing them, they ruled him so delightfully by holding the thread of his self-love, that he soon passed all his time at the hotel Evangelista. A year after his return to Bordeaux, Comte Paul, without having declared himself, was so attentive to Natalie that the world considered him as courting her. Neither mother nor daughter appeared to be thinking of marriage. Mademoiselle Evangelista preserved towards Paul the reserve of a great lady who can make herself charming and converse agreeably without permitting a single step into intimacy. This reserve, so little customary among provincials, pleased Paul immensely. Timid men are shy; sudden proposals alarm them. They retreat from happiness when it comes with a rush, and accept misfortune if it presents itself mildly with gentle shadows. Paul therefore committed himself in his own mind all the more because he saw no effort on Madame Evangelista’s part to bind him. She fairly seduced him one evening by remarking that to superior women as well as men there came a period of life when ambition superseded all the earlier emotions of life. “That woman is fitted,” thought Paul, as he left her, “to advance me in diplomacy before I am even made a deputy.” If, in all the circumstances of life a man does not turn over and over both things and ideas in order to examine them thoroughly under their different aspects before taking action, that man is weak and incomplete and in danger of fatal failure. At this moment Paul was an optimist; he saw everything to advantage, and did not tell himself than an ambitious mother-in-law might prove a tyrant. So, every evening as he left the house, he fancied himself a married man, allured his mind with its own thought, and slipped on the slippers of wedlock cheerfully. In the first place, he had enjoyed his freedom too long to regret the loss of it; he was tired of a bachelor’s life, which offered him nothing new; he now saw only its annoyances; whereas if he thought at times of the difficulties of marriage, its pleasures, in which lay novelty, came far more prominently before his mind. “Marriage,” he said to himself, “is disagreeable for people without means, but half its troubles disappear before wealth.” Every day some favorable consideration swelled the advantages which he now saw in this particular alliance. “No matter to what position I attain, Natalie will always be on the level of her part,” thought he, “and that is no small merit in a woman. How many of the Empire men I’ve seen who suffered horribly through their wives! It is a great condition of happiness not to feel one’s pride or one’s vanity wounded by the companion we have chosen. A man can never be really unhappy with a well-bred wife; she will never make him ridiculous; such a woman is certain to be useful to him. Natalie will receive in her own house admirably.” So thinking, he taxed his memory as to the most distinguished women of the faubourg Saint-Germain, in order to convince himself that Natalie could, if not eclipse them, at any rate stand among them on a footing of perfect equality. All comparisons were to her advantage, for they rested on his own imagination, which followed his desires. Paris would have shown him daily other natures, young girls of other styles of beauty and charm, and the multiplicity of impressions would have balanced his mind; whereas in Bordeaux Natalie had no rivals, she was the solitary flower; moreover, she appeared to him at a moment when Paul was under the tyranny of an idea to which most men succumb at his age. Thus these reasons of propinquity, joined to reasons of self-love and a real passion which had no means of satisfaction except by marriage, led Paul on to an irrational love, which he had, however, the good sense to keep to himself. He even endeavored to study Mademoiselle Evangelista as a man should who desires not to compromise his future life; for the words of his friend de Marsay did sometimes rumble in his ears like a warning. But, in the first place, persons accustomed to luxury have a certain indifference to it which misleads them. They despise it, they use it; it is an instrument, and not the object of their existence. Paul never imagined, as he observed the habits of life of the two ladies, that they covered a gulf of ruin. Then, though there may exist some general rules to soften the asperities of marriage, there are none by which they can be accurately foreseen and evaded. When trouble arises between two persons who have undertaken to render life agreeable and easy to each other, it comes from the contact of continual intimacy, which, of course, does not exist between young people before they marry, and will never exist so long as our present social laws and customs prevail in France. All is more or less deception between the two young persons about to take each other for life,--an innocent and involuntary deception, it is true. Each endeavors to appear in a favorable light; both take a tone and attitude conveying a more favorable idea of their nature than they are able to maintain in after years. Real life, like the weather, is made up of gray and cloudy days alternating with those when the sun shines and the fields are gay. Young people, however, exhibit fine weather and no clouds. Later they attribute to marriage the evils inherent in life itself; for there is in man a disposition to lay the blame of his own misery on the persons and things that surround him. To discover in the demeanor, or the countenance, or the words, or the gestures of Mademoiselle Evangelista any indication that revealed the imperfections of her character, Paul must have possessed not only the knowledge of Lavater and Gall, but also a science in which there exists no formula of doctrine,--the individual and personal science of an observer, which, for its perfection, requires an almost universal knowledge. Natalie’s face, like that of most young girls, was impenetrable. The deep, serene peace given by sculptors to the virgin faces of Justice and Innocence, divinities aloof from all earthly agitations, is the greatest charm of a young girl, the sign of her purity. Nothing, as yet, has stirred her; no shattered passion, no hope betrayed has clouded the placid expression of that pure face. Is that expression assumed? If so, there is no young girl behind it. Natalie, closely held to the heart of her mother, had received, like other Spanish women, an education that was solely religious, together with a few instructions from her mother as to the part in life she was called upon to play. Consequently, the calm, untroubled expression of her face was natural. And yet it formed a casing in which the woman was wrapped as the moth in its cocoon. Nevertheless, any man clever at handling the scalpel of analysis might have detected in Natalie certain indications of the difficulties her character would present when brought into contact with conjugal or social life. Her beauty, which was really marvellous, came from extreme regularity of feature harmonizing with the proportions of the head and the body. This species of perfection augurs ill for the mind; and there are few exceptions to the rule. All superior nature is found to have certain slight imperfections of form which become irresistible attractions, luminous points from which shine vivid sentiments, and on which the eye rests gladly. Perfect harmony expresses usually the coldness of a mixed organization. Natalie’s waist was round,--a sign of strength, but also the infallible indication of a will which becomes obstinacy in persons whose mind is neither keen nor broad. Her hands, like those of a Greek statue, confirmed the predictions of face and figure by revealing an inclination for illogical domination, of willing for will’s sake only. Her eyebrows met,--a sign, according to some observers, which indicates jealousy. The jealousy of superior minds becomes emulation and leads to great things; that of small minds turns to hatred. The “hate and wait” of her mother was in her nature, without disguise. Her eyes were black apparently, though really brown with orange streaks, contrasting with her hair, of the ruddy tint so prized by the Romans, called auburn in England, a color which often appears in the offspring of persons of jet black hair, like that of Monsieur and Madame Evangelista. The whiteness and delicacy of Natalie’s complexion gave to the contrast of color in her eyes and hair an inexpressible charm; and yet it was a charm that was purely external; for whenever the lines of a face are lacking in a certain soft roundness, whatever may be the finish and grace of the details, the beauty therein expressed is not of the soul. These roses of deceptive youth will drop their leaves, and you will be surprised in a few years to see hardness and dryness where you once admired what seemed to be the beauty of noble qualities. Though the outlines of Natalie’s face had something august about them, her chin was slightly “empate,”--a painter’s expression which will serve to show the existence of sentiments the violence of which would only become manifest in after life. Her mouth, a trifle drawn in, expressed a haughty pride in keeping with her hand, her chin, her brows, and her beautiful figure. And--as a last diagnostic to guide the judgment of a connoisseur--Natalie’s pure voice, a most seductive voice, had certain metallic tones. Softly as that brassy ring was managed, and in spite of the grace with which its sounds ran through the compass of the voice, that organ revealed the character of the Duke of Alba, from whom the Casa-Reales were collaterally descended. These indications were those of violent passions without tenderness, sudden devotions, irreconcilable dislikes, a mind without intelligence, and the desire to rule natural to persons who feel themselves inferior to their pretensions. These defects, born of temperament and constitution, were buried in Natalie like ore in a mine, and would only appear under the shocks and harsh treatment to which all characters are subjected in this world. Meantime the grace and freshness of her youth, the distinction of her manners, her sacred ignorance, and the sweetness of a young girl, gave a delicate glamour to her features which could not fail to mislead an unthinking or superficial mind. Her mother had early taught her the trick of agreeable talk which appears to imply superiority, replying to arguments by clever jests, and attracting by the graceful volubility beneath which a woman hides the subsoil of her mind, as Nature disguises her barren strata beneath a wealth of ephemeral vegetation. Natalie had the charm of children who have never known what it is to suffer. She charmed by her frankness, and had none of that solemn air which mothers impose on their daughters by laying down a programme of behavior and language until the time comes when they marry and are emancipated. She was gay and natural, like any young girl who knows nothing of marriage, expects only pleasure from it, replies to all objections with a jest, foresees no troubles, and thinks she is acquiring the right to have her own way. How could Paul, who loved as men love when desire increases love, perceive in a girl of this nature whose beauty dazzled him, the woman, such as she would probably be at thirty, when observers themselves have been misled by these appearances? Besides, if happiness might prove difficult to find in a marriage with such a girl, it was not impossible. Through these embryo defects shone several fine qualities. There is no good quality which, if properly developed by the hand of an able master, will not stifle defects, especially in a young girl who loves him. But to render ductile so intractable a woman, the iron wrist, about which de Marsay had preached to Paul, was needful. The Parisian dandy was right. Fear, inspired by love is an infallible instrument by which to manage the minds of women. Whoso loves, fears; whoso fears is nearer to affection than to hatred. Had Paul the coolness, firmness, and judgment required for this struggle, which an able husband ought not to let the wife suspect? Did Natalie love Paul? Like most young girls, Natalie mistook for love the first emotions of instinct and the pleasure she felt in Paul’s external appearance; but she knew nothing of the things of marriage nor the demands of a home. To her, the Comte de Manerville, a rising diplomatist, to whom the courts of Europe were known, and one of the most elegant young men in Paris, could not seem, what perhaps he was, an ordinary man, without moral force, timid, though brave in some ways, energetic perhaps in adversity, but helpless against the vexations and annoyances that hinder happiness. Would she, in after years, have sufficient tact and insight to distinguish Paul’s noble qualities in the midst of his minor defects? Would she not magnify the latter and forget the former, after the manner of young wives who know nothing of life? There comes a time when wives will pardon defects in the husband who spares her annoyances, considering annoyances in the same category as misfortunes. What conciliating power, what wise experience would uphold and enlighten the home of this young pair? Paul and his wife would doubtless think they loved when they had really not advanced beyond the endearments and compliments of the honeymoon. Would Paul in that early period yield to the tyranny of his wife, instead of establishing his empire? Could Paul say, “No?” All was peril to a man so weak where even a strong man ran some risks. The subject of this Study is not the transition of a bachelor into a married man,--a picture which, if broadly composed, would not lack the attraction which the inner struggles of our nature and feelings give to the commonest situations in life. The events and the ideas which led to the marriage of Paul with Natalie Evangelista are an introduction to our real subject, which is to sketch the great comedy that precedes, in France, all conjugal pairing. This Scene, until now singularly neglected by our dramatic authors, although it offers novel resources to their wit, controlled Paul’s future life and was now awaited by Madame Evangelista with feelings of terror. We mean the discussion which takes place on the subject of the marriage contract in all families, whether noble or bourgeois, for human passions are as keenly excited by small interests as by large ones. These comedies, played before a notary, all resemble, more or less, the one we shall now relate, the interest of which will be far less in the pages of this book than in the memories of married persons. CHAPTER III. THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT--FIRST DAY At the beginning of the winter of 1822, Paul de Manerville made a formal request, through his great-aunt, the Baronne de Maulincour, for the hand of Mademoiselle Natalie Evangelista. Though the baroness never stayed more than two months in Medoc, she remained on this occasion till the last of October, in order to assist her nephew through the affair and play the part of a mother to him. After conveying the first suggestions to Madame Evangelista the experienced old woman returned to inform Paul of the results of the overture. “My child,” she said, “the affair is won. In talking of property, I found that Madame Evangelista gives nothing of her own to her daughter. Mademoiselle Natalie’s dowry is her patrimony. Marry her, my dear boy. Men who have a name and an estate to transmit, a family to continue, must, sooner or later, end in marriage. I wish I could see my dear Auguste taking that course. You can now carry on the marriage without me; I have nothing to give you but my blessing, and women as old as I are out of place at a wedding. I leave for Paris to-morrow. When you present your wife in society I shall be able to see her and assist her far more to the purpose than now. If you had had no house in Paris I would gladly have arranged the second floor of mine for you.” “Dear aunt,” said Paul, “I thank you heartily. But what do you mean when you say that the mother gives nothing of her own, and that the daughter’s dowry is her patrimony?” “The mother, my dear boy, is a sly cat, who takes advantage of her daughter’s beauty to impose conditions and allow you only that which she cannot prevent you from having; namely, the daughter’s fortune from her father. We old people know the importance of inquiring closely, What has he? What has she? I advise you therefore to give particular instructions to your notary. The marriage contract, my dear child, is the most sacred of all duties. If your father and your mother had not made their bed properly you might now be sleeping without sheets. You will have children, they are the commonest result of marriage, and you must think of them. Consult Maitre Mathias our old notary.” Madame de Maulincour departed, having plunged Paul into a state of extreme perplexity. His mother-in-law a sly cat! Must he struggle for his interests in the marriage contract? Was it necessary to defend them? Who was likely to attack them? He followed the advice of his aunt and confided the drawing-up of the marriage contract to Maitre Mathias. But these threatened discussions oppressed him, and he went to see Madame Evangelista and announce his intentions in a state of rather lively agitation. Like all timid men, he shrank from allowing the distrust his aunt had put into his mind to be seen; in fact, he considered it insulting. To avoid even a slight jar with a person so imposing to his mind as his future mother-in-law, he proceeded to state his intentions with the circumlocution natural to persons who dare not face a difficulty. “Madame,” he said, choosing a moment when Natalie was absent from the room, “you know, of course, what a family notary is. Mine is a worthy old man, to whom it would be a sincere grief if he were not entrusted with the drawing of my marriage contract.” “Why, of course!” said Madame Evangelista, interrupting him, “but are not marriage contracts always made by agreement of the notaries of both families?” The time that Paul took to reply to this question was occupied by Madame Evangelista in asking herself, “What is he thinking of?” for women possess in an eminent degree the art of reading thoughts from the play of countenance. She divined the instigations of the great-aunt in the embarrassed glance and the agitated tone of voice which betrayed an inward struggle in Paul’s mind. “At last,” she thought to herself, “the fatal day has come; the crisis begins--how will it end? My notary is Monsieur Solonet,” she said, after a pause. “Yours, I think you said, is Monsieur Mathias; I will invite them to dinner to-morrow, and they can come to an understanding then. It is their business to conciliate our interests without our interference; just as good cooks are expected to furnish good food without instructions.” “Yes, you are right,” said Paul, letting a faint sigh of relief escape from him. By a singular transposition of parts, Paul, innocent of all wrong-doing, trembled, while Madame Evangelista, though a prey to the utmost anxiety, was outwardly calm. The widow owed her daughter one-third of the fortune left by Monsieur Evangelista,--namely, nearly twelve hundred thousand francs,--and she knew herself unable to pay it, even by taking the whole of her property to do so. She would therefore be placed at the mercy of a son-in-law. Though she might be able to control Paul if left to himself, would he, when enlightened by his notary, agree to release her from rendering her account as guardian of her daughter’s patrimony? If Paul withdrew his proposals all Bordeaux would know the reason and Natalie’s future marriage would be made impossible. This mother, who desired the happiness of her daughter, this woman, who from infancy had lived honorably, was aware that on the morrow she must become dishonest. Like those great warriors who fain would blot from their lives the moment when they had felt a secret cowardice, she ardently desired to cut this inevitable day from the record of hers. Most assuredly some hairs on her head must have whitened during the night, when, face to face with facts, she bitterly regretted her extravagance as she felt the hard necessities of the situation. Among these necessities was that of confiding the truth to her notary, for whom she sent in the morning as soon as she rose. She was forced to reveal to him a secret defaulting she had never been willing to admit to herself, for she had steadily advanced to the abyss, relying on some chance accident, which never happened, to relieve her. There rose in her soul a feeling against Paul, that was neither dislike, nor aversion, nor anything, as yet, unkind; but HE was the cause of this crisis; the opposing party in this secret suit; he became, without knowing it, an innocent enemy she was forced to conquer. What human being did ever yet love his or her dupe? Compelled to deceive and trick him if she could, the Spanish woman resolved, like other women, to put her whole force of character into the struggle, the dishonor of which could be absolved by victory only. In the stillness of the night she excused her conduct to her own mind by a tissue of arguments in which her pride predominated. Natalie had shared the benefit of her extravagance. There was not a single base or ignoble motive in what she had done. She was no accountant, but was that a crime, a delinquency? A man was only too lucky to obtain a wife like Natalie without a penny. Such a treasure bestowed upon him might surely release her from a guardianship account. How many men had bought the women they loved by greater sacrifices? Why should a man do less for a wife than for a mistress? Besides, Paul was a nullity, a man of no force, incapable; she would spend the best resources of her mind upon him and open to him a fine career; he should owe his future power and position to her influence; in that way she could pay her debt. He would indeed be a fool to refuse such a future; and for what? a few paltry thousands, more or less. He would be infamous if he withdrew for such a reason. “But,” she added, to herself, “if the negotiation does not succeed at once, I shall leave Bordeaux. I can still find a good marriage for Natalie by investing the proceeds of what is left, house and diamonds and furniture,--keeping only a small income for myself.” When a strong soul constructs a way of ultimate escape,--as Richelieu did at Brouage,--and holds in reserve a vigorous end, the resolution becomes a lever which strengthens its immediate way. The thought of this finale in case of failure comforted Madame Evangelista, who fell asleep with all the more confidence as she remembered her assistance in the coming duel. This was a young man named Solonet, considered the ablest notary in Bordeaux; now twenty-seven years of age and decorated with the Legion of honor for having actively contributed to the second return of the Bourbons. Proud and happy to be received in the home of Madame Evangelista, less as a notary than as belonging to the royalist society of Bordeaux, Solonet had conceived for that fine setting sun one of those passions which women like Madame Evangelista repulse, although flattered and graciously allowing them to exist upon the surface. Solonet remained therefore in a self-satisfied condition of hope and becoming respect. Being sent for, he arrived the next morning with the promptitude of a slave and was received by the coquettish widow in her bedroom, where she allowed him to find her in a very becoming dishabille. “Can I,” she said, “count upon your discretion and your entire devotion in a discussion which will take place in my house this evening? You will readily understand that it relates to the marriage of my daughter.” The young man expended himself in gallant protestations. “Now to the point,” she said. “I am listening,” he replied, checking his ardor. Madame Evangelista then stated her position baldly. “My dear lady, that is nothing to be troubled about,” said Maitre Solonet, assuming a confident air as soon as his client had given him the exact figures. “The question is how have you conducted yourself toward Monsieur de Manerville? In this matter questions of manner and deportment are of greater importance than those of law and finance.” Madame Evangelista wrapped herself in dignity. The notary learned to his satisfaction that until the present moment his client’s relations to Paul had been distant and reserved, and that partly from native pride and partly from involuntary shrewdness she had treated the Comte de Manerville as in some sense her inferior and as though it were an honor for him to be allowed to marry Mademoiselle Evangelista. She assured Solonet that neither she nor her daughter could be suspected of any mercenary interests in the marriage; that they had the right, should Paul make any financial difficulties, to retreat from the affair to an illimitable distance; and finally, that she had already acquired over her future son-in-law a very remarkable ascendancy. “If that is so,” said Solonet, “tell me what are the utmost concessions you are willing to make.” “I wish to make as few as possible,” she answered, laughing. “A woman’s answer,” cried Solonet. “Madame, are you anxious to marry Mademoiselle Natalie?” “Yes.” “And you want a receipt for the eleven hundred and fifty-six thousand francs, for which you are responsible on the guardianship account which the law obliges you to render to your son-in-law?” “Yes.” “How much do you want to keep back?” “Thirty thousand a year, at least.” “It is a question of conquer or die, is it?” “It is.” “Well, then, I must reflect on the necessary means to that end; it will need all our cleverness to manage our forces. I will give you some instructions on my arrival this evening; follow them carefully, and I think I may promise you a successful issue. Is the Comte de Manerville in love with Mademoiselle Natalie?” he asked as he rose to take leave. “He adores her.” “That is not enough. Does he desire her to the point of disregarding all pecuniary difficulties?” “Yes.” “That’s what I call having a lien upon a daughter’s property,” cried the notary. “Make her look her best to-night,” he added with a sly glance. “She has a most charming dress for the occasion.” “The marriage-contract dress is, in my opinion, half the battle,” said Solonet. This last argument seemed so cogent to Madame Evangelista that she superintended Natalie’s toilet herself, as much perhaps to watch her daughter as
the other would be equally so--the door was thrown noiselessly open, and a servant as before announced "Mr. W. S. Sharkley, Solicitor," and the cadaverous and unwholesome-looking attorney, in his rusty black suit, sidled with a cringing air into the room, his pale visage and cat-like eyes wearing an unfathomable expression, in which one could neither read success nor defeat. "Be seated, Mr. Sharkley," said his host, adding in a low voice, and with a piercing glance, when the door was completely closed, and striving to conceal his agitation, "You have the papers, I presume?" "Your lordship shall hear," replied the other, who, prior to saying more, opened the door suddenly and sharply, to see that no "Jeames" had his curious ear at the keyhole, and then resumed his seat. But before relating all that took place at this interview, we must go back a little in our story, to detail that which Mr. Sharkley would have termed his _modus operandi_ in the matter. CHAPTER III. MR. W. S. SHARKLEY'S PLOT. As Sharkley travelled back towards the little mining hamlet, where the Trevanion Arms stood conspicuously where two roads branched off, one towards Lanteglos, and the other towards the sea, he revolved in his cunning mind several projects for obtaining possession of the papers; but knowing that the old soldier mistrusted him, that he was quite aware of their value, and that he was as obstinate in his resolution to preserve them, as he was faithful and true to the son of Richard Trevelyan, there was an extreme difficulty in deciding on any one line or plan for proper or honest action, so knavery alone had scope. Could he, out of the five hundred pounds received to account, but bribe Derrick Braddon to lend the papers ostensibly for a time, receiving in return a receipt in a feigned handwriting, with a forged or fancy signature, so totally unlike that used by the solicitor, that he might afterwards safely repudiate the document, and deny he had ever written it! To attempt to possess them by main force never came within the scope of Sharkley's imagination, for the old soldier was strong and wiry as a young bull, and had been famous as a wrestler in his youth; and then force was illegal, whatever craft might be. Ultimately he resolved to ignore the subject of the papers, and seem to forget all about them; to talk on other matters, military if possible (though such were not much in Sharkley's way), and thus endeavour to throw Braddon off his guard, and hence get them into his possession by a very simple process--one neither romantic nor melo-dramatic, but resorted to frequently enough by the lawless, in London and elsewhere--in fact by drugging his victim; and for this purpose, by affecting illness and deceiving a medical man, he provided himself with ample means by the way. Quitting the railway he hastened on foot next day towards the picturesque little tavern, his only fear being that Derrick might have suddenly changed his mind, and being somewhat erratic now, have gone elsewhere. As he walked onward, immersed in his own selfish thoughts, scheming out the investment of the two thousand pounds, perhaps of more, for why should he not wring or screw more out of his employer's purse?--it was ample enough!--the beauty of the spring evening and of the surrounding scenery had no soothing effect on the heart of this human reptile. The picturesque banks of the winding Camel, then rolling brown in full flood from recent rains; Boscastle on its steep hill, overlooking deep and furzy hollows, and its inlet or creek where the blue sea lay sparkling in light under the storm-beaten headlands and desolate cliffs; away in the distance on another hand, the craggy ridges of Bron Welli, and the Row Tor all reddened by the setting sun, were unnoticed by Sharkley, who ere long found himself under the pretty porch and swinging sign-board of the little inn (all smothered in its bright greenery, budding flowers, and birds' nests), where the scene of his nefarious operations lay. A frocked wagoner, ruddy and jolly, whipping up his sleek horses with one hand while wiping the froth of the last tankard from his mouth with the other, departed from the door with his team as Sharkley entered and heard a voice that was familiar, singing vociferously upstairs. "Who is the musical party?" asked he of the round-headed, short-necked and barrel-shaped landlord, whose comely paunch was covered by a white apron. "Your friend the old pensioner, Mr. Sharkley," replied the other, "and main noisy he be." "Friend?" said Sharkley nervously; "he ain't a friend of mine--only a kind of client in a humble way." "I wouldn't have given such, house-room; but trade is bad--the coaches are all off the road now, and business be all taken by the rail to Launceston, Bodmin, and elsewhere." "Has he been drinking?" "Yes." "Pretty freely?" asked Sharpley hopefully. "Well--yes; we're licensed to get drunk on the premises." "Come," thought the emissary, "this is encouraging! His intellect," he added aloud, "is weak; after a time he grows furious and is apt to accuse people of robbing him, especially of certain papers of which he imagines himself the custodian; it is quite a monomania." "A what, sur?" "A monomania." "I hopes as he don't bite; but any way," said the landlord, who had vague ideas of hydrophobia, "I had better turn him out at once, as I want no bobberies here." "No--no; that would be precipitate. I shall try to soothe him over; besides, I have express business with him to-night." "But if he won't be soothed?" asked Boniface, anxiously. "Then you have the police station at hand." Meanwhile they could hear Derrick above them, drumming on the bare table with a pint-pot, and singing some barrack-room ditty of which the elegant refrain was always,-- "Stick to the colour, boys, while there's a rag on it, And tickle them behind with a touch of the bagonet: So, love, farewell, for _all_ for a-marching!" As Sharkley entered, it was evident that the old soldier, whose voice rose at times into a shrill, discordant, and hideous falsetto, had been imbibing pretty freely; his weather-beaten face was flushed, his eyes watery, and his voice somewhat husky, but he was in excellent humour with himself and all the world. The visitor's sharp eyes took in the whole details of the little room occupied by his victim; a small window, which he knew to be twelve feet from a flower-bed outside; a bed in a corner; two Windsor chairs, a table and wash-stand, all of the most humble construction; these, with Derrick's tiny carpet-bag and walking staff, comprised its furniture. "Come along, Master Sharkley--glad to see you--glad to see any one--it's dreary work drinking alone. This is my billet, and there is a shot in the locker yet--help yourself," he added, pushing a large three-handled tankard of ale across the table. "Thank you, Braddon," replied the other, careful to omit the prefix of "Mr.," which Derrick always resented, "and you must share mine with me. Have you heard the news?" "From where--India?" "Yes." "And what are they that I have not heard--tell me that, Mr. Sharkley--what are they that I have not heard?" said Braddon with the angry emphasis assumed at times unnecessarily by the inebriated. "Is it that your young master is shut up among the Afghans, and likely, I fear, to remain so?" "Her Majesty the Queen don't think so--no, sir--d--n me, whatever you, and such as you, may think," responded Derrick, becoming suddenly sulky and gloomy. "Who do you mean, Braddon?" asked the other, drinking, and eying him keenly over his pewter-pot. "Did you see to-day's Gazette?" "The Bankruptcy list?" "Bankrupts be--" roared Braddon, contemptuously, striking his clenched hand on the deal table; "no--the _War Office Gazette_." Mr. W. S. Sharkley faintly and timidly indicated that as it was a part of the newspapers which possessed but small interest for him, he certainly had not seen it. "Well, that is strange now," said Derrick; "it is almost the only bit of a paper I ever read." "It ain't very lively, I should think." "Ain't it--well, had you looked there to-day, you would have seen that young master Denzil--that is my Lord Lamorna as should be--has been gazetted to a Lieutenancy in the old Cornish--yes, in the-old-Cornish-Light-Infantry!" added Derrick, running five words into one. "Indeed! but he may die in the hands of the enemy for all that--though I hope not." "Give me your hand, Mr. Sharkley, for that wish," said Derrick, with tipsy solemnity; "moreover, he is to have the third class of the Dooranee Empire, whatever the dickens that may be. I've drawed my pension to-day, Mr. Sharkley, and I mean to spend every penny of it in wetting the young master's new commission, and the Dooranee Empire to boot. Try the beer again--it's home-brewed, and a first-rate quencher--here's-his-jolly good-health!" "So say I--his jolly good health." "With three times three!" "Yes," added Sharkley, as he wrung the pensioner's proffered hand, "and three to that." Derrick, who, though winding up the day on beer, had commenced it with brandy, was fast becoming more noisy and confused, to his wary visitor's intense satisfaction. "Yes--yes--master Denzil will escape all and come home safe, please God," said Derrick, becoming sad and sentimental for a minute; "yet in my time I heard many a fellow--yes, many a fellow--before we went into action, or were just looking to our locks, and getting the cartridges loose, say to another, 'write for me,' to my father, or mother, or it might be 'poor Bess, or Nora,' meaning his wife, 'in case I get knocked on the head;' and I have seen them shot in their belts within ten minutes after. I often think--yes, by jingo I do--that a man sometimes knows when death is a-nigh him, for I have heard some say they were sure they'd be shot, and shot they were sure enough; while others--I for one--were always sure they'd escape. It's what we soldiers call a presentiment; but of course, you, as a lawyer, can know nothing about it. With sixty rounds of ammunition at his back, a poor fellow will have a better chance of seeing Heaven than if he died with a blue bagfull of writs and rubbish." Then Derrick indulged in a tipsy fit of laughter, mingled with tears, as he said, "You'd have died o' laughing, Mr. Sharkley, if you'd seen the captain my master one day--but perhaps you don't care about stories?" "By all means, Braddon," replied Sharkley, feeling in his vest pocket with a fore-finger and thumb for a phial which lurked there; "I dearly love to hear an old soldier's yarn." "Well, it was when we were fighting against the rebels in Canada--the rebels under Papineau. We were only a handful, as the saying is--a handful of British troops, and they were thousands in number--discontented French, Irish Rapparees, and Yankee sympathisers, armed with everything they could lay hands on; but we licked them at St. Denis and St. Charles, on the Chamblay river--yes, and lastly at Napierville, under General Sir John Colborne; and pretty maddish we Cornish lads were at them, for they had just got one of our officers, a poor young fellow named Lieutenant George Weir, into their savage hands by treachery, after which they tied him to a cart-tail, and cut him into joints with his own sword. Well--where was I?--at Napierville. We were lying in a field in extended order to avoid the discharge of a field gun or two, that the devils had got into position against us, when a ball from one ploughed up the turf in a very open place, and Captain Trevelyan seated himself right in the furrow it had made, and proceeded to light a cigar, laughing as he did so. " Are you wise to sit there, right in the line of fire?' asked the colonel, looking down from his horse. "'Yes,' says my master. "'How so?' "Master took the cigar between his fingers, and while watching the smoke curling upwards, said, "'You see, colonel, that another cannon ball is extremely unlikely to pass in the same place; two never go after each other thus.' "But he had barely spoken, ere the shako was torn off his head by a second shot from the field piece; so everybody laughed, while he scrambled out of the furrow, looking rather white and confused, though pretending to think it as good a joke as any one else--that was funny, wasn't it!" So, while Derrick lay back and laughed heartily at his own reminiscence, Sharkley, quick as lightning, poured into his tankard a little phial-full of morphine, a colourless but powerful narcotic extracted from opium. He then took an opportunity of casting the phial into the fire unseen, and by the aid of the poker effectually concealed it. "What a fine thing it would have been for Mr. Downie Trevelyan if that rebel shot had been a little lower down--eh, Derrick?" said he, chuckling. "Not while the proud old lord lived, for he ever loved my master best." "But he is in possession now--and that, you know, is nine points of the law." "Yes--and he has a heart as hard as Cornish granite," said Braddon, grinding his set teeth; "aye, hard as the Logan Stone of Treryn Dinas! Here is confusion to him and all such!" he added, energetically, as he drained the drugged tankard to the dregs; "if such a fellow were in the army, he'd be better known to the Provost Marshal than to the Colonel or Adjutant, and would soon find himself at shot-drill, with B.C. branded on his side. But here's Mr. Denzil's jolly good-health-and-hooray-for-the-Dooranee-Empire!" he continued, and applied the empty tankard mechanically to his lips, while his eyes began to roll, as the four corners of the room seemed to be in pursuit of each other round him. "I dreamt I was on the wreck last night--ugh! and saw the black fins of the sea-lawyers, sticking up all about us." "Sea-lawyers--what may they be?" "Sharks," replied Braddon, his eyes glaring with a curious expression, that hovered between fun and ferocity, at his companion, whose figure seemed suddenly to waver, and then to multiply. "Ha, ha, very good; an old soldier must have his joke." "So had my master, when he sat in the fur-ur-urrow made by the shell. You see, we were engaged with Canada rebels at Napierville--ville--yes exactly, at Naperville, when a twelve-pound shot----" He was proceeding, with twitching mouth and thickened utterance, to relate the whole anecdote deliberately over again, when Sharkley, who saw that he was becoming so fatuously tipsy that further concealment was useless, rose impatiently, and abruptly left the room, to give the landlord some fresh hints for his future guidance. "Halt! come back here--here, you sir--I say!" exclaimed Braddon, in a low, fierce, and husky voice, as this sudden and unexplained movement seemed to rouse all his suspicions and quicken his perceptive qualities; but in attempting to leave his chair he fell heavily on the floor. He grew ghastly pale as he staggered into a sitting posture. Tipsy and stupefied though he was, some strange conviction of treachery came over him; he staggered, or dragged himself, partly on his hands and knees, towards the bed, and drawing from his breast-pocket the tin case, with the documents so treasured, by a last effort of strength and of judgment, thrust it between the mattress and palliasse, and flung himself above it. Then, as the powerful narcotic he had imbibed overspread all his faculties, he sank into a deep and dreamless but snorting slumber, that in its heaviness almost boded death! * * * * * The noon of the next day was far advanced when poor old Derrick awoke to consciousness, but could, with extreme difficulty, remember where he was. A throat parched, as if fire was scorching it; an overpowering headache and throbbing of the temples; hot and tremulous hands, with an intense thirst, served to warn him that he must have been overnight, that which he had not been for many a year, very tipsy and "totally unfit for duty." He staggered up in search of a water-jug, and then found that he had lain abed with his clothes on. A pleasant breeze came through the open window; the waves of the bright blue sea were rolling against Tintagel cliffs and up Boscastle creek; hundreds of birds were twittering in the warm spring sunshine about the clematis and briar that covered all the tavern walls, and the hum of the bee came softly and gratefully to his ear, as he strove to recall the events of the past night. Sharkley!--it had been spent with Sharkley the solicitor, and where now was he? The papers! He mechanically put his trembling hand to his coat pocket, and then, as a pang of fear shot through his heart, under the mattress. They were not there; vacantly he groped and gasped, as recollections flashed upon him, and the chain of ideas became more distinct; madly he tossed up all the bedding and scattered it about. The case was gone, and with it the precious papers, too, were gone--GONE! Sobered in an instant by this overwhelming catastrophe--most terribly sobered--a hoarse cry of mingled rage and despair escaped him. The landlord, who had been listening for an outbreak of some kind, now came promptly up. "Beast, drunkard, fool that I have been!" exclaimed Derrick, in bitter accents of self-reprobation; "this is how I have kept my promise to a dying master--duped by the first scoundrel who came across me! I have been juggled--drugged, perhaps--then juggled, and robbed after!" "Robbed of what?" asked the burly landlord, laughing. "Papers--my master's papers," groaned Derrick. "Bah--I thought as much; now look ye here, old fellow----" "Robbed by a low lawyer," continued Derrick, hoarsely; "and no fiend begotten in hell can be lower in the scale of humanity or more dangerous to peaceful society. Oh, how often has poor master said so," he added, waxing magniloquent, and almost beside himself with grief and rage; "how often have I heard him say, 'I have had so much to do with lawyers, that I have lost all proper abhorrence for their master, the devil.'" "Now, I ain't going to stand any o' this nonsense--just you clear out," said the landlord, peremptorily. Then as his passionate Cornish temper got the better of his reason, Derrick on hearing this suddenly seized Jack Trevanion's successor by the throat, and dashing him on the floor, accused him of being art and part, or an aider and abettor of the robbery, in which, to say truth, he was not. His cries speedily brought the county constabulary, to whom, by Sharkley's advice, he had previously given a hint, and before the sun was well in the west, honest Derrick Braddon was raving almost with madness and despair under safe keeping in the nearest station house. CHAPTER IV. THE HOPE OF THE DEAD. The disappearance of the papers which had so terrible an effect upon the nervous system, and usually iron frame of Derrick Braddon, is accounted for by the circumstance that Sharkley on returning to see how matters were progressing in the room, lingered for a moment by the half-opened door, and saw his dupe pale, gasping, muttering, and though half-senseless, yet conscious enough to feel a necessity for providing against any trickery or future contingency, in the act of concealing the tin case among his bedding, from whence it was speedily drawn, after he had flung himself in sleepy torpor above it; and then stealing softly down stairs with the prize, Sharkley paid his bill and departed without loss of time and in high spirits, delighted with his own success. Too wary to start westward in the direction of Rhoscadzhel, he made an ostentatious display of departing by a hired dog-cart for his own residence, at the village or small market town (which was afflicted by his presence) in quite an opposite direction. From thence, by a circuitous route, he now revisited his employer, and hence the delay which occasioned the latter so much torture and anxiety. "Two thousand--a beggarly sum!" thought Sharkley, scornfully and covetously, as he walked up the stately and over-arching avenue, and found himself under the groined arches of the _porte-cochère_, the pavement of which was of black and white tesselated marble; "why should I not demand double the sum, or more--yes, or more--he is in my power, in my power, is he not?" he continued, with vicious joy, through his set teeth, while his eyes filled with green light, and the glow of avarice grew in his flinty heart, though even the first sum mentioned was a princely one to him. Clutching the tin case with a vulture-like grasp, he broadly and coarsely hinted his wish to Downie, who sat in his library chair, pale, nervous, and striving to conceal his emotion, while hearing a narration of the late proceedings at the Trevanion Arms; and hastily drawing a cheque book towards him, be filled up another bank order, saying,-- "There, sir, this is a cheque for two thousand pounds; surely two thousand five hundred are quite enough for all you have done in procuring for my inspection, documents which may prove but as so much waste paper after all." "Their examination will prove that such is not the case," said Sharkley, as he gave one of his ugly smiles, scrutinised the document, and slowly and carefully consigned it to where its predecessor lay, in the greasy old pocket-book, wherein many a time and oft the hard-won earnings of the poor, the unfortunate and confiding, had been swallowed up. When Downie had heard briefly and rapidly a narration of the means by which the papers had been abstracted, he rather shrunk with disgust from a contemplation of them; they seemed so disreputable, so felonious and vile! He had vaguely hoped that by the more constitutional and legal plans of bribery and corruption Mr. W. S. Sharkley might have received them from the custodier; but now they were in his hands and he was all impatience, tremulous with eagerness, and spectacles on nose, to peruse them, and test their value by that legal knowledge which he undoubtedly possessed. His fingers, white and delicate, and on one of which sparkled the magnificent diamond ring which his late uncle had received when on his Russian embassy, literally trembled and shook, as if with ague, when he opened the old battered and well-worn tin case. The first document drawn forth had a somewhat unpromising appearance; it was sorely soiled, frayed, and seemed to have been frequently handled. "What the deuce is this, Mr. Sharkley?" asked Downie, with some contempt of tone. "Can't say, my lord--never saw such a thing before; it ain't a writ or a summons, surely!" It was simply a soldier's "Parchment Certificate," and ran thus:-- _Cornish Regiment of Light Infantry._ "These are to certify that Derrick Braddon, Private, was born in the Parish of Gulval, Duchy of Cornwall; was enlisted there for the said corps, &c., was five years in the West Indies, ten in North America, and six at Gibraltar; was twice wounded in action with the Canadian rebels, and has been granted a pension of one shilling per diem. A well conducted soldier, of unexceptionably good character." Then followed the signature of his colonel and some other formula. "Pshaw!" said Downie, tossing it aside; but the more wary Sharkley, to obliterate all links or proofs of conspiracy, deposited it carefully in the fire, when it shrivelled up and vanished; so the little record of his twenty-one years' faithful service, of his two wounds, and his good character, attested by his colonel, whom he had ever looked up to as a demigod, and which Derrick had borne about with him as Gil Blas did his patent of nobility, was lost to him for ever. But more than ever did Downie's hands tremble when he drew forth the other documents; when he saw their tenor, and by the mode in which they were framed, worded, stamped, and signed, he was compelled to recognise their undoubted authority! A sigh of mingled rage and relief escaped him; but, as yet, no thought of compunction. He glanced at the fire, at the papers, and at Sharkley, more than once in succession, and hesitated either to move or speak. He began to feel now that the lingering of his emissary in his presence, when no longer wanted, was intolerable; but he was too politic to destroy the papers before him, though no other witness was present. Full of secret motives themselves, each of these men, by habit and profession, was ever liable to suspect secret motives in every one else; and each was now desirous to be out of the other's presence; Downie, of course, most of all. The lower in rank and more contemptible in character, perhaps was less so, having somewhat of the vulgar toady's desire to linger in the presence and atmosphere of one he deemed a greater, certainly more wealthy, and a titled man; till the latter said with a stiff bow full of significance,-- "I thank you, sir, and have paid you; these are the documents I wished to possess." "I am glad your lordship is pleased with my humble services," replied Sharkley, but still tarrying irresolutely. "Is there anything more you have to communicate to me?" "No, my lord." "Then I have the--I must wish you good evening." Sharkley brushed his shiny hat with his dusty handkerchief, and the wish for a further gratuity was hovering on his lips. "You have been well paid for your services, surely?" "Quite, my lord--that is--but--" "No one has seen those papers, I presume?" asked Downie. "As I have Heaven to answer to, no eye has looked on them while in my hands--my own excepted." "Good--I am busy--you may go," said Downie, haughtily, and as he had apparently quite recovered his composure, he rang the bell, and a servant appeared. "Shew this--person out, please," said Downie. And in a moment more Sharkley was gone. The door closed, and they little suspected they were never to meet again. "Thank God, he is gone! Useful though the scoundrel has been, and but for his discovery of those papers we know not what may have happened, his presence was suffocating me!" thought Downie. The perceptions of the latter were sufficiently keen to have his _amour propre_ wounded by a peculiar sneering tone and more confident bearing in Sharkley; there had been a companionship in the task in hand, which lowered him to the level of the other, and the blunt rejoinder he had used so recently--"there are a pair of us," still rankled in his memory. Thus he had felt that he could not get rid of him too soon, or too politely to all appearance; and with a grimace of mingled satisfaction and contempt, he saw the solicitor's thin, ungainly figure lessening as he shambled down the long and beautiful avenue of elms and oaks, which ended at the grey stone pillars, that were surmounted each by a grotesque koithgath, _sejant_, with its four paws resting on a shield, charged with a Cavallo Marino, rising from the sea. "And _now_ for another and final perusal of these most accursed papers!" said Downie Trevelyan, huskily. The first was the certificate of marriage, between Richard Pencarrow Trevelyan, Captain in the Cornish Light Infantry, and Constance Devereaux of Montreal, duly by banns, at the chapel of Père Latour. Then followed the date, and attestation, to the effect, "that the above named parties were this day married by me, as hereby certified, at Ste. Marie de Montreal. "C. LATOUR, _Catholic Curé_, "BAPTISTE OLIVIER, _Acolyte_. "DERRICK BRADDON, _Private Cornish Light Infantry_. "JEHAN DURASSIER, _Sacristan_." About this document there could not be a shadow of a doubt--even the water-mark was anterior to the date, and the brow of Downie grew very dark as he read it; darker still grew that expression of malevolent wrath, and more swollen were the veins of his temples as he turned to the next document, which purported to be the "Last Will and Testament of Richard Pencarrow, Lord Lamorna," and which after the usual dry formula concerning his just debts, testamentary and funeral expenses, continued, "_I give, devise, and bequeath_ unto Constance Devereaux, Lady Lamorna, my wife," the entire property, (then followed a careful enumeration thereof,) into which he had come by the death of his uncle Audley, Lord Lamorna, for the term of her natural life; and after her death to their children Denzil and Sybil absolutely, in the several portions to follow. The reader Downie (to whom a handsome bequest was made), General Trecarrel, and the Rector of Porthellick were named as Executors, and then followed the duly witnessed signature of the Testator, written in a bold hand LAMORNA, and dated at Montreal, about nine months before. "Hah!" exclaimed Downie, through his clenched teeth; "here is that in my hand, which, were Audley a wicked or undutiful son, might effect wonders at Rhoscadzhel, and furnish all England with food for gossip and surmise; but that shall never, never be; nor shall son nor daughter of that Canadian adventuress ever place their heads under this roof tree of ours!" And as he spoke, he fiercely crumpled up the will and the certificate together. Then he paused, spread them out upon his writing table, and smoothing them over, read them carefully over again. As he did so, the handsome face, the honest smile and manly figure of his brother Richard came upbraidingly to memory; there were thoughts of other and long-remembered days of happy boyhood, of their fishing, their bird-nesting expeditions, and of an old garret in which they were wont to play when the days were wet, or the snow lay deep on the hills. How was it, that, till now forgotten, the old garret roof, with its rafters big and brown, and which seemed then such a fine old place for sport, with the very sound of its echoes, and of the rain without as it came pouring down to gorge the stone gutters of the old house, came back to memory now, with Richard's face and voice, out of the mists of nearly half a century? "It was one of those flashes of the soul that for a moment unshroud to us the dark depths of the past." Thus he really wavered in purpose, and actually thought of concealing the documents in his strong box, to the end that there they might be found after his death, and after he had enjoyed the title for what remained to him of life. Would not such duplicity be unfair to his own sons, and to his daughter? was the next reflection. And if fate permitted Denzil to escape the perils of the Afghan war, was the son of that mysterious little woman, or was her daughter--the daughter of one whom he doubted not, and wished not to doubt--had entrapped his silly brother into a secret marriage, in a remote and sequestered chapel, and whose memory he actually loathed--ever to rule and reside in Rhoscadzhel? No--a thousand times no! Then muttering the lines from Shakespeare,-- "Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls. Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe:" he drew near the resplendent grate of burnished steel, and resolutely casting in both documents, thrust them with the aid of the poker deep among the fuel, and they speedily perished. The deed was done, and could no more be recalled than the last year's melted snow! He watched the last sparks die out in the tinder ashes of those papers, on the preservation and production of which so much depended, so much was won and lost; and a sigh of relief was blended with his angry laugh. He felt that then, indeed, the richly carpeted floor beneath his feet; the gilded roof above his head, the sweet, soft landscape--one unusually so for bold and rugged Cornwall--that stretched away in the soft, hazy, and yellow twilight, and all that he had been on the verge of losing, were again more surely his, and the heritage of his children, and of theirs in the time to come, and that none "of Banquo's line"--none of that strange woman's blood, could ever eject them now! Even Derrick's old tin-case--lest, if found, it should lead to a trace or suspicion of where the papers had gone--he carefully, and with a legal caution worthy of his satellite the solicitor, beat out of all shape with his heel and threw into the fire, heaping the coals upon it. This was perhaps needless in Downie Trevelyan, that smooth, smug, closely shaven, and white-shirted lawyer-lord, that man of legal facts and stern truths, so abstemious, temperate, and regular in his habits and attendance at church, and to all the outward tokens of worldly rectitude. Do what he might, none could, would, or dare believe evil of him! Yet, after the excitement he had undergone, there were moments when he
ard, Mr. George Smith, and others who have thrown so much light upon domestic life in Nineveh, are full of interest in connection with this branch of the subject. We learn from these authorities that the furniture was ornamented with the heads of lions, bulls, and rams; tables thrones, and couches were made of metal and wood, and probably inlaid with ivory; the earliest chair, according to Sir Austin Layard, having been made without a back, and the legs terminating in lion's feet or bull's hoofs. Some were of gold, others of silver and bronze. On the monuments of Khorsabad, representations have been discovered of chairs supported by animals, and by human figures, probably those of prisoners. In the British Museum is a bronze throne, found by Sir A. Layard amidst the ruins of Nimrod's Palace, which shews ability of high order for skilled metal work. Mr. Smith, the famous Assyrian excavator and translator of cuniform inscriptions, has told us in his "Assyrian Antiquities" of his finding close to the site of Nineveh, portions of a crystal throne somewhat similar in design to the bronze one mentioned above, and in another part of this interesting book we have a description of an interior that is useful in assisting us to form an idea of the condition of houses of a date which can be correctly assigned to B.C. 860:--"Altogether in this place I opened six chambers, all of the same character, the entrances ornamented by clusters of square pilasters, and recesses in the rooms in the same style; the walls were colored in horizontal bands of red, green, and yellow, and where the lower parts of the chambers were panelled with small stone slabs, the plaster and colours were continued over these." Then follows a description of the drainage arrangements, and finally we have Mr. Smith's conclusion that this was a private dwelling for the wives and families of kings, together with the fact that on the other side of the bricks he found the legend of Shalmeneser II. (B.C. 860), who probably built this palace. [Illustration: ASSYRIAN CHAIR FROM KHORSABAD. (_In the British Museum._)] [Illustration: ASSYRIAN CHAIR FROM XANTHUS. (_In the British Museum._)] [Illustration: ASSYRIAN THRONE. (_In the British Museum._)] In the British Museum is an elaborate piece of carved ivory, with depressions to hold colored glass, etc., from Nineveh, which once formed part of the inlaid ornament of a throne, shewing how richly such objects were ornamented. This carving is said by the authorities to be of Egyptian origin. The treatment of figures by the Assyrians was more clumsy and more rigid, and their furniture generally was more massive than that of the Egyptians. An ornament often introduced into the designs of thrones and chairs is a conventional treatment of the tree sacred to Asshur, the Assyrian Jupiter; the pine cone, another sacred emblem, is also found, sometimes as in the illustration of the Khorsabad chair on page 4, forming an ornamental foot, and sometimes being part of the merely decorative design. The bronze throne, illustrated on page 3, appears to have been of sufficient height to require a footstool, and in "Nineveh and its Remains" these footstools are specially alluded to. "The feet were ornamented, like those of the chair, with the feet of lions or the hoofs of bulls." The furniture represented in the following illustration, from a bas-relief in the British Museum, is said to be of a period some two hundred years later than the bronze throne and footstool. [Illustration: REPOSE OF KING ASSHURBANIPAL. (_From a Bas-relief in the British Museum._)] EGYPTIAN FURNITURE. [Illustration: Stool. Stand for a Vase. Workman's Stool. Vase on a Stand. Head Rest or Pillow. FOLDING STOOL. EBONY SEAT INLAID WITH IVORY. (_From Photos by Mansell & Co. of the Originals in the British Museum._) ] In the consideration of ancient Egyptian furniture we find valuable assistance in the examples carefully preserved to us, and accessible to every one in the British Museum, and one or two of these deserve passing notice. Nothing can be more suitable for its purpose than the "Workman's Stool:" the seat is precisely like that of a modern kitchen chair (all wood), slightly concaved to promote the sitter's comfort, and supported by three legs curving outwards. This is simple, convenient, and admirably adapted for long service. For a specimen of more ornamental work, the folding stool in the same glass case should be examined; the supports are crossed in a similar way to those of a modern camp-stool and the lower parts of the legs carved as heads of geese, with inlayings of ivory to assist the design and give richness to its execution. [Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN OF HIGH RANK SEATED. (_From a Photo by Mansell & Co. of the Original Wall Painting in the British Museum._) PERIOD: B.C. 1500-1400.] Portions of legs and rails, turned as if by a modern lathe, mortice holes and tenons, fill us with wonder as we look upon work which, at the most modern computation, must be 3,000 years old, and may be of a date still more remote. In the same room, arranged in cases round the wall, is a collection of several objects which, if scarcely to be classed under the head of furniture, are articles of luxury and comfort, and demonstrate the extraordinary state of civilisation enjoyed by the old Egyptians, and help us to form a picture of their domestic habits. [Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN BANQUET. (_From a Wall Painting at Thebes._)] Amongst these are boxes, some inlaid with various woods, and also with little squares of bright turquoise blue pottery let in as a relief; others veneered with ivory; wooden spoons carved in most intricate designs, of which one, representing a girl amongst lotus flowers, is a work of great artistic skill; boats of wood, head rests, and models of parts of houses and granaries, together with writing materials, different kinds of tools and implements, and a quantity of personal ornaments and requisites. "For furniture, various woods were employed, ebony, acacia, or sont, cedar, sycamore, and others of species not determined. Ivory, both of the hippopotamus and elephant, were used for inlaying, as also were glass pastes; and specimens of marquetry are not uncommon. In the paintings in the tombs, gorgeous pictures and gilded furniture are depicted. For cushions and mattresses, linen cloth and colored stuffs, filled with feathers of the waterfowl, appear to have been used, while seats have plaited bottoms of linen cord or tanned and dyed leather thrown over them, and sometimes the skins of panthers served this purpose. For carpets they used mats of palm fibre, on which they often sat. On the whole an Egyptian house was lightly furnished, and not encumbered with so many articles as are in use at the present day." The above paragraph forms part of the notice with which the late Dr. Birch, the eminent antiquarian, formerly at the head of this department of the British Museum, has prefaced a catalogue of the antiquities alluded to. The visitor to the Museum should be careful to procure one of these useful and inexpensive guides to this portion of its contents. Some illustrations taken from ancient statues and bas-reliefs in the British Museum, from copies of wall paintings at Thebes and other sources, give us a good idea of the furniture of this ancient people. Amongst the group of illustrations on p. 6 will be seen a representation of a wooden head-rest, which prevented the disarrangement of the coiffure of an Egyptian lady of rank. A very similar head-rest, with a cushion attached for comfort to the neck, is still in common use by the Japanese of the present day. [Illustration: CHAIR WITH CAPTIVES AS SUPPORTS. (_From Papyrus in British Museum._)] [Illustration: BACCHUS AND ATTENDANTS VISITING ICARUS. (_Reproduced from a Bas-relief in the British Museum._) PERIOD: ABOUT A.D. 100.] GREEK FURNITURE. An early reference to Greek furniture is made by Homer, who describes coverlids of dyed wool, tapestries, carpets, and other accessories, which must therefore have formed part of the contents of a great man's residence centuries before the period which we recognise as the "meridian" of Greek Art. [Illustration: GREEK BEDSTEAD WITH A TABLE. (_From an old Wall Painting._)] In the second Vase-room of the British Museum the painting on one of these vases represents two persons sitting on a couch, upon which is a cushion of rich material, while for the comfort of the sitters there is a footstool, probably of ivory. Facing page 8 there is an illustration of a bas-relief in stone, "Bacchus received as a guest by Icarus," in which the couch has turned legs and the feet are ornamented with carved leaf work. Illustrations of tripods used for sacred or other purposes, and as supports for braziers, lead us to the conclusion that tables were made of wood, of marble, and of metal; also folding chairs, and couches for sleeping and resting, but not for reclining at meals, as was the fashion at a later period. In most of the designs for these various articles of furniture there is a similarity of treatment of the head, legs, and feet of lions, leopards, and sphinxes to that which we have noticed in the Assyrian patterns. [Illustration: GREEK FURNITURE. (_From Antique Bas-reliefs._)] The description of an interesting piece of furniture may be noticed here, because its date is verified by its historical associations, and it was seen and described by Pausanias about 800 years afterwards. This is the famous chest of Cypselus of Corinth, the story of which runs that when his mother's relations, having been warned by the Oracle of Delphi, that her son would prove formidable to the ruling party, sought to murder him, his life was saved by his concealment in this chest, and he became ruler of Corinth for some 30 years (B.C. 655-625). It is said to have been made of cedar, carved and decorated with figures and bas-reliefs, some in ivory, some in gold or ivory part gilt, and inlaid on all four sides and on the top. The peculiar laws and customs of the Greeks at the time of their greatest prosperity were not calculated to encourage display or luxury in private life, or the collection of sumptuous furniture. Their manners were simple and their discipline was very severe. Statuary, sculpture of the best kind, painting of the highest merit--in a word, the best that Art could produce--were all dedicated to the national service in the enrichment of Temples and other public buildings, the State having indefinite and almost unlimited power over the property of all wealthy citizens. The public surroundings of an influential Athenian were therefore in direct contrast to the simplicity of his home, which contained the most meagre supply of chairs and tables, while the _chefs d'œuvre_ of Phidias, Apelles and Praxiteles adorned the Senate House, the Theatre, and the Temple. There were some exceptions to this rule, and we have records that during the later years of Greek prosperity such simplicity was not observed. Alcibiades is said to have been the first to have his house painted and decorated, and Plutarch tells us that he kept the painter Agatharcus a prisoner until his task was done, and then dismissed him with an appropriate reward. Another ancient writer relates that "The guest of a private house was enjoined to praise the decorations of the ceilings and the beauty of the curtains suspended from between the columns." This occurs, according to Mr. Perkins, the American translator of Dr. Falke's German book "Kunst im Hause," in the "Wasps of Aristophanes," written B.C. 422. The illustrations, taken from the best authorities in the British Museum, the National Library of Paris, and other sources, shew the severe style adopted by the Greeks in their furniture. ROMAN FURNITURE. As we are accustomed to look to Greece in the time of Pericles for purity of style and perfection of taste in Art, so do we naturally expect its gradual demoralisation in its transfer to the great Roman Empire. From that little village on the Palatine Hill, founded some 750 years B.C., Rome had spread and conquered in every direction, until in the time of Augustus she was mistress of the whole civilized world, herself the centre of wealth, civilisation, luxury, and power. Antioch in the East, and Alexandria in the South, ranked next to her as great cities of the world. From the excavations of Herculaneum and Pompeii we have learned enough to conceive some general idea of the social life of a wealthy Roman in the time of Rome's highest prosperity. The houses had no upper story, but enclosed two or more quadrangles, or courts, with arcades into which the rooms opened, receiving air and ventilation from the centre open court. The illustration opposite p. 12 will give an idea of this arrangement. In Mr. Hungerford Pollen's useful handbook there is a description of each room in a Roman house, with its proper Latin title and purpose; and we know from other descriptions of Ancient Rome that the residences in the Imperial City were divided into two distinct classes--that of the _domus_ and _insula_, the former being the dwellings of the Roman nobles, and corresponding to the modern _Palazzi_, while the latter were the habitations of the middle and lower classes. Each _insula_ consisted of several sets of apartments, generally let out to different families, and was frequently surrounded by shops. The houses described by Mr. Pollen appear to have had no upper story, but as ground became more valuable in Rome, houses were built to such a height as to be a source of danger, and in the time of Augustus there were not only strict regulations as to building, but the height was limited to 70 feet. The Roman furniture of the time was of the most costly kind. Tables were made of marble, gold, silver, and bronze, and were engraved, damascened, plated, and enriched with precious stones. The chief woods used were cedar, pine, elm, olive, ash, ilex, beech, and maple. Ivory was much used, and not only were the arms and legs of couches and chairs carved to represent the limbs of animals, as has been noted in the Assyrian, Egyptian, and Greek designs, but other parts of furniture were ornamented by carvings in bas-relief of subjects taken from Greek mythology and legend. Veneers were cut and applied, not as some have supposed for the purpose of economy, but because by this means the most beautifully marked or figured specimens of the woods could be chosen, and a much richer and more decorative effect produced than would be possible when only solid timber was used. As a prominent instance of the extent to which the Romans carried the costliness of some special pieces of furniture, we have it recorded on good authority (Mr. Pollen) that the table made for Cicero cost a million sesterces, a sum equal to about £9,000, and that one belonging to King Juba was sold by auction for the equivalent of £10,000. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF AN ANCIENT ROMAN HOUSE. Said to have been that of Sallust. PERIOD: B.C. 20 TO A.D. 20.] [Illustration: A ROMAN STUDY. Shewing Scrolls or Books in a "Scrinium;" also Lamp, Writing Tables, etc.] Cicero's table was made of a wood called Thyine--wood which was brought from Africa and held in the highest esteem. It was valued not only on account of its beauty but also from superstitious or religious reasons. The possession of thyine wood was supposed to bring good luck, and its sacredness arose from the fact that from it was produced the incense used by the priests. Dr. Edward Clapton, of St. Thomas' Hospital, who made a collection of woods named in the Scriptures, managed to secure a specimen of thyine, which a friend of his obtained on the Atlas Mountains. It resembles the woods which we know as tuyere and amboyna.[2] Roman, like Greek houses, were divided into two portions--the front for the reception of guests and the duties of society, with the back for household purposes, and the occupation of the wife and family; for although the position of the Roman wife was superior to that of her Greek contemporary, which was little better than that of a slave, still it was very different to its later development. The illustration following p. 16, of a repast in the house of Sallust, represents the host and his eight male guests reclining on the seats of the period, each of which held three persons, and was called a triclinium, making up the favourite number of a Roman dinner party, and possibly giving us the proverbial saying--"Not less than the Graces nor more than the Muses"--which is still held to be a popular regulation for a dinner party. [Illustration: ROMAN SCAMNUM OR BENCH.] [Illustration: ROMAN BISELLIUM, OR SEAT FOR TWO PERSONS. But generally occupied by one, on occasions of festivals, etc.] From discoveries at Herculaneum and Pompeii a great deal of information has been gained of the domestic life of the wealthier Roman citizens, and there is a useful illustration on the preceding page of the furniture of a library or study in which the designs are very similar to the Greek ones we have noticed; it is not improbable they were made and executed by Greek workmen. It will be seen that the books such as were then used, instead of being placed on shelves or in a bookcase, were kept in round boxes called _Scrinia_, which were generally of beech wood, and could be locked or sealed when required. The books in rolls or sewn together were thus easily carried about by the owner on his journeys. Mr. Hungerford Pollen mentions that wearing apparel was kept in _vestiaria_, or wardrobe rooms, and he quotes Plutarch's anecdote of the purple cloaks of Lucullus, which were so numerous that they must have been stored in capacious hanging closets rather than in chests. In the _atrium_, or public reception room, was probably the best furniture in the house. According to Moule's "Essay on Roman Villas," "it was here that numbers assembled daily to pay their respects to their patron, to consult the legislator, to attract the notice of the statesman, or to derive importance in the eyes of the public from the apparent intimacy with a man in power." The growth of the Roman Empire eastward, the colonisation of Oriental countries, and subsequently the establishment of an Eastern Empire, produced gradually an alteration in Greek design, and though, if we were discussing the merits of design and the canons of taste, this might be considered a decline, still its influence on furniture was doubtless to produce more ease and luxury, more warmth and comfort, than would be possible if the outline of every article of useful furniture were decided by a rigid adherence to classical principles. We have seen that this was more consonant with the public life of an Athenian; but the Romans, in the later period of the Empire, with their wealth, their extravagance, their slaves, their immorality and gross sensuality, lived in a splendour and with a prodigality that well accorded with the gorgeous coloring of Eastern hangings and embroideries, of rich carpets and comfortable cushions, of the lavish use of gold and silver, and meretricious and redundant ornament. [Illustration: ROMAN COUCH, GENERALLY OF BRONZE. (_From an Antique Bas-relief._)] This slight sketch, brief and inadequate as it is, of a history of furniture from the earliest time of which we have any record, until from the extraordinary growth of the vast Roman Empire, the arts and manufactures of every country became as it were centralised and focussed in the palaces of the wealthy Romans, brings us down to the commencement of what has been deservedly called "the greatest event in history"--the decline and fall of this enormous empire. For fifteen generations, for some five hundred years, did this decay, this vast revolution, proceed to its conclusion. Barbarian hosts settled down in provinces they had overrun and conquered, the old Pagan world died as it were, and the new Christian era dawned. From the latter end of the second century until the last of the Western Cæsars, in A.D. 476, it is, with the exception of a short interval when the strong hand of the great Theodosius stayed the avalanche of Rome's invaders, one long story of the defeat and humiliation of the citizens of the greatest power the world has ever known. It is a vast drama that the genius and patience of a Gibbon has alone been able to deal with, defying almost by its gigantic catastrophes and ever raging turbulence the pen of history to chronicle and arrange. When the curtain rises on a new order of things, the age of Paganism has passed away, and the period of the Middle Ages will have commenced. [Illustration: ROMAN BRONZE LAMP AND STAND. (_Found in Pompeii._)] [Illustration: THE ROMAN TRICLINIUM, OR DINING ROOM. The plan in the margin shews the position of guests; the place of honor was that which is indicated by "No. 1," and that of the host by "No. 9." (_The Illustration is taken from Dr. Jacob von Falke's "Kunst im Hause."_)] [Illustration: Plan of Triclinium.] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Gopher is supposed to mean cypress wood. See Notes on Woods (Appendix).] [Footnote 2: See also Notes on Woods (Appendix).] CHAPTER II. The Middle Ages. Period of 1,000 years from Fall of Rome, A.D. 476, to Capture of Constantinople, 1453--The Crusades--Influence of Christianity--Chairs of St. Peter and Maximian at Rome, Ravenna, and Venice--Edict of Leo III. prohibiting Image worship--The Rise of Venice--Charlemagne and his successors--The Chair of Dagobert--Byzantine character of Furniture--Norwegian carving--Russian and Scandinavian--The Anglo-Saxons--Sir Walter Scott quoted--Descriptions of Anglo-Saxon Houses and Customs--Art in Flemish Cities--Gothic Architecture--The Coronation Chair at Westminster Abbey--Penshurst--French Furniture in the 14th Century--Description of rooms--The South Kensington Museum--Transition from Gothic to Renaissance--German carved work; the Credence, the Buffet, and Dressoir. The history of furniture is so thoroughly a part of the history of the manners and customs of different peoples, that one can only understand and appreciate the several changes in style, sometimes gradual and sometimes rapid, by reference to certain historical events and influences by which such changes were effected. Thus, we have during the space of time known as the Middle Ages, a stretch of some 1,000 years, dating from the fall of Rome itself, in A.D. 476 to the capture of Constantinople by the Turks under Mahomet II. in 1453, an historical panorama of striking incidents and great social changes bearing upon our subject. It was a turbulent and violent period, which saw the completion of Rome's downfall, the rise of the Carlovingian family, the subjection of Britain by the Saxons, the Danes, and the Normans; the extraordinary career and fortunes of Mahomet; the conquest of Spain and a great part of Africa by the Moors; and the Crusades, which united in a common cause the swords and spears of friend and foe. It was the age of monasteries and convents, of religious persecutions and of heroic struggles of the Christian Church. It was the age of feudalism, chivalry, and war, but towards its close a time of comparative civilisation and progress, of darkness giving way to the light which followed; the night of the Middle Ages preceding the dawn of the Renaissance. With the growing importance of Constantinople, the capital of the Eastern Empire, families of well-to-do citizens flocked thither from other parts, bringing with them all their most valuable possessions: and the houses of the great became rich in ornamental furniture, the style of which was a mixture of Eastern and Roman,--that is, a corruption of the early Classic Greek developing into the style known as Byzantine. The influence of Christianity upon the position of women materially affected the customs and habits of the people. Ladies were allowed to be seen in chariots and open carriages, the designs of which, therefore, improved and became more varied; the old custom of reclining at meals ceased, and guests sat on benches; and though we have, with certain exceptions, such as the chair of St. Peter at Rome, and that of Maximian in the Cathedral at Ravenna, no specimens of furniture of this time, we have in the old Byzantine ivory bas-reliefs such representations of circular throne chairs and of ecclesiastical furniture, as suffice to show the class of woodwork then in vogue. The chair of St. Peter is one of the most interesting relics of the Middle Ages. The woodcut will shew the design, which is, like other work of the period, Byzantine, and the following description is taken from Mr. Hungerford Pollen's introduction to the South Kensington catalogue:--"The chair is constructed of wood, overlaid with carved ivory work and gold. The back is bound together with iron. It is a square with solid front and arms. The width in front is 39 inches; the height in front 30 inches, shewing that a scabellum or footstool must have belonged to it.... In the front are 18 groups or compositions from the Gospels, carved in ivory with exquisite fineness, and worked with inlay of the purest gold. On the outer sides are several little figures carved in ivory. It formed, according to tradition, part of the furniture of the house of the Senator Pudens, an early convert to the Christian faith. It is he who gave to the Church his house in Rome, of which much that remains is covered by the Church of St. Pudenziana. Pudens gave this chair to St. Peter, and it became the throne of the See. It was kept in the old Basilica of St. Peter's." Since then it has been transferred from place to place, until now it remains in the present Church of St. Peter's, but is completely hidden from view by the seat or covering made in 1667, by Bernini, out of bronze taken from the Pantheon. Much has been written about this famous chair. Cardinal Wiseman and the Cavaliere de Rossi have defended its reputation and its history, and Mr. Nesbitt, some years ago, read a paper on the subject before the Society of Antiquaries. [Illustration: CHAIR OF ST. PETER, ROME.] Formerly there was in Venice another "chair of St. Peter," of which there is a sketch from a photograph in Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Venice." It is said to have been a present from the Emperor Michael, son of Theophilus (824-864), to the Venetian Republic in recognition of services rendered, by either the Doge Gradonico, who died in 864, or his predecessor, against the Mahommedan incursions. Fragments only now remain, and these are preserved in the Church of St. Pietro, at Castello. There is also a chair of historic fame preserved in Venice, and now kept in the treasury of St. Mark's. Originally in Alexandria, it was sent to Constantinople and formed part of the spoils taken by the Venetians in 1204. Like both the other chairs, this was also ornamented with ivory plaques, but these have been replaced by ornamental marble. The earliest of the before-mentioned chairs, namely, the one at Ravenna, was made for the Archbishop about 546 to 556, and is thus described in Mr. Maskell's "Handbook on Ivories," in the Science and Art series:--"The chair has a high back, round in shape, and is entirely covered with plaques of ivory arranged in panels carved in high relief with scenes from the Gospels and with figures of saints. The plaques have borders with foliated ornaments, birds and animals; flowers and fruits filling the intermediate spaces. Du Sommerard names amongst the most remarkable subjects, the Annunciation, the Adoration of the Wise Men, the Flight into Egypt, and the Baptism of Our Lord." The chair has also been described by Passeri, the famous Italian antiquary, and a paper upon it was read by Sir Digby Wyatt, before the Arundel Society, in which he remarked that as it had been fortunately preserved as a holy relic, it wore almost the same appearance as when used by the prelate for whom it was made, save for the beautiful tint with which time had invested it. Long before the general break up of the vast Roman Empire, influences had been at work to decentralise Art, and cause the migration of trained and skilful artisans to countries where their work would build up fresh industries, and give an impetus to progress, where hitherto there had been stagnation. One of these influences was the decree issued in A.D. 726 by Leo III., Emperor of the Eastern Empire, prohibiting all image worship. The consequences to Art of such a decree were doubtless similar to the fanatical proceedings of the English Puritans of the seventeenth century; and artists, driven from their homes, were scattered to the different European capitals, where they were gladly received and found employment and patronage. It should be borne in mind that at this time Venice was gradually rising to that marvellous position of wealth and power which she afterwards held. "A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was;--her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers; In purple was she robed and of her feasts Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased." Her wealthy merchants were well acquainted with the arts and manufactures of other countries, and Venice would be just one of those cities to attract the artist refugee. It is indeed here that wood carving as an Art may be said to have specially developed itself, and though, from its destructible nature, there are very few specimens extant dating from this early time, yet we shall see that two or three hundred years later, ornamental woodwork flourished in a state of perfection which must have required a long probationary period. [Illustration: DAGOBERT CHAIR. Chair of Dagobert, of gilt bronze, now in the Museé de Souverains, Paris. Originally as a folding chair said to be the work of St. Eloi, 7th century; back and arms added by the Abbe Suger in 12th century. There is an electrotype reproduction in the South Kensington Museum.] Turning from Venice. During the latter end of the eighth century the star of Charlemagne was in the ascendant, and though we have no authentic specimen, and scarcely a picture of any wooden furniture of this reign, we know that, in appropriating the property of the Gallo-Romans, the Frank Emperor-King and his chiefs were in some degree educating themselves to higher notions of luxury and civilisation. Paul Lacroix, in "Manners, Customs, and Dress of the Middle Ages," tells us that the _trichorum_, or dining room, was generally the largest hall in the palace: two rows of columns divided it into three parts, one for the royal family, one for the officers of the household, and the third for the guests, who were generally numerous. No person of rank who visited the King could leave without sitting at his table or at least draining a cup to his health. The King's hospitality was magnificent, especially on great religious festivals, such as Christmas and Easter. In other portions of this work of reference we read of "boxes" to hold articles of value, and of rich hangings, but beyond such allusions little can be gleaned of any furniture besides. The celebrated chair of Dagobert (illustrated on p. 21), now in the Louvre, and of which there is a cast in the South Kensington Museum, dates from some 150 years before Charlemagne, and is probably the only specimen of furniture belonging to this period which has been handed down to us. It is made of gilt bronze, and is said to be the work of a monk. For the designs of furniture of the tenth to the fourteenth centuries we are in a great measure dependent upon old illuminated manuscripts and missals of these remote times. There are some illustrations of the seats of State used by sovereigns on the occasions of grand banquets, or of some ecclesiastical function, to be found in the valuable collections of old documents in the British Museum and the National Libraries of Paris and Brussels. It is evident from these authorities that the designs of State furniture in France and other countries dominated by the Carlovingian monarchs were of Byzantine character, that pseudo-classic style which was the prototype of furniture of about a thousand years later, when the Cæsarism of Napoleon I., during the early years of the nineteenth century, produced so many designs which we now recognise as "Empire." No history of mediæval woodwork would be complete without noticing the Scandinavian furniture and ornamental wood carving of the tenth to the fifteenth centuries. There are in the South Kensington Museum plaster casts of some three or four carved doorways of Norwegian workmanship, of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries, in which scrolls are entwined with contorted monsters, or, to quote Mr. Lovett's description, "dragons of hideous aspect and serpents of more than usually tortuous proclivities." The woodcut of a carved lintel conveys a fair idea of this work, and also of the old juniper wood tankards of a much later time. There are also at Kensington other casts of curious Scandinavian woodwork of more Byzantine treatment, the originals of which are in the Museums of Stockholm and Copenhagen, where the collection of antique woodwork of native production is very large and interesting, and proves how wood carving, as an industrial Art, has flourished in Scandinavia from the early Viking times. One can still see in the old churches of Borgund and Hitterdal much of the carved woodwork of the seventh and eighth centuries; and lintels and porches full of national character are to be found in Thelemarken. [Illustration: A CARVED NORWEGIAN DOORWAY. PERIOD: X. TO XI. CENTURY.] Under the heading of "Scandinavian" may be included the very early Russian school of ornamental woodwork. Before the accession of the Romanoff dynasty in the sixteenth century, the Ruric race of kings came originally from Finland, then a province of Sweden; and so far as one can see from old illuminated manuscripts, there was a similarity of design to those of the early Norwegian and Swedish carved lintels which have been noticed above. [Illustration: CARVED WOOD CHAIR, SCANDINAVIAN WORK. PERIOD: 12th and 13th Century.] The coffers and caskets of early mediæval times were no inconsiderable items in the valuable furniture of a period when the list of articles coming under that definition was so limited
the type so as to make it right. There the proof readers sit hard at work, reading incredibly fast, and making rapid and accurate corrections; then the "copy" is locked up, and no one can get at it, except the Managing Editor or Editor-in-Chief gives an order to see it. This precaution is taken, in order to make certain who is responsible for any mistakes which appear in the paper--the editors, or the type-setters. By this time it is nearly midnight, and the editors, type-setters, etc., take their lunches. They either go out to restaurants for them, or have them sent in--hot coffee, sandwiches, fruit, etc.--a good meal for which they are all glad to stop. And now the Foreman of the type-setters sends to the Night Editor that matter enough is in type to begin the "make-up"--that is, to put together the first pages of the paper. There the beautiful type stands, in long troughs, all corrected now, the great numbers of the type-setters removed from between the bits of type--the whole ready to be arranged into page after page of the paper. So the Night Editor makes a list of the articles which he wants on the page which is to be made up; the Foreman puts them in in the order which the Night Editor indicates; the completed page is wedged securely into an iron frame, and then is ready to be stereotyped. [Illustration: A NEWS-DEALER.] The room of the stereotypers is off by itself. There is a furnace in it, and a great caldron of melted type metal. They take the page of the paper which has just been made up; put it on a hot steam chest; spat down upon the type some thick pulpy paper soaked so as to make it fit around the type; spread plaster of Paris on the back, so as to keep the pulpy paper in shape; and put the whole under the press which more perfectly squeezes the pulpy paper down upon the type, and causes it to take a more perfect impression of the type. The heat of the steam chest warms the type, and quickly dries the pulpy paper and the plaster of Paris. Then the pulpy paper is taken off, and curved with just such a curve as the cylinders of the printing-press have, and melted type metal is poured over it, which cools in a moment; when, lo, there is a curving plate of type-metal just like the type! The whole process of making this plate takes only a few minutes. They use such plates as these, rather than type, in printing the great papers chiefly for reasons like these: 1. Because plates save the wear of type; 2. Because they are easier handled; 3. Because they can be made curving, to fit the cylinders of the printing presses as it would be difficult to arrange the type; 4. Because several plates can be made from the same type, and hence several presses can be put at work at the same time printing the same paper; 5. Because, if anything needs to be added to the paper, after the presses have begun running, the type being left up-stairs can be changed and new plates made, so that the presses need stop only a minute for the new plates to be put in--which is a great saving of time. But, coming down into the Editorial Rooms again--business Tom, and thoughtful Jonathan, and sleepy little Nell--all is excitement. Telegrams have just come in telling of the wreck of an ocean steamer, and men are just being dispatched to the steamer's office to learn all the particulars possible, and to get, if it may be, a list of the passengers and crew. And now, just in the midst of this, a fire-alarm strikes, and in a few moments the streets are as light as day with the flames of a burning warehouse in the heart of the business part of the city. More men are sent off to that; and, what with the fire and the wreck, every reporter, every copy-editor, every type-setter and proof-reader are put to their hardest work until the last minute before the last page of the paper must be sent down to the press-rooms. Then, just at the last, perhaps the best writer in the office dashes off a "leader" on the wreck sending a few lines at a time to the type-setters--a leader which, though thought out, written, set, corrected, and stereotyped in forty minutes, by reason of its clearness, its wisdom, and its brilliancy, is copied far and wide, and leads the public generally to decide where to fix the blame, and how to avoid a like accident again. There is the work of the "_editorial articles, reviews, and notes_"--to comment on events which happen, and to influence the minds of the public as the editorial management of the paper regards to be wise. There is all sorts of this editorial writing--fun, politics, science, literature, religion--and he who says, with his pen, the say of such a newspaper, wields an influence which no mind can measure. [Illustration: A BAD MORNING FOR THE NEWS-BOYS.] Well, the fire, and the wreck, have thoroughly awakened even little Nell. And so down, down we go, far under ground, to the Press-rooms. There the noise is deafening. Two or three presses are at work. At one end of the press is a great roll of paper as big as a hogshead and a mile or more long. This immense roll of paper is unwinding very fast, and going in at one end of the machine; while at the other end, faster than you can count, are coming out finished papers--the papers printed on both sides, cut up, folded, and counted, without the touch of a hand--a perfect marvel and miracle of human ingenuity. The sight is a sight to remember for a lifetime. Upon what one here sees, hinges very much of the thinking of a metropolis and of a land. And now, here come the mailing clerks, to get their papers to send off--with great accuracy and speed of directing and packing--by the first mails which leave the city within an hour and a half, at five and six o'clock in the morning. And after them come the newsboys, each for his bundle; and soon the frosty morning air in the gray dawn is alive with the shouting of the latest news in this and a dozen other papers. [Illustration: "ANY ANSWERS COME FOR ME?"] This, I am sure, is too fast a world even for business Tom: so let us "spirit" ourselves back to our beds in the quiet, slow-moving, earnest country--Tom and Jonathan and little Nell and I--home, and to sleep--and don't wake us till dinner-time! UMBRELLAS. [Illustration: THE FIRST UMBRELLA.] About one hundred and thirty years ago, an Englishman named Jonas Hanway, who had been a great traveller, went out for a walk in the city of London, carrying an umbrella over his head. [Illustration: WHAT JONAS SAW ADOWN THE FUTURE.] Every time he went out for a walk, if it rained or if the sun shone hotly, he carried this umbrella, and all along the streets, wherever he appeared, men and boys hooted and laughed; while women and girls, in doorways and windows, giggled and stared at the strange sight, for this Jonas Hanway was the first man to commonly carry an umbrella in the city of London, and everybody, but himself, thought it was a most ridiculous thing to do. But he seems to have been a man of strength and courage, and determined not to give up his umbrella even if all London made fun of him. Perhaps, in imagination, he saw adown the future, millions of umbrellas--umbrellas enough to shelter the whole island of England from rain. Whether he did foresee the innumerable posterity of his umbrella or not, the "millions" of umbrellas have actually come to pass. But Jonas Hanway was by no means the first man in the world to carry an umbrella. As I have already mentioned, he had travelled a great deal, and had seen umbrellas in China, Japan, in India and Africa, where they had been in use for so many hundreds of years that nobody knows when the first one was made. So long ago as Nineveh existed in its splendor, umbrellas were used, as they are yet to be found sculptured on the ruins of that magnificent capital of Assyria, as well as on the monuments of Egypt which are very, very old; and your ancient history will tell you that the city of Nineveh was founded not long after the flood. Perhaps it was that great rain, of forty days and forty nights, that put in the minds of Noah, or some of his sons, the idea to build an umbrella! Although here in America the umbrella means nothing but an umbrella, it is quite different in some of the far Eastern countries. In some parts of Asia and Africa no one but a royal personage is allowed to carry an umbrella. In Siam it is a mark of rank. The King's umbrella is composed of one umbrella above another, a series of circles, while that of a nobleman consists of but one circle. In Burmah it is much the same as in Siam while the Burmese King has an umbrella-title that is very comical: "Lord of the twenty-four umbrellas." The reason why the people of London ridiculed Jonas Hanway was because at that time it was considered only proper that an umbrella should be carried by a woman, and for a man to make use of one was very much as if he had worn a petticoat. There is in one of the Harleian MSS. a curious picture showing an Anglo-Saxon gentleman walking out, with his servant behind him carrying an umbrella; the drawing was probably made not far from five hundred years ago, when the umbrella was first introduced into England. Whether this gentleman and his servant created as much merriment as Mr. Hanway did, I do not know; neither can I tell you why men from that time on did not continue to use the umbrella. If I were to make a "guess" about it, I should say that they thought it would not be "proper," for it was considered an unmanly thing to carry one until a hundred years ago when the people of this country first began to use them. And it was not until twenty years later, say in the year 1800, that the "Yankees" began to make their own umbrellas. But since that time there have been umbrellas and umbrellas! [Illustration: LORD OF THE TWENTY-FOUR UMBRELLAS.] The word umbrella comes from the Latin word _umbra_, which means a "little shade;" but the name, most probably, was introduced into the English language from the Italian word _ombrella_. Parasol means "to ward off the sun," and another very pretty name, not much used by Americans, for a small parasol, is "parasolette." It would be impossible for me to tell you how many umbrellas are made every year in this country. A gentleman connected with a large umbrella manufactory in the city of Philadelphia gave me, as his estimate, 7,000,000. This would allow an umbrella to about one person in six, according to the census computation which places the population of the United States at 40,000,000 of people. And one umbrella for every six persons is certainly not a very generous distribution. Added to the number made in this country, are about one-half million which are imported, chiefly from France and England. You who have read "Robinson Crusoe," remember how he made his umbrella and covered it with skins, and that is probably the most curious umbrella you can anywhere read about. Then there have been umbrellas covered with large feathers that would shed rain like a "duck's back," and umbrellas with coverings of oil-cloth, of straw, of paper, of woollen stuffs, until now, nearly all umbrellas are covered either with silk, gingham, or alpaca. And this brings us to the manufacture of umbrellas in Philadelphia, where there are more made than in any other city in America. If you will take an umbrella in your hand and examine it, you will see that there are many more different things used in making it than you at first supposed. First, there are the "stick," made of wood, "ribs," "stretchers" and "springs" of steel; the "runner," "runner notch," the "ferule," "cap," "bands" and "tips" of brass or nickel; then there are the covering, the runner "guard" which is of silk or leather, the "inside cap," the oftentimes fancy handle, which may be of ivory, bone, horn, walrus tusk, or even mother-of-pearl, or some kind of metal, and, if you will look sharply, you will find a rivet put in deftly here and there. For the "sticks" a great variety of wood is used; although all the wood must be hard, firm, tough, and capable of receiving both polish and staining. The cheaper sticks are sawed out of plank, chiefly, of maple and iron wood. They are then "turned" (that is made round), polished and stained. The "natural sticks," not very long ago, were all imported from England. But that has been changed, and we now send England a part of our own supply, which consists principally of hawthorne and huckleberry, which come from New York and New Jersey, and of oak, ash, hickory, and wild cherry. [Illustration: A "DUCK'S BACK" UMBRELLA.] If you were to see these sticks, often crooked and gnarled, with a piece of the root left on, you would think they would make very shabby sticks for umbrellas. But they are sent to a factory where they are steamed and straitened, and then to a carver, who cuts the gnarled root-end into the image of a dog or horse's head, or any one of the thousand and one designs that you may see, many of which are exceedingly ugly. The artist has kindly made a picture for you of a "natural" stick just as it is brought from the ground where it grows, and, then again, the same stick after it has been prepared for the umbrella. Of the imported "natural" sticks, the principal are olive, ebony, furze, snakewood, pimento, cinnamon, partridge, and bamboo. Perhaps you do not understand that a "natural" stick is one that has been a young tree, having grown to be just large enough for an umbrella stick, when it was pulled up, root and all, or with at least a part of the root. If, when you buy an umbrella that has the stick bent into a deep curve at the bottom for the handle, you may feel quite sure that it is of partridge wood, which does not grow large enough to furnish a knob for a handle, but, when steamed, admits of being bent. The "runner," "ferule," "cap," "band," etc., form what is called umbrella furniture and for these articles there is a special manufactory. Another manufactory cuts and grooves wire of steel into the "ribs" and "stretchers." Formerly ribs were made out of cane or whalebone; but these materials are now seldom used. When the steel is grooved, it is called a "paragon" frame, which is the lightest and best made. It was invented by an Englishman named Fox, seventeen or eighteen years ago. The latest improvement in the manufacture of "ribs" is to give them an inward curve at the bottom, so that they will fit snugly around the stick, and which dispenses with the "tip cup,"--a cup-shaped piece of metal that closed over the tips. [Illustration: AN UMBRELLA HANDLE _au naturel_] Of course we should all like to feel that we Americans have wit enough to make everything used in making an umbrella. And so we have in a way; but it must be confessed that most of the silk used for umbrella covers, is brought from France. Perhaps if the Cheney Brothers who live at South Manchester in Connecticut, and manufacture such elegant silk for ladies' dresses, and such lovely scarfs and cravats for children, were to try and make umbrella silk, we would soon be able to say to the looms of France, "No more umbrella silk for America, thank you; we are able to supply our own!" [Illustration: CUTTING THE COVERS.] But the "Yankees" do make all their umbrella gingham, which is very nice. And one gingham factory that I have heard about has learned how to dye gingham such a _fast_ black, that no amount of rain or sun changes the color. The gingham is woven into various widths to suit umbrella frames of different size, and along each edge of the fabric a border is formed of large cords. As to alpaca, a dye-house is being built, not _more_ than a "thousand miles" from Philadelphia on the plan of English dye-houses, so that our home-made alpacas may be dyed as good and durable a black as the gingham receives; for although nobody minds carrying an _old_ umbrella, nobody likes to carry a faded one. Although there are umbrellas of blue, green and buff, the favorite hue seems to be black. And now that we have all the materials together to make an umbrella, let us go into a manufactory and see exactly how all the pieces are put together. First, here is the stick, which must be "mounted." By that you must understand that there are two springs to be put in, the ferule put on the top end, and if the handle is of other material than the stick, that must be put on. The ugliest of all the work is the cutting of the slots in which the springs are put. These are first cut by a machine; but if the man who operates it is not careful, he will get some of his fingers cut off. But after the slot-cutting machine does its work, there is yet something to be done by another man with a knife before the spring can be put in. After the springs are set, the ferule is put on, and when natural sticks are used, as all are of different sizes, it requires considerable time and care to find a ferule to fit the stick, as well as in whittling off the end of the stick to suit the ferule. And before going any farther you will notice that all the counters in the various work-rooms are carpeted. The carpet prevents the polished sticks from being scratched, and the dust from sticking to the umbrella goods. [Illustration: FINISHING THE HANDLE.] After the handle is put on the stick and a band put on for finish or ornament, the stick goes to the frame-maker, who fastens the stretchers to the ribs, strings the top end of the ribs on a wire which is fitted into the "runner notch;" then he strings the lower ends of the "stretchers" on a wire and fastens it in the "runner," and then when both "runners" are securely fixed the umbrella is ready for the cover. As this is a very important part of the umbrella, several men and women are employed in making it. In the room where the covers are cut, you will at first notice a great number of V shaped things hanging against the wall on either side of the long room. These letter Vs are usually made of wood, tipped all around with brass or some other fine metal, and are of a great variety of sizes. They are the umbrella cover patterns, as you soon make out. To begin with, the cutter lays his silk or gingham very smoothly out on a long counter, folding it back and forth until the fabric lies eight or sixteen times in thickness, the layers being several yards in length. (But I must go back a little and tell you that both edges of the silk, or whatever the cover is to be, has been hemmed by a woman, on a sewing machine before it is spread out on the counter). Well, when the cutter finds that he has the silk smoothly arranged, with the edges even, he lays on his pattern, and with a sharp knife quickly draws it along two sides of it, and in a twinkling you see the pieces for perhaps two umbrellas cut out; this is so when the silk, or material, is sixteen layers thick and the umbrella cover is to have but eight pieces. After the cover is cut, each piece is carefully examined by a woman to see that there are no holes nor defects in it, for one bad piece would spoil a whole umbrella. Then a man takes the pieces and stretches the cut edges. This stretching must be so skilfully done that the whole length of the edge be evenly stretched. This stretching is necessary in order to secure a good fit on the frame. After this the pieces go to the sewing-room, where they are sewed together by a woman, on a sewing-machine, in what is called a "pudding-bag" seam. The sewing-machine woman must have the machine-tension just right or the thread of the seam will break when the cover is stretched over the frame. [Illustration: SEWING "PUDDING-BAG" SEAMS.] The next step in the work is to fasten the cover to the frame, which is done by a woman. After the cover is fastened at the top and bottom, she half hoists the umbrella, and has a small tool which she uses to keep the umbrella in that position, then she fastens the seams to the ribs; and a quick workwoman will do all this in five minutes, as well as sew on the tie, which has been made by another pair of hands. Then the cap is put on and the umbrella is completed. But before it is sent to the salesroom, a woman smooths the edge of the umbrella all around with a warm flat-iron. Then another woman holds it up to a window where there is a strong light, and hunts for holes in it. If it is found to be perfect the cover is neatly arranged about the stick, the tie wrapped about it and fastened, and the finished umbrella goes to market for a buyer. After the stick is mounted, how long, think you does it take to make an umbrella? Well, my dears--it takes only fifteen minutes! So you see that in the making of so simple an every-day article as an umbrella, that you carry on a rainy day to school, a great many people are employed; and to keep the world supplied with umbrellas thousands and thousands of men and women are kept busy, and in this way they earn money to buy bread and shoes and fire and frocks for the dear little folks at home, who in turn may some day become umbrella makers themselves. [Illustration: COMPLETING THE UMBRELLA] PAUL AND THE COMB-MAKERS. Little Paul Perkins--Master Paul his uncle called him--did not feel happy. But for the fact that he was a guest at his uncle's home he might have made an unpleasant exhibition of his unhappiness; but he was a well-bred city boy, of which fact he was somewhat proud, and so his impatience was vented in snapping off the teeth of his pocket-combs, as he sat by the window and looked out into the rain. It was the rain which caused his discontent. Only the day before his father, going from New York to Boston on business, had left Paul at his uncle's, some distance from the "Hub," to await his return. It being the lad's first visit, Mr. Sanford had arranged a very full programme for the next day, including a trip in the woods, fishing, a picnic, and in fact quite enough to cover an ordinary week of leisure. Over and over it had been discussed, the hours for each feature apportioned, and through the night Paul had lived the programme over in his half-waking dreams. [Illustration: MASTER PAUL DID NOT FEEL HAPPY.] And now that the eventful morning had come, it brought a drizzling, disagreeable storm, so that Mr. Sanford, as he met his nephew, was constrained to admit that he did not know what they should find to supply the place of the spoiled programme. "And my little nephew is so disappointed that he has ruined his pretty comb, into the bargain," said the uncle. "I was--was trying to see what it was made of," Paul stammered, thrusting the handful of teeth into his coat pocket. "I don't see how combs are made. Could you make one, uncle?" "I never made one," Mr. Sanford replied, "but I have seen very many made. There is a comb-shop not more than a half-mile away, and it is quite a curiosity to see how they make the great horns, rough and ugly as they are, into all sorts of dainty combs and knicknacks." "What kind of horns, uncle?" "Horns from all parts of the country, Paul. This shop alone uses nearly a million horns a year, and they come in car-loads from Canada, from the great West, from Texas, from South America, and from the cattle-yards about Boston and other Eastern cities." "You don't mean the horns of common cattle?" "Yes, Paul; all kinds of horns are used, though some are much tougher and better than others. The cattle raised in the Eastern, Middle and Western States furnish the best horns, and there is the curious difference that the horns of six cows are worth no more than those of a single ox. Many millions of horn combs are made every year in Massachusetts; perhaps more than in all the rest of the country. If you like we will go down after breakfast and have a look at the comb-makers." Paul was pleased with the idea, though he would much rather have passed the day as at first proposed. He was not at all sorry that he had broken up his comb, and even went so far as to cut up the back with his knife, wondering all the while how the smooth, flat, semi-transparent comb had been produced from a rough, round, opaque horn. By and by a mail stage came rattling along, without any passengers, and Mr. Sanford took his nephew aboard. They stopped before a low, straggling pile of buildings, located upon both sides of a sluggish looking race-way which supplied the water power, covered passage-ways connecting different portions of the works. "Presently, just over this knoll," said his uncle, "you will see a big pile of horns, as they are unloaded from the cars." [Illustration: MY LADY'S TOILET.] They moved around the knoll, and there lay a monstrous pile of horns thrown indiscriminately together. "Really there are not so many as we should think," said Mr. Sanford, as Paul expressed his astonishment. "That is only a small portion of the stock of this shop. I will show you a good many more." He led the way to a group of semi-detached buildings in rear of the principal works, and there Paul saw great bins of horns, the different sizes and varieties carefully assorted, the total number so vast that the immense pile in the open yard began to look small in contrast. At one of the bins a boy was loading a wheelbarrow, and when he pushed his load along a plank track through one of the passage-ways Mr. Sanford and his nephew followed. As the passage opened into another building, the barrow was reversed and its load deposited in a receptacle a few feet lower. In this room only a single man was employed, and the peculiar character of his work at once attracted the attention of Paul. In a small frame before him was suspended a very savage-looking circular saw, running at a high rate of speed. The operator caught one of the great horns by its tip, gave it a turn through the air before his eyes, seized it in both hands and applied it to the saw. With a sharp hiss the keen teeth severed the solid tip from the body of the horn, and another movement trimmed away the thin, imperfect parts about the base. The latter fell into a pile of refuse at the foot of the frame, the tip was cast into a box with others; the horn, if large, was divided into two or more sections, a longitudinal slit sawn in one side, and the sections thrown into a box. [Illustration: THE NEW CIRCLE COMB] "This man," said Mr. Sanford, "receives large pay and many privileges, on account of the danger and unpleasant nature of his task. He has worked at this saw for about forty years, and in that time has handled, according to his record, some twenty-five millions of horns, or over two thousand for every working day. He has scarcely a whole finger or thumb upon either hand--many of them are entirely gone; but most of these were lost during his apprenticeship. The least carelessness was rewarded by the loss of a finger, for the saw cannot be protected with guards, as in lumber-cutting." Paul watched the skilful man with the closest interest, shuddering to see how near his hands passed and repassed to the merciless saw-teeth as he sent a ceaseless shower of parts of horns rattling into their respective boxes. Before he left the spot Paul took a pencil and made an estimate. "Why, uncle," he said, "to cut so many as that, he must saw over three horns every minute for ten hours a day. I wouldn't think he could handle them so fast." Then, as he saw how rapidly one horn after another was finished, he drew forth his little watch and found that the rugged old sawyer finished a horn every ten seconds with perfect ease. "Would you like to learn this trade?" the old fellow asked. He held up his hands with the stumps of fingers and thumbs outspread; but Paul only laughed and followed his uncle. They watched a boy wheeling a barrow-load of the horns as they came from the saw, and beheld them placed in enormous revolving cylinders, through which a stream of water was running, where they remained until pretty thoroughly washed. Being removed from these, they were plunged into boilers ranged along one side of the building, filled with hot water. "Here they are heated," said Mr. Sanford, "to clear them from any adhering matter that the cold water does not remove, and partially softened, ready for the next operation." [Illustration: ANCIENT OR MODERN--WHICH?] From the hot water the horns were changed to a series of similar caldrons at the other side of the room, filled with boiling oil. Paul noticed that when the workmen lifted the horns from these vats their appearance was greatly changed, being much less opaque, and considerably plastic, opening readily at the longitudinal cut made by the saw. As the horns were taken from the oil they were flattened by unrolling, and placed between strong iron clamps which were firmly screwed together, and put upon long tables in regular order. "Now I begin to see how it is done," Paul said, though he was thinking all the time of questions that he would ask his uncle when there were no workmen by to overhear. "The oil softens the horn," said Mr. Sanford, "and by placing it in this firm pressure and allowing it to remain till it becomes fixed, the whole structure is so much changed that it never rolls again. Some combs, you will notice, are of a whitish, opaque color, like the natural horn, while others have a smooth appearance, are of amber color, and almost transparent. The former are pressed between cold irons and placed in cold water, while the others are hot-pressed, it being 'cooked' in a few minutes. These plates of horn may be colored; and there are a great many 'tortoise-shell' combs and other goods sold which are only horn with a bit of color sprinkled upon it. "The solid tips of the horns, and all the pieces that are worth anything cut off in making the combs, are made up into horn jewelry, chains, cigar-holders, knife-handles, buttons, and toys of various kinds. These trinkets are generally colored more or less, and many a fashionable belle, I suppose, would be surprised to know the amount of money paid for odd bits of horn under higher sounding names. But the horn is tough and serviceable, at any rate, and that is more than can be said of many of the cheats we meet with in life." The next room, in contrast with all they had passed through previously, was neat and had no repulsive odors. Here the sheets of horn as they came from the presses were first cut by delicate circular saws into blanks of the exact size for the kind of combs to be made, after which they were run through a planer, which gave them the proper thickness. "What do you mean by 'blanks'?" Paul asked, as his uncle used the term. "You can look in the dictionary to find its exact meaning," was the answer. "But you will see what it is in practice at this machine." [Illustration: "IN SOME REMOTE CORNER OF SPAIN."] They stepped to another part of the room; and here Paul saw the "blanks" placed in the cutting-machine standing over a hot furnace, where, after being softened by the heat, they were slowly moved along, while a pair of thin chisels danced up and down, cutting through the centre of the blank at each stroke. When it had passed completely through, an assistant took the perforated blank and pulled it carefully apart, showing two combs, with the teeth interlaced. After separation they were again placed together to harden under pressure, when the final operations consisted of bevelling the teeth on wheels covered with sand-paper, rounding the backs, rounding and pointing the teeth; after which came the polishing, papering and putting in boxes. "I suppose they go all over the country," said Paul as he glanced into the shipping-room. "Much further than that," was the reply. "We never know how far they go; for the wholesale dealers, to whom the combs are shipped from the manufactory, send them into all the odd corners of the earth. Every little dealer must sell combs, and in the very nature of the business they frequently pass through a great many hands before reaching the user, so at the last price is many times what the makers received for them. I suppose it often happens that horns which have been sent thousands of miles to work up are returned to the very regions from which they came, in some other form, increased very many fold in value by their long journey. Or a horn may come from the remoter parts of South America to be wrought here in Massachusetts, and then be shipped from point to point till it reaches some remote corner of Africa, Spain, or Siberia, as an article of barter. And even different parts of the same horn may be at the same moment decking the person of a New York dandy and unsnarling the tangled locks of a Russian Tchuktch." While Paul was watching the deft fingers of the girls who filled the boxes and affixed the labels, his uncle stepped through a door communicating with the office, and soon returned with three elegant pocket-combs. "One of these," he said, "represents a horn which came from _pampas_ of Buenos Ayres; this one, in the original, dashed over the boundless plains of Texas; and here is another, toughened by the hot, short summers and long, bitter winters of Canada. Take them with you in memory of this cheerless rainy day." Paul could not help a little sigh as he thought again of the pleasures he had enjoyed in anticipation; but still he answered bravely, "Thank you; never mind the rain, dear uncle. All the New York boys go off in the woods when they get away from home; but not many of them ever heard how combs are made, and I don't suppose a quarter of them even know what they are made of. I can tell them a thing or two when I get home." IN THE GAS-WORKS. Philip and Kitty were curled up together on the lounge in the library, reading Aldrich's "Story of a Bad Boy." It was fast growing dark in the corner where they were, for the sun had gone down some time before, but they were all absorbed in Tom Bailey's
Bee,” afforded him an opportunity of showing his skill as an Editor. His plan was to “rove from flower to flower, with seeming inattention, but concealed choice, expatiate over all the beauties of the season, and make his industry his amusement.” The “Bee” expired with its eighth number, but he was more successful in his next enterprise. To the “Public Ledger,” of which the first number appeared January 12th, 1760, Goldsmith contributed one hundred and twenty-three letters, which were afterwards collected as the “Citizen of the World.” The last day of May, 1761, was memorable in his life, as witnessing the commencement of his intimacy with Johnson. His miscellaneous productions in 1762-4 included a “Life of Richard Nash, of Bath,” an “Introduction to Natural History,” an “Abridgment of Plutarch,” a “History of England,” and the “Traveller.” For the poem he received only twenty guineas, but the applause of its readers was loud and unanimous. “I was glad,” said Sir Joshua, “to hear Sir Charles Fox say it was one of the finest poems in the English language.” A fourth edition was required within eight months, and the Author lived to see the ninth. In 1764, he wrote the “Captivity,” for which the sum of ten guineas was paid by Dodsley. Poetry kept him poor, and we still see him writing for bread in a garret, and expecting to be “dunned for a milk score.” However, he cleared and warmed the future with the hopefulness of his genial nature, and comforted himself by the recollection that while Addison wrote the “Campaign” in a third storey, he had only got to the second. Reckless improvidence multiplied his difficulties. “Those who knew him,” he told a correspondent, “knew his principles to differ from those of the rest of mankind, and while none regarded the interest of his friend more, none regarded his own less.” Among his disappointments, at this period, are to be numbered an unsuccessful application for a Gresham Lectureship, and Garrick’s refusal of the “Good-Natured Man.” But Colman put the drama on the stage, January 29th, 1768, and the Professorship of Ancient History in the Royal Academy was agreeably bestowed. His “Roman History,” published in 1769, was received with favour; and in the May of 1770, the “Deserted Village” appeared. In that year, Gray travelled through a part of England and South Wales, and Mr. Norton Nichols was with him at Malvern when he received the new poem, which he desired his friend to read to him. He listened with fixed attention, and soon exclaimed, “This man is a Poet.” In twelve days the poem was reprinted, and before the 5th of August the public admiration exhausted a fifth impression. His comedy, the “Mistakes of a Night” (represented March 15th, 1773), obtained a success, of its kind, not inferior. Johnson said that it answered the great end of a comedy--“making an audience merry.” For an impertinent letter in the “London Packet,” Goldsmith caned the editor; having found, was the remark of a friend, a new pleasure, for he believed that it was the “first time he had beat,” though “he may have been beaten before.” I may add, that the Ballad of “Edwin and Angelina,” having been privately printed for the amusement of the Countess of Northumberland, was inserted in the “Vicar of Wakefield,” when that charming fiction first came out, March 27th, 1766, to delight the young by its adventures, and the old by its wisdom. For two years the manuscript had lain in the desk of the Publisher, until the fame of the “Traveller” encouraged him to send it to the press. He was now engaged in the compilation of the “History of the Earth and Animated Nature,” for which he was to receive eight hundred guineas; and about this time, according to Percy, he wrote “the ‘Haunch of Venison,’ ‘Retaliation,’ and some other little sportive sallies, which were not printed until after his death.” Mr. Peter Cunningham[1] has, for the first time, related the true story of “Retaliation,” in the original words of Garrick:--A party of friends, at the St. James’s Coffee House, were diverting themselves with the peculiar oddities of Goldsmith, who insisted upon trying his epigrammatic powers with Garrick. Each was to write the other’s epitaph. Garrick immediately spoke the following lines:-- “Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness call’d Noll, Who wrote like an angel, and talk’d like poor Poll.” The company laughed, and Goldsmith grew serious; he went to work, and some weeks after produced “Retaliation,” which was not written in anger, but with the utmost good humour. His path seemed now to be winding out of gloom into the full sunlight,--but, of a sudden, there rose up in it the “Shadow feared of man.” He was busy with projects, and had prepared a “Prospectus of an Universal Dictionary of Arts and Science,” when a complaint, from which he had previously suffered, returned with extreme severity. His unskilful treatment of the disorder was aggravated by the agitation of his mind, and he gradually sank, until Monday, April 4th, 1774, when death released him, in the forty-sixth year of his age. His remains were interred in the burial-ground of the Temple; Nollekens carved his profile in marble, and Johnson wrote a Latin inscription for the monument, which was erected in the south transept of Westminster Abbey. The epitaph is thus given in English:-- OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH-- Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, who left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn; of all the passions, whether smiles were to be moved, or tears, a powerful yet gentle master; in genius, sublime, lively, versatile; in style, elevated, clear, elegant-- the love of companions, the fidelity of friends, and the veneration of readers, have by this monument honoured the memory. He was born in Ireland, at a place called Pallas, [in the parish] of Forney, [and county] of Longford, On the 29th Nov., 1731;[2] educated at [the university of] Dublin; and died in London, 4th April, 1774. Goldsmith, in the judgment of a friendly, but severe observer, always seemed to do best that which he was doing. Does he write History? He tells shortly, and with a pleasing simplicity of narrative, all that we want to know. Does he write Essays? He clothes familiar wisdom with an easy and elegant diction, of which the real difficulty is only known by those who seek to obtain it. Does he write the story of Animated Nature? He makes it “amusing as a Persian tale.” Does he write a Novel? Dr. Primrose sits in our chimney-corner to celebrate his biographer. Does he write Comedy? Laughter “holds both its sides” at the Incendiary Letter to “Muster Croaker.” Does he write Poetry? The big tears on the rugged face of Johnson bear witness to its tenderness, dignity, and truth. The naturalness of the Author pervaded the Man. Whose vanity was so transparent, and yet so harmless? He honestly believed himself qualified to explore Asia, and would have undertaken to read, at sight, the Manuscripts of Mount Athos. His tailor’s bill is a commentary on his life. But under the bloom-coloured coat beat the large heart of a kindly and generous nature, throwing up the spontaneous and abundant fruitfulness of charity to the needy, and sympathy with all. Thieves had only to plunder a stranger, to make him a neighbour. In reading Goldsmith, or reading of him, the touch of nature changes us into his kindred, and we do not more admire the Writer, than we love the Brother. ST. CATHERINE’S, _September 15th, 1858_. FOOTNOTES: [1] Miscellaneous Prose Works of Goldsmith, vol. i., p. 79. [2] “The year of Dr. Goldsmith’s birth had been universally mistaken, till his family, some time after his death, furnished correct information of the circumstance.”--PERCY. [Illustration: HERE LIES OLIVER GOLDSMITH] [Illustration: CONTENTS] PAGE THE TRAVELLER 1 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 29 THE HERMIT 57 THE CAPTIVITY 67 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 85 RETALIATION 91 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION 99 THE GIFT TO IRIS 104 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED 105 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 108 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS 110 A NEW SIMILE 122 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING 125 STANZAS ON WOMAN 126 TRANSLATION FROM SCARRÒN 126 STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC 127 EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON 128 TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE 128 EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL 129 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER 130 SONG, FROM THE COMEDY OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER” 131 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER. 133 SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER” 135 FROM THE LATIN OF VIDA 135 AN ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE 136 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO PASS THE CHRISTMAS AT BARTON 138 ON SEEING A LADY PERFORM A CERTAIN CHARACTER 141 BIRDS 142 PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS 143 PROLOGUE TO “ZOBEIDE” 144 EPILOGUE TO “THE SISTER” 146 EPILOGUE INTENDED FOR “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER” 148 ANOTHER INTENDED EPILOGUE 153 EPILOGUE TO “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER” 155 EPILOGUE TO “THE GOOD-NATURED MAN” 157 ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. ---- 159 EPILOGUE WRITTEN FOR MR. CHARLES LEE LEWES 163 [Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS] ENGRAVED BY EDMUND EVANS, FROM DRAWINGS BY BIRKET FOSTER. MILL AT LISSOY (_Frontispiece_). PAGE GOLDSMITH’S TOMB IN THE TEMPLE CHURCHYARD xvii THE TRAVELLER. _Or where Campania’s plain forsaken lies_ 5 _Bless’d that abode, where want and pain repair_ 6 _Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend_ 7 _Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale_ 8 _The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone_ 9 _Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave_ 10 _While oft some temple’s mouldering tops between_ 12 _In florid beauty groves and fields appear_ 13 _A mistress or a saint in every grove_ 14 _Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread_ 16 _With patient angle trolls the finny deep_ 17 _How often have I led thy sportive choir_ 18 _The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail_ 21 _There gentle music melts on every spray_ 24 _Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around_ 27 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. _The never-failing brook, the busy mill_ 32 _The shelter’d cot, the cultivated farm_ 33 _And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground_ 34 _The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest_ 35 _Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew_ 37 _The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung_ 38 _And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made_ 39 _To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn_ 40 _The village preacher’s modest mansion rose_ 41 _Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride_ 42 _At church, with meek and unaffected grace_ 43 _Low lies that house, where nut-brown draughts inspir’d_ 45 _No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale_ 45 _Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds_ 48 _Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies_ 50 _Her modest looks the cottage might adorn_ 51 _Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey_ 52 _The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green_ 53 _And left a lover’s for a father’s arms_ 54 _Downward they move, a melancholy band_ 56 THE HERMIT. _Then turn, to-night, and freely share whate’er my cell bestows_ 58 _The hermit trimm’d his little fire, and cheer’d his pensive guest_ 61 _And when, beside me in the dale; he caroll’d lays of love_ 64 THE CAPTIVITY. _Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown’d_ 69 _Fierce is the tempest rolling along the furrow’d main_ 74 _As panting flies the hunted hind, where brooks refreshing stray_ 80 _O Babylon! how art thou fall’n_ 83 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 90 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION 102 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 109 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS 116 ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING 125 SONG--“THE THREE PIGEONS” 130 BIRDS 142 EPILOGUE WRITTEN FOR MR. CHARLES LEE LEWES 162 _The Ornamental Illustrations designed by_ H. NOEL HUMPHREYS [Illustration: THE TRAVELLER] DEDICATION. TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. DEAR SIR, I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands that it is addressed to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity with an income of forty pounds a year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition--what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party--that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her: they engross all that favour once shown to her; and, though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder’s birthright. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and pindaric odes, choruses, anapests, and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say--for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous; I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell; nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness; and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, Your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [Illustration: THE TRAVELLER] Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow-- Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door, Or where Campania’s plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies-- Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend: Bless’d be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Bless’d that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Bless’d be those feasts, with simple plenty crown’d, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. [Illustration] But me, not destin’d such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care, Impell’d with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view, That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies-- My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. [Illustration] Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And plac’d on high, above the storms career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear-- Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd’s humbler pride. [Illustration] When thus Creation’s charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendour crown’d, Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round, Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale-- For me your tributary stores combine; Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er-- Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still-- Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas’d with each good that Heaven to man supplies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign’d, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. [Illustration] But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. [Illustration] Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home; And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind-- As different good, by art or nature given To different nations, makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour’s earnest call: With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idria’s cliffs as Arno’s shelvy side; And, though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art, more various are the blessings sent-- Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content; Yet these each other’s power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest: Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state, to one lov’d blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone; Each to the favourite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends-- Till, carried to excess in each domain, This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: Here, for a while my proper cares resign’d, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends: Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side. Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, While oft some temple’s mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. [Illustration] Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely bless’d. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground-- Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year-- Whatever sweets salute the northern sky, With vernal lives, that blossom but to die-- These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. [Illustration] But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows; In florid beauty groves and fields appear-- Man seems the only growth that dwindles here! Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue-- And even in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs--nor far remov’d the date When commerce proudly flourish’d through the state, At her command the palace learn’d to rise, Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies, The canvas glow’d beyond even nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem’d with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display’d her sail, While nought remain’d of all that riches gave, But towns unmann’d, and lords without a slave-- And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. [Illustration] Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride: From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array’d, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Processions form’d for piety and love-- A mistress or a saint in every grove: By sports like these are all their cares beguil’d; The sports of children satisfy the child. Each nobler aim, repress’d by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind. As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, Defac’d by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. [Illustration] My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display-- Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed-- No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal-- But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep; Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children’s looks, that brighten at the blaze-- While his lov’d partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board: And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. [Illustration] Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And even those ills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast-- So the loud torrent and the whirlwind’s roar But bind him to his native mountains more. [Illustration] Such are the charms to barren states assign’d-- Their wants but few, their wishes all confin’d; Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redress’d. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame: Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquench’d by want, unfann’d by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer, On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow-- Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter’d, unimprov’d, the manners run-- And love’s and friendship’s finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o’er the mountain’s breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life’s more cultur’d walks, and charm the way-- These, far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas’d with thyself, whom all the world can please-- How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, Where shading elms along the margin grew, And, freshen’d from the wave, the zephyr flew! And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, But mock’d all tune, and marr’d the dancers’ skill-- Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; And the gay grandsire, skill’d in gestic lore, Has frisk’d beneath the burden of threescore. So bless’d a life these thoughtless realms display; Thus idly busy rolls their world away. Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here: Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or even imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current--paid from hand to hand, It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise-- They please, are pleas’d, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming bless’d, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought-- And the weak soul, within itself unbless’d, Leans for all pleasure on another’s breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year: The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. [Illustration] To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom’d in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land; And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore-- While the pent ocean, rising o’er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossom’d vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain-- A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display’d. Their much-lov’d wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear-- Even liberty itself is barter’d here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies; The needy sell it, and the rich man buys: A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves; And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old-- Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fir’d at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than fam’d Hydaspes glide. There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray; There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation’s mildest charms are there combin’d; Extremes are only in the master’s mind. Stern o’er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs--a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion’d, fresh from Nature’s hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True
uans were discomfited at Vicenza by M. Cane della Scala_ 428 § 66.--_Of the death of Philip, king of France, and of his sons_ 428 § 70.--_How Uguccione, lord of Lucca and of Pisa, laid siege to the castle of Montecatini_ 430 § 71.--_How, when the prince of Taranto was come to Florence, the Florentines sallied forth with their army to succour Montecatini, and were defeated by Uguccione della Faggiuola_ 431 § 72.--_More about the said battle and defeat of the Florentines and of the prince_ 432 § 81.--_Of the election of Pope John XXII._ 434 § 86.--_How Uguccione da Faggiuola sought to re-enter Pisa, and what came of it in Pisa, and of the Marquis Spinetta_ 436 § 87.--_How the Ghibelline party left Genoa_ 437 § 89.--_How M. Cane della Scala led an army against the Paduans, and took many castles from them_ 438 § 90.--_How the exiles from Genoa with the force of the Ghibellines of Lombardy besieged Genoa_ 438 § 92.--_How the exiles from Genoa took the suburbs of Prea_ 439 § 93.--_How King Robert came by sea to succour Genoa_ 440 § 94.--_How the Genoese gave the lordship of Genoa to King Robert_ 441 § 95.--_Of the active war which the exiles of Genoa with the Lombards made against King Robert_ 442 § 97.--_How King Robert's followers discomfited the exiles from Genoa at the village of Sesto, and how they departed from the siege of the city_ 443 § 99.--_How the exiles from Genoa with the Lombards returned to the siege of Genoa_ 444 § 100.--_How M. Cane della Scala took the suburbs of Padua_ 445 § 121.--_How M. Cane della Scala, being at the siege of Padua, was defeated by the Paduans and by the count of Görtz_ 446 § 136.--_Concerning the poet Dante Alighieri of Florence_ 448 INTRODUCTION § 1. _The Text._ This book of selections is not intended as a contribution to the study of Villani, but as an aid to the study of Dante. The text of Villani is well known to be in a very unsatisfactory condition, and no attempt at a critical treatment of it has been made. The Florence edition of 1823, in eight volumes, has been almost invariably followed. Here and there the Editor has silently adopted an emendation that obviously gives the sense intended, and on p. 277 has inserted in brackets an acute suggestion made by Mr. A.J. Butler. In a few cases, by far the most important of which occurs on p. 450, passages which appear in some but not in all of the MSS. and editions of Villani are inserted in square brackets. § 2. _The References._ It is probable that many more references to Dante's works might advantageously have been inserted in the margin had they occurred to our minds; and we shall be glad to have our attention called to any important omissions. As a rule we have aimed at giving a reference to any passage in Dante's works on which the text has a direct bearing, or towards the discussion of which it furnishes materials, without intending thereby necessarily to commit ourselves to any special interpretation of the passage in Dante referred to. But in some instances such a reference would, in our opinion, distinctly tend to the perpetuation of error. In such cases we have purposely abstained from appearing to bring a passage of Villani into relation with a passage of Dante with which we believe it to have no connection. For instance, to have given a reference to the _Vita Nuova_ § 41, 1-11, on p. 320 would have appeared to us so distinct and dangerous a _suggestio falsi_ that we have felt compelled to abstain from it even at the risk of being charged with a _suppressio veri_ by those who do not agree with us. § 3. _The Principle of Selection._ Our aim has been to translate all the passages from the first nine books of Villani's Chronicles which are likely to be of direct interest and value to the student of Dante.[1] A few chapters have been inserted not for their own sakes but because they are necessary for the understanding of other chapters that bear directly on Dante. When a chapter contains anything to our purpose, we have usually translated the whole of it. Where this is not the case the omissions are invariably indicated by stars * * * * * . We have given the headings of all the chapters we have not translated, so that the reader may have in his hand the continuous thread of Villani's narrative, and may have some idea of the character of the omitted portions. By these means we hope we have minimised, though we do not flatter ourselves that we have removed, the objections which are legitimately urged against volumes of selections. [Footnote 1: The complex and miserable history of Ugolino and Nino we have given only in its most essential portions. Even its connection with one of the most terrible and widely known passages in the _Inferno_ cannot make it other than dreary, sordid, and unilluminating.] * * * * The nature of the interest which the Dante student will find in these selections will vary as he goes through the volume. The early portions, up to the end of Book III., are interesting not so much for the direct elucidation of special passages in Dante as for the assistance they give us in realizing the atmosphere through which he and his contemporaries regarded their own past; and their habitual confusion of legend and history. From Book IV. on into Book VIII. our interest centres more and more on the specific contents of Villani's Chronicle. Here he becomes the best of all commentators upon one phase of Dante's many-sided genius; for he gives us the material upon which Dante's judgments are passed, and enables us to know the men and see the events he judges as he himself knew and saw them. Chapter after chapter reads like a continuous commentary on _Purg._ vi. 127-151; and there is hardly a sentence that does not lighten and is not lightened by some passage in the _Comedy_. Readers who have been accustomed to weary themselves in attempts to digest and remember historical notes (into which extracts from Villani, torn from their native haunts, have been driven up for instant slaughter, as in battue shooting) will find it a relief to have the story of the battles and revolutions of Florence, as Dante saw and felt it, continuously set before them--even though it be, for the present, in the partial and therefore mutilated form of "selections." When we come to the later portions of Book VIII. and the first part of Book IX. the interest again changes. To the events after 1300 Dante's chief work contains comparatively few and scattered allusions; but as the direct connection with his writings becomes less marked the connection with his biography becomes more intimate. As we study the tangled period of Florentine politics that coincides with Dante's active political life (about 1300 A.D.), the ill-concerted and feeble attempts of the exiles to regain a footing in their city, and later on the splendid but futile enterprise of Henry, we seem to find the very fibres of Dante's life woven into the texture of the history. The dream of the _De Monarchia_ was dreamed by Henry as well as by Dante; but as we read the detail of his failure it is borne in upon us that he not only did fail but must fail, for his ideal was incapable of realization. Italy was not ready for him, and had she been ready she would not have needed him. Finally, the last pages of our volume, which cover selections from the portion of Book IX., extending from the death of Henry to the death of Dante himself, are for the most part inserted for a very special reason, as to which some little detail is necessary. Strangely enough they derive their importance not from any interest Dante may have taken in the events they record, but from the fact that he did not take enough interest in them to satisfy one of his most ardent admirers. The editions of Dante's collected works include a correspondence in Latin hexameters between Johannes de Virgilio and Dante. Now in the poem that opens this correspondence Johannes refers to Statius and to Lethe in a manner that proves beyond all doubt that the whole of the _Purgatorio_ as well as the _Inferno_ was in his hands. But he alludes to the _Paradiso_--the poem of the "super-solar" realms which is to complete the record of the "lower" ones--as not yet having appeared. It therefore becomes a matter of extreme interest to the Dante student to learn the date of this poem. Now one of the considerations that led Johannes to address Dante was the hope of inducing him to choose a contemporary subject for a Latin poem and so write something worthy of himself and of studious readers! With this object he suggests a number of subjects:-- "Dic age quo petiit Jovis armiger astra volatu: Dic age quos flores, quæ lilia fregit arator: Dic Phrygias damas laceratos dente molosso: Dic Ligurum montes, et classes Parthenopæas." "Come! tell thou of the flight by which Jove's armour-bearer (the Imperial Eagle = Henry VII.) sought the stars. Come! tell thou of the flowers and lilies (of Florence) crushed by the ploughman (Uguccione da Faggiuola). Tell of the Phrygian does (the Paduans) torn by the mastiff's (Can Grande's) tooth. Tell of the Ligurian mountains (the Genoese) and the Parthenopæan fleets (of Robert of Naples)." The correctness and security of the interpretation of this passage will not be doubted by any one accustomed to the pedantic allusiveness of the age; and it is moreover guaranteed by the annotator of the Laurentian MS., thought by many to be Boccaccio himself. It will be seen, therefore, from the study of the concluding pages of this volume, that when Johannes addressed Dante (after the appearance of the _Inferno_ and the _Purgatorio_, but before that of the _Paradiso_) Henry VII. had died (A.D. 1313), Can Grande had defeated the Paduans (A.D. 1314 and 1317), Uguccione had defeated the Florentines (A.D. 1315), and Robert had collected his fleet to relieve Genoa (February, 1319). It also seems highly probable that Can Grande had not yet suffered his reverses at the siege of Padua (August, 1320). This is perhaps the one unassailable datum for the chronology of Dante's works, and we have therefore included in our selections so much as was needed to establish it. Our readers will perhaps forgive us for having then left the fate of Genoa hanging in the balance, for as Villani says: "Who could write the unbroken history of the dire siege of Genoa, and the marvellous exploits achieved by the exiles and their allies? Verily, it is the opinion of the wise that the siege of Troy itself, in comparison therewith, shewed no greater and more continuous battling, both by sea and land." § 4. _The Historical Value of Villani's Chronicle._ An adequate edition of Villani would have to examine his statements in detail, and, where necessary, to correct them. Such a task, however, would be alike beyond our powers, and foreign to our immediate purpose. These selections are intended to illustrate the text of Dante; and for that purpose it is of more consequence to know what were the "horrible crimes" of which Dante supposed Manfred to be guilty, than to enquire whether or no he was really guilty of them. To know whether Constance was fifty-two, or only thirty, when she married Henry VI., and whether he took her from a convent or a palace is of less immediate consequence to the student of Dante than to be acquainted with the Guelf tradition as to these circumstances. At the same time, the reader may reasonably ask for some guidance as to the point at which the authentic history of Florence disengages itself from the legend, and, further, as to the general degree of reliance he is justified in placing on the details supplied by Villani. On the first point very few words will suffice. There was probably a Fiesolan mart on the site now occupied by Florence from very remote times; but the form of the "ancient circle" carries us back to a Roman camp and a military colony as the origin of the regular city. Beyond this meagre basis the whole story of "Troy, and of Fiesole and Rome," in connection with Florence must be pronounced a myth. The notices of Florence before the opening of the twelfth century are few and meagre, but they suffice to prove that the story of its destruction by Totila, and rebuilding by Charlemagne, is without foundation; and of all the reported conquests of Fiesole that of 1125 is the first that we can regard as historical. The history of Florence is almost a blank until about 1115 A.D., the date of the death of the Countess Matilda. With respect to the second point, it is impossible to give so brief or conclusive an answer. Villani is as valuable to the historian as he is delightful to the general reader. He is a keen observer, and has a quick eye for the salient and essential features of what he observes. When dealing with his own times, and with events immediately connected with Florence, he is a trustworthy witness, but minute accuracy is never his strong point; and in dealing with distant times and places he is hopelessly unreliable. The English reader will readily detect his confusions in Book VII., § 39, where at one time Richard of Cornwall, and at another Henry III., is called king of England; and Henry of Cornwall and Edward I. are regarded indifferently as sons of Richard or sons of Henry III., but are always said to be brothers instead of cousins. Here there is little danger of the reader being misled, but it is otherwise in such a case as that of Robert Guiscard and the house of Tancred in Book IV., § 19. By way of putting the reader on his guard, we will go into this exceptionally bad, but by no means solitary, instance of Villani's inaccuracies. Tancred, of the castle of Hauteville (near Coutances, in Normandy), had twelve sons, ten of whom sought their fortunes in southern Italy and Sicily. Four of these were successively Counts of Apulia, the last of the four being Robert Guiscard. He was followed by his son Roger, and his grandson William, who died childless. Another of the sons of Tancred was Roger, who became Count of Sicily. He was succeeded by his son Roger II., who possessed himself of the Apulian domains of his relative William, on the decease of the latter. Roger now had himself proclaimed King of Sicily by the anti-pope Anaclete, and united Sicily and Naples under his sway. He was followed by his son William (the Bad), and his grandson William (the Good), on whose death, without issue, Henry VI., who married Roger's daughter Constance, claimed the succession in the right of his wife. (_L'Art de Vérifier les Dates._) The most important of these relations may be set forth thus: TANCRED OF HAUTEVILLE \| +-------------------+ \| \| Robert Guiscard Roger I. Count of Apulia Count of Sicily \| \| Roger Roger II. \| King of Sicily William \| +-----------------+ \| \| William Constance = Henry VI. the Bad \| William the Good Let the reader construct the family tree from the data in Villani, and compare it with the one given above. He will find that Villani, to begin with, makes Robert Guiscard a younger son of the Duke of Normandy, then makes his younger brother, Roger I., into his son (occasionally confounding him with Roger II.); and, finally, ignores William the Bad, and makes William the Good the brother of Constance. His details as to the pretender Tancred are equally inaccurate. These must suffice as specimens; but they are specimens not only of a special class of mistake, but of a style of work against which the reader must be constantly on his guard if he intends to make use of any detailed dates or relations, or even if he wishes to make sure that the Pope or other actor named in any connection is really the right one. So, too, even well within historical times, Villani is prone to the epic simplification of events. His account of the negociations of Farinata with Manfred, and of the battle of Montaperti for instance, represents the Florentine legend or tradition rather than the history of the events. These events are conceived with the vividness, simplicity and picturesque preponderance of personality which make them easy to see, but impossible to reconstruct in a rationally convincing form. To enter into further detail under this head would be to transgress the limits we have set ourselves. § 5. _The Rationale of the Revolutions of Florence._[2] [Footnote 2: The substance of this § is entirely drawn from Prof. Villari's recent work on Early Florentine History. "I Primi due Secoli della Storia di Firenze, Ricerche di Pasquale Villari." 2 vols., Florence, 1893, 1894. Price 8 fr. English translation by Madame Villari. "The Two First Centuries of Florentine History." Fisher Unwin. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ This work should be carefully studied in its entirety by all who desire to understand the constitutional history of Florence. N.B.--Some of our readers may be glad of the information that the modern scholar is Pasquale Vill[)a]ri (with short [)a]), and the mediæval chronicler Giovanni Vill[=a]ni (with a long [=a]).] The settled conviction of both Villani and Dante that a difference of race underlay the civil wars of Florence, rests upon a truth obscurely though powerfully felt by them. We have seen that the legend of Fiesole and Florence, upon which they rest their case, is without historical foundation; but the conflict of races was there none the less. And as it is here that modern historians find the key to the history of Florence, our readers will probably be glad to have set before them a brief account of the general conceptions in the light of which modern scholars would have us read the naive and ingenuous records of Villani. The numerous Teutonic invasions and incursions which had swept over northern and central Italy, from Odoacer to Charlemagne, had established a powerful territorial nobility. They constituted a dominating class, military in their habits, accustomed to the exercise and the abuse of the simpler functions of government, accepting certain feudal traditions, but owning no practical allegiance to any power that was not in a position instantly to enforce it. Their effective organization was based on the clan system, and the informal family council was omnipotent within the limits of the clan. They were without capacity or desire for any large and enduring social organization. Their combinations were temporary, and for military purposes; and internecine family feuds were a permanent factor in their lives. Their laws were based on the "Barbarian" codes, but the influence of Roman law was increasingly felt by them. In the cities it is probable that the old municipal organization had never wholly died out, though it had no formal recognition. The citizens were sometimes allowed to live "under their own law," and sometimes not; but the tradition of the Roman law was never lost. Nominally the cities were under the jurisdiction of some territorial magnate, or a nominee of the Emperor, but practically they enjoyed various degrees of independence. Their effective organization would depend upon their special circumstances, but in such a case as that of Florence would be based on the trade guilds. In Florence a number of the Teutonic nobles had settled in the city; but it owed its importance to its trade. The city-dwelling nobles kept up their clan life, and fortified their houses; but in other respects they had become partially assimilated in feeling, and even in habits and occupations, to the mercantile community in which they lived. They filled the posts of military and civil administration, and were conscious of a strong unity of interest with the people. Under the vigorous and beneficent rule in Tuscany of the great Countess Matilda (1076-1115) Florence was able quietly to consolidate and extend her power without raising any thorny questions of formal jurisdiction. But on the death of Matilda, when the Church and the Empire equally claimed the succession and were equally unable efficiently to assert their claims, it was inevitable that an attempt should be made to establish the _de facto_ supremacy of Florence over Fiesole and the whole outlying district upon a firmer and more formal basis. It was equally inevitable that the attempt should be resisted. Within Florence, as we have seen, there was a heterogeneous, but as yet fairly united citizenship. The germs of organization consisted on the side of the nobles in the clans and the Tower-clubs, and on the side of the people in the Trade-guilds. The Tower-clubs were associations each of which possessed a fortified tower in the city, which was maintained at the common expense of the associates, and with which their houses communicated. Of the Trade-guilds we shall speak briefly hereafter. In the surrounding country the territorial nobility watched the growing power and prosperity of Florence with jealousy, stoutly resisted her claims to jurisdiction over them and their demesnes, and made use of their command of the great commercial highways to exact regular or irregular tolls, even when they did not frankly plunder the merchants. Obviously two struggles must result from this situation. The city as a whole was vitally concerned in clearing the commercial routes and rendering the territorial nobility harmless; but within the city two parties, who may almost be regarded as two nations, contended for the mastery. With respect to the collective struggle of Florence against her foes, which entered on its active phase early in the twelfth century, on the death of Matilda in 1115, it may be said in brief that it was carried on with a vigour and success, subject only to brief and few reverses, during the whole period with which we are concerned. But this very success in external enterprises emphasized and embittered the internal factions. These had been serious from the first. The Uberti and other ruling families resisted the growing influence of the people; and the vicissitudes of the struggle may be traced at the end of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth centuries in the alternation of the various forms of the supreme magistracy. But it was part of the policy of the victorious Florentines to compel the nobles they had reduced to submission to live at least for a part of the year in the city; and thus while the merchant people of Florence was increasing in wealth and power, the nobles in the city were in their turn constantly recruited by rich and turbulent members of their own caste, who were ready to support them in their attempt to retain the government in their hands. Thus the more successful Florence was in her external undertakings the greater was the tension within. The forces arrayed against each other gradually assumed a provisional organization in ever-increasing independence of each other. The old senate or council and the popular assembly of all the citizens were transformed or sank into the background, and the Podestà, or foreign magistrate appointed for a year, with his lesser and greater council of citizens, was the supreme authority from 1207 onwards. This marked a momentary triumph of the nobles. But the people asserted themselves once again, and elected a Captain of the People, also a foreigner, with a lesser and greater council of citizens, who did not dispute the formal and representative supremacy of the Podestà, but was in reality coordinate with him. On this the Podestà naturally became the head of the nobles as the Captain was head of the people; and there rose that spectacle, so strange to us but so familiar to mediæval Italy, of two bodies of citizens, each with its own constitution and magistracy, encamped within the same walls. The Podestà was the head of the "Commonwealth," and the Captain the head of the "People." There was, it is true, for the most part a show of some central and coordinating power, nominally supreme over these independent and often hostile magistrates, such as the body of Ancients. But this central government had little effective power. To understand the course of Florentine history, however, we must turn back for a moment to the informal internal organization of the two bodies thus opposed to each other. The struggle is between the military and territorial aristocracy on the one hand, and the mercantile democracy of the city on the other; and we have seen that the clan system and the Tower-clubs were the germ cells of the one order, and the Craft-guilds those of the other. Now the Craft-guilds were obviously capable of supporting a higher form of political development than could ever come out of the rival system. The officers of the Florentine Crafts were compelled to exercise all the higher functions of government. They preserved a strict discipline within their own jurisdiction--(and the aggregation of the trades in certain streets and districts made that jurisdiction roughly correspond to local divisions)--they had to coordinate their industries one with another, and regulate their complicated relations one with another, and they sent their representatives to all the great trading cities of the world, where they had to conduct such delicate and important negociations that they became the most skilful diplomatists in Italy. Indeed, the training of ambassadors may almost be considered as a Florentine industry! Add to this the vast financial concerns which they had to conduct, and it will readily be seen that as statesmen the merchants of Florence must eventually prove more than a match for their military rivals and opponents. The merchant people was the progressive and constructive element in Florentine society. Accordingly the constitutional history of Florence resolves itself into a progressive, though chequered, advance of the people against the nobles (or, as they were afterwards called, the magnates) along two lines. In the first place, they had to make the _de facto_ trade organization of the city into its _de jure_ constitution--a movement which culminated in 1282 in the formal recognition of the Priors of the Crafts as the supreme magistrates of Florence. And, in the second place, they must attempt to bring the magnates effectively within the control of the laws and constitution of the mercantile community, which they systematically and recklessly defied as long as they were in a position to do so. The magnates behaved like brigands, and the people replied by practically making them outlaws. They gradually excluded them from all share of the government, they endeavoured to make the Podestà personally responsible for keeping them in order, they organized a militia of trade bands that could fly to arms and barricade the streets, or lay siege to the fortified houses of the magnates at a moment's notice; and finally, in 1293, they passed the celebrated "Ordinances of Justice" connected with the name of Giano della Bella, by which when a magnate murdered a popolano his whole clan was held directly responsible (the presumption being that the murder had been ordered in a family council), and "public report" vouched for by two witnesses was sufficient evidence for a conviction. It is this struggle for the supremacy of the mercantile democracy and the Roman Law over the military aristocracy with its "barbarian" traditions, that lies at the back of the Guelf and Ghibelline troubles of the thirteenth century. The papal and imperial principles that are usually associated with the names enter only in a very secondary way into the conflict. In truth neither the popes nor the emperors had any sympathy with the real objects of either party, though they were ready enough to seek their advantage in alliances with them. And in their turn the magnates and merchants of Florence were equally determined to be practically independent of Pope and Emperor alike. Nevertheless the magnates could look nowhere else than to the Emperor when they wanted material support or moral sanction for their claims to power; and it was only in the magnates that the Emperor in his turn could hope to find instruments or allies in his attempt to assert his power over the cities. In like manner the Pope, naturally jealous of a strong territorial power, encouraged and fostered the cities in their resistance to imperial pretensions, while he and the merchant bankers of Florence were indispensable to each other in the way of business. We have now some insight into the essential motives of Florentine history in the thirteenth century. But another step is needed before we can understand the form which the factions took. It would be a fatal error to suppose that the Ghibellines were soldiers and the Guelfs merchants, and that as each faction triumphed in turn Florence expelled her merchants and became a military encampment, or expelled her soldiers and became a commercial emporium. Such a course of events would be absolutely impossible. The truth is, that the main part of the faction fighting and banishing was done on both sides by the magnates themselves. The industrial community went on its way, sometimes under grievous exactions, sometimes under a friendly Government, always subject to the insolence and violence of the magnates, though in varying degree, but always there, and always pursuing its business occupations. It came about thus. We have seen that in the twelfth century the nobles within Florence were on the whole fairly conscious of having common cause with the merchants, but that the very success of her external undertakings brought into the city a more turbulent and hostile order of nobility. On the other side, rich and powerful merchants pushed their way up into recognition as magnates, while retaining their pecuniary interest in commerce. Thus in the thirteenth century the body of magnates itself became divided, not only into clans, but into factions. It always seemed worth while for some of them to strengthen their alliances with the territorial magnates, the open foes of the city, in order to strengthen their hold on the city itself; and it always seemed worth while for others to identify themselves more or less sincerely with the demands of the people in order to have their support in wrenching from their fellow magnates a larger share of the common spoil. It was here that the absence of any uniting principle or constructive purpose amongst the magnates told with fatal effect. Indeed their house was so divided against itself that the people would probably have had little difficulty in getting rid of them altogether, had they not been conscious of requiring a body of fighting men for service in their constant wars. The knights were at a certain disadvantage in a street fight in Florence, but the merchant statesmen knew well enough that they could not do without them on a battle-field. We can now understand the Guelf and Ghibelline struggles of the thirteenth century. The Buondelmonte incident of 1215, which both Dante and Villani regard as the cause of these conflicts, was of course only their occasion. The conclusive victory of one party could only mean the reappearance within its ranks of the old factions under new names. For if the faction opposed to the people won a temporary victory, they would be unable to hold their own permanently against the superior discipline, wealth, and constructive genius of their subjects; whereas if it was the champions of the people who had expelled their rivals and seized the plunder, they would be in no hurry to give up to the merchants the power they had won in their name. They would regard themselves as entitled to a gratitude not distinguishable from submission, and would have their own definition of the degree of influence and power which was now their due. Thus what had been the people's party among the magnates would aspire, when victorious, to be the masters of the people, and gradually another people's party would form itself within their ranks. The wonder is not that no reconciliations were permanent, but that Cardinal Latino's reconciliation of 1279 lasted, at least ostensibly, so long as till 1300. Obviously, if no new forces came upon the field, the only issue from this general situation must be in the conclusive triumph, not of the people's faction amongst the magnates, but of the attempt to break down the opposition of all the magnates to the citizen law, and the successful absorption of them into the commercial community. In the "Ordinances of Justice" and the further measures contemplated by Giano della Bella the requirements of this solution were formulated. Had they been successfully carried out, the magnates as an independent order would have been extinguished. Accordingly from 1293 onwards the fight raged round the Ordinances of Justice. No party, even among the magnates, dared openly to seek their repeal; but while some supported them in their integrity with more or less loyalty, others desired to modify them, or attempted to disembowel them by manipulating the elections and securing magistrates who would not carry them out. This was the origin of the Black and White factions. The Blacks were for circumventing the Ordinances, while the Whites were for carrying them out and extending their principles. It will be seen at once how false an impression is given when it is said that the Whites were moderate Guelfs, inclining to Ghibellinism, and the Blacks extreme Guelfs. The truth is that the terms of Ghibelline and Guelf had by this time lost all real political meaning, but in so far as Guelfism in Florence had ever represented a principle it was the Whites and not the Blacks that were its heirs. But the magnates of Florence at the beginning of the fourteenth century administered large funds that had accrued from the confiscation of Ghibelline estates; they had fought against the Ghibellines at the Battle of Campaldino in 1289, and they made a boast of being Guelf of the Guelfs. Whatever party of them was in the supremacy, therefore, was prone to accuse those in opposition of Ghibellinism simply because they were in opposition. This was what the victorious Blacks did. Their alliance with Pope Boniface VIII., who wished to make use of them for his ambitious purposes, lent some colour to their claim. Moreover, the remnants of the old Ghibelline party in the city or its territory naturally sought the alliance of the Whites as soon as they were in pronounced hostility to the ruling Guelfs. Thus arose the confusion that has perpetuated itself in the current conception of the Whites as "moderates," or Ghibellinizing Guelfs, a conception which stands in plain contradiction with the most significant facts of the case. During the closing period of Dante's life the politics of Florence became more tangled than ever. Every vestige of principle seems to disappear, and personal ambitions and hatreds to become more unbridled than ever. The active interference of the Pope and the Royal house of France, followed by the withdrawal of the Papal Court to Avignon, the invasion
blank of mist and wet, and Charley was speaking: "Hang the fog! it goes through one like a knife! Come along in, captain, they are going to dance." Captain Cavendish went in, but not to dance. He had come from curiosity to see what the Speckportonians were like, not intending to remain over an hour or so. Now that Natty was gone, there was no inducement to stay. He sought out Mrs. McGregor, to say good-night. "What's your hurry?" said Val, following him out. "It is growing late, and I am ashamed to say I am sleepy. Will you be in the office to-morrow morning?" "From eight till two," said Val. "Then I'll drop in. Good night!" The cathedral clock struck three as he came out into the drizzly morning, and all the other clocks in the town took it up. The streets were empty, as he walked rapidly to his lodgings, with buttoned-up overcoat, and hat drawn over his eyes. But a "dancing shape, an image gay" were with him, flashing on him through the fog; hunting him all the way home, through the smur and mist of the dismal day-dawn. CHAPTER III. MISS ROSE. Eight was striking by every clock in the town, as down Queen Street--the Broadway of Speckport--a tall female streamed, with a step that rang and resounded on the wooden pavement. The tall female, nodding to her acquaintances right and left, and holding up her bombazine skirts out of the slop, was Miss Jo Blake, as bright as a new penny, though she had not had a wink of sleep the night before. Early as the hour was, Miss Jo was going to make a morning call, and strode on through the fog with her head up, and a nod for nearly every one she passed. Down Queen Street Miss Jo turned to the left, and kept straight on, facing the bay, all blurred and misty, so that you could hardly tell where the fog ended and the sun began. The business part of the town, with its noise and rattle and bustle, was left half a mile behind, and Miss Jo turned into a pretty and quiet street, right down on the sea-shore. It was called Cottage Street, very appropriately, too; for all the houses in it were cozy little cottages, a story and a half high, all as much alike as if turned out of a mold. They were all painted white, had a red door in the center, and two windows on either side of the door, decorated with green shutters. They had little grass-plots and flower-beds in front, with white palings, and white gate, and a little graveled path, and behind they had vegetable-yards sloping right down to the very water. If you leaned over the fences at the lower end of these gardens, on a stormy day, and at high tide, you could feel the salt spray dashing up in your face, from the waves below. At low water, there was a long, smooth, sandy beach, delightful to walk over on hot summer days. Before one of the cottages Miss Jo drew rein, and rapped. While waiting for the door to open, the flutter of a skirt in the back garden caught her eye; and, peering round the corner of the house, she had a full view of it and its wearer. And Miss Jo set herself to contemplate the view with keenest interest. To see the wearer of that fluttering skirt it was that had brought Miss Jo all the way from her own home so early in the morning, though she had never set eyes on her before. Uncommonly friendly, perhaps you are thinking. Not at all: Miss Jo was a woman, consequently curious; and curiosity, not kindness, had brought her out. The sight was very well worth looking at. You might have gazed for a week, steadily, and not grown tired of the prospect. A figure, slender and small, wearing a black dress, white linen cuffs at the wrists, a white linen collar, fastened with a knot of crape, a profusion of pretty brown hair, worn in braids, and low in the neck, hands like a child's, small and white. She was leaning against a tree, a gnarled old rowan tree, with her face turned sea-ward, watching the fishing-boats gliding in and out through the fog; but presently, at some noise in the street, she glanced around, and Miss Jo saw her face. A small, pale face, very pale, with pretty features, and lit with large, soft eyes. A face that was a history, could Miss Jo have read it; pale and patient, gentle and sweet, and in the brown eye a look of settled melancholy. This young lady in black had been learning the great lesson of life, that most of us poor mortals must learn, sooner or later, endurance--the lesson One too sublime to name came on earth to teach. Miss Jo dodged back, the door swung open, and a fat girl, bursting out of her hooks and eyes, and with a head like a tow mop, opened the door. Miss Jo strode in without ceremony. "Good morning, Betsy Ann! Is Mrs. Marsh at home this morning?" "Yes, Miss Jo," said Betsy Ann, opening a door to the left, for there was a door on either hand; that to the right, leading to the drawing-room of the cottage, and a staircase at the end leading to the sleeping-room above; the door to the left admitted you to the sitting-room and dining-room, for it was both in one--a pleasant little room enough, with a red and green ingrain carpet, cane-seated chairs, red moreen window-curtains on the two windows, one looking on the bay, the other on the street. There was a little upright piano in one corner, a lounge in another; pictures on the papered walls; a Dutch clock and some china cats and dogs and shepherdesses on the mantel-piece; a coal-fire in the Franklin, and a table laid for breakfast. The room had but one occupant, a faded and feeble-looking woman, who sat in a low rocking-chair, her feet crossed on the fender, a shawl around her, and a book in her hand. She looked up in her surprise at her early visitor. "Law! Miss Blake, is it you? Who'd have thought it? Betsy Ann, give Miss Blake a chair." "It's quite a piece from our house here, and I feel kind of tired," said Miss Jo, seating herself. "Your fire feels comfortable, Mrs. Marsh; these foggy days are chilly. Ain't you had breakfast yet?" "It's all Charley's fault; he hasn't come down stairs yet. How did you enjoy yourself at the party last night?" "First-rate. Never went home till six this morning, and then I had to turn to and make Val his breakfast. Charley left early." "Early!" retorted Mrs. Marsh; "I don't know what you call early. It was after six when he came here, Betsy Ann says." "Well, that's odd," said Miss Jo. "He left McGregor's about half past three, anyway. Did you hear they had an officer there last night?" "An officer! No. Who is it?" "His name is Captain Cavendish, and a beautiful man he is, with a diamond ring on his finger, my dear, and the look of a real gentleman. His folks are very great in England. His brother's the Marquis of Cabbage--Carraways--no, I forget it; but Val knows all about him." "Law!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsh, opening her light-blue eyes, "a Marquis! Who brought him?" "Val did. Val knows every one, I believe, and got acquainted with him in Halifax. You never saw any one so proud as Mr. McGregor. I didn't say anything, my dear; but I thought of the time when lords and marquises, and dukes and captains without end, used to be entertained at Castle Blake," said Miss Jo, sighing. "And what does he look like? Is he handsome?" asked Mrs. Marsh, with interest; for Castle Blake and its melancholy reminiscences were an old story to her. "Uncommon," said Miss Jo; "and I believe Mrs. McGregor thinks her Jane will get him. You never saw any one so tickled in your life. Why weren't you up?--I expected you." "I couldn't go. Miss Rose came just as I was getting ready, and of course I had to stay with her." "Oh, the new teacher! I saw a young woman in black standing in the background as I came in; was that her?" said Miss Jo, who did not always choose to be confined to the rules of severe grammar. "Yes," said Mrs. Marsh; "and what do you think, Miss Blake, if she wasn't up this morning before six o'clock? Betsy Ann always rises at six, and when she was rolling up the blind Miss Rose came down-stairs already dressed, and has been out in the garden ever since. Betsy Ann says she was weeding the flowers most of the time." "She's a little thing, isn't she?" said Miss Jo; "and so delicate-looking! I don't believe she'll ever be able to manage them big rough girls in the school. What's her other name besides Miss Rose?" "I don't know. She looks as if she had seen trouble," said Mrs. Marsh, pensively. "Who is she in mourning for?" "I don't know. I didn't like to ask, and she doesn't talk much herself." "Where did she come from? Montreal, wasn't it?" "I forget. Natty knows. Natty was here last night before she went up to McGregor's. She said she would come back this morning, and go with Miss Rose to the school. Here's Charley at last." Miss Jo faced round, and confronted that young gentleman sauntering in. "Well, Sleeping Beauty, you've got up now, have you?" was her salute. "How do you feel after all you danced last night?" "Never better. You're out betimes this morning, Miss Jo." "Yes," said Miss Jo; "the sun don't catch me simmering in bed like it does some folks. Did it take you from half-past three till six to get home this morning, Mr. Charles?" "Who says it was six?" said Charley. "Betsy Ann does," replied his mother. "Where were you all the time?" "Betsy Ann's eyes were a couple of hours too fast. I say, mother, is the breakfast ready? It's nearly time I was off." "It's been ready this half-hour. Betsy Ann!" That maiden appeared. "Go and ask Miss Rose to please come in to breakfast, and then fetch the coffee." Betsy Ann fled off, and Charley glanced out of the window. "Miss Rose is taking a constitutional, is she? What is she like, mother--pretty? I didn't see her last night, you know." "What odds is it to you?" demanded Miss Jo; "she's not as pretty as Cherrie Nettleby, anyhow." Charley turned scarlet, and Miss Jo's eyes twinkled at the success of her random shaft. The door opened at that instant, and the small, slender black figure glided in. Glided was the word for that swift, light motion, so noiseless and fleet. "Good morning," said Mrs. Marsh, rising smiling to shake hands; "you are an early bird, I find. Miss Blake, Miss Rose--Miss Rose, my son Charles." My son Charles and Miss Blake both shook hands with the new teacher, and welcomed her to Speckport. A faint smile, a shy fluttering color coming and going in her delicate cheeks, and a few low-murmured words, and then Miss Rose sat down on the chair Charley had placed for her, her pretty eyes fixed on the coals, her small childlike hands fluttering still one over the other. Betsy Ann came in with the coffee-pot and rolls and eggs, and Mrs. Marsh invited Miss Jo to sit over and have some breakfast. "I don't care if I do," said Miss Jo, untying her bonnet promptly. "I didn't feel like taking anything when Val had his this morning, and your coffee smells good. Are you fond of coffee, Miss Rose?" Miss Rose smiled a little as they all took their places. "Yes, I like it very well." "Some folks like tea best," said Miss Jo, pensively, stirring in a third teaspoonful of sugar in her cup, "but I don't. What sort of a journey had you, Miss Rose?" "Very pleasant, indeed." "You arrived yesterday?" Miss Rose assented. "Was it from Halifax you came?" "No, ma'am; from Montreal." "Oh, from Montreal! You were born in Montreal, I suppose?" "No, I was born in New York." "Law!" cried Mrs. Marsh, "then, you're a Yankee, Miss Rose?" "Do your folks live in Montreal, Miss Rose?" recommenced the persevering Miss Jo. The faint, rosy light flickered and faded again in the face of Miss Rose. "I have no relatives," she said, without lifting her eyes. "None at all! Father, nor mother, nor brothers, nor sisters, nor nothing." "I have none at all." "Dear me, that's a pity! Who are you in black for?" There was a pause--then Miss Rose answered, still without looking up: "For my father." "Oh, for your father! Has he been long dead? Another cup, if you please. Betsy Ann knows how to make nice coffee." "He has been dead ten months," said Miss Rose, a flash of intolerable pain dyeing her pale cheeks at this questioning. "How do you think you'll like Speckport?" went on the dauntless Miss Jo. "It's not equal to Montreal or New York, they tell me, but the Bluenoses think there's no place like it. Poor things! if they once saw Dublin, it's little they'd think of such a place as this is." "Halte là!" cried Charley; "please to remember, Miss Jo, I am a native, to the manner born, an out-and-out Bluenose, and will stand no nonsense about Speckport! There's no place like it. See Speckport and die! Mother, I'll trouble you for some of that toast." "Won't you have some, Miss Rose?" said Mrs. Marsh. "You ain't eating anything." "Not any more, thank you. I like Speckport very much, Miss Blake; all I have seen of it." "That's right, Miss Rose!" exclaimed Charley; "say you like fog and all. Are you going to commence teaching to-day?" "I should prefer commencing at once. Miss Marsh said she was coming this morning, did she not?" Miss Rose asked, lifting her shy brown eyes to Mrs. Marsh. "Yes, dear. Charley, what time did Natty go home last night?" "She didn't go home last night; it was half-past two this morning." "Did she walk?" "No; the old lady sent that wheelbarrow of hers after her." "Wheelbarrow!" cried his mother, aghast. "Why, Charley, what do you mean?" "It's the same thing," said Charley. "I'd as soon go in a wheelbarrow as that carryall. Such a shabby old rattle-trap! It's like nothing but the old dame herself." "Charley, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Did you go with her?" "Not I! I was better engaged. Another gentleman offered his services, but she declined." "Who was it? Captain Locksley?" "No, another captain--Captain Cavendish." "Did he want to go home with Natty?" asked Miss Jo, with interest. "I thought he was more attentive to her than to Jane McGregor! Why wouldn't she have him?" "She would look fine having him--an utter stranger! If it had been Locksley, it would have been different. See here, Miss Rose," Charley cried, springing up in alarm, "what is the matter?" "She is going to faint!" exclaimed Miss Jo, in consternation. "Charley, run for a glass of water." Miss Rose had fallen suddenly back in her seat, her face growing so dreadfully white that they might well be startled. It was nothing for Miss Rose to look pale, only this was like the pallor of death. Charley made a rush for the water, and was back in a twinkling, holding it to her lips. She drank a portion, pushed it away, and sat up, trying to smile. "I am afraid I have startled you," she said, as if necessary to apologize, "but I am not very strong, and----" Her voice, faltering throughout, died entirely away; and, leaning her elbows on the table, she bowed her forehead on her hands. Miss Jo looked at her with compressed lips and prophetic eye. "You'll never stand that school, Miss Rose, and I thought so from the first. Them girls would try a constitution of iron, let alone yours." Miss Rose lifted her white face, and arose from the table. "It is nothing," she said, faintly. "I do not often get weak, like this. Thank you!" She had gone to the window, as if for air, and Charley had sprung forward and opened it. "Does the air revive you, or shall I fetch you some more water?" inquired Charley, with a face full of concern. "Oh, no! indeed, it is nothing. I am quite well now." "You don't look like it," said Miss Jo; "you are as white as a sheet yet. Don't you go near that school to-day, mind." Miss Rose essayed a smile. "The school will do me no harm, Miss Blake--thank you for your kindness all the same." Miss Jo shook her head. "You ain't fit for it, and that you'll find. Are you off, Charley?" "Very hard, isn't it, Miss Jo?" said Charley, drawing on his gloves. "But I must tear myself away. Old Pestle and Mortar will be fit to bastinado me for staying till this time of day." "Look here, then," said Miss Jo, "have you any engagement particular for this evening?" "Particular? no, not very. I promised Natty to spend the evening up at Redmon, that's all." "Oh, that's nothing, then. I want you and your mother, and Miss Rose, to come over to our house this evening, and take a cup of tea. I'll get Natty to come, too." "All right," said Charley, boyishly, taking his wide-awake. "I'll take two or three cups if you like. Good morning, all. Miss Rose, don't you go and use yourself up in that hot school-room to-day." Off went Charley, whistling "Cheer, boys, cheer!" and his hands rammed down in his coat-pockets; and Miss Jo got up and took her bonnet. "You'll be sure to come, Mrs. Marsh, you and Miss Rose, and come nice and early, so as we can have a chat." "Certainly," said Mrs. Marsh, "if Miss Rose has no objection." Miss Rose hesitated a little, and glanced at her mourning dress, and from it to Miss Jo, with her soft, wistful eyes. "I have not gone out at all since--since----" "Yes, dear, I know," said Miss Jo, kindly, interrupting. "But it isn't a party or anything, only just two or three friends to spend a few hours. Now, don't make any objection. I shall expect you both, without fail, so good-bye." With one of her familiar nods, Miss Jo strode out, and nearly ran against a young lady, who was opening the gate. "Is it you, Miss Jo? You nearly knocked me down! You must have been up with the birds this morning, to get here so soon." The speaker was a young lady who had been at Mrs. McGregor's the previous night; a small, wiry damsel, with sallow face, thin lips, dull, yellow, lusterless hair, and light, faded-looking eyes. She was not pretty, but she looked pleasant--that is, if incessant smiles can make a face pleasant--and she had the softest and sweetest of voices--you could liken it to nothing but the purring of a cat; and her hands were limp and velvety, and catlike too. Miss Jo nodded her recognition. "How d'ye do, Catty? How do you feel after last night?" "Very well." "Well enough to spend this evening with me?" Miss Catty Clowrie laughed. "I am always well enough for that, Miss Jo! Are you going to eclipse Mrs. McGregor?" "Nonsense! Mrs. Marsh and Miss Rose are coming to take tea with me, that's all, and I want you to come up." "I shall be very happy to. Are Natty and--Charley coming?" Miss Jo nodded again, and without further parley walked away. As she turned the corner of Cottage Street into a more busy thoroughfare, known as Park Lane, she saw a lady and gentleman taking the sidewalk in dashing style. Everybody looked after them, and everybody might have gone a long way without finding anything better worth looking after. The young lady's tall, slight, willowy figure was set off by a close-fitting black cloth basque, and a little, coquettish, black velvet cap was placed above one of the most bewitching faces that ever turned a man's head. Roseate, smiling, sunshiny, the bright blue eyes flashing laughing light everywhere they fell. Her gloved hands daintily uplifting her skirts, and displaying the pretty high-heeled boots, as she sailed along with a very peculiar, jaunty, swinging gait. And quite as well worth looking at, in his way, was her cavalier, gallant and handsome, with an unmistakable military stride, and an unmistakable military air generally, although dressed in civilian's clothes. As they swept past Miss Jo, the young lady made a dashing bow; and the young gentleman lifted his hat. Miss Jo stood, with her mouth open, gazing after them. "A splendid couple, ain't they, Miss Blake?" said a man, passing. It was Mr. Clowrie, on his way to his office, and Miss Jo, just deigning to acknowledge him, walked on. "My patience!" was her mental ejaculation, "what a swell they cut! He's as handsome as a lord, that young man; and she's every bit as good-looking! I must go up to Redmon this afternoon, and ask her down. Wouldn't it be great now, if that should turn out to be a match!" CHAPTER IV. VAL'S OFFICE. Among the many tall, dingy brick buildings, fronting on that busy thoroughfare of Speckport, Queen Street, there stood one to the right as you went up, taller and dingier, if possible, than its neighbors, and bearing this legend along its grimy front, "Office of Speckport Spouter." There were a dozen newspapers, more or less, published in Speckport, weekly, semi-weekly, and daily; but the Spouter went ahead of them all, and distanced all competitors. At about half-past seven o'clock, this foggy spring morning, two individuals of the manly sex occupied the principal apartment of the printing establishment. A dirty, nasty, noisy place it generally was; and dirty and nasty, though not very noisy, it was this morning, for the only sound to be heard was the voice of one of its occupants, chattering incessantly, and the scratching of the other's pen, as he wrote, perched up on a high stool. The writer was foreman in the office, a sober-looking, middle-aged man, who wore spectacles, and wrote away as mechanically as if he was doing it by steam. The speaker was a lively youth of twelve, office-boy, printer's devil, and errand-runner, and gossiper-in-chief to the place. His name was in the baptismal register of Speckport cathedral, William Blair; but in every-day life he was Bill Blair, brother to pretty Laura, whom Val Blake had eulogized as "such a girl to laugh." Laughter seemed to be a weakness in the family, for Master Bill's mouth was generally stretched in a steady grin from one week's end to the other, and was, just at this present moment. He was perched up on another high stool, swinging his legs about, chewing gum, looking out of the window, and talking. "And there goes Old Leach in his gig, tearing along as if Old Nick was after him," went on Master Bill, criticising the passers-by. "Somebody's kicking the bucket in Speckport! And there's Sim Tod hobbling along on his stick! Now, I should admire to know how long that old codger's going to live; he must be as old as Methuselah's cat by this time. And there, I vow, if there ain't Miss Jo, streaking along as tall as a grenadier, and as spry as if she hadn't been up all night at that rout in Golden Row. What a frisky old girl it is!" "I tell you what, Bill Blair," said the foreman, Mr. Gilcase, "if you don't take yourself down out of that, and get to work, I'll report you to Mr. Blake as soon as he comes in!" "No, you won't!" said Bill, snapping his gum between his teeth like a pistol-shot. "There ain't nothing to do. I swept the office, and sprinkled this floor, and I want a rest now, I should think. I feel as if I should drop!" "The office looks as if it had been swept," said Mr. Gilcase, contemptuously; "there's the addresses to write on those wrappers; go and do that!" "That's time enough," said Bill; "Blake won't be here for an hour or two yet; he's snoozing, I'll bet you, after being up all night. Look here, Mr. Gilcase, did you know the new teacher was come?" "No," said the foreman, looking somewhat interested; "has she?" "Came last night," nodded Bill; "our Laury heard so last night at the party. Her name's Miss Rose. Did you know they had an officer last night at McGregor's?" "I didn't think the officers visited McGregor's?" "None of 'em ever did before; but one of them was there last night, a captain, by the same token; and, I expect, old McGregor's as proud as a pig with two tails. As for Jane, there'll be no standing her now, and she was stuck-up enough before. Oh, here's Clowrie, and about as pleasant-looking as a wild cat with the whooping-cough!" A heavy, lumbering foot was ascending the steep dark stairs, and the door opened presently to admit a young gentleman in a pea-jacket and glazed cap. A short and thick-set young gentleman, with a sulky face, who was never known to laugh, and whose life it was the delight of Master Bill Blair to torment and make a misery of. The young gentleman was Mr. Jacob Clowrie, eldest son and hope of Peter Clowrie, Esq., attorney-at-law. "How are you, Jake?" began Mr. Blair, in a friendly tone, knocking his heels about on the stool. "You look kind of sour this morning. Was the milk at breakfast curdled, or didn't Catty get up to make you any breakfast at all?" Mr. Clowrie's reply to this was a growl, as he hung up his cap. "I say, Jake, you weren't at McGregor's tea-splash last night, were you? I know the old man and Catty were there. Scaly lot not to ask you and me!" Mr. Clowrie growled again, and sat down at a desk. "I say, Jake," resumed that young demon, Bill, grinning from ear to ear, "how's our Cherrie, eh?--seen her lately?" "What would you give to know?" snapped Mr. Clowrie, condescending to retort. "But I do know, though, without giving nothing! and I know your cake's dough, my boy! Lor, I think I see 'em now!" cried Bill, going off in a shout of laughter at some lively recollection. Mr. Clowrie glared at him over the top of his desk, with savage inquiry. "Oh, you're cut out, old fellow! you're dished, you are! Cherrie's got a new beau, and you're left in the lurch!" "What do you mean, you young imp?" inquired Mr. Clowrie, growing very red in the face. "I'll go over and twist your neck for you, if you don't look sharp!" Mr. Blair winked. "Don't you think you see yourself doing it, Jakey? I tell you it's as true as preaching! Cherrie's got a new fellow, and the chap's name is Charley Marsh." There was a pause. Bill looked triumphant, Mr. Clowrie black as a thunderbolt, and the foreman amused in spite of himself. Bill crunched his gum and waited for his announcement to have proper effect, and then resumed, in an explanatory tone: "You see, Jake, I had heard Charley was after her, but I didn't believe it till last night, when I see them with my own two blessed eyes. My governor and Laury were off to McGregor's, so I cut over to Jim Tod's, to see a lot of terrier-pups he's got--me and Tom Smith--and he promised us a pup apiece. Jim's folks were at the junketing, too; so we had the house to ourselves. And Jim, he stole in the pantry through the window and hooked a lot of pies and cakes, and raspberry wine, and Tom had a pack of cards in his trowsers pocket. And we went up to Jim's room, and, crackey! hadn't we a time! There was no hurry neither; for we knew the old folks wouldn't be home till all hours, so we staid till after three in the morning, and by this time Jim and me had lost three shillings in pennies each, and the three of us were about ready to burst with all we had eat and drank! It was foggy and misty coming home, and me and Tom cut across them fields and waste lots between Tod's and Park Lane, when just as we turned into Golden Row, who should we meet but Charley Marsh and Cherrie. There they were, coming along as large as life, linking together, and Charley's head down, listening to her, till their noses were nearly touching. Me and Tom laughed till we were fit to split!" Mr. Blair laughed again at the recollection, but Mr. Clowrie, scowling more darkly than ever, replied not save by scornful silence. Bill had his laugh out, and recommenced. "So you see, Jake, it's no go! You can't get the beautifulest mug that ever was looked at, and you haven't the shadow of a chance against such a fellow as Charley Marsh! O Lor!" With the last ejaculation of alarm, Bill sprang down from his perch in consternation, as the door opened and Mr. Val Blake entered. He had been so absorbed chaffing Mr. Clowrie that he had not heard Val coming up-stairs, and now made a desperate dash at the nearest desk. Val stretched out his long arm and pinned him. "You young vagabond! is this the way you spend your time in my absence? What's that about Charley Marsh?" "Nothing, sir," said Bill, grinning a malicious grin over at Mr. Clowrie. "I was only telling Jake how he was being cut out!" "Cut out! What do you mean?" "Why, with that Cherrie Nettleby! Charley Marsh's got her now!" "What!" said Val, shortly; "what are you talking about, you little rascal?" "I can't help it, sir," said Bill, with an injured look, "if I am a rascal. I saw him seeing her home this morning between three and four o'clock, and if that don't look like cutting Jake out, I don't know what does!" "And what were you doing out at three o'clock in the morning, Master Blair?" "I was over to Tod's spending the evening, me and a lot more fellows, and that was the time we were getting home. I don't see," said Bill, with a still more aggrieved air, "why we shouldn't stop out a while, if all the old codgers in the town set us the example!" Val released him, and strode on to an inner room. "See if you can attend to your business for one morning, sir, and give your tongue a holiday. Mr. Gilcase, was the postman here?" "Yes, sir. The letters and papers are on your table." Val disappeared, closing the door behind him, and Master Blair turned a somersault of delight and cut a pigeon-wing afterward. "Get to work, sir!" shouted Mr. Gilcase, "or I'll make Mr. Blake turn you out of the office!" "Mr. Blake knows better," retorted the incorrigible. "I rather think the Spouter would be nowhere if I left; Do you know, Mr. Gilcase, I think Blake has some notion of taking me into partnership shortly! He has to work like a horse now." Val had to work hard--no mistake about it, for he was sole editor and proprietor of the Sunday and Weekly Speckport Spouter. He is sitting in his room now--and a dusty, grimy, littered, disordered room it is--before a table heaped with papers, letters, books, and manuscript of all kinds, busily tearing the envelopes off sundry overgrown letters, and disgorging their contents. "What's this? a private note from Miss Incognita. 'Would I be so kind as to speak to the printers; they made such frightful mistakes in her last sketch, filled her heroine's eyes with tars, instead of tears, and in the battle-scene defeated Cromwell and his soldiers with wildest laughter, instead of slaughter!' Humph. "It's her own fault; why don't she write decently? Very well, Miss Laura, I'll stick you in; you think I don't know you, I suppose. Come in." Val looked up from his literary labors to answer a tap at the door. Mr. Gilcase put in his head. "There's a gentleman here wants to see you, sir. Captain Cavendish." Val got up and went out. Captain Cavendish, in a loose overcoat, and smoking a cigar, was lounging against a desk, and being stared at by Messrs. Clowrie and Blair, took out his cigar and extended his hand languidly to Val. "Good morning! Are you very busy? Am I an intruder? If so, I'll go away again." "I'm no busier than common," said Val. "Come in, this is my sanctum, and here's the editorial chair; sit down." "Is it any harm to smoke?" inquired the Captain, looking rather doubtful. "Not the least. I'll blow a cloud myself. How did you find your way here through the clouds of fog?" "Not very easily. Does the sun ever shine at all in Speckport?" "Occasionally--when it cannot help itself. But when did you take to early rising, pray? You used to be lounging over your breakfast about this hour when I knew you in Halifax." "Yes, I know--I'm a reformed character. Apropos, early rising seems to be the style here. I met two ladies of my acquaintance figuring through the streets ever so long ago." "Who were they?" "Your sister was one; Miss Marsh, the other." "Natty, eh? Oh, she always was an early bird. Were you speaking to her?" "I had the pleasure of escorting her to her mother's. By the way, she does not live with her mother, does she?" "No; she lives with old Lady Leroy, up at Redmon." "Where is Redmon?" "About a mile from Speckport. Natty walks it two or three times a day, and thinks it's only a hen's jump. Redmon's a fine
aga, mixed with garnet-coloured columbines and fragrant white narcissus, which the people of the villages call 'Angiolini.' There, too, is Solomon's seal, with waxen bells and leaves expanded like the wings of hovering butterflies. But these lists of flowers are tiresome and cold; it would be better to draw the portrait of one which is particularly fascinating. I think that botanists have called it _Saxifraga cotyledon_; yet, in spite of its long name, it is beautiful and poetic. London-pride is the commonest of all the saxifrages; but the one of which I speak is as different from London-pride as a Plantagenet upon his throne from that last Plantagenet who died obscure and penniless some years ago. It is a great majestic flower, which plumes the granite rocks of Monte Rosa in the spring. At other times of the year you see a little tuft of fleshy leaves set like a cushion on cold ledges and dark places of dripping cliffs. You take it for a stonecrop--one of those weeds doomed to obscurity, and safe from being picked because they are so uninviting--and you pass it by incuriously. But about June it puts forth its power, and from the cushion of pale leaves there springs a strong pink stem, which rises upward for a while, and then curves down and breaks into a shower of snow-white blossoms. Far away the splendour gleams, hanging like a plume of ostrich-feathers from the roof of rock, waving to the wind, or stooping down to touch the water of the mountain stream that dashes it with dew. The snow at evening, glowing with a sunset flush, is not more rosy-pure than this cascade of pendent blossoms. It loves to be alone--inaccessible ledges, chasms where winds combat, or moist caverns overarched near thundering falls, are the places that it seeks. I will not compare it to a spirit of the mountains or to a proud lonely soul, for such comparisons desecrate the simplicity of nature, and no simile can add a glory to the flower. It seems to have a conscious life of its own, so large and glorious it is, so sensitive to every breath of air, so nobly placed upon its bending stem, so royal in its solitude. I first saw it years ago on the Simplon, feathering the drizzling crags above Isella. Then we found it near Baveno, in a crack of sombre cliff beneath the mines. The other day we cut an armful opposite Varallo, by the Sesia, and then felt like murderers; it was so sad to hold in our hands the triumph of those many patient months, the full expansive life of the flower, the splendour visible from valleys and hillsides, the defenceless creature which had done its best to make the gloomy places of the Alps most beautiful. After passing many weeks among the high Alps it is a pleasure to descend into the plains. The sunset, and sunrise, and the stars of Lombardy, its level horizons and vague misty distances, are a source of absolute relief after the narrow skies and embarrassed prospects of a mountain valley. Nor are the Alps themselves ever more imposing than when seen from Milan or the church-tower of Chivasso or the terrace of Novara, with a foreground of Italian cornfields and old city towers and rice-ground, golden-green beneath a Lombard sun. Half veiled by clouds, the mountains rise like visionary fortress walls of a celestial city--unapproachable, beyond the range of mortal feet. But those who know by old experience what friendly châlets, and cool meadows, and clear streams are hidden in their folds and valleys, send forth fond thoughts and messages, like carrier-pigeons, from the marble parapets of Milan, crying, 'Before another sun has set, I too shall rest beneath the shadow of their pines!' It is in truth not more than a day's journey from Milan to the brink of snow at Macugnaga. But very sad it is to _leave_ the Alps, to stand upon the terraces of Berne and waft ineffectual farewells. The unsympathising Aar rushes beneath; and the snow-peaks, whom we love like friends, abide untroubled by the coming and the going of the world. The clouds drift over them--the sunset warms them with a fiery kiss. Night comes, and we are hurried far away to wake beside the Seine, remembering, with a pang of jealous passion, that the flowers on Alpine meadows are still blooming, and the rivulets still flowing with a ceaseless song, while Paris shops are all we see, and all we hear is the dull clatter of a Paris crowd. _THE ALPS IN WINTER_ The gradual approach of winter is very lovely in the high Alps. The valley of Davos, where I am writing, more than five thousand feet above the sea, is not beautiful, as Alpine valleys go, though it has scenery both picturesque and grand within easy reach. But when summer is passing into autumn, even the bare slopes of the least romantic glen are glorified. Golden lights and crimson are cast over the grey-green world by the fading of innumerable plants. Then the larches begin to put on sallow tints that deepen into orange, burning against the solid blue sky like amber. The frosts are severe at night, and the meadow grass turns dry and wan. The last lilac crocuses die upon the fields. Icicles, hanging from watercourse or mill-wheel, glitter in the noonday sunlight. The wind blows keenly from the north, and now the snow begins to fall and thaw and freeze, and fall and thaw again. The seasons are confused; wonderful days of flawless purity are intermingled with storm and gloom. At last the time comes when a great snowfall has to be expected. There is hard frost in the early morning, and at nine o'clock the thermometer stands at 2°. The sky is clear, but it clouds rapidly with films of cirrus and of stratus in the south and west. Soon it is covered over with grey vapour in a level sheet, all the hill-tops standing hard against the steely heavens. The cold wind from the west freezes the moustache to one's pipe-stem. By noon the air is thick with a coagulated mist; the temperature meanwhile has risen, and a little snow falls at intervals. The valleys are filled with a curious opaque blue, from which the peaks rise, phantom-like and pallid, into the grey air, scarcely distinguishable from their background. The pine-forests on the mountain-sides are of darkest indigo. There is an indescribable stillness and a sense of incubation. The wind has fallen. Later on, the snow-flakes flutter silently and sparely through the lifeless air. The most distant landscape is quite blotted out. After sunset the clouds have settled down upon the hills, and the snow comes in thick, impenetrable fleeces. At night our hair crackles and sparkles when we brush it. Next morning there is a foot and a half of finely powdered snow, and still the snow is falling. Strangely loom the châlets through the semi-solid whiteness. Yet the air is now dry and singularly soothing. The pines are heavy with their wadded coverings; now and again one shakes himself in silence, and his burden falls in a white cloud, to leave a black-green patch upon the hillside, whitening again as the imperturbable fall continues. The stakes by the roadside are almost buried. No sound is audible. Nothing is seen but the snow-plough, a long raft of planks with a heavy stone at its stem and a sharp prow, drawn by four strong horses, and driven by a young man erect upon the stem. So we live through two days and nights, and on the third a north wind blows. The snow-clouds break and hang upon the hills in scattered fleeces; glimpses of blue sky shine through, and sunlight glints along the heavy masses. The blues of the shadows are everywhere intense. As the clouds disperse, they form in moulded domes, tawny like sunburned marble in the distant south lands. Every châlet is a miracle of fantastic curves, built by the heavy hanging snow. Snow lies mounded on the roads and fields, writhed into loveliest wreaths, or outspread in the softest undulations. All the irregularities of the hills are softened into swelling billows like the mouldings of Titanic statuary. It happened once or twice last winter that such a clearing after snowfall took place at full moon. Then the moon rose in a swirl of fleecy vapour--clouds above, beneath, and all around. The sky was blue as steel, and infinitely deep with mist-entangled stars. The horn above which she first appears stood carved of solid black, and through the valley's length from end to end yawned chasms and clefts of liquid darkness. As the moon rose, the clouds were conquered, and massed into rolling waves upon the ridges of the hills. The spaces of open sky grew still more blue. At last the silver light came flooding over all, and here and there the fresh snow glistened on the crags. There is movement, palpitation, life of light through earth and sky. To walk out on such a night, when the perturbation of storm is over and the heavens are free, is one of the greatest pleasures offered by this winter life. It is so light that you can read the smallest print with ease. The upper sky looks quite black, shading by violet and sapphire into turquoise upon the horizon. There is the colour of ivory upon the nearest snow-fields, and the distant peaks sparkle like silver, crystals glitter in all directions on the surface of the snow, white, yellow, and pale blue. The stars are exceedingly keen, but only a few can shine in the intensity of moonlight. The air is perfectly still, and though icicles may be hanging from beard and moustache to the furs beneath one's chin, there is no sensation of extreme cold. During the earlier frosts of the season, after the first snows have fallen, but when there is still plenty of moisture in the ground, the loveliest fern-fronds of pure rime may be found in myriads on the meadows. They are fashioned like perfect vegetable structures, opening fan-shaped upon crystal stems, and catching the sunbeams with the brilliancy of diamonds. Taken at certain angles, they decompose light into iridescent colours, appearing now like emeralds, rubies, or topazes, and now like Labrador spar, blending all hues in a wondrous sheen. When the lake freezes for the first time, its surface is of course quite black, and so transparent that it is easy to see the fishes swimming in the deep beneath; but here and there, where rime has fallen, there sparkle these fantastic flowers and ferns and mosses made of purest frost. Nothing, indeed, can be more fascinating than the new world revealed by frost. In shaded places of the valley you may walk through larches and leafless alder thickets by silent farms, all silvered over with hoar spangles--fairy forests, where the flowers and foliage are rime. The streams are flowing half-frozen over rocks sheeted with opaque green ice. Here it is strange to watch the swirl of water freeing itself from these frost-shackles, and to see it eddying beneath the overhanging eaves of frailest crystal-frosted snow. All is so silent, still, and weird in this white world, that one marvels when the spirit of winter will appear, or what shrill voices in the air will make his unimaginable magic audible. Nothing happens, however, to disturb the charm, save when a sunbeam cuts the chain of diamonds on an alder bough, and down they drift in a thin cloud of dust. It may be also that the air is full of floating crystals, like tiniest most restless fire-flies rising and falling and passing crosswise in the sun-illumined shade of tree or mountain-side. It is not easy to describe these beauties of the winter-world; and yet one word must be said about the sunsets. Let us walk out, therefore, towards the lake at four o'clock in mid-December. The thermometer is standing at 3°, and there is neither breath of wind nor cloud. Venus is just visible in rose and sapphire, and the thin young moon is beside her. To east and south the snowy ranges burn with yellow fire, deepening to orange and crimson hues, which die away and leave a greenish pallor. At last, the higher snows alone are livid with a last faint tinge of light, and all beneath is quite white. But the tide of glory turns. While the west grows momently more pale, the eastern heavens flush with afterglow, suffuse their spaces with pink and violet. Daffodil and tenderest emerald intermingle; and these colours spread until the west again has rose and primrose and sapphire wonderfully blent, and from the burning skies a light is cast upon the valley--a phantom light, less real, more like the hues of molten gems, than were the stationary flames of sunset. Venus and the moon meanwhile are silvery clear. Then the whole illumination fades like magic. All the charms of which I have been writing are combined in a sledge-drive. With an arrowy gliding motion one passes through the snow-world as through a dream. In the sunlight the snow surface sparkles with its myriad stars of crystals. In the shadow it ceases to glitter, and assumes a blueness scarcely less blue than the sky. So the journey is like sailing through alternate tracts of light irradiate heavens, and interstellar spaces of the clearest and most flawless ether. The air is like the keen air of the highest glaciers. As we go, the bells keep up a drowsy tinkling at the horse's head. The whole landscape is transfigured--lifted high up out of commonplaceness. The little hills are Monte Rosas and Mont Blancs. Scale is annihilated, and nothing tells but form. There is hardly any colour except the blue of sky and shadow. Everything is traced in vanishing tints, passing from the almost amber of the distant sunlight through glowing white into pale greys and brighter blues and deep ethereal azure. The pines stand in black platoons upon the hillsides, with a tinge of red or orange on their sable. Some carry masses of snow. Others have shaken their plumes free. The châlets are like fairy houses or toys, waist-deep in stores of winter fuel. With their mellow tones of madder and umber on the weather-beaten woodwork relieved against the white, with fantastic icicles and folds of snow depending from their eaves, or curled like coverlids from roof and window-sill, they are far more picturesque than in the summer. Colour, wherever it is found, whether in these cottages or in a block of serpentine by the roadside, or in the golden bulrush blades by the lake shore, takes more than double value. It is shed upon the landscape like a spiritual and transparent veil. Most beautiful of all are the sweeping lines of pure untroubled snow, fold over fold of undulating softness, billowing along the skirts of the peaked hills. There is no conveying the charm of immaterial, aërial, lucid beauty, the feeling of purity and aloofness from sordid things, conveyed by the fine touch on all our senses of light, colour, form, and air, and motion, and rare tinkling sound. The magic is like a spirit mood of Shelley's lyric verse. And, what is perhaps most wonderful, this delicate delight may be enjoyed without fear in the coldest weather. It does not matter how low the temperature may be, if the sun is shining, the air dry, and the wind asleep. Leaving the horse-sledges on the verge of some high hill-road, and trusting oneself to the little hand-sledge which the people of the Grisons use, and which the English have christened by the Canadian term 'toboggan,' the excitement becomes far greater. The hand-sledge is about three feet long, fifteen inches wide, and half a foot above the ground, on runners shod with iron. Seated firmly at the back, and guiding with the feet in front, the rider skims down precipitous slopes and round perilous corners with a rapidity that beats a horse's pace. Winding through sombre pine-forests, where the torrent roars fitfully among caverns of barbed ice, and the glistening mountains tower above in their glory of sun-smitten snow, darting round the frozen ledges at the turnings of the road, silently gliding at a speed that seems incredible, it is so smooth, he traverses two or three miles without fatigue, carried onward by the mere momentum of his weight. It is a strange and great joy. The toboggan, under these conditions, might be compared to an enchanted boat shooting the rapids of a river; and what adds to its fascination is the entire loneliness in which the rider passes through those weird and ever-shifting scenes of winter radiance. Sometimes, when the snow is drifting up the pass, and the world is blank behind, before, and all around, it seems like plunging into chaos. The muffled pines loom fantastically through the drift as we rush past them, and the wind, ever and anon, detaches great masses of snow in clouds from their bent branches. Or again at night, when the moon is shining, and the sky is full of flaming stars, and the snow, frozen to the hardness of marble, sparkles with innumerable crystals, a new sense of strangeness and of joy is given to the solitude, the swiftness, and the silence of the exercise. No other circumstances invest the poetry of rapid motion with more fascination. Shelley, who so loved the fancy of a boat inspired with its own instinct of life, would have delighted in the game, and would probably have pursued it recklessly. At the same time, as practised on a humbler scale nearer home, in company, and on a run selected for convenience rather than for picturesqueness, tobogganing is a very Bohemian amusement. No one who indulges in it can count on avoiding hard blows and violent upsets, nor will his efforts to maintain his equilibrium at the dangerous corners be invariably graceful. Nothing, it might be imagined, could be more monotonous than an Alpine valley covered up with snow. And yet to one who has passed many months in that seclusion Nature herself presents no monotony; for the changes constantly wrought by light and cloud and alternations of weather on this landscape are infinitely various. The very simplicity of the conditions seems to assist the supreme artist. One day is wonderful because of its unsullied purity; not a cloud visible, and the pines clothed in velvet of rich green beneath a faultless canopy of light. The next presents a fretwork of fine film, wrought by the south wind over the whole sky, iridescent with delicate rainbow tints within the influences of the sun, and ever-changing shape. On another, when the turbulent Föhn is blowing, streamers of snow may be seen flying from the higher ridges against a pallid background of slaty cloud, while the gaunt ribs of the hills glisten below with fitful gleams of lurid light. At sunrise, one morning, stealthy and mysterious vapours clothe the mountains from their basement to the waist, while the peaks are glistening serenely in clear daylight. Another opens with silently falling snow. A third is rosy through the length and breadth of the dawn-smitten valley. It is, however, impossible to catalogue the indescribable variety of those beauties, which those who love nature may enjoy by simply waiting on the changes of the winter in a single station of the Alps. * * * * * _WINTER NIGHTS AT DAVOS_ I Light, marvellously soft yet penetrating, everywhere diffused, everywhere reflected without radiance, poured from the moon high above our heads in a sky tinted through all shades and modulations of blue, from turquoise on the horizon to opaque sapphire at the zenith--_dolce color_. (It is difficult to use the word _colour_ for this scene without suggesting an exaggeration. The blue is almost indefinable, yet felt. But if possible, the total effect of the night landscape should be rendered by careful exclusion of tints from the word-palette. The art of the etcher is more needed than that of the painter.) Heaven overhead is set with stars, shooting intensely, smouldering with dull red in Aldeboran, sparkling diamond-like in Sirius, changing from orange to crimson and green in the swart fire of yonder double star. On the snow this moonlight falls tenderly, not in hard white light and strong black shadow, but in tones of cream and ivory, rounding the curves of drift. The mountain peaks alone glisten as though they were built of silver burnished by an agate. Far away they rise diminished in stature by the all-pervading dimness of bright light, that erases the distinctions of daytime. On the path before our feet lie crystals of many hues, the splinters of a thousand gems. In the wood there are caverns of darkness, alternating with spaces of star-twinkled sky, or windows opened between russet stems and solid branches for the moony sheen. The green of the pines is felt, although invisible, so soft in substance that it seems less like velvet than some materialised depth of dark green shadow. II Snow falling noiseless and unseen. One only knows that it is falling by the blinking of our eyes as the flakes settle on their lids and melt. The cottage windows shine red, and moving lanterns of belated wayfarers define the void around them. Yet the night is far from dark. The forests and the mountain-bulk beyond the valley loom softly large and just distinguishable through a pearly haze. The path is purest trackless whiteness, almost dazzling though it has no light. This was what Dante felt when he reached the lunar sphere: Parova a me, che nube ne coprisse Lucida, spessa, solida e pulita. Walking silent, with insensible footfall, slowly, for the snow is deep above our ankles, we wonder what the world would be like if this were all. Could the human race be acclimatised to this monotony (we say) perhaps emotion would be rarer, yet more poignant, suspended brooding on itself, and wakening by flashes to a quintessential mood. Then fancy changes, and the thought occurs that even so must be a planet, not yet wholly made, nor called to take her place among the sisterhood of light and song. III Sunset was fading out upon the Rhætikon and still reflected from the Seehorn on the lake, when we entered the gorge of the Fluela--dense pines on either hand, a mounting drift of snow in front, and faint peaks, paling from rose to saffron, far above, beyond. There was no sound but a tinkling stream and the continual jingle of our sledge-bells. We drove at a foot's pace, our horse finding his own path. When we left the forest, the light had all gone except for some almost imperceptible touches of primrose on the eastern horns. It was a moonless night, but the sky was alive with stars, and now and then one fell. The last house in the valley was soon passed, and we entered those bleak gorges where the wind, fine, noiseless, penetrating like an edge of steel, poured slantwise on us from the north. As we rose, the stars to west seemed far beneath us, and the Great Bear sprawled upon the ridges of the lower hills outspread. We kept slowly moving onward, upward, into what seemed like a thin impalpable mist, but was immeasurable tracts of snow. The last cembras were left behind, immovable upon dark granite boulders on our right. We entered a formless and unbillowed sea of greyness, from which there rose dim mountain-flanks that lost themselves in air. Up, ever up, and still below us westward sank the stars. We were now 7500 feet above sea-level, and the December night was rigid with intensity of frost. The cold, and movement, and solemnity of space, drowsed every sense. IV The memory of things seen and done in moonlight is like the memory of dreams. It is as a dream that I recall the night of our tobogganing to Klosters, though it was full enough of active energy. The moon was in her second quarter, slightly filmed with very high thin clouds, that disappeared as night advanced, leaving the sky and stars in all their lustre. A sharp frost, sinking to three degrees above zero Fahrenheit, with a fine pure wind, such wind as here they call 'the mountain breath.' We drove to Wolfgang in a two-horse sledge, four of us inside, and our two Christians on the box. Up there, where the Alps of Death descend to join the Lakehorn Alps, above the Wolfswalk, there is a world of whiteness--frozen ridges, engraved like cameos of aërial onyx upon the dark, star-tremulous sky; sculptured buttresses of snow, enclosing hollows filled with diaphanous shadow, and sweeping aloft into the upland fields of pure clear drift. Then came the swift descent, the plunge into the pines, moon-silvered on their frosted tops. The battalions of spruce that climb those hills defined the dazzling snow from which they sprang, like the black tufts upon an ermine robe. At the proper moment we left our sledge, and the big Christian took his reins in hand to follow us. Furs and greatcoats were abandoned. Each stood forth tightly accoutred, with short coat, and clinging cap, and gaitered legs for the toboggan. Off we started in line, with but brief interval between, at first slowly, then glidingly, and when the impetus was gained, with darting, bounding, almost savage swiftness--sweeping round corners, cutting the hard snow-path with keen runners, avoiding the deep ruts, trusting to chance, taking advantage of smooth places, till the rush and swing and downward swoop became mechanical. Space was devoured. Into the massy shadows of the forest, where the pines joined overhead, we pierced without a sound, and felt far more than saw the great rocks with their icicles; and out again, emerging into moonlight, met the valley spread beneath our feet, the mighty peaks of the Silvretta and the vast blue sky. On, on, hurrying, delaying not, the woods and hills rushed by. Crystals upon the snow-banks glittered to the stars. Our souls would fain have stayed to drink these marvels of the moon-world, but our limbs refused. The magic of movement was upon us, and eight minutes swallowed the varying impressions of two musical miles. The village lights drew near and nearer, then the sombre village huts, and soon the speed grew less, and soon we glided to our rest into the sleeping village street. V It was just past midnight. The moon had fallen to the western horns. Orion's belt lay bar-like on the opening of the pass, and Sirius shot flame on the Seehorn. A more crystalline night, more full of fulgent stars, was never seen, stars everywhere, but mostly scattered in large sparkles on the snow. Big Christian went in front, tugging toboggans by their strings, as Gulliver, in some old woodcut, drew the fleets of Lilliput. Through the brown wood-châlets of Selfrangr, up to the undulating meadows, where the snow slept pure and crisp, he led us. There we sat awhile and drank the clear air, cooled to zero, but innocent and mild as mother Nature's milk. Then in an instant, down, down through the hamlet, with its châlets, stables, pumps, and logs, the slumbrous hamlet, where one dog barked, and darkness dwelt upon the path of ice, down with the tempest of a dreadful speed, that shot each rider upward in the air, and made the frame of the toboggan tremble--down over hillocks of hard frozen snow, dashing and bounding, to the river and the bridge. No bones were broken, though the race was thrice renewed, and men were spilt upon the roadside by some furious plunge. This amusement has the charm of peril and the unforeseen. In no wise else can colder, keener air be drunken at such furious speed. The joy, too, of the engine-driver and the steeplechaser is upon us. Alas, that it should be so short! If only roads were better made for the purpose, there would be no end to it; for the toboggan cannot lose his wind. But the good thing fails at last, and from the silence of the moon we pass into the silence of the fields of sleep. VI The new stable is a huge wooden building, with raftered lofts to stow the hay, and stalls for many cows and horses. It stands snugly in an angle of the pine-wood, bordering upon the great horse-meadow. Here at night the air is warm and tepid with the breath of kine. Returning from my forest walk, I spy one window yellow in the moonlight with a lamp. I lift the latch. The hound knows me, and does not bark. I enter the stable, where six horses are munching their last meal. Upon the corn-bin sits a knecht. We light our pipes and talk. He tells me of the valley of Arosa (a hawk's flight westward over yonder hills), how deep in grass its summer lawns, how crystal-clear its stream, how blue its little lakes, how pure, without a taint of mist, 'too beautiful to paint,' its sky in winter! This knecht is an Ardüser, and the valley of Arosa lifts itself to heaven above his Langwies home. It is his duty now to harness a sleigh for some night-work. We shake hands and part--I to sleep, he for the snow. VII The lake has frozen late this year, and there are places in it where the ice is not yet firm. Little snow has fallen since it froze--about three inches at the deepest, driven by winds and wrinkled like the ribbed sea-sand. Here and there the ice-floor is quite black and clear, reflecting stars, and dark as heaven's own depths. Elsewhere it is of a suspicious whiteness, blurred in surface, with jagged cracks and chasms, treacherously mended by the hand of frost. Moving slowly, the snow cries beneath our feet, and the big crystals tinkle. These are shaped like fern-fronds, growing fan-wise from a point, and set at various angles, so that the moonlight takes them with capricious touch. They flash, and are quenched, and flash again, light darting to light along the level surface, while the sailing planets and the stars look down complacent at this mimicry of heaven. Everything above, around, beneath, is very beautiful--the slumbrous woods, the snowy fells, and the far distance painted in faint blue upon the tender background of the sky. Everything is placid and beautiful; and yet the place is terrible. For, as we walk, the lake groans, with throttled sobs, and sudden cracklings of its joints, and sighs that shiver, undulating from afar, and pass beneath our feet, and die away in distance when they reach the shore. And now and then an upper crust of ice gives way; and will the gulfs then drag us down? We are in the very centre of the lake. There is no use in thinking or in taking heed. Enjoy the moment, then, and march. Enjoy the contrast between this circumambient serenity and sweetness, and the dreadful sense of insecurity beneath. Is not, indeed, our whole life of this nature? A passage over perilous deeps, roofed by infinity and sempiternal things, surrounded too with evanescent forms, that like these crystals, trodden underfoot, or melted by the Föhn-wind into dew, flash, in some lucky moment, with a light that mimics stars! But to allegorise and sermonise is out of place here. It is but the expedient of those who cannot etch sensation by the burin of their art of words. VIII It is ten o'clock upon Sylvester Abend, or New Year's Eve. Herr Buol sits with his wife at the head of his long table. His family and serving folk are round him. There is his mother, with little Ursula, his child, upon her knee. The old lady is the mother of four comely daughters and nine stalwart sons, the eldest of whom is now a grizzled man. Besides our host, four of the brothers are here to-night; the handsome melancholy Georg, who is so gentle in his speech; Simeon, with his diplomatic face; Florian, the student of medicine; and my friend, colossal-breasted Christian. Palmy came a little later, worried with many cares, but happy to his heart's core. No optimist was ever more convinced of his philosophy than Palmy. After them, below the salt, were ranged the knechts and porters, the marmiton from the kitchen, and innumerable maids. The board was tesselated with plates of birnen-brod and eier-brod, küchli and cheese and butter; and Georg stirred grampampuli in a mighty metal bowl. For the uninitiated, it may be needful to explain these Davos delicacies. Birnen-brod is what the Scotch would call a 'bun,' or massive cake, composed of sliced pears, almonds, spices, and a little flour. Eier-brod is a saffron-coloured sweet bread, made with eggs; and küchli is a kind of pastry, crisp and flimsy, fashioned into various devices of cross, star, and scroll. Grampampuli is simply brandy burnt with sugar, the most unsophisticated punch I ever drank from tumblers. The frugal people of Davos, who live on bread and cheese and dried meat all the year, indulge themselves but once with these unwonted dainties in the winter. The occasion was cheerful, and yet a little solemn. The scene was feudal. For these Buols are the scions of a warrior race: A race illustrious for heroic deeds; Humbled, but not degraded. During the six centuries through which they have lived nobles in Davos, they have sent forth scores of fighting men to foreign lands, ambassadors to France and Venice and the Milanese, governors to Chiavenna and Bregaglia and the much-contested Valtelline. Members of their house are Counts of Buol-Schauenstein in Austria, Freiherrs of Muhlingen and Berenberg in the now German Empire. They keep the patent of nobility conferred on them by Henri IV. Their ancient coat--parted per pale azure and argent, with a dame of the fourteenth century bearing in her hand a rose, all counterchanged--is carved in wood and monumental marble on the churches and old houses hereabouts. And from immemorial antiquity the Buol of Davos has sat thus on Sylvester Abend with family and folk around him, summoned from alp and snowy field to drink grampampuli and break the birnen-brod. These rites performed, the men and
, small mouth, pearly white teeth, and tiny hands and feet, and withal a low but clear voice, and the reader has a picture of a Central American lady of pure stock. A large number of the women have, however, an infusion of other families and races, from the Saracen to the Indian and the Negro, in every degree of intermixture. And as tastes differ, so may opinions as to whether the tinge of brown, through which the blood glows with a peach-like bloom, in the complexion of the girl who may trace her lineage to the Caziques upon one side, and the haughty grandees of Andalusia and Seville on the other, superadded, as it usually is, to a greater lightness of figure and animation of face,--whether this is not a more real beauty than that of the fair and more languid Señora, whose white and almost transparent skin bespeaks a purer ancestry. Nor is the Indian girl, with her full, lithe figure, long, glossy hair, quick and mischievous eyes, who walks erect as a grenadier beneath her heavy water-jar, and salutes you in a musical, impudent voice, as you pass--nor is the Indian girl to be overlooked in the novel contrasts which the "bello sexo" affords in this glorious land of the sun." Some of the pleasantest incidents related in the book are those which befell the author in his dealings with the Indians, in prosecuting his archæological investigations. These Indians are all passionate admirers of the United States, and of the "hijos de Washington"--the sons of Washington. Mr. Squier was waited upon officially by the authorities of several of the Indian pueblos or towns, and among them by the municipality of the Indian pueblo of Subtiaba, headed by a great friend of our author, Don Simon Roque, first alcalde, who presented him with an address in the aboriginal language, of which the following is a literal translation: "SIR: The municipality of the Pueblo of Subtiaba, of which we are members, entertain the highest enthusiasm in view of the relations which your arrival induces us to believe will speedily be established between Nicaragua and the United States, the greatest and most glorious republic beneath the sun. We rejoice in the depths of our hearts that a man like yourself has been chosen to convey to us the assurances of future prosperity, in the name of the sons of Washington; and we trust in the Almighty, that the flag of the United States may soon become the shield of Nicaragua on land and sea. Convey our sincerest thanks for their sympathy to the great people which you represent, and give to your generous government the assurances of that deep gratitude which we feel but cannot express. We beg of you, sir, to accept this humble evidence of the cordial sentiments which we entertain both for you, your countrymen, and your Government, and which are equally shared by the people which we represent JOSE DE LA CRUZ GARCIAS, (Signed) SIMON ROQUE, FRANCISCO LUIS AUTAN." Our author returned the visit, and gives us the following account of his reception: "The reader may be assured that I did not forget my promise to the municipality of Subtiaba. A day was shortly afterwards fixed for my visit, and I was received with great ceremony at the cabildo or council chamber, where I found collected all the old men who could assist me in forming a vocabulary of the ancient language, which I had casually expressed a desire to procure. It was with difficulty that we could effect an entrance, for a half-holiday had been given to the boys of all the schools, in honor of the occasion, and they literally swarmed around the building. We were finally ushered into an inner room, where the archives of the municipality were preserved. Upon one side was a large chest of heavy wood, with massive locks, which had anciently been the strong box or treasury. A shadow fell over Simon's animated face as he pointed it out to me, and said that he could remember the time when it was filled with "duros," hard dollars, and when, at a single stroke of the alarm bell, two thousand armed men could be gathered in the plaza of Subtiaba. But those days were passed, and the municipality now scarcely retained a shadow of its former greatness. Under the crown it had earned the title 'leal y fiel' (loyal and true), and in reward of its fidelity it had received a grant of all the lands intervening between it and the ocean, to hold them in perpetuity for the benefit of its citizens. And Simon showed me the royal letters, signed "Yo, el Rey" (I, the King), which the imperial emperor had thought it not derogatory to their dignity to address to his predecessors in office, and notwithstanding his ardent republicanism, I thought Simon looked at them with something of regret. I inquired for manuscripts which might throw some light upon the early history of the country, but found only musty records of no interest or value. [Illustration: INDIAN HOUSE, SUBTIABA, NICARAGUA.] "My attempts to fill out the blank vocabulary with which I was provided created a great deal of merriment. I enjoyed it quite as much as any of them, for nothing could be more amusing than the discussions between the old men in respect to certain doubtful words and phrases. They sometimes quite forgot my presence, and rated each other soundly as ignoramuses, whereat Simon was greatly scandalized, and threatened to put them all in the stocks as "hombres sin verguenza" (men destitute of shame). 'Ah!' said he, 'these old sinners give me more trouble than the young ones'--a remark which created great mirth amongst the outsiders, and especially amongst the young vagabonds who clung like monkeys to the window bars. The group of swarthy, earnest faces, gathered round the little table, upon which was heaped a confused mass of ancient, time-stained papers, would have furnished a study for a painter. It was quite dark when I had concluded my inquiries, but I was not permitted to leave without listening to a little poem, 'Una Decima,' written by one of the school-masters, who read it to me by the light of a huge wax candle, borrowed, I am sure, from the church for the occasion. My modesty forbids my attempting a translation, and so I compromise matters by submitting the original: DECIMA. Nicaragua, ve harta cuando Cesara vuestro desvelo, Ya levantara el vuelo Hermoso, alegre, y triunfante; Al mismo tiempo mirando De este personage el porte, Y mas sera cuando corte Todos los gradeciamentos: Diremos todos contentos Viva el Gobierno del Norte. D. S. "As I mounted my horse, Don Simon led off with three cheers for 'El Ministro del Norte,' and followed it with three more for 'El Amigo de los Indios' (the friend of the Indians), all of which was afterwards paraded by a dingy little Anglo-servile paper published in Costa Rica, as evidence that I was tampering with the Indians, and exciting them to undertake the utter destruction of the white population!" THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC. _A History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Wars of the North American Tribes against the English Colonies after the Conquest of Canada_, is the title of a new work to be published during the summer by Francis Parkman, Jr. of Boston. Mr. Parkman, in introducing himself to the public two or three years since, by a volume of sketches of western travel, _The Oregon Trail_, betrayed not alone his strong natural fancy for the wild life of the Indian, but a sensitive and sagacious eye for character and scenery, and a style of nervous simplicity which in the present undertaking have more perfect play in a much wider and worthier sphere. The narrative proceeds clearly, and with simple grace. Many figures, familiar by name, but by name only, pass sharply defined before the reader's eye. The author has not lost in the lore of the historian the feeling of the poet, but he does not compromise the dignity of history, nor mistake its purpose, by indulging too much in luxuriance of picturesque description. We congratulate Mr. Parkman that his tastes have led him to the exploration of a subject in which we are all so interested, a subject whose historical romance has never been before attempted. The consultation of all the authorities, personal observation, and the want of any unfair gilding of events or character, fix the reader's faith in the severe integrity and justice of the author's results. This history will materially mitigate the complaint that American literature has so little honored the singular charm of the aboriginal American race, and we cannot hesitate to predict for it a position of authority to the student and of honor to the author, which the works of few men so young in the literary career have attained. Little estimate of its value, or of the value of any history, can be formed from extracts, but the following will indicate the freshness and poetic simplicity of the style, the author's exact eye for characteristic life and scenery, and just appreciation of historical truth and character. Here is a glance at the life of the Iroquois: "The life of the Iroquois, though void of those multiplying phases which vary the routine of civilized existence, was one of sharp excitement and sudden contrast. The chase, the war-path, the dance, the festival, the game of hazard, the race of political ambition, all had their votaries. When the assembled sachems had resolved on war against some foreign tribe, and when, from their great council-house of bark, in the Valley of Onondaga, their messengers had gone forth to invite the warriors to arms, then from east to west, through the farthest bounds of the confederacy, a thousand warlike hearts caught up the summons with glad alacrity. With fasting and praying, and consulting dreams and omens, with invoking the war-god, and dancing the frantic war-dance, the warriors sought to insure the triumph of their arms; and, these strange rites concluded, they began their stealthy progress, full of confidence, through the devious pathways of the forest. For days and weeks, in anxious expectation, the villagers await the result. And now, as evening closes, a shrill wild cry, pealing from afar, over the darkening forest, proclaims the return of the victorious warriors. The village is alive with sudden commotion; and snatching sticks and stones, knives and hatchets, men, women, and children, yelling like fiends let loose, swarm out of the narrow portal, to visit upon the miserable captives a foretaste of the deadlier torments in store for them. And now, the black arches of the forest glow with the fires of death; and with brandished torch and firebrand the frenzied multitude close around their victim. The pen shrinks to write, the heart sickens to conceive, the fierceness of his agony; yet still, amid the din of his tormentors, rises his clear voice of scorn and defiance. The work is done; the blackened trunk is flung to the dogs, and, with clamorous shouts and hootings, the murderers seek to drive away the spirit of their victim. "The Iroquois reckoned these barbarities among their most exquisite enjoyments; and yet they had other sources of pleasure, which made up in frequency and in innocence all that they lacked in intensity. Each passing season had its feasts and dances, often mingling religion with social pastime. The young had their frolics and merry-makings; and the old had their no less frequent councils, where conversation and laughter alternated with grave deliberations for the public weal. There were also stated periods marked by the recurrence of momentous ceremonies, in which the whole community took part--the mystic sacrifice of the dogs, the wild orgies of the dream feast, and the loathsome festival of the exhumation of the dead. Yet, in the intervals of war and hunting, these multiform occupations would often fail; and, while the women were toiling in the cornfields, the lazy warriors vainly sought relief from the scanty resources of their own minds, and beguiled the hours with smoking or sleeping, with gambling or gallantry." A glimpse of Indian winter life: "But when winter descends upon the north, sealing up the fountains, fettering the streams, and turning the green-robed forests to shivering nakedness, then, bearing their frail dwellings on their backs, the Ojibwa family wander forth into the wilderness, cheered only, on their dreary track, by the whistling of the north wind, and the hungry howl of wolves. By the banks of some frozen stream, women and children, men and dogs, lie crouched together around the fire. They spread their benumbed fingers over the embers, while the wind shrieks through the fir-trees like the gale through the rigging of a frigate, and the narrow concave of the wigwam sparkles with the frostwork of their congealed breath. In vain they beat the magic drum, and call upon their guardian manitoes;--the wary moose keeps aloof, the bear lies close in his hollow tree, and famine stares them in the face. And now the hunter can fight no more against the nipping cold and blinding sleet. Stiff and stark, with haggard cheek and shrivelled lip, he lies among the snow drifts; till, with tooth and claw, the famished wildcat strives in vain to pierce the frigid marble of his limbs. Such grim schooling is thrown away on the incorrigible mind of the northern Algonquin. He lives in misery, as his fathers lived before him. Still, in the brief hour of plenty he forgets the season of want; and still the sleet and the snow descend upon his houseless head." Here another leaf from Penn's laurels: "It required no great benevolence to urge the Quakers to deal kindly with their savage neighbors. They were bound in common sense to propitiate them; since, by incurring their resentment, they would involve themselves in the dilemma of submitting their necks to the tomahawk, or wielding the carnal weapon, in glaring defiance of their pacific principles. In paying the Indians for the lands which his colonists occupied,--a piece of justice which has been greeted with a general clamor of applause,--Penn, as he himself confesses, acted on the prudent counsel of Compton, Bishop of London. Nor is there any truth in the representations of Raynal and other eulogists of the Quaker legislator, who hold him up to the world as the only European who ever acquired the Indian lands by purchase, instead of seizing them by fraud or violence. The example of purchase had been set fifty years before by the Puritans of New England; and several of the other colonies had more recently pursued the same just and prudent course." The deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm: "In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist; but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward, waving his sword, and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side, fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a private soldier raised him together in their arms, and, bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their gaze from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and smoke." "See how they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?" demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way every where." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will die in peace," he murmured; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last! "Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary, Montcalm, as he strove, with useless bravery, to rally his shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he had not many hours remaining. "So much the better," he said; "I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to his bedside to ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short; therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before midnight, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell." We conclude with a sketch of Pontiac: "Pontiac, as already mentioned, was principal chief of the Ottawas. The Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies, had long been united in a loose kind of confederacy, of which he was the virtual head. Over those around him his authority was almost despotic, and his power extended far beyond the limits of the three united tribes. His influence was great among all the nations of the Illinois country; while, from the sources of the Ohio to those of the Mississippi, and, indeed, to the farthest boundaries of the wide-spread Algonquin race, his name was known and respected. The fact that Pontiac was born the son of a chief would in no degree account for the extent of his power; for, among Indians, many a chief's son sinks back into insignificance, while the offspring of a common warrior may succeed to his place. Among all the wild tribes of the continent, personal merit is indispensable to gaining or preserving dignity. Courage, resolution, wisdom, address and eloquence, are sure passports to distinction. With all these Pontiac was preëminently endowed, and it was chiefly to them, urged to their highest activity by a vehement ambition, that he owed his greatness. His intellect was strong and capacious. He possessed commanding energy and force of mind, and in subtlety and craft could match the best of his wily race. But, though capable of acts of lofty magnanimity, he was a thorough savage, with a wider range of intellect than those around him, but sharing all their passions and prejudices, their fierceness and treachery." DR. STARBUCK MAYO, AUTHOR OF "KALOOLAH," "THE BERBER," &c. [Illustration] If there is any satisfaction derivable from a long and clear lineage, the author of _Kaloolah_ ought to be a very happy man. Seven successive generations of reputable ancestry connect him with the Rev. John Mayo, a divine of distinguished piety and learning who in the year 1630 came to this country, and after settling in the town of Barnstable, transferred his residence to Boston, and became the first pastor of the South Church. The English pedigree of this John Mayo is one of the oldest among the gentry of Great Britain. On his mother's side Dr. Mayo also traces his descent for several ages through the Starbucks, one of the primitive families of that most primitive of all places, the island of Nantucket. The parents of Dr. Mayo removed to the village of Ogdensburg on the St. Lawrence under the circumstances very similar to those described in Kaloolah, and he was there born in the year 1812. His early intellectual training was under the pedagogueism of the Rev. Josiah Perry, one of the few men formed by nature for school-masters, who has left as marked a memory in a smaller sphere as did ever Parr or Burke in theirs. Never was instruction better given in all the elements of a thorough English education than for many years in his well-known school, which has produced several of the most distinguished men of the present time. From this the subject of our memoir was transferred, at the age of eleven or twelve, for the purpose of pursuing classical studies, to the academy at Potsdam, which enjoyed for a number of years the superintendence in the office of its principals of a succession of very eminent men, among them the present Rt. Rev. Bishop of North Carolina. His successor, under whom Dr. Mayo's pupilage occurred, was the Rev. Mr. Banks, a Presbyterian divine from New England, of learning, taste, and refinement, such as were rarely met with even in that day among men of his class. The description of the early life of Jonathan Romer is in the main the history of the author himself. At the age of seventeen he commenced the study of medicine, which he pursued with ardor and success. In 1832, having attended for three years the lectures of the College of Physicians and Surgeons in this city, he underwent his examination for a degree, but did not receive a diploma till the ensuing term, not having attained the legal age of twenty-one. After spending several years in the city hospitals and in private practice, he abandoned brilliant professional prospects to go abroad, partly for the benefit of his health and partly urged by the spirit of adventure, which had long led him to form plans for the exploration of Central Africa. Perhaps it is to be regretted that he was prevented by the infirmity of short-sightedness from emulating the achievements of Park, Clapperton and Ledyard, for which his moral and physical constitution eminently fitted him. He travelled extensively in Spain and Barbary however, and we have the results in Kaloolah and in The Berber. Anonymously, in various magazines, Dr. Mayo had written much and well, but he was scarcely known as an author until the appearance of the work upon which his fame still chiefly rests, _Kaloolah, or Journeyings to the Djébel Kumri_, in the spring of 1849. It has frequently been said that Kaloolah was suggested by the popular works of Herman Melville, but it was written and nearly printed before the appearance of Typee, the first of Mr. Melville's productions; and we see no reason for another opinion, that it was an offspring of the author's love for Defoe; if it was not an altogether spontaneous and independent work, its parentage was probably less famous; we know of no composition so nearly resembling Kaloolah as the pretended _Narrative of Robert Adams, an American sailor who was wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the year 1810, detained three years in slavery by the Arabs, and afterward several months a resident in the city of Timbuctoo_. This was a piece of pure fiction, though brought out in London in a splendid quarto under the endorsement of the Lord Chancellor, the President of the Royal Society, and many other eminent persons in literature, science, and affairs, and elaborately and credulously reviewed in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly, and other Reviews. The hero of this performance, after various adventures, was married to a dusky princess in the _terra incognita_, and made almost as many marvellous discoveries as are recorded by Jonathan Romer. Another and a very different writer, who selected central Africa to be the field of somewhat similar inventions, was the learned and ingenious Richard Adams Locke, whose astonishing history of revelations in the moon was not more creditable to his abilities than his singularly recovered MSS. of a lost traveller by the borders of the Niger and in middle Africa, published in the _New Era_ journal in this city about the year 1838. But we do not suppose Dr. Mayo was indebted to either of these works for the idea of his story. And just as erroneous as the charge of plagiarism, and much more absurd, is the notion that he designed Kaloolah as a "satirical criticism on life and manners in New-York." A writer in the _North British Review_ declares that he "could not help laughing aloud," though seated quietly by himself, at the "description of a musical entertainment of the court of the hero's royal father-in-law, heaven knows where in Africa, and intended as a burlesque on the sheer noise which is the predominant element" in all our orchestras. We assure the shrewd critic most positively that the author never dreamed of such a thing. Kaloolah is too well known to need much description; its success was certain and immediate, and not many original works have ever been published in this country which have had a larger circulation. It evinces remarkable fertility of invention, is exceedingly interesting, and abounds in clearly defined, spirited, and occasionally well finished portraitures. Kaloolah, the heroine, is a fresh and beautiful creation, worthy of any of the masters of fiction. The hero, Romer, is designed merely as a type of the determined Yankee adventurer, drawn with only the exaggeration demanded in works of art; and half the seeming of extravagance in the narrative and the sketches of nature would have disappeared if the author had not, to reduce his volume to the size deemed by his publisher most promising of profit, omitted all his numerous and curious notes. Kaloolah was followed in 1850 by _The Berber, or the Mountaineer of the Atlas_, a story of Spain and Morocco, about the close of the seventeenth century. As a novel it is decidedly better than Kaloolah; it displays greater skill in narration, and is written in the same pure, distinct and nervous English. Dr. Mayo thoroughly understood from observation as well as study all the accessories of his subject, and we are mistaken if any recent book on northern Africa gives a more clear, spirited or just impression of its scenery or of the character and manners of its people. The hero is of the highest style of the half-barbarian chiefs of the country and time; born a Christian, educated a Mohamedan, and ambitious to free his tribe from the domination of the Moors, and to found a new empire, with a higher civilization than was ever known to the race he leads; and other characters have enough adventures, dimly sketched, to fill the circles of a dozen tragedies if brought more near the eye. The faults of the book are, an excess of incident, discursiveness preventing proper unity and proportion, and a confessed failure of the story to evolve all the intended moralities, which the author therefore in some cases brings forward in his own person. The last volume we have had from the hand of Dr. Mayo is, _Romance Dust from the Historic Placer_, a collection of shorter stories chiefly founded on historical incidents. In these he exhibits the fresh feeling, occasionally the humor, and always the bold drawing and effective coloring which distinguish his more ambitious performances. The volume contains also a poem, but not one of such striking qualities as to induce regret that the author has commonly chosen to write in prose. The style of his novels, especially in the narrative parts, is uncommonly good, but with its many excellencies it does not seem to us that it possesses a poetical element. Dr. Mayo has commenced a brilliant course, in which we trust we shall have occasions to record still greater triumphs than those by which he has won a place in the first rank of the young writers of English. The portrait at the beginning of this article is very truthful; it is from a recent daguerreotype by Brady. [Illustration: THE CRYSTAL PALACE.] _Original Correspondence._ LONDON, _May 23, 1851._ Historical Sketch--Why England was the most appropriate location for Exhibition--First impressions--Contrast between barbaric and civilized industry--Use and beauty--Moral and social influences. The Great Exhibition constitutes the one absorbing topic in which, for the time being, all other topics are merged. Go where you will, nothing else is thought of, talked of, or heard of, from one end of London to the other--this magnificent display of the achievements of art and industry forms the sole theme of conversation, calling forth the most animated descriptions, the most energetic discussions, the warmest and most enthusiastic praise. Nor is this interest confined to London alone; the whole kingdom shares in the excitement, and seems to be only waiting for warmer weather, and the approaching reduction of the entrance fee, to march upon the metropolis, and satiate its curiosity within the walls of the Crystal Palace. As the season advances, and the brilliant success of the enterprise becomes known, foreign nations, who have contributed so largely to the splendor of the show, will send over hosts of friendly visitants; and the World's Fair, so veritably cosmopolitan in design and execution, will become equally so in its social character and results. As the activity of the present age developes itself mainly through productive and commercial industry, this collection of the choicest industrial products of all the nations of the globe, is not only in perfect accordance with the spirit of the epoch, but seems indeed to belong so properly to the present day, that it may be doubted whether such an event could have taken place at any earlier period: while the political and social conditions of Great Britain, her friendly relations with all other powers, together with the perfect security for property, the commercial freedom, and facilities of transport, which are here enjoyed in a pre-eminent degree, combine to indicate this country as the most appropriate arena for this first pacific contest of the nations; the only one, perhaps, in the actual state of Europe, in which it could have taken place at this time. The traditions of the English people, also, are such as would naturally suggest to them the idea of an enterprise of this kind; for not only have Fairs (which may be regarded as a rude attempt at a more general exhibition of wares than that afforded by the mere ordinary display of shops) been common here, as elsewhere in Europe, for many centuries, but exhibitions more nearly resembling the present Institution, in which the palm of excellence, rather than direct commerce, is the primary object, have taken place here frequently during the past century, through the enterprise of individuals, or societies, independently of any assistance from the Government. As early as the year 1756, the "Society of Arts" of London offered prizes for the best specimens of various manufactures, tapestry, carpets, porcelain, &c., and held public exhibitions of the works which were offered in competition; while about the same period, the Royal Academy, as a private society, patronized by George the Third, rather in a personal capacity than as the head of the legislature, organized its exhibitions of painting, sculpture, and engraving; and during the last thirty years exhibitions of machinery and manufactures, gotten up entirely through the efforts of private individuals, have taken place not only in the metropolitan cities, in London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, but in all the principal towns of the United Kingdom. The earliest national exhibition of industrial products in France, occurred in 1798, and was followed by others at irregular intervals until 1819, since which period they have taken place every five years, and have exercised a marked effect upon the industrial development of Europe. The brilliant character of the two last of these exhibitions (in '44 and '49), led to several ineffectual attempts on the part of the Society of Arts, and others, to interest the British Government in the getting up of a similar exhibition of the products of British industry, to be held in 1851. At length in 1849, Prince Albert, who, as President of the Society of Arts, had known and sanctioned all these proceedings, took the project under his own personal superintendence, enlarged upon the original design by proposing to invite the co-operation and competition of all foreign nations, and proceeded to settle the principles upon which the enterprise, thus modified, should be conducted, and the mode in which it should be carried out. The first steps toward the realization of this new plan, were made in the name, and under the auspices of the Society of Arts; but so universal was the interest which this noble project called forth throughout the country, that it was thought advisable to make it a national concern, by taking it out of the hands of the Society, and intrusting its execution to a body of royal commissioners, appointed for that purpose by the Government, with Prince Albert as its President; the Government, meantime, giving its sanction only to the undertaking, and merely lending its aid when it was absolutely indispensable, as in correspondence with foreign countries, providing a site for the building, organization of police, and the cost of such assistance whenever it entailed expense, being defrayed from the funds of the Exhibition, thus leaving all the responsibility of the attempt, pecuniary or other, with the commissioners themselves. The subsequent history of the "rise and progress" of the undertaking; the promptitude with which the requisite funds were subscribed by private generosity; the selection of Hyde Park as the site of the projected Industrial Palace; the various plans proposed for the building, and the final adoption of the design of Mr. Paxton, after the model of a conservatory by him erected for the Duke of Devonshire; the admirable manner in which this design has been carried out by the architects, Messrs. Fox & Henderson; the cordial response with which England's friendly challenge has been answered by all the peoples of the globe, from her next-door neighbors across the channel, to the far-off denizens of Orient, and remote islands of sunny southern seas; the imposing ceremonial which, on the appointed day, threw open the vast Museum to the gaze of an impatient public; the crowds of titled dames and potent seigneurs, of the "wealth, beauty and fashion" of the aristocratic world, that fill, day after day, the immense area, wandering from one magnificent display to another, and marvelling at the richness, perfection, and variety of the countless objects that meet their eyes at every turn; the probability of a somewhat formidable thronging of less elegant, but equally interested visitors, when the "shilling days" begin; the fabulous wealth flowing, week after week, into the treasury of the royal commissioners at the various entrances of the buildings; and the growing desire on the part of the public, that
which cluster round the head of the lake. When we had sat upon those boxes that hour and a half, we were taken on board the steamer, which had been lying off a little way from the shore, and then we commenced our journey. Of course there was a good deal of exertion and care necessary in getting the packages off from the shore on to the boat, and I observed that any one with half an eye in his head might have seen that the mental anxiety expended on that one box which was marked by the small hole in the canvas far exceeded that which was extended to all the other six boxes. “They deserve that it should be stolen,” I said to myself, “for being such fools.” And then we went down to breakfast in the cabin. “I suppose it must be safe,” said Mrs. Greene to me, ignoring the fact that the cabin waiter understood English, although she had just ordered some veal cutlets in that language. “As safe as a church,” I replied, not wishing to give much apparent importance to the subject. “They can’t carry it off here,” said Mr. Greene. But he was innocent of any attempt at a joke, and was looking at me with all his eyes. “They might throw it overboard,” said Sophonisba. I at once made up my mind that she could not be a good-natured girl. The moment that breakfast was over, Mrs. Greene returned again up-stairs, and I found her seated on one of the benches near the funnel, from which she could keep her eyes fixed upon the box. “When one is obliged to carry about one’s jewels with one, one must be careful, Mr. Robinson,” she said to me apologetically. But I was becoming tired of the box, and the funnel was hot and unpleasant, therefore I left her. I had made up my mind that Sophonisba was ill-natured; but, nevertheless, she was pretty, and I now went through some little manœuvres with the object of getting into conversation with her. This I soon did, and was surprised by her frankness. “How tired you must be of mamma and her box,” she said to me. To this I made some answer, declaring that I was rather interested than otherwise in the safety of the precious trunk. “It makes me sick,” said Sophonisba, “to hear her go on in that way to a perfect stranger. I heard what she said about her jewellery.” “It is natural she should be anxious,” I said, “seeing that it contains so much that is valuable.” “Why did she bring them?” said Sophonisba. “She managed to live very well without jewels till papa married her, about a year since; and now she can’t travel about for a month without lugging them with her everywhere. I should be so glad if some one would steal them.” “But all Mr. Greene’s money is there also.” “I don’t want papa to be bothered, but I declare I wish the box might be lost for a day or so. She is such a fool; don’t you think so, Mr. Robinson?” At this time it was just fourteen hours since I first had made their acquaintance in the yard of Conradi’s hotel, and of those fourteen hours more than half had been passed in bed. I must confess that I looked upon Sophonisba as being almost more indiscreet than her mother-in-law. Nevertheless, she was not stupid, and I continued my conversation with her the greatest part of the way down the lake towards Bellaggio. These steamers which run up and down the lake of Como and the Lago Maggiore, put out their passengers at the towns on the banks of the water by means of small rowing-boats, and the persons who are about to disembark generally have their own articles ready to their hands when their turn comes for leaving the steamer. As we came near to Bellaggio, I looked up my own portmanteau, and, pointing to the beautiful wood-covered hill that stands at the fork of the waters, told my friend Greene that he was near his destination. “I am very glad to hear it,” said he, complacently, but he did not at the moment busy himself about the boxes. Then the small boat ran up alongside the steamer, and the passengers for Como and Milan crowded up the side. “We have to go in that boat,” I said to Greene. “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Oh, but we have.” “What! put our boxes into that boat,” said Mrs. Greene. “Oh dear! Here, boatman! there are seven of these boxes, all in white like this,” and she pointed to the one that had the hole in the canvas. “Make haste. And there are two bags, and my dressing case, and Mr. Greene’s portmanteau. Mr. Greene, where is your portmanteau?” The boatman whom she addressed, no doubt did not understand a word of English, but nevertheless he knew what she meant, and, being well accustomed to the work, got all the luggage together in an incredibly small number of moments. “If you will get down into the boat,” I said, “I will see that the luggage follows you before I leave the deck.” “I won’t stir,” she said, “till I see that box lifted down. Take care; you’ll let it fall into the lake. I know you will.” “I wish they would,” Sophonisba whispered into my ear. Mr. Greene said nothing, but I could see that his eyes were as anxiously fixed on what was going on as were those of his wife. At last, however, the three Greens were in the boat, as also were all the packages. Then I followed them, my portmanteau having gone down before me, and we pushed off for Bellaggio. Up to this period most of the attendants around us had understood a word or two of English, but now it would be well if we could find some one to whose ears French would not be unfamiliar. As regarded Mr. Greene and his wife, they, I found, must give up all conversation, as they knew nothing of any language but their own. Sophonisba could make herself understood in French, and was quite at home, as she assured me, in German. And then the boat was beached on the shore at Bellaggio, and we all had to go again to work with the object of getting ourselves lodged at the hotel which overlooks the water. I had learned before that the Greenes were quite free from any trouble in this respect, for their rooms had been taken for them before they left England. Trusting to this, Mrs. Greene gave herself no inconsiderable airs the moment her foot was on the shore, and ordered the people about as though she were the Lady Paramount of Bellaggio. Italians, however, are used to this from travellers of a certain description. They never resent such conduct, but simply put it down in the bill with the other articles. Mrs. Greene’s words on this occasion were innocent enough, seeing that they were English; but had I been that head waiter who came down to the beach with his nice black shiny hair, and his napkin under his arm, I should have thought her manner very insolent. Indeed, as it was, I did think so, and was inclined to be angry with her. She was to remain for some time at Bellaggio, and therefore it behoved her, as she thought, to assume the character of the grand lady at once. Hitherto she had been willing enough to do the work, but now she began to order about Mr. Greene and Sophonisba; and, as it appeared to me, to order me about also. I did not quite enjoy this; so leaving her still among her luggage and satellites, I walked up to the hotel to see about my own bed-room. I had some seltzer water, stood at the window for three or four minutes, and then walked up and down the room. But still the Greenes were not there. As I had put in at Bellaggio solely with the object of seeing something more of Sophonisba, it would not do for me to quarrel with them, or to allow them so to settle themselves in their private sitting-room, that I should be excluded. Therefore I returned again to the road by which they must come up, and met the procession near the house. Mrs. Greene was leading it with great majesty, the waiter with the shiny hair walking by her side to point out to her the way. Then came all the luggage,—each porter carrying a white canvas-covered box. That which was so valuable no doubt was carried next to Mrs. Greene, so that she might at a moment’s notice put her eye upon the well-known valuable rent. I confess that I did not observe the hole as the train passed by me, nor did I count the number of the boxes. Seven boxes, all alike, are very many; and then they were followed by three other men with the inferior articles,—Mr. Greene’s portmanteau, the carpetbag, &e., &c. At the tail of the line, I found Mr. Greene, and behind him Sophonisba. “All your fatigues will be over now,” I said to the gentleman, thinking it well not to be too particular in my attentions to his daughter. He was panting beneath a terrible great-coat, having forgotten that the shores of an Italian lake are not so cold as the summits of the Alps, and did not answer me. “I’m sure I hope so,” said Sophonisba. “And I shall advise papa not to go any farther unless he can persuade Mrs. Greene to send her jewels home.” “Sophy, my dear,” he said, “for Heaven’s sake let us have a little peace since we are here.” From all which I gathered that Mr. Green had not been fortunate in his second matrimonial adventure. We then made our way slowly up to the hotel, having been altogether distanced by the porters, and when we reached the house we found that the different packages were already being carried away through the house, some this way and some that. Mrs. Green, the meanwhile, was talking loudly at the door of her own sitting-room. “Mr. Greene,” she said, as soon as she saw her heavily oppressed spouse,—for the noonday sun was up,—“Mr. Greene, where are you?” “Here, my dear,” and Mr. Greene threw himself panting into the corner of a sofa. “A little seltzer water and brandy,” I suggested. Mr. Greene’s inmost heart leaped at the hint, and nothing that his remonstrant wife could say would induce him to move, until he had enjoyed the delicious draught. In the mean time the box with the hole in the canvas had been lost. Yes; when we came to look into matters, to count the packages, and to find out where we were, the box with the hole in the canvas was not there. Or, at any rate, Mrs. Greene said it was not there. I worked hard to look it up, and even went into Sophonisba’s bed-room in my search. In Sophonisba’s bed-room there was but one canvas-covered box. “That is my own,” said she, “and it is all that I have, except this bag.” “Where on earth can it be?” said I, sitting down on the trunk in question. At the moment I almost thought that she had been instrumental in hiding it. “How am I to know?” she answered; and I fancied that even she was dismayed. “What a fool that woman is!” “The box must be in the house,” I said. “Do find it, for papa’s sake; there’s a good fellow. He will be so wretched without his money. I heard him say that he had only two pounds in his purse.” “Oh, I can let him have money to go on with,” I answered grandly. And then I went off to prove that I was a good fellow, and searched throughout the house. Two white boxes had by order been left downstairs, as they would not be needed; and these two were in a large cupboard of the hall, which was used expressly for stowing away luggage. And then there were three in Mrs. Greene’s bed-room, which had been taken there as containing the wardrobe which she would require while remaining at Bellaggio. I searched every one of these myself to see if I could find the hole in the canvas. But the hole in the canvas was not there. And let me count as I would, I could make out only six. Now there certainly had been seven on board the steamer, though I could not swear that I had seen the seven put into the small boat. “Mr. Greene,” said the lady standing in the middle of her remaining treasures, all of which were now open, “you are worth nothing when travelling. Were you not behind?” But Mr. Greene’s mind was full, and he did not answer. “It has been stolen before your very eyes,” she continued. “Nonsense, mamma,” said Sophonisba. “If ever it came out of the steamer it certainly came into the house.” “I saw it out of the steamer,” said Mrs. Greene, “and it certainly is not in the house. Mr. Robinson, may I trouble you to send for the police?—at once, if you please, sir.” I had been at Bellaggio twice before, but nevertheless I was ignorant of their system of police. And then, again, I did not know what was the Italian for the word. “I will speak to the landlord,” I said. “If you will have the goodness to send for the police at once, I will be obliged to you.” And as she thus reiterated her command, she stamped with her foot upon the floor. “There are no police at Bellaggio,” said Sophonisba. “What on earth shall I do for money to go on with?” said Mr. Greene, looking piteously up to the ceiling, and shaking both his hands. And now the whole house was in an uproar, including not only the landlord, his wife and daughters, and all the servants, but also every other visitor at the hotel. Mrs. Greene was not a lady who hid either her glories or her griefs under a bushel, and, though she spoke only in English, she soon made her protestations sufficiently audible. She protested loudly that she had been robbed, and that she had been robbed since she left the steamer. The box had come on shore; of that she was quite certain. If the landlord had any regard either for his own character or for that of his house, he would ascertain before an hour was over where it was, and who had been the thief. She would give him an hour. And then she sat herself down; but in two minutes she was up again, vociferating her wrongs as loudly as ever. All this was filtered through me and Sophonisba to the waiter in French, and from the waiter to the landlord; but the lady’s gestures required no translation to make them intelligible, and the state of her mind on the matter was, I believe, perfectly well understood. Mr. Greene I really did pity. His feelings of dismay seemed to be quite as deep, but his sorrow and solicitude were repressed into more decorum. “What am I to do for money?” he said. “I have not a shilling to go on with!” And he still looked up at the ceiling. “You must send to England,” said Sophonisba. “It will take a month,” he replied. “Mr. Robinson will let you have what you want at present,” added Sophonisba. Now I certainly had said so, and had meant it at the time. But my whole travelling store did not exceed forty or fifty pounds, with which I was going on to Venice, and then back to England through the Tyrol. Waiting a month for Mr. Greene’s money from England might be even more inconvenient to me than to him. Then it occurred to me that the wants of the Greene family would be numerous and expensive, and that my small stock would go but a little way among so many. And what also if there had been no money and no jewels in that accursed box! I confess that at the moment such an idea did strike my mind. One hears of sharpers on every side committing depredations by means of most singular intrigues and contrivances. Might it not be possible that the whole batch of Greenes belonged to this order of society. It was a base idea, I own; but I confess that I entertained it for a moment. I retired to my own room for a while that I might think over all the circumstances. There certainly had been seven boxes, and one had had a hole in the canvas. All the seven had certainly been on board the steamer. To so much I felt that I might safely swear. I had not counted the seven into the small boat, but on leaving the larger vessel I had looked about the deck to see that none of the Greene trappings were forgotten. If left on the steamer, it had been so left through an intent on the part of some one there employed. It was quite possible that the contents of the box had been ascertained through the imprudence of Mrs. Greene, and that it had been conveyed away so that it might be rifled at Como. As to Mrs. Greene’s assertion that all the boxes had been put into the small boat, I thought nothing of it. The people at Bellaggio could not have known which box to steal, nor had there been time to concoct the plan in carrying the boxes up to the hotel. I came at last to this conclusion, that the missing trunk had either been purloined and carried on to Como,—in which case it would be necessary to lose no time in going after it; or that it had been put out of sight in some uncommonly clever way, by the Greenes themselves, as an excuse for borrowing as much money as they could raise and living without payment of their bills. With reference to the latter hypothesis, I declared to myself that Greene did not look like a swindler; but as to Mrs. Greene—! I confess that I did not feel so confident in regard to her. Charity begins at home, so I proceeded to make myself comfortable in my room, feeling almost certain that I should not be able to leave Bellaggio on the following morning. I had opened my portmanteau when I first arrived, leaving it open on the floor as is my wont. Some people are always being robbed, and are always locking up everything; while others wander safe over the world and never lock up anything. For myself, I never turn a key anywhere, and no one ever purloins from me even a handkerchief. Cantabit vacuus—, and I am always sufficiently vacuus. Perhaps it is that I have not a handkerchief worth the stealing. It is your heavy-laden, suspicious, mal-adroit Greenes that the thieves attack. I now found out that the accommodating Boots, who already knew my ways, had taken my travelling gear into a dark recess which was intended to do for a dressing-room, and had there spread my portmanteau open upon some table or stool in the corner. It was a convenient arrangement, and there I left it during the whole period of my sojourn. Mrs. Greene had given the landlord an hour to find the box, and during that time the landlord, the landlady, their three daughters, and all the servants in the house certainly did exert themselves to the utmost. Half a dozen times they came to my door, but I was luxuriating in a washing-tub, making up for that four-o’clock start from Chiavenna. I assured them, however, that the box was not there, and so the search passed by. At the end of the hour I went back to the Greenes according to promise, having resolved that some one must be sent on to Como to look after the missing article. There was no necessity to knock at their sitting-room door, for it was wide open. I walked in, and found Mrs. Greene still engaged in attacking the landlord, while all the porters who had carried the luggage up to the house were standing round. Her voice was loud above the others, but, luckily for them all, she was speaking English. The landlord, I saw, was becoming sulky. He spoke in Italian, and we none of us understood him, but I gathered that he was declining to do anything further. The box, he was certain, had never come out of the steamer. The Boots stood by interpreting into French, and, acting as second interpreter, I put it into English. Mr. Greene, who was seated on the sofa, groaned audibly, but said nothing. Sophonisba, who was sitting by him, beat upon the floor with both her feet. “Do you hear, Mr. Greene?” said she, turning to him. “Do you mean to allow that vast amount of property to be lost without an effort? Are you prepared to replace my jewels?” “Her jewels!” said Sophonisba, looking up into my face. “Papa had to pay the bill for every stitch she had when he married her.” These last words were so spoken as to be audible only by me, but her first exclamation was loud enough. Were they people for whom it would be worth my while to delay my journey, and put myself to serious inconvenience with reference to money? A few minutes afterwards I found myself with Greene on the terrace before the house. “What ought I to do?” said he. “Go to Como,” said I, “and look after your box. I will remain here and go on board the return steamer. It may perhaps be there.” “But I can’t speak a word of Italian,” said he. “Take the Boots,” said I. “But I can’t speak a word of French.” And then it ended in my undertaking to go to Como. I swear that the thought struck me that I might as well take my portmanteau with me, and cut and run when I got there. The Greenes were nothing to me. I did not, however, do this. I made the poor man a promise, and I kept it. I took merely a dressing-bag, for I knew that I must sleep at Como; and, thus resolving to disarrange all my plans, I started. I was in the midst of beautiful scenery, but I found it quite impossible to draw any enjoyment from it;—from that or from anything around me. My whole mind was given up to anathemas against this odious box, as to which I had undoubtedly heavy cause of complaint. What was the box to me? I went to Como by the afternoon steamer, and spent a long dreary evening down on the steamboat quays searching everywhere, and searching in vain. The boat by which we had left Colico had gone back to Colico, but the people swore that nothing had been left on board it. It was just possible that such a box might have gone on to Milan with the luggage of other passengers. I slept at Como, and on the following morning I went on to Milan. There was no trace of the box to be found in that city. I went round to every hotel and travelling office, but could hear nothing of it. Parties had gone to Venice, and Florence, and Bologna, and any of them might have taken the box. No one, however, remembered it; and I returned back to Como, and thence to Bellaggio, reaching the latter place at nine in the evening, disappointed, weary, and cross. “Has Monsieur found the accursed trunk?” said the Bellaggio Boots, meeting me on the quay. “In the name of the—, no. Has it not turned up here?” “Monsieur,” said the Boots, “we shall all be mad soon. The poor master, he is mad already.” And then I went up to the house. “My jewels!” shouted Mrs. Greene, rushing to me with her arms stretched out as soon as she heard my step in the corridor. I am sure that she would have embraced me had I found the box. I had not, however, earned any such reward. “I can hear nothing of the box either at Como or Milan,” I said. “Then what on earth am I to do for my money?” said Mr. Greene. I had had neither dinner nor supper, but the elder Greenes did not care for that. Mr. Greene sat silent in despair, and Mrs. Greene stormed about the room in her anger. “I am afraid you are very tired,” said Sophonisba. “I am tired, and hungry, and thirsty,” said I. I was beginning to get angry, and to think myself ill used. And that idea as to a family of swindlers became strong again. Greene had borrowed ten napoleons from me before I started for Como, and I had spent above four in my fruitless journey to that place and Milan. I was beginning to fear that my whole purpose as to Venice and the Tyrol would be destroyed; and I had promised to meet friends at Innspruck, who,—who were very much preferable to the Greenes. As events turned out, I did meet them. Had I failed in this, the present Mrs. Robinson would not have been sitting opposite to me. I went to my room and dressed myself, and then Sophonisba presided over the tea-table for me. “What are we to do?” she asked me in a confidential whisper. “Wait for money from England.” “But they will think we are all sharpers,” she said; “and upon my word I do not wonder at it from the way in which that woman goes on.” She then leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table and her face on her hand, and told me a long history of all their family discomforts. Her papa was a very good sort of man, only he had been made a fool of by that intriguing woman, who had been left without a sixpence with which to bless herself. And now they had nothing but quarrels and misery. Papa did not always got the worst of it;—papa could rouse himself sometimes; only now he was beaten down and cowed by the loss of his money. This whispering confidence was very nice in its way, seeing that Sophonisba was a pretty girl; but the whole matter seemed to be full of suspicion. “If they did not want to take you in in one way, they did in another,” said the present Mrs. Robinson, when I told the story to her at Innspruck. I beg that it may be understood that at the time of my meeting the Greenes I was not engaged to the present Mrs. Robinson, and was open to make any matrimonial engagement that might have been pleasing to me. On the next morning, after breakfast, we held a council of war. I had been informed that Mr. Greene had made a fortune, and was justified in presuming him to be a rich man. It seemed to me, therefore, that his course was easy. Let him wait at Bellaggio for more money, and when he returned home, let him buy Mrs. Greene more jewels. A poor man always presumes that a rich man is indifferent about his money. But in truth a rich man never is indifferent about his money, and poor Greene looked very blank at my proposition. “Do you mean to say that it’s gone for ever?” he asked. “I’ll not leave the country without knowing more about it,” said Mrs. Greene. “It certainly is very odd,” said Sophonisba. Even Sophonisba seemed to think that I was too off-hand. “It will be a month before I can get money, and my bill here will be something tremendous,” said Greene. “I wouldn’t pay them a farthing till I got my box,” said Mrs. Greene. “That’s nonsense,” said Sophonisba. And so it was. “Hold your tongue, Miss!” said the step-mother. “Indeed, I shall not hold my tongue,” said the step-daughter. Poor Greene! He had lost more than his box within the last twelve months; for, as I had learned in that whispered conversation over the tea-table with Sophonisba; this was in reality her papa’s marriage trip. Another day was now gone, and we all went to bed. Had I not been very foolish I should have had myself called at five in the morning, and have gone away by the early boat, leaving my ten napoleons behind me. But, unfortunately, Sophonisba had exacted a promise from me that I would not do this, and thus all chance of spending a day or two in Venice was lost to me. Moreover, I was thoroughly fatigued, and almost glad of any excuse which would allow me to lie in bed on the following morning. I did lie in bed till nine o’clock, and then found the Greenes at breakfast. “Let us go and look at the Serbelloni Gardens,” said I, as soon as the silent meal was over; “or take a boat over to the Sommariva Villa.” “I should like it so much,” said Sophonisba. “We will do nothing of the kind till I have found my property,” said Mrs. Greene. “Mr. Robinson, what arrangement did you make yesterday with the police at Como?” “The police at Como?” I said. “I did not go to the police.” “Not go to the police? And do you mean to say that I am to be robbed of my jewels and no efforts made for redress? Is there no such thing as a constable in this wretched country? Mr. Greene, I do insist upon it that you at once go to the nearest British consul.” “I suppose I had better write home for money,” said he. “And do you mean to say that you haven’t written yet?” said I, probably with some acrimony in my voice. “You needn’t scold papa,” said Sophonisba. “I don’t know what I am to do,” said Mr. Greene, and he began walking up and down the room; but still he did not call for pen and ink, and I began again to feel that he was a swindler. Was it possible that a man of business, who had made his fortune in London, should allow his wife to keep all her jewels in a box, and carry about his own money in the same? “I don’t see why you need be so very unhappy, papa,” said Sophonisba. “Mr. Robinson, I’m sure, will let you have whatever money you may want at present.” This was pleasant! “And will Mr. Robinson return me my jewels which were lost, I must say, in a great measure, through his carelessness,” said Mrs. Greene. This was pleasanter! “Upon my word, Mrs. Greene, I must deny that,” said I, jumping up. “What on earth could I have done more than I did do? I have been to Milan and nearly fagged myself to death.” “Why didn’t you bring a policeman back with you?” “You would tell everybody on board the boat what there was in it,” said I. “I told nobody but you,” she answered. “I suppose you mean to imply that I’ve taken the box,” I rejoined. So that on this, the third or fourth day of our acquaintance, we did not go on together quite pleasantly. But what annoyed me, perhaps, the most, was the confidence with which it seemed to be Mr. Greene’s intention to lean upon my resources. He certainly had not written home yet, and had taken my ten napoleons, as one friend may take a few shillings from another when he finds that he has left his own silver on his dressing-table. What could he have wanted of ten napoleons? He had alleged the necessity of paying the porters, but the few francs he had had in his pocket would have been enough for that. And now Sophonisba was ever and again prompt in her assurances that he need not annoy himself about money, because I was at his right hand. I went upstairs into my own room, and counting all my treasures, found that thirty-six pounds and some odd silver was the extent of my wealth. With that I had to go, at any rate, as far as Innspruck, and from thence back to London. It was quite impossible that I should make myself responsible for the Greenes’ bill at Bellaggio. We dined early, and after dinner, according to a promise made in the morning, Sophonisba ascended with me into the Serbelloni Gardens, and walked round the terraces on that beautiful hill which commands the view of the three lakes. When we started I confess that I would sooner have gone alone, for I was sick of the Greenes in my very soul. We had had a terrible day. The landlord had been sent for so often, that he refused to show himself again. The landlady—though Italians of that class are always courteous—had been so driven that she snapped her fingers in Mrs. Greene’s face. The three girls would not show themselves. The waiters kept out of the way as much as possible; and the Boots, in confidence, abused them to me behind their back. “Monsieur,” said the Boots, “do you think there ever was such a box?” “Perhaps not,” said I; and yet I knew that I had seen it. I would, therefore, have preferred to walk without Sophonisba; but that now was impossible. So I determined that I would utilise the occasion by telling her of my present purpose. I had resolved to start on the following day, and it was now necessary to make my friends understand that it was not in my power to extend to them any further pecuniary assistance. Sophonisba, when we were on the hill, seemed to have forgotten the box, and to be willing that I should forget it also. But this was impossible. When, therefore, she told me how sweet it was to escape from that terrible woman, and leaned on my arm with all the freedom of old acquaintance, I was obliged to cut short the pleasure of the moment. “I hope your father has written that letter,” said I. “He means to write it from Milan. We know you want to get on, so we purpose to leave here the day after to-morrow.” “Oh!” said I thinking of the bill immediately, and remembering that Mrs. Greene had insisted on having champagne for dinner. “And if anything more is to be done about the nasty box, it may be done there,” continued Sophonisba. “But I must go to-morrow,” said I, “at 5 a.m.” “Nonsense,” said Sophonisba. “Go to-morrow, when I,—I mean we,—are going on the next day!” “And I might as well explain,” said I, gently dropping the hand that was on my arm, “that I find,—I find it will be impossible for me—to—to—” “To what?” “To advance Mr. Greene any more money just at present.” Then Sophonisba’s arm dropped all at once, and she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Robinson!” After all, there was a certain hard good sense about Miss Greene which would have protected her from my evil thoughts had I known all the truth. I found out afterwards that she was a considerable heiress, and, in spite of the opinion expressed by the present Mrs. Robinson when Miss Walker, I do not for a moment think she would have accepted me had I offered to her. “You are quite right not to embarrass yourself,” she said, when I explained to her my immediate circumstances; “but why did you make papa an offer which you cannot perform? He must remain here now till he hears from England. Had you explained it all at first, the ten napoleons would have carried us to Milan.” This was all true, and yet I thought it hard upon me. It was evident to me now, that Sophonisba was prepared
the boys who were shaky now. “Good gracious!” quavered Ned, not able to repress a shudder as he realized their narrow escape. “But why don’t you put up some sign,--” he asked, “something to warn any stranger of the dangerous contents of the shed?” For answer Lockyer swung the open door closed, and they now saw clearly enough that, emblazoned in big white letters on its outside, was the inscription: “_Gun-cotton! Danger!_ Persons entering this shed will wear felt-soled shoes.” “I’m going to find out who left that door open,” said the inventor grimly; “but in any event, smoking is forbidden on these premises. It’s too dangerous.” “A good order, too,” assented Ned. But old Tom’s face bore a lugubrious look. “It’s all right for you who don’t smoke and can’t be persuaded to, shipmates,” he muttered so that the inventor would not hear, “but me and my old pipe’s bin messmates fer a long time, an’ I hate to lose it.” “Cheer up. You can easily find it outside,” comforted Herc; “but you’ll have to confine your smoking to the evenings after this.” “Reckon that’s so,” assented Tom, immensely cheered at the thought that his pipe was not irrevocably lost. “And now we’ll continue our stroll,” said Mr. Lockyer. “First let us visit the construction shed, which I imagine will prove the most interesting.” So saying, he struck out rapidly across the yard, his long legs opening and closing like the blades of a pair of scissors. They could not have been a hundred yards from the shed when the ground shook and there came the sound of a muffled explosion. As the inventor came to a sudden halt, a startled look on his face, a chorus of excited shouts arose from within, and presently a white-faced boy came rushing out. He was followed by another workman and then another. Panic seemed to have seized them. They hardly noticed our astonished group as they sped by. “Good heavens! something has happened to the boat!” gasped Mr. Lockyer, turning pale and his slender form shaking like a leaf. He clapped a hand to his head. In the face of the sudden emergency he seemed crushed. CHAPTER III. THE WORK OF A DASTARD. But the inventor’s inaction did not last for long. Like the workmen, he also started to run, but instead of his flight being away from the shed, it was toward it. The three man-o’-wars-men followed close at his heels. As they neared the door a hulking big fellow lurched out, and Mr. Lockyer seized him eagerly. “What is it, Gradbarr?” he demanded tremblingly. “What has happened?” “’Splosion of some sort, sir,” was the hasty rejoinder. “Don’t go in there,” he exclaimed, as the inventor hastily darted forward once more. “It’s sure death.” But what inventor would not dare death itself if there was the barest chance of saving his brain-child from harm? Shaking off the other’s detaining grip impatiently, Lockyer entered the shed, followed closely by Ned and his companions. Curiously enough, however, Gradbarr seemed inclined to follow, now that he had seen the inventor enter. His first panic appeared to have been dissipated. As old Tom’s form vanished within, he turned and followed. “Got to see they don’t find out too much,” he muttered to himself. Within the shed was intense gloom, lighted only here and there by scattered incandescent lights. The work being done was now all within the hull of the submarine itself, and consequently there was no necessity for bright illumination without. Cutting down light bills was one of a score of ways in which Lockyer was trying to eke out his dwindling fortune. At first nothing very much seemed to be the matter. The gray and red painted outlines of the submarine bulked up through the gloom like the form of some fantastic and puffy fish. She was shaped like a short, very fat cigar, with a hump on the top where the conning tower, with its big round glass lenses--like goggle eyes--projected. A ladder was at her side, and up this Lockyer nimbly skipped, the boys after him. As they gained the sloping deck, round which a low iron rail ran, a peculiar odor was noticeable. It was a sickening, pungent sort of smell, and the boys caught themselves swallowing chokingly as they inhaled it. “Jeruso-hos-ophat, there’s bin some adult eggs busted around here!” gasped old Tom, holding to a hand rail on the conning tower. “Smells like it,” agreed Ned. “What is it, sir?” he inquired of Lockyer, who was hesitating in front of the manhole which led down inside the boat. “It’s a peculiar kind of gas which I use in starting the engines,” explained the inventor. “How it has been liberated I cannot imagine, but it is very volatile and must have caused the explosion we heard.” “Do you think the boat is damaged?” inquired Herc. “Impossible to say,” rejoined Lockyer nervously; “the hull seems all right outside. Wait till I open these ventilators and liberate the fumes, and we’ll go inside and find out.” Familiar as the boys were with submarine construction, it was an easy task for them to aid the inventor in unclamping the deck ventilators. The gas rushed out in their faces, but they stepped aside and it did not harm them. All this was watched from the shadows of a corner of the shed by Gradbarr. “Looks like I’ve failed, after all,” he muttered, as presently, the gas having cleared off, the inventor decided it was safe to descend and they entered the conning tower. Stealthily as a cat, the machinist crept from his hiding place, and, ascending the ladder, followed them. Within the conning tower the lads found themselves upon a steel ladder with chain hand-rails, much like what they had been accustomed to on a man-of-war. Descending this with quick, nervous steps, Lockyer darted for a door opening in the bulkhead at one end of the chamber, at the foot of the ladder, which was about ten by twenty feet. From this door slow, lazy curls of smoke were coming. Thanks to the opened ventilators, however, the interior of the submarine was comparatively free of gases, and the inventor unhesitatingly passed through the door. As he did so his foot caught against a soft, yielding object. The next instant a quick glance downward showed him that he had tripped on the recumbent form of a boy. In his hand the lad clutched a wrench. Stooping swiftly, Lockyer picked him up and bore him out into the other chamber, where, assisted by the boys, he stretched him upon a bench. Although the lad’s cheeks were ghastly pale, his chest was heaving, and presently he opened his eyes. “Thank goodness you are all right, then, Sim!” breathed Mr. Lockyer. The lad, a slight young chap of about sixteen, with a mop of curly hair and large, round blue eyes, looked up at him. “Did I do it, Mr. Lockyer? Did I do it?” “Do what?” asked the inventor, in the indulgent tone he might have used to one whose mind was wandering. “Why, turn off the gas valve. I tried to; but I don’t know if I made good before everything began to get wavy and it all went dark.” “I don’t understand you,” said the inventor; “I thought the gas came from a leak. Do you mean that some one was tampering with the valve?” “I saw Gradbarr, the new man, slip into the torpedo room, sir, while no one was looking. He had that wrench with him. I was following him to tell him that no one was allowed in there without your orders, when he came running out. I ran in to see if he had done any mischief, but the explosion came just as I got to the valve. I think I turned it off, though.” “You did, Sim!” exclaimed Lockyer, glancing into the steel-walled space beyond the chamber in which they were assembled. “I can see the valve is at ‘off.’ My boy, I don’t know how to thank you. If it hadn’t been for your presence of mind more gas would have escaped and the boat been blown up.” Then, turning to the others, who looked rather puzzled, the inventor rapidly explained. “The gas is kept in a pressure-tank forward. I filled the tank recently to test out the engines, but a pipe did not fit, and it was disconnected. When the pipes were unjointed an open end was, of course, left in that chamber. It was thus a simple matter, by turning on the valve, to flood the chamber with gas.” “But how did it ignite?” asked Ned. “Evidently, that plumber’s torch overturned near the door, touched it off,” was the rejoinder. “Great Heavens, if Sim had not done the brave thing he did, the boat would have been ripped open as if she were made of tin. Only the fact that the full quantity of gas was not released saved the boat.” Herc had picked up the wrench Sim had clasped in his unconscious hand, and was examining it curiously. “See, sir,” he said, extending it, “it’s marked T. G.” “Tom Gradbarr!” exclaimed Mr. Lockyer; “those are his initials.” “Who is this Gradbarr?” asked Tom; “what kind of er craft is he?” “Why, he is a singularly capable man, who applied for work here a few days ago. He came highly recommended, so I put him to work helping the gang that is cleaning up the hull, for you see, practically all the work is completed.” “Would he have had any object in injuring the boat?” asked Ned, for Sim’s story had naturally aroused all their suspicions. “None that I know of,” was the rejoinder; “but, still, in work of this kind it is hard to tell who may seek to damage you.” “But surely he would have attacked the engines first if he had wished to disable the craft,” commented Ned, after a moment’s thought. “Ah! but he could not do that,” said the inventor quickly; “the engine room is kept locked always. No one but myself has the key. It is there that most of our secrets are.” “But the bulkhead door must have been locked, too,” persisted the boy. “By Jove, so it was, and only Anderson, the foreman, had the key. I’ll send for him, and find out about this. Of course, to get into the gas compartment, the man must have had the key.” “Evidently,” said Ned dryly, “and if I may offer a word of advice, sir, you will examine this chap Gradbarr before he gets a chance to leave the yard--hullo! what’s that?” A rivet had fallen from the ladder above and dropped clattering to the iron-grated floor behind him. It had been dislodged by Gradbarr’s foot, but the fellow, who had been listening to every word uttered below, was too quick to be discovered by Ned’s upward glance. With the agile movement of a snake, he slipped from the deck and down the ladder before his presence was even suspected. “Now we will take a look about us,” said Mr. Lockyer; “feel like moving, Sim?” “Oh, I’m all right now, sir,” said the youngster rising, though rather weakly, to his feet; “say, but that gas does knock a fellow out when it gets going.” “Yes, but on board the boat, when she is in commission, there will be no danger from it,” declared the inventor; “automatic valves to regulate it safely have been provided for.” As he spoke he fitted a key to a door in an after bulkhead, similar in all respects to the forward partition, and led the way into a long, low room with steel-riveted walls, filled with peculiar-looking machinery. The boys could make out the forms of cylinders and crankshafts, but every other device about the place was strange to them. The engine-room was unlike any other they had ever entered. It was spotless, and every bit of metal fairly gleamed and shone. Queer-looking levers and handles were everywhere, and at the farther end of it were several gauges affixed to another steel bulkhead. “Behind those gauges are the air-tanks to drive the engines,” explained the inventor. “Here are the pumps for compressing it. We can carry a pressure in our tanks of six hundred pounds to the square inch, which is sufficient to drive the boat at thirty miles an hour on the surface, and from eight to fifteen under the water. We have triple propellers, each driven independently. If one breaks down it makes little difference.” “Wow!” exclaimed Herc. Ned looked astonished. Old Tom only gasped. “If you can do all that, sir,” he said, “your craft’s the marvel of the age.” “That’s just what I think she is,” said Lockyer with a laugh. “And these pumps here?” asked Ned, indicating an intricate mass of machinery painted red and green, and brass-mounted. “Those are the pumps for regulating the rising and lowering apparatus. As you, of course, know, below us and in the extreme bow and stern are tanks which, when we wish to sink, are filled with sea-water. If we want to rise and float on the surface, we set our compressed air at work and drive out the water. The empty tanks, of course, supply sufficient buoyancy to float the boat.” “And you have no storage batteries or gasolene engine or electric motors,” gasped Ned. “No. I think that in the Lockyer boat we have successfully abolished the storage battery, with its dangerous, metal-corroding fumes, and the bother of having two sets of engines, the gasolene for the surface and the electric for under-water work. We have a dynamo, however, to furnish current for lighting and other purposes.” “How do you get your air-supply when you are running under water?” asked Ned, his face beaming with interest. “When the submarine is afloat you will see that alongside her periscope she will carry another pipe. This is of sufficient length to allow us to run twenty feet under water and still suck in air. Like the periscope pipe, this air-tube will telescope up, folding down inside the submarine. When we are too far below to use this device, we run on air already compressed in reserve tanks. We can carry enough for five hours of running without renewing it. In case the pressure is not high enough, we expand it,--heating it by electric radiators.” “And your fresh air?” “Still compressed air,” laughed the inventor. “We drive out the old foul atmosphere through specially devised valves, the fresh air taking the place of it.” “Then the only time you have to utilize the gas is in starting your engine?” asked Ned. “That’s the only time,” smiled the inventor. “It enters the cylinders just as gasolene does in a gasolene motor, and is ignited or exploded by an electric spark. This gives the impetus to the engines, and then the gas is cut off and the compressed air turned on.” The boys looked dazed. The Lockyer seemed to be in truth a wonderful vessel. But as yet she had not entered the water. Even making due allowances for an inventor’s enthusiasm, it began to appear to the boys, however, as if they were on board a craft that would make history in time to come. “Now forward,” said Mr. Lockyer, leading the way through the cabin to the room in which the explosion of the released gas had occurred, “we have the torpedo room. Two tubes for launching two Whitehead torpedoes are provided. Compressed air is used here, too, you see. But a charge of gas is exploded in the tube to fire the torpedoes.” He indicated a maze of complicated pipes and valves leading to the rear of the torpedo tubes. Steel racks lined the sides of the place, which was in the extreme bow of the craft and, therefore, shaped like a cone. These supports were for the torpedoes. Resting places for ten--five on each side--had been provided. Many other features there were about the craft which it would only become wearisome to catalogue here. They will be introduced as occasion arises and fully explained. As they emerged from the torpedo room, a heavy-set man in workman’s clothes, with a foot rule in one hand and a wrench in the other, came forward, advancing through the door in the bulkhead. As it so happened, Ned was in front and the newcomer rudely shoved him aside on his way through the door. “Get out o’ my way,” he growled. “Don’t you see I’m in a hurry? Where’s Mr. Lockyer?” “Here I am, Anderson,” rejoined the inventor, stepping forward. He had just completed a careful examination of the room in which the explosion of gas had occurred. This investigation confirmed his first decision that little damage had been done to the craft, thanks to young Sim’s plucky work. But as Mr. Lockyer’s gaze lit on Anderson an angry expression came into his eyes, replacing his look of satisfaction at the discovery that no damage had been done. “Ah, I want to speak to you, Anderson,” he said, with a sarcastic intonation in his voice; “but when last I saw you, you were in too much of a hurry to stop. You and your men were all running for dear life, leaving this lad here unconscious in the gas-filled torpedo room.” “I wasn’t running away,” muttered Anderson. “I was looking for you, and I----” “Well, never mind about that now, Anderson,” intercepted Mr. Lockyer crisply. “I daresay it was as you say. Fortunately, no damage was done. But that is not thanks to you. I am disappointed in you, Anderson. I made you foreman here, hoping that you would prove as capable as my estimation of you. Instead I find that you gave a newcomer the key to the torpedo room when you know it was against my strict orders for any one to enter it till the break in the pipe had been adjusted.” “I gave that man the key so as he could take a look at the pipe,” explained Anderson. “He said he thought he knew how repairs could be made on it.” “It makes no difference, it was against my orders,” snapped Mr. Lockyer. “You could have asked me first had you wished to do such a thing. Then, too, the door of the gun-cotton shed was left open. How did that happen?” “I dunno,” grumbled Anderson. “I suppose you’ll blame that on me, too.” “If you are yard foreman, you certainly were responsible for it,” was the rejoinder. Some of the other panic-stricken workmen had returned now and stood clustered on the steel ladder and about the foot of it, listening curiously. Apparently their presence made Anderson anxious to assert his independence for he burst out in an insolent voice: “I guess I know more about my business than any crack-brained inventor. I’m not going to be talked to that way, either, Mr. Lockyer. Understand?” “I understand that you can walk to the office and get your pay, Anderson,” was the prompt retort. “The sooner you do so, the better it will suit me. You have been getting more and more impudent and shiftless every day. This insolence is the last straw. You are discharged.” Anderson grew pale for a minute under the black grime on his face. But he quickly recovered himself, and his eyes blazed with fury. He took a step forward and shook his fist under Lockyer’s nose. “Fire me if you want to,” he grated out; “but it will be the sorriest day’s work you ever did. I know a whole lot about your old submarine tea-kettle that you wouldn’t want told outside. I’ve held my tongue hitherto, but I shan’t now. You’ll see.” “That will do, Anderson,” said Mr. Lockyer, turning away. “This has gone far enough. Men, you can knock off for the rest of the day. By to-morrow I will have a new foreman for you. Come, gentlemen, we have about exhausted the possibilities of the submarine for this afternoon.” CHAPTER IV. ANDERSON DINES ON MUD. As the others turned to follow, Sim held back, but Mr. Lockyer turned to him and beckoned for him to make one of the party. Leaving Anderson in the midst of the gang of workmen, they made their way to the office, where Mr. Lockyer, unlocking a safe, drew forth a roll of bills. Selecting one, he presented it to Sim, who gave a cry of surprise as his eyes fell on its denomination. “A hundred dollars! Oh, Mr. Lockyer, I couldn’t think of it! Why, sir----” “Now, see here,” laughed the inventor, “I’m getting off cheap. If you hadn’t shut off that gas, I might have lost many times the amount of that bill.” The lad was not proof against this line of reasoning, and finally placed the bill in his pocket. Soon afterward Anderson presented himself at the wicket, and was paid off by Mr. Lockyer’s solitary clerk and bookkeeper. His sullen face was unusually ferocious as he glared in at the inventor and his young friends. “I ain’t through with you yet, Lockyer,” he roared, apparently in an insane access of fury. “I’ll fix you. You’ll see. I hope you and your submarine go to rust and ruin on the floor of the Sound. I hope----” “That will do, Anderson,” said the inventor quietly. “I wish to hear no more from you.” “But you will. Don’t you fool yourself on that,” exclaimed the furious man, flinging out of the office with muttered imprecations on his lips. “That feller needs a short cruise in ther brig,” commented old Tom, as Anderson dashed out of the place. “I’m sorry to have had to get rid of him, for he was a competent workman,” said Mr. Lockyer. “But he has been becoming altogether too aggressive of late. By the way, I wonder where that chap Gradbarr is. I want to interview him, too, and find out how he happened to turn on that gas. It’s a horrible suspicion to have; but it looks to me almost like a deliberate attempt to wreck the craft.” “That’s the way it looks to me, too, sir,” agreed Ned. “By the way,” said Mr. Lockyer suddenly, “do you boys know anything about thread-cutting? I’d like to get that pipe connection fitted up to-night.” “I guess we can help you,” said Ned, and, accordingly, they retraced their steps to the submarine shed. The workmen had all left by this time, but they found the tools they needed, and soon had the measurements of the connection, and the required pitch of the screw to be cut on the new pipe. This done, they started for the machine shop to finish up the work. Sim, however, who was still white and shaky after his experience, was ordered home by Mr. Lockyer. “You’ve done enough for one day, Sim,” he said. “Be off home now, and report bright and early to-morrow.” As Sim made off, the inventor looked after him. “There’s a lad that has the makings of a fine man in him,” he said. “He applied here for work some weeks ago, and, being short of a helper, I gave him a job. He knew something about metal working, as his father was formerly blacksmith here. The man died some time ago, and since then I guess Sim and his mother have had a hard time to get along. That hundred dollars will look very large to them.” “He certainly did a plucky thing,” agreed Ned. “It takes courage of the right sort to put through what he did.” “Bother it all,” exclaimed the inventor, after a few minutes’ work on the pipe. “I’ve just recalled that we have no red lead to make the joint tight with. We used up our last yesterday. I wonder if one of you would mind going up to the village for some.” “Not a bit,” said Ned. “I’m pining for exercise. Herc, here, and myself will be up there and back in no time.” Thanking them, Mr. Lockyer gave them directions where to go, and some money. The Dreadnought Boys were soon off on their errand. The shop found, it did not take long to make their purchases and, with the parcel under Ned’s arm, they started back. “There’s a short cut to the water, through that field there,” said Ned, as they came to a turning. “Let’s take it and save time.” Accordingly, they presently emerged in a low-lying meadow, thickly grown with clumps of alders and other swamp shrubs. A path threaded among them, however, which apparently led almost direct to the boat yard. “We’d have saved time if we’d known about this before,” observed Ned, and was about to add something more when he stopped short. From what was apparently only a short distance ahead, there had come a cry of pain. “Oh, don’t, please don’t, Mr. Anderson.” “You young blackguard, I’ll break your arm for you if you don’t tell me everything,” growled out a voice they recognized as that of the recently discharged foreman. “It was you that told on me, wasn’t it?” Another cry of pain followed. “It’s Anderson. He’s ill-treating that young Sim!” cried Ned, his face flushing angrily. The Dreadnought Boy hated to hear of anything weak and small being badly used. “Come on, Herc, we’ll take a hand in this,” he said. They advanced rapidly, yet almost noiselessly, and in a second a turn of the path brought them upon the two whose voices they had heard. Anderson had hold of Sim’s arm and was twisting it tightly while he pounded on the back of it with one burly fist to make the agony more excruciating. “Here you, let go of that boy!” exclaimed Ned. Anderson looked up furiously. “Oh, it’s you interfering again, is it? Now you take my advice and keep out of this. I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to, but just keep on your way, or you’ll get hurt.” “Oh, I don’t know,” rejoined Ned easily. “If you don’t stop ill-treating that boy, it’s _you_ that will get hurt.” “Is that so?” snarled Anderson. “Well, Mister Busy-body, I’ll just do as I please.” So saying, he gave Sim’s arm, which he had not released, an additional twist, causing the frail lad to cry out again. But before the cry had completely left the boy’s lips, Ned’s hand had closed upon Anderson’s wrist, and that worthy, with a snort of pain, suddenly found himself staggering backward under the force of the quick twist the boy had given him. “I’ll show you!” he cried, recovering himself and bellowing with rage. “Mind yourself!” But it was Anderson who should have minded. As he spoke, he made a mad rush at Ned, who, not wishing to hurt the man, simply sidestepped as the other came on. But he left one foot extended, and as Anderson came in contact with it he tripped. Floundering wildly, he sought to retain his balance. But the effort was in vain. Splash! Over he went, spread-eagle fashion, face down into a pool of stagnant swamp water. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed Herc. “Say, mister, you’re so fond of water that you just have to wallow in it like a hog, don’t you?” Anderson scrambled to his feet a sorry sight. Mud daubed his face and the front of his clothing. Mud was in his hair, his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. “I’ll fix you,” he cried, making another dash at Ned, but this time the Dreadnought Boy simply caught the enraged fellow’s wrists and held them to his sides as easily as if he had been restraining a fractious child. “Now, see here, Anderson,” he shot out, “you’ve had trouble enough for one day. Don’t look for more. Now get!” Cowed by Ned’s determined manner, but more especially by the easy fashion in which the boy had quelled him, holding him helpless as an infant, Anderson “got.” But as he strode off through the bushes there was a dark look on his face, a look that boded no good to the Dreadnought Boys, who, however, hardly gave the matter a further thought. Seeing Sim safe on his way home, they turned once more to their path and arrived at the boat yard in due time. “Took you fellows longer than you expected, didn’t it?” asked Mr. Lockyer, as they appeared. “We attended to a little business on the way,” replied Ned quietly; “and now if you are ready, Mr. Lockyer, we’ll fit that pipe.” In the meantime, Anderson, instead of going home, had hied himself to the village hotel, which boasted of a drinking bar. In this place he sought solace for his woes as many another foolish or weak man has done before him. In the midst of his angry musings, a man stepped in who, apparently, recognized Anderson, for he stopped short and gave a low whistle. “Anderson! Wonder what he is doing here at this time of day.” Stepping forward, he came up behind the disgruntled foreman with an appearance of great cordiality. “Why, hello, old man,” he exclaimed. “Work through at the yard? What are you doing here at this hour?” “Gradbarr!” exclaimed Anderson, surprised in his turn, as he faced the other. “Why ain’t you down at the yard?” “Oh, after that blow-up I decided to quit. Too risky a job for a family man like me.” “Where is your family?” inquired Anderson. “Never knew you had one.” “Oh, in California,” was the reply. “Hum, you keep far enough away from them,” commented Anderson; “and, by the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. You got me discharged over your borrowing of that key.” “What!” exclaimed Gradbarr, with genuine surprise. “Fired? How’s that? Although, now I come to notice it, you do look a bit mussed up. Bin in a fight?” “Why no,” was the sullen rejoinder. “What made you think that?” “Well,” grinned Gradbarr, “men don’t generally roll in the mud if they can help it, and by the looks of you that’s what you’ve bin a-doin’. But tell me about how you come to be fired. If it’s my fault, I’ll make it right with you.” Anderson soon related his own version of how he came to be discharged. He was in an angry, reckless mood, and did not care how loud he talked, so that he had for a listener Jeb Sproggs, the landlord of the hotel. Jeb listened with open mouth and ears to Anderson’s description of the “young whelps,” as he termed them, who had accompanied Mr. Lockyer, meaning, of course, Ned and Herc. “And there was an old geezer, too,” he went on; “looked like some sort of a retired fisherman.” “Why them fellows is registered here,” put in the landlord, as Anderson concluded. “Yep,” he continued, “their names is Strong, Taylor, and the old feller’s called Marlin.” “Then they weren’t mere butt-in visitors to the yard as I had them figgered out to be,” cried Anderson. “Why no,” said Sproggs, discarding a badly mangled toothpick. “As I understand it, them lads is here on special duty connected with that diving boat. They’re in the Navy.” “The Navy!” exclaimed Gradbarr. “Then I may be too late.” “What’s that?” asked Anderson eagerly. “Do you know them?” “No,” rejoined Gradbarr, “I don’t know them and I don’t much care to, from what you’ve told me about them. But I’ve got to be going on. Say,” he continued, in a whisper, bending over till his mouth was quite close to Anderson’s ear, “do you want to be put in the way of revenging yourself on Lockyer and that whole bunch?” “Do I?” Anderson’s eyes lit up with a vicious flare. He involuntarily clenched his fists. “Well, walk up the street with me a way and I’ll tell you how to get even.” For a moment Anderson wavered. After all, this man was a stranger to him. It might be a trap to draw him out and discover if he cherished any harm to the submarine. But then his evil, vindictive nature asserted itself. He ached and palpitated with his every sense to avenge himself on the man who had humiliated him before the whole crew of workmen, and particularly was he desirous of making Ned Strong and his companion smart for the indignities they had thrust upon him. “All right,” he said. “I’m with you.” “A tool ready to my hand,” was the thought that flashed across Gradbarr’s mind as, arm in arm, the two worthies strolled from the hotel and slowly walked up the village street. That evening, as the Dreadnought Boys and their weather-beaten comrade were returning to the hotel, they encountered Zeb Anderson. They would have avoided him if they could, but as he planted himself in their path there was no way of escaping a meeting. But that they were not anxious to court such an encounter, our party was showing by hurrying on, when Anderson caught Ned by the arm. “I s’pose you think you and me had a brush and you win,” he said in a voice harsh with hate. “Well, just you wait. Our score ain’t evened up yet. You’re going ter sea on that old submarine I hear. Well,” he said, raising his voice, “I know more about her than you do. You’ll all go to the bottom every last man of you and leave your bones rotting there. That’s what I hope and that’s what will be.” With this amiable prophecy, Anderson strode off down the street, casting back ever and anon a glance of hatred at the naval party. “Wall,” exclaimed Tom Marlin, who had been made acquainted by the boys with what had occurred in the alder swamp, “if words could drown we’d be dead by this time, all right.” “Somehow, though, I think that that man Anderson is a good fellow to watch out for,” replied Ned. “He has the look in his eye of a man who might become insane from brooding upon his fancied wrongs.” “Hullo, there is the Lieutenant and Midshipman Stark, and there’s good old Stanley, too,” cried Herc suddenly, pointing to a group in front of the hotel. Hastening their steps, our party was soon respectfully saluting Lieutenant Parry and his aide. The next morning work was resumed at the yard, with Andy Bowler, a capable workman, in Anderson’s place as superintendent. Sim was made his assistant, and work was rapidly rushed ahead. Sim proved himself, in spite of his tender years, to be a genius with machinery, and he and the Dreadnought Boys became firm friends. All this time the naval party was acquainting itself thoroughly with the principles of the Lockyer engine so that when the time came they could take sole charge of the craft and test her in every way. All this time nothing further had been heard of Gradbarr, who, as we have seen, had failed in his first attempt to damage the submarine. He did not even appear to collect his money. Mr. Lockyer, with an idea of having him arrested, notified the police, but they could find no trace of him. Anderson was seen about the village and appeared to have plenty of money, although the source of his income was more or less of a mystery. But things were so busy at the yard that the boys or any one connected with the plant had little time to waste on
standing. One night in late August her child was born, and the west wind that brought a new soul to the Sterling door, pausing an instant in its passing, gathered up, and in its kind arms bore away, on its pathless flight into the Great Unknown, the tired spirit of Helen Vane. CHAPTER I. MR. CARNBY RECEIVES A LETTER. Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Carnby furnished to the reflective observer a striking illustration of the circumstance that extremes not only meet, but, not infrequently, marry. Mrs. Carnby confessed to fifty, and was in reality forty-seven. As, in any event, incredulity answers "Never!" when a woman makes mention of her age, she preferred that the adverb should be voiced with flattering emphasis and in her presence, rather than sarcastically and behind her back. She was nothing if not original. Mrs. Carnby was distinctly plain, a fact which five minutes of her company effectually deprived of all significance: her power of attraction being as forceful as that of a magnet, and similar to a magnet's in its absence of outward evidence. She was a woman of temperate but kaleidoscopic enthusiasms, who had retained enough of the atmosphere of each to render her interesting to a variety of persons. Prolonged experience of the world had invested her with an admirable broad-mindedness, which caused her to tread the notoriously dangerous paths of the American Colony, in which she was a constant and conspicuous figure, with the assurance of an Indian fakir walking on broken glass--pleasurably appreciative of the risk, that is, while assured by consummate _savoir faire_ against cutting her feet. Her _fort_ was tact. She had at one and the same time a faculty for forgetting confidences which commended her to women, and a knack of remembering them which endeared her to men. It was with the latter that she was preëminently successful. What might have been termed her masculine method was based on the broad, general principle that the adult male is most interested in the persons most interested in him, and it never failed, in its many modifications, of effect. Men told her of their love-affairs, for example, with the same unquestioning assurance wherewith they intrusted their funds to a reputable banker; and were apt to remember the manner in which their confidences were received, longer than the details of the confidences themselves. And when you can listen for an hour, with every evidence of extreme interest, to a man's rhapsodies about another woman, and, at the end, send him away with a distinct recollection of the gown you wore, or the perfume on the handkerchief he picked up for you, then, dear lady, there is nothing more to be said. Mr. Jeremy Carnby infrequently accompanied his wife to a reception or a _musicale_, somewhat as Chinese idols and emperors are occasionally produced in public--as an assurance of good faith, that is, and in proof of actual existence. As it is not good form to flaunt one's marriage certificate in the faces of society, an undeniable, flesh-and-blood husband is, perhaps, the next best thing--when exhibited, of course, with that golden mean of frequency which lies between a hint of henpeck on the one side and a suggestion of neglect upon the other. Mrs. Carnby blazed in the social firmament of the American Colony with the unwavering fixity of the Polar Star: Jeremy appeared rarely, but with extreme regularity, like a comet of wide orbit, as evidence that the marital solar system was working smoothly and well. Mrs. Carnby was, and not unreasonably, proud of Jeremy. They had lived twenty-five years in Paris, and, to the best of her knowledge and belief, he was as yet unaware, at least in a sentimental sense, that other women so much as existed. Since one cannot own the Obélisque or the Vénus de Milo, it is assuredly something to have a husband who never turns his head on the Avenue du Bois, or finds a use for an opera-glass at the Folies-Bergère. Jeremy was not amusing, still less brilliant, least of all popular; but he was preëminently loyal and unfeignedly affectionate--qualities sufficiently rare in the world in which Mrs. Carnby lived, and moved, and had the greater portion of her being, to recommend themselves strongly to her shrewd, uncompromising mind. In her somewhat over-furnished life he occupied a distinct niche, which one else could have filled; and in this, to her way of thinking, he was unique--as a husband. After _foie gras_ and champagne, Mrs. Carnby always breakfasted on American hominy, a mealy red apple, and a glass of milk. She was equally careful, however, to take the meal in company with Jeremy. He was part of the treatment. The Carnby _hôtel_ was one of the number in the Villa Dupont. One turned in through a narrow gateway, from the sordid dinginess of the Rue Pergolèse, and, at a stone's throw from the latter's pungent cheese and butter shops, and grimy _charbonneries_, came delightfully into the shade of chestnuts greener than those exposed to the dust of the great avenues, and to the sound of fountains plashing into basins buried in fresh turf. It was very quiet, like some charming little back street at St. Germain or Versailles, and the houses, with their white walls and green shutters and glass-enclosed porticos, were more like country villas than Parisian _hôtels_. The gay stir of the boulevards and the Avenue du Bois might, to all seeming, have been a hundred kilometres distant, so still and simple was this little corner of the capital. Jeremy frankly adored it. He had a great office looking out upon the Place de l'Opéra, and when he rose from his desk, his head aching with the reports and accounts of the mighty insurance company of which he was the European manager, and went to the window in search of distraction, it was only to have his eyes met by a dizzier hodge-podge than that of the figures he had left--the moil of _camions_, omnibuses, and cabs, threading in and out at the intersection of the six wide driveways, first up and down, and then across, as the brigadier in charge regulated the traffic with sharp trills of his whistle, which jerked up the right arms of the policemen at the crossings, as if some one had pulled the strings of so many marionettes with white batons in their hands. All this was not irritating, or even displeasing, to Jeremy. He was too thorough an American, despite his long residence in Paris, and too keen a business man, notwithstanding his wife's fortune, not to derive satisfaction from every evidence of human energy. The Place de l'Opéra appealed to the same instincts in his temperament that would have been gratified by the sight of a stop-cylinder printing-machine in action. But, not the less for that, his heart was domiciled in the _hôtel_ in the Villa Dupont. On a certain evening in mid-April, Jeremy had elaborated his customary half-hour walk homeward with a detour by way of the Boulevard Malesherbes, the Parc Monceau, and the Avenue Hoche, and it was close upon six when he let himself in at his front door, and laid his derby among the shining top-hats of his wife's callers, on the table in the _antichambre_. Through the half-parted curtains at the _salon_ door came scraps of conversation, both in French and English, and the pleasant tinkle of cups and saucers; and, as he passed, he had a glimpse of several well-groomed men, in white waistcoats and gaiters, sitting on the extreme edges of their chairs, with their toes turned in, their elbows on their knees, and tea-cups in their hands; and smartly-dressed women, with big hats, and their veils tucked up across their noses, nibbling at _petits fours_. He turned into his study with a feeling of satisfaction. It was incomprehensible to his mind, this seemingly universal passion for tea and sweet cakes; but if the institution was to exist under his roof at all, it was gratifying to know that, albeit the tea was the finest Indian overland, and the sweet cakes from the Maison Gagé, it was not for these reasons alone that the 16th Arrondissement was eager, and the 7th not loath, to be received at the _hôtel_ in the Villa Dupont. Jeremy knew that his wife was the most popular woman in the Colony, as to him she was the best and most beautiful in the world. Before he touched the _Temps_ or the half-dozen letters which lay upon his table, he leaned forward, with his elbows on the silver-mounted blotter, and his temples in his hands, and looked long at her photograph smiling at him out of its Russian enamel frame. If the world, which laughed at him for his prim black neckties and his common-sense shoes, even while it respected him for his business ability, had seen him thus, it would have shared his wife's knowledge that Jeremy Carnby was an uncommonly good sort. He opened his letters carefully, slitting the envelopes with a slender paper-knife, and endorsing each one methodically with the date of receipt before passing on to the next. All were private and personal, his voluminous business mail being handled at his office by a secretary and two stenographers. With characteristic loyalty, Jeremy wrote regularly to a score of old acquaintances and poor relations in the States, most of whom he had seen but once or twice in the twenty-five years of his exile, and read their replies with interest, often with emotion: and his own left hand knew not how many cheques had been signed, and cheering words written, by his unassuming right, in reply to the plaints and appeals of his intimates of former years. For the steady, white light of Jeremy Carnby's kindliness let never a glint of its brightness pass through the closely-woven bushel of his modesty. He hesitated with the last letter in his hand, reread it slowly, and then lit a cigar and sat looking fixedly at his inkstand, blowing out thin coils of smoke. So Mrs. Carnby found him, as she swept in, dropped into a big red-leather arm-chair, and slid smoothly into an especial variety of small talk, wherewith she was wont to smooth the business wrinkles from his forehead, and bring him into a frame of mind proper to an appreciation of the efforts of their _chef_. "If it isn't smoking a cigar at fifteen minutes before the dinner-hour!" she began, with an assumption of indignation. "Really, Jeremy, you're getting quite revolutionary in your ways. I think I shall tell Armand that hereafter we shall begin dinner with coffee, have salad with the Rüdesheimer, and take our soup in the conservatory." Mr. Carnby laid down his cigar. "I lit it absent-mindedly," he answered. "Have they gone?" "No, of course not, stupid!" retorted his wife. "They're all out there. I told them to wait until we'd finished dinner. Now, Jeremy! why _will_ you ask such questions?" "It _was_ stupid of me," he admitted. "And to punish you, I shall tell you who they were," announced Mrs. Carnby. "I might do worse and tell you all they said. You're so--so _comfortable_, Jeremy. When I'm on the point of boiling over because of the inanities of society I can always come in here and open my safety-valve, and you don't care a particle, do you, if I fill your study full of conversational steam?" Jeremy smiled pleasantly. "You _nice_ person!" added his wife. "Well, here goes. First, there was that stupid Mrs. Maitland. She told me all about her portrait. It seems Benjamin-Constant is painting it--and I thought the others would never come. Finally, however, they did--the Villemot girls and Mrs. Sidney Kane, and a few men--Daulas and De Bousac and Gerald Kennedy and that insufferable little Lister man. Then Madame Palffy. It makes me furious every time I hear her called'madame.' The creature was born in Worcester--and do you know, Jeremy, I'm positive she buys her gowns at an upholsterer's? No mere dressmaker could lend her that striking resemblance to a sofa, which is growing stronger every day! Her French is too impossible. She was telling Daulas about something that never happened to her on her way out to their country place, and I heard her say '_compartiment de dames soûles_' quite distinctly. I can't imagine how she contrives to know so many things that aren't so. One would suppose she'd stumble over a real, live fact now and again, if only by accident. And her husband's no better. Trying to find the truth in one of his stories severely taxes one's aptitude in long division. I saw him at the Hatzfeldts' _musicale_ night before last. Pazzini was playing, and Palffy was sound asleep in a corner, after three glasses of punch. I really felt sorry that a man with such a wife should be missing something attractive, and I was going to poke him surreptitiously with my fan, but Tom Radwalader said, 'Better let the lying dog sleep!' He positively _is_ amusing, that Radwalader man!" Mrs. Carnby looked up at her husband for the admiring smile which was the usual guarantee that she had amused him, but only to find Jeremy's eyes once more riveted upon the inkstand, and the cigar between his thin lips again. "My dear Jeremy," she said, "I'm convinced that you've not heard one syllable of my carefully prepared discourse." "My dear Louisa," responded Mr. Carnby with unwonted readiness, "I'm convinced that I have not. The truth of the matter is," he added apologetically, "that I've received an unusual letter." "It must indeed be unusual if it can cause you to ignore my conversation," said Louisa Carnby. "That is perfectly true," said Jeremy with conviction. His wife rose, came over to his side, and kissed him on the tip of his nose. "Good my lord," she said, "I think I like your tranquil endorsement of the compliments I make for myself better than those which other men invent out of their own silly heads! Am I to know what is in your unusual letter?" "Why not?" asked Jeremy seriously. "Why not, indeed?" said Mrs. Carnby. "I have taken you for better or worse. There's so little 'worse' about the contract, Jeremy, that I stand ready to accept such as there is in a willing spirit, even when it comes in the form of a dull letter." Jeremy looked up at her with his familiar smile. "Louisa," he said, "if I were twenty years of age, I should ask nothing better than the chance to marry you again." "Man! but thou'rt the cozener!" exclaimed Mrs. Carnby. "Thou'dst fair turn the head of a puir lassis. There--that'll do. Go on with your letter!" "It's from Andrew Sterling," said Jeremy. "You'll remember him, I think, in Boston. He was a friend of my father's, and kept a friendly eye on me after the old gentleman's death. We've always corresponded, more or less regularly, and now he writes to say--but perhaps I'd best read you that part of his letter." "Undoubtedly," put in his wife. "That is, if you can. People write so badly, nowadays." "Um--um--" mumbled Jeremy, skipping the introductory sentences. "Ah! Here we have it. Mr. Sterling says: 'Now for the main purpose of this letter. My poor daughter's only son, Andrew Sterling Vane, is sailing to-day on the _Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse_. He has been obliged to leave Harvard, as his health is not robust, and I have thought that perhaps the sea-voyage and some months in Paris might put him in shape--'" "_Good_ Lord!" broke in Mrs. Carnby. "Imagine some months in Paris by way of rest-cure!" "'And so,'" continued Jeremy, "'I'm sending him over, in hopes that the change may be of benefit. He is a singular lad--sensitive in the extreme, and utterly inexperienced--and I am going to ask if, "for auld lang syne," you will be so good as to make him welcome. I don't mean, of course, that I expect you to exercise any sort of supervision. The boy must take care of himself, like all of us, but I would like to feel that, in a strange city, there is one place where he may find a hint of home." Jeremy paused. "Go on!" observed Mrs. Carnby. "There is really nothing more of importance," said her husband, "except that I've also received a note from young Vane. He's at the Ritz." "Of course!" ejaculated Mrs. Carnby. "Paying two louis per diem for his room, and making semi-daily trips to Morgan, Harjes'. They're wonderful, these tourist bank-accounts. Their progress from a respectable amount to absolute zero is as inevitable as the recession of the sea from high-water mark to dead low tide--a steady withdrawal from the bank, my dear Jeremy! How old might the young gentlemen be?" Mr. Carnby made a mental calculation. "His mother was about my own age," he said presently. "I know she and I used to go to dancing-school together. And she died in childbirth, if I remember rightly. Her husband was a scamp--ran off with another woman. I never saw him. That would make the boy about twenty or twenty-one." "He will be rather good-looking," said Mrs. Carnby reflectively, "with a general suggestion of soap and cold water about him. He will wear preposterously heavy boots with the soles projecting all around like little piazzas, and a straw hat, and dog-skin gloves with seams like small hedges, and turned back at the wrists. They're all exactly alike, the young Americans one sees over here. One would think they came by the dozen, in a box. And when he is sitting down he will be hitching at his trousers all the time, so that the only thing one remembers about him afterwards is the pattern of his stockings." "We ought to invite him to dinner," suggested Jeremy. "Without doubt," agreed his wife; "but to breakfast first, I think--and on Sunday. One can judge a man's character so well by the way he behaves at Sunday breakfast. If he fidgets, and drinks quantities of water, then he's dissipated! I don't know why Saturday night is always fatal to dissipated men, but it is. If his top hat looks as if it had been brushed the wrong way, then he's religious, and has been to church. I shall go out and inspect it while you're smoking. If he does all the talking, he's an ass; and if I do it all, he's a fool." "You're a difficult critic, my dear," said Jeremy. "You must remember he is only twenty or so." "To be twenty or so in appearance is a man's misfortune," replied Mrs. Carnby. "To be twenty or so in behaviour is his fault. I'll write to him to-night, and ask him to breakfast on Sunday, _tout à fait en famille_, and we'll try him on a--you don't mind my calling you a dog, Jeremy?" "Not in the least," said Mr. Carnby. "_Eh bien!_" said his wife. "We'll have him to breakfast on Sunday, and try him on a dog! If he's presentable and amusing, I shall make him my exclusive property. If he's dull, I shall tell him Madame Palffy is a woman he should cultivate assiduously. I send her all the people who don't pass muster at my dinners. She has them next day, like warmed-over _vol-au-vents_. My funeral baked meats do coldly furnish forth her breakfast-table." "When you wish to appear most unmerciful, my dear," said Jeremy, "you always pick out Madame Palffy; and whenever you do, I spoil the effect of what you say by thinking of--" "Margery?" put in Mrs. Carnby. "Yes, of course, that's my soft spot, Jeremy. There's only one thing which Margery Palffy ought to be that she isn't, and that's--ahem!--an orphan." CHAPTER II. NEW FRIENDS AND OLD. In ordinary, Mrs. Carnby was one of the rare mortals who succeed in disposing as well as in proposing, but there were times when there was not even a family resemblance between her plans and her performances. She had fully intended that young Vane should be the only guest at her Sunday breakfast, but as she came out of church that morning into the brilliant sunlight of the Avenue de l'Alma, she found herself face to face with the Ratchetts, newly returned from Monte Carlo, and promptly bundled the pair of them into her victoria. Furthermore, as the carriage swung round the Arc, and into the Avenue du Bois, she suddenly espied Mr. Thomas Radwalader, lounging, with an air of infinite boredom, down the _plage_. "There's that Radwalader, thinking about himself again!" she exclaimed, digging her coachman in the small of his ample back with the point of her tulle parasol. "Positively, it would be cruelty to animals not to rescue him. _Arretez_, Benoit!" Radwalader came up languidly as the carriage stopped. "Where are you going?" demanded Mrs. Carnby, after greetings had been exchanged. "Home," answered Radwalader. "I met Madame Palffy back there a bit, and couldn't get away for ten minutes. You know, it's shocking on the nerves, that kind of thing, so I thought I'd drop in at my quarters for a pick-me-up." "Well, if I'm not a pick-you-up, I'm sure I don't know what is," said Mrs. Carnby. "You're to come to breakfast. You'll have to walk, though. We're three already, you see, and I don't want people to take my carriage for a _panier à salade_. I hadn't the most remote intention of asking you; but when a man tells me he's been talking for ten minutes to that Palffy, I always take him in and give him a good square meal." "You're very kind," said Radwalader. "Are you going to play bridge afterwards? If so, I must go home for more money." "Nothing of the sort!" said Mrs. Carnby emphatically. "There's a _protégé_ of Jeremy's coming to breakfast--a Bostonian, twenty years young, and over here for his health. You must all go, directly after coffee. I'm going to spend the afternoon feeding him with sweet spirits of nitre out of a spoon, and teaching him his catechism. Perhaps you'd like to stay and learn yours?" "I think I know it," laughed Radwalader. "If you do, it's one of your own fabrication, then--with just a single question and answer. 'What is my duty toward myself? My duty toward myself is, under all circumstances, to do exactly as I dee please.'" "If that were the case, my good woman, I should live up to my profession of faith, not only by accepting your invitation, as I mean to do, but by staying the entire afternoon." "That's very nicely said indeed," answered Mrs. Carnby. "_Allez_, Benoit!" Twenty minutes later the whole party were assembled in her _salon_. Carnby, caught by his wife as he was scuttling into his study, was now doing his visibly inadequate best to entertain Philip Ratchett, who stood gloomily before him, with his legs far apart, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the top button of his host's waistcoat. He was a typical Englishman, of the variety which leans against door-jambs in the pages of _Punch_, and makes unfortunate remarks beginning with "I say--" about the relatives of the stranger addressed. Society bored him to the verge of extinction, but it is only fair to say that he repaid the debt with interest. He was tolerated--as many a man before and after him has been--for the sake of his wife. Mrs. Ratchett patronized, with equal ardour, a sewing-class which fabricated unmentionable garments of red flannel for supposedly grateful heathen, and a society for psychical research which boasted of liberal-mindedness because it was willing to admit that, at the dawn of the twentieth century, the causes of certain natural phenomena yet remained unexplained. Her entire conception of life underwent a radical change whenever she read a new book, which she did at fortnightly intervals. She was thirty, clever, and frankly beautiful, hence a factor in the Colony. The fifth member of the company in Mrs. Carnby's _salon_, Mr. Thomas Radwalader, enjoyed the truly Parisian distinction of being an impecunious bachelor who did not accept all the invitations he received. He might have been thirty-five or forty-five or fifty-five. His smooth-shaven, impassive face offered no indication whatever of his age. He was already quite gray, but, in contrast to this, his speech was tinged with a frivolity, rather pleasant than otherwise, which hinted at youth. Mrs. Carnby had once described him as being "dappled with knowledge," and this, in common with the majority of Mrs. Carnby's estimates, came admirably near to being exact. Radwalader's actual fund of information was far less ample than was indicated by the facility with which he talked on any and every subject, but he was master of the science of selection. He judged others--and rightly--by himself, and went upon the often-proven theory that a polished brilliant attracts more attention than an uncut Koh-i-nur. He made the superficial things of life his own, and on the rare occasions when the trend of conversation led him out of his depth, he caught at the life-belt of epigram, and had found his feet again before men better informed had finished floundering. He lived in a tiny apartment, on the safe side of nothing a year, and kept up appearances with a skill that was little short of genius. Gossip passed him by, a circumstance for which he was devoutly grateful, though it was due less to chance than to management. Such was the company into which Mr. Andrew Sterling had despatched his grandson--in hopes that the change might be of benefit. As he came through the _portières_, young Vane proved to tally, in the main essentials of appearance, with Mrs. Carnby's prophetic estimate. He was somewhat more than rather good-looking, and essentially American, with the soap-and-cold-water suggestion strongly to the fore. Mrs. Carnby always noted three things about a man before she spoke to him--his hands, his linen, and his eyes. In the first two Andrew Vane qualified immediately; in the third his hostess was forced to confess herself at a loss. In singular contrast to a complexion dark almost to swarthiness, his eyes were large and of an intense steel-blue. He met those of another squarely, not alone with the frankness characteristic of youth, but with the strange calm of confidence typical of men accustomed to the command of a battle-ship or an army corps. Mrs. Carnby, in ordinary the most self-possessed of women, gave, almost guiltily, before the keen, clear eyes of Andrew Vane. "He has no business whatever to have eyes like that, at his age," she told herself, almost angrily. "They ought to _grow_ in a man's head, after he has seen everything there is to be seen." The thought was involuntary, but it recalled to her memory where she had seen their like before. "Radwalader has them," she added mentally. "_Good_ Lord! _Radwalader_! And this child hasn't even graduated!" During the brief interval between the general introduction and the announcement of breakfast, she studied her new guest with unwonted interest. He was of the satisfactory medium height at which a man is neither contemptible nor clumsy, slight in build, but straight as an arrow, with narrow hips and a square backward fling of shoulder which spoke of resolution. "He has 'No Compromise' written all over his back," said Mrs. Carnby to herself. "I should believe everything he told me, and not be afraid of what I told him." Then she noted that he was eminently at ease. There is something out of the common about twenty that keeps its hands hanging at its sides, and its feet firmly planted, without suggesting a tailor's dummy. Andrew was talking to Mr. Carnby about his grandfather and Boston, and from the first to the last word of the short colloquy he did not once shift his position. As he stood thus, in some curious fashion consideration of his years was completely eliminated from one's thought of him. He was deferential, but in the negative manner of guest to host, rather than in the positive of youth to age; and, at the same time, he was assertive, but with the force of personality, not the conspicuity of awkwardness. He fitted into his surroundings instantly, like a wisely placed _bibelot_, but he dominated them as well. "That Palffy," was Mrs. Carnby's final resolve, "shall get him only over my dead body." And so, unconsciously, Andrew scored his first Parisian triumph. For the first ten minutes of breakfast, Mrs. Carnby, at whose left he sat, let him designedly alone. It was her belief that men, like saddle-horses, should be given their heads in strange territory, and left to find themselves--this in contrast to the policy of her social rival, Madame Palffy, who boasted of being able to draw out the best there was in a new acquaintance in the first quarter-hour of conversation. In this she was probably correct, though in a sense which she did not perceive--for few good qualities survived the strain of that initial quarter-hour. But if Mrs. Carnby's attention appeared to be engrossed by Radwalader on her right, and Mrs. Ratchett beyond Radwalader, she kept, nevertheless, a weather eye on Andrew; and when, presently, his spoon tinkled on his _bouillon_ saucer, she turned to him. "I've been watching you," she began, "to see how you would take to French oysters. It's a test I always apply to newcomers from America. If they eat only one _Marennes verte_, I know at once that they approve of forty-story buildings, and are going to talk about 'getting back to God's country'; if they eat all six, I know I may venture to hint that there are advantages about living in Paris, without having my head bitten off for being an expatriate." "It would seem your head is quite safe, so far as I am concerned," laughed Andrew, "for I finished off my half-dozen, and thought them very good." "Then you have the soul of a Parisian in the body of a Bostonian," affirmed Mrs. Carnby. "A liking for _Marennes vertes_ is a survival of a previous state of existence. Here's Mr. Radwalader, for instance, who can't abide them, even after Heaven knows _how_ many years in Paris." "They taste so much like two-sou pieces that, whenever I eat them, they make me feel like a frog savings-bank," said Radwalader. "There you are!" cried Mrs. Carnby triumphantly. "That would never have arisen as an objection in the mind of any one who had known what it is to be a Parisian." "Or a frog savings-bank," said Radwalader. "No, I suppose not. I can't seem to live down the fact that I was born in the shadow of Independence Hall. But I'm doing so much to make up for the bad beginnings of my present incarnation, that I shall undoubtedly be a Parisian in my next. Have you been here long, Mr. Vane?" "Three days." "Do you speak French?" put in Mrs. Carnby. "No? What a pity! You've no idea what a difference it makes." "I've only such a smattering as one gets in school and college," said Andrew. "Of course I didn't _know_ I was coming over here. But, after all, one seems to get on very well with English." "That's just the trouble, Mr. Vane," volunteered Mrs. Ratchett. "So many Americans are content just to 'get on' over here. That isn't the cue to Paris at all! It only means that you and she are on terms of bowing acquaintance. You'll never get to know her till you can talk to her in her own tongue." "Or listen to her talk to you," observed Radwalader. "So long as we're using the feminine gender--" "Oh!" interrupted Mrs. Carnby. "A remark like that _does_ come with _extreme_ grace from you, I _must_ say. Here," she added, turning to Mrs. Ratchett, and indicating Radwalader with her fish-fork, "here's a man, my dear, who spent two solid hours of last Monday telling me the story of his life. And it reminded me precisely of a peacock--one long, stuck-up tale with a hundred I's in it. Radwalader, you're a brute!" Carnby, with his eyes fixed vacantly upon a spot midway between a pepper-mill and a little dish of salted almonds, appeared to be revolving some complicated business problem in his mind; and, as his wife caught sight of him, her fish-fork swung round a quarter-circle in her fingers, like a silver weathercock, until, instead of Radwalader, it indicated the point of her husband's nose. "That person," she said to Andrew, "is either in Trieste or Buda. His company has an incapable agent in both cities, and whenever he glares at vacancy, like a hairdresser's image, I know he is in either one town or the other. With practice, I shall come to detect the shade of difference in his expression which will tell me which it is. Mr. Ratchett--some more of the _éperlans_?" Ratchett was deeply engaged in dressing morsels of smelts in little overcoats of _sauce tartare_, assisting them carefully with his knife to scramble aboard his fork, and, having braced them there firmly with cubes of creamed potato, conveying the whole arrangement to his mouth, where he instantly secured it from escape by popping in a piece of bread upon its very heels. He looked up, as Mrs. Carnby spoke to him, murmured "'k you," and immediately returned to the business in hand. Radwalader and Mrs. Ratchett had fallen foul of each other over a chance remark of his, and were now just disappearing into a fog of art discussion, from which, in his voice, an abrupt "Besnard" popped, at intervals, as indignantly as a ball from a Roman candle, or, in hers, the word "Whistler" rolled forth with an inflection which suggested the name of a cathedral. "Tell me a little about yourself," said Mrs. Carnby, turning again to Andrew. "If it's to be about myself," he answered, "I think it's apt to be little indeed. I've been in college
I_ have, thank God, full many a time,—That not many rich, not many mighty, not many noble are called: but that God’s strength is rather made perfect in man’s weakness,—that in foul garrets, in lonely sick-beds, in dark places of the earth, you find ignorant people, sickly people, ugly people, stupid people, in spite of, in defiance of, every opposing circumstance, leading heroic lives,—a blessing, a comfort, an example, a very Fount of Life to all around them; and dying heroic deaths, because they know they have Eternal Life? And what was that which had made them different from the mean, the savage, the drunken, the profligate beings around them? This at least. That they were of those of whom it is written, ‘Let him that is athirst come.’ They had been athirst for Life. They had had instincts and longings; very simple and humble, but very pure and noble. At times, it may be, they had been unfaithful to those instincts. At times, it may be, they had fallen. They had said ‘Why should I not do like the rest, and be a savage? Let me eat and drink, for to-morrow I die;’ and they had cast themselves down into sin, for very weariness and heaviness, and were for a while as the beasts which have no law. But the thirst after The noble Life was too deep to be quenched in that foul puddle. It endured, and it conquered; and they became more and more true to it, till it was satisfied at last, though never quenched, that thirst of theirs, in Him who alone can satisfy it—the God who gave it; for in them were fulfilled the Lord’s own words: ‘Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.’ There are those, I fear, in this church—there are too many in all churches—who have not felt, as yet, this divine thirst after a higher Life; who wish not for an Eternal, but for a merely endless life, and who would not care greatly what sort of life that endless life might be, if only it was not too unlike the life which they live now; who would be glad enough to continue as they are, in their selfish pleasure, selfish gain, selfish content, for ever; who look on death as an unpleasant necessity, the end of all which they really prize; and who have taken up religion chiefly as a means for escaping still more unpleasant necessities after death. To them, as to all, it is said, ‘Come, and drink of the water of life freely.’ But The Life of goodness which Christ offers, is not the life they want. Wherefore they will not come to Him, that they may have life. Meanwhile, they have no right to sneer at the Fountain of Youth, or the Cup of Immortality. Well were it for them if those dreams were true; in their heart of hearts they know it. Would they not go to the ends of the earth to bathe in the Fountain of Youth? Would they not give all their gold for a draught of the Cup of Immortality, and so save themselves, once and for all, the trouble of becoming good? But there are those here, I doubt not, who have in them, by grace of God, that same divine thirst for the Higher Life; who are discontented with themselves, ashamed of themselves; who are tormented by longings which they cannot satisfy, instincts which they cannot analyse, powers which they cannot employ, duties which they cannot perform, doctrinal confusions which they cannot unravel; who would welcome any change, even the most tremendous, which would make them nobler, purer, juster, more loving, more useful, more clear-headed and sound-minded; and when they think of death say with the poet,— ‘’Tis life, not death for which I pant, ’Tis life, whereof my nerves are scant, More life, and fuller, that I want.’ To them I say—for God has said it long ago,—Be of good cheer. The calling and gifts of God are without repentance. If you have the divine thirst, it will be surely satisfied. If you long to be better men and women, better men and women you will surely be. Only be true to those higher instincts; only do not learn to despise and quench that divine thirst; only struggle on, in spite of mistakes, of failures, even of sins—for every one of which last your heavenly Father will chastise you, even while He forgives; in spite of all falls, struggle on. Blessed are you that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for you shall be filled. To you—and not in vain—‘The Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him drink of the water of life freely.’ SERMON II. THE PHYSICIAN’S CALLING. (_Preached at Whitehall for St. George’s Hospital_.) ST. MATTHEW ix. 35. And Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every sickness and every disease among the people. THE Gospels speak of disease and death in a very simple and human tone. They regard them in theory, as all are forced to regard them in fact, as sore and sad evils. The Gospels never speak of disease or death as necessities; never as the will of God. It is Satan, not God, who binds the woman with a spirit of infirmity. It is not the will of our Father in heaven that one little one should perish. Indeed, we do not sufficiently appreciate the abhorrence with which the whole of Scripture speaks of disease and death: because we are in the habit of interpreting many texts which speak of the disease and death of the body in this life as if they referred to the punishment and death of the soul in the world to come. We have a perfect right to do that; for Scripture tells us that there is a mysterious analogy and likeness between the life of the body and that of the soul, and therefore between the death of the body and that of the soul: but we must not forget, in the secondary and higher spiritual interpretation of such texts, their primary and physical meaning, which is this—that disease and death are uniformly throughout Scripture held up to the abhorrence of man. Moreover—and this is noteworthy—the Gospels, and indeed all Scripture, very seldom palliate the misery of disease, by drawing from it those moral lessons which we ourselves do. I say very seldom. The Bible does so here and there, to tell us that we may do so likewise. And we may thank God heartily that the Bible does so. It would be a miserable world, if all that the clergyman or the friend might say by the sick-bed were, ‘This is an inevitable evil, like hail and thunder. You must bear it if you can: and if not, then not.’ A miserable world, if he could not say with full belief; ‘“My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of Him. For whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth.” Thou knowest not now why thou art afflicted; perhaps thou wilt never know in this life. But a day will come when thou wilt know: when thou wilt find that this sickness came to thee at the exact right time, in the exact right way; when thou wilt find that God has been keeping thee in the secret place of His presence from the provoking of men, and hiding thee privately in His tabernacle from the spite of tongues; when thou wilt discover that thou hast been learning precious lessons for thy immortal spirit, while thou didst seem to thyself merely tossing with clouded intellect on a bed of useless pain; when thou wilt find that God was nearest to thee, at the very moment when He seemed to have left thee most utterly.’ Thank God, we can say that, and more; and we will say it. But we must bear in mind, that the Gospels, which are the very parts of Scripture which speak most concerning disease, omit almost entirely that cheering and comforting view of it. And why? Only to force upon our attention, I believe, a view even more cheering and comforting: a view deeper and wider, because supplied not merely to the pious sufferer, but to all sufferers; not merely to the Christian, but to all mankind. And that is, I believe, none other than this: that God does not only bring spiritual good out of physical evil, but that He hates physical evil itself: that He desires not only the salvation of our souls, but the health of our bodies; and that when He sent His only begotten Son into the world to do His will, part of that will was, that He should attack and conquer the physical evil of disease—as it were instinctively, as his natural enemy, and directly, for the sake of the body of the sufferer. Many excellent men, seeing how the healing of disease was an integral part of our Lord’s mission, and of the mission of His apostles, have wished that it should likewise form an integral part of the mission of the Church: that the clergy should as much as possible be physicians; the physician, as much as possible, a clergyman. The plan may be useful in exceptional cases—in that, for instance, of the missionary among the heathen. But experience has decided, that in a civilized and Christian country it had better be otherwise: that the great principle of the division of labour should be carried out: that there should be in the land a body of men whose whole mind and time should be devoted to one part only of our Lord’s work—the battle with disease and death. And the effect has been not to lower but to raise the medical profession. It has saved the doctor from one great danger—that of abusing, for the purposes of religious proselytizing, the unlimited confidence reposed in him. It has freed him from many a superstition which enfeebled and confused the physicians of the Middle Ages. It has enabled him to devote his whole intellect to physical science, till he has set his art on a sound and truly scientific foundation. It has enabled him to attack physical evil with a single-hearted energy and devotion which ought to command the respect and admiration of his fellow-countrymen. If all classes did their work half as simply, as bravely, as determinedly, as unselfishly, as the medical men of Great Britain—and, I doubt not, of other countries in Europe—this world would be a far fairer place than it is likely to be for many a year to come. It is good to do one thing and to do it well. It is good to follow Christ in one thing, and to follow Him utterly in that. And the medical man has set his mind to do one thing,—to hate calmly, but with an internecine hatred, disease and death, and to fight against them to the end. The medical man is complained of at times as being too materialistic—as caring more for the bodies of his patients than for their souls. Do not blame him too hastily. In his exclusive care for the body, he may be witnessing unconsciously, yet mightily, for the soul, for God, for the Bible, for immortality. Is he not witnessing for God, when he shows by his acts that he believes God to be a God of Life, not of death; of health, not of disease; of order, not of disorder; of joy and strength, not of misery and weakness? Is he not witnessing for Christ when, like Christ, he heals all manner of sickness and disease among the people, and attacks physical evil as the natural foe of man and of the Creator of man? Is he not witnessing for the immortality of the soul when he fights against death as an evil to be postponed at all hazards and by all means, even when its advent is certain? Surely it is so. How often have we seen the doctor by the dying bed, trying to preserve life, when he knew well that life could not be preserved. We have been tempted to say to him, ‘Let the sufferer alone. He is senseless. He is going. We can do nothing more for his soul; you can do nothing more for his body. Why torment him needlessly for the sake of a few more moments of respiration? Let him alone to die in peace.’ How have we been tempted to say that? We have not dared to say it; for we saw that the doctor, and not we, was in the right; that in all those little efforts, so wise, so anxious, so tender, so truly chivalrous, to keep the failing breath for a few moments more in the body of one who had no earthly claim upon his care, that doctor was bearing a testimony, unconscious yet most weighty, to that human instinct of which the Bible approves throughout, that death in a human being is an evil, an anomaly, a curse; against which, though he could not rescue the man from the clutch of his foe, he was bound, in duty and honour, to fight until the last, simply because it was death, and death was the enemy of man. But if the medical man bears witness for God and spiritual things when he seems exclusively occupied with the body, so does the hospital. Look at those noble buildings which the generosity of our fellow-countrymen have erected in all our great cities. You may find in them, truly, sermons in stones; sermons for rich alike and poor. They preach to the rich, these hospitals, that the sick-bed levels all alike; that they are the equals and brothers of the poor in the terrible liability to suffer! They preach to the poor that they are, through Christianity, the equals of the rich in their means and opportunities of cure. I say through Christianity. Whether the founders so intended or not (and those who founded most of them, St. George’s among the rest, did so intend), these hospitals bear direct witness for Christ. They do this, and would do it, even if—which God forbid—the name of Christ were never mentioned within their walls. That may seem a paradox; but it is none. For it is a historic fact, that hospitals are a creation of Christian times, and of Christian men. The heathen knew them not. In that great city of ancient Rome, as far as I have ever been able to discover, there was not a single hospital,—not even, I fear, a single charitable institution. Fearful thought—a city of a million and a half inhabitants, the centre of human civilization: and not a hospital there! The Roman Dives paid his physician; the Roman Lazarus literally lay at his gate full of sores, till he died the death of the street dogs which licked those sores, and was carried forth to be thrust under ground awhile, till the same dogs came to quarrel over his bones. The misery and helplessness of the lower classes in the great cities of the Roman empire, till the Church of Christ arose, literally with healing in its wings, cannot, I believe, be exaggerated. Eastern piety, meanwhile, especially among the Hindoos, had founded hospitals, in the old meaning of that word—namely, almshouses for the infirm and aged: but I believe there is no record of hospitals, like our modern ones, for the cure of disease, till Christianity spread over the Western world. And why? Because then first men began to feel the mighty truth contained in the text. If Christ were a healer, His servants must be healers likewise. If Christ regarded physical evil as a direct evil, so must they. If Christ fought against it with all His power, so must they, with such power as He revealed to them. And so arose exclusively in the Christian mind, a feeling not only of the nobleness of the healing art, but of the religious duty of exercising that art on every human being who needed it; and hospitals are to be counted, as a historic fact, among the many triumphs of the Gospel. If there be any one—especially a working man—in this church this day who is inclined to undervalue the Bible and Christianity, let him know that, but for the Bible and Christianity, he has not the slightest reason to believe that there would have been at this moment a hospital in London to receive him and his in the hour of sickness or disabling accident, and to lavish on him there, unpaid as the light and air of God outside, every resource of science, care, generosity, and tenderness, simply because he is a human being. Yes; truly catholic are these hospitals,—catholic as the bounty of our heavenly Father,—without respect of persons, giving to all liberally and upbraiding not, like Him in whom all live, and move, and have their being; witnesses better than all our sermons for the universal bounty and tolerance of that heavenly Father who causes the sun to shine on the evil and the good, and his rain to fall upon the just and on the unjust, and is perfect in this, that He is good to the unthankful and the evil. And, therefore, the preacher can urge his countrymen, let their opinions, creed, tastes, be what they may, to support hospitals with especial freedom, earnestness, and confidence. Heaven forbid that I should undervalue any charitable institution whatever. May God’s blessing be on them all. But this I have a right to say,—that whatever objections, suspicions, prejudices there may be concerning any other form of charity, concerning hospitals there can be none. Every farthing bestowed on them must go toward the direct doing of good. There is no fear in them of waste, of misapplication of funds, of private jobbery, of ulterior and unavowed objects. Palpable and unmistakeable good is all they do and all they can do. And he who gives to a hospital has the comfort of knowing that he is bestowing a direct blessing on the bodies of his fellow-men; and it may be on their souls likewise. For I have said that these hospitals witness silently for God and for Christ; and I must believe that that silent witness is not lost on the minds of thousands who enter them. It sinks in,—all the more readily because it is not thrust upon them,—and softens and breaks up their hearts to receive the precious seed of the word of God. Many a man, too ready from bitter experience to believe that his fellow-men cared not for him, has entered the wards of a hospital to be happily undeceived. He finds that he is cared for; that he is not forgotten either by God or man; that there is a place for him, too, at God’s table, in his hour of utmost need; and angels of God, in human form, ready to minister to his necessities; and, softened by that discovery, he has listened humbly, perhaps for the first time in his life, to the exhortations of a clergyman; and has taken in, in the hour of dependence and weakness, the lessons which he was too proud or too sullen to hear in the day of independence and sturdy health. And so do these hospitals, it seems to me, follow the example and practice of our Lord Himself; who, by ministering to the animal wants and animal sufferings of the people, by showing them that He sympathised with those lower sorrows of which they were most immediately conscious, made them follow Him gladly, and listen to Him with faith, when He proclaimed to them in words of wisdom, that Father in heaven whom He had already proclaimed to them in acts of mercy. And now, I have to appeal to you for the excellent and honourable foundation of St. George’s Hospital. I might speak to you, and speak, too, with a personal reverence and affection of many years’ standing, of the claims of that noble institution; of the illustrious men of science who have taught within its walls; of the number of able and honourable young men who go forth out of it, year by year, to carry their blessed and truly divine art, not only over Great Britain, but to the islands of the farthest seas. But to say that would be merely to say what is true, thank God, of every hospital in London. One fact only, therefore, I shall urge, which gives St. George’s Hospital special claims on the attention of the rich. Situated, as it is, in the very centre of the west end of London, it is the special refuge of those who are most especially of service to the dwellers in the Westend. Those who are used up—fairly or unfairly—in ministering to the luxuries of the high-born and wealthy: the groom thrown in the park; the housemaid crippled by lofty stairs; the workman fallen from the scaffolding of the great man’s palace; the footman or coachman who has contracted disease from long hours of nightly exposure, while his master and mistress have been warm and gay at rout and ball; and those, too, whose number, I fear, are very great, who contract disease, themselves, their wives, and children, from actual want, when they are thrown suddenly out of employ at the end of the season, and London is said to be empty—of all but two million of living souls:—the great majority of these crowd into St. George’s Hospital to find there relief and comfort, which those to whom they minister are solemnly bound to supply by their contributions. The rich and well-born of this land are very generous. They are doing their duty, on the whole, nobly and well. Let them do their duty—the duty which literally lies nearest them—by St. George’s Hospital, and they will wipe off a stain, not on the hospital, but on the rich people in its neighbourhood—the stain of that hospital’s debts. The deficiency in the funds of the hospital for the year 1862–3—caused, be it remembered, by no extravagance or sudden change, but simply by the necessity for succouring those who would otherwise have been destitute of succour—the deficiency, I say, on an expenditure of 15,000_l._ amounts to more than 3,200_l._ which has had to be met by selling out funded property, and so diminishing the capital of the institution. Ought this to be? I ask. Ought this to be, while more wealth is collected within half a mile of that hospital than in any spot of like extent in the globe? My friends, this is the time of Lent; the time whereof it is written,—‘Is not this the fast which I have chosen, to deal thy bread to the hungry, and bring the poor that is cast out to thine house? when thou seest the naked that thou cover him, and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh? If thou let thy soul go forth to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul, then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday. And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul, and make fat thy bones, and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and as a spring that doth not fail.’ Let us obey that command literally, and see whether the promise is not literally fulfilled to us in return. SERMON III. THE VICTORY OF LIFE. (_Preached at the Chapel Royal_.) ISAIAH xxxviii. 18, 19. The grave cannot praise thee, death cannot celebrate thee: they that go down into the pit cannot hope for thy truth. The living, the living, he shall praise thee. I MAY seem to have taken a strange text on which to speak,—a mournful, a seemingly hopeless text. Why I have chosen it, I trust that you will see presently; certainly not that I may make you hopeless about death. Meanwhile, let us consider it; for it is in the Bible, and, like all words in the Bible, was written for our instruction. Now it is plain, I think, that the man who said these words—good king Hezekiah—knew nothing of what we call heaven; of a blessed life with God after death. He looks on death as his end. If he dies, he says, he will not see the Lord in the land of the living, any more than he will see man with the inhabitants of the world. God’s mercies, he thinks, will end with his death. God can only show His mercy and truth by saving him from death. For the grave cannot praise God, death cannot celebrate Him; those who go down into the pit cannot hope for His truth. The living, the living, shall praise God; as Hezekiah praises Him that day, because God has cured him of his sickness, and added fifteen years to his life. No language can be plainer than this. A man who had believed that he would go to heaven when he died could not have used it. In many of the Psalms, likewise, you will find words of exactly the same kind, which show that the men who wrote them had no clear conception, if any conception at all, of a life after death. Solomon’s words about death are utterly awful from their sadness. With him, ‘that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; as one dieth, so dieth the other. Yea, they have all one breath, so that a man hath no pre-eminence over a beast, and all is vanity. All go to one place, all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again. Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?’ He knows nothing about it. All he knows is, that the spirit shall return to God who gave it,—and that a man will surely find, in this life, a recompence for all his deeds, whether good or evil. ‘Remember therefore thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. Fear God, and keep His commandments; for this is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.’ This is the doctrine of the Old Testament; that God judges and rewards and punishes men in this life: but as for death, it is a great black cloud into which all men must enter, and see and be seen no more. Only twice or thrice, perhaps, a gleam of light from beyond breaks through the dark. David, the noblest and wisest of all the Jews, can say once that God will not leave his soul in hell, neither suffer His holy one to see corruption; Job says that, though after his skin worms destroy his body, yet in his flesh he shall see God; and Isaiah, again, when he sees his countrymen slaughtered, and his nation all but destroyed, can say, ‘Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of the morning, which brings the parched herbs to life and freshness again.’—Great and glorious sayings, all of them: but we cannot tell how far either David, or Job, or Isaiah, were thinking of a life after death. We can think of a life after death when we use them; for we know how they have been fulfilled in Jesus Christ our Lord; and we can see in them more than the Jews of old could do; for, like all inspired words, they mean more than the men who wrote them thought of; but we have no right to impute our Christianity to them. The only undoubted picture, perhaps, of the next life to be found in the Old Testament, is that grand one in Isaiah xiv., where he paints to us the tyrant king of Babylon going down into hell:— ‘Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming; it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth; it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. All they shall speak and say unto thee, Art thou also become weak as we? art thou become like unto us? Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!’—Awful and grand enough: but quite different, you will observe, from the notions of hell which are common now-a-days; and much more like those which we read in the old Greek poets, and especially, in the Necyomanteia of the Odyssey. When it was that the Jews gained any fuller notions about the next life, it is very difficult to say. Certainly not before they were carried away captive to Babylon. After that they began to mix much with the great nations of the East: with Greeks, Persians, and Indians; and from them, most probably, they learned to believe in a heaven after death to which good men would go, and a fiery hell to which bad men would go. At least, the heathen nations round them, and our forefathers likewise, believed in some sort of heaven and hell, hundreds of years before the coming of our blessed Lord. The Jews had learned, also—at least the Pharisees—to believe in the resurrection of the dead. Martha speaks of it; and St. Paul, when he tells the Pharisees that, having been brought up a Pharisee, he was on their side against the Sadducees.—‘I am a Pharisee,’ he says, ‘the son of a Pharisee; for the hope of the resurrection of the dead I am called in question.’ But if it be so,—if St. Paul and the Apostles believed in heaven and hell, and the resurrection of the dead, before they became Christians, what more did they learn about the next life, when they became Christians? Something they did learn, most certainly—and that most important. St. Paul speaks of what our Lord and our Lord’s resurrection had taught him, as something quite infinitely grander, and more blessed, than what he had known before. He talks of our Lord as having abolished death, and brought life and immortality to light; of His having conquered death, and of His destroying death at last. He speaks at moments as if he did not expect to die at all; and when he does speak of the death of the Christian, it is merely as a falling asleep. When he speaks of his own death, it is merely as a change of place. He longs to depart, and to be with Christ. Death had looked terrible to him once, when he was a Jew. Death had had a sting, and the grave a victory, which seemed ready to conquer him: but now he cries, ‘O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?’ and then he declares that the terrors of death and the grave are taken away, not by anything which he knew when he was a Pharisee, but through our Lord Jesus Christ. All his old Jewish notions of the resurrection, though they were true as far as they went, seemed poor and paltry beside what Christ had taught him. He was not going to wait till the end of the world—perhaps for thousands of years—in darkness and the shadow of death, he knew not where or how. His soul was to pass at once into life,—into joy, and peace, and bliss, in the presence of his Saviour, till it should have a new body given to it, in the resurrection of life at the last day. This, I think, is what St. Paul learned, and what the Jews had not learned till our blessed Lord came. They were still afraid of death. It looked to them a dark and ugly blank; and no wonder. For would it not be dark and ugly enough to have to wait, we know not where, it may be a thousand, it may be tens of thousands of years, till the resurrection in the last day, before we entered into joy, peace, activity or anything worthy of the name of life? Would not death have a sting indeed, the grave a victory indeed, if we had to be as good as dead for ten thousands of years? What then? Remember this, that death is an enemy, an evil thing, an enemy to man, and therefore an enemy to Christ, the King and Head and Saviour of man. Men ought not to die, and they feel it. It is no use to tell them, ‘Everything that is born must die, and why not you? All other animals died. They died, just as they die now, hundreds of thousands of years before man came upon this earth; and why should man expect to have a different lot? Why should you not take your death patiently, as you take any other evil which you cannot escape?’ The heart of man, as soon as he begins to be a man, and not a mere savage; as soon as he begins to think reasonably, and feel deeply; the heart of man answers: ‘No, I am not a mere animal. I have something in me which ought not to die, which perhaps cannot die. I have a living soul in me, which ought to be able to keep my body alive likewise, but cannot; and therefore death is my enemy. I hate him, and I believe that I was meant to hate him. Something must be wrong with me, or I should not die; something must be wrong with all mankind, or I should not see those I love dying round me. Yes, my friends, death is an enemy,—a hideous, hateful thing. The longer one looks at it, the more one hates it. The more often one sees it, the less one grows accustomed to it. Its very commonness makes it all the more shocking. We may not be so much shocked at seeing the old die. We say, ‘They have done their work, why should they not go?’ That is not true. They have not done their work. There is more work in plenty for them to do, if they could but live; and it seems shocking and sad, at least to him who loves his country and his kind, that, just as men have grown old enough to be of use, when they have learnt to conquer their passions, when their characters are formed, when they have gained sound experience of this world, and what man ought and can do in it,—just as, in fact, they have become most able to teach and help their fellow-men,—that then they are to grow old, and decrepit, and helpless, and fade away, and die just when they are most fit to live, and the world needs them most. Sad, I say, and strange is that. But sadder, and more strange, and more utterly shocking, to see the young die; to see parents leaving infant children, children vanishing early out of the world where they might have done good work for God and man. What arguments will make us believe that that ought to be? That that is God’s will? That that is anything but an evil, an anomaly, a disease? Not the Bible, certainly. The Bible never tells us that such tragedies as are too often seen are the will of God. The Bible says that it is not the will of our Father that one of these little ones should perish. The Bible tells us that Jesus, when on earth, went about fighting and conquering disease and death, even raising from the dead
Deniker, _The Races of Man_, p. 501). [20] E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, pp. 202 _sq._ [21] Captain James Cook, _Voyages_, ii. 30 _sq._, 40 _sq._; W. Yate, _An Account of New Zealand_ (London, 1835), pp. 157 _sqq._; E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, pp. 204 _sqq._; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 5. [22] Captain James Cook, _Voyages_, ii. 47 _sq._; W. Yate, _op. cit._ pp. 161 _sqq._ [23] A. Shand, "The Occupation of the Chatham Islands by the Maoris in 1835," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. i. no. 2 (July 1892), pp. 83 _sqq._ [24] R. Taylor, _op. cit._ p. 496; A. R. Wallace, _Australasia_ (London, 1913), pp. 442 _sq._ [25] E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, p. 212; Elsdon Best, "Notes on the Art of War as conducted by the Maori of New Zealand," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. xi. no. 4 (December 1902), p. 240. [26] E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, pp. 212 _sqq._; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, pp. 442 _sq._ [27] Captain James Cook, _Voyages_, i. 49 _sq._; W. Yate, _An Account of New Zealand_, p. 160. [28] Captain James Cook, _Voyages_, ii. 49; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 4. [29] R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 4. The Maoris delivered set speeches composed according to certain recognised laws of rhetoric, and their oratory was distinguished by a native eloquence and grace. See E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, pp. 186 _sqq._ § 3. _The Beliefs of the Maoris concerning the Souls of the Living_ Like most other peoples, whether savage or civilised, the Maoris explained the mystery of life in man by the presence of an invisible spirit or soul, which animates his body during life and quits it at death to survive the separation for a longer or shorter time either in this world or another. But like many others who have sought to fathom this profound subject, the Maoris would seem to have experienced some difficulty in ascertaining the precise nature of the human soul. When the natural man, on the strength of his native faculties, essays to explore these dark abysses and to put his vague thoughts into words, he commonly compares his soul either to his breath or to his shadow and his reflection, and not content with a simple comparison he is led, by a natural confusion of thought, to identify more or less closely the imperceptible entity which he calls his soul with one or both of these perceptible objects. To this general rule the Maori is apparently no exception. He has two words which he specially uses to designate the human spirit or soul: one is _wairua_, the other is _hau_.[30] Of these words, _wairua_, the more usual name, is said to mean also a shadow, an unsubstantial image, a reflection, as of a person's face from a polished surface;[31] and we may surmise that these were the original and proper meanings of the term. Similarly _hau_, which is described as "the vital essence or life principle" in man,[32] appears primarily to mean "wind,"[33] from which we may infer that in its application to man it denotes properly the breath. The idea of the soul as a breath appears in the explanation which was given to Dumont d'Urville of the Maori form of salutation by rubbing noses together. The French traveller was told that the real intention of this salute was to mingle the breath and thereby the souls of the persons who gave each other this token of friendship. But as his informant was not a Maori but a certain Mr. Kendall, the truth of the explanation remains doubtful, though the Frenchman believed that he obtained confirmation of it from his own observation and the testimony of a native.[34] On the other hand the comparison of the soul to a shadow comes out in the answer given by a Maori to an Englishman who had asked him why his people did not prevent their souls from passing away to the nether world. The Maori replied by pointing to the Englishman's shadow on the wall and asking him whether he could catch it.[35] [30] Elsdon Best, "Spiritual Concepts of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. ix. no. 4 (December 1900), pp. 177 _sqq._, 189 _sqq._ [31] E. Tregear, _Maori-Polynesian Comparative Dictionary_, pp. 591 _sq._, _s.v._ "wairua." [32] Elsdon Best, _op. cit._ p. 189. [33] E. Tregear, _Maori-Polynesian Comparative Dictionary_, p. 52, _s.v._ "hau"; Elsdon Best, _op. cit._ p. 190. [34] J. Dumont d'Urville, _Voyage autour du Monde et à la recherche de la Pérouse, Histoire du Voyage_ (Paris, 1832-1833), ii. 558 _sq._ [35] William Brown, _New Zealand and its Aborigines_ (London, 1845), p. 81. Thus far the Maori conception of the soul does not perhaps differ very materially from the popular notion of it current among ourselves. But we come now to a marked difference between the Maori idea of the soul and our own. For whereas the European commonly believes his soul to be fixed during life immovably in his body, and only to depart from it once for all at death, the soul of the Maori is under no such narrow restrictions, but is free to quit its bodily mansion at pleasure and to return to it without prejudice to the life and health of its owner. For example, the Maori explains a dream by supposing that the soul of the sleeper has left his body behind and rambled away to places more or less distant, where it converses with the spirits of other people, whether alive or dead. Hence no well-bred Maori would waken a sleeper suddenly by shaking him or calling out to him in a loud voice. If he must rouse him, he will do it gradually, speaking to him at first in low tones and then raising his voice by degrees, in order to give the truant soul fair warning and allow it to return at leisure.[36] Believing in the power of the soul to wander far away and converse with other spiritual beings in sleep, the Maoris naturally paid great attention to dreams, which they fancied were often sent them by the gods to warn them of coming events. All dreams were supposed to have their special significance, and the Maoris had framed a fanciful system for interpreting them. Sometimes, as with ourselves, the interpretation went by contraries. For example, if a man dreamed that he saw a sick relative at the point of death, it was a sign that the patient would soon recover; but if, on the contrary, the sufferer appeared in perfect health, it was an omen of his approaching end. When a priest was in doubt as to the intentions of the higher powers, he usually waited for his god to reveal his will in a dream, and accepted the vagaries of his slumbering fancy as an infallible intimation of the divine pleasure. Spells were commonly recited in order to annul the effect of ill-omened dreams.[37] [36] Elsdon Best, "Spiritual Concepts of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. ix. no. 4 (December 1900), pp. 177 _sq._ [37] R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, pp. 333-335. As to omens derived from dreams see Elsdon Best, "Omens and Superstitious Beliefs of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. vii. no. 27 (September 1898), pp. 124 _sqq._ But the departure of the soul from the body in life was not always voluntary; it might take place under the compulsion of a hostile sorcerer or magician. In a Maori legend called _The curse of Manaia_ we read that "the priests next dug a long pit, termed the pit of wrath, into which by their enchantments they might bring the spirits of their enemies, and hang them and destroy them there; and when they had dug the pit, muttering the necessary incantations, they took large shells in their hands to scrape the spirits of their enemies into the pit with, whilst they muttered enchantments; and when they had done this, they scraped the earth into the pit again to cover them up, and beat down the earth with their hands, and crossed the pit with enchanted cloths, and wove baskets of flax-leaves to hold the spirits of the foes which they had thus destroyed, and each of these acts they accompanied with the proper spells."[38] [38] Sir George Grey, _Polynesian Mythology_ (London, 1855), pp. 168 _sq._ This mode of undoing an enemy by extracting and killing his soul was not with the Maoris a mere legendary fiction; it was practised in real life by their wizards. For we are told that when a priest desired to slay a person by witchcraft, he would often dig a hole in the ground, and standing over it with a cord in his hand would let one end of the cord hang down into the hole. He then recited an incantation which compelled the soul of the doomed man to swarm down the cord into the pit, whereupon another potent spell chanted by the magician speedily put an end to the poor soul for good and all.[39] [39] Elsdon Best, "Spiritual Concepts of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. ix. no. 4 (December 1900), p. 187. It seems obvious that spells of this sort may be used with great advantage in war, for if you can only contrive to kill the souls of your foes, their mere bodies will probably give you little or no trouble. Nor did this practical application of the magic art escape the sagacity of the Maoris. When they marched to attack an enemy's stronghold, it was an ancient custom to halt and kindle a fire, over which the priest recited certain spells to cause the souls of his adversaries to be drawn into the fire and there to perish miserably in the flames. In theory the idea was admirable, but unfortunately it did not always work out in practice. For magic is a game at which two can play, and it sometimes happened that the spells of the besieged proved more powerful than those of the besiegers and enabled the garrison to defy all the attempts of the enemy to filch their souls from their bodies.[40] But even when the assailants were obliged to retire discomfited, they did not always lose heart, the resources of the magic art were not yet exhausted. On their return home the priest, nothing daunted by a temporary discomfiture, might betake himself again to his spells, and by crooning his incantations over a garment or a weapon belonging to one of his party, might dash in pieces the arms of the enemy and cause their souls to perish. Thus by his ghostly skill would he snatch victory from defeat, and humble the pride of the insolent foe in the very moment of his imaginary triumph.[41] One way in which he effected his purpose was to take a bag or basket containing some sacred food, hold it to the fire, and then opening the bag point the mouth of it in the direction of the enemy. The simple recitation of a spell then sufficed to draw the souls of the adversaries into the bag, after which nothing was easier for him than to destroy them utterly by means of the appropriate incantation.[42] [40] Elsdon Best, "Spiritual Concepts of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. ix. no. 4 (December 1900), p. 181. [41] Elsdon Best, "Notes on the Art of War as conducted by the Maori of New Zealand," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. xi. no. 3 (September 1902), p. 141. [42] Elsdon Best, "Notes on the Art of War as conducted by the Maori of New Zealand," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. xii. no. 2 (June 1903), p. 72. But valuable as are these applications of magic to practical life, the art, like every good thing, is liable to abuse; and even where it is employed with the best intentions, the forces which it controls are so powerful that in spite of all precautions an accident will sometimes happen. For example, in sickness the patient often had recourse to a priest, who would lead him down to the nearest water, whether a pool or a stream, and there perform the magical rites necessary for the relief of his particular malady. While the wizard was engaged in this beneficent task, all the people in the village kept strictly indoors, lest their souls should wander forth to the water-side and there colliding, if I may be allowed the expression, with the mystic forces of the priest's spells be damaged or even annihilated by the collision.[43] In such a case the fatal consequences were the result of a pure accident, but sometimes they were intentional. For this fell purpose a malignant wizard would dig a hole, invoke the spirit of the man against whom he had a grudge, and when the spirit appeared over the hole in the form of a light, he would curse it, and the man whose soul was cursed would be sure to die, sooner or later; nothing could save him. The Uriwera, who dwelt dispersed among the forests and lonely hills of a wild mountainous region in the North Island, were reputed to be the greatest warlocks in all New Zealand. When they descended from their mountains to the coast, the lowlanders scarcely dared refuse them anything for fear of incurring their displeasure. It is said that in their magical rites they made a special use of the spittle of their destined victims; hence all visitors to their country were careful to conceal their spittle lest they should give these wicked folk a handle against them.[44] Another mode in which a Maori wizard could obtain power over a man's soul was by working magic on the footprints of his intended victim. The thing was done in this way. Suppose you are walking and leave your footprints behind you on the ground. I come behind you, take up the earth from your footprints, and deposit it on the sacred _whata puaroa_, that is, a post or pillar set up in the holy place of a village and charged in a mysterious manner with the vitality both of the people and of the land. Having laid the earth from your footprints on the sacred post, I next perform a ceremony of consecration over it, and then bury it with a seed of sweet potato in the ground. After that you are doomed. You may consider yourself for all practical purposes not only dead but buried, like the earth from your footprints.[45] [43] Elsdon Best, "Maori Medical Lore," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. xiii. no. 4 (December 1904), p. 225. [44] E. Dieffenbach, _Travels in New Zealand_ (London, 1843), ii. 58 _sq._; E. Shortland, _Traditions and Superstitions of the New Zealanders_, pp. 116 _sq._; _id._, _Maori Religion and Mythology_ (London, 1882), p. 31. [45] Elsdon Best, "Spiritual Concepts of the Maori," _Journal of the Polynesian Society_, vol. ix. no. 4 (December 1900), pp. 194 _sq._, 196. From some of the foregoing facts it seems to follow that the souls of the Maoris are not, so to say, constitutionally immortal, but that they are of a brittle and perishable nature, and that in particular they are liable to be cut short in their career and totally exterminated by the insidious arts of magicians. So frequently, indeed, did this happen in former days that the Maoris of old apparently recognised no other cause of death, but imagined that every man and woman would naturally live for ever, if the thread of his or her life were not prematurely snipped by the abhorred shears of some witch or wizard. Hence after every death it was customary to hold an inquest in order to discover the wretch who had brought about the catastrophe by his enchantments; a sage presided at the solemn enquiry, and under his direction the culprit was detected, hunted down, and killed.[46] [46] R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, p. 51. The Maoris tell a story to explain how death first came into the world, or at least how men were prevented from enjoying the boon of immortality. The story runs as follows. The great mythical hero of Polynesia is Maui, a demigod or man of marvellous powers, who lived in the early ages of the world, and whose mighty deeds are the theme of tales of wonder told far and wide among the islands of the Pacific.[47] In his childhood his mother prophesied that he should thereafter climb the threshold of his great ancestress Hine-nui-te-po, and that death should have no more dominion over men. A happy prediction, but alas! never destined to be fulfilled, for even the would-be saviour Maui himself did not escape the doom of mortality. The way in which he became subject to death was this. His father took him to the water to be baptized, for infant baptism was a regular part of Maori ritual.[48] But when the baptism was over and the usual prayers had been offered for making the lad sacred and clean from all impurity, his father bethought him that through haste or forgetfulness he had omitted some of the prayers and purifications of the baptismal service. It was a fatal oversight, and the anxious father was struck with consternation at the thought, for too well he knew that the gods would punish the omission by causing his son Maui to die.[49] Yet did his son make a brave attempt to rescue all men from the doom of death and to make them live for ever. One day, after he had performed many feats and returned to his father's house, his father, heavy at heart and overcome with a foreboding of evil, said to him, "Oh, my son, I have heard from your mother and others that you are very valiant, and that you have succeeded in all feats that you have undertaken in your own country, whether they were small or great; but now that you have arrived in your father's country, you will perhaps be overcome." Then Maui asked his father, "What do you mean? what things are there that I can be vanquished by?" And his father answered him, "By your great ancestress, by Hine-nui-te-po, who, if you look, you may see flashing, and, as it were, opening and shutting there, where the horizon meets the sky." And Maui answered, "Lay aside such idle thoughts, and let us both fearlessly seek whether men are to die or live for ever." And his father said, "My child, there has been an ill omen for us; when I was baptizing you, I omitted a portion of the fitting prayers, and that I know will be the cause of your perishing." Then Maui asked his father, "What is my ancestress Hine-nui-te-po like?" and he answered, "What you see yonder shining so brightly red are her eyes, and her teeth are as sharp and hard as pieces of volcanic glass; her body is like that of a man, and as for the pupils of her eyes, they are jasper; and her hair is like the tangles of long sea-weed, and her mouth is like that of a barracouta." [47] E. Tregear, _Maori-Polynesian Comparative Dictionary_, pp. 233 _sqq._, _s.v._ "Maui"; Horatio Hale, _United States Exploring Expedition, Ethnography and Philology_ (Philadelphia, 1846), p. 23. [48] J. L. Nicholas, _Narrative of a Voyage to New Zealand_ (London, 1817), i. 61 _sq._, "The New Zealanders make it an invariable practice, when a child is born among them, to take it to the _Tohunga_, or priest, who sprinkles it on the face with water, from a certain leaf which he holds in his hand for that purpose; and they believe that this ceremony is not only beneficial to the infant, but that the neglect of it would be attended with the most baneful consequences. In the latter case, they consider the child as either doomed to immediate death, or that, if allowed to live, it will grow up with a most perverse and wicked disposition." Before or after sprinkling the child with water the priest bestowed on the infant its name. See W. Yate, _An Account of New Zealand_ (London, 1835), pp. 82-84; A. S. Thomson, _The Story of New Zealand_ (London, 1859), i. 118 _sqq._; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, Second Edition (London, 1870), pp. 184 _sqq_. Compare J. Dumont d'Urville, _Voyage autour du Monde et à la recherche de la Pérouse, Histoire du Voyage_ (Paris, 1832-1833), ii. 443 _sq_. (who says that the baptism was performed by women); E. Dieffenbach, _Travels in New Zealand_ (London, 1843), ii. 28-30 (who, in contradiction to all the other authorities, says that the naming of the child was unconnected with its baptism). [49] Sir George Grey, _Polynesian Mythology_ (London, 1855), p. 32. Now Hine-nui-te-po was the Great Woman of Night, the Goddess of Death, who dwelt in the nether world and dragged down men to herself. But Maui was not afraid, for he had caught the great Sun himself in a snare and beaten him and caused him to go so tardily as we now see him creeping across the sky with leaden steps and slow; for of old the Sun was wont to speed across the firmament like a young man rejoicing to run a race. So forth fared the hero on his great enterprise to snatch the life of mortals from the very jaws of death. And there came to him to bear him company the small robin, and the large robin, and the thrush, and the yellow hammer, and the pied fantail (_tiwakawaka, Rhipidura flabellifora_), and every kind of little bird; and these all assembled together, and they started with Maui in the evening, and arrived at the dwelling of Hine-nui-te-po, and found her fast asleep. Then Maui addressed them all, and said, "My little friends, now if you see me creep into this old chieftainess, do not laugh at what you see. Nay, nay, do not, I pray you, but when I have got altogether inside her, and just as I am coming out of her mouth, then you may shout with laughter if you please." But his little friends were frightened at what they saw, and they answered, "Oh, sir, you will certainly be killed." And he answered them again, saying, "If you burst out laughing at me as soon as I get inside her, you will wake her up, and she will certainly kill me at once; but if you do not laugh until I am quite inside her, and am on the point of coming out of her mouth, I shall live, and Hine-nui-te-po will die." And his little friends answered, "Go on then, brave sir, but pray take good care of yourself." Then the young hero started off, and twisted the strings of his weapon tight round his wrist, and went into the house, and stripped off his clothes, and the skin on his hips was as mottled and beautiful as the skin of a mackerel by reason of the tattoo marks cut on it with the chisel of Uetongo, and he entered the old chieftainess. The little birds now screwed up their little mouths to keep back their laughter when they saw him disappearing into the body of the giantess; their cheeks swelled up and grew purple, and they almost choked with suppressed emotion. At last the pied fantail could bear it no longer, and he suddenly exploded with a loud guffaw. That woke the old woman, she opened her eyes, and shut her jaws with a snap, cutting the hero clean through the middle, so that his legs dropped out of her mouth. Thus died Maui, but before he died he begat children, and sons were born to him, and some of his descendants are alive to this day. That, according to Maori tradition, is how death came into the world; for if only Maui had passed safely through the jaws of the Goddess of Death, men would have died no more and death itself would have been destroyed. Thus the Maoris set down human mortality at the door of the pied fantail, since but for his unseasonable merriment we might all have lived for ever.[50] [50] Sir George Grey, _Polynesian Mythology_, pp. 56-58; John White, _The Ancient History of the Maori_ (Wellington and London, 1887-1889), ii. 98, 105-107. For another version of the myth, told with some minor variations, see S. Percy Smith, _The Lore of the Whare-w[=a]nanga_, Part I. (New Plymouth, N.Z., 1913), pp. 145 _sq._, 176-178. For the identification of the bird _tiwakawaka_ see E. Tregear, _Maori-Polynesian Comparative Dictionary_, p. 519, _s.v._ "Tiwaiwaka." § 4. _The Beliefs of the Maoris concerning the Souls of the Dead_ When a chief died, a loud howl or wail announced the melancholy event, and the neighbours flocked to the scene of death to testify their sorrow. The wives and near relations, especially the women, of the deceased displayed their anguish by cutting their faces, arms, legs, and breasts with flints or shells till the blood flowed down in streams; it was not wiped off, for the more the person of a mourner was covered with clotted gore, the greater was esteemed his or her respect for the dead. Sometimes relatives would hack off joints of their fingers as a token of grief. Mourners likewise cut their hair, the men generally contenting themselves with clipping or shaving it on one side only, from the forehead to the neck. The eyes of the dead were closed by the nearest relative; and the body dressed in the finest mats, decked with feathers, and provided with weapons, lay in state for a time. After the first day a brother of the deceased used to beat the body with fresh flax gathered for the purpose; this he did to drive away any evil thing that might be hovering about the corpse. In the olden time one or more of the chief's wives would strangle themselves, that their souls might accompany their dead lord and wait upon him in the other world, and with the same intentions slaves were killed, lest the great man should lack attendants in the spirit land.[51] [51] W. Yate, _An Account of New Zealand_, pp. 135 _sqq._; J. Dumont d'Urville, _Voyage autour du Monde et à la recherche de la Pérouse, Histoire du Voyage_ (Paris, 1832-1833), ii. 541 _sq._; Servant, "Notice sur la Nouvelle-Zélande," _Annales de la Propagation de la Foi_, xv. (1843) p. 25; E. Dieffenbach, _Travels in New Zealand_, ii. 62, 118; W. Brown, _New Zealand and its Inhabitants_, pp. 15 _sqq._; G. F. Angas, _Savage Life and Scenes in Australia and New Zealand_, i. 331; A. S. Thomson, _The Story of New Zealand_, i. 185 _sqq._; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui, or New Zealand and its Inhabitants_, Second Edition (London, 1870), pp. 217 _sq._; E. Tregear, "The Maoris of New Zealand," _Journal of the Anthropological Institute_, xix. (1890) pp. 104 _sq._ The body was kept for three days because, we are told, the soul was believed not to quit its mortal habitation till the third day.[52] The mode of disposing of the corpse differed in different districts and according to the rank of the deceased. In some places a grave was dug in the house and the body buried in a sitting posture, the legs being kept in that position by bandages or doubled up against the chest. In the grave the dead man retained the fine garments in which he had been dressed together with the family ornaments of jade and shark's teeth. With him also was usually interred his property, especially the clothes which he had worn and everything else that had touched him during his last illness. The weapons of a warrior were laid near him that he might be able to fight his battles in the spirit land. In other places the corpse was laid in a box on a stage; or two pieces of an old canoe were set upright in the earth, and in the hollow between them the body was seated on a grating so as to allow the products of decomposition to drip through on the ground. In other places again, the corpse was laid in a sort of canoe-shaped coffin and deposited among the branches of a tree in a grove, where it remained for several months. This burial in the branches of a tree seems to have been usually adopted for the bodies of commoners; the corpses of chiefs, enclosed in coffins, were placed in mausoleums, carved and painted red, which were raised on pillars. Whether buried in the earth or placed in a tree or on a stage, the body was left until the flesh had so far decayed as to permit of the bones being easily detached; there was no fixed time allowed for decomposition, it might vary from three months to six months, or even a year. When decay was thought to have proceeded far enough, the bones were dug up or taken down from the stage or tree and scraped; the ornaments also were removed from the skeleton and worn by the relatives. In the south, where the custom was to bury the dead in the ground, this disinterment took place four weeks after the burial; the bones were then buried again, but only to be dug up again after a longer interval, it might be two years, for the final ceremony. When this took place, all the friends and relatives of the dead were summoned to assist, and a great feast was given: the bones were scraped, painted red, decked with feathers, and wrapped up in mats. The precious bundle was then deposited in a small canoe or a miniature house elevated on a pole; or it was carried to the top of some sacred tree and there left on a small stage. Sometimes the bones were concealed in a hollow tree in a secret place of the forest, or hidden away in one of the numerous limestone caverns or in some lonely and inaccessible chasm among the rocks. The motive for secret burial was a fear lest an enemy should get possession of the bones and profane them by making fish-hooks out of them or converting the skull into a baler for his canoe. Such a profanation was deemed a deadly insult to the surviving relatives. After a burial the persons who had dressed or carried the corpse, and all indeed who had had anything to do with it, repaired to the nearest stream and plunged themselves several times over head in the water.[53] [52] J. Dumont d'Urville, _op. cit._ ii. 541. [53] J. Dumont d'Urville, _op. cit._ ii. 543 _sq._; W. Yate, _op. cit._ p. 137; Servant, "Notice sur la Nouvelle-Zélande," _Annales de la Propagation de la Foi_, xv. (1843) p. 25; E. Dieffenbach, _Travels in New Zealand_, ii. 62 _sqq._; G. F. Angas, _Savage Life and Scenes in Australia and New Zealand_, i. 331; A. S. Thomson, _The Story of New Zealand_, i. 188; R. Taylor, _Te Ika A Maui_, pp. 218 _sqq._; E. Tregear, "The Maori of New Zealand," _Journal of the Anthropological Institute_, xix. (1890) p. 105; Elsdon Best, "Cremation among the Maori Tribes of New Zealand," _Man_, xiv. (1914) p. 110. In some districts the removal of the bones from their temporary to their final resting-place was the occasion of a grand annual festival in which several neighbouring tribes took part. The bones of all members of the tribes who had died within the year were taken down from the stages or trees where the bodies had been temporarily deposited. The grave-clothes having been removed, the mouldering remains were wrapped in new blankets and carried in procession, attended by the crowd, to a place where they were deposited on a carpet of leaves. Should any putrid flesh be found still adhering to the bones, it was scraped off and buried on the spot. A few old women, dressed in their best, oiled from head to foot, and plastered with raddle, received the skulls into their laps. While they held them thus, a funeral ode was sung and speeches, loud and long, were delivered. Then the bones were tied up, decked with feathers of the gannet, rolled up in blankets, and carried to their last place of rest in a sacred grove, where they were left, securely fastened up and gaudily decorated with red and white. Having thus discharged their duty to the dead, the living gave themselves up to festivity; they ate and
icism. A study of these panels evidences an intimate acquaintance with the architectural beauties of Cöln, a knowledge obviously acquired at first hand during a period of his life devoted to Art. The master under whom he worked was in all probability the Suabian, Stephen Löthener, of Mersburg, near Constance, who had settled in Cöln before 1442, and died there in 1452. It is presumable that Memlinc may not have completed his studies at the time of that painter’s death. In the circumstances one can but conjecture as to where he completed the necessary training before attaining to the rank of a master-painter. Vasari and Guicciardini both assert that Memlinc was at some time or other a pupil of Roger De la Pasture (Van der Weyden), and, as this master returned from Italy in 1450, he may have come across Memlinc at Cöln and engaged him as an assistant. It is, however, quite possible that Memlinc stayed on at Cöln until Löthener’s death in 1452 and then went to Brussels, doubtless passing by Louvain and possibly working for a time under Dirk Bouts. Certain it is, judging from the many points of similarity in their work, that Memlinc came under Roger’s influence for a space sufficiently long to leave a strong impress of that master’s methods on his art. Memlinc’s contemporary, Rumwold De Doppere, has left it on record that he was “then considered to be the most skilful and excellent painter in the whole of Christendom”; and if Memlinc had left nothing to perpetuate his fame but such gems as the Shrine of Saint Ursula, at Bruges, the “Passion of Our Lord,” in the Royal Museum at Turin, that remarkable altarpiece, “Christ the Light of the World,” in the Royal Gallery at Munich, or even, as Fromentin suggests, only those two figures of Saint Barbara and Saint Katherine in the large altarpiece at Bruges, he would need nothing of the reflected glory of his alleged master to enhance his renown. Always assuming Memlinc to have stood in this relation to De la Pasture, Sir Martin Conway came to a happy conclusion when he wrote that Roger’s greatest glory is that he produced such a pupil--“that Memlinc the artist was Roger’s greatest work.” [Illustration: PLATE III.--SAINTS CHRISTOPHER, MAURUS, AND GILES. This, the central panel of an altarpiece, painted in 1484 for William Moreel, Burgomaster of Bruges, is now in the Town Gallery at Bruges.] III EARLIEST WORKS The first painting to bespeak his industry is now supposed to have been the famous triptych of the Last Judgment in the Church of Saint Mary at Danzig, commenced after 1465 and finished in 1472 or early in 1473. Few pictures have evoked more controversy or been coupled with the names of more artists than the Danzig triptych. The entry in a local church register of 1616 which asserts that it was painted in Brabant by John and George van Eichen, an ascription varied at a subsequent period by substituting the name of James for John, carries no more weight than usually attaches to popular traditions, and was generally disregarded by the connoisseurs and experts who have debated the question for more than a hundred years. The names of Albert van Ouwater, Michael Wohlgemuth, Hugh Van der Goes, Hubert and John van Eyck, Roger De la Pasture, and Dirk Bouts have all been canvassed with more or less assurance. Memlinc’s name was first associated with the work in 1843, by Hotho, whose opinion met with wide acceptance, a notable convert to his view being Dr. Waagen, who in 1860 declared the triptych to be “not only the most important work by Memlinc that has come down to our time, but also one of the masterpieces of the whole school, being far richer and better composed than the picture of the same subject by Roger De la Pasture at Beaune, though that master’s influence is still perceptible,” though two years later he recognised in the figures the influence of Dirk Bouts; and in 1899 Kämmerer as emphatically declared that “no one who is acquainted with Memlinc’s authentic works can possibly doubt that this picture is the work of his hand.” In the absence of contemporary documentary evidence, and with the donors of the picture still unidentified, confronted moreover with the fact that in its composition the Danzig triptych differs altogether from Memlinc’s authenticated paintings, many experienced judges still hesitated to admit the claim put forward in his behalf. But the recent discoveries made by Dr. A. Warburg leave little room for doubt. In the fifteenth century there was a considerable Italian colony at Bruges, and the powerful Florentine firm of the Medici, whose ramifications extended over all Europe, had a branch establishment there in the name of Piero and Giovanni de’ Medici, the acting manager of which from 1455 to 1466 was Angelo di Jacopo Tani, who, after serving as bookkeeper of the firm’s agency in London, had been transferred to Bruges in 1450. Tani may have taken Memlinc into his household with a view to the production of the triptych under his own eye. The absence of Memlinc’s name from the guild registers of the period lends probability to the theory that he was employed by Charles the Bold, for ducal service exempted painters settling in Bruges from the obligation of purchasing the right of citizenship, and of becoming members of the local guild. It is presumed that Tani engaged Memlinc’s services at some date after 1465 to paint or, if the work had been commenced by some other painter, to complete this picture. While the dexter shutter, representing the reception of the elect by Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven, can only have been designed by a pupil of Löthener, it is equally certain that the upper portion of the central panel must have been designed by some one who had worked under Bouts or De la Pasture. In 1466 Tani visited Florence, and there married Katherine, daughter of William Tanagli. As their portraits and arms are on the exterior of the shutters, these cannot have been commenced before they were both in Bruges, some time in 1467, the date inscribed on the slab covering a tomb on which a woman is seated. The technique and colouring of the entire work are Netherlandish, and in the opinion of the most trustworthy critics are certainly the work of Memlinc. The painting completed, it was, at the commencement of 1473, despatched by sea to Florence, but the vessel bearing it was captured by freebooters, and the picture as part of the prize carried off to Danzig. The patronage of the agent of the Medici was of course of incalculable advantage to a rising artist, and doubtless it served to secure for Memlinc the interest of Spinelli of Arezzo--whose portrait, now in the van Ertborn collection at the Antwerp Museum, he painted in the latter half of 1467 or the beginning of 1468, when this Italian medallist was in the service of Charles the Bold as seal engraver--and to bring his growing reputation to the notice of the ducal court. The negotiations for the hand of Margaret of York, begun in December 1466, and unduly protracted owing no doubt to the mental incapacity of Duke Philip III., were of course resumed at the expiration of the period of court mourning after his death on 15th June 1467. Following the example of his father, Charles may have commissioned Memlinc to accompany his ambassadors to the English court for the purpose of securing an up-to-date portrait of his intended consort. In the circumstances Memlinc would certainly have made the acquaintance of Sir John Donne, for the Donnes were ardent Yorkists high in the royal favour, and moreover the brother of Sir John’s wife, William, first Lord Hastings, filled the office of Lord Chamberlain to the king. But the triptych in the Chatsworth collection, though the outcome of this meeting, could not have been executed at the time, as the period of Memlinc’s visit would have been restricted to carrying out the ducal instructions. An opportunity for the necessary sittings was afforded later, when Sir John Donne, accompanied by his wife and daughter, journeyed to Bruges in the suite of the princess to assist at the wedding celebrations in July 1468. The omission of the sons from the family group in the triptych is sufficiently accounted for by the fact that they were in Wales at the time. IV CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS EARLY WORKS To the art student these earliest of Memlinc’s paintings--the Donne triptych in particular--are replete with interest. In the first place, they attest the powers then already at the painter’s command as an exponent of his art, and they further serve as a standard of comparison by which to judge his afterwork. Memlinc was pre-eminently a religious artist, deeply imbued with Scriptural lore and well versed in hagiography, a fund of knowledge sublimated in the beautiful mysticism of the school of Cöln which had early subjugated his poetic temperament. His conception of the Madonna, based on a fervent appreciation of the purity, the tenderness, and the majesty of her nature was deeply rooted, and it led him to evolve the definite type which he presents to us in the Chatsworth picture, to which he faithfully adheres henceforth, at times enhancing its beauty--as witness the triptych in the Louvre and the altarpiece of Saint John’s Hospital at Bruges--until his ideal culminates in that marvellous embodiment of her supreme attributes preserved to us in the Van Nieuwenhove diptych. The Divine Infant, it is true, may not appeal to one in the same way as do the charming pictures of infant life in which the southern artists excelled. Whatever may be said of the fine men and intellectual women of the race, the northern type of babyhood cannot by any stretch of courtesy, apart from a mother’s loving weakness, be described as graceful. Still Memlinc’s conceptions of the Infant Saviour rank high in point of intellectuality, of expressiveness of eye, of grace of movement and charm of expression. The Donne triptych besides, from the point of view from which we are now considering it, is a valuable asset for the study of the impersonations of saints whom we find constantly recurring in his paintings: to wit, Saint Katherine and Saint Barbara--(Fromentin’s enthusiastic appreciation of these figures in the large altarpiece at Bruges has already been quoted)--Saint John the Baptist and Saint John the Evangelist, and Saint Christopher. The same may be said of his angels. Taken from another standpoint, these early paintings of Memlinc are invaluable testimony of his rare gift for portraiture. It was a gift which may almost be taken as the specific appanage of the fifteenth century painters of the Netherlandish school. Some, like John van Eyck, used it with scrupulous exactitude, scorning to veil the palpable truth that at the moment and usually obtruded itself on his painstaking eye; others, and Memlinc prominently of their number, loved rather to seize on the fitful manifestation of the inner man and to idealise him. Both artists, taking them as types, were honest and true to their art, notwithstanding that the resulting truth in each case is deceiving, except we have very particular information regarding the individual portrayed. In any event, the Tani and Spinelli portraits are fine examples of the class, though perhaps Sir John Donne’s appeals to us more because of the fuller knowledge we have of the man. And finally, both the Antwerp and the Chatsworth paintings afford us beautiful examples of Memlinc’s art as a landscape painter, and in this respect certainly it may be safely asserted that he never produced better work. [Illustration: PLATE IV.--NICHOLAS SPINELLI OF AREZZO. Nicholas Spinelli, born 1430, was in 1467-68 in Flanders, in the service of Charles the Bold as seal engraver. He died in 1499 at Lyons, where this portrait was acquired by Denon. He is depicted holding a medal, showing a profile head of the Emperor Nero, with the inscription “NERO CLAVDius CÆSAR AVGustus GERManicus TRibunicia Potestati IMPERator.” It was bought from the heirs of Denon by M. van Ertborn, who bequeathed it to the Museum at Antwerp.] V THE MATURITY OF HIS ART From the consideration of these three works executed in the sixties we pass on to a decade of more notable achievement. The public rejoicings which had inaugurated the new reign were already dimmed to recollection in the disquieting civil and national complications that ensued, culminating in the disastrous battle of Nancy on 5th January 1477, in which the ducal troops were put to rout and Charles himself lost his life. He was succeeded by his only daughter, Mary, who on 19th August of the same year by her marriage to Maximilian, son of the Emperor Frederick IV., brought Flanders under the rule of the House of Austria, and thus involved the Flemish burghers in that lamentable struggle which, after many alternations of fortune, was one of the chief causes that led to the downfall of Bruges. Memlinc, as a newcomer without rooted interests or strong political bent, wholly wrapt in his art, naturally steered clear of political entanglements, though ready enough on occasion to take his share of the public burden which the fortune of war imposed, as witness his contribution to the loan raised to cover the expenses of the military operations against France. But his placid disposition shrank from the heat and ferment of public life, though his sympathies no doubt were all with the burghers and guildmen with whom he associated, among whom he found the most liberal supporters of his art to the exclusion of court patronage, and from whose womankind he selected a helpmate. Memlinc married later in life than was the custom of his day, when it was usual for craftsmen to take unto themselves a wife at the expiration of their journeymanship, after they had established their competence, paid the indispensable guild fees, and taken the no less essential vows to bear themselves honestly and to labour their work as in the sight of God; for it was only at some date between 1470 and 1480, when already a man of middle age, that he led Anne, daughter of Louis De Valkenaere, to the altar. It is impossible to determine the year, but on the 10th of December 1495 we find the guardians of the three children of the marriage acting on their behalf in the local courts in the winding-up of their father’s estate, which at any rate proves that the eldest at that time must have been still a minor, or under the age of five-and-twenty. Apart from his wife’s dowry, of which we have no knowledge, Memlinc’s circumstances were then already much above the ordinary, for in 1480 out of the 247 wealthiest citizens only 140 were taxed at higher rates, and it is on record that in the same year he purchased a large stone house and two smaller adjacent ones on the east side of the main street that leads from the Flemish Bridge to the ramparts, in a quarter of the town much affected by artists, and within the Parish of Saint Giles, beneath the spreading trees of whose peaceful God’s acre he was to find an abiding resting-place some fourteen years later, by the side of his old friend the miniaturist William Vrelant, who predeceased him by some thirteen years, to be joined there in after years by many another eminent artist, such as John Prévost, Lancelot Blondeel, Peter Pourbus, and Antony Claeissens. That he was a busy man the record of works that have come down to us from this decade alone amply testifies. The “Saint John the Baptist,” in the Royal Gallery at Munich (1470); the exquisite little diptych “The Blessed Virgin and Child,” in the Louvre, painted (_c._ 1475) for John Du Celier, a member of the Guild of Merchant Grocers, whose father was a member of the Council of Flanders; the panel in the National Gallery, which we reproduce; the magnificent altarpiece in the Royal Museum at Turin painted for William Vrelant (1478); the famous triptych executed for the high altar of the church attached to the Hospital of Saint John at Bruges (1479); and the triptych “The Adoration of the Magi” presented to the Hospital by Brother John Floreins (1479), all belong to this period: while with the year 1480 are associated the portraits of William Moreel and his wife, in the Royal Gallery at Brussels; that of one of their daughters as the Sibyl Sambetha, in Saint John’s Hospital; the marvellous composition in the Royal Gallery at Munich, “Christ the Light of the World,” painted to the order of Peter Bultinc, a wealthy citizen of Bruges and a member of the Guild of Tanners; and the triptych “The Dead Christ mourned by His Mother,” in Saint John’s Hospital--let alone the numerous other works attributed to him but not authenticated or which have been lost. The bare record, however, conveys but a feeble idea of the immensity of the labour this output involved. [Illustration: PLATE V.--MARTIN VAN NIEUWENHOVE. The companion of the painting reproduced in Plate I., and is in the Hospital of Saint John.] The panel in the National Gallery, which may be ascribed to 1475, arrests our attention for the moment. It presents to us the Blessed Virgin and Child in attitudes closely corresponding to those in the earlier Donne triptych, but both are more pleasing figures in respect of pose, the attitude of the Madonna in particular being less constrained and the expression happier and more natural. The figure of the angel too has gained in gracefulness. The donor under the patronage of Saint George appeals to one as a living personality. Of these two figures a lady critic complains that they are “characteristic examples of Memlinc’s inability to depict a really manly man”; and she endeavours to give greater point to this criticism by contrasting the painter’s methods with those of John van Eyck, wholly of course to the disadvantage of the former. In the present case the identity of the donor remains a mystery: he may not have been the really manly man the idealist would require, and also he may have been the man of reverent and sweet disposition revealed to us in this portrait. It is for the softening and idealisation of the face from the reality, however, that fault is commonly found with Memlinc as a portrait-painter. But, after all, what is this idealisation of the subject but the highest aim and truest concept of art? It is no difficult matter for the competent painter to produce a counterpart of the outward flesh with all its peculiarities, even to the last wrinkle and the least significant blemish, and be awarded the palm for “stern realism”; but to conceive the inner soul of the man, to seize and fix that conception on panel or canvas, surely that is the higher art? It is true that in the men whom Memlinc portrayed there is a marked similarity of expression, arising obviously from the fact that they are usually pictured in an attitude of devotion, and that in the frame of mind this attitude imposed they suffered some loss of workaday individuality. But surely it is not to Memlinc’s discredit that his clients were of the devotional order? Nor is the criticism of the Saint George as mild and effeminate any more to the point; for when the appeal is from Memlinc to Van Eyck one is forcibly reminded of the votive picture of the Virgin and Child by that master in the Town Gallery at Bruges, in which we have the donor under the patronage of a Saint George whom for sheer inanity of expression and utter awkwardness of demeanour it would be hard to beat. And yet in neither instance, we may safely assume, was the figure the type the artist would have created for the valiant knight of the legend. Apart from this, a careful study of Memlinc’s many works will reveal to the most exacting a sufficiency of evidence that his art was equal to any demands that might have been made of it; of his preference for the milder and more religious type of man, however, there can be no doubt. It were idle to speculate as to the length of time Memlinc devoted to the production of his pictures, seeing the meagreness of the data afforded us for the purpose. His peculiar technique, however, which avoided the accentuation of light and shade, and thereby simplified the scheme of colouring, lent itself to rapid execution. Even so, paintings like the altarpiece in the Royal Museum at Turin and that in the Royal Gallery at Munich must have made heavy calls on his time through a number of years. As examples of the powers and wealth of resource of the artist these masterpieces stand almost alone. The architectural setting of the former, a wholly imaginary Jerusalem, is so contrived as to assist in the most natural manner the precession of the Gospel story from the triumphal entry into the Holy City to the Resurrection and the manifestation of Christ to Mary Magdalene. As without conscious effort the eye is guided along the line of route followed by the Redeemer, one treads in imagination in the Divine footsteps through the hosannahing multitude in the extreme background on the right, and turning to the left arrives at the Temple steps in time to witness the casting out of the buyers and sellers; descending thence and bearing gradually towards the right a turn of the street leads one to the scene of the Last Supper, which Judas has already left to confer with the priests under a neighbouring portico as to the betrayal of his Master; and eventually one arrives at the Garden of Olives, to be confronted in rapid succession with the Agony and the picture of the sleeping disciples, the rush of armed men, Judas’ traitorous kiss and Peter in the act of striking at Malchus. Following the multitude for some little distance one reaches the heart of the city, where the successive incidents of the Passion are grouped each under a separate portico showing on to a spacious courtyard in the very centre of the panel--Christ before Pilate and his expostulating wife, the Flagellation, the Crowning with thorns and mocking of Our Lord, Christ before Herod and the Ecce Homo, with the preparations for the Crucifixion going on the while in the open courtyard. These completed, the mournful procession passes under a palace gateway into the forefront of the picture, bears to the left and issues through the city gate, where the Mother of Christ, the beloved disciple, and the holy women have gathered together, into the open country, where at the foot of the hilly way that skirts the city walls Simon of Cyrene comes forward to relieve the fallen Saviour in the burden of the Cross; presently the procession is lost to view at a bend of the road only to reappear on the slopes of Calvary, which is triplicated here for the purpose of re-enacting the three scenes associated with it--of the Nailing to the Cross, of the Death of Our Lord, and of the Descent from the Cross. Lower down on the left we assist at the Entombment and at the Deliverance of the Just from Limbo, and further away we witness the Resurrection and, in the far background, the manifestation of Our Lord to Mary Magdalene. Viewed as a whole it is a marvel of composition enhanced by a brilliancy of colouring, and every scene in it a delicately finished miniature. Apart from the architectural setting, the three Calvaries, and the duplication of the Holy Sepulchre imposed by the necessity of representing both the Entombment and the Resurrection, the most captious can discover nothing to abate the enthusiastic admiration which this altarpiece excites, or one’s wonder at the masterful manner in which Memlinc has succeeded in developing the story of the Passion in some twenty scenes necessitating the introduction of considerably over two hundred figures, apart from the animal and bird life that supplements them, within the narrow compass of a panel only fifty-five centimetres high by ninety centimetres in breadth! The extreme corners of the foreground are filled in with exquisite portraits of the donors, the miniaturist William Vrelant and his wife, for whom one feels that Memlinc has tried to excel himself in this masterwork. Scarcely less surprising as a composition is the story in bright luminous colours told in the Munich altarpiece, a work of considerably larger dimensions (80 by 180 centimetres), commonly described as “The Seven Joys of Mary,” but for which the more appropriate title has been suggested of “Christ the Light of the World.” It is the story of the manifestation of Our Lord to the Gentile world in the persons of the Wise Men from the East, closely correspondent, as was Memlinc’s wont, to the Gospel narrative and Christian tradition, except perhaps in this one respect, that the artist’s innate love of moving water has suggested to him the original conceit of depicting the departing Magi as setting sail for their distant homes across the boundless waters. This portion of the background and the greater wealth of surrounding landscape greatly relieves the architectural setting, which is not so overpowering as in the Turin altarpiece. The composition too, as becomes the subject, is teeming with the joy of life in varying aspects. Here we have the gay cavalcade with streaming banners galloping along the road to Bethlehem, there the shepherds peacefully tending their flocks on the grassy slope, their watch beguiled by the strains of a bagpipe; here the scene at the Manger, all love and devotion, and the running stream nigh by at which the horses are being watered the while the Magi are making their act of adoration, there the kings with their retinues triumphantly riding away over the rocky heights; anon we have the sequence of miracles that attended the Flight of the Holy Family into Egypt--the wheat that grew and ripened in a day, the date-palm bending to offer its fruit to the Virgin Mother resting beneath its shade while the unsaddled ass grazes as it lists and Joseph fetches water from a neighbouring spring; elsewhere the risen Christ appearing to the fishing apostles, and far beyond across the waters in the background the setting of the sun in all its glory. Every scene that lends itself to the treatment has its beauty enhanced by the beauties of Nature. The one sorrowful incident in the whole story, the Massacre of the Innocents, is a mere suggestion of this cruel episode. Memlinc’s nature shrank from the interpretation of evil, and in this particular instance has admirably succeeded in commemorating the incident of the massacre without involving it in any of its horror. A pleasing innovation may also be noticed in the treatment of his portraits of donors, Peter Bultinc and his son being introduced as devout spectators of the scene presented in the stable at Bethlehem, which they humbly contemplate through an opening in the wall. “The more one examines this picture, the greater one’s astonishment at the amount of work which Memlinc has lavished on it, at the exquisite beauty of the various scenes, the marvellous ingenuity displayed in separating them one from another, and the skill with which they balance and are brought into one harmonious whole.” [Illustration: PLATE VI.--MARTYRDOM OF SAINT URSULA. This forms the eighth panel of the famous shrine, completed in 1489 for the Hospital of Saint John at Bruges, where it may be seen. The archer is a portrait of the celebrated Dschem, brother of the Sultan Bajazet, taken prisoner at Rhodes in 1482, copied from a portrait in the possession of Charles the Bold.] The Turin altarpiece was completed not later than 1478, in which year William Vrelant gave it to the Guild of Saint Luke and Saint John (Stationers); the Munich one at any rate some time before Easter 1480, at which date the donor presented it to the Guild of Tanners. But already then Memlinc had undertaken the triptych in the Hospital of Saint John painted to the order of its spiritual master, Brother John Floreins, acknowledged to be technically the most perfect work he completed before the end of 1480; and also the larger triptych for the high altar of the Hospital church. VI MASTERPIECES AND DEATH Meanwhile the contest in which the burghers of Bruges had become involved through the disputes between the States of Flanders and Maximilian over the guardianship of his son, was precipitating the decay of the town which the relentless forces of Nature had long since decreed. As early as 1410 the navigation of the great haven of the Zwijn had become impeded, and so rapidly had the silting up advanced that before the close of the century no vessel of any considerable draught was able to enter the port of Damme. Entirely engrossed in the safeguarding of the remnant of their privileges, no serious effort was made to combat the mischief, and in the end Bruges found herself absolutely cut off from the sea. On the other hand, in the enjoyment of peace and the greater security it engendered, Antwerp was slowly asserting herself and gradually attracting to her quays the merchant princes from the littoral of the Zwijn; and as commerce imperceptibly gravitated towards the city by the Scheldt the foreign consuls one by one forsook the doomed emporium of the Hanseatic League. Memlinc, pursuing the even tenor of his life, continued to produce with unabated ardour and undiminished skill, and with this period--the last fourteen years of his life--is associated the most celebrated of all his works, the marvellous Shrine of Saint Ursula, the gem of the priceless collection preserved to this day in the old chapter-room of Saint John’s Hospital. When this masterpiece was first undertaken we are not in a position to say, but it was completed in 1489, and on the 21st day of October in that year the relics for whose safe keeping it had been designed were deposited within it. But to the eighties belong other memorable productions. In 1484 was finished the interior of the altarpiece for the Moreel chantry in the Church of Saint James, now housed in the Town Gallery at Bruges; in 1487 was painted the portrait of a man preserved in the Gallery of the Offices at Florence, and also was completed the wonderful diptych for Martin van Nieuwenhove, whose portrait we reproduce as the finest example of Memlinc’s work in that particular department of art; and in 1490 the finishing touches were put to the picture in the Louvre of the Madonna and Child, to whom saintly patrons are presenting the family of James Floreins, a younger brother of the donor of the triptych picturing the Adoration of the Magi which, as we have seen, was completed in 1479. But work, which always spelt happiness to Memlinc, meant something more to him in this decade of his career. Death in 1487 robbed him of his wife. One pictures to oneself the bereaved artist seeking solace from the grief of his widowed home in intensified application to his art. The refining discipline of sorrow was exercising its softening influence on a nature of whose religious fervour and deep piety his life-work is an abiding testimony. Absorbed in the production of the Shrine of Saint Ursula, does not the instinct of human sympathy suggest to us the artist spending himself in this inimitable work for a monument of his love worthy of the memory of the helpmate who had devoted her life to enhance the happiness of his own, herein seeking and finding surcease of the sorrow that now overshadowed his life, the burden of work balancing the burden of grief? And what a monument! So familiar is the legend and the unique interpretation of it he has left us, one feels it would be a work of supererogation to dwell on the story. But the treatment, viewed by the light of Memlinc’s bereavement, discloses fresh beauties in every panel. Critics have dwelt on the unreality of the death scenes in this shrine. Memlinc, as we have had sufficient occasion to observe, shrank from the painful expounding of evil. But for him death had no terrors: it was but the passing over to the ineffable reward of a well-spent life, and this innate feeling he conveys to us in the placid acceptance of death by Saint Ursula and her virgin band as but a stepping across the threshold to everlasting bliss. These critics, on the contrary, look for the betrayal of fear and anguish, for the manifestation of human suffering: but, like the martyrs of the early Church, we find these victims of the ruthless Huns not alone meeting their death in a spirit of resignation, but welcoming it with abounding peace and a joyful self-surrender, strong in the hope and faith of the hereafter: as the artist himself was wistfully looking forward to the day and the hour that would reunite him there to the one he had loved best on earth. Turning to the other works of this period which we have mentioned, the Moreel altarpiece arrests our attention. Apart from the particular friendship which linked him with William Vrelant and the brothers Floreins, few men were more likely to attract him than the donor of this painting. The great-grandson of a Savoyard, Morelli, who had settled in Bruges in 1336, William Moreel, a member of the Corporation of Grocers, after filling various civic offices, was elected burgomaster of Bruges in 1478, and again in the troublous days of 1483. His standing is sufficiently attested by the record that in 1491 only ten of his fellow-citizens were taxed at a higher rate. Able and strong-willed, a capable financier and ardent politician, he was ever foremost in defending the rights and liberties of his country, and to such purpose that Maximilian, who had imprisoned him in 1481, refused when he made his peace with the States of Flanders, on 28th June 1485, to include him in the general amnesty. He retired to Nieuport, but returned to Bruges in 1488 and was chosen as treasurer of the town, and in July 1489 was presented by the magistrates with the sum of £100 in recognition of services rendered. Reference has been made to the independent portraits of Moreel, his wife, and one of his daughters. In the triptych under notice the whole family are gathered together, the father and his five sons, his wife Barbara van Vlaenderberch and their eleven daughters. The donor’s head is probably a copy of the Brussels panel, assuming that at the time it was painted, Moreel was still in prison; while that of his wife, more careworn and aged, bears testimony to the anxiety occasioned her by her husband’s confinement. This painting, too, will afford the critics who love to find fault
of 82 companies in which it invests, "Friends, Ivory, and Sime" found that only a quarter had clear anti-corruption management and accountability systems in place. Tellingly only 35 countries signed the 1997 OECD "Convention on Combating Bribery of Foreign Public Officials in International Business Transactions" - including four non-OECD members: Chile, Argentina, Bulgaria, and Brazil. The convention has been in force since February 1999 and is only one of many OECD anti-corruption drives, among which are SIGMA (Support for Improvement in Governance and Management in Central and Eastern European countries), ACN (Anti-Corruption Network for Transition Economies in Europe), and FATF (the Financial Action Task Force on Money Laundering). Moreover, The moral authority of those who preach against corruption in poor countries - the officials of the IMF, the World Bank, the EU, the OECD - is strained by their ostentatious lifestyle, conspicuous consumption, and "pragmatic" morality. II. What to do? What is Being Done? Two years ago, I proposed a taxonomy of corruption, venality, and graft. I suggested this cumulative definition: (a) The withholding of a service, information, or goods that, by law, and by right, should have been provided or divulged. (b) The provision of a service, information, or goods that, by law, and by right, should not have been provided or divulged. (c) That the withholding or the provision of said service, information, or goods are in the power of the withholder or the provider to withhold or to provide AND That the withholding or the provision of said service, information, or goods constitute an integral and substantial part of the authority or the function of the withholder or the provider. (d) That the service, information, or goods that are provided or divulged are provided or divulged against a benefit or the promise of a benefit from the recipient and as a result of the receipt of this specific benefit or the promise to receive such benefit. (e) That the service, information, or goods that are withheld are withheld because no benefit was provided or promised by the recipient. There is also what the World Bank calls "State Capture" defined thus: "The actions of individuals, groups, or firms, both in the public and private sectors, to influence the formation of laws, regulations, decrees, and other government policies to their own advantage as a result of the illicit and non-transparent provision of private benefits to public officials." We can classify corrupt and venal behaviours according to their outcomes: (a) Income Supplement - Corrupt actions whose sole outcome is the supplementing of the income of the provider without affecting the "real world" in any manner. (b) Acceleration or Facilitation Fees - Corrupt practices whose sole outcome is to accelerate or facilitate decision making, the provision of goods and services or the divulging of information. (c) Decision Altering Fees - Bribes and promises of bribes which alter decisions or affect them, or which affect the formation of policies, laws, regulations, or decrees beneficial to the bribing entity or person. (d) Information Altering Fees - Backhanders and bribes that subvert the flow of true and complete information within a society or an economic unit (for instance, by selling professional diplomas, certificates, or permits). (e) Reallocation Fees - Benefits paid (mainly to politicians and political decision makers) in order to affect the allocation of economic resources and material wealth or the rights thereto. Concessions, licenses, permits, assets privatized, tenders awarded are all subject to reallocation fees. To eradicate corruption, one must tackle both giver and taker. History shows that all effective programs shared these common elements: (a) The persecution of corrupt, high-profile, public figures, multinationals, and institutions (domestic and foreign). This demonstrates that no one is above the law and that crime does not pay. (b) The conditioning of international aid, credits, and investments on a monitored reduction in corruption levels. The structural roots of corruption should be tackled rather than merely its symptoms. (c) The institution of incentives to avoid corruption, such as a higher pay, the fostering of civic pride, "good behaviour" bonuses, alternative income and pension plans, and so on. (d) In many new countries (in Asia, Africa, and Eastern Europe) the very concepts of "private" versus "public" property are fuzzy and impermissible behaviours are not clearly demarcated. Massive investments in education of the public and of state officials are required. (e) Liberalization and deregulation of the economy. Abolition of red tape, licensing, protectionism, capital controls, monopolies, discretionary, non-public, procurement. Greater access to information and a public debate intended to foster a "stakeholder society". (f) Strengthening of institutions: the police, the customs, the courts, the government, its agencies, the tax authorities - under time limited foreign management and supervision. Awareness to corruption and graft is growing - though it mostly results in lip service. The Global Coalition for Africa adopted anti-corruption guidelines in 1999. The otherwise opaque Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) forum is now championing transparency and good governance. The UN is promoting its pet convention against corruption. The G-8 asked its Lyon Group of senior experts on transnational crime to recommend ways to fight corruption related to large money flows and money laundering. The USA and the Netherlands hosted global forums on corruption - as will South Korea next year. The OSCE is rumored to respond with its own initiative, in collaboration with the US Congressional Helsinki Commission. The southeastern Europe Stability Pact sports its own Stability Pact Anti-corruption Initiative (SPAI). It held its first conference in September 2001 in Croatia. More than 1200 delegates participated in the 10th International Anti-Corruption Conference in Prague last year. The conference was attended by the Czech prime minister, the Mexican president, and the head of the Interpol. The most potent remedy against corruption is sunshine - free, accessible, and available information disseminated and probed by an active opposition, uncompromised press, and assertive civic organizations and NGO's. In the absence of these, the fight against official avarice and criminality is doomed to failure. With them, it stands a chance. Corruption can never be entirely eliminated - but it can be restrained and its effects confined. The cooperation of good people with trustworthy institutions is indispensable. Corruption can be defeated only from the inside, though with plenty of outside help. It is a process of self-redemption and self-transformation. It is the real transition. Money Laundering in A Changed World Israel has always turned a blind eye to the origin of funds deposited by Jews from South Africa to Russia. In Britain it is perfectly legal to hide the true ownership of a company. Underpaid Asian bank clerks on immigrant work permits in the Gulf states rarely require identity documents from the mysterious and well- connected owners of multi-million dollar deposits. Hawaladars continue plying their paperless and trust-based trade - the transfer of billions of US dollars around the world. American and Swiss banks collaborate with dubious correspondent banks in off shore centres. Multinationals shift money through tax free territories in what is euphemistically known as "tax planning". Internet gambling outfits and casinos serve as fronts for narco-dollars. British Bureaux de Change launder up to 2.6 billion British pounds annually. The 500 Euro note will make it much easier to smuggle cash out of Europe. A French parliamentary committee accuses the City of London of being a money laundering haven in a 400 page report. Intelligence services cover the tracks of covert operations by opening accounts in obscure tax havens, from Cyprus to Nauru. Money laundering, its venues and techniques, are an integral part of the economic fabric of the world. Business as usual? Not really. In retrospect, as far as money laundering goes, September 11 may be perceived as a watershed as important as the precipitous collapse of communism in 1989. Both events have forever altered the patterns of the global flows of illicit capital. What is Money Laundering? Strictly speaking, money laundering is the age-old process of disguising the illegal origin and criminal nature of funds (obtained in sanctions-busting arms sales, smuggling, trafficking in humans, organized crime, drug trafficking, prostitution rings, embezzlement, insider trading, bribery, and computer fraud) by moving them untraceably and investing them in legitimate businesses, securities, or bank deposits. But this narrow definition masks the fact that the bulk of money laundered is the result of tax evasion, tax avoidance, and outright tax fraud, such as the "VAT carousel scheme" in the EU (moving goods among businesses in various jurisdictions to capitalize on differences in VAT rates). Tax-related laundering nets between 10-20 billion US dollars annually from France and Russia alone. The confluence of criminal and tax averse funds in money laundering networks serves to obscure the sources of both. The Scale of the Problem According to a 1996 IMF estimate, money laundered annually amounts to 2-5% of world GDP (between 800 billion and 2 trillion US dollars in today's terms). The lower figure is considerably larger than an average European economy, such as Spain's. The System It is important to realize that money laundering takes place within the banking system. Big amounts of cash are spread among numerous accounts (sometimes in free economic zones, financial off shore centers, and tax havens), converted to bearer financial instruments (money orders, bonds), or placed with trusts and charities. The money is then transferred to other locations, sometimes as bogus payments for "goods and services" against fake or inflated invoices issued by holding companies owned by lawyers or accountants on behalf of unnamed beneficiaries. The transferred funds are re- assembled in their destination and often "shipped" back to the point of origin under a new identity. The laundered funds are then invested in the legitimate economy. It is a simple procedure - yet an effective one. It results in either no paper trail - or too much of it. The accounts are invariably liquidated and all traces erased. Why is it a Problem? Criminal and tax evading funds are idle and non-productive. Their injection, however surreptitiously, into the economy transforms them into a productive (and cheap) source of capital. Why is this negative? Because it corrupts government officials, banks and their officers, contaminates legal sectors of the economy, crowds out legitimate and foreign capital, makes money supply unpredictable and uncontrollable, and increases cross-border capital movements, thereby enhancing the volatility of exchange rates. A multilateral, co-ordinated, effort (exchange of information, uniform laws, extra-territorial legal powers) is required to counter the international dimensions of money laundering. Many countries opt in because money laundering has also become a domestic political and economic concern. The United Nations, the Bank for International Settlements, the OECD's FATF, the EU, the Council of Europe, the Organisation of American States, all published anti-money laundering standards. Regional groupings were formed (or are being established) in the Caribbean, Asia, Europe, southern Africa, western Africa, and Latin America. Money Laundering in the Wake of the September 11 Attacks Regulation The least important trend is the tightening of financial regulations and the establishment or enhancement of compulsory (as opposed to industry or voluntary) regulatory and enforcement agencies. New legislation in the US which amounts to extending the powers of the CIA domestically and of the DOJ extra-territorially, was rather xenophobically described by a DOJ official, Michael Chertoff, as intended to "make sure the American banking system does not become a haven for foreign corrupt leaders or other kinds of foreign organized criminals." Privacy and bank secrecy laws have been watered down. Collaboration with off shore "shell" banks has been banned. Business with clients of correspondent banks was curtailed. Banks were effectively transformed into law enforcement agencies, responsible to verify both the identities of their (foreign) clients and the source and origin of their funds. Cash transactions were partly criminalized. And the securities and currency trading industry, insurance companies, and money transfer services are subjected to growing scrutiny as a conduit for "dirty cash". Still, such legislation is highly ineffective. The American Bankers' Association puts the cost of compliance with the laxer anti-money- laundering laws in force in 1998 at 10 billion US dollars - or more than 10 million US dollars per obtained conviction. Even when the system does work, critical alerts drown in the torrent of reports mandated by the regulations. One bank actually reported a suspicious transaction in the account of one of the September 11 hijackers - only to be ignored. The Treasury Department established Operation Green Quest, an investigative team charged with monitoring charities, NGO's, credit card fraud, cash smuggling, counterfeiting, and the Hawala networks. This is not without precedent. Previous teams tackled drug money, the biggest money laundering venue ever, BCCI (Bank of Credit and Commerce International), and... Al Capone. The more veteran, New- York based, El-Dorado anti money laundering Task Force (established in 1992) will lend a hand and share information. More than 150 countries promised to co-operate with the US in its fight against the financing of terrorism - 81 of which (including the Bahamas, Argentina, Kuwait, Indonesia, Pakistan, Switzerland, and the EU) actually froze assets of suspicious individuals, suspected charities, and dubious firms, or passed new anti money laundering laws and stricter regulations (the Philippines, the UK, Germany). A tabled EU directive would force lawyers to disclose incriminating information about their clients' money laundering activities. Pakistan initiated a "loyalty scheme", awarding expatriates who prefer official bank channels to the much maligned (but cheaper and more efficient) Hawala, with extra baggage allowance and special treatment in airports. The magnitude of this international collaboration is unprecedented. But this burst of solidarity may yet fade. China, for instance, refuses to chime in. As a result, the statement issued by APEC last week on measures to stem the finances of terrorism was lukewarm at best. And, protestations of close collaboration to the contrary, Saudi Arabia has done nothing to combat money laundering "Islamic charities" (of which it is proud) on its territory. Still, a universal code is emerging, based on the work of the OECD's FATF (Financial Action Task Force) since 1989 (its famous "40 recommendations") and on the relevant UN conventions. All countries are expected by the West, on pain of possible sanctions, to adopt a uniform legal platform (including reporting on suspicious transactions and freezing assets) and to apply it to all types of financial intermediaries, not only to banks. This is likely to result in... The decline of off shore financial centres and tax havens By far the most important outcome of this new-fangled juridical homogeneity is the acceleration of the decline of off shore financial and banking centres and tax havens. The distinction between off-shore and on-shore will vanish. Of the FATF's "name and shame" blacklist of 19 "black holes" (poorly regulated territories, including Israel, Indonesia, and Russia) - 11 have substantially revamped their banking laws and financial regulators. Coupled with the tightening of US, UK, and EU laws and the wider interpretation of money laundering to include political corruption, bribery, and embezzlement - this would make life a lot more difficult for venal politicians and major tax evaders. The likes of Sani Abacha (late President of Nigeria), Ferdinand Marcos (late President of the Philippines), Vladimiro Montesinos (former, now standing trial, chief of the intelligence services of Peru), or Raul Salinas (the brother of Mexico's President) - would have found it impossible to loot their countries to the same disgraceful extent in today's financial environment. And Osama bin Laden would not have been able to wire funds to US accounts from the Sudanese Al Shamal Bank, the "correspondent" of 33 American banks. Quo Vadis, Money Laundering? Crime is resilient and fast adapting to new realities. Organized crime is in the process of establishing an alternative banking system, only tangentially connected to the West's, in the fringes, and by proxy. This is done by purchasing defunct banks or banking licences in territories with lax regulation, cash economies, corrupt politicians, no tax collection, but reasonable infrastructure. The countries of Eastern Europe - Yugoslavia (Montenegro and Serbia), Macedonia, Ukraine, Moldova, Belarus, Albania, to mention a few - are natural targets. In some cases, organized crime is so all- pervasive and local politicians so corrupt that the distinction between criminal and politician is spurious. Gradually, money laundering rings move their operations to these new, accommodating territories. The laundered funds are used to purchase assets in intentionally botched privatizations, real estate, existing businesses, and to finance trading operations. The wasteland that is Eastern Europe craves private capital and no questions are asked by investor and recipient alike. The next frontier is cyberspace. Internet banking, Internet gambling, day trading, foreign exchange cyber transactions, e-cash, e-commerce, fictitious invoicing of the launderer's genuine credit cards - hold the promise of the future. Impossible to track and monitor, ex-territorial, totally digital, amenable to identity theft and fake identities - this is the ideal vehicle for money launderers. This nascent platform is way too small to accommodate the enormous amounts of cash laundered daily - but in ten years time, it may. The problems is likely to be exacerbated by the introduction of smart cards, electronic purses, and payment-enabled mobile phones. In its "Report on Money Laundering Typologies" (February 2001) the FATF was able to document concrete and suspected abuses of online banking, Internet casinos, and web-based financial services. It is difficult to identify a customer and to get to know it in cyberspace, was the alarming conclusion. It is equally complicated to establish jurisdiction. Many capable professionals - stockbrokers, lawyers, accountants, traders, insurance brokers, real estate agents, sellers of high value items such as gold, diamonds, and art - are employed or co- opted by money laundering operations. Money launderers are likely to make increased use of global, around the clock, trading in foreign currencies and derivatives. These provide instantaneous transfer of funds and no audit trail. The underlying securities involved are susceptible to market manipulation and fraud. Complex insurance policies (with the "wrong" beneficiaries), and the securitization of receivables, leasing contracts, mortgages, and low grade bonds are already used in money laundering schemes. In general, money laundering goes well with risk arbitraging financial instruments. Trust-based, globe-spanning, money transfer systems based on authentication codes and generations of commercial relationships cemented in honour and blood - are another wave of the future. The Hawala and Chinese networks in Asia, the Black Market Peso Exchange (BMPE) in Latin America, other evolving courier systems in Eastern Europe (mainly in Russia, Ukraine, and Albania) and in Western Europe (mainly in France and Spain). In conjunction with encrypted e-mail and web anonymizers, these networks are virtually impenetrable. As emigration increases, diasporas established, and transport and telecommunications become ubiquitous, "ethnic banking" along the tradition of the Lombards and the Jews in medieval Europe may become the the preferred venue of money laundering. September 11 may have retarded world civilization in more than one way. Hawala, or the Bank that Never Was I. OVERVIEW In the wake of the September 11 terrorist attacks on the USA, attention was drawn to the age-old, secretive, and globe-spanning banking system developed in Asia and known as "Hawala" (to change, in Arabic). It is based on a short term, discountable, negotiable, promissory note (or bill of exchange) called "Hundi". While not limited to Moslems, it has come to be identified with "Islamic Banking". Islamic Law (Sharia'a) regulates commerce and finance in the Fiqh Al Mua'malat, (transactions amongst people). Modern Islamic banks are overseen by the Shari'a Supervisory Board of Islamic Banks and Institutions ("The Shari'a Committee"). The Shi'a "Islamic Laws according to the Fatawa of Ayatullah al Uzama Syed Ali al-Husaini Seestani" has this to say about Hawala banking: "2298. If a debtor directs his creditor to collect his debt from the third person, and the creditor accepts the arrangement, the third person will, on completion of all the conditions to be explained later, become the debtor. Thereafter, the creditor cannot demand his debt from the first debtor." The prophet Muhammad (a cross border trader of goods and commodities by profession) encouraged the free movement of goods and the development of markets. Numerous Moslem scholars railed against hoarding and harmful speculation (market cornering and manipulation known as "Gharar"). Moslems were the first to use promissory notes and assignment, or transfer of debts via bills of exchange ("Hawala"). Among modern banking instruments, only floating and, therefore, uncertain, interest payments ("Riba" and "Jahala"), futures contracts, and forfeiting are frowned upon. But agile Moslem traders easily and often circumvent these religious restrictions by creating "synthetic Murabaha (contracts)" identical to Western forward and futures contracts. Actually, the only allowed transfer or trading of debts (as distinct from the underlying commodities or goods) is under the Hawala. "Hawala" consists of transferring money (usually across borders and in order to avoid taxes or the need to bribe officials) without physical or electronic transfer of funds. Money changers ("Hawaladar") receive cash in one country, no questions asked. Correspondent hawaladars in another country dispense an identical amount (minus minimal fees and commissions) to a recipient or, less often, to a bank account. E-mail, or letter ("Hundi") carrying couriers are used to convey the necessary information (the amount of money, the date it has to be paid on) between Hawaladars. The sender provides the recipient with code words (or numbers, for instance the serial numbers of currency notes), a digital encrypted message, or agreed signals (like handshakes), to be used to retrieve the money. Big Hawaladars use a chain of middlemen in cities around the globe. But most Hawaladars are small businesses. Their Hawala activity is a sideline or moonlighting operation. "Chits" (verbal agreements) substitute for certain written records. In bigger operations there are human "memorizers" who serve as arbiters in case of dispute. The Hawala system requires unbounded trust. Hawaladars are often members of the same family, village, clan, or ethnic group. It is a system older than the West. The ancient Chinese had their own "Hawala" - "fei qian" (or "flying money"). Arab traders used it to avoid being robbed on the Silk Road. Cheating is punished by effective ex- communication and "loss of honour" - the equivalent of an economic death sentence. Physical violence is rarer but not unheard of. Violence sometimes also erupts between money recipients and robbers who are after the huge quantities of physical cash sloshing about the system. But these, too, are rare events, as rare as bank robberies. One result of this effective social regulation is that commodity traders in Asia shift hundreds of millions of US dollars per trade based solely on trust and the verbal commitment of their counterparts. Hawala arrangements are used to avoid customs duties, consumption taxes, and other trade-related levies. Suppliers provide importers with lower prices on their invoices, and get paid the difference via Hawala. Legitimate transactions and tax evasion constitute the bulk of Hawala operations. Modern Hawala networks emerged in the 1960's and 1970's to circumvent official bans on gold imports in Southeast Asia and to facilitate the transfer of hard earned wages of expatriates to their families ("home remittances") and their conversion at rates more favourable (often double) than the government's. Hawala provides a cheap (it costs c. 1% of the amount transferred), efficient, and frictionless alternative to morbid and corrupt domestic financial institutions. It is Western Union without the hi- tech gear and the exorbitant transfer fees. Unfortunately, these networks have been hijacked and compromised by drug traffickers (mainly in Afganistan and Pakistan), corrupt officials, secret services, money launderers, organized crime, and terrorists. Pakistani Hawala networks alone move up to 5 billion US dollars annually according to estimates by Pakistan's Minister of Finance, Shaukut Aziz. In 1999, Institutional Investor Magazine identified 1100 money brokers in Pakistan and transactions that ran as high as 10 million US dollars apiece. As opposed to stereotypes, most Hawala networks are not controlled by Arabs, but by Indian and Pakistani expatriates and immigrants in the Gulf. The Hawala network in India has been brutally and ruthlessly demolished by Indira Ghandi (during the emergency regime imposed in 1975), but Indian nationals still play a big part in international Hawala networks. Similar networks in Sri Lanka, the Philippines, and Bangladesh have also been eradicated. The OECD's Financial Action Task Force (FATF) says that: "Hawala remains a significant method for large numbers of businesses of all sizes and individuals to repatriate funds and purchase gold.... It is favoured because it usually costs less than moving funds through the banking system, it operates 24 hours per day and every day of the year, it is virtually completely reliable, and there is minimal paperwork required." (Organisation for Economic Co-Operation and Development (OECD), "Report on Money Laundering Typologies 1999-2000," Financial Action Task Force, FATF-XI, February 3, 2000, at http://www.oecd.org/fatf/pdf/TY2000_en.pdf ) Hawala networks closely feed into Islamic banks throughout the world and to commodity trading in South Asia. There are more than 200 Islamic banks in the USA alone and many thousands in Europe, North and South Africa, Saudi Arabia, the Gulf states (especially in the free zone of Dubai and in Bahrain), Pakistan, Malaysia, Indonesia, and other South East Asian countries. By the end of 1998, the overt (read: tip of the iceberg) liabilities of these financial institutions amounted to 148 billion US dollars. They dabbled in equipment leasing, real estate leasing and development, corporate equity, and trade/structured trade and commodities financing (usually in consortia called "Mudaraba"). While previously confined to the Arab peninsula and to south and east Asia, this mode of traditional banking became truly international in the 1970's, following the unprecedented flow of wealth to many Moslem nations due to the oil shocks and the emergence of the Asian tigers. Islamic banks joined forces with corporations, multinationals, and banks in the West to finance oil exploration and drilling, mining, and agribusiness. Many leading law firms in the West (such as Norton Rose, Freshfields, Clyde and Co. and Clifford Chance) have "Islamic Finance" teams which are familiar with Islam-compatible commercial contracts. II. HAWALA AND TERRORISM Recent anti-terrorist legislation in the US and the UK allows government agencies to regularly supervise and inspect businesses that are suspected of being a front for the ''Hawala'' banking system, makes it a crime to smuggle more than $10,000 in cash across USA borders, and empowers the Treasury secretary (and its Financial Crimes Enforcement Network - FinCEN) to tighten record-keeping and reporting rules for banks and financial institutions based in the USA. A new inter-agency Foreign Terrorist Asset Tracking Center (FTAT) was set up. A 1993 moribund proposed law requiring US-based Halawadar to register and to report suspicious transactions may be revived. These relatively radical measures reflect the belief that the al-Qaida network of Osama bin Laden uses the Hawala system to raise and move funds across national borders. A Hawaladar in Pakistan (Dihab Shill) was identified as the financier in the attacks on the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998. But the USA is not the only country to face terrorism financed by Hawala networks. A few months ago, the Delhi police, the Indian government's Enforcement Directorate (ED), and the Military Intelligence (MI) arrested six Jammu Kashmir Islamic Front (JKIF) terrorists. The arrests led to the exposure of an enormous web of Hawala institutions in Delhi, aided and abetted, some say, by the ISI (Inter Services Intelligence, Pakistan's security services). The Hawala network was used to funnel money to terrorist groups in the disputed Kashmir Valley. Luckily, the common perception that Hawala financing is paperless is wrong. The transfer of information regarding the funds often leaves digital (though heavily encrypted) trails. Couriers and "contract memorizers", gold dealers, commodity merchants, transporters, and moneylenders can be apprehended and interrogated. Written, physical, letters are still the favourite mode of communication among small and medium Hawaladars, who also invariably resort to extremely detailed single entry bookkeeping. And the sudden appearance and disappearance of funds in bank accounts still have to be explained. Moreover, the sheer scale of the amounts involved entails the collaboration of off shore banks and more established financial institutions in the West. Such flows of funds affect the local money markets in Asia and are instantaneously reflected in interest rates charged to frequent borrowers, such as wholesalers. Spending and consumption patterns change discernibly after such influxes. Most of the money ends up in prime world banks behind flimsy business facades. Hackers in Germany claimed (without providing proof) to have infiltrated Hawala-related bank accounts. The problem is that banks and financial institutions - and not only in dodgy offshore havens ("black holes" in the lingo) - clam up and refuse to divulge information about their clients. Banking is largely a matter of fragile trust between bank and customer and tight secrecy. Bankers are reluctant to undermine either. Banks use mainframe computers which can rarely be hacked through cyberspace and can be compromised only physically in close co-operation with insiders. The shadier the bank - the more formidable its digital defenses. The use of numbered accounts (outlawed in Austria, for instance, only recently) and pseudonyms (still possible in Lichtenstein) complicates matters. Bin Laden's accounts are unlikely to bear his name. He has collaborators. Hawala networks are often used to launder money, or to evade taxes. Even when employed for legitimate purposes, to diversify the risk involved in the transfer of large sums, Hawaladars apply techniques borrowed from money laundering. Deposits are fragmented and wired to hundreds of banks the world over ("starburst"). Sometimes, the money ends up in the account of origin ("boomerang"). Hence the focus on payment clearing and settlement systems. Most countries have only one such system, the repository of data regarding all banking (and most non-banking) transactions in the country. Yet, even this is a partial solution. Most national systems maintain records for 6-12 months, private settlement and clearing systems for even less. Yet, the crux of the problem is not the Hawala or the Hawaladars. The corrupt and inept governments of Asia are to blame for not regulating their banking systems, for over-regulating everything else, for not fostering competition, for throwing public money at bad debts and at worse borrowers, for over-taxing, for robbing people of their life savings through capital controls, for tearing at the delicate fabric of trust between customer and bank (Pakistan, for instance, froze all foreign exchange accounts two years ago). Perhaps if Asia had reasonably expedient, reasonably priced, reasonably regulated, user-friendly banks - Osama bin Laden would have found it impossible to finance his mischief so invisibly. Straf - Corruption in Central and Eastern Europe The three policemen barked "straf", "straf" in unison. It was a Russianized version of the German word for "fine" and a euphemism for bribe. I and my fiancée were stranded in an empty ally at the heart of Moscow, physically encircled by these young bullies, an ominous propinquity. They held my passport ransom and began to drag me to a police station nearby. We paid. To do the fashionable thing and to hold the moral high ground is rare. Yet, denouncing corruption and fighting it satisfies both conditions. Such hectoring is usually the preserve of well-heeled bureaucrats, driving utility vehicles and banging away at wireless laptops. The General Manager of the IMF makes 400,000 US dollars a year, tax-free, and perks. This is the equivalent of 2,300 (!) monthly salaries of a civil servant in Macedonia - or 7,000 monthly salaries of a teacher or a doctor in Yugoslavia, Moldova, Belarus, or Albania. He flies only first class and each one of his air tickets is worth the bi-annual income of a Macedonian factory worker. His shareholders - among them poor and developing countries - are forced to cough up these exorbitant fees and to finance the luxurious lifestyle of the likes of Kohler and Wolfensohn. And then they are made to listen to the IMF lecture them on belt tightening and how uncompetitive their economies are due to their expensive labour force. To me, such a double standard is the epitome of corruption. Organizations such as the IMF and World Bank will never be possessed of a shred of moral authority in these parts of the world unless and until they forgo their conspicuous consumption. Yet, corruption is not a monolithic practice. Nor are its outcomes universally deplorable or damaging. One would do best to adopt a utilitarian and discerning approach to it. The advent of moral relativism has taught us that "right" and "wrong" are flexible, context dependent and culture-sensitive yardsticks. What amounts to venality in one culture (Slovenia) is considered no more than gregariousness or hospitality in another (Macedonia). Moreover, corruption is often "imported" by multinationals, foreign investors, and expats. It is introduced by them to all levels of governments, often in order to expedite matters or secure a beneficial outcome. To eradicate corruption, one must tackle both giver and taker. Thus, we are better off asking "cui bono" than "is it the right thing to do". Phenomenologically, "corruption" is a common - and misleading - label for a group of behaviours. One of the following criteria must apply: (a) The withholding of a service, information, or goods that, by law, and by right, should have been provided or divulged. To have a phone installed in Russia one must openly bribe the installer (according to a rather rigid tariff). In many of the former republics of Yugoslavia, it is impossible to obtain statistics or other data (the salaries of senior public officeholders, for instance) without resorting to kickbacks. (b) The provision of a service, information, or goods that, by law, and by right, should not have been provided or divulged. Tenders in the Czech Republic are often won through bribery. The botched privatizations all over the former Eastern Bloc constitute a massive transfer of wealth to select members of a nomenklatura. Licences and concessions are often granted in Bulgaria and the rest of the Balkan as means of securing political allegiance or paying off old political "debts". (c) That the withholding or the provision of said service, information, or goods are in the power of the withholder or the provider to withhold or to provide AND That the withholding or the provision of said service, information, or goods constitute an integral and substantial part of the authority or the function of the withholder or the provider. The post-communist countries in transition are a dichotomous lot. On the one hand, they are intensely and stiflingly bureaucratic. On the other hand
in principle, having for its fundamental maxim brotherly love. In this, communism is much more Christian than the hankering after privileges of the old aristocracy, or the unbounded avarice of the plutocracy.” There are other false accusations brought against communism and socialism, which it is not necessary to examine now. A well-disposed person will scarcely experience difficulty in separating them from scientific argument. It behooves us to disabuse our minds of all prejudice and ill-will. It is _only_ thus that we shall be able to meet and overcome the social dangers which threaten even our own country in a not very distant future. We have never had a _permanent_ laboring class, but with the increase of population one is rapidly developing. If it is _now_ becoming extremely difficult for the laborer to rise, what will the condition of things be when we number two hundred millions? And that time is not so far off. At our present rate of increase, it will come when some of us are still living. It is a laboring class without hope of improvement for themselves or their children which will first test our institutions. But he must be singularly blind or unacquainted with the views of the various social classes who is unable to detect even now, in certain quarters, the formation of habits and modes of thought characteristic of the poorer classes in Europe. The fact of this growth was twice brought home to me forcibly two winters ago. As I was walking by the Union League Club-house, in New York city, at the time of its house-warming, while the people were driving up in their fine carriages, one poor fellow stood on the opposite side of the street watching the ladies enter in their luxurious and extravagant toilets. He was a good-looking, intelligent-appearing man, but wore no overcoat. It was a cold evening, and he seemed to me to be shivering. He was evidently thinking of the difference between his lot and that of the fashionable people he was observing; and I heard him mutter bitterly to himself, “A revolution will yet come and level that fine building to the ground.” A friend of mine, about the same time, passed a couple of laborers as he was walking by Mr. Vanderbilt’s new houses on Fifth Avenue. Some kind of bronze work, I believe, was being carried in, and he heard one of them remark, savagely, “The time will come when that will be melted by fire.” More significant and more ominous still is the reception accorded in this country to a man like John Most, who has been expelled from the social-democratic party in Germany on account of his extreme views, particularly respecting assassination as a means of progress. He has been travelling about the United States, has been warmly received, and listened to with favor by large bodies of workmen while uttering counsels of war and bloodshed. On the 11th of February, 1883, he lectured in Baltimore. It was a cold, rainy, cheerless day, and the sidewalks were so covered with melting snow as to make it extremely unpleasant to venture out of doors. But Most had a full hall of eager listeners. He told the laborers that he had little hope of their overthrowing their oppressors by the use of the ballot. He believed their emancipation would be brought about by violence, as all great reforms in the past had been. He consequently advised them to buy muskets. He said a musket was a good thing to have. If it was not needed now, it could be placed in the corner, and it occupied but little space. The presiding officer, in closing the meeting, emphasized this part of Most’s address particularly. He told the laborers that a piece of paper would never make them free, that a musket was worth a hundred votes, and closed with the lines— “Nur Pulver und Blei, Die machen uns frei”— “lead and powder alone can make us free.” There can be no doubt that a considerable portion of his hearers sympathized with his views. They listened approvingly, and applauded his fiercest remarks most loudly. Nor is it without significance that in New York alone at least three social democratic newspapers are published. Two of the three use the German language; one of these is a weekly only; the other appears in a daily, a weekly, and a special Sunday edition. The third paper is an English weekly, but it announces the appearance of a daily edition in the near future. The motto of one of these papers—Most’s _Freiheit_—is “_Gegen die Tyrannen sind alle Mittel gesetzlich_”—“All measures are legal against tyrants”—_i.e._, against our employers, against capitalists, against all classes superior to the laboring class. It is not, however, necessary to take a pessimistic view of our prospects, for it rests with us to shape the future. If we, as a people, become divided into two great hostile camps—those who possess economic goods and those who do not—the one class devoted to luxury and self-indulgence, the other given up to envy and bitterness—then, indeed, dire evils are in store for us; but we have reason to hope better things. The attitude of clergymen like Dr. Howard Crosby[17] and Dr. Rylance, the generosity of our philanthropists, unparalleled in past history, and the noble efforts of noble women to relieve every kind of suffering and distress, lead us to trust that, as new evils arise, strength and wisdom will be vouchsafed us to conquer them, and that among us the idea of the brotherhood of man will ever become more and more a living reality. CHAPTER II. BABŒUF. Socialism, strictly speaking, denotes simply the social system. It is the opposite of individualism. A socialist[18] is one who looks to society organized in the state for aid in bringing about a more perfect distribution of economic goods and an elevation of humanity. The individualist regards each man not as his brother’s keeper but as his own, and desires every man to work out his own salvation, material and spiritual. His advice to government is expressed in the well-known formula, _laissez-faire, laissez-passer_, that is, let things take care of themselves, do not interfere in the business affairs of the citizens. While the socialist ascribes to the state numerous functions, the individualist admonishes government to do as little as possible. To the one the state is a necessary good; to the other, a necessary evil. But socialism is also used in a popular sense which renders it nearly equivalent to communism, although the two ought to be distinguished. The central idea of communism is economic equality. It is desired by communists that all ranks and differences in society should disappear, and one man be as good as another, to use the popular phrase. The distinctive idea of socialism is distributive justice. It goes back of the processes of modern life to the fact that he who does not work, lives on the labor of others. It aims to distribute economic goods according to the services rendered by the recipients. We see thus that the word socialist is most inclusive. Every communist is a socialist, and something more. Not every socialist is a communist. We might call a communist an extreme socialist, and thus include under socialists both socialists and communists, though it is in general best to make the distinction. We could not include socialists under communists. The socialistic and communistic schemes of modern times may be classified as follows: A. Communism. 1. French and English Communism. 2. Social Democracy. 3. International Communism. B. Socialism. 1. Pure Socialism. 2. State and Professorial Socialism. 3. Christian Socialism. 4. French Collectivism. 5. French Anarchists and Blanquists. 6. Social Democracy. 7. International Socialism. The most general division is that into communism and socialism. As subdivisions, social democracy and the International figure under both of the leading divisions, as these parties include socialists and communists. Under French communism are included adherents of the French Collectivists, Anarchists, and Blanquists. Babœuf and Cabet are perhaps the two leading French representatives of pure communism, Babœuf representing that of the French Revolution.[19] François Noël Babœuf was born in St. Quentin, in the Department of Aisne, in 1764.[20] He appears to have come of a good family, for his father was a major in the Austrian army. The elder Babœuf devoted much attention to his son’s education, and, in particular, took especial pains to give him a good mathematical training; but he died when the young man was only sixteen years of age, and this obliged Babœuf to leave his studies and seek employment. After having filled various subordinate positions, he became a land-surveyor, and was finally elected an administrator of the Department of the Somme; but did not enjoy this post long, for he was soon arrested on a charge of forgery, condemned, and sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment. He escaped to Paris and joined the revolutionary movement. Like Mably and numerous speculative thinkers at that time, he was filled with admiration for the socialistic institutions of the Greeks and Romans. He even called himself Gracchus Babœuf, after the Roman tribune, and founded a paper which he named _Tribune of the People_, and which was the first socialistic newspaper ever published. He signed his articles Caius Gracchus, and in them he attacked the institutions of civilized society and the party which accomplished the Revolution of Thermidor, executed Robespierre and St. Just, and finally terminated the Reign of Terror. His violent abuse of those in authority and his revolutionary projects led to his imprisonment for a few months in 1795. He improved the opportunity to establish a connection with Darthé, Buonarroti and other Jacobins and Terrorists, of whom there were nearly two thousand in the same prison. Upon their release, they formed a conspiracy, called, after its leader, “the conspiracy of Babœuf.” Its object was to overthrow the Directory and introduce the communistic millennium, which they had begun to evolve in the prison. The members of the band called themselves the Equals. They formed a complex and skilfully contrived organization, whose centre was the secret committee of insurrection. This consisted of the following seven members; Babœuf, Buonarroti, Sylvain Maréchal, Felix Lepelletier, Antonelle, Darthé, and Debon. Most of them were journalists. Maréchal was author of a Dictionary of Atheists (“Dictionnaire des Athées”). Paris was divided into districts, in each of which workers and reporters were engaged in propaganda. They did not, however, even know the names of the seven chiefs of the committee of insurrection, a general agent, Didier, acting as intermediary between the committee and other agents. The activity of the leaders was remarkable, and met with a considerable success in winning adherents. In April, 1796, seventeen thousand men were prepared to join them in an insurrection against the Directory and for the establishment of a communistic republic. A Manifesto of the Equals, prepared by Maréchal, was published and scattered broadcast among the people. It contained a development of their programme, and an invitation to join in the proposed movement. Tracts were distributed in large numbers, and incendiary broadsides were from time to time affixed to the walls. One of the leaders, however, proved false, turned informer, and procured the arrest of the chief conspirators on the 10th of May, 1796. After a considerable delay and a long trial, two of them, Babœuf and Darthé, were condemned to death in the following year, while Buonarroti and six others were sentenced to deportation. Sixty-five were tried, but fifty-six were discharged on account of lack of evidence. Babœuf and Darthé were guillotined on the 24th of May, 1797, Babœuf’s last words being, “I wrap myself into a virtuous slumber.”[21] Buonarroti did not suffer deportation, but was instead confined in prison for some time and then allowed to escape to Switzerland, whence he was obliged to flee to Belgium after the Congress of Vienna, because Geneva was unable to tolerate him during the reactionary period which followed. He supported himself by teaching music and other branches of learning, and wrote a remarkable account of the conspiracy in which he had been engaged. It was published in Brussels in 1828, and after the Revolution of July it became a power in France. It revived the memory of Babœuf and his schemes, and rallied a number of followers about the old flag. Babouvism, as Babœuf’s system was called, was thus enabled to play a _rôle_ in French history from 1830 to 1839, when a premature rising of the laborers was easily suppressed.[22] Even to-day, Buonarroti’s work has not ceased to influence the thought of French laborers. Babœuf’s theoretical development of communism, based largely on Morelly’s “Code de la Nature,” is comparatively simple. Its leading idea is expressed in these words: “The aim of society is the happiness of all, and happiness consists in equality.” The fact is emphasized again and again that this equality must be perfect and absolute. It is officially proclaimed that the harmony of the system would be broken if there was one single man in the world richer or more powerful than his fellows. The adherents of this doctrine were ready to sacrifice everything to their desire for equality. “We are prepared,” cried they, “to consent to everything for it, we are prepared even to make _tabula rasa_ to obtain it. Let all the arts perish if need be, provided we retain real equality.”[23] The first article of the official declaration of rights, as established by the secret committee of insurrection, reads: “Nature has given to every man an equal right to the enjoyment of all goods.” In the “proofs” following, it is maintained that all public and private wrongs, as oppressions, tyrannies, wars, and crimes, take their origin in disobedience to this natural law. At least six of the eleven articles of this “Charter of Equality” do little more than repeat in varying form the idea contained in article 1. Article 7, _e.g._, reads: “In a true society there ought to be neither poor nor rich.” Article 10, “The end of the revolution is to destroy inequality and to re-establish the common happiness.” How was equality to be attained? Perhaps it is best to correct at the start a popular error by stating how they did not expect to obtain equality. They were not foolish enough to propose to divide the wealth of society among the various citizens and then allow the production and distribution of economic goods to go on as at present. It is a matter of course that under such circumstances inequalities would again arise within twenty-four hours. This is so perfectly obvious that no communist of note has ever proposed anything so childish and absurd. Yet it is a widely prevalent notion that this is what the communists have desired. One of the Rothschilds of Frankfort-on-the-Main once hearing a poor man complain of his lot, and express a desire for the equality of communism, is said immediately to have put his hand in his pocket, drawn out two or three shillings, and offered them to the poor man as his share of the wealth of a Rothschild, were it equally divided among all the inhabitants of Germany. This is often told as a business man’s concise and practical refutation of communism. It has, however, no significance at all either for or against that economic system. All communists without exception propose that the people as a whole, or some particular division of the people, as a village or commune, should own all the means of production—land, houses, factories, railroads, canals, etc.; that production should be carried on in common; and that officers, selected in one way or another, should distribute among the inhabitants the fruits of their labor. Under such circumstances inequalities could have no opportunity to spring up; nor do we find communistic experiments failing because it is impossible to maintain equality. Where it is really desired, it is not difficult to secure it. As a matter of fact, however, it is not desired by the great masses of any land of Christendom, nor would they for a moment consent to endure it. But to return from this digression. Babœuf proposed to attain equality by degrees. He desired that a large national and common property should be at once formed out of the property of corporations and public institutions. The property of individuals was to be added to this upon their death, as inheritance was to be abolished. All property would thus become nationalized in the course of fifty years. Production was to be carried on in common under officers chosen by popular vote. These same officers, according to the scheme, decide upon the needs and requirements of the different individuals of the society, and divide the products of their common industry. The earth must belong to all, and its fruits must be common property. Officers receive no more than those under them, and a rapid rotation in office prevents the acquirements of habits and thoughts consequent on superior position. No one becomes accustomed to command; no one becomes accustomed to obey. The country is divided into “regions,” and the “regions” into “departments.” There is a central and superior administration for the entire country, an intermediate one for each “region,” and a subordinate one for each “department.” Each administration has its own duties—the lowest coming into contact with individuals, the higher supervising the subordinate boards. Government is absolute, notwithstanding the adoption of the watchword “Liberté.” On its orders citizens are sent from commune to commune, as their services may be required; and the “superfluous” products of one region are transferred to another less fortunate one. The supreme administration must store up the surplus of years of plenty as provision for unfruitful years. It also conducts trade with foreign nations, for which purpose great magazines or store-houses are erected on the frontiers and the borders of the sea. No private individual is allowed to trade with foreign countries, and all merchandise used in such trade is confiscated for the benefit of the community. All intercourse with outside countries is carefully watched to prevent the importation of erroneous ideas and disastrous customs. Even within the country only such publications are allowed as teach the unqualified blessings of equality. Article 3 of the “Organization of the Government of the Community” enumerates the kinds of labor which the law considers useful, and which alone entitle an individual to exercise any political right whatever. They are the following: agriculture, which is especially favored, as being most natural to man; the pastoral life; fishing; navigation; mechanic and manual arts; retail trade; transportation; war; teaching; and the sciences. However, teaching is only then considered useful when it is undertaken by one who has declared his adherence to the principles of the community, and bears a certificate of “civisme.” Literature and the fine arts are not included, being regarded with little favor. The whole scheme is dreary and monotonous. All differences save those relating to age and sex being abolished, equality is even interpreted to mean uniformity. All must be dressed alike, save that distinctions are made for sex and age; all must eat the same quantity of the same kind of food, and all must be educated alike.[24] As the higher goods of life are lightly esteemed, education is restricted to the acquirement of elementary branches of knowledge, and of those practical in a material sense. Comfortable mediocrity in everything is the openly expressed ideal. Children are removed from the family at an early age, and brought up together, to train them in principles of communism, and to prevent the growth of differences and inequalities. All things are contrived to level down and not to level up; to bring the highest down to the plane of stupid, self-satisfied mediocrity, and not to elevate the less fortunate to higher thoughts, feelings, and enjoyments. This most cheerless of all communistic schemes fitly took its origin among those sunk in the most degraded materialism of the French Revolution. CHAPTER III. CABET. It is a relief to turn one’s attention to the plans of Étienne Cabet. They, at least, have the merit of not robbing life of all poetry, sentiment, and trust in something higher and better than food and drink. One might find life tolerable in one of Cabet’s communes; but every noble soul will acknowledge that if life’s ends and aims are all to centre in a full stomach and a warm cloak, then, indeed, life is not worth the living. Cabet, son of a cooper, was born in 1788 in Dijon. He received a good education, became a lawyer, and practised first in his native city, then in Paris. He was appointed attorney-general of Corsica in 1830, but lost his place in the following year on account of his opposition to government. He was elected member of the Chamber of Deputies shortly after, and returned to Paris. He devoted the remainder of his life to literature, politics, and communism. One of his principal works was a “Popular History of the French Revolution from 1789 to 1830.”[25] In a journal which he published at that time, _Le Populaire_, he advocated moderate communistic principles, or Icarian principles, as they were afterwards called. He was condemned to two years’ imprisonment for an article in this paper, in which he attacked the king personally, but he was fortunate enough to escape imprisonment by flight to London. It was here he became acquainted with Sir Thomas More’s “Utopia,” from which he drew a large part of his inspiration. He returned to France in 1839, and published his “Voyage to Icaria,”[26] which he himself called a philosophical and social romance—_Roman philosophique et social_. The title indicates his dreamy character. He describes in this work a previously unknown country, not quite so large as France or England, but as populous and a thousand times more blessed. Peace, wisdom, joy, pleasures, and happiness reign there. Crimes are unknown. It is Icaria; “a second Promised Land, an Eden, an Elysium, a new terrestrial Paradise.”[27] The writer of the “Voyage to Icaria” represents that he met in London Lord William Carisdall, who found in Icaria the one truly happy people he had discovered in his travels. Lord William kept a journal, in which he described this wonder-land, and this, we are told, has been edited and revised for the public with his consent. The object is to show that communism is practicable and is the solution of all social problems. It contains an account of an ideal society, but one which Cabet thought he was able to establish. He made the attempt, choosing Texas as a place in which his ideals were to be realized. He secured the grant of a large tract of land on the Red River, and sent out several advance-guards of Icarians in 1848, who were, however, attacked by the yellow fever, and had disbanded before he arrived in New Orleans with a later detachment. He learned on his arrival that the Mormons had abandoned their settlement in Nauvoo, Ill., and set out for that place with his followers. While the Icarians were in Nauvoo they numbered, all told, at one time fifteen hundred. As Nordhoff, in his “Communistic Societies in the United States,” justly remarks, Cabet might have done something with such a large band, if he had had anything of a business head. But he lacked firmness and perseverance. They met with some success in cultivating their land, established shops, pursued trades, and set up a printing-office; but instead of rejoicing in his prosperity, and laboring to increase it, Cabet was dreaming what he might do if he had half a million, as is evinced by a publication which appeared about that time, entitled “Wenn ich $500,000 hätte”—“If I only had $500,000.” He described the theatre and the fine houses he would build, the gas-works he would found, the parks he would lay out, and showed, among other things, how he could then introduce hot and cold water in the houses. To his description of this _brochure_ Nordhoff adds: “Alas for the dreams of a dreamer! I turned over the leaves of his pamphlet while wandering through the present Icaria, on one chilly Sunday in March, with a keen sense of pain at the contrast between the comfort and elegance he so glowingly described and the dreary poverty of the life which a few determined men and women have there chosen to follow, for the sake of principles which they hold both true and valuable.”[28] It is said that Cabet developed a dictatorial spirit in Nauvoo. This may be doubted. It is possible he only attempted to enforce measures without which he believed the commune must prove a failure. At any rate, a division took place among the Icarians. The colony at Nauvoo was broken up, and the members scattered, save fifty or sixty, who emigrated to Iowa. Cabet and his followers went to St. Louis, where he died in 1856. The emigrants to Iowa founded a settlement near Corning, on the Burlington and Missouri Railroad, which they called Icaria. They began with four thousand acres of land and a debt of $20,000. At first they had a hard struggle, being obliged to content themselves even with log-houses. When Mr. Nordhoff wrote his book, in 1874, the debt was paid, they lived in frame houses, and enjoyed a considerable degree of comfort. The community consisted of eleven families and sixty-five members, comprising twenty children and twenty-three voters. They had a good saw-mill and a grist-mill, and owned one thousand nine hundred and thirty-six acres of land, of which three hundred and fifty were under cultivation. They had one hundred and twenty cattle and five hundred sheep. A friend[29] has lately spent a week in Icaria, and has kindly written me the following account of the present condition of the community, which has experienced noteworthy changes since Mr. Nordhoff paid it a brief visit a few years ago: “GRINELL, IA., _May 7, 1883_. “——. First, let me say that I think no one has yet done adequate justice to Icarian history.... I was fortunate in being received into the community in the most friendly manner, and spent many hours in talking with the members. Especially, I was fortunate in making the acquaintance of two old men—original members—one of them the leader in the quarrel with Cabet at Nauvoo, and the successor of Cabet as president.... I have never enjoyed a visit more than this, for the Icarians, though poor and necessarily very hampered, are highly courteous and intelligent. To begin with their dissensions.” [For the present purpose it is sufficient to state that the members of the community, not being able to live together peaceably, agreed to separate; the “Young Party” retained the old village, and is now officially known as the “Icarian Community,” and the “Old Party” established a new commune in the vicinity.] “The reorganization into two groups happened just four years ago.... The court declared the articles of incorporation forfeited, on the technical ground that a commune incorporated as an agricultural society was exceeding its charter in running a grist-mill and manufacturing flour! The arbitrators divided the property on an equitable basis. They ascertained the amount of property each had brought into the society, the number of years each had labored for the society, and on these principles they declared each individual entitled to a certain proportion of the property. The ‘Young Party’ associated themselves and obtained new articles of incorporation.... They assumed the original name. They were the minority in voting numbers, but, counting children, they were more numerous than the ‘Old Folks’ Party.’ The ‘Old Folks’ did not take out articles of incorporation. Instead, they formed themselves into a general partnership based on recorded articles of agreement, which I send you (_Contrat de la Nouvelle Com. Icar._). The other party having got possession of the name, the ‘Old Folks’ called their society ‘The New Icarian Community.’ “At the time of the dissolution, the Icarians owned over two thousand acres of land. The ‘Old Party’ were found entitled to somewhat more than half the property. Both parties have at different times made small purchases and sales of land. At the time of the dissolution it was expected that the ‘Old Party’ would remain in the original village, and that the ‘Young Party’ would go to the east side of the estate and build themselves new houses; but finally the ‘Old Folks’ chose to be the emigrants, and they have a new village nearly a mile east of the original village (which is now occupied by the ‘Icarian Community’). “At present the ‘New Icarian Community’ (_i.e._, the ‘Old Folks’) have about one thousand and eighty-five acres. About two hundred acres is in timber (which, however, is not valuable except for firewood, posts, etc. There are few trees left which are valuable for lumber. Iowa timber in general is of little value.) About three hundred acres are being cultivated this year. They were planting corn while I was with them, and will put in two hundred acres. One hundred acres will be in wheat, potatoes, etc. They have eighteen horses, and about one hundred cattle—milk about thirty cows. In summer they sell cream to the Creamery in Corning. They will sell this year a dozen or so beef steers. They have about two hundred hogs, and will sell eighty this year. Last year they sold $300 worth of potatoes. They cut from two to three hundred tons of hay annually. They have the old mill, built in 1853 or 1854, but are not doing a great deal with it. They make some flour, and the mill nets them a clear profit of not more than $200 or $300 per year. “The official inventory of the ‘New Icarian Society,’ made on Jan. 1, 1883, gives the Total assets $28,009.35 Total debts 5,646.50 ---------- Net $22,362.85 In the above estimate the land was valued rather too low, and a part of the indebtedness has already been paid. The way is now pretty clear out of all financial difficulties. They pay about $225 annual taxes. They number at the present time thirty-four people. Their village consists of a central two-story frame building (worth about $1500), twenty-two feet by forty feet, perfectly plain; the first story is a common dining-hall and kitchen, and the second story has rooms for a family and several old men. They have also eight frame houses, ‘story-and-a-half,’ about fourteen by twenty-two, built uniformly, and arranged symmetrically about the dining-hall. Each is occupied by a family. The arrangement is as follows: [Illustration: Trees and Park. Hall.] Each house has a small plot for flowers, etc. The interiors are excessively plain. The living in the common hall is frugal but abundant. Of the thirty-four people twelve are men, of whom six are over sixty; ten are women, of whom two are over sixty, and two are young and unmarried; and twelve are children, ranging in age from three weeks to twelve years. Seven children are in school; the other five are too young. Of course everything looks new and rather bleak about this new village, but the site is admirably chosen. The prospect, as one looks out from the windows of the dining-room, is beautiful, and a dozen years hence, if fortune favors, the New Icaria will be a charming place. In spite of bitter adversities, these New Icarians are a bright, agreeable, vivacious people. They could talk English well enough for my benefit, but their home-talk is entirely French. The children are _very_ pretty and attractive, and all are polite and superior-mannered. They have a promising young vineyard and apple-orchard, and a good large garden for kitchen vegetables. The people are all French except one Spaniard, who came from Cuba many years ago. Their president, A. A. Marchand, was one of the original sixty-nine vanguard who went to Texas in 1848, and he has always been a prominent man. He is a gentleman worthy of the highest regard. Another member, Sauva, who was president the year Hinds’s book (‘American Communities,’ 1878) was written, and whom you find mentioned in Hinds’s account, is still with this society. He was formerly a member of the Cheltenham branch;[30] returned to Europe, took active part in the International and the Paris Commune, and joined the Iowa Icarians two or three years after. He is a man of high intelligence. A number of these members are men of good literary ability. They have a small press, and print a monthly paper, the _Revue Icarienne_. They have a shoemaker’s shop, but scarcely anything in the industrial line besides their mill. They have a fair supply of good agricultural implements, and conduct their farming about as their neighbors in general do. “If they maintain harmony, they can readily pay this debt and improve their mode of life. They are somewhat chary of admitting new members, because they already have men enough to farm their land, and they do not feel able to make their settlement an asylum for all who hold communistic ideas. Their school is one of the regular district-schools of the county. It is located between the two communities and patronized by both. The teacher at present is a French lady, educated in Cincinnati—an Icarian in her early days—and the school is well conducted. At the time of the split the library was divided. Each village has a library of more than one thousand volumes, mainly French, and containing the works of the standard old French authors. In both communities newspapers are taken freely, both English and French, and the people seem more conversant with affairs—especially with European affairs—than the average American farmer’s family. Their family-life seems natural and affectionate. Their life is necessarily plain, toilsome, and monotonous, but I think it is fully as agreeable and diversified as that of isolated American farmers. The life in the ‘New Icarian Community’ seems more genial and social than in the ‘Icarian Community.’ At the time of the split a number of individuals withdrew, and did not join either party in reorganizing. Since, also, there have been numerous accessions and withdrawals, the latter preponderating, especially in the ‘Icarian Community.’ “The ‘Icarian Community,’ according to Mr. Peron, now contains thirty souls: seven are men over twenty years; five are women over eighteen years; eighteen are children. One man, Michael Brumme, a German, is about seventy years old. There is one lady over sixty years old. Both these were Nauvoo members. All the other men and women are under forty years of age. All are French except two Germans and one Spaniard. There were several other old members, who have withdrawn within the past two or three years. They have seven hundred and seventy-two acres of land; two hundred acres are timber; three hundred acres are seeded in
fax. “Ephum! Easters where the deuce is that good-for-nothing husband of yours?” “I dunno, Marse Clarence. 'Spec he whah he oughtn't ter be.” Mr. Colfax spied the stooping figure of Eliphalet. “Do you work here?” he demanded. “I callate.” “What?” “I callate to,” responded Mr. Hopper again, without rising. “Please find Mr. Hood,” directed Mr. Colfax, with a wave of his cane, “and say that Miss Carvel is here--” Whereupon Miss Carvel seated herself upon the edge of a bale and giggled, which did not have a soothing effect upon either of the young men. How abominably you were wont to behave in those days, Virginia. “Just say that Mr. Colfax sent you,” Clarence continued, with a note of irritation. “There's a good fellow.” Virginia laughed outright. Her cousin did not deign to look at her. His temper was slipping its leash. “I wonder whether you hear me,” he remarked. No answer. “Colonel Carvel hires you, doesn't he? He pays you wages, and the first time his daughter comes in here you refuse to do her a favor. By thunder, I'll see that you are dismissed.” Still Eliphalet gave him no manner of attention, but began marking the tags at the bottom of the pile. It was at this unpropitious moment that Colonel Carvel walked into the store, and his daughter flew into his arms. “Well, well,” he said, kissing her, “thought you'd surprise me, eh, Jinny?” “Oh, Pa,” she cried, looking reproachfully up at his Face. “You knew--how mean of you!” “I've been down on the Louisiana, where some inconsiderate man told me, or I should not have seen you today. I was off to Alton. But what are these goings-on?” said the Colonel, staring at young Mr. Colfax, rigid as one of his own gamecocks. He was standing defiantly over the stooping figure of the assistant manager. “Oh,” said Virginia, indifferently, “it's only Clarence. He's so tiresome. He's always wanting to fight with somebody.” “What's the matter, Clarence?” asked the Colonel, with the mild unconcern which deceived so many of the undiscerning. “This person, sir, refused to do a favor for your daughter. She told him, and I told him, to notify Mr. Hood that Miss Carvel was here, and he refused.” Mr. Hopper continued his occupation, which was absorbing. But he was listening. Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee, and smiled. “Clarence,” said he, “I reckon I can run this establishment without any help from you and Jinny. I've been at it now for a good many years.” If Mr. Barbo had not been constitutionally unlucky, he might have perceived Mr. Hopper, before dark that evening, in conversation with Mr. Hood about a certain customer who lived up town, and presently leave the store by the side entrance. He walked as rapidly as his legs would carry him, for they were a trifle short for his body; and in due time, as the lamps were flickering, he arrived near Colonel Carvel's large double residence, on Tenth and Locust streets. Then he walked slowly along Tenth, his eyes lifted to the tall, curtained windows. Now and anon they scanned passers-by for a chance acquaintance. Mr. Hopper walked around the block, arriving again opposite the Carvel house, and beside Mr. Renault's, which was across from it. Eliphalet had inherited the principle of mathematical chances. It is a fact that the discreet sometimes take chances. Towards the back of Mr. Renault's residence, a wide area was sunk to the depth of a tall man, which was apparently used for the purpose of getting coal and wood into the cellar. Mr. Hopper swept the neighborhood with a glance. The coast was clear, and he dropped into the area. Although the evening was chill, at first Mr. Hopper perspired very freely. He crouched in the area while the steps of pedestrians beat above his head, and took no thought but of escape. At last, however, he grew cooler, removed his hat, and peeped over the stone coping. Colonel Carvel's house--her house--was now ablaze with lights, and the shades not yet drawn. There was the dining room, where the negro butler was moving about the table; and the pantry, where the butler went occasionally; and the kitchen, with black figures moving about. But upstairs on the two streets was the sitting room. The straight figure of the Colonel passed across the light. He held a newspaper in his hand. Suddenly, full in the window, he stopped and flung away the paper. A graceful shadow slipped across the wall. Virginia laid her hands on his shoulders, and he stooped to kiss her. Now they sat between the curtains, she on the arm of his chair and leaning on him, together looking out of the window. How long this lasted Mr. Hopper could not say. Even the wise forget themselves. But all at once a wagon backed and bumped against the curb in front of him, and Eliphalet's head dropped as if it had been struck by the wheel. Above him a sash screamed as it opened, and he heard Mr. Renault's voice say, to some person below: “Is that you, Capitaine Grant?” “The same,” was the brief reply. “I am charmed that you have brought the wood. I thought that you had forgotten me.” “I try to do what I say, Mr. Renault.” “Attendez--wait!” cried Mr. Renault, and closed the window. Now was Eliphalet's chance to bolt. The perspiration had come again, and it was cold. But directly the excitable little man, Renault, had appeared on the pavement above him. He had been running. “It is a long voyage from Gravois with a load of wood, Capitaine--I am very grateful.” “Business is business, Mr. Renault,” was the self-contained reply. “Alphonse!” cried Mr. Renault, “Alphonse!” A door opened in the back wall. “Du vin pour Monsieur le Capitaine.” “Oui, M'sieu.” Eliphalet was too frightened to wonder why this taciturn handler of wood was called Captain, and treated with such respect. “Guess I won't take any wine to-night, Mr. Renault,” said he. “You go inside, or you'll take cold.” Mr. Renault protested, asked about all the residents of Gravois way, and finally obeyed. Eliphalet's heart was in his mouth. A bolder spirit would have dashed for liberty. Eliphalet did not possess that kind of bravery. He was waiting for the Captain to turn toward his wagon. He looked down the area instead, with the light from the street lamp on his face. Fear etched an ineffaceable portrait of him on Mr. Hopper's mind, so that he knew him instantly when he saw him years afterward. Little did he reckon that the fourth time he was to see him this man was to be President of the United States. He wore a close-cropped beard, an old blue army overcoat, and his trousers were tucked into a pair of muddy cowhide boots. Swiftly but silently the man reached down and hauled Eliphalet to the sidewalk by the nape of the neck. “What were you doing there?” demanded he of the blue overcoat, sternly. Eliphalet did not answer. With one frantic wrench he freed himself, and ran down Locust Street. At the corner, turning fearfully, he perceived the man in the overcoat calmly preparing to unload his wood. CHAPTER III. THE UNATTAINABLE SIMPLICITY To Mr. Hopper the being caught was the unpardonable crime. And indeed, with many of us, it is humiliation and not conscience which makes the sting. He walked out to the end of the city's growth westward, where the new houses were going up. He had reflected coolly on consequences, and found there were none to speak of. Many a moralist, Mr. Davitt included, would have shaken his head at this. Miss Crane's whole Puritan household would have raised their hands in horror at such a doctrine. Some novelists I know of, who are in reality celebrated surgeons in disguise, would have shown a good part of Mr. Eliphalet Hopper's mental insides in as many words as I have taken to chronicle his arrival in St. Louis. They invite us to attend a clinic, and the horrible skill with which they wield the scalpel holds us spellbound. For God has made all of us, rogue and saint, burglar and burgomaster, marvellously alike. We read a patent medicine circular and shudder with seven diseases. We peruse one of Mr. So and So's intellectual tonics and are sure we are complicated scandals, fearfully and wonderfully made. Alas, I have neither the skill nor the scalpel to show the diseases of Mr. Hopper's mind; if, indeed, he had any. Conscience, when contracted, is just as troublesome as croup. Mr. Hopper was thoroughly healthy. He had ambition, as I have said. But he was not morbidly sensitive. He was calm enough when he got back to the boarding-house, which he found in as high a pitch of excitement as New Englanders ever reach. And over what? Over the prospective arrival that evening of the Brices, mother and son, from Boston. Miss Crane had received the message in the morning. Palpitating with the news; she had hurried rustling to Mrs. Abner Reed, with the paper in her hand. “I guess you don't mean Mrs. Appleton Brice,” said Mrs. Reed. “That's just who I mean,” answered Miss Crane, triumphantly,--nay, aggressively. Mrs. Abner shook her curls in a way that made people overwhelm her with proofs. “Mirandy, you're cracked,” said she. “Ain't you never been to Boston?” Miss Crane bridled. This was an uncalled-for insult. “I guess I visited down Boston-way oftener than you, Eliza Reed. You never had any clothes.” Mrs. Reed's strength was her imperturbability. “And you never set eyes on the Brice house, opposite the Common, with the swelled front? I'd like to find out where you were a-visitin'. And you've never heard tell of the Brice homestead, at Westbury, that was Colonel Wilton Brice's, who fought in the Revolution? I'm astonished at you, Mirandy. When I used to be at the Dales', in Mount Vernon Street, in thirty-seven, Mrs. Charles Atterbury Brice used to come there in her carriage, a-callin'. She was Appleton's mother. Severe! Save us,” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “but she was stiff as starched crepe. His father was minister to France. The Brices were in the India trade, and they had money enough to buy the whole of St. Louis.” Miss Crane rattled the letter in her hand. She brought forth her reserves. “Yes, and Appleton Brice lost it all, in the panic. And then he died, and left the widow and son without a cent.” Mrs. Reed took off her spectacles. “I want to know!” she exclaimed. “The durned fool! Well, Appleton Brice didn't have the family brains, ands he was kind of soft-hearted. I've heard Mehitabel Dale say that.” She paused to reflect. “So they're coming here?” she added. “I wonder why.” Miss Crane's triumph was not over. “Because Silas Whipple was some kin to Appleton Brice, and he has offered the boy a place in his law office.” Miss Reed laid down her knitting. “Save us!” she said. “This is a day of wonders, Mirandy. Now Lord help the boy if he's gain' to work for the Judge.” “The Judge has a soft heart, if he is crabbed,” declared the spinster. “I've heard say of a good bit of charity he's done. He's a soft heart.” “Soft as a green quince!” said Mrs. Abner, scornfully. “How many friends has he?” “Those he has are warm enough,” Miss Crane retorted. “Look at Colonel Carvel, who has him to dinner every Sunday.” “That's plain as your nose, Mirandy Crane. They both like quarrellin' better than anything in this world.” “Well,” said Miss Crane, “I must go make ready for the Brices.” Such was the importance of the occasion, however, that she could not resist calling at Mrs. Merrill's room, and she knocked at Mrs. Chandler's door to tell that lady and her daughter. No Burke has as yet arisen in this country of ours to write a Peerage. Fame awaits him. Indeed, it was even then awaiting him, at the time of the panic of 1857. With what infinite pains were the pedigree and possessions of the Brice family pieced together that day by the scattered residents from Puritan-land in the City of St. Louis. And few buildings would have borne the wear and tear of many house-cleanings of the kind Miss Crane indulged in throughout the morning and afternoon. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, on his return from business, was met on the steps and requested to wear his Sunday clothes. Like the good republican that he was, Mr. Hopper refused. He had ascertained that the golden charm which made the Brices worthy of tribute had been lost. Commercial supremacy,--that was Mr. Hopper's creed. Family is a good thing, but of what use is a crest without the panels on which to paint it? Can a diamond brooch shine on a calico gown? Mr. Hopper deemed church the place for worship. He likewise had his own idol in his closet. Eliphalet at Willesden had heard a great deal of Boston airs and graces and intellectuality, of the favored few of that city who lived in mysterious houses, and who crossed the sea in ships. He pictured Mrs. Brice asking for a spoon, and young Stephen sniffing at Mrs. Crane's boarding-house. And he resolved with democratic spirit that he would teach Stephen a lesson, if opportunity offered. His own discrepancy between the real and the imagined was no greater than that of the rest of his fellow-boarders. Barring Eliphalet, there was a dress parade that evening,--silks and bombazines and broadcloths, and Miss Crane's special preserves on the tea-table. Alas, that most of the deserved honors of this world should fall upon barren ground! The quality which baffled Mr. Hopper, and some other boarders, was simplicity. None save the truly great possess it (but this is not generally known). Mrs. Brice was so natural, that first evening at tea, that all were disappointed. The hero upon the reviewing stand with the halo of the Unknown behind his head is one thing; the lady of Family who sits beside you at a boarding-house and discusses the weather and the journey is quite another. They were prepared to hear Mrs. Brice rail at the dirt of St. Louis and the crudity of the West. They pictured her referring with sighs to her Connections, and bewailing that Stephen could not have finished his course at Harvard. She did nothing of the sort. The first shock was so great that Mrs. Abner Reed cried in the privacy of her chamber, and the Widow Crane confessed her disappointment to the confiding ear of her bosom friend, Mrs. Merrill. Not many years later a man named Grant was to be in Springfield, with a carpet bag, despised as a vagabond. A very homely man named Lincoln went to Cincinnati to try a case before the Supreme Court, and was snubbed by a man named Stanton. When we meet the truly great, several things may happen. In the first place, we begin to believe in their luck, or fate, or whatever we choose to call it, and to curse our own. We begin to respect ourselves the more, and to realize that they are merely clay like us, that we are great men without Opportunity. Sometimes, if we live long enough near the Great, we begin to have misgivings. Then there is hope for us. Mrs. Brice, with her simple black gowns, quiet manner, and serene face, with her interest in others and none in herself, had a wonderful effect upon the boarders. They were nearly all prepared to be humble. They grew arrogant and pretentious. They asked Mrs. Brice if she knew this and that person of consequence in Boston, with whom they claimed relationship or intimacy. Her answers were amiable and self-contained. But what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it is he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. It would be so easy to paint Stephen in shining colors, and to make him a first-class prig (the horror of all novelists), that we must begin with the drawbacks. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had at that time what has been called “the Boston manner.” This was not Stephen's fault, but Boston's. Young Mr. Brice possessed that wonderful power of expressing distance in other terms besides ells and furlongs,--and yet he was simple enough with it all. Many a furtive stare he drew from the table that evening. There were one or two of discernment present, and they noted that his were the generous features of a marked man,--if he chose to become marked. He inherited his mother's look; hers was the face of a strong woman, wide of sympathy, broad of experience, showing peace of mind amid troubles--the touch of femininity was there to soften it. Her son had the air of the college-bred. In these surroundings he escaped arrogance by the wonderful kindliness of his eye, which lighted when his mother spoke to him. But he was not at home at Miss Crane's table, and he made no attempt to appear at his ease. This was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Let it not be thought that he was the only one at that table to indulge in a little secret rejoicing. But it was a peculiar satisfaction to him to reflect that these people, who had held up their heads for so many generations, were humbled at last. To be humbled meant, in Mr. Hopper's philosophy, to lose one's money. It was thus he gauged the importance of his acquaintances; it was thus he hoped some day to be gauged. And he trusted and believed that the time would come when he could give his fillip to the upper rim of fortune's wheel, and send it spinning downward. Mr. Hopper was drinking his tea and silently forming an estimate. He concluded that young Brice was not the type to acquire the money which his father had lost. And he reflected that Stephen must feel as strange in St. Louis as a cod might amongst the cat-fish in the Mississippi. So the assistant manager of Carvel & Company resolved to indulge in the pleasure of patronizing the Bostonian. “Callatin' to go to work?” he asked him, as the boarders walked into the best room. “Yes,” replied Stephen, taken aback. And it may be said here that, if Mr. Hopper underestimated him, certainly he underestimated Mr. Hopper. “It ain't easy to get a job this Fall,” said Eliphalet, “St. Louis houses have felt the panic.” “I am sorry to hear that.” “What business was you callatin' to grapple with?” “Law,” said Stephen. “Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Hopper, “I want to know.” In reality he was a bit chagrined, having pictured with some pleasure the Boston aristocrat going from store to store for a situation. “You didn't come here figurin' on makin' a pile, I guess.” “A what?” “A pile.” Stephen looked down and over Mr. Hopper attentively. He took in the blocky shoulders and the square head, and he pictured the little eyes at a vanishing-point in lines of a bargain. Then humor blessed humor--came to his rescue. He had entered the race in the West, where all start equal. He had come here, like this man who was succeeding, to make his living. Would he succeed? Mr. Hopper drew something out of his pocket, eyed Miss Crane, and bit off a corner. “What office was you going into?” he asked genially. Mr. Brice decided to answer that. “Judge Whipple's--unless he has changed his mind.” Eliphalet gave him a look more eloquent than words. “Know the Judge?” Silent laughter. “If all the Fourth of Julys we've had was piled into one,” said Mr. Hopper, slowly and with conviction, “they wouldn't be a circumstance to Silas Whipple when he gets mad. My boss, Colonel Carvel, is the only man in town who'll stand up to him. I've seen 'em begin a quarrel in the store and carry it all the way up the street. I callate you won't stay with him a great while.” CHAPTER IV. BLACK CATTLE Later that evening Stephen Brice was sitting by the open windows in his mother's room, looking on the street-lights below. “Well, my dear,” asked the lady, at length, “what do you think of it all?” “They are kind people,” he said. “Yes, they are kind,” she assented, with a sigh. “But they are not--they are not from among our friends, Stephen.” “I thought that one of our reasons for coming West, mother,” answered Stephen. His mother looked pained. “Stephen, how can you! We came West in order that you might have more chance for the career to which you are entitled. Our friends in Boston were more than good.” He left the window and came and stood behind her chair, his hands clasped playfully beneath her chin. “Have you the exact date about you, mother?” “What date, Stephen?” “When I shall leave St. Louis for the United States Senate. And you must not forget that there is a youth limit in our Constitution for senators.” Then the widow smiled,--a little sadly, perhaps. But still a wonderfully sweet smile. And it made her strong face akin to all that was human and helpful. “I believe that you have the subject of my first speech in that august assembly. And, by the way, what was it?” “It was on 'The Status of the Emigrant,'” she responded instantly, thereby proving that she was his mother. “And it touched the Rights of Privacy,” he added, laughing, “which do not seem to exist in St. Louis boarding-houses.” “In the eyes of your misguided profession, statesmen and authors and emigrants and other public charges have no Rights of Privacy,” said she. “Mr. Longfellow told me once that they were to name a brand of flour for him, and that he had no redress.” “Have you, too, been up before Miss Crane's Commission?” he asked, with amused interest. His mother laughed. “Yes,” she said quietly. “They have some expert members,” he continued. “This Mrs. Abner Reed could be a shining light in any bar. I overheard a part of her cross-examination. She--she had evidently studied our case--” “My dear,” answered Mrs. Brice, “I suppose they know all about us.” She was silent a moment, “I had so hoped that they wouldn't. They lead the same narrow life in this house that they did in their little New England towns. They--they pity us, Stephen.” “Mother!” “I did not expect to find so many New Englanders here--I wish that Mr. Whipple had directed us elsewhere-” “He probably thought that we should feel at home among New Englanders. I hope the Southerners will be more considerate. I believe they will,” he added. “They are very proud,” said his mother. “A wonderful people,--born aristocrats. You don't remember those Randolphs with whom we travelled through England. They were with us at Hollingdean, Lord Northwell's place. You were too small at the time. There was a young girl, Eleanor Randolph, a beauty. I shall never forget the way she entered those English drawing-rooms. They visited us once in Beacon Street, afterwards. And I have heard that there are a great many good Southern families here in St. Louis.” “You did not glean that from Judge Whipple's letter, mother,” said Stephen, mischievously. “He was very frank in his letter,” sighed Mrs. Brice. “I imagine he is always frank, to put it delicately.” “Your father always spoke in praise of Silas Whipple, my dear. I have heard him call him one of the ablest lawyers in the country. He won a remarkable case for Appleton here, and he once said that the Judge would have sat on the Supreme Bench if he had not been pursued with such relentlessness by rascally politicians.” “The Judge indulges in a little relentlessness now and then, himself. He is not precisely what might be termed a mild man, if what we hear is correct.” Mrs. Brice started. “What have you heard?” she asked. “Well, there was a gentleman on the steamboat who said that it took more courage to enter the Judge's private office than to fight a Border Ruffian. And another, a young lawyer, who declared that he would rather face a wild cat than ask Whipple a question on the new code. And yet he said that the Judge knew more law than any man in the West. And lastly, there is a polished gentleman named Hopper here from Massachusetts who enlightened me a little more.” Stephen paused and bit his tongue. He saw that she was distressed by these things. Heaven knows that she had borne enough trouble in the last few months. “Come, mother,” he said gently, “you should know how to take my jokes by this time. I didn't mean it. I am sure the Judge is a good man,--one of those aggressive good men who make enemies. I have but a single piece of guilt to accuse him of.” “And what is that?” asked the widow. “The cunning forethought which he is showing in wishing to have it said that a certain Senator and Judge Brice was trained in his office.” “Stephen--you goose!” she said. Her eye wandered around the room,--Widow Crane's best bedroom. It was dimly lighted by an extremely ugly lamp. The hideous stuffy bed curtains and the more hideous imitation marble mantel were the two objects that held her glance. There was no change in her calm demeanor. But Stephen, who knew his mother, felt that her little elation over her arrival had ebbed, Neither would confess dejection to the other. “I--even I--” said Stephen, tapping his chest, “have at least made the acquaintance of one prominent citizen, Mr. Eliphalet D. Hopper. According to Mr. Dickens, he is a true American gentleman, for he chews tobacco. He has been in St. Louis five years, is now assistant manager of the largest dry goods house, and still lives in one of Miss Crane's four-dollar rooms. I think we may safely say that he will be a millionaire before I am a senator.” He paused. “And mother?” “Yes, dear.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window. “I think that it would be better if I did the same thing.” “What do you mean, my son--” “If I went to work,--started sweeping out a store, I mean. See here, mother, you've sacrificed enough for me already. After paying father's debts, we've come out here with only a few thousand dollars, and the nine hundred I saved out of this year's Law School allowance. What shall we do when that is gone? The honorable legal profession, as my friend reminded me to-night, is not the swiftest road to millions.” With a mother's discernment she guessed the agitation, he was striving to hide; she knew that he had been gathering courage for this moment for months. And she knew that he was renouncing thus lightly, for her sake an ambition he had had from his school days. Widow passed her hand over her brow. It was a space before she answered him. “My son,” she said, let us never speak of this again: “It was your father's dearest wish that you should become a lawyer and--and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us.” She rose and kissed him good-night. “Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning, remember his kindness, and--.” “And keep my temper. I shall, mother.” A while later he stole gently back into her room again. She was on her knees by the walnut bedstead. At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane's, girded for the struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple. He was not afraid, but a poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to be bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of his father. Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and believe in others having a hard time. To a young man, who as his father's heir in Boston had been the subject of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly distasteful. But it had to be gone through. So presently, after inquiry, he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome of which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be completed. Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty stairway. Here was a sign, “Law office of Silas Whipple.” Stephen climbed the stairs, and arrived at a ground glass door, on which the sign was repeated. Behind that door was the future: so he opened it fearfully, with an impulse to throw his arm above his head. But he was struck dumb on beholding, instead of a dragon, a good-natured young man who smiled a broad welcome. The reaction was as great as though one entered a dragon's den, armed to the teeth, to find a St. Bernard doing the honors. Stephen's heart went out to this young man,--after that organ had jumped back into its place. This keeper of the dragon looked the part. Even the long black coat which custom then decreed could not hide the bone and sinew under it. The young man had a broad forehead, placid Dresden-blue eyes, flaxen hair, and the German coloring. Across one of his high cheek-bones was a great jagged scar which seemed to add distinction to his appearance. That caught Stephen's eye, and held it. He wondered whether it were the result of an encounter with the Judge. “You wish to see Mr. Whipple?” he asked, in the accents of an educated German. “Yes,” said Stephen, “if he isn't busy.” “He is out,” said the other, with just a suspicion of a 'd' in the word. “You know he is much occupied now, fighting election frauds. You read the papers?” “I am a stranger here,” said Stephen. “Ach!” exclaimed the German, “now I know you, Mr. Brice. The young one from Boston the Judge spoke of. But you did not tell him of your arrival.” “I did not wish to bother him,” Stephen replied, smiling. “My name is Richter--Carl Richter, sir.” The pressure of Mr. Richter's big hands warmed Stephen as nothing else had since he had come West. He was moved to return it with a little more fervor than he usually showed. And he felt, whatever the Judge might be, that he had a powerful friend near at hand--Mr. Richter's welcome came near being an embrace. “Sit down, Mr. Brice,” he said; “mild weather for November, eh? The Judge will be here in an hour.” Stephen looked around him: at the dusty books on the shelves, and the still dustier books heaped on Mr. Richter's big table; at the cuspidors; at the engravings of Washington and Webster; at the window in the jog which looked out on the court-house square; and finally at another ground-glass door on which was printed: SILAS WHIPPLE PRIVATE This, then, was the den,--the arena in which was to take place a memorable interview. But the thought of waiting an hour for the dragon to appear was disquieting. Stephen remembered that he had something over nine hundred dollars in his pocket (which he had saved out of his last year's allowance at the Law School). So he asked Mr. Richter, who was dusting off a chair, to direct him to the nearest bank. “Why, certainly,” said he; “Mr. Brinsmade's bank on Chestnut Street.” He took Stephen to the window and pointed across the square. “I am sorry I cannot go with you,” he added, “but the Judge's negro, Shadrach, is out, and I must stay in the office. I will give you a note to Mr. Brinsmade.” “His negro!” exclaimed Stephen. “Why, I thought that Mr. Whipple was an Abolitionist.” Mr. Richter laughed. “The man is free,” said he. “The Judge pays him wages.” Stephen thanked his new friend for the note to the bank president, and went slowly down the stairs. To be keyed up to a battle-pitch, and then to have the battle deferred, is a trial of flesh and spirit. As he reached the pavement, he saw people gathering in front of the wide entrance of the Court House opposite, and perched on the copings. He hesitated, curious. Then he walked slowly toward the place, and buttoning his coat, pushed through the loafers and passers-by dallying on the outskirts of the crowd. There, in the bright November sunlight, a sight met his eyes which turned him sick and dizzy. Against the walls and pillars of the building, already grimy with soot, crouched a score of miserable human beings waiting to be sold at auction. Mr. Lynch's slave pen had been disgorged that morning. Old and young, husband and wife,--the moment was come for all and each. How hard the stones and what more pitiless than the gaze of their fellow-creatures in the crowd below! O friends, we who live in peace and plenty amongst our families, how little do we realize the terror and the misery and the dumb heart-aches of those days! Stephen thought with agony of seeing his own mother sold before his eyes, and the building in front of him was lifted from its foundation and rocked even as shall the temples on the judgment day. The oily auctioneer was inviting the people to pinch the wares. Men came forward to feel the creatures and look into their mouths, and one brute, unshaven and with filthy linen, snatched a child from its mother's lap Stephen shuddered with the sharpest pain he had ever known. An ocean-wide tempest arose in his breast, Samson's strength to break the pillars of the temple to slay these men with his bare hands. Seven generations of stern life and thought had their focus here in him,--from Oliver Cromwell to John Brown. Stephen was far from prepared for the storm that raged within him. He had not been brought up an Abolitionist--far from it. Nor had his father's friends--who were deemed at that time the best people in Boston--been Abolitionists. Only three years before, when Boston had been aflame over the delivery of the fugitive Anthony Burns, Stephen had gone out of curiosity to the meeting at Faneuil Hall. How well he remembered his father's indignation when he confessed it, and in his anger Mr. Brice had called Phillips and Parker “agitators.” But his father, nor his father's friends in Boston had never been brought face to face with this hideous traffic. Hark! Was that the sing-song voice of the auctioneer He was selling the cattle. High and low, caressing an menacing, he teased and exhorted them
a noise like a snort, which if I made she would consider very rude. I wish there was one day a year when children could tell their aunts how rude they are at times, just as their aunts tell them every day in the week. 'The business of courting is what he is about, and with an atom of honesty you must know it, and now I want to know what you are going to do.' 'It's rather hard; I'm going to call Ellen,' said my mother; and I had to move rather rapidly not to be found too near the door, which showed me that I was listening, which one ought never to do. 'Ellen,' said my mother; and my aunt then said a word which I am not allowed to say. 'Squizzelty Betsey,' said she, 'what has Ellen to do with it?' 'I'm going to consult with Ellen'; and then, when I was in the room, 'Ellen,' she said, 'your aunt seems to think that Mr. Dennett wishes to become a new father to you. How do you like this idea?' 'Would you have to keep house for him,' I said, 'the way you did for dear papa?' 'More so,' said my mamma. 'I don't think we should be happy then,' said I. At this Aunt Sarah rocked back and forth and she groaned as though her stomach hurt her. While my aunt was groaning, I could see my mother turn her back and I knew by her actions that she was putting her handkerchief to her mouth to keep from laughing, and which I have often seen her do when my aunt was here. 'It made us both very nervous,' I explained to her, 'getting meals exactly on time and doing all the things that a man has a right to have perfect in his own house, which is what papa used to say, but we have not, since we've lived together, had to have anything perfect at all; we never think of meal-times or any other sad things.' 'Listen, Ellen,' said my aunt; 'you are almost more sensible and grown-up than your mother; your mother is still a young woman, a long life of loneliness confronts her,--more than that, a cramped financial situation. You'll always have to go without and without and without. It would be from every point of view a dignified and suitable alliance and one which your mother should be happy to make and which any woman of her age and position and an atom of sense would do.' Here my mother flung out her hand in the air as though she were throwing away something and were glad to do it. I wish I could see her do that again. 'I respect him and I like him, and his liking for me touches me and flatters me, but oh! the running of a big house; but oh! the pent-up city streets.' 'And I say so, too,' I cried. Then she suddenly drew me to her and stood me at arm's length from her, and she said to me, 'Ellen, promise me when you grow up, and when your blood shall leap high, and nothing happens in this little town, and when the world calls to you, that you won't blame me.' And my aunt said, 'Don't worry, Emily; plenty will always happen where Ellen is.' I hugged and kissed her and promised hard. Now there will be no more presents, and no more bon-bons, for mother is going to shock him so he will not want to come again, which she thinks is a good way to save his vanity, but Aunt Sarah said: 'Emily, you are incorrigible.' But we are both, my mother and I, very sorry to lose our good friend. 'Can't men be friends with you,' I asked, 'without wanting to marry you?' And my mother said, 'It seems not, dear.' But when I grow up it is going to be different with me." CHAPTER IV Ellen wrote about this time:-- "Grandma Hathaway, Aunt Sarah and mamma, all don't know what to do about me. I should be much grown-upper than I am. 'Mercy,' said Aunt Sarah, 'that great girl of yours, Emily, acts so that she makes me tremble for fear she will some day swing by a tail from a bough, like a monkey.' [Here we see Miss Grant foreshadowing the Darwinian theory.] They don't know I try to be good, but I do try; but when joy gets into my feet I have to run, and I love to feel like that. I think I only try to be good when I am not happy. I have said my prayers about it, and the awful thing is when I say my prayers I feel as if God said: 'Never mind, Ellen, run if you like.' They always say to me: 'Why can't you sit and sew under the trees with the other girls?' Oh, if they only knew what we talked about when we sit and sew! And even Roberta does, though she disapproves of all silliness. I have never seen any girl disapprove of all silliness as does Roberta. But what we sit and talk about is _beaux_, though Roberta doesn't call hers that, and he isn't. And when Roberta talks so beautifully, I often talk the same way, but deep in my heart I know I wish I had a real beau, like the grown-up girls we talk about. It's strange, though, that Roberta has none, because she has more of one than any of the rest of us, because she writes notes to Leonard Dilloway and he carries home her books. When I said, 'He is your beau,' she was very shocked. 'I wish you would not speak so to me,' she said, 'it pains me. I shall never love, anyway, but once. I am far too young to think of such things.' 'Why do you do it?' I asked her. This made her cross. 'I don't,' she answered. 'Leonard is my friend.' But the rest of us know she is in love. So when they talk to me about being a hoyden and ask me to sit and sew, I feel like a hypocrite, because I know that young girls like us are much more grown-up than they were when Aunt Sarah and Grandma Hathaway were young, and that they would dislike one as much as the other. Though I am young in actions I have such old thoughts that I am surprised and wish I could help being proud of myself for them. I have older thoughts than Janie or Mildred, or even Roberta. Roberta sounds older, but her thoughts are tied with strings while mine are not." This sketch of hers is an accurate picture of the conversations between young girls that are going on forever and ever when three or four long-legged youngsters are together. Their talk leads inevitably, as did ours, toward their business in life. To the lads we were adventures--not to be confused with the real business they had to do in the world; to us they were life itself. Like all young girls, we lived in a close little world of our own. No one entered it, nor could we come out toward others'. We were passionate spectators at the feast of life, picking up the crumbs of experience which came our way; for in our civilization we are treated as children at an age when Juliet ran away for love, and Beatrice set Dante's heart to beating. And yet our hearts beat, and we were tragic and ineffectual Juliets, appearing on our balconies to youths who saw only the shortness of our skirts. We knew without knowing that our little lean arms were to be the cradles of the unborn generation. Forever and ever we tried to tell those whom we met, "I am Eve," and couldn't, not knowing the way past the angel with the flaming sword of self-consciousness. It was the great adventure of Janie Acres which made us conscious of our absorption in boys. There had been a merry-making which took place in a barn, and in talking it over afterwards, we recounted the conversation of each boy who had spoken to us, giving the impression of having snubbed them one and all; which, indeed, we often did, but against our wills, because embarrassment made us gruff. Janie had the adventure of hiding in the same corn-bin with a lad, and what occurred in the corn-bin she was coy of telling. When pressed, she flushed and looked the other way. It was Ellen who brought the utter innocence and lack of romance to light with her merciless truthfulness. "Did he kiss you?" asked she. We were shocked at her frankness. We never spoke of such things as kisses directly. The delicacy of our little souls was deeply wounded. And Janie replied:-- "Well, not exactly. But," she faltered, "he would have if I had stayed there." "How do you know?" asked Ellen coldly. Thus it was she pricked the bubble of sentiment. We were all rather horrified, immensely interested and rather envious. We now perceived our sentimentality. We ourselves were shocked a little by some of our temerities, for in the wide conspiracy of silence around us we imagined we were the only adventurous ones in the world. Characteristically, it was I who suggested that momentous association, the "Zinias," or "Old Maid Club." Ellen wrote:-- "We made up our minds that we were always to be true friends of men and lift their minds up as women should. We are going to think only of our studies, our homes, and of religion. Roberta says we may as well begin now, for we are getting older every minute, and one of us is already fourteen. And before we know it we will be thinking of nothing but boys. We have only to look around us to see what such things lead to. Patty Newcomb and Elizabeth Taylor and all those big girls are both forward and bold. When I said, 'Roberta, isn't noticing everything they do and talking about it just the same as talking about boys?' she said at once, 'It is not the same at all,' in the tone that I know she doesn't want me to say anything more. And when I said, 'Oh, Roberta, aren't we rather young yet to think about being old maids?' she replied sternly, 'It is never too young to begin.'" I feel rather sorry now for the stern, little Roberta. I feel sorry, too, for Janie Acres and her kiss that never was. She would have been so proud of it; it would have been her proof that she was a young lady. CHAPTER V No sooner had Ellen covenanted "Thou shalt not!" than off she went on her first adventure,--a trifling one but bleeding. She walked one day to the academy with Arthur McLain. He wore long trousers. Of this fatal occurrence Ellen remarks touchingly: "I tried very hard to be interesting, but I chose the wrong thing." It is a mistake frequently made by grown men and women. Alas! capricious fate that governs these things turned my sweet, unconscious Ellen to one forever on the alert for the appearance of this long-legged quidnunc. I will give three or four paragraphs from her journal:-- "I asked Aunt Sarah if she wanted me to get her some more yarn when hers ran short. She answered, 'Yes, you may, though I wish, Ellen, my dear child, that you were as eager to do your work as you are to wait on others.' But I knew all the time that I offered to go because I hoped that I should see him, and I should have told my aunt that that was why I offered." A few days later comes the touching little expression of the desire of the eyes:-- "Last week I walked all over town to catch glimpses of him. I went to the post-office, and he wasn't there; I went down past the school-house and past his house, and whenever I saw a boy coming toward me, it was hard to breathe. The whole day was empty and I thought it would never be night." Again:-- "To-day I saw him; he passed by me and just said, 'Hulloa, Ellen.' When I stopped for a moment, I thought he would speak to me. In school this morning he stopped and talked, but all my words went away and I seemed so stupid. At night I make up things I would like to say to him, and when he stops for a moment,--oh, he stops so seldom,--I forget them all." Throughout all this, not once does she use the word _love_. From that terrible and impersonal longing, unaware of itself and unrecognized, Ellen walked out toward the long-trousered boy. She spread before him as much as she could of her little shy sweetnesses. She walked up and down the silent streets waiting for him. Later she writes: "I had no single reason in the world for liking him." I was with Ellen at the moment of her disillusion. We were out walking together when Arthur McLain came toward us. Ahead of us, tail wagging, ran the beloved mongrel Faro. He stopped to sniff at Arthur. Arthur shooed him away. He was a lad timid about dogs, it seems. Faro saw his nervousness, and, for deviltry, barked. Arthur kicked at him with the savageness of fear. I can see Ellen now gathering her dog to her with one regal sweep of the hand and walking past the boy, her head erect, her cheeks scarlet. "I _hate_ a coward," she said to me in a low, tense voice; and later with a flaming look, "I would have killed him with my _hands_ if he had hurt Faro," she cried. So humiliated was she that she says no word in her journal for her reason for her change of heart. She could not forgive him for having made a fool of herself about him--about one so unworthy. For of all things in the world hard to forgive, this is the hardest. "I would be glad if he were dead. Oh, I know I am awful, but it is like that. Think of him walking around this town day by day, and I will have to meet him; when I go uptown, when I go to school, I will be avoiding him exactly the way I used to look for him. Oh, if he would only go away." It is not only Ellen who would like to slay the dead ghosts of unworthy loves. "He walks up and down, and doesn't know I have looked at him. Oh, if he knew that, I think I should die [her journal goes on]. He walks up and down and doesn't know that I so hate the sight of him. I don't hate him, but just the sight of him--so awfully I hate it. Everything he does seems to me so tiresome; his loud laugh makes me feel sick, and he doesn't know anything. I make-believe to myself that he walked all over town after me and got in my way and annoyed me until I said, 'I will be very glad, Arthur, if you would cease these undesired attentions.' How could he cease anything he had never begun, for it wasn't at all like that it happened. I should feel so much happier if I only could have hurt him, too." This experience, so phantasmal and yet so poignant, led to the Zinias' premature death. Conscience invaded Ellen now that disillusion had done its blighting work. There came a day when she could no longer keep to herself her deviation from the precise morals demanded by the Zinias. It was after a walk toward evening up the mountain, full of pregnant silences, that she confessed:-- "You would despise me, if you really knew me. I'm not the kind of a girl we are trying to be." [Illustration: I HATE YOUR SOCIETY ANYWAY! I NEVER DID WANT TO BE AN OLD MAID] It shocked me and thrilled me at the same time. "What have you been doing?" I asked her. "I can't tell you," she told me. "You would despise me too much." "Why, Ellen!" I cried. "Tell me about it." "No! No!" she said; and she buried her face in the moss in a very agony of shame. "I can't tell a human soul." And she still left me with a feeling of having had an interesting sentimental experience. Thus may we, when young, rifle sweetness from the blossom of despair. It was communicated to the other two Zinias that Ellen's conduct had been unbecoming a sincere old maid, and when they turned on her, instead of shame, she had for them: "I hate your society, anyway! I never did want to be an old maid!" As I look back, this adventure closes for us a certain phase of life as definitely as though we had shut the door. We all realized, though we were not honest enough to say it aloud, that we too didn't wish to be old maids. And all this happened because an unlovable boy had made Ellen like him. So much at the mercy of men are women! Just a shadow of the Cyprian over us and we blossomed. It was the shadow of a shadow; it had not one little objective event to give it substance, yet the Zinias withered. CHAPTER VI With a deep revulsion of feeling, Ellen gave up girls, sewing, and Zinias, and made a dash into childhood with Alec Yorke. Alec at this time was a strong lad of thirteen, a head shorter than Ellen. I remember even then he seemed more a person than the other boys, though at the monkey-shining age. They egged one another on until the ordinary obstacles that stand in people's way did not exist. They became together drunken with the joy of life. In this mood, they disappeared together one day, to the scandal of Miss Sarah. She was particularly annoyed because Mrs. Payne refused to be disturbed by the event. "While he and Ellen are off together, they are somewhere having a good time. Why should I worry?" said she. They had come together to find out if Ellen was at my house. "If I had known Ellen was gone with Alec, Sarah, I should never have gone to look for her. I wasn't worried about her, anyway; I only wanted company," said she, with more asperity than usual. The two returned at sunset, the glamour of a glorious day about them. They merely told vaguely: "They had been off on the mountain." It leaked out that they had been as far as the village, ten miles away, and that the peddler had given them a lift back. This last was a scandal. An Irish peddler lived on the outskirts of our village, and this was before the day when foreigners were plenty. He lived contrary to our American customs,--the pig roamed at will, in friendly fashion, through his cabin. He sang in Gaelic as he drove his cart with its moth-eaten, calico horse,--songs that were now wildly sad, now wildly gay. He was alien, so we disapproved of him. I remonstrated with Ellen on this. "I like him," was her only answer. This had not been all the adventure, nor was this the end of it. To tell the story in Ellen's own words:-- "Alec and I were picking currants at Aunt Sarah's when I heard a voice behind me, and I never knew before what it meant when I read in books, that 'their hearts were in their mouths.' I thought mine would beat its way right out of me and lie thumping at my feet when I heard a voice say: 'Oh, here are my little friends from Erin's Isle.' I suppose it is because I am very bad that it never occurred to me until that minute that fooling a minister, by pretending to be the peddler's children, was not right, especially when it was Alec's and my singing songs in what we made him believe was Gaelic that made him buy so many more things. I wonder if all people who do wrong only feel badly when they are found out? I turned around and I thought I should fall, for my mother was with him, and Aunt Sarah and uncle and our own minister. Uncle Ephraim had not heard what he said, and now, 'Permit me, Mr. Sweetser,' he said, 'to present my little niece, Ellen, Mrs. Payne's little daughter, and our neighbor, Master Alec Yorke.' I saw him wondering if we really could be the same children, because, while we were playing that we were the peddler's children, we had taken off our shoes and stockings to make ourselves look like wild Irish children, and had succeeded very well, indeed. I thought for a moment that perhaps he wouldn't say anything, but Aunt Sarah's ears were open. 'What was that? Did I hear you say "your little friends from Erin"? Have you seen these children before?' This was an awful moment. 'These are the same children that came with the Irish peddler to my house.' 'Ha! Ha! I knew that those children were gone for no good, Emily, and that they were strangely silent about their exploits,' Aunt Sarah said. 'Do you mean,' said Uncle Ephraim, 'that my niece and Horace Yorke's son made believe to be the children of a drunken, Irish peddler, and thus appeared before you?' 'Not only that,' said Mr. Sweetser sadly, 'but they sang to us in Gaelic.' 'Gaelic,' snorted Aunt Sarah; 'never a word does she know of Gaelic. I have heard her making up gibberish to the tunes that that peddler sings on his way.' Here Alec acted extremely noble, though it annoyed me very much, and I am sure that I am a very ungrateful girl that it did annoy me. He spoke right up and said: 'Mr. Grant, it is all my fault. It was I who thought of being children of the Irish peddler and I who suggested that we hop on his cart. I should take all the blame.' There was not one word of truth in this, for we had often ridden with the peddler before, and the idea of playing that we were his children was my own, and without thinking I told them so. 'Let us say no more about this childish prank,' said Mr. Sweetser. 'These children have shown real nobility, the little lad in desiring to shield Miss Ellen and Miss Ellen in not permitting herself to be shielded.' Well, I knew that we should have more of it and plenty later, and we did when Aunt Sarah came ravening--there is no other word to use for it, though I know it is not polite--down to our house. It all oppressed me very much, even though Alec whispered: 'We can make-believe we are being persecuted by the Philistines.' I know I have disgraced the family, but I shall never understand why riding with the peddler should do this. If our family is any good, it should take more than this. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Sarah have said that I am really too old to act as I do. When I answer, 'But if I act so, doesn't it show that I am not too old, Aunt Sarah?' she says: 'Mercy, my child, as tall as any flagpole and with legs like a beanstalk, you've got to be acting like a young lady. We can't have young women of our family getting a ridiculous name.' This means that I must give up Alec. 'Why you want that child around all the time is incomprehensible to me,' said my aunt. 'You are a good head higher than he is.' People are always measuring things in length and breadth. How can one measure one's friends by the pound? Roberta agrees with them. She thinks I am giddy, and feels that she must be good for me. I love Roberta more than any other earthly being beside mamma, but when Roberta tries to be good for me, I am so wicked that I try to be bad for Roberta, and can very easily be so." This episode stopped the free skylarking with Alec. As you have seen, it was explained to Ellen that since she was fourteen and nearly a young lady, she must behave as such. When I think how many lovely spontaneities have been offered on the sad and drab altar of young ladyhood, I could weep, as Ellen did. Alec's suggestion that they were being persecuted by the Philistines did not comfort her, and little Mrs. Payne said sadly:-- "Your aunt and uncle are right, Ellen, and I suppose I'll have to punish you to satisfy them, but I can't help knowing that you must have had a perfectly wonderful day, and they are few in this world. Don't let your punishment cloud your memory." CHAPTER VII Look back and see if you can remember when it was you drifted from that part of the river of life that is little girlhood to that time when you recognized that you were grown up, and the eyes of men rested on you speculatively, interestedly, and your parents foreshadowed these things by an irritating watchfulness that you did not understand. The picture of Ellen that comes to me oftenest is one of her progress through the streets, her hair in an anguished neatness, from her desire to escape Miss Sarah's critical censure, her skirts longer now, and behind her perpetually screeled the three motherless babes of our not long widowed minister. He was a middle-aged man, ineffectual except for some occasional Gottbetrunkener moments. From my present vantage-point I now recognize him to be one of the brothers of St. Francis by temperament. He had a true poetic sense, and Ellen would go to his house for the purpose of washing dishes and helping about, performing her labors with the precision which she had only for the work of other people, her own room, to my anguish, being a whited sepulcher of disorder, outwardly fair to the glance of her Aunt Sarah, while dust lay thick in every unobservable spot. It was I who kept her bureau drawers in order. She writes:-- "I just can't waste a minute indoors. I don't know why grown people have so many things to do. When I get married I am going to live in a tent and have just one cupboard where I keep everything, with doors that can't be seen through. Roberta wrings her hands, but she would wring them more if she knew that I have from earliest childhood learned to sleep quietly in my bed as it takes less time to make it when I get up. And mother doesn't care one bit more than I. I am so glad. She so frequently says: 'Ellen, this is too sweet a day to cook'; and we eat bread and milk all day, and don't even light the stove, though there have been moments when I have been glad that there is a big kitchen in which they are always cooking, up at my Aunt Sarah's. We would get things done much better if it were not for reading aloud, but so frequently mother finds things she wants to read, and then we go on, but not on and on like Mr. Sylvester and I. We began reading poetry the other day--how shall I tell it? And he read and I read, and he read and I read, until we understood everything we were reading, the very heart. We felt as if we had made the poetry--just knowing it for ourselves, and it was us. By pretending I am Mr. Sylvester's second wife sent by the Lord to take care of his motherless children, I find I can do housework very well, for me, though I feel rather guilty when I look at him, for I know that even he might be exasperated at the thought of me as his second wife. But one has to do something." Some weeks later this occurs:-- "Now I have learned to work so beautifully and have done so well, besides taking care of the children and then baking, I feel it isn't fair not to do it at home. Oh, how hard it is to do work for one's self. I know I should think I am doing it for my mother, and when I was very little I used to pretend that I was a poor child who supported her mother; but the little silly pretenses of childhood are now impossible for me since I am so much over fifteen." It was at this time that we began to be allowed to go to the young people's parties, because with us there was no fixed and rigid time when girls come out. They went when their legs were long enough and when they had learned to fold their hands properly in their laps and sit with decorum, which with Ellen and myself occurred somewhere toward sixteen. Ellen writes of one of these parties:-- "I am sitting waiting to go. I have a new pale-blue dress with little ruffles--little, tiny ruffles. Aunt Sarah is disgusted that mother put so much work into my dress because it isn't practical, when we need so many things, for her to waste her eyes. And it is true, but oh, how much more fun it is to work on ornaments than useful things, and parties are like ornaments. I think they are like jewels, and a great, big, enormous party, with lights and flowers, like one reads about in books, must be like having strings of pearls. All I hope is that I will act politely, and not show how pleased I am, because if I did I should shout and sing. My Aunt Sarah said: 'Ellen, please, my child, don't make me feel as if you were going to burst into flame or perhaps slide down the banisters.' And, indeed, I often look in the glass and wonder that I can look so quiet and unshining." It was in this high mood that Ellen met Edward Graham. I know now that he must have been an honest lad, square-cornered, solid, with an awkward, bearish, honest walk, nice, kind eyes, and a short mop of wiry, glinting curls as his only beauty, which fitted his head like a close-clinging cap, stopping abruptly instead of straggling down unkemptwise, as hair is apt to do, on the back of his neck and temples. It was Ellen who noticed this and wrote about it. He must have been not over one-and-twenty, but he was instructor at the academy in chemistry and mathematics. Well do I remember hearing this conversation at the other side of a vine-trellis at this party. In her low, pensive voice Ellen was saying: "I lived by the sea; it was in my veins. The noise of its beating is in my heart. One cannot live inland when one has been a lighthouse-keeper's daughter." Rage and anger surged in me, for Ellen had made but three visits to the sea in all her days, and one of which occurred when she was too small to remember it. As you may gather from this, her father had not been a lighthouse-keeper. I stamped my foot; a little-girl _mad_ feeling came over me. I took my saucer of goodies and my cake firmly in my hand and went to confront her then and there. She had talked so beautifully about truth and life that very afternoon. I couldn't do it. The little sarcastic remark that anger had invented for me died still-born. She was too lovely; something almost mystically beautiful radiated from her whole little personality. "I am so happy," she seemed to say. "Let me stay happy one moment more." There was always about her this heart-rending quality. It was not until I could draw her by herself that I spoke to her, and then my remonstrance was gentle. "You must tell him the truth," I insisted kindly. And Ellen wrung her hands and said:-- "Oh, Roberta! you make my heart feel like a shriveled-up little leaf; you make me feel like a bad dream, like when you find yourself in company without your clothes." But I repeated inexorably:-- "You _must_ tell him." I can see her now drooping up to him and the appealing glance of her large eyes. Presently I saw him take both her hands in his, and then she came toward me, her feet dancing, a glad, naughty look in her eyes. She answered my glance of inquiry with:-- "He asked me why I told him what I did, and, since I was telling the whole truth, I answered, 'I wanted awfully to have you like me.'" That, you see, is what I got for interfering with my friend and torturing her. CHAPTER VIII The next few weeks there were very few entries. Ellen was very bad at mathematics, and her uncle, who rarely left his seclusion to interest himself in her affairs and who merely enjoyed her personality, thought it would be a fine plan if this responsible young man should give his Ellen lessons. Mr. Grant was advanced in his theories concerning the female brain, which, he said, lost its vagueness and inexactnesses through a mathematical training. Ellen merely makes a note of this. There are very few entries in her journal at this time, for she was playing with the great forces of life. God help us all! We didn't know passion when it came to us, nor how should we? It was the warp on which were woven all our generous impulses, all our high idealisms, making in all the shimmering garments in which we clothed our fragile, newborn spirits. Ellen walked in a magic circle of her own ignorance, never dreaming of love or of being in love. So absorbed was she that it seemed like some one walking down a road that leads directly into a swift-flowing river, and not knowing that the river was there until one had walked directly into it. So close is the so-called silly moment of girlhood to the moment of full development, that when the change comes it sometimes takes only overnight. It was only a few pages, after all, that separated Ellen, who managed to do the minister's dishes by pretending that she was his second wife, from the Ellen who wrote:-- "I don't know how to begin what I am going to say. I thought everybody in the world must know what had happened to me. I thought my face must shine with it. I thought I must look like some one very different from myself,--like a woman, perhaps. I came home through Lincoln Field and squeezed myself through a hole in the fence so no one could see me. I came up the back way to my room and locked the door. My heart beat both ways at once when I looked in the glass, but I looked just the same as before I went out--as before he kissed me. I went downstairs and my hand seemed too heavy to open the door and go in where I heard their voices. I was afraid to go because I felt: 'They will know, they will know!' Mr. Sylvester and mamma and Aunt Sarah were there. 'Where have you been?' said mamma. And I could not answer. I felt I had been gone so long and so far. I could hear the blood beating in my ears, and when my aunt said: 'I wish, Ellen, you would stand up straighter,' I could hardly lift my head." Next day there is
he cried. He was astonished at his own disloyalty. Harry Belfield had been the hero of his youth, his ideal, his touchstone of excellence in all things, the standard by which he humbly measured his own sore deficiencies, and contemptuously assessed the demerits of his schoolfellows. Of these Harry had not been one. No grammar school for him! He was the son of Mr. Belfield of Halton Park--Harrow and Oxford were the programme for him. The same favourable conditions gave him the opportunity--which, of course, he took--of excelling in all the accomplishments that Andy lacked and envied--riding, shooting, games of skill that cost money. The difference of position set a gulf between the two boys. Meetings had been rare events--to Andy always notable events, occasions of pleasure and of excitement, landmarks in memory. The acquaintance between the houses had been of the slightest. In Andy's earliest days Mr. and the first Mrs. Hayes had dined once a year with Mr. and Mrs. Belfield; they were not expected to return the hospitality. After Andy's mother died and Nancy came on the scene, the annual dinner had gone on, but it had become a men's dinner; and Mrs. Belfield, though she bowed in the street, had not called on the second Mrs. Hayes--Nancy Rock that had been. It was not to be expected. Yet Mr. Belfield had recognized an equal in Andy's father; he also, perhaps, yielded some homage to the B.A. Oxon. And Harry, though he undoubtedly drew a line between himself and Andy, drew another between Andy and Andy's schoolfellows, Chinks, the Bird, and the rest. He was rewarded--and to his worship-loving nature it was a reward--by an adoration due as much, perhaps, to the first line as to the second. The more definite a line, the more graciousness lies in stepping over it. These boyish devotions are common, and commonly are short-lived. But Andy's habit of mind was stable and his affections tenacious. He still felt that a meeting with Harry Belfield would be an event. "He's all right," Jack Rock answered, his tone hardly responding to Andy's eagerness. "He's a barrister now, you know; but I don't fancy he does much at it. Better at spendin' money than makin' it! If you want to see him, you can do it to-night." "Can I? How?" "There's talk of him bein' candidate for the Division next election, and he's goin' to speak at a meeting in the Town Hall to-night, him and a chap in Parliament." "Good! Which side is he?" "You've been a good while away to ask that!" "I suppose I have. I say, Jack, let's go." "You can go; I shan't," said Jack Rock. "You'll get back in time for supper--and need it too, I should say. I never listen to speeches except when they put me on a jury at assizes. Then I do like to hear a chap fight for his man. That's racin', that is; and I like specially, Andy, to see him bring it off when the odds are against him. But this politics--in my opinion, if you put their names in a hat and drew 'em blindfolded, you'd get just as good a Gover'ment as you do now, or just as bad." "Oh, I'm not going for the politics. I'm going to hear Harry Belfield." "The only question as particularly interests me," said Jack, with one of his occasional lapses into doubtful grammar, "is the matter of chilled meat. But which of 'em does anything for me there? One says 'Free Trade--let it all come!' The other says, 'No chilled meat, certainly not, unless it comes from British possessions'--which is where it does come from mostly. And it's ruin to the meat, Andy, in my opinion. I hate to see it. Not that I lose much by it, havin' a high-class connection. Would you like to have another look in the shop?" "Suppose we say to-morrow morning?" laughed Andy. Jack shook his head; he seemed disappointed at this lack of enthusiasm. "I've got some beauties this Christmas," he said. "All the same I shan't be lookin' at 'em much to-morrow mornin'! I've got a young horse, and I want just to show him what a foxhound's like. The meet's at Fyfold to-morrow, Andy. I wish I could mount you. I expect you ride fourteen, eh?" "Hard on it, I fancy--and I'm a fool on a horse anyhow. But I shall go--on shanks' mare." "Will you now? Well, if you're as good on your legs as you used to be, it's odds you'll see a bit of the run. I recollect you in the old days, Andy; you were hard to shake off unless the goin' was uncommon good. Knew the country, you did, and where the fox was likely to make for. And I don't think you'll get the scent too good for you to-morrow. Come along and have tea. Oh, but you're a late-dinner man, eh?" "Dinner when, where, and how it comes! Tea sounds capital--with supper after my meeting. I say, Jack, it's good to see you again!" "Wish you'd stay here, lad. I'm much alone these days--with the old gentleman gone, and poor Nancy gone!" "Perhaps I shall. Anyhow I might stay here for the summer, and go up to town to the office." "Aye, you might do that, anyhow." Again Jack Rock seemed meditative, as though he had an idea and were half-minded to disclose it. But he was a man of caution; he bided his time. Andy--nobody had ever called him Andrew since the parson who christened him--seemed to himself to have got home again, very thoroughly home again. Montreal with its swelling hill, its mighty river, its winter snow, its Frenchness, its opposing self-defensive, therefore self-assertive, Britishness, was very remote. A talk with Jack Rock, a Conservative meeting with a squire in the chair (that was safely to be assumed), a meet of the hounds next morning--these and a tide of intimate personal memories stamped him as at home again. The long years in the little house at the extreme end of Highcroft--Highcroft led out of High Street, tending to the west, Fyfold way--in the old grammar school, in the peace of the sleepy town--had been a poignant memory in South Africa, a fading dream in the city by the great river. They sprang again into actuality. If he felt a certain contraction in his horizon he felt also a peace in his mind. Meriton might or might not admire "hustlers;" it did not hustle itself. It was a parasitic little town; it had no manufactures, no special industry. It lived on the country surrounding it--on the peasants, the farmers, the landowners. So it did not grow; neither did it die. It remained much as it had been for hundreds of years, save that it was seriously considering the introduction of electric light. The meeting was rather of an impromptu order; Christmas holidays are generally held sacred from such functions. But Mr. Foot, M.P., a rising young member and a friend of Harry Belfield's, happened to be staying at Halton Park for shooting. Why waste him? He liked to speak, and he spoke very well. The more Harry showed himself and got himself heard, the better. The young men would enjoy it. A real good dinner beforehand would send them down in rare spirits. A bit of supper, with a whisky-and-soda or two, and recollections of their own "scores," would end the evening pleasantly. Meriton would not be excited--it was not election time--but it would be amused, benevolent, and present in sufficiently large numbers to make the thing go with _éclat_. There was, indeed, one topic which, from a platform at all events, one could describe as "burning." A Bill dealing with the sale of intoxicating liquor had, the session before, been introduced as the minimum a self-respecting nation could do, abused as the maximum fanatics could clamour for, carried through a second reading considerably amended, and squeezed out by other matters. It was to be re-introduced. The nation was recommended to consider the question in the interval. Now the nation, though professing its entire desire to be sober--it could not well do anything else--was not sure that it desired to be made sober, was not quite clear as to the precise point at which it could or could not be held to be sober, and felt that the argument that it would, by the gradual progress of general culture, become sober in the next generation or so--without feeling the change, so to say, and with no violent break in the habits of this generation (certainly everybody must wish the next generation to be sober)--that this argument, which men of indisputable wisdom adduced, had great attractions. Also the nation was much afraid of the teetotallers, especially of the subtle ones who said that true freedom lay in freedom from temptation. The nation thought that sort of freedom not much worth having, whether in the matter of drink or of any other pleasure. So there were materials for a lively and congenial discussion, and Mr. Foot, M.P., was already in the thick of it when Andy Hayes, rather late by reason of having been lured into the stables to see the hunters after tea, reached the Town Hall and sidled his way to a place against the wall in good view of the platform and of the front benches where the big-wigs sat. The Town Hall was quite two-thirds full--very good indeed for the Christmas season! Andy Hayes was not much of a politician. Up to now he had been content with the politics of his _métier_, the politics of a man trying to build up a business. But it was impossible not to enjoy Mr. Foot. He riddled the enemy with epigram till he fell to the earth, then he jumped on to his prostrate form and chopped it to pieces with logic. He set his audience wondering--this always happens at political meetings, whichever party may be in power--by what odd freak of fate, by what inexplicable blunder, the twenty men chosen to rule the country should be not only the twenty most unprincipled but also the twenty stupidest in it. Mr. Foot demonstrated the indisputable truth of this strange fact so cogently before he had been on his legs twenty minutes that gradually Andy felt absolved from listening any longer to so plain a matter; his attention began to wander to the company. It was a well-to-do audience--there were not many poor in Meriton. A few old folk might have to go to "the house," but there were no distress or "unemployment" troubles. The tradesfolk, their families, and employees formed the bulk. They were presided over by Mr. Wellgood of Nutley, who might be considered to hold the place of second local magnate, after Mr. Belfield of Halton. He was a spare, strongly built man of two or three and forty; his hair was clipped very close to his head; he wore a bristly moustache just touched with gray, but it too was kept so short that the lines of his mouth, with its firm broad lips, were plain to see; his eyes were light-blue, hard, and wary; they seemed to keep a constant watch over the meeting, and once, when a scuffle arose among some children at the back of the hall, they gave out a fierce and formidable glance of rebuke. He had the reputation of being a strict master and a stern magistrate; but he was a good sportsman, and Jack Rock's nearest rival after the hounds. Beside him, waiting his turn to speak and seeming rather nervous--he was not such an old hand at the game as Mr. Foot--sat Andy's hero, Harry Belfield. He was the pet of the town for his gay manner, good looks, and cheery accessibility to every man--and even more to every woman. His youthful record was eminently promising, his career the subject of high hopes to his family and his fellow-citizens. Tall and slight, wearing his clothes with an elegance free from affectation, he suggested "class" and "blood" in every inch of him. He was rather pale, with thick, soft, dark hair; his blue eyes were vivacious and full of humour, his mouth a little small, but delicate and sensitive, the fingers of his hands long and tapering. "A thoroughbred" was the only possible verdict--evidently also a man full of sensibility, awake to the charms of life as well as to its labours; that was in keeping with all Andy's memories. The moment he rose it was obvious with what favour he was regarded; the audience was predisposed towards all he said. He was not so epigrammatic nor so cruelly logical as Mr. Foot; he was easier, more colloquial, more confidential; he had some chaff for his hearers as well as denunciation for his enemies; his speech was seasoned now by a local allusion, now by a sporting simile. A veteran might have found its strongest point of promise in its power of adaptation to the listeners, its gift of creating sympathy between them and the speaker by the grace of a very attractive personality. It was a success, perhaps, more of charm than of strength; but it may be doubted whether in the end the one does not carry as far as the other. On good terms as he was with them all, it soon became evident to so interested an onlooker as Andy Hayes that he was on specially good terms, or at any rate anxious to be, in one particular quarter. After he had made a point and was waiting for the applause to die down, not once but three or four times he smiled directly towards the front row, and towards that part of it where two young women sat side by side. They were among his most enthusiastic auditors, and Andy presently found himself, by a natural leaning towards any one who admired Harry Belfield, according to them a share of the attention which had hitherto been given exclusively to the hero himself. The pair made a strong contrast. There was a difference of six or seven years only in their ages, but while the one seemed scarcely more than a child, it was hard to think of the other as even a girl--there was about her such an air of self-possession, of conscious strength, of a maturity of faculties. Even in applauding she seemed also to judge and assess. Her favour was discriminating; she let the more easy hits go by with a slight, rather tolerant smile, while her neighbour greeted them with outright merry laughter. She was not much beyond medium height, but of full build, laid on ample lines; her features were rather large, and her face wore, in repose, a thoughtful tranquillity. The other, small, frail, and delicate, with large eyes that seemed to wonder even as she laughed, would turn to her friend with each laugh and appear to ask her sympathy--or even her permission to be pleased. Andy's scrutiny--somewhat prolonged since it yielded him all the above particulars--was ended by his becoming aware that he in his turn was the object of an attention not less thoroughgoing. Turning back to the platform, he found the chairman's hard and alert eyes fixed on him in a gaze that plainly asked who he was and why he was so much interested in the two girls. Andy blushed in confusion at being caught, but Mr. Wellgood made no haste to relieve him from his rebuking glance. He held him under it for full half a minute, turning away, indeed, only when Harry sat down among the cheers of the meeting. What business was it of Wellgood's if Andy did forget his manners and stare too hard at the girls? The next moment Andy laughed at himself for the question. In a sudden flash he remembered the younger girl. She was Wellgood's daughter Vivien. He recalled her now as a little child; he remembered the wondering eyes and the timidly mirthful curl of her lips. Was it really as long ago as that since he had been in Meriton? However childlike she might look, now she was grown-up! His thoughts, which carried him through the few sentences with which the chairman dismissed the meeting, were scattered by the sudden grasp of Harry Belfield's hand. The moment he saw Andy he ran down from the platform to him. His greeting was all his worshipper could ask. "Well now, I am glad to see you back!" he cried. "Oh, we all heard how well you'd done out at the front, and we thought it too bad of you not to come back and be lionized. But here you are at last, and it's all right. I must take Billy Foot home now--he's got to go to town at heaven knows what hour in the morning--but we must have a good jaw soon. Are you at the Lion?" "No," said Andy, "I'm staying a day or two with Jack Rock." "With Jack Rock?" Harry's voice sounded surprised. "Oh yes, of course, I remember! He's a capital chap, old Jack! But if you're going to stay--and I hope you are, old fellow--you'll want some sort of a place of your own, won't you? Well, good-night. I'll hunt you up some time in the next day or two, for certain. Did you like my speech?" "Yes, and I expected you to make a good one." "You shall hear me make better ones than that. Well, I really must--All right, Billy, I'm coming." With another clasp of the hand he rushed after Mr. Foot, who was undisguisedly in a hurry, shouting as he went, "Good-night, Wellgood! Good-night, Vivien! Good-night, Miss Vintry!" Miss Vintry--that was the other girl, the one with Vivien Wellgood. Andy was glad to know her name and docket her by it in her place among the impressions of the evening. So home to a splendid round of cold beef and another pint of that excellent beer at Jack Rock's. What days life sometimes gives--or used to! Chapter II. A VERY LITTLE HUNTING. If more were needed to make a man feel at home--more than old Meriton itself, Jack Rock with his beef, and the clasp of Harry Belfield's hand--the meet of the hounds supplied it. There were hunts in other lands; Andy could not persuade himself that there were meets like this, so entirely English it seemed in the manner of it. Everybody was there, high and low, rich and poor, young and old. An incredible coincidence of unplausible accidents had caused an extraordinary number of people to have occasion to pass by Fyfold Green that morning at that hour, let alone all the folk who chanced to have a "morning off" and proposed to see some of the run, on horseback or on foot. The tradesmen's carts were there in a cluster, among them two of Jack Rock's: his boys knew that a blind eye would be turned to half an hour's lateness in the delivery of the customers' joints. For centre of the scene were the waving tails, the glossy impatient horses, the red coats, the Master himself, Lord Meriton, in his glory and, it may be added, in the peremptory mood which is traditionally associated with his office. Andy Hayes moved about, meeting many old friends--more, indeed, than he recognized, till a reminiscence of old days established for them again a place in his memory. He saw Tom Dove--the Bird--mounted on a showy screw. Wat Money--Chinks--was one of those who "happened to be passing" on his way to a client's who lived in the opposite direction. He gave Andy a friendly greeting, and told him that if he thought of taking a house in Meriton, he should be careful about his lease: Foulkes, Foulkes, and Askew would look after it. Jack Rock was there, of course, keeping himself to himself, on the outskirts of the throng: the young horse was nervous. Harry Belfield, in perfect array, talked to Vivien Wellgood, her father on a raking hunter close beside them. A great swell of home-feeling assailed Andy; suddenly he had a passionate hope that the timber business would develop; he did not want to go back to Canada. It was a good hunting morning, cloudy and cool, with the wind veering to the north-east and dropping as it veered. No frost yet, but the weather-wise predicted one before long. The scent should be good--a bit too good, Andy reflected, for riders on shanks' mare. Their turn is best served by a scent somewhat variable and elusive. A check here and there, a fresh cast, the hounds feeling for the scent--these things, added to a cunning use of short cuts and a knowledge of the country shared by the fox, aid them to keep on terms and see something of the run--just as they aid the heavy old gentlemen on big horses and the small boys on fat ponies to get their humble share of the sport. But in truth Andy cared little so that he could run--run hard, fast, and long. His powerful body craved work, work, and work yet more abundantly. His way of indulging it was to call on it for all its energies; he exulted in feeling its brave response. Fatigue he never knew--at least not till he had changed and bathed; and then it was not real fatigue: it was no more than satiety. Now when they had found--and they had the luck to find directly--he revelled in the heavy going of a big ploughed field. He was at the game he loved. Yes, but the pace was good--distinctly good. The spirit was willing, but human legs are but human, and only two in number. Craft was required. The fox ran straight now--but had he never a thought in his mind? The field streamed off to the right, lengthening out as it went. Andy bore to his left: he remembered Croxton's Dip. Did the fox? That was the question. If he did, the hunt would describe the two sides of a triangle, while Andy cut across the base. He was out of sight of the field now, but he could hear the hounds giving tongue from time to time and the thud of the hoofs. The sounds grew nearer! A thrill of triumph ran through him; his old-time knowledge had not failed him. The fox had doubled back, making for Croxton's Dip. Over the edge of yonder hill it lay, half a mile off--a deep depression in the ground, covered with thick undergrowth. In the hope of catching up, Andy Hayes felt that he could run all day and grudge the falling of an over-hasty night. "Blown," indeed, but no more than a rest of a minute would put right, he reached the ledge whence the ground sloped down sharply to the Dip. He was in time to see the hunt race past him along the bottom--leaders, the ruck, stragglers. Jack Rock and Wellgood were with the Master in the van; he could not make out Harry Belfield; a forlorn figure looking like the Bird laboured far in the rear. They swept into the Dip as Andy started to race down the slope. But to his chagrin they swept out of it again, straight up a long slope which rose on his left, the fox running game, a near kill promising, a fast point-to-point secured. The going was too good for shanks' mare to-day. Before he got to the bottom even the Bird had galloped by, walloping his showy screw. To the left, then, and up that long slope! There was nothing else for it, if he were so much as to see the kill from afar. This was exercise, if you like! His heart throbbed like the engines of a great ship; the sweat broke out on him. Oh, it was fine! That slope must be won--then Heaven should send the issue! Suddenly--even as he braced himself to face the long ascent, as the last sounds from the hunt died away over its summit--he saw a derelict, and, amazed, came to a full stop. The girl was not on her pony; she was standing beside it. The pony appeared distressed, and the girl looked no whit more cheerful. With a pang to the very heart, Andy Hayes recognized a duty, and acknowledged it by a snatch at his cap. "I beg your pardon; anything wrong?" he asked. He had been interested in Vivien Wellgood the evening before, but he was much more than interested in the hunt. Still, she looked forlorn and desolate. "Would you mind looking at my pony's right front leg?" she asked. "I think he's gone lame." "I know nothing about horses, but he does seem to stand rather gingerly on his--er--right front leg. And he's certainly badly blown--worse than I am!" "We shall never catch them, shall we? It's not the least use going on, is it?" "Oh, I don't know. I know the country; if you'd let me pilot you--" "Harry Belfield was going to pilot me, but--well, I told him not to wait for me, and he didn't. You were at the meeting last night, weren't you? You're Mr. Hayes, aren't you? What did you think of the speeches?" "Really, you know, if we're to have a chance of seeing any more of the--" It was not the moment to discuss political speeches, however excellent. "I don't want to see any more of it. I'll go home; I'll risk it." "Risk what?" he asked. There seemed no risk in going home; and there was, by now, small profit in going on. She did not answer his question. "I think hunting's the most wretched amusement I've ever tried!" she broke out. "The pony's lame--yes, he is; I've torn my habit" (she exhibited a sore rent); "I've scratched my face" (her finger indicated the wound); "and here I am! All I hope is that they won't catch that poor fox. How far do you think it is to Nutley?" "Oh, about three miles, I should think. You could strike the road half a mile from here." "I'm sure the pony's lame. I shall go back." "Would you like me to come with you?" During their talk her eyes had wavered between indignation and piteousness--the one at the so-called sport of hunting, the other for her own woes. At Andy's question a gleam of welcome flashed into them, followed in an instant by a curious sort of veiling of all expression. She made a pathetic little figure, with her habit sorely rent and a nasty red scratch across her forehead. The pony lame too--if he were lame! Andy hit on the idea that it was a question whether he were lame enough to swear by: that was what she was going to risk--in a case to be tried before some tribunal to which she was amenable. "But don't you want to go on?" she asked. "You're enjoying it, aren't you?" The question carried no rebuke; it recognized as legitimate the widest differences of taste. "I haven't the least chance of catching up with them. I may as well come back with you." The curious expression--or rather eclipse of expression--was still in her eyes, a purely negative defensiveness that seemed as though it could spring only from an instinctive resolve to show nothing of her feelings. The eyes were a dark blue; but with Vivien's eyes colour never counted for much, nor their shape, nor what one would roughly call their beauty, were it more or less. Their meaning--that was what they set a man asking after. "It really would be very kind of you," she said. Andy mounted her on the suppositiously lame pony--her weight wouldn't hurt him much, anyhow--and they set out at a walk towards the highroad which led to Nutley and thence, half a mile farther on, to Meriton. She was silent till they reached the road. Then she asked abruptly, "Are you ever afraid?" "Well, you see," said Andy, with a laugh, "I never know whether I'm afraid or only excited--in fighting, I mean. Otherwise I don't fancy I'm either often." "Well, you're big," she observed. "I'm afraid of pretty nearly everything--horses, dogs, motor-cars--and I'm passionately afraid of hunting." "You're not big, you see," said Andy consolingly. Indeed her hand on the reins looked almost ridiculously small. "I've got to learn not to be afraid of things. My father's teaching me. You know who I am, don't you?" "Oh yes; why, I remember you years ago! Is that why you're out hunting?" "Yes." "And why you think that the pony--?" "Is lame enough to let me risk going home? Yes." There was a hint of defiance in her voice. "You must think what you like," she seemed to say. Andy considered the matter in his impartial, solid, rather slowly moving mind. It was foolish to be frightened at such things; it must be wholesome to be taught not to be. Still, hunting wasn't exactly a moral duty, and the girl looked very fragile. He had not arrived at any final decision on the case--on the issue whether the girl were silly or the father cruel (the alternatives might not be true alternatives, not strictly exclusive of one another)--before she spoke again. "And then I'm fastidious. Are you?" "I hope not!" said Andy, with an amused chuckle. A great lump of a fellow like him fastidious! "Father doesn't like that either, and I've got to get over it." "How does it--er--take you?" Andy made bold to inquire. "Oh, lots of ways. I hate dirt, and dust, and getting very hot, and going into butchers' shops, and--" "Butchers' shops!" exclaimed Andy, rather hit on the raw. "You eat meat, don't you?" "Things don't look half as dead when they're cooked. I couldn't touch a butcher!" Horror rang in her tones. "Oh, but I say, Jack Rock's a butcher, and he's about the best fellow in Meriton. You know him?" "I've seen him," she admitted reluctantly, the subject being evidently distasteful. For the second time Andy Hayes was conscious of a duty: he must not be--or seem--ashamed of Jack Rock, just because this girl was fastidious. "I'm related to him, you know. My stepmother was his sister. And I'm staying in his house." She glanced at him, a slight flush rising to her cheeks; he saw that her lips trembled a little. "It's no use trying to unsay things, is it?" she asked. "Not a bit," laughed Andy. "Don't think I'm hurt; but I should be a low-down fellow if I didn't stand up for old Jack." "I should rather like to have you to stand up for me sometimes," she said, and broke into a smile as she added, "You're so splendidly solid, you see, Mr. Hayes. Here we are at home--you may as well make a complete thing of it and see me as far as the stables." "I'd like to come in--I'm not exactly a stranger here. I've often been a trespasser. Don't tell Mr. Wellgood unless you think he'll forgive me, but as a boy I used to come and bathe in the lake early in the morning--before anybody was up. I used to undress in the bushes and slip in for my swim pretty nearly every morning in the summer. It's fine bathing, but you want to be able to swim; there's a strong undercurrent, where the stream runs through. Are you fond of bathing?" Andy was hardly surprised when she gave a little shudder. "No, I'm rather afraid of water." She added quickly, "Don't tell my father, or I expect I should have to try to learn to swim. He hasn't thought of that yet. No more has Isobel--Miss Vintry, my companion. You know? You saw her at the meeting. I have a companion now, instead of a governess. Isobel isn't afraid of anything, and she's here to teach me not to be." "You don't mind my asking your father to let me come and swim, if I'm here in the summer?" "I don't suppose I ought to mind that," she said doubtfully. The house stood with its side turned to the drive by which they approached it from the Meriton road. Its long, low, irregular front--it was a jumble of styles and periods--faced the lake, a stone terrace running between the façade and the water; it was backed by a thick wood; across the lake the bushes grew close down to the water's edge. The drive too ran close by the water, deep water as Andy was well aware, and was fenced from it by a wooden paling, green from damp. The place had a certain picturesqueness, but a sadness too. Water and trees--trees and water--and between them the long squat house. To Andy it seemed to brood there like a toad. But his healthy mind reverted to the fact that for a strong swimmer the bathing was really splendid. "Here comes Isobel! Now nothing about swimming, and say the pony's lame!" The injunction recalled Andy from his meditations and also served to direct his attention to Miss Vintry, who stood, apparently waiting for them, at the end of the drive, with the house on her right and the stables on her left. She was dressed in a business-like country frock, rather noticeably short, and carried a stick with a spike at the end of it. She looked very efficient and also very handsome. Vivien told her story: Andy, not claiming expert knowledge, yet stoutly maintained that the pony was--or anyhow had been--lame. "He seems to be getting over it," said Miss Vintry, with a smile that was not malicious but was, perhaps, rather annoyingly amused. "I'm afraid your having had to turn back will vex your father, but I suppose there was no help for it, and I'm sure he'll be much obliged to--" "Mr. Hayes." Vivien supplied the name, and Andy made his bow. "Oh yes, I've heard Mr. Harry Belfield speak of you." Her tone was gracious, and she smiled at Andy good-humouredly. If she confirmed his impression of capability, and perhaps added a new one of masterfulness, there was at least nothing to hint that her power would not be well used or that her sway would be other than benevolent. Vivien had dismounted, and a stable-boy was leading the pony away, after receiving instructions to submit the suspected off fore-leg to his chief's inspection. There seemed nothing to keep Andy, and he was about to take his leave when Miss Vintry called to the retreating stable-boy, "Oh, and let Curly out, will you? He hasn't had his run this afternoon." Vivien turned her head towards the stables with a quick apprehensive jerk. A big black retriever, released in obedience to Isobel Vintry's order, ran out, bounding joyously. He leapt up at Isobel, pawing her and barking in an ecstasy of delight. In passing Andy, the stranger, he gave him another bark of greeting and a hasty pawing; then he clumsily gambolled on to where Vivien stood. "He won't hurt you, Vivien. You know he won't hurt you, don't you?" The dog certainly seemed to warrant Isobel's assertion; he appeared a most
consequence To the nymph who listens far below. That you are thus divided is not strange, But you contain a third Self And it regards the other two With a grave and patient interest. _Woman_ Phantasmagoria, Ruling arabesques of words, Your attenuated variations Of thought and emotion will enrage The blunt convictions of more earthly men. The pagan rituals of my face Distrust your words, and my mind, Dropping its voice from fancied heights, Resents the indirectness of your style. But the third Self within me, Generous and immobile of face, Cares only for the skill With which you elevate Vainly celebrating shades Of thought and protesting emotion. Color, form, and substance-- Three complaining slaves Engraving the details of prearranged tasks Within stationary brains and hearts. My third Self would release them To an original abandon That exchanges intangible countries, With a gracious, gaudy treason. _Torban_ Lacking a better name I will call your third Self “soul.” The ancient, merry game Of fighting over labels Must not dismay our duet. To most men soul exists Only when their sensual weariness Needs to be gilded with a religion Or a deified memory of flesh. We contain a lurking wanderer Upon our inner roads, and he Sometimes stops to drop pitying hands Upon the forms of thought and emotions Branded with scores of prejudices. Men have hated him for centuries, And hatred, symbol of sly cowardice, Has draped its desire in false scorn And named him Decadence. Thus ends our decadent duet. Come, there are roads on which we must pirouette. The proper contrast will be furnished By philosophers, scientists, and sensualists. POEM TO A POLICEMAN Marionnette-fanatic, Your active club within this riot Was once the passive integrity Of a branch upon a tree. Now without success It tries to beat out fire Writhing in human skulls. The pause of nature, transformed Survival of every memory and defeat, Separates to bits of action Aiding an inexplicable fever. The hands of centuries press These bits into another Pause before corruption. O pernicious circle, I will not believe That your parsimonious farce Reiterates itself through space. The souls of men achieve An accidental dream That seems important merely Because the figures which it holds Have invented small and almost Non-existent divisions of time. Yet, trapped within these months and years, I turn to you, marionnette-fanatic. You at least can bring Diversion to my chained Impatience as I wait for death. How wildly you protect The sluggish minds of men! A calculating laziness of thought Has created you to guard its doors, While other men require An outward expression of peace Beneath which the inner struggle Can revel in privacy. And so, with buttons of brass And blue uniform that lend An incongruous dignity To your task, you defend The myriads of insincerities That drape a mutilated need. And yet, unconsciously, And at rare times you save The face of beauty from an old Insult in the fists of men. Yes, you are not entirely Without extenuation, Marionnette-fanatic. INTIMATE SCENE Bed-room, you have earned The sympathy of dirt, And bear upon your air Malevolent and thwarted Essences of men. Many contorters of bellies Have stirred an urgent travesty Shielded by your greasy dusk, And hearts have found upon your couch A brief, delicious insult. Cheap room within a lodging-house, You are not merely space For the coronation of flesh, And your odorous bed-quilts Need not only provoke The casual jeering of thought. II Woman and her master Close the door too quietly. With a mien of slinking Insecurity, the woman turns Within the dangling darkness of the room And mumbles orders to her man. Anticipation and disgust Rout each other upon her face. Then the gas-light brings Its feeble understanding to the room. Woman and man slump down Within the chairs and regard The tired amens of their feet. For a time weariness Banishes the theatrical Divisions of masculine and feminine, But returning strength Calls to the untrue drama. The man demands, with practised expectation, Money squeezed from an automatic night; Curses at the smallness of the sum, And cuffs his woman without intensity, Desiring only an excuse For the slowness of his mind. She is not a composition Waiting for its orchestra of pain: His fists can merely give An inexpensive spice To the apathy within her. Soon the man and woman laugh, To kill an inner jumble of sounds Which they cannot separate-- Nightly complaint of their souls. He pinches one of her cheeks, Like an Emperor deigning To test the softness of a bauble, And she finds within his fingers An endurable compliment. When morning light exposes Each deficiency within the room, Man and woman open their eyes. Hallucination of fire No longer streams over the moving screens. Woman and her man Stare, with disapproval, at the walls, And their souls become Querulous captives almost gaining lips. Then emotional habits Revive the earthly hoax. Rising from the bed, Man and woman use their voices Reassuringly. NEW YORK CITY New York, it would be easy to revile The flatly carnal beggar in your smile, And flagellate, with a superior bliss, The gasping routines of your avarice. Loud men reward you with an obvious ax, Or piteous laurel-wreath, and their attacks And eulogies blend to a common sin. New York, perhaps an intellectual grin That brings its bright cohesion to the warm Confusion of the heart, can mold your swarm Of huge, drab blunders into smaller grace... With old words I shall gamble for your face. The evening kneels between your filthy brick, Darkly indifferent to each scheme and trick With which your men insult and smudge their day. When evenings metaphysically pray Above the weakening dance of men, they find That every eye that looks at them is blind. And yet, New York, I say that evenings free An insolently mystic majesty From your parades of automatic greed. For one dark moment all your narrow speed Receives the fighting blackness of a soul, And every nervous lie swings to a whole-- A pilgrim, blurred yet proud, who finds in black An arrogance that fills his straining lack. Between your undistinguished crates of stone And wood, the wounded dwarfs who walked alone-- The chorus-girls, whose indiscretions hang Between the scavengers of rouge and slang; The women moulding painfully a fresh Excuse for pliant treacheries of flesh; The men who raise the tin sword of a creed, Convinced that it can kill the lunge of greed; The thieves whose poisoned vanity purloins A fancied victory from ringing coins; The staidly bloated men whose minds have sold Their quickness to an old, metallic Scold; The neatly cultured men whose hopes and fears Dwell in soft prisons honored by past years; The men whose tortured youth bends to the task Of hardening offal to a swaggering mask-- The night, with black hands, gathers each mistake And strokes a mystic challenge from each ache. The night, New York, sardonic and alert, Offers a soul to your reluctant dirt. WE WANT LYRICS Thousands of faces break To one word called dramatic: Thousands of faces attain An over-worked, realistic Clash of stupidities. At first the mob spreads out Its animated fights of lines-- Butcher with a face one degree Removed from the dead flesh which he cuts; Socialist whose face rebukes The cry for justice tumbling from his lips; Five professors of English Whose faces are essentially School-boys coerced by erudition; Bank-clerk with a face Where curiosity Weakly contends against The shrewd frown brought by counting slips of money; Girls whose first twenty years Have merely shown them the exact Shade of pouting necessary For the gain of price-marked objects; Boys with cocksure faces Where an awkward lyric Wins the vitriol of civilization; Shop-girl whose face is like The faint beginning of a courtezan Prisoned by the trance of unsought labor; Wealthy man whose face Holds a courteous, bored Reply to traces of imagination; Housewife with a round Face where dying disappointments Flirt with hosts of angel-lies; Old men with faces where a psychic doubt Invades the ruins of noses, lips, and eyes And dreams of better structures; Old woman with a face Like a bashful rag-picker Rescuing bits of cast-off deviltries Beneath the ebbing light of eyes. Stare upon these faces, With emotion cooled by every Bantering of thought, And they fade to one disorganized Defeat that craves the smooth Lubrications of music. The mob upon this street Reiterates one shout: “We want lyrics! Give us lyrics!” Space, and stars, and conscious thought Stand above the house-tops of this street; Look down with frowning interest; Regard the implacable enemy. A VISITOR FROM MARS SMILES “Erudite and burnished poets seek Pliant strength from Latin, French, and Greek Phrases, finding English incomplete. Or do they conceal their real defeat, Like some juggler, faltering, who drops Circling, rapid balls of words and stops To relate obscure, pretentious tales, Hiding nervous moments where he fails?” Torban, visiting from Mars, became Silent, and his smile, like mental fame, Rescued the obscurity of flesh. Then I answered with a careful, fresh Purchase from the scorned shop of my mind. “Men must advertise the things they find. Erudition, tired after work, Flirts with plotting vanities that lurk Poutingly upon the edge of thought. Languages and legends men have caught Practice an irrelevant parade With emotions morbidly arrayed.” Torban gave the blunt wealth of his smile. “We, in Mars, have but one tongue whose guile Does not yield to little, vain designs. Feelings are fermented thoughts whose wines Bring an aimless fierceness to the mind. And a row of eyes, convinced and blind, But we sip them carefully, for we Do not like your spontaneity. Children babbling on the rocks in Mars, Shrieking as they dart in tinseled cars, Are spontaneous, but as they grow, We remove this noisy curse and throw Nimbleness to rule their tongues and ears-- Juggling games that slay their shouts and fears. Novelty to you is almost crime: We decorate the treachery of time!” SURPRISE He knew that he was dead because his fingers had forgotten the art of touching and were trying to regain their ability. They were no longer able to separate different textures and surfaces, and everything held to them a preposterous smoothness that suggested an urbane, impenetrable sophistry. With a methodical despair they gripped one object after another, disputing the integrity of their condition, and when at last they capitulated he accepted the verity of his death. So far he had not sought to use his eyes or ears--he had existed only as a limited intensity of thought and emotion that directed his hands in a fight for variations in feeling. Now he discovered his sight, and in that moment avalanches of metaphors and similes--the detailed disguises and comparisons with which two eyes arbitrarily brand a comforting distinctness upon a mystery--rushed from his head and arranged themselves to form a world. This was a reversal of life, since in life the human eye detects and reflects the objects around it, as all good scientists will testify, and does not first project these objects and afterwards reflect them. But this man, being dead, found that his eyes had thrown myriads of determinations upon a shapeless mass and changed it to an equal number of still and animated forms. The desires within his eyes were continually altering the objects around them, so that a tree became shifting plausibilities of design and a red rose was merely an obedient chameleon. Of course, this could never have happened in life, since in life different shapes hold a fixed contour, appearance, and meaning, but this man was fortunate enough to be dead, so his eyes meddled incorrigibly with the shapes and colors which they imagined that they had made. He sat in a room constructed by himself, and after he had become conscious of the result he saw that it was a hotel-room located in Detroit, Michigan. He examined the furniture, walls, and floor, and they were to him the firmness of his imagination divided into forms that sheltered the different needs within him. If he had still been alive he would have accepted the reality of shapes made by the majority-imaginations of other men, regardless of whether they pleased him or not, but death had given him a more audacious vigor and the room in which he was sitting did not resemble to his eyes the same chamber in which he had once reclined during his living hours. He knew that the power of his desire had returned him to a hotel-room in Detroit, Michigan, and had disarranged everything except its location and exact position. The floor was an incandescent white and suggested a proudly prostrate expanse--it did not have the supine appearance that pine and oak floors hold to the eyes of life. The furniture had lost its guise of being too economically pinned down by curves and angles, and its lines were more relaxed and disordered. The chairs were comfortable without relinquishing an aesthetic sincerity of line--a semblance scarcely ever held by chairs that figure in life--and the top of the table was not flat but depressed and elevated in different places, since the imagination of this dead man had dared to become more unobstructed. The bed had an air of counseling as well as supporting, and its posters were high and curved in above the center of a gently sloping bowl that formed the bottom. Also, the walls of the room stood with a lighter erectness in place of the rooted, martinet aspect that walls present to living eyes, while the ceiling gave an impression of cloth that could be easily flung aside and had not been spread by a passion for flat concealment. As the dead man sat in this room which he had revised, his memory began to distribute pains throughout his brain, and he realized that the room had dominated the last third of his life. The room had been the scene of his final meeting with a woman whom he loved, for a week later she had died after being thrown from a horse. Within this room they had spoken and touched for the last time on earth, and afterwards the room had become to him a square world isolated in a possibly round world--a continent in quality and not in size, where he could disrupt the imaginative lines fashioned by other men, changing a rose to an intellectual face if he so desired. Every visual detail and remembered word of the woman had merged to a guardian silence, enclosing this separate world with alert sentinels of understanding. He recollected these affirmations with the satisfaction of a transforming creator, for his experiences had become fantasies which his memory strove to make real. This was, however, the result of his death for, as all good men will tell you, the memory of living beings is entirely different and often adds inaccurate touches to the reality of experience, making this reality fantastic and untrue. His sense of hearing revived almost simultaneously with his memory, for hearing is the foremost aid in a capture of past happenings since its productions do not fade from the mind as rapidly as those of other senses. He found that his hearing was inextricably a part of thought and signified, indeed, the fragmentary release of thought, and this alteration drove from him every vestige of disbelief in his death, for he knew that in life hearing is almost always the sense used by men to divert the fatigue of their minds (the servant of meaningless ecstasies). Then his sense of smell, changed from an unseen drug to a floating search, collided with the odor of a woman--an odor that was less smooth and more candid than the natural ones held by women who are alive. Turning his head to the left, for the first time, he saw that the woman whom he loved was seated near him. Her naked body still gave the appearance of flesh curved as it had been during her life, but it was no longer a slyly prisoned invitation to his sense of touch. It aroused within him a feeling of thinly langourous intimacy and became a visible grave into which his thoughts could sink for future resurrection. It was as though a desire, once coarse and reeking with a defeated violence, had been transmuted to a longing for less fleeting and frantic pressures, while one former thrill became more diffused and deliberately sensitive, finding a possession to which the sense of touch was incidental, and not inevitable. The hemispheres of her breasts, imperfect and firm, and the long taperings of her limbs were to him forms which he wanted to envelope carefully with earnest refinements of motion, gaining in this way a less explanatory medium for his mind, and anything resembling an invasion would have seemed to him an abruptly senseless blunder. He saw that her face was still a gathering of boyish bewilderments beneath a mass of hair that had grown more cloudy, but these expressions were hugged by a light that made them unnecessary survivals of experience. He secured the impression that death was amusing itself with the trivialities of her features, while they held a perfect comprehension of the jest without abandoning their outward shapes. At this moment he became aware of the nakedness of his own body and felt the loss of that snug assurance which his skin had once given him. In its place there was a sheath that seemed hardly more than a visual flutter. He looked up at the woman and their smiles were adeptly synchronized. Living people are apt to smile when they have hidden too little and weep when there is nothing left to hide, but the smiles of this dead man and woman were informal exercises of candour--thought adopting more perceptible and less evasive signals. “Have you been sitting here since your death?” he asked. “No, I’ve also been creating on the streets of Detroit,” she said. “You manage it in this way. First you drive all of the alertness out of your senses and your mind, and everything around you becomes a vibrating, shapeless substance, a little thicker than mist and hued with a gray that is almost colorless. Then you give a moderate vigor to your senses and your mind, and the substance breaks into hosts of shapes. You have attained the perceptions of an ordinary, living person and you find that you are walking on a street. During all of this time you have held back the strength of your imagination, which is alone real, but now you release it and it shoots from you and follows the commands of your desires. An old man’s whiskers change to a weedy sprouting of thought, and each hair is the dangling of a different idea. You can see the decay of an empire crowding itself into a young girl’s green and mean hat, and different events emerge and group themselves to seize or obliterate the color. A woman’s leg becomes a fat blasphemy and within its shaking famous jelly you can spy a saint, writhing in the effort to free himself. A young man’s shoulders are two, dead, delicate thoughts caught in a bulging tomb, with their ghosts speaking through each unconscious movement of his arms. The street-pavement lives and is a hard, detached hatred, sapping the strength of those who have enslaved it.... Sometimes I’ve returned to this room, not to rest, for weariness springs only from that thick weakness of imagination known as flesh, but to find you here before the final emphasis of your death.” “Since I’m not accustomed to being dead I must ask questions whose answers are obvious to you,” he said. “Why are living beings unable to see you? How do you avoid their jostling and the rolling devices that they have made? How can we sit in a hotel-room, which must at the same time be occupied by living beings, without seeing or hearing them? Treat me as an earthly school-boy for a moment.” “Living beings dwell in realms made by their imaginations,” she said. “We do not fit into these realms and consequently we are not forms that can be detected by the senses and imaginations of people who are alive. The desires of these people have created a world of objects and substantiations which does not match our own, and so our world is an independent one placed over the world of living men. With different intensities and designs of imagination we invade a shapeless substance and give it the elaborate distinctness of our longings. This substance is inert imagination, and when we make our senses and minds blank we become a part of it. Of course, I use the word imagination because death has not yet taught me a better one. Beyond the earth there are stars and space which are not controlled and shaped by our individual imaginations, and when the feet of our imaginations become light enough to rise beyond the shapeless mass which gave birth to them, we shall discover what greater imaginations in turn gave birth to the feeble beginning which formed us. And so we shall be able to discard this word, imagination, which only represents the boundaries of our desire and its attendant senses and thoughts, and gain the words of greater explanations. But before we depart from these boundaries we must make ourselves entirely clear and untroubled, and it will be necessary for us to reconstruct the last meeting that we had during our lifetimes. This meeting troubles us with an unfulfillment of imagination, and if we do not alter it the strength of our imaginations will be hampered by a recollection of former weakness. All men and women who die must return to the most swiftly vivid scene that their imaginations were able to attain during the period known as life. In this way the scene is gradually made perfect by understanding, and the imagination, shaking off the terror of past weakness and indecision, is able to float away from the substance that created it. Because our imaginations were much stronger than the ones surrounding them, we can achieve this task immediately, while other dead people must slowly grapple for this emancipation, visiting their scene in those guises which living people call ghosts.” “You must direct me,” he said. “I was never much in harmony with the imaginative semblances and rituals of most living people, and now that I am dead I can scarcely remember them.” “Make your senses heavy and tight,” she said. “Reduce them to a condition that approaches a stupor--a hopeful stupor such as prevails among those living men known as mystics and priests. When you have accomplished this, make little rows of imaginative objects and force your mind to squeeze itself within them, adoring some and hating others. Then try to arouse your senses by concentrating them upon a thickly plotting form that once was flesh, while still making them retain a disturbing trace of their former coma. You remember this form--separated into hairsbreadths of worship and laceration by stunted men?” “Your description of living imagination is perfect,” he said. “It will be minutely disagreeable to follow your orders, but let us complete the task quickly.” They looked away from each other, immersed in the strain of their inner labours. The room disappeared in large pieces that receded to the background of a gray substance, and consciousness left their bodies. Her body faded out while his solidified to flesh draped by the clumsy fears of clothes. Then the gray substance slowly adopted the shapes, colours, and details of a railroad station. Once more he was a suffering and encumbered poet, standing in the battling race of people and waiting for the train that would bring her to Detroit, Michigan. He paced up and down the cement platform, erasing his thoughts with the long strokes of his limbs and obsessed only by the belief that he was walking nearer to her in this fashion, since he was weary of being over-awed by distance. Because he did not associate her qualities and thoughts with those of other people he could never convince himself that she was real unless she stood beside him and spoke, and when her body was absent she became the unreal confirmation of his desires--a dream to which he had given the plausible tricks of flesh and voice. Only the return of these two things could reassure him, for she was to him far too delicately exact and mentally unperturbed to exist actually in the sweating, dense, malaria-saturated revolutions of a world. The train arrived and he stood near the gate. People streamed out--a regiment disbanded after a lonely and forced conflict with thought in uncomfortable seats, or with diluted chatter that fascinated their inner emptiness. They were the people whose vast insistence and blundering control of the earth made him doubt the reality of the woman whom he loved. Oh, to feel once more certain that she was human--that her incredibly tenuous aloofness could stoop to the shields of flesh! Yes, she would come now, an alien straggler passively submitting to the momentum of a regiment of people. When she failed to appear he still lingered near the gate, inventing practical reasons for her absence--the packing of baggage, a delayed toilette. The iron gates shut with a thud that was to him the boot-sound of reality against his head. He bought a newspaper; sat down in the waiting-room; and sought to submerge his distress in the hasty and distorted versions of murders, robberies, scandals, controversies, and machinations that defiled white sheets of paper. But he could see nothing save a hazy host of men fighting against or accepting the complexly sinister fever that made them mutilate each other, and weary of this often-repeated vision he dropped the paper. His mind gathered itself to that tight and aching lunge known as emotion, and morbidly he involved her in disasters--train-wrecks, suicide, the assault of another person. He began to feel that melodrama was the only overwhelming sincerity in a tangle of crafty or poorly adjusted disguises, and his emotional activity fed eagerly upon this belief. All of the paraphernalia of fatalism rose before his eyes--the small, lit stage with its puppets; the myriads of strings extending into a frame of darkness and pulled by invisible hands; the sudden and prearranged descent of catastrophe; the laughter of an audience of gods, examining the spectacle with a mixture of sardonic and bored moments. But abruptly he felt that these were merely the devices of a self-pity that sought to raise its stature by imagining itself the victim of a sublime conspiracy. He whistled some bars of a popular song, deliberately snatching at an inane relief from the industries of his mind. Then he walked back to the gates and waited for the next train, which was about to arrive. Once more the importantly fatigued stream of people; once more her absence. He had turned away from the gate when her hand questioned his shoulder. “And so you are real and I have not been deceived,” he said. “I am as real as you care to make me,” she answered. “I was hunting for a comb in my valise when the train came in. Combs always elude me.” She mentioned the name of a hotel and they walked to it in silence, for speech to them demanded an impregnable privacy that was violated by even the swiftly passing eyes and ears of other people. When they were alone in the hotel-room he watched her remove outer garments and don a kimono, with a pleasure that coerced sensual longing into an enslaved contemplation--a fire that glowed without burning. “When I see your flesh then you are most unreal,” he said. “It becomes a last garment that you have neglected to unfasten because you wish to pretend that you belong to the earth. The cupped appeal of your breasts is the subtle lie with which something infinitely abstract evades the weight of a world. There is a surprised element attached to your legs and they never seem assured in their task of supporting your torso. And yet, when your body is beyond my actual sight your reality is still doubtful, for then I lack even the uncertain evidence of your flesh. I am helpless--I cannot mingle you with cities and men, and even country roads seem heavily unwilling to hold you.” “And is it impossible for you to accept this body as a necessary, insincere contrast to my thoughts and emotions?” she asked, with lightness. “You are tensely morbid, Max. Now I shall sit on your knee. The scene is prearranged. You must promptly clutch me, in that involved manner that has made novelists famous and blurred the integrity of poets. The earth has anointed and pointed riots waiting for you!” His fingers studied the short brown curls on her head and his lips touched the less obvious parts of her face--her chin, the tip of her inwardly curving nose, her temples, the meeting-place of forehead and hair. “I can see two men looking at me now,” he said. “To one I am an emasculated fool who places a dainty overtone upon his weakness, and to the other I am chaining strong desires with the lies of vain and pretty gestures. Olga, the earth is bulky and profane, and dreads anything that delicately, aloofly disputes its size!” She carefully fitted her head between his shoulder and neck. “This listening peace that you bring me, and the softer intentions of your hands, they are more important than the lunges of men,” she said. “We are spontaneous in ways whose breathlike intensity has not been corrupted by the screaming of nerves, and Oh, we must prepare ourselves for the indifference and ridicules of a coarser audience. They cannot peer into this room, yet afterwards something within the buoyant removal of our bodies tells them to punish us with poverty and little food.” He grinned, and crowded flights of defiance were on his face. “I’ve been eating onions and bread for the last week,” he said. “I cut the onions into various shapes, making them resemble different articles of food. With an imaginative seriousness one can almost overcome the sense of taste. Almost.” “It is only that word that keeps us here,” she said. “We are almost free illusions.” She walked to the bureau and brushed her hair, for she did not want him to see an expression on her face. He guessed it and became repentantly merry. “Sold a poem two weeks ago,” he said. “The editor wrote something about ‘great originality but rather tenuous’ and ‘this is not a spiritual age.’ It isn’t.” “Let me hear it,” she said. It concerned a circle of men dumped into chairs in the lobby of a cheap lodging-house--rag-dolls twitching now and then, as though an outside hand were poking them with curiosity. Then the spirit of the lodging-house, sallow and indecently shallow, sidled into the lobby, correctly aimed its tobacco at a spitoon, and gave the dolls snores to create a false appearance of life, whereupon one of them rose and cursed the invisible intruder in his sleep. The spirit of the lodging-house, frightened and angry at the appearance of a soul whose existence it had not imagined, whisked them all off to the torture of their beds. The poem had spoken to Baudelaire and Dostoyevsky but within it a stunned hatred of the world was experimenting with appropriate symbols. “Irrelevantly, perhaps, I’m thinking of a time when I washed dishes in a lunch-room in St. Louis,” she said. “I was hunting in my mind for something that could deceive the greasy monotone of defiled chinaware. Suddenly the brown and turbid dish-water became a heavy wine, spiced with the aftermaths of earthly pleasures--decay to which a spiritual release had given a liquid significance. I became obsessed by the verity of this idea, and finally, quite entranced, I raised the pan of dirty water to my lips and was about to drink it when, at that moment, the proprietor came in. He squawked ‘crazee-e,’ ‘crazee-e,’ and discharged me. I wrote an excellent poem about it, though.” “Let’s see, what would they say about this,” he muttered. “Neurasthenia, insanity, exalted paranoia, minor conceit, trivial pose, empty fantasy--they have so many putrid labels to hide the inner rage, damn them!” They swayed together in the chair, like two babies in a trap, taking the small amount of room possible in the cramped abode. “Tomorrow we’ll look for work,” she said. “The breath-tablets that you bought to hide the scent of onions have not been able to eradicate a last melodramatic trace of their enemy. We must move our arms to ward off such meaningless intrusions.” “With an excellent verbosity you mock the concentration of your thoughts,” he said. They closed their eyes and grew still in the chair. When at last they stirred, each one looked first at the room and then at the other person, with a gradually slain disbelief. “We are not dead after all,” he cried. “The room does not fade away!” They sat without moving, while happiness and sadness sprang into combat within them. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Unmatched opening quotation marks on page 17 have been retained from the original, as the transcriber could not ascertain exactly where the closing quotation marks, missing in the original, should be placed. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Against This Age, by Maxwell Bodenheim * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGAINST THIS AGE * *** This file should be named 60044-0.txt or 60044-0.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/4/60044/ Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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such substances depends on the speed at which they will burn, and in so confining the burning substances that a great pressure is produced. The Power in Heat.--The pressure of all such substances against the confining medium depends on heat. Any gas which has 523 degrees of heat imparted to it will expand double its volume. If one cubic inch of water is converted into steam the latter will occupy one cubic foot of space under atmospheric pressure,--that is, it will expand over 1700 times. Energy in Steam.--If the steam thus generated is now subjected to 523 degrees of heat additional, it will occupy over 3400 cubic inches of space. It will thus be seen why steam, gas, and gasoline engines are called _heat engines_, or heat _motors_. Energy From the Sun.--Many attempts have been made to utilize the heat of the sun, to turn machinery, but the difficulty has been to secure sufficient heat, on the one hand, and on the other to properly cool down the heated gases, so that the various liquid and solid fuels are required to make the heat transformations. Power From Water.--In the use of water two forms are available, one where the water is moving along or falling in a constant open stream; and the other where the flowing water is confined and where its flow can be regulated and controlled. The latter is more available for two reasons: First: Economy in the use of water. Second: Ability to control the speed or movement of the motor. With running or falling streams a large surface is required, and the wheels turn slowly. Two well-recognized forms of wheels have been employed, one called the undershot, or breast wheel, shown in Fig. 1, and the other the overshot, illustrated in Fig. 2. [Illustration: _Fig. 1. Undershot Wheel._] In both types it is difficult to so arrange them as to shut off the power or water pressure when required, or to regulate the speed. The Turbine.--Wheels which depend on the controllable pressure of the water are of the turbine type. The word is derived from the Latin word _turbo_, meaning to whirl, like a top. This is a type of wheel mounted on the lower end of a vertical or horizontal shaft, within, or at the bottom, of a penstock. The perimeter of the wheel has blades, and the whole is enclosed within a drum, so that water from the penstock will rush through the tangentially-formed conduit into the drum, and strike the blades of the wheel. [Illustration: _Fig. 2. Overshot Wheel._] A column of water one inch square and twenty-eight inches high weighs one pound,--or, to express it in another way, the pressure at the bottom of such a column is one pound, and it is a pound for each additional 28 inches. If there should be a head or height of water column of seven feet, the pressure on each square inch of water at the bottom of the penstock would be three pounds to the square inch. Assuming the opening or duct leading to the wheel blades should be 12 × 12 inches, and also the blades be 12 × 12 inches, the area would be equal to 144 square inches, and this multiplied by three pounds would equal 432 pounds pressure against the blades. Calculating Power of a Turbine Wheel.--The power of such a wheel depends principally on two things. First, the arrangement of the blades with reference to the inflowing water; and, second, the discharge port, or ability of the water to free itself from the wheel casing. Let us assume that the diameter of the wheel at the center of the blades is two feet, which would, roughly estimating, give a circumference of six feet, or a travel of each particular blade that distance at each turn of the wheel. If the wheel turns one hundred times a minute, and this is multiplied by the circumference of the wheel (six feet), the result is 600 feet. This, again, multiplied by 432 pounds (which represents the pressure of the water on the entire discharge opening), and we have a product of 259,200, which represents _foot pounds_. This means the same work as if 259,200 pounds would have been lifted through a space of one foot in one minute of time. To ascertain how much power has been developed we must know how many foot pounds there are in a horse power. Horse Power.--It is determined in this way: any force which is capable of raising 550 pounds one foot in one second of time, is developing one horse power. A man might have sufficient strength to raise such a weight once, twice, or a dozen times in succession, but if he should try to do it sixty times a minute he would find it a trying, if not impossible task. Foot Pounds.--If he should be able to lift 550 pounds sixty times within a minute, he would have lifted 33,000 pounds one foot in one minute of time (550 × 60), and thus have developed one horse power. As the water wheel, in our calculations above, raised 259,200 pounds in that period of time, this figure divided by 33,000 shows that a little more than 7-3/4 horse power was developed, assuming, of course, that we have not taken into account any waste, or loss by friction, or otherwise. This method of determining one horse power should be carefully studied. Always keep in mind the main factor, 33,000 pounds, and this multiplied by one foot, the result will be 33,000 _foot pounds_,--that is, one horse power. It would be just the same, however, if it were possible to raise one pound 550 times in one second, or one pound 33,000 times within a minute. Power and Time.--You are thus brought face to face with another thing which is just as important, namely, that, in considering power, time, as well as energy, must be considered. If a man, by superior strength, could be able to raise 550 pounds once within a second, then skip a few seconds, take another hold, and again raise it that distance, he would not be developing one horse power for a minute, but only for one second while he lifted the weight. For the whole minute he would only develop a certain number of foot pounds, and less than 33,000 foot pounds. If, within a minute, he succeeded in raising it one foot for six times, this would be six times 550, equal to 3,300 foot pounds, or just one-tenth of one horse power for one minute; so _time_ is just as important as the amount lifted at each effort. Gravitation.--Now, let us examine power from another standpoint. Every attempt which man makes to produce motion is an effort to overcome some resistance. In many cases this is "weight or gravity." While humanity unceasingly antagonizes the force of gravity it is constantly utilizing the laws of gravitation. Utilizing the Pull of Gravity.--The boy laboriously drags his sled to the top of the hill against gravity, and then depends on that force to carry him down. We have learned to set up one force in nature against the other. The running stream; the moving winds; the tides; the expansive force of all materials under heat, are brought into play to counteract the great prevailing agency which seeks to hold everything down to mother earth. Utilizing Forces.--The Bible says: Blessed is he who maketh two blades of grass grow where one grew before. To do that means the utilization of forces. Improved machinery is enabling man to make many blades grow where one grew before. New methods to force the plow through the soil; to dig it deeper; to fertilize it; and to harvest it; all require power. Pitting Forces Against Each Other.--Man has discovered how to pit the forces of nature against each other, and the laws which regulate them. Centripetal and Centrifugal Forces.--Gravity, that action which seeks to draw all matter toward the center of the earth, is termed _centripetal_ force. But as the earth rotates on its axis another force is exerted which tends to throw substances outwardly, like dirt flying from the rim of a wheel. This is called _centrifugal_ force. Man utilizes this force in many ways, one of which is illustrated in the engine governor, where the revolving balls raise the arms on which they swing, and by that means the engine valve is regulated. Power Not Created.--In taking up the study of this subject start with a correct understanding of the source of all power. It is inherent in all things. All we can do is to liberate it, or to put the various materials in such condition, that they will exert their forces for our uses. (See Page nine, "Energy Indestructible.") A ton of coal, when burned, produces a certain amount of heat, which, if allowed to escape, will not turn a wheel. But if confined, it expands the air, or it may convert water into steam which will turn ponderous machinery. Niagara Falls has sent its great volume into the chasm for untold centuries, but it has never been utilized until within the last twenty years. The energy has been there, nevertheless; and so it is with every substance of which we have knowledge. The successive steps, wherein the experimenter and the inventor have greatly improved on the original inventions, will be detailed as we go along through the different types of motors. Developing the Power of Motors.--This development in the art is a most fascinating study. It is like the explorer, forcing his way through a primeval forest. He knows not what is beyond. Often, like the traveler, he has met serious obstructions, and has had to deviate from his course, only to learn that he took the wrong direction and had to retrace his steps. The study of motors and motive power is one which calls for the highest engineering qualities. In this, as in every other of the mechanical arts, theory, while it has an important function, occupies second place. Experimenting.--The great improvements have been made by building and testing; the advance has been step by step. Sometimes a most important invention will loom up as a striking example to show how a valuable feature lies hidden and undeveloped. An illustration of this may be cited with respect to the valve of the steam engine. For four hundred years there was no striking improvement in the valve. The various types of sliding and rocking valves were modified and refined until it was assumed that they typified perfection. At one stroke the Corliss valve made such an immense improvement that the marvel was as much in its simplicity as in its performance. The reasons and the explanations will be set forth in the section which analyzes valve motion. In this, as in other matters, it shall be our aim to explain why the different improvements were regarded as epochs in the production of motors. CHAPTER II THE STEAM GENERATOR The most widely known and utilized source of power is the steam engine. Before its discovery wind and water were the only available means, except the muscular power of man, horses and other animals, which was used with the crudest sort of contrivances. In primitive days men did not value their time, so they laboriously performed the work which machinery now does for us. The steam engine, like everything else which man has devised, was a growth, and, singular as it may seem, the boiler, that vital part of the organism, was, really, the last to receive due consideration and improvement. As the boiler is depended upon to produce the steam pressure, and since the pressure depends on the rapid and economical evaporation of water, the importance of the subject will be understood in treating of the steam engine. Water as an Absorbent of Heat.--Water has the capacity to absorb a greater amount of heat than any other substance. A pewter pot, which melts at 500 degrees, will resist 2000 degrees of heat if it is filled with water, since the latter absorbs the heat so rapidly that the temperature of the metal is kept near the boiling point of water, which is 212 degrees. Notwithstanding the great heat-absorbing qualities of water, a large portion of the heat of the fuel passes through the flues and escapes from the stack. This fact has caused inventors to devise various forms of boilers, the object being to present as large an area of water as possible to the heat of the burning fuel. How that was accomplished we shall try to make plain. Classification of Boilers.--Numerous types of boilers have been devised, the object being, in all cases to evaporate the largest amount of water with the minimum quantity of fuel. All boilers may be put under two general heads, namely, those which contain a large quantity of water, and those which are intended to carry only a small charge. In the first division the boilers are designed to carry a comparatively small pressure, and in the latter high pressures are available. Mode of Applying Heat.--The most important thing to fully understand is the manner in which heat is applied to the boiler, and the different types which have been adapted to meet this requirement. The Cylindrical Boiler.--The most primitive type of boiler is a plain cylindrical shell A, shown in Fig. 3, in which the furnace B is placed below, so that the surface of the water in contact with the fire area is exceedingly limited. [Illustration: _Fig. 3. Primitive Boiler._] In such a type of boiler it would be impossible for water to extract more than quarter the heat of the fuel. Usually it was much less. The next step was to make what is called a return tubular type in which the heat of the burning gases is conveyed to the rear end of the boiler, and then returned to the front end through tubes. Fig. 4 shows this construction. The head of the shell holds the ends of a plurality of tubes, and the products of combustion pass through the conduit, below the boiler to the rear end, and are conducted upwardly to the tubes. As all the tubes are surrounded by water, it will absorb a large amount of the heat as the gases move through, and before passing out of the stack. [Illustration: _Fig. 4. Return Tubular Boiler._] [Illustration: _Fig. 5. Cornish, or Scotch Boiler._] The Cornish Boiler.--One of the most important inventions in the generation of steam was the Cornish boiler, which for many years was the recognized type for marine purposes. It had the advantage that a large amount of water could be carried and be subjected to heat at all times. Aside from that it sought to avoid the great loss due to radiation. It will be seen from an examination of Fig. 5 that the shell is made very large, and its length does not exceed its diametrical measurement. Two, and sometimes three, fire tubes are placed within the shell, these tubes being secured to the heads. Surrounding these fire tubes, are numerous small tubes, through which the products of combustion pass after leaving the rear ends of the fire tubes. In these boilers the tubes are the combustion chambers, and are provided with a grating for receiving the coal, and the rear ends of the tubes are provided with bridge walls, to arrest, in a measure, the free exit of the heated gases. These boilers would be very efficient, if they could be made of sufficient length to permit the water to absorb the heat of the fuel, but it will be seen that it would be difficult to make them of very great length. If made too small diametrically the diameter of the fire boxes would be reduced to such an extent that there would not be sufficient grate surface. It is obvious, however, that this form of boiler adds greatly to the area of the water surface contact, and in that particular is a great improvement. [Illustration: _Fig. 6. Water Tube Boiler: End View._] The Water Tube Boiler.--In the early days of the development of boilers, the universal practice was to have the products of combustion pass through the flues or the tubes. But quick generation of steam, and high pressures, necessitated a new type. This was accomplished by connecting an upper, or steam drum, with a lower, or water drum, by a plurality of small tubes, and causing the burning fuel to surround these tubes, so that the water, in passing upwardly, would thus be subjected to the action of the fuel. This form of boiler had two distinct advantages. First, an immense surface of water could be provided for; and, second, the water and steam drums could be made very small, diametrically, and thus permit of very high pressures. In Fig. 6, which is designed to show a well known type of this structure, A A, represent the water drums and B, the steam drum. The water drums are separated from each other, so as to provide for the grate bars C, and each water drum is connected with the steam drum by a plurality of tubes D. It will thus be seen that a fire box, or combustion chamber, is formed between the two sets of tubes D, and to retain the heat, or confine it as closely as possible to the tubes, a jacket E is placed around the entire structure. The ends of the water and steam drums are connected by means of tubes F, shown in side view, Fig. 7, for the return or downward flow of the water. The diagrams are made as simple as possible, to show the principal features only. The structure illustrated has been modified in many ways, principally in simplifying the construction, and in providing means whereby the products of combustion may be brought into more intimate contact with the water during its passage through the structure. [Illustration: _Fig. 7. Water Tube Boiler: Side View._] As heretofore stated, this type of boiler is designed to carry only a small quantity of water, so that it is necessary to have practically a constant inflow of feed water, and to economize in this respect the exhaust of the steam engine is used to initially heat up the water, and thus, in a measure, start the water well on its way to the evaporation point before it reaches the boiler. Various Boiler Types.--The different uses have brought forth many kinds of boilers, in order to adapt them for some particular need. It would be needless to illustrate them, but to show the diversity of structures, we may refer to some of them by their characteristics. Compound Steam-Boiler.--This is a battery of boilers having their steam and water spaces connected, and acting together to supply steam to a heating apparatus or a steam engine. These are also made by combining two or more boilers and using them as a feed water heater or a superheater, for facilitating the production of steam, or to be used for superheating steam. The terms _feed water heater and super heater_ are explained in chapter III. Locomotive Steam-Boiler.--This is a tubular boiler which has a contained furnace and ash pit, and in which the gases of combustion pass from the furnace directly into the horizontal interior tubes, and after passing through the tubes are conveyed directly into the smoke box at the opposite ends of the tubes. The name is derived from the use of such boilers on locomotive engines, but it is typical in its application to all boilers having the construction described, and used for generating steam. Vertical Steam-Boiler.--This is a form of construction in which the shell, or both the shell and the tubes, are vertical, and the tubes themselves may be used to convey the products of combustion, or serve as the means for conveying water through them, as in the well known water tube type. This form of boiler is frequently used to good advantage where it is desired to utilize ground space, and where there is sufficient head room. Properly constructed, it is economical as a steam generator. From the foregoing it will be seen that the structural features of all boilers are so arranged as to provide for the exposure of the largest possible area of water to a heated surface so that the greatest amount of heat from the fuel may be absorbed. CHAPTER III STEAM ENGINES The first steam engine was an exceedingly simple affair. It had neither eccentric, cylinder, crank, nor valves, and it did not depend upon the pressure of the steam acting against a piston to drive it back and forth, because it had no piston. It is one of the remarkable things in the history and development of mechanism, that in this day of perfected steam engines, the inventors of our time should go back and utilize the principles employed in the first recorded steam engine, namely, the turbine. Instead of pressure exerting a force against a piston, as in the reciprocating engine, the steam acted by impacting against a moving surface, and by obtaining more or less reaction from air-resistance against a freely discharging steam jet or jets. The original engine, so far as we have any knowledge, had but one moving part, namely, a vertical tubular stem, to which was attached a cross or a horizontal tube. The Original Engine.--Figure 8 is a side view of the original engine. The vertical stem A is pivoted to a frame B, and has a bore C which leads up to a cross tube D. The ends of the tube D are bent in opposite directions, as shown in the horizontal section, Fig. 9. [Illustration: _Fig. 8. The Original Engine._] [Illustration: _Fig. 9. Horizontal Section of Tube._] Steam enters the vertical stem by means of a pipe, and as it rushes up and out through the lateral tubes D, it strikes the angles E at the discharge ends, so that an impulse is given which drives the ends of the tube in opposite directions. As the fluid emerges from the ends of the tubes, it expands, and on contacting with the air, the latter, to a certain extent, resists the expansion, and this reacts on the tube. Thus, both forces, namely, impact and reaction, serve to give a turning motion to the turbine. The Reciprocating Engine.--The invention of this type of engine is wrapped in mystery. It has been attributed to several. The English maintain that it was the invention of the Marquis of Worcester, who published an account of such an engine about 1650. The French claim is that Papin discovered and applied the principle before the year 1680. In fact, the first actual working steam engine was invented and constructed by an Englishman, Captain Savery, who obtained a patent for it in 1698. This engine was so constructed as to raise water by the expansion and condensation of steam, and most engines of early times were devoted solely to the task of raising water, or were employed in mines. Atmospheric Engines.--When we examine them it is difficult to see how we can designate them as steam engines. The steam did not do the actual work, but a vacuum was depended on for the energy developed by the atmospheric pressure. A diagram is given, Fig. 10, showing how engines of this character were made and operated. A working beam A was mounted on a standard B, and one end had a chain C on which was placed heavy weights D. Near this end was also attached the upper end of a rod E, which extended down to a pump. [Illustration: Fig. 10. Steam-Atmospheric Engine.] The other end of the working beam had a chain F, which supported a piston G working within a vertically-disposed cylinder H. This cylinder was located directly above a boiler I, and a pipe J, with a valve therein, was designed to supply steam to the lower end of the cylinder. A water tank K was also mounted at a point above the cylinder, and this was supplied with water from the pump through a pipe L. Another pipe M from the tank conducted water from the tank to the bottom of the cylinder. The operation of the mechanism was as follows: The steam cock N, in the short pipe J, was opened to admit steam to the cylinder, below the piston. The stem of the steam cock also turned the cock in the water pipe M, so that during the time the steam was admitted the water was shut off. When the steam was admitted so that it filled the space below the piston, the cock N was turned to shut off the steam, and in shutting off the steam, water was also admitted. The injection of water at once condensed the steam within the cylinder so a partial vacuum was formed. It will be remembered that as steam expanded 1700 times, the condensation back into water made a very rarified area within the cylinder, and the result was that the piston was drawn down, thus raising both the weight D and also the pump rod E. This operation was repeated over and over, so long as the cock N was turned. The turning of the stem of this cock was performed manually,--that is, it had to be done by hand, and boys were usually employed for doing this. When, later on, some bright genius discovered that the valve could be turned by the machinery itself, it was regarded as a most wonderful advance. The discovery of this useful function has been attributed to Watt. Of this there is no conclusive proof. The great addition and improvements made by Watt, and which so greatly simplified and perfected the engine, were through the addition of a separate condenser and air pump, and on these improvements his fame rests. From the foregoing it will be seen that the weight D caused the piston to travel upwardly, and not the force of the steam, and the suction produced by the vacuum within the cylinder did the work of actuating the pump piston, so that it drew up the water. The Piston.--From this crude attempt to use steam came the next step, in which the steam was actually used to move the piston back and forth and thus actually do the work. In doing so the ponderous walking beam was dispensed with, and while, for a long period the pistons were vertically-placed, in time a single cylinder was used, and a crank employed to convert the reciprocating into a circular motion. Fig. 11 shows a simple diagram of a steam engine, so arranged that the operation of the valves may be readily understood. The cylinder A has a steam chest B, which contains therein a slide valve C to cover the ports at the ends of the cylinder. This figure shows the crank turning to the right, and the eccentric D on the engine shaft is so placed, that while the crank E is turning past the dead center, from 1 to 2, the slide valve C is moved to the position shown in Fig. 12, thereby covering port F and opening port G. [Illustration: _Fig. 11. Simple Valve Motion. First position._] [Illustration: _Fig. 12. Simple Valve Motion. Second position._] It will be seen that the slide valve is hollowed within, as at H, and that the exhaust port I leads from this hollowed portion while the live steam from the boiler enters through pipe J and fills the space K of the chest. In Fig. 11 live steam has been entering port F, thus driving the piston to the right. At the same time the exhaust steam at the right side of the piston is discharging through the port G and entering the hollow space within the slide valve. In Fig. 12 the conditions are reversed, and now live steam enters port G, and the exhaust passes out through port F. When the engine crank reaches the point 3, which is directly opposite 1, the reverse action takes place with the slide valve, and it is again moved to its original position, shown in Fig. 12. Importance of the Valve.--Every improvement which has been made in the engine has been directed to the valve. The importance of this should be fully understood. As the eccentric is constantly turning it is a difficult matter to so arrange the valve as to open or close it at the correct time, absolutely, and many devices have been resorted to to accomplish this. Expanding the Steam.--As all improvements were in the direction of economizing the use of steam, it was early appreciated that it would be a waste to permit the steam to enter the cylinder during the entire period that the engine traveled from end to end, so that the valve had to be constructed in such a way that while it would cut off the admission of steam at half or three-quarters stroke, the exhaust would remain on until the entire stroke was completed. Some engines do this with a fair degree of accuracy, but many of them were too complicated for general use. In the form of slide valve shown the pressure of the steam on the upper side, which is constant at all times, produces a great wearing action on its seat. This necessitated the designing of a type of valve which would have a firm bearing and be steam tight without grinding. Balanced Valve.--One of the inventions for this purpose is a valve so balanced by the steam pressure that but little wear results. This has been the subject of many patents. Another type also largely used in engines is known as the _oscillating_ valve, which is cylindrical or conical in its structure, and which revolves through less than a complete revolution in opening and closing the ports. Rotary Valve.--The rotary valve, which constantly turns, is employed where low pressures are used, but it is not effectual with high pressures. This is also cylindrical in its structure, and has one or more ports through it, which coincide with the ports through the walls of the engine, as it turns, and thus opens the port for admitting live steam and closing the discharge port at the same time or at a later period in its rotation. Engine Accessories.--While the steam engine is merely a device for utilizing the expansive force of steam, and thus push a cylinder back and forth, its successful operation, from the standpoint of economy, depends on a number of things, which are rarely ever heard of except by users and engineers. Many of these devices are understood only by those who have given the matter thorough study and application. To the layman, or the ordinary user, they are, apparently, worth but little consideration. They are the things, however, which have more than doubled the value of the steam engine as a motor. Efficiency of Engines.--When it is understood that with all the refinements referred to the actual efficiency of a steam engine is less than 30 per cent. some idea may be gained of the value which the various improvements have added to the motor. Efficiency refers to the relative amount of power which is obtained from the burning fuel. For instance, in burning petroleum about 14,000 heat units are developed from each pound. If this is used to evaporate water, and the steam therefrom drives an engine, less than 4200 heat units are actually utilized, the remaining 9800 heat units being lost in the transformation from the fuel to power. [Illustration: _Fig. 13. Effective pressure in a Cylinder._] The value of considering and providing for condensation, compression, superheating, re-heating, compounding, and radiation, and to properly arrange the clearance spaces, the steam jackets, the valve adjustments, the sizes of the ports and passages, and the governor, all form parts of the knowledge which must be gained and utilized. How Steam Acts in a Cylinder.--Reference has been made to the practice of cutting off steam before the piston has made a full stroke, and permitting the expansive power of the steam to drive the piston the rest of the way, needs some explanation. As stated in a preceding chapter the work done is estimated in foot pounds. For the purpose of more easily comprehending the manner in which the steam acts, and the value obtained by expansion, let us take a cylinder, such as is shown in Fig. 13, and assume that it has a stroke of four feet. Let the cylinder have a diameter of a little less than one foot, so that by using steam at fifty pounds pressure on every square inch of surface, we shall have a pressure of about 5000 pounds on the piston with live steam from the boiler. In the diagram the piston moves forwardly to the right from 0 to 1, which represents a distance of one foot, so that the full pressure of the steam of the boiler, representing 5000 pounds, is exerted on the piston. At 1 the steam is cut off, and the piston is now permitted to continue the stroke through the remaining three feet by the action of the steam within the cylinder, the expansive force alone being depended on. As the pressure of the steam within the cylinder is now much less and decreases as the piston moves along, we have taken a theoretical indication of the combined pressure at each six inch of the travel of the piston. The result is that we have the following figures, namely, 4000, 2700, 1750, 1000, 450 and 100. The sum of these figures is 10,000 pounds. The piston, in moving from 0 to 1, moved one foot, we will say, in one second of time, hence the work done by the direct boiler pressure was 5000 _foot pounds_; and since the piston was moved three feet more by the expansion of the steam only, after the steam pressure was shut off, the work done in the three seconds required to move the piston, was an additional 5000 foot pounds, making a total of 10,000 foot pounds for four seconds, 150,000 foot pounds per minute, or about 45 horse power. [Illustration: _Fig. 14. Indicating pressure Line._] This movement of the piston to the right, represented only a half revolution of the crank, and the same thing occurs when the piston moves back, to complete the entire revolution. Indicating the Engine.--We now come to the important part of engine testing, namely, to ascertain how much power we have obtained from the engine. To do this an indicator card must be furnished. A card to indicate the pressure, as we have shown it in the foregoing diagram would look like Fig. 14. The essential thing, however, is to learn how to take a card from a steam engine cylinder, and we shall attempt to make this plain, by a diagram of the mechanism so simplified as to be readily understood. [Illustration: _Fig. 15. Indicating the Engine._] In Fig. 15 we have shown a cylinder A, having within a piston B, and a steam inlet pipe C. Above the cylinder is a drum D, mounted on a vertical axis, and so geared up with the engine shaft that it makes one complete turn with each shaft revolution. A sheet of paper E, ruled with cross lines, is fixed around the drum. The cylinder A has a small vertical cylinder F connected therewith by a pipe A, and in this cylinder is a piston H, the stem I of which extends up alongside of the drum, and has a pointed or pencil J which presses against the paper E. Now, when the engine is set in motion the drum turns in unison with the engine shaft, and the pressure of the steam in the cylinder A, as it pushes piston B along, also pushes the piston H upwardly, so that the pencil point J traces a line on the ruled paper. It will be understood that a spring is arranged on the stem I in such a manner that it will always force the piston H downwardly against the pressure of the steam. Mean Efficiency.--We must now use a term which expresses the thing that is at the bottom of all calculations in determining how much power is developed. You will note that the pressure on the piston during the first foot of its movement was 10,000 pounds, but that from the point 1, Fig. 13, to the end of the cylinder, the pressure constantly decreased, so that the pressure was not a uniform one, but varied. Suppose we divide the cylinder into six inch spaces, as shown in Fig. 13, then the pressure of the steam at the end of each six inches will be the figures given at bottom of diagram, the sum total of which is 30,000, and the figures at the lower side show that there are eight factors. The figure 10,000 represents, of course, two six inch spaces in the first foot of travel. The result is, that, if we divide the sum total of the pressures at the eight points by 8, we will get 3750, as the mean pressure of the steam on the piston during the full stroke of the piston. In referring to the foot pounds in a previous paragraph, it was assumed that the piston moved along each foot in one second of time. That was done to simplify the statement concerning the use of foot pounds, and not to indicate the time that the piston actually travels. Calculating Horse Power.--We now have the first and most important factor in the problem,--that is, how much pressure is exerted against the piston at every half revolution of the crank
hope, were his guardians. To some one of these--probably the last--he wrote the farewell: Mon très bon hôte et ma très douce hôtesse. For his life as a prisoner, though melancholy, was not undignified; he paid no allegiance, he met the men of his own rank, nor was he of a kind to whom poverty, the chief thorn of his misfortune, brought dishonour. Henry V had left it strictly in his will that Orleans the general and the head of the French nationals should not return. For twenty-five years, therefore--all his manhood--he lived under this sky, rhyming and rhyming: in English a little, in French continually, and during that isolation there swept past him far off in his own land the defence, the renewal, the triumph of his own blood: his town relieved, his cousin crowned at Rheims. His river of Loire, and then the Eure, and then the Seine, and even the field where he had fallen were reconquered. Willoughby had lost Paris to Richemont four years before Charles of Orleans was freed on a ransom of half his mother's fortune. It was not until the November of 1440 that he saw his country-side again. The verse formed in that long endurance (a style which he preserved to the end in the many poems after his release) may seem at a first reading merely mediæval. There is wholly lacking in it the riot of creation, nor can one see at first the Renaissance coming in with Charles of Orleans. Indeed it was laid aside as mediæval, and was wholly forgotten for three hundred years. No one had even heard of him for all those centuries till Sallier, that learned priest, pacing, full of his Hebrew and Syriac, the rooms of the royal library which Louis XV had but lately given him to govern, found the manuscript of the poems and wrote an essay on them for the Academy. The verse is full of allegory; it is repetitive; it might weary one with the savour of that unhappy fifteenth century when the human mind lay under oppression, and only the rich could speak their insignificant words; a foreigner especially might find it all dry bones, but his judgement would be wrong. Charles of Orleans has a note quite new and one that after him never failed, but grew in volume and in majesty until it filled the great chorus of the Pleiade--the Lyrical note of direct personal expression. Perhaps the wars produced it in him; the lilt of the marching songs was still spontaneous: Gentil Duc de Lorraine, vous avez grand renom, Et votre renommée passe au delà des monts Et vous et vos gens d'arme, et tous vos compagnons Au premier coup qu'ils frappent, abattent les Donjons. Tirez, tirez bombardes, serpentines, Canons! Whatever the cause, this spontaneity and freshness run through all the mass of short and similar work which he wrote down. The spring and sureness, the poise of these light nothings make them a flight of birds. See how direct is this: Dieu! qu'il la fait bon regarder! La gracieuse, bonne et belle. or this: Le lendemain du premier jour de Mai Dedans mon lit ainsi que je dormoye Au point du jour advint que je sonjeay. Everywhere his words make tunes for themselves and everywhere he himself appears in his own verses, simple, charming, slight, but with memories of government and of arms. This style well formed, half his verse written, he returned to his own place. He was in middle age--a man of fifty. He married soberly enough Mary of Cleves, ugly and young: he married her in order to cement the understanding with Burgundy. She did not love him with his shy florid face, long neck and features and mild eyes. His age for twenty-five years passed easily, he had reached his "castle of No Care." As late as 1462 his son (Louis XII) was born; his two daughters at long intervals before. His famous library moved with him as he went from town to town, and perpetually from himself and round him from his retinue ran the continual stream of verse which only ended with his death. His very doctor he compelled to rhyme. All the singers of the time visited or remained with him--wild Villon for a moment, and after Villon a crowd of minor men. It was in such a company that he recited the last ironical but tender song wherein he talks of his lost youth and vigour and ends by bidding all present a salute in the name of his old age. So he sat, half regal, holding a court of song in Blois and Tours, a forerunner in verse of what the new time was to build in stone along the Loire. And it was at Amboise that he died. THE COMPLAINT. (_The 57th Ballade of those written during his imprisonment._) There is some dispute in the matter, but I will believe, as I have said, that this dead Princess, for whose soul he prays, was certainly the wife of his boyhood, a child whom Richard II had wed just before that Lancastrian usurpation which is the irreparable disaster of English history. She was, I say, a child--a widow in name--when Charles of Orleans, himself in that small royal clique which was isolated and shrivelling, married her as a mere matter of state. It is probable that he grew to love her passionately, and perhaps still more her memory when she had died in child-bed during those first years, even before Agincourt, "en droicte fleur de jeunesse,"--for even here he is able to find an exact and sufficient line. There is surely to be noted in this delicate ballad, something more native and truthful in its pathos than in the very many complaints he left by way partly of reminiscence, partly of poetic exercise. For, though he is restrained, as was the manner of his rank when they attempted letters, yet you will not read it often without getting in you a share of its melancholy. That melancholy you can soon discover to be as permanent a quality in the verse as it was in the mind of the man who wrote it. _THE COMPLAINT._ _Las! Mort qui t'a fait si hardie, De prendre la noble Princesse Qui estoit mon confort, ma vie, Mon bien, mon plaisir, ma richesse! Puis que tu as prins ma maistresse, Prens moy aussi son serviteur, Car j'ayme mieulx prouchainement Mourir que languir en tourment En paine, soussi et doleur._ _Las! de tous biens estoit garnie Et en droite fleur de jeunesse! Je pry à Dieu qu'il te maudie, Faulse Mort, plaine de rudesse! Se prise l'eusses en vieillesse, Ce ne fust pas si grant rigueur; Mais prise l'as hastivement Et m'as laissié piteusement En paine, soussi et doleur._ _Las! je suis seul sans compaignie! Adieu ma Dame, ma liesse! Or est nostre amour departie, Non pour tant, je vous fais promesse Que de prieres, à largesse, Morte vous serviray de cueur, Sans oublier aucunement; Et vous regretteray souvent En paine, soussi et doleur._ _ENVOI._ _Dieu, sur tout souverain Seigneur, Ordonnez, par grace et doulceur, De l'ame d'elle, tellement Qu'elle ne soit pas longuement En paine, soussi et doleur._ THE TWO ROUNDELS OF SPRING. (_The 41st and 43rd of the "Rondeaux."_) These two Rondeaux, of which we may also presume, though very vaguely, that they were written in England (for they are in the manner of his earlier work), are by far the most famous of the many things he wrote; and justly, for they have all these qualities. _First_, they are exact specimens of their style. The Roundel should interweave, repeat itself, and then recover its original strain, and these two exactly give such unified diversity. _Secondly_: they were evidently written in a moment of that unknown power when words suggest something fuller than their own meaning, and in which simplicity itself broadens the mind of the reader. So that it is impossible to put one's finger upon this or that and say this adjective, that order of the words has given the touch of vividness. _Thirdly_: they have in them still a living spirit of reality; read them to-day in Winter, and you feel the Spring. It is this quality perhaps which most men have seized in them, and which have deservedly made them immortal. A further character which has added to their fame, is that, being perfect lyrics, they are also specimens of an old-fashioned manner and metre peculiar to the time. They are the resurrection not only of the Spring, but of a Spring of the fifteenth century. Nor is it too fantastic to say that one sees in them the last miniatures and the very dress of a time that was intensely beautiful, and in which Charles of Orleans alone did not feel death coming. _THE TWO ROUNDELS OF SPRING._ _Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus Pour appareillier son logis, Et ont fait tendre ses tappis, De fleurs et verdure tissus. En estandant tappis velus De verte herbe par le pais, Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus Pour appareillier son logis. Cueurs d'ennuy pieça morfondus, Dieu merci, sont sains et jolis; Alez vous en, prenez pais, Yver vous ne demourrez plus; Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus._ _Le temps a laissié son manteau De vent, de froidure et de pluye, Et s'est vestu de brouderie, De soleil luyant, cler et beau. Il n'y a beste, ne oyseau, Qu'en son jargon ne chant ou crie; Le temps a laissié son manteau De vent de froidure et de pluye. Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau Portent, en livrée jolie, Gouttes d'argent d'orfavrerie, Chascun s'abille de nouveau. Le temps a laissié son manteau._ HIS LOVE AT MORNING. (_The 6th of the "Songs"._) In this delightful little song the spontaneity and freshness which saved his work, its vigour and its clarity are best preserved. It does indeed defy death and leaps four centuries: it is young and perpetual. It thrills with something the failing middle ages had forgotten: it reaches what they never reached, a climax, for one cannot put too vividly the flash of the penultimate line, "I am granted a vision when I think of her." Yet it was written in later life, and who she was, or whether she lived at all, no one knows. _HIS LOVE AT MORNING._ _Dieu qu'il la fait bon regarder La gracieuse bonne et belle! Pour les grans biens qui sont en elle, Chascun est prest de la louer Qui se pourroit d'elle lasser! Tousjours sa beaulté renouvelle. Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder, La gracieuse, bonne et belle! Par deça, ne delà la mer, Ne sçay Dame ne Damoiselle Qui soit en tous biens parfais telle; C'est un songe que d'y penser. Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder!_ THE FAREWELL. (_The 310th Roundel._) Here is the last thing--we may presume--that Charles of Orleans ever wrote: "Salute me all the company, I pray." In that "company", not only the Court at Amboise, but the men of the early wars, his companions, were round him, and the dead friends of his gentle memory. He was broken with age; he was already feeling the weight of isolation from the Royal Family; he was beginning to suffer the insults of the king. But, beneath all this, his gaiety still ran like a river under ice, and in the ageing of a poet, humour and physical decline combined make a good, human thing. There is an excellent irony in the refrain: "Salute me, all the company," whose double interpretation must not be missed, though it may seem far-fetched. Till the last line it means, without any question, "Salute the company in my name," but I think there runs through it also, the hint of "Salute me for my years, all you present who are young," and that this certainly is the note in the last line of all. It must be remembered of the French, that they never expand or explain their ironical things, for in art it is their nature to detest excess. This last thing of his, then, I say, is the most characteristic of him and of his Valois blood, and of the national spirit in general to which he belonged: for he, and it, and they, loved and love contrast, and the extra-meaning of words. _THE FAREWELL._ _Saluez moy toute la compaignie Où à present estes à chiere lie, Et leur dictes que voulentiers seroye Avecques eulx, mais estre n'y porroye, Pour Vieillesse qui m'a en sa baillie. Au temps passé, Jeunesse si jolie Me gouvernoit; las! or n'y suis je mye, Et pour cela pour Dieu, que excusé soye; Saluez moy toute la compaignie Où à present estes à chiere lie, Et leur dictes que voulentiers seroye. Amoureux fus, or ne le suis je mye, Et en Paris menoye bonne vie; Adieu Bon temps ravoir ne vous saroye, Bien sanglé fus d'une estroite courroye. Que, par Aige, convient que la deslie. Saluez moy toute la compaignie._ VILLON. I have said that in Charles of Orleans the middle ages are at first more apparent than the advent of the Renaissance. His forms are inherited from an earlier time, his terminology is that of the long allegories which had wearied three generations, his themes recall whatever was theatrical in the empty pageantry of the great war. It is a spirit deeper and more fundamental than the mere framework of his writing which attaches him to the coming time. His clarity is new; it proceeds from natural things; it marks that return to reality which is the beginning of all beneficent revolutions. But this spirit in him needs examination and discovery, and the reader is confused between the mediaeval phrases and the something new and troubling in the voice that utters them. With Villon, the next in order, a similar confusion might arise. All about him as he wrote were the middle ages: their grotesque, their contrast, their disorder. His youth and his activity of blood forbad him any contact with other than immediate influences. He was wholly Northern; he had not so much as guessed at what Italy might be. The decrepit University had given him, as best she could, the dregs of her palsied philosophy and something of Latin. He grew learned as do those men who grasp quickly the major lines of their study, but who, in details, will only be moved by curiosity or by some special affection. There was nothing patient in him, and nothing applied, and in all this, in the matter of his scholarship as in his acquirement of it, he is of the dying middle ages entirely. His laughter also was theirs: the kind of laughter that saluted the first Dance of Death which as a boy he had seen in new frescoes round the waste graveyard of the Innocents. His friends and enemies and heroes and buffoons were the youth of the narrow tortuous streets, his visions of height were the turrets of the palaces and the precipitate roofs of the town. Distance had never inspired him, for in that age its effect was forgotten. No one straight street displayed the greatness of the city, no wide and ordered spaces enhanced it. He crossed his native river upon bridges all shut in with houses, and houses hid the banks also. The sweep of the Seine no longer existed for his generation, and largeness of all kinds was hidden under the dust and rubble of decay. The majestic, which in sharp separate lines of his verse he certainly possessed, he discovered within his own mind, for no great arch or cornice, nor no colonnade had lifted him with its splendour. That he could so discover it, that a solemnity and order should be apparent in the midst of his raillery whenever he desires to produce an effect of the grand, leads me to speak of that major quality of his by which he stands up out of his own time, and is clearly an originator of the great renewal. I mean his vigour. It is all round about him, and through him, like a storm in a wood. It creates, it perceives. It possesses the man himself, and us also as we read him. By it he launches his influence forward and outward rather than receives it from the past. To it his successors turn, as to an ancestry, when they had long despised and thrown aside everything else that savoured of the Gothic dead. By it he increased in reputation and meaning from his boyhood on for four hundred years, till now he is secure among the first lyric poets of Christendom. It led to no excess of matter, but to an exuberance of attitude and manner, to an inexhaustibility of special words, to a brilliancy of impression unique even among his own people. He was poor; he was amative; he was unsatisfied. This vigour, therefore, led in his actions to a mere wildness; clothed in this wildness the rare fragments of his life have descended to us. He professed to teach, but he haunted taverns, and loved the roaring of songs. He lived at random from his twentieth year in one den or another along the waterside. Affection brought him now to his mother, now to his old guardian priest, but not for long; he returned to adventure--such as it was. He killed a man, was arrested, condemned, pardoned, exiled; he wandered and again found Paris, and again--it seems--stumbled down his old lane of violence and dishonour. Associated also with this wildness is a curious imperfection in our knowledge of him. His very name is not his own--or any other man's. His father, if it were his father, took his name from Mont-Corbier--half noble. Villon is but a little village over beyond the upper Yonne, near the division, within a day of the water-parting where the land falls southward to Burgundy and the sun in what they call "The Slope of Gold." From this village a priest, William, had come to Paris in 1423. They gave him a canonry in that little church called "St. Bennets Askew," which stood in the midst of the University, near Sorbonne, where the Rue des Écoles crosses the Rue St. Jacques to-day. Hither, to his house in the cloister, he brought the boy, a waif whom he had found much at the time when Willoughby capitulated and the French recaptured the city. He had him taught, he designed him for the University, he sheltered him in his vagaries, he gave him asylum. The young man took his name and called him "more than father." His anxious life led on to 1468, long after the poet had disappeared. For it is in 1461, in his thirtieth year, that Villon last writes down a verse. It is in 1463 that his signature is last discovered. Then not by death or, if by death, then by some death unrecorded, he leaves history abruptly--a most astonishing exit!... You may pursue fantastic legends, you will not find the man himself again. Some say a final quarrel got him hanged at last--it is improbable: no record or even tradition of it remains. Rabelais thought him a wanderer in England. Poitou preserves a story of his later passage through her fields, of how still he drank and sang with boon companions, and of how, again, he killed a man.... Maybe, he only ceased to write; took to teaching soberly in the University, and lived in a decent inheritance to see new splendours growing upon Europe. It may very well be, for it is in such characters to desire in early manhood decency, honour, and repose. But for us the man ends with his last line. His body that was so very real, his personal voice, his jargon--tangible and audible things--spread outward suddenly a vast shadow upon nothingness. It was the end, also, of a world. The first Presses were creaking, Constantinople had fallen, Greek was in Italy, Leonardo lived, the stepping stones of the Azores were held--in that new light he disappears. * * * * * Of his greatness nothing can be said; it is like the greatness of all the chief poets, a thing too individual to seize in words. It is superior and exterior to the man. Genius of that astounding kind has all the qualities of an extraneous thing. A man is not answerable for it. It is nothing to his salvation; it is little even to his general character. It has been known to come and go, to be put off and on like a garment, to be lent by Heaven and taken away, a capricious gift. But of the manner of that genius it may be noted that, as his vigour prepared the flood of new verse, so in another matter his genius made him an origin. Through him first, the great town--and especially Paris--appeared and became permanent in letters. Her local spirit and her special quality had shone fitfully here and there for a thousand years--you may find it in Julian, in Abbo, in Joinville. But now, in the fifteenth century, it had been not only a town but a great town for more than a century--a town, that is, in which men live entirely, almost ignorant of the fields, observing only other men, and forgetting the sky. The keen edge of such a life, its bitterness, the mockery and challenge whereby its evils are borne, its extended knowledge, the intensity of its spirit--all these are reflected in Villon, and first reflected in him. Since his pen first wrote, a shining acerbity like the glint of a sword-edge has never deserted the literature of the capital. It was not only the metropolitan, it was the Parisian spirit which Villon found and fixed. That spirit which is bright over the whole city, but which is not known in the first village outside; the influence that makes Paris Athenian. The ironical Parisian soul has depths in it. It is so lucid that its luminous profundity escapes one--so with Villon. Religion hangs there. Humility--fatally divorced from simplicity--pervades it. It laughs at itself. There are ardent passions of sincerity, repressed and reacting upon themselves. The virtues, little practised, are commonly comprehended, always appreciated, for the Faith is there permanent. All this you will find in Villon, but it is too great a matter for so short an essay as this. THE DEAD LADIES. It is difficult or impossible to compare the masterpieces of the world. It is easy and natural to take the measure of a particular writer and to establish a scale of his work. Villon is certainly in the small first group of the poets. His little work, like that of Catullus, like that of Gray, is up, high, completed and permanent. And within that little work this famous Ballade is by far the greatest thing. It contains all his qualities: not in the ordinary proportion of his character, but in that better, exact proportion which existed in him when his inspiration was most ardent: for the poem has underlying it somewhere a trace of his irony, it has all his ease and rapidity--excellent in any poet--and it is carried forward by that vigour I have named, a force which drives it well upwards and forward to its foaming in the seventh line of the third verse. The sound of names was delightful to him, and he loved to use it; he had also that character of right verse, by which the poet loves to put little separate pictures like medallions into the body of his writing: this Villon loved, as I shall show in other examples, and he has it here. The end of the middle ages also is strongly in this appeal or confession of mortality; their legends, their delicacy, their perpetual contemplation of death. But of all the Poem's qualities, its run of words is far the finest. _THE DEAD LADIES._ _Dictes moy où, n'en quel pays Est Flora la belle Rommaine; Archipiada, ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine; Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine Dessus riviere ou sus estan, Qui beaulté ot trop plus qu'humaine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?_ _Où est la très sage Hellois, Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne Pierre Esbaillart à Saint-Denis? Pour son amour ot cest essoyne. Semblablement, où est la royne Qui commanda que Buridan Fust gecté en ung sac en Saine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ _La Royne Blanche comme un lis, Qui chantoit à voix de seraine; Berte au grant pié Bietris, Allis; Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine, Qu'Englois brulerent à Rouan; Où sont elles, Vierge souvraine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ _ENVOI._ _Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine Où elles sont, ne de cest an, Que ce reffrain ne vous remaine: Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ AN EXCERPT FROM THE GRANT TESTAMENT. (_Stanzas 75-79._) Villon's whole surviving work is in the form of two rhymed wills--one short, one long: and in the latter, Ballads and Songs are put in each in their place, as the tenour of the verse suggests them. Thus the last Ballade, that of the "Dead Ladies," comes after a couple of strong stanzas upon the necessity of death--and so forth. One might choose any passage, almost, out of the mass to illustrate the character of this "Testament" in which the separate poems are imbedded. I have picked those round about the 800th line, the verses in which he is perhaps least brilliant and most tender. _AN EXCERPT FROM THE GRANT TESTAMENT._ LXXV. _Premier je donne ma povre ame A la benoiste Trinité, Et la commande à Nostre Dame Chambre de la divinité; Priant toute la charité Des dignes neuf Ordres des cieulx, Que par eulx soit ce don porté Devant le trosne precieux._ LXXVI. _Item, mon corps je donne et laisse A notre grant mere la terre; Les vers n'y trouveront grant gresse: Trop luy a fait faim dure guerre. Or luy soit delivré grant erre: De terre vint, en terre tourne. Toute chose, se par trop n'erre, Voulentiers en son lieu retourne;_ LXXVII. _Item, et à mon plus que pere Maistre Guillaume de Villon Qui m'esté a plus doulx que mere, Enfant eslevé de maillon, Degeté m'a de maint boullon Et de cestuy pas ne s'esjoye Et luy requiers à genoullon Qu'il n'en laisse toute la joye._ LXXVIII. _Je luy donne ma Librairie Et le Romman du Pet au Deable Lequel Maistre Guy Tabarie Grossa qui est homs veritable. Por cayers est soubz une table, Combien qu'il soit rudement fait La matiere est si très notable, Q'elle amende tout le mesfait._ LXXIX. _Item donne à ma povre mere Pour saluer nostre Maistresse, Qui pour moy ot doleur amere Dieu le scet, et mainte tristesse; Autre Chastel n'ay ni fortresse Où me retraye corps et ame Quand sur moy court malle destresse Ne ma mere, la povre femme!_ THE BALLADE OF OUR LADY. (_Written by Villon for his mother._) The abrupt ending of the last extract, the 79th stanza of the "Grant Testament"--"I give..." and then no objective (apparently) added--is an excellent example of the manner in which the whole is conceived and of the way in which the separate poems are pieced into the general work. What "he gives..." to his mother is this "Ballade of our Lady," written, presumably, long before the "will" and put in here and thus after being carefully led up to. These thirty-seven lines are more famous in their own country than abroad. They pour from the well of a religion which has not failed in the place where Villon wrote, and they present that religion in a manner peculiar and national. Apart from its piety and its exquisite tenderness, two qualities of Villon are to be specially found in this poem: his vivid phrase, such as: _"Emperiere des infernaux paluz,"_ (a discovery of which he was so proud that he repeated it elsewhere) or: _"sa tres chiere jeunesse."_ And secondly the curiously processional effect of the metre and of the construction of the stanzas--the extra line and the extra foot lend themselves to a chaunt in their balanced slow rhythm, as any one can find for himself by reading the lines to some church sing-song as he goes. _THE BALLADE OF OUR LADY._ _Dame des cieulx, regente terrienne, Emperiere des infernaux paluz, Recevez moy, vostre humble chrestienne, Que comprinse soye entre vos esleuz, Ce non obstant qu'oncques rien ne valuz. Les biens de vous, ma dame et ma maistresse, Sont trop plus grans que ne suis pecheresse, Sans lesquelz biens ame ne peut merir N'avoir les cieulx, je n'en suis jungleresse. En ceste foi je veuil vivre et mourir._ _A vostre fils dicte que je suis sienne; De luy soyent mes pechiez aboluz: Pardonne moy, comme à l'Egipcienne, Ou comme il feist au clerc Théophilus, Lequel par vous fut quitte et absoluz, Combien qu'il eust au Deable fait promesse. Preservez moy, que ne face jamais ce Vierge portant, sans rompure encourir Le sacrement qu'on celebre à la messe. En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ _Femme je suis povrette et ancienne Qui riens ne scay; oncques lettre ne leuz; Au moustier voy dont suis paroissienne Paradis faint, où sont harpes et luz, Et ung enfer où dampnez sont boulluz: L'ung me fait paour, l'autre joye et liesse. La joye avoir me fay, haulte Deesse, A qui pecheurs doivent tous recourir, Comblez de Foy, sans fainte ne paresse. En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ _ENVOI_ _Vous portastes, digne vierge, princesse, Jesus regnant, qui n'a ne fin ne cesse. Le Tout Puissant, prenant notre foiblesse, Laissa les cieulx et nous vint secourir, Offrit à mort sa tres chiere jeunesse. Nostre Seigneur tel est, tel le confesse, En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ THE DEAD LORDS. As I have not wished to mix up smaller things with greater I have put this _ballade_ separate from that of "the Ladies," though it directly follows it as an after-thought in Villon's own book. For the former is one of the masterpieces of the world, and this, though very Villon, is not great. What it has got is the full latter mediaeval love of odd names and reminiscences, and also to the full, the humour of the scholarly tavern, which was the "Mermaid" of that generation: as the startling regret of: Hélas! et le bon roy d'Espaigne Duquel je ne sçay pas le nom.... and the addition, after the false exit of "je me désiste". _Encore fais une question_ He laughed well over it, and was perhaps not thirsty when it was written. _THE DEAD LORDS._ _Qui plus? Où est le Tiers Calixte Dernier decedé de ce nom, Qui quatre ans tint le papaliste? Alphonce, le roy d'Arragon, Le Gracieux Duc de Bourbon, Et Artus, le Duc de Bretaigne, Et Charles Septiesme, le Bon?.... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _Semblablement le roy Scotiste Qui demy face ot, ce dit on, Vermeille comme une amatiste Depuis le front jusqu'au menton? Le roy de Chippre, de renom? Hélas! et le bon roy d'Espaigne Duquel je ne sçay pas le nom?... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _D'en plus parler je me desiste Le monde n'est qu'abusion. Il n'est qui contre mort resiste Le que treuve provision. Encor fais une question: Lancelot, le roy de Behaigne, Où est il? Où est son tayon?.... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _ENVOI._ _Où est Claguin, le bon Breton? Où le conte daulphin d'Auvergne Et le bon feu Duc d'Alençon?... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ THE DIR
spacious Pelham Parkway skirting the waters of the Long Island Sound. Before crossing the Harlem the road followed in a general way the Broadway trail. Beyond the river it zigzagged in a northeasterly direction through Eastchester. Not until the crossing of the Byram River transferred the road from New York to New England did it take on any resemblance to the trail of today, and even beyond, the town of Greenwich seems to have been neglected entirely. Yet, in comparison, the East was developed. It was the bold Sinbad turning his face resolutely and courageously towards the setting sun who experienced the real inconveniences and perils. Nor, at first, did that mean the adventurous journey into the lands that were beyond the great Appalachian range. The shining countenance of the unknown was nearer at hand. It is just a matter of turning the clock back a hundred years. From the windows of the apartment houses looking down on the Riverside Drive the Delaware River is just beyond the Jersey hills. To journey there today does not even call for the study of time-tables. Mr. Manhattan rises at the usual hour and eats his usual leisurely breakfast. At, say, nine o'clock, he settles back behind the steering-wheel of his motor-car. Crossing the Hudson by the Forty-second Street Ferry, he climbs the Weehawken slope, and swings westward over one of the uninviting turnpikes that disfigure the marshy land between the Passaic and the Hackensack. Then he finds the real Jersey, the Jerseyman's Jersey, of rolling hills, and historic memories of Washington's Continental troops in ragged blue and buff.--Morristown, with its superb estates, the stiff climb of Schooley's Mountain, the descent along the wooded ravine, the road following the winding Musconetcong River through Washington, the clustered buildings of Lafayette College crowning the Pennsylvania shore, and in good time for luncheon Mr. Manhattan is over the bridge connecting Easton and Phillipsburg. A few years ago there appeared a little book telling of the experiences of a family migrating from Connecticut to Ohio in 1811. In interesting contrast to the morning dash just outlined is the story of that journey of a little more than one hundred years ago. Before crossing the North River the voyagers solemnly discussed the perilous waters that confronted them. "Tomorrow we embark for the opposite shore: may Heaven preserve us from the raging, angry waves!" The first night's stop was at Springfield, where, within the living memory of the older members of the party, a skirmish between the American troops and the soldiers of King George had taken place. Another day's travel carried the party as far as Chester. At that point the task of travel became arduous. Over miry roads, in places blocked by boulders, there was the painful, laborious ascent of the steep grade leading to the summit of what we now call Schooley's Mountain. There the party camped for the night, beginning the descent early the morning of the following day. The brisk three or four hours' run that gives the motorist of today just the edge of appetite needed for the full enjoyment of his midday meal was to those hardy adventurers of a century ago almost the journey of a week. For transatlantic travel there was the Black Ball line, between New York and Liverpool, first of four ships, and later of twelve. That service had been founded in 1816 by New York merchants. The Red Star line followed in 1821, and soon after the Swallowtail line. The packets were ships of from six hundred to fifteen hundred tons burden, and made the eastward trip in about twenty-three days and the return trip in about forty days. The record was held by the "Canada," of the Black Ball line, which had made the outward run in fifteen days and eighteen hours. That time was reduced later by the "Amazon." The first steamer to cross the Atlantic was the American ship "Savannah." She made the trial trip from New York to Savannah in April, 1819, and in the following month her owners decided to send her overseas. The time of her passage was twenty-six days, eight under steam and eighteen under sail. Stephen Rogers, her navigator, in a letter to the New London "Gazette," wrote that the "Savannah" was first sighted from the telegraph station at Cape Clear, on the southern coast of Ireland, which reported her as being on fire, and a king's cutter was sent to her relief. "But great was their wonder at their inability to come up with a ship under bare poles. After several shots had been fired from the cutter the engine was stopped, and the surprise of the cutter's crew at the mistake they had made, as well as their curiosity to see the strange Yankee craft, can be easily imagined." From Liverpool the "Savannah" proceeded to St. Petersburg, stopping at Stockholm, and on her return she left St. Petersburg on October 10th, arriving at Savannah November 30th. But the prestige that the journey had won did not compensate for the heavy expense. Her boilers, engines, and paddles were removed, and she was placed on the Savannah route as a packet ship, being finally wrecked on the Long Island coast. The successful establishment of steam as a means of conveying a vessel across the Atlantic did not come until the spring of 1838, when, on the same day, April 23rd, two ships from England reached New York. They were the "Sirius," which had sailed from Cork, Ireland, April 4th, and the "Great Western," which had left Bristol April 8th. The following year marked the founding of the Cunard Line. About the same time began the famous Clippers, which carried triumphantly the American flag to every corner of the Seven Seas. They were at first small, swift vessels of from six hundred to nine hundred tons, and designed for the China tea trade. Later came the "Challenge," of two thousand tons, and the "Invincible," of two thousand one hundred and fifty tons. "That clipper epoch," said a writer in "Harper's Magazine" for January, 1884, "was an epoch to be proud of; and we were proud of it. The New York newspapers abounded in such headlines as these: 'Quickest Trip on Record,' 'Shortest Passage to San Francisco,' 'Unparalleled Speed,' 'Quickest Voyage Yet,' 'A Clipper as is a Clipper,' 'Extraordinary Dispatch,' 'The Quickest Voyage to China,' 'The Contest of the Clippers,' 'Great Passage from San Francisco,' 'Race Round the World.'" Runs of three hundred and even three hundred and thirty miles a day were not uncommon feats of those clipper ships, a rate of speed far surpassing the achievement of the steam-propelled vessels of the period. When Charles Dickens first came to New York, in 1842, it was after a transatlantic journey that had landed him at Boston. There is extant a picture of the cabin that he occupied on the "Britannia" on the trip across that throws an interesting light on the limitations and inconveniences to which early Fifth Avenue was subjected when it visited the old world. Leaving Boston on a February afternoon, Dickens proceeded by rail to Worcester. The next morning another train carried him to Springfield. The next stop was Hartford, a distance of only twenty-five miles. But at that time of the year, Dickens records, the roads were so bad that the journey would probably have occupied ten or twelve hours. So progress was accomplished by means of the waters of the Connecticut River, in a boat that the Englishman described as so many feet short, and so many feet narrow, with a cabin apparently for a certain celebrated dwarf of the period, yet somehow containing the ubiquitous American rocking chair. Going from Hartford to New Haven consumed three hours of train travel; and, rising early after a night's rest, Dickens went on board the Sound packet bound for New York. That was the first American steamboat of any size that he had seen, and he wrote that, to an Englishman, it was less like a steamboat than a huge floating bath, and that its cabin, to his unaccustomed eyes, seemed about as long as the Burlington Arcade. From the deck of this packet he first viewed Hell's Gate, the Hog's Back, the Frying Pan, and other notorious localities attractive to readers of the Diedrich Knickerbocker History. When, later, Dickens left New York for Philadelphia, he wrote of the journey as being made by railroad and two ferries, and occupying between five and six hours. The ten years that separated the first visit of Dickens and the first visit of Thackeray had wrought many changes. Thackeray, too, came to New York from Boston, but in his case it was the matter of one unbroken train journey, in the course of which he reread the "Shabby Genteel Story" of a dozen years before. Dickens's transatlantic trip had consumed nineteen days. The "Canada," which carried Thackeray, made the crossing in thirteen. In New York Thackeray stayed at the Clarendon Hotel, on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Eighteenth Street; but his favourite haunt in the city was the third home of the Century, in Clinton Place. Though not in the least given to flattery or over-effusiveness in his comments on Americans and American institutions, Thackeray wrote and spoke of the Century as "the best and most comfortable club in the world." CHAPTER II _The Stretch of Tradition_ Stretches of the Avenue--The Stretch of Tradition--Washington Arch--Old Homes and Gardens--The Mews and MacDougal Alley--In the Fourth Decade--A Genial Ruffian of the Olden Time--Sailor's Snug Harbor--The Miss Green School--Andrew H. Green, John Fiske, John Bigelow, Elihu Root, and Others as Teachers--The Brevoort Farm--The First Hotel of the Avenue--A Romance of 1840--"Both Sides of the Avenue." A snug little farm was the old Brevoort Where cabbages grew of the choicest sort; Full-headed, and generous, ample and fat, In a queenly way on their stems they sat, And there was boast of their genuine breed, For from old Utrecht had come their seed. --_Gideon Tucker, "The Old Brevoort Farm."_ Passing under the Washington Arch, the march up the Avenue properly begins. To commemorate the centenary of the inauguration of the nation's first President a temporary arch was erected in the spring of 1889. The original structure reached from corner to corner across Fifth Avenue, opposite the Park, and the expense was borne by Mr. William Rhinelander Stewart and other residents of Washington Square. It added so much to the beauty of the entrance to the Avenue that steps were taken to make it permanent, and the present Arch was the result of popular subscription. One hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars was the cost of the structure, which was designed by Stanford White. Comparatively recent additions to the Arch are the two sculptured groups on northern façade, to the right and left of the span. They are the work of H.A. MacNeil. Of all the blocks in the stretch of tradition that carries the Avenue up to Fourteenth Street, the richest in interest is, naturally, that which lies immediately north of the Square. Dividing this block in two, and running respectively east and west, are Washington Mews and MacDougall Alley. When Fifth Avenue was young and addicted to stately horse-drawn turnouts, it was in these half streets that were stabled the steeds and the carriages. Of comparatively recent date is the remodelling that has converted the old stables into quaint, if somewhat garish artist studios. From the top of a north-bound bus as it leaves the Square may be seen the beautiful gardens that have always been a feature of these first houses. Mrs. Emily Johnston de Forest, in her life of her grandfather, John Johnston, has described these gardens as they were from 1833 to 1842. "The houses in the 'Row,' as this part of Washington Square was called, all had beautiful gardens in the rear about ninety feet deep, surrounded by white, grape-covered trellises, with rounded arches at intervals, and lovely borders full of old-fashioned flowers." Although some of the "Row" had cisterns, all the residents went for their washing water to "the pump with a long handle" that stood in the Square. Of that pump Mrs. de Forest tells the following tale. One of her grandfather's neighbours told his coachman to fetch a couple of pails of water for Mary, the laundress. The coachman said that this was not his business, and upon being asked what his business was, replied: "To harness the horses and drive them." Thereupon he was told to bring the carriage to the door. His employer then invited the laundress with her two pails to step in and bade the coachman to drive her to the pump. There was no further trouble with the coachman. As has been told elsewhere, before the Avenue was ever dreamed of, this land belonged to the Randall estate. The founder of the family was one Captain Thomas Randall, described as a freebooter of the seas, who commanded the "Fox," and sailed for years in and out of New Orleans, where he sold the proceeds of his voyages and captures. To this genial old ruffian was born a son, Robert Richard, after which event the father settled down and became a respectable merchant in Hanover Street, New York. He was coxswain of the barge crew of thirteen ship's captains who rowed General Washington from Elizabethtown Point to New York, on the way to the first inauguration. When Robert Richard came to die, in 1801, he dictated, propped up in bed, his last will. After the bequests to relatives and servants, he whispered to his lawyer: "My father was a mariner, his fortune was made at sea. There is no snug harbour for worn-out sailors. I would like to do something for them." Incidentally, the lawyer who drew up the will was Alexander Hamilton. [Illustration: AT THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF THE AVENUE AND TENTH STREET IS THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH OF THE ASCENSION, BUILT IN 1840, AND CONSECRATED NOVEMBER 5, 1841. IT BELONGS TO A PART OF THE AVENUE, FROM THE SQUARE TO TWELFTH STREET, WHICH HAS CHANGED LITTLE SINCE 1845] So the Sailor's Snug Harbor Estate came into being, later to be transferred to its present home on Staten Island. As I survey it from the Richmond Terrace, which it faces, I like to recall its origin. That origin does not in the least seem to interfere with the comfort of the old salts in blue puffing away at their short pipes before the gate or strolling across the broad lawn. Never mind the source of Captain Tom's money. It is not for them to worry about the "Fox," or the "De Lancey," a brigantine with fourteen guns, which the "financier" took out in 1757, and with which he made some sensational captures, or the "Saucy Sally." Eventually the "De Lancey" was taken by the Dutch and the "Saucy Sally" by the English. But before these misfortunes befell him Captain Tom had amassed a fat property. Ostensibly he plied a coastwise trade mostly between New York and New Orleans. But the same chronicler to whom we owe the significant expression: "In those days a man was looked upon as highly unfortunate if he had not a vessel which he could put to profitable use," summed the matter up when he said: "The Captain went wherever the Spanish flag covered the largest amount of gold." At the northeast corner of Washington Square and Fifth Avenue is the James Boorman house, now, I believe, the residence of Mr. Eugene Delano. Helen W. Henderson, in "A Loiterer in New York," alludes to certain letters about old New York written by Mr. Boorman's niece. "She writes," says Miss Henderson, "of her sister having been sent to boarding school at Miss Green's, No. 1 Fifth Avenue, and of how she used to comfort herself, in her home-sickness for the family, at Scarborough-on-the-Hudson, by looking out of the side windows of her prison at her uncle, 'walking in his flower-garden in the rear of his house on Washington Square!'" When James Boorman built his house, it was all open country behind it. Mr. Boorman built also the houses Nos. 1 and 3 Fifth Avenue and the stables that were the nucleus of the Washington Mews of the present day. In the houses was opened, in 1835, a select school for young ladies, presided over at first by Mr. Boorman's only sister, Mrs. Esther Smith. Soon, from Worcester, Massachusetts, came a Miss Green, a girl of eighteen, to teach in the school. Another sister followed and in the course of a few years the establishment became the Misses Green School, which, for a long period, before and after the Civil War, was one of the most distinguished institutions of its kind in the city. Later it was carried on by the Misses Graham. There were educated the daughters of the commercial and social leaders of New York. Among the pupils were Fanny and Jenny Jerome, the latter afterwards to become Lady Randolph Churchill, and the mother of Winston Churchill. A brother of Lucy and Mary Green was Andrew H. Green, the "Father of Greater New York." He had for a time a share in the direction of the establishment, and in 1844, taught a class in American history. Some of the younger teachers came from the Union Theological Seminary in Washington Square. Among the men later to become distinguished, who lectured at the school, were Felix Foresti, professor at the University, and at Columbia College, Clarence Cook, Lyman Abbott, John Fiske, John Bigelow, teaching botany and charming the young ladies because he was "so handsome," and Elihu Root, then a youth fresh from college. To quote from Miss Henderson: "Miss Boorman has often told me of the amusement that the shy theological students and other young teachers afforded the girls in their classes, and how delighted these used to be to see instructors fall into a trap which was unconsciously prepared for them. The room in which the lectures were given had two doors, side by side, and exactly alike, one leading into the hall and the other into a closet. The young men having concluded their remarks, and feeling some relief at the successful termination of the ordeal, would tuck their books under their arms, bow gravely to the class, open the door, and walk briskly into the closet. Even Miss Green's discipline had its limits, and when the lecturer turned to find the proper exit he had to face a class of grinning schoolgirls not much younger than himself, to his endless mortification. Elihu Root recently met at a dinner a lady who asked him if he remembered her as a member of his class at Miss Green's school. 'Do I remember you?' the former secretary of State replied. 'You are one of the girls who used to laugh at me when I had to walk into the closet.'" It was in 1835, when the new avenue was in the first flush of its lusty infancy, that a hotel was opened at the northeast corner of Eighth Street. They call it the Lafayette today: tomorrow it may have still another name. But to one with any feeling for old New York it will always be remembered by its appellation of yesterday, which it drew from the old proprietors of the land on which it stands, that family that is descended from Hendrick Brevoort who had served Haarlem as constable and overseer, and later emigrated to New York, where he was an alderman from 1702 to 1713. The Brevoort farm adjoined the Randall farm and ran northeasterly to about Fourth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Among the descendants of the Dutch burgher was one Henry Brevoort, to whose obstinacy of disposition is owed a curious inconsistency of the city of today. His farmhouse was on the west side of Fourth Avenue and on his land were certain favourite trees. When the Commissioners were replanning the town in 1807 there was a projected Eleventh Street. But the trees were in the way of the improvement, so old Brevoort stood in the doorway, blunderbuss in hand, and defied the invaders to such purpose that to this day Eleventh Street has never been cut through. Instead, Grace Church, its garden and rectory cover the site of the old homestead. Later the vestry of Grace Church was to play old Brevoort's game. "Boss" Tweed determined to cut through or make the church pay handsomely for immunity. The vestry defied him. Tweed never acted. There was another Henry Brevoort in the family. He it was who built the house that now stands at the northwest corner of the Avenue and Ninth Street. That Henry was the grandfather of James Renwick, Jr., the architect who built Grace Church and St. Patrick's Cathedral. His house was one of the great houses of the early days. Now known as the De Rham house--Brevoort sold it in 1857 to Henry De Rham for fifty-seven thousand dollars,--it still strikes the passer-by on account of its individuality of appearance. But long before the De Rhams entered in possession it had its romance. There, the evening of February 24, 1840, was held the first masked ball ever given in New York. It was, to quote Mr. George S. Hellman, "the most splendid social affair of the first half of the nineteenth century." But it was also the last masked ball held in the town for many years. The name of the British Consul to New York at the time was Anthony Barclay, and he had a daughter. Her name was Matilda; she is described as having been a belle of great charm and beauty, and as having had a number of suitors. Of course, after the fashion of all love stories, the suitor favoured by her was the one of whom her parents most disapproved. He was a young South Carolinian named Burgwyne. Opposition served only to fan the flame, and the lovers met by stealth, and the gay Southerner wooed the fair Briton in the good old school poetical manner. In soft communion of fancy they wandered together to far lands; to: "that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where all the loveliest children of his beam, Flow'rets and fruits, blush over every stream, And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves Among Merou's bright palaces and groves." It was "Tom" Moore's "Lalla Rookh" that was dearest to their hearts. Then came the great masked ball, to which practically all "society" was invited. Matilda and Burgwyne agreed to go in the guise of their romantic favourites; she as Lalla Rookh, and he as Feramorz, the young Prince. She wore "floating gauzes, bracelets, a small coronet of jewels, and a rose-coloured bridal veil." His dress was "simple, yet not without marks of costliness, with a high Tartarian cap, and strings of pearls hanging from his flowered girdle of Kaskan." Till four o'clock in the morning they danced. Then, still wearing the costumes of the romantic poem, they slipped away from the ball and were married before breakfast. It seems quite harmless, and natural, and as it should have been, when we regard it after all the years. But it caused a great uproar and scandal at the time, and brought masked balls into such odium that there was, a bit later, a fine of one thousand dollars imposed on anyone who should give one,--one-half to be deducted in case you told on yourself. There is a little magazine published in New York designed to entertain and instruct those who view from the top of a bus of one of the various lines that are the outgrowth of the old Fifth Avenue stage line. The magazine is called "From a Fifth Avenue Bus," and a feature from month to month is the department known as "Both Sides of Fifth Avenue." In the stretch between the Square and Eleventh Street, it points out as residences of particular interest those of Paul Dana, No. 1, George T. Bestle, No. 3, F. Spencer Witherbee, No. 4, and Lispenard Stewart, No. 6; all below Eighth Street. Then, between Eighth and Ninth, Pierre Mali, No. 8, John C. Eames, No. 12, Miss Abigail Burt, No. 14, Dr. J. Milton Mabbott, No. 17, Dr. Edward L. Partridge, No. 19, and Dr. Robert J. Kahn (former Mark Twain home), No. 21. Between Ninth and Tenth, Charles De Rham, No. 24, Mrs. George Ethridge, No. 27, Mrs. Peter F. Collier, No. 29, and Edwin W. Coggeshall, No. 30. On the next block, Frank B. Wiborg, No. 40, Gen. Rush Hawkins, No. 42, Miss Elsie Borg, No. 43, Howard Carter Dickinson, No. 45, Mrs. J.P. Cassidy, No. 49, and William W. Thompkins, No. 68. Besides the private residences are mentioned the Hotel Brevoort (the traditional name is used), the Berkeley at No. 20, and the Church of the Ascension, at Tenth Street, one of the very first of the Fifth Avenue churches, and the scene, on June 26, 1844, of the marriage of President John Tyler and Miss Julia Gardiner, the first marriage of a President of the United States during his term of office. The church a block farther north, on the same side of the Avenue is the First Presbyterian, dating from 1845, when the congregation moved uptown from the earlier edifice on Wall Street, just east of New Street. CHAPTER III _A Knickerbocker Pepys_ A Knickerbocker Pepys--The Span of a Life--A Man of Many Responsibilities--Storm and Stress--Political Protestations--Hone and the Journalists--Contemporary Impressions of Bryant and Bennett--Hone and the Men of Letters--The Ways of British Lions. There is one kind of immortality that is not so much a matter of amount and quality of achievement as of the particular period of achievement. That, for example, of Samuel Pepys. Pepys, living in the turbulent, densely populated London of our time, and recording day by day the events coming under his observation, would probably have his audience of posterity limited to a little circle of venerating descendants who would certainly bore the neighbours. It is quite easy to picture the members of that circle in the year 1998, or 2024. "Listen to what Grandpapa's Diary says of the awful Zeppelin raids of February, 1917," or, "But Great-grandpapa, who had just finished his walk in the Park, and was passing Downing Street when the news came, etc." "Il est fatiguant," whispered Mr. St. John of General Webb at one of the dinners in "Henry Esmond," "avec sa trompette de Wynandael." That persistent blowing of the "trompette" of grandpapa would likewise be voted "fatiguant." "Grandpapa! A plague upon their grandpapa!" It needed the smaller town, the more limited age, the greater intimacy of life, to make Pepys's Diary the vivid human narrative that it has been for so many years. And as with the Pepys of seventeenth century London, so with the chronicler of events day by day in the New York of the first half of the nineteenth century. If there was a Knickerbocker Pepys it was Philip Hone, who in the span of his life saw his city expand from twenty-five thousand to half a million, and whose diary has been described as one of the most fascinating personal documents ever penned. There is a little thoroughfare far downtown called Dutch Street. It runs from Fulton to John Street. There Philip Hone was born on the 25th of October, 1780, and there he passed his boyhood in a wooden house at the corner of John and Dutch Streets which his father bought in 1784. After a common school education, he became, at seventeen years of age, a clerk for an older brother whose business as an auctioneer consisted mainly in selling the cargoes brought to New York by American merchantmen. Two years as a clerk, and then Philip was made a partner. The firm prospered, and by 1820, the future diarist, though only forty years old, had become a rich man. With the best years of his mature life before him, with a wish to see the world and a desire for self-improvement, he retired from business, and in 1821, made his first journey to Europe, sailing from New York on the "James Monroe." When he returned, he bought a house on Broadway, near Park Place, on the exact spot now occupied by the Woolworth Building, for which he paid twenty-five thousand dollars. There is extant an old print of the house, showing also the American Hotel on the corner, and another residence, the ground floor of which was occupied by Peabody's Book Shop. On the block below, where the Astor House was built later, were the homes of John G. Coster, David Lydig, and J.J. Astor. It was one of the most magnificent dwellings of the town, and there Hone entertained not only the distinguished men of New York, but also such Americans of country-wide fame as Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, and Harrison Gray Otis; and such old-world visitors as Charles Dickens, Lord Morpeth, Captain Marryat, John Galt, and Fanny Kemble. He had children growing up--his marriage to Catherine Dunscomb had taken place in 1801, when he was in his twenty-second year--and for the benefit of the young people his was practically open house. Public and private honours were thrust upon him. An assistant alderman from 1824 to 1826, in the latter year he was appointed Mayor. (The Mayor was not elected until 1834.) William Paulding had preceded him in the office, and William Paulding succeeded him in 1827. But the Hone administration was long remembered on account of its civic excellence and its social dignity. For more than thirty years he served gratuitously the city's first Bank of Savings, which was established in 1816, and in 1841 he became its president. Governor of the New York Hospital, trustee of the Bloomingdale Asylum, founder of the Clinton Hall Association, and of the Mercantile Library, trustee of Columbia College, of the New York Life Insurance and Trust Company, president of the American Exchange Bank, and of the Glenham Manufacturing Company, vice-president of the Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb, of the American Seamen's Fund Society, of the New York Historical Society, of the Fuel Saving Society, a director in the Matteawan Cotton and Machine Company, the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company, the Eagle Fire Insurance Company, the National Insurance Company, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a manager of the Literary and Philosophical Society, of the Mechanic and Scientific Association, a founder and a governor of the Union Club, and a vestryman of Trinity Church--the wonder is that he found time to write in his Diary at all. According to Bayard Tuckerman, who edited the Diary and wrote the Introduction to it, an ordinary day's work for Hone was "to ride out on horseback to the Bloomingdale Asylum, to return and pass the afternoon at the Bank for Savings, thence to attend a meeting of the Trinity Vestry, or to preside over the Mercantile Library Association." "He was never," said Mr. Tuckerman, "voluntarily absent from a meeting where the interest of others demanded his presence, and many were the good dinners he lost in consequence." Again: "He had personal gifts which extended the influence due to his character. Tall and spare, his bearing was distinguished, his face handsome and refined; his manners were courtly, of what is known as the 'old school'; his tact was great--he had a faculty for saying the right thing. In his own house his hospitality was enhanced by a graceful urbanity and a ready wit." The story of Philip Hone's life is substantially the story of the town from 1780 till 1851. When he first saw the light in Dutch Street, there were but twenty thousand persons for the occupying British troopers to keep in order. When, after his return from Europe in the early '20s he bought on Broadway in the neighbourhood of City Hall Park, that was the centre of fashionable residence. But by 1837 trade was claiming the section, and Hone sold out and built himself a new home, this time at the corner of Broadway and Great Jones Street. He saw the residence portion of the city go beyond that point, saw it grope up Fifth Avenue as far as Twentieth Street. The first entry in the Diary bears the date of May 18, 1828; the last of April 30, 1851, just four days before his death. That last entry shows that he felt that the end was near at hand. "Has the time come?" he asks, and then quotes seven stanzas from James Montgomery's "What is Prayer?", adding four stanzas of his own. Just eleven months to a day before the last entry, under date of May 30, 1850, Hone commented on the swiftly changing aspect of the city. To him the renovation of Broadway seemed to be an annual occurrence. If the houses were not pulled down they fell of their own accord. He wrote: "The large, three-story house, corner of Broadway and Fourth Street, occupied for several years by Mrs. Seton as a boarding-house, fell today at two o'clock, with a crash so astounding that the girls, with whom I was sitting in the library, imagined for a moment that it was caused by an earthquake. Fortunately the workmen had notice to make their escape. No lives were lost and no personal injury was sustained. "The mania for converting Broadway into a street of shops is greater than ever. There is scarcely a block in the whole extent of this fine street of which some part is not in a state of transmutation. The City Hotel has given place to a row of splendid stores. "Stewart is extending his stores to take in the whole front from Chambers to Reade Street; this is already the most magnificent dry-goods establishment in the world. I certainly do not remember anything to equal it in London or Paris; with the addition now in progress this edifice will be one of the 'wonders' of the Western world. Three or four good brick houses on the corner of Broadway and Spring Street have been levelled, I know not for what purpose--shops, no doubt. The houses--fine, costly edifices, opposite to me extending from Driggs's corner down to a point opposite to Bond Street--are to make way for a grand concert and exhibition establishment." It is far from being all mellowness and amiability, that Diary. Hone had his prejudices and dislikes and strong political opinions. In the portraits that have been preserved there is the suggestion of intolerance and smug self-satisfaction. Also life did not turn out quite so rosy as it promised in 1828, when he retired from business with a handsome competence. In 1836, during the commercial depression, he met with financial reverses which forced him to return to the game of money-getting. He became president of the American Mutual Insurance Company, which was ruined by the great fire of July 19,
chief with you?” The boy shook his head. “I’ll lend you one, then. I’ll get it and wash the cut well. You step back to the water tank.” Toby returned to his seat and dragged his suitcase from the pile. “Fellow’s got a nasty cut on his lip,” he explained. “Fell down when the train slowed up and hit on something.” “What are you going to do?” inquired Frank. “Operate on him?” “Find a handkerchief for him.” “Who is he? One of our chaps?” asked Arnold. “I don’t know. He may be. Doesn’t look it. Get your enormous feet out of the way. I’ll be back in a sec.” “If you want any one to administer the ether――――” suggested Frank. Toby laughed and joined his patient by the rear door. There he gave the wound a thorough washing, while the boy scowled and grunted. Then, seeing that the sides of the cut ought to be brought together, he left the other with a folded handkerchief pressed to the wound and made his way forward to the baggage car. When he returned he had a roll of surgeon’s tape and a wad of absorbent cotton. The boy protested in his sullen way against further repairs, but Toby overruled him. “You don’t want a nasty scar there,” he said cheerfully. “You hold this cotton there until I get the tape ready. That’s it. All right now. Hold steady, now. I’m not hurting you. There! Now we’ll roll this cotton in the handkerchief and you can stop the blood with it. I don’t think it will bleed much longer. Have you got far to go?” “Wissining,” muttered the boy. “Oh, do you live in Wissining?” “No, I’m going to school there,” answered the other resentfully. “I thought maybe you were, too.” “Why, yes, I am. You must be a new boy then.” The other nodded. “I’ve never seen the rotten place,” he said. “Really?” asked Toby rather coldly. “Well, I hope you’ll like it better than you think.” The boy stared back in his sullen fashion. “Shan’t,” he muttered. Toby shrugged. “That’s up to you, I guess.” He nodded curtly and moved away, feeling relieved at the parting. But the boy stopped his steps. “Say, what’ll I do with this handkerchief?” he asked. “Oh, throw it away, please,” said Toby. If he had done so this story might have been different. CHAPTER II NEW QUARTERS At eight o’clock that evening, having reached Wissining only a little more than an hour late and done full justice to supper, Toby and Arnold were busily unpacking and setting things to rights in Number 12 Whitson, which, as those who know Yardley Hall School will remember, is the granite dormitory building facing southward, flanked on the west by the equally venerable Oxford Hall and on the east by the more modern Clarke. There were those who liked the old-time atmosphere of Whitson; its wooden stairways, its low ceilings, its deep window embrasures and wide seats; who even forgave many a lack of convenience for the sake of the somewhat dingy home-likeness. Perhaps, too, they liked to feel themselves heirs to the legends and associations that clustered about the building. On the other hand, there were scoffers dwelling more luxuriously in Clarke or Dudley or Merle who declared that the true reason for Whitson’s popularity was that the dining hall, known at Yardley as Commons, occupied the lower floor and that fellows living in the building consequently enjoyed an advantage over those dwelling in the other dormitories. Not all the Whitson rooms were desirable, however. On the third floor, for instance, was one that Toby, when he looked about the comparative grandeur of Number 12, remembered without regrets. He had passed last year under its sloping roof in an atmosphere of benzine and cooking. The benzine odor was due to the fact that he had conducted a fairly remunerative business in cleaning and pressing clothes, the smell of cooking to the fact that the room’s one window was directly above the basement kitchen. This year the atmosphere promised to be sweeter, for Number 12 was on the front of the building, away from the kitchen, and Toby had retired from business. There were moments when he viewed his retirement with alarm, for, although his father had assured him that sufficient money would be forthcoming to meet expenses if Toby managed carefully, he couldn’t quite forget that, should anything interrupt the prosperity of the boat-building business at home, there would be nothing to fall back on. But Arnold had made the abandoning of the cleaning and pressing industry a condition of his invitation to a share of Number 12. “Homer’s not coming back, Toby,” he had announced in August. (Homer Wilkins had been Arnold’s roommate the preceding year.) “I wish you’d come down to Number 12 with me. It won’t cost you much more than that cell up in Poverty Row; and that’s an awful dive, anyway. Of course, you can’t go on with that beastly, smelly clothes-cleaning stunt, but you weren’t going to anyway, were you? I mean, since your father’s business has picked up so this spring and summer you won’t have to, eh?” Frankly, Toby had fully intended to. Being even partly self-supporting gives one a feeling of independence that one hates to lose. But Toby said nothing of that. He thought it over and, because he was very fond of Arnold, as Arnold was of him, and because Number 22 had been pretty bad at times, he yielded. This evening he was very glad that he had, as, pausing with a crumpled pair of trousers in his hand midway between his battered trunk and his closet, he viewed again the quiet comfort of the big square room. Wilkins had removed a few things, but they were not missed, and Arnold’s folks were sending down another chair and a small bookcase from New York for Toby’s use. A fellow ought, he reflected, to be very happy in such a place; and he felt renewed gratitude to Arnold for choosing him to share its comforts. Arnold might easily have picked one of several fellows as a roommate without surprising Toby: Frank, for instance. Arnold had known Frank longer than he had known Toby. Reflecting in such fashion, Toby remained immovable so long that Arnold, who had for the moment abandoned more important business to put together a new loose-leaf notebook under the mellow glow of the droplight on the big table, looked across curiously. “What’s your difficulty, T. Tucker?” he asked. “Gone to sleep on your feet? Reaction, I suppose, after the near-trainwreck!” “I was just thinking,” answered Toby slowly, “that this is an awfully jolly room and that it was mighty good of you to let me come in with you.” “Well, the room’s all right. (How in the dickens does this thing catch?) I like it a heap better than those mission-furnished rooms in Clarke. Of course, next year I suppose I’ll try for Dudley, with the rest of the First Class fellows, although I don’t know about that, either. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll stick here. It’s getting a whole lot like home, Toby. But as for its being good for me to have you with me here, why, that’s sort of funny, T. Tucker. Guess you’re not the only one that’s――er――that’s benefited, what? Rather like it myself, if you must know. Homer and I got on pretty well, all things considered, but that was mainly because he’s too lazy to quarrel with you about anything. Personally, Toby, I like a row now and then. It sort of――clears the atmosphere, so to speak. That’s why I thought of you. You’ve got such a perfectly beastly disposition and such a rotten temper that I can have a scrap whenever I feel the need of it. So, you see, it was pure selfishness, after all, old thing.” Toby smiled and went over to the closet with his burden. “We started with a scrap, anyway,” he said. “Remember it, Arn?” “Perfectly. I intimated that your hair was sort of reddish and you didn’t like it. So you came at me like a cyclone and we both went into the harbor. I remember it perfectly. It started because you wanted twenty-four cents a gallon for some gasoline.” “Twenty-two. You said you paid only twenty in New York.” “Anyway, I offered you less than you asked, and you said you’d pump it out of the tank again, and――――” “Good thing I didn’t have to try it,” laughed Toby. “That was only a little over a year ago, Arn! Why, it seems years!” “Much has happened since then, T. Tucker,” replied Arnold, tossing the notebook on the table. “Events have transpired. In the short space of――let me see; this is September――in the short space of fifteen months you were rescued from a living-death in the Johnstown High School and became a person of prominence at Yardley Hall!” “Prominent as a cleaner and presser of clothes,” laughed Toby. “Nay, nay, prominent as one swell hockey player, Toby, and also, if I mistake not, as a rescuer of drowning youths. Don’t forget you’re a hero, old thing. By the way, I wonder if young Lingard’s back. For your sake, I hope he isn’t. His gratitude to you for saving him from a watery death was a bit embarrassing to you, I thought!” Toby smiled ruefully. “You didn’t _think_, you _knew_,” he said grimly. Arnold laughed. “To see you slinking around a corner to evade the kid was killing, Toby! And he is such a little rotter, too! While you were rescuing, why didn’t you pull out something a little more select?” “Oh, Tommy isn’t a bad sort really,” responded Toby earnestly. “He――he just didn’t get the right sort of bringing-up, I suppose.” “Maybe. Personally, I always feel like taking him over my knee and wearing out a shingle on him! Well, this won’t get our things unpacked. Let’s knock off after a bit and see who’s back. Funny none of the gang has been in. Wonder if Fan’s back. And Ted Halliday.” “I saw Fanning at supper,” said Toby. “We’ll run over to Dudley after awhile and look him up. You like him, don’t you, Toby?” “Fanning? Yes, but I don’t really know him as well as some of the other fellows. He’s football captain this year, isn’t he?” “Yes.” Arnold nodded and then frowned. “Sometimes I wish we’d elected some one else: Ted, maybe, or Jim Rose.” “Why? I thought you liked Fanning a lot. And he was the whole thing last year in the Broadwood game, wasn’t he?” “I do like him. He’s a mighty fine chap. And he’s a whale of a player. Only, what sort of a captain will he make? He’s too easy, to my way of thinking. He’s likely to fall for a lot of fellows who can’t play much just because they’re friends of his. I don’t mean that he will intentionally show favoritism, but he’s too plaguy loyal to his friends, Toby. To tell the truth, I’m half inclined to stay out of it this fall――No, that isn’t so, either. What I do mean is that I’m scared that Fan may keep me on even if I don’t really make good. And I’d hate that worse than poison. I want to make the team, but I don’t want fellows to wink and laugh and look wise about me. You know the sort of stuff: ‘Oh, Deering, ye-es, he’s all right. But it’s lucky for him Fanning’s a friend of his!’ That sort of guff. Of course, this new coach, Lyle, may be a chap with a mind of his own and not stand for any of the friend-of-my-youth stuff. I hope so. I’d feel better anyway. By the way, you haven’t changed your mind, Toby?” “About football? No.” “I wish you would. Why don’t you?” “Lots of reasons,” answered Toby smilingly. “In the first place, I tried it last fall. In the sec――――” “You call that trying? You just went out with a whole mob of fellows and loafed around until they got tired of walking on you. Besides, you were out for the Second. The First’s a different proposition, son, especially now that you’ve made good in hockey. Every one knows that you’ll be hockey captain next year.” “It’s more than I know,” said Toby good-naturedly. “Anyhow――――” “And you’re at least fifteen pounds heavier than a year ago. They said you were too light, didn’t they?” “They meant in the head,” replied the other gravely. “They were dead right, too! But, honest, old thing, joking aside――――” “Arn, I haven’t got time for football and I can’t afford it.” “That’s what you said about hockey last winter. And you were so pressed for time that you copped a Ripley Scholarship! As for ‘affording’ it, where’s the expense come in?” “Togs and things,” answered Toby. “And traveling expenses. Arn, if I went in for football and made the team――which I couldn’t do in a million years――I’d have to go back to sponging coats and pressing trousers, and that would make the room awfully smelly, and you wouldn’t like it a bit.” And Toby ended with a laugh. “Piffle! All right, have your own stubborn way. You’ll miss a whole lot of fun, though.” “And a whole lot of bruises! Anyway, Arn, one football hero is enough in a family. I’ll stay at home and cut surgeon’s plaster for you and keep your crutches handy and hear your alibis.” “Idiot,” said Arnold. “Come on, dump that truck on the chair and let’s go over to Dudley. I want to hear some sensible conversation for a change.” “You don’t mean you’re going to keep quiet all evening, do you?” asked Toby with concern. CHAPTER III SID OFFERS ADVICE The school year began the next morning. Many new faces confronted Toby in the recitation rooms and some familiar ones were missing. Toby’s list of friends had not been a long one last year, although acquaintances had been many. It had been his first year at Yardley Hall, which fact, coupled with a fairly retiring disposition, had left him rather on the outside. It is always a handicap to enter school in a class below your friends, which is what Toby had done. Arnold and Frank, both a year older, had been in the Third, while Toby had gone into the Fourth. Consequently the fellows he had met through Arnold――Frank had not counted greatly as a friend last year――had few interests that were Toby’s. To be sure, in early spring, after he had made a success of hockey, things had been somewhat different. But even then he had remained a pretty insignificant person among the three hundred and odd that made up the student body of Yardley Hall School. Not that Toby cared or thought much about it. He was too busy getting through the year without calling on his father for further financial assistance to pay much attention to the gentle art of acquiring friends. One friend, however, Toby had had, whether or no. That was Tommy Lingard, a Preparatory Class youngster, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed, shy and, in appearance, the soul of innocence. That he wasn’t as spotless as he looked has nothing to do with this story. Toby had saved Tommy from drowning, and thereafter the younger boy had attached himself to his benefactor like a shadow. It had been very embarrassing at times, for saving a person’s life does not necessarily imply that you want to spend the rest of your life in that person’s company! Toby didn’t like Tommy, for which there was a reason, but he couldn’t be brutal to him, and short of being brutal there had seemed no way of evading Tommy’s doglike devotion and his unwelcome companionship. It had become a joke to Arnold and a few others, but Toby found it far from that. When June had brought the end of the school year Toby couldn’t have told you whether he was more delighted at finishing an Honor Man in his class or at getting rid of Tommy Lingard! He had returned this fall with a grim determination to be rid of the boy at any cost short of murder, but to-day, glancing uneasily about as he passed from one recitation to another, he was not so sure of himself. Probably, he reflected discouragedly, when Tommy appeared and got those big blue eyes on him he wouldn’t find it in his heart to be unkind to the youngster, and the whole wretched, tiresome program would begin all over again. Therefore when, hurrying from his last morning recitation at twelve, he almost bumped into Tommy on the steps of Oxford, he was at once amazed and relieved when that youth said, “Hello, Toby,” in a most embarrassed voice and sidled past. At the foot of the steps Toby stopped and looked back. Could that be Tommy? Of course it was, but it was a very different Tommy. He had shot up during the summer like a weed. His clothes looked too small for him, too short of leg and sleeve. He was thinner of body and face, the pink-and-white complexion had muddied, the blue eyes were no longer luminous with truth and innocence and the voice had dropped several notes to a ridiculous bass! In short, Tommy had changed very suddenly from a blue-eyed cherub to a commonplace and awkward boy. And Toby was very, very glad, so glad that he went the rest of the way to Whitson whistling at the top of his voice; or should I say at the top of his whistle? “Just shows,” he reflected as he skipped up the stairs, “that it doesn’t pay to worry about anything that may happen, because maybe it won’t!” After a two o’clock séance with “Old Tige,” by which name Mr. Gaddis, English instructor, was popularly known, Toby went with Arnold down to the athletic field. September had still a week to run and the afternoon was almost uncomfortably hot. Across the river, the wide expanse of salt marsh was still green in places, and overhead the sky was unflecked by clouds. Fortunately a little westerly breeze mitigated the heat. Most of the tennis courts were occupied, a group of baseball enthusiasts were congregated over by the batting net and on the blue surface of the curving stream a few bright-hued canoes were moving slowly upstream or down. Toby found himself almost wishing that he had chosen a dip in the Sound instead of an hour or more of unexciting observation of some fourscore overheated youths going through football practice. However, the new grandstand, finished during the summer, was roofed, and as soon as Arnold left him to his own devices Toby meant to climb up there into the shade and sprawl in comfort. On the way they passed new boys here and there――it was easy to detect them if only by their too evident desire to seem quite at home――and they agreed gravely, pessimistically that they were a rum looking lot, and wondered what the school was coming to! Old friends and acquaintances hailed them from a distance or stopped to chat. Arnold was rather a popular fellow and knew a bewildering multitude of his schoolmates. “Seems mighty nice to be back again,” Arnold observed after one such meeting. “Bet you we’re going to have a dandy time this year, T. Tucker.” “Maybe you will,” answered the other dubiously, “but I don’t expect to unless they drop Latin from the curriclumum――curric――well, whatever you call it.” “Call it the course, old thing,” laughed Arnold. “It’s easier on the tongue. But I thought you finished strong with Latin last year.” “I did pretty well in spring term, but it looks tougher this fall. And I’ve got Collins this year, and every one says he’s a heap stricter than Townsend.” “Well, he is, I suppose, but he’s a mighty good teacher. You get ahead faster with Collins, I think. Anyway, it won’t look so bad when you’ve got into it, Toby. Besides, I dare say I can help you a bit now and then.” “You,” jeered Toby with a very, very hollow laugh. “You’ll be so full of football for the next two months you won’t know I’m alive! A nice outlook for me, I don’t think! When I’m not bathing you with arsenic――or is it arnica?――or strapping your broken fragments together I’ll have to listen to you yapping about how it was you missed a tackle, or got your signals mixed. Arn, as a companion you’ll be just about as much use as a――a――――” “Don’t overtax that giant intellect of yours, old thing. It’s too hot. Wonder where the crowd is. You don’t suppose those fellows are all that are going to report?” “It’s not three yet. Probably the rest of them preferred to stay sensibly in the shade while they had the chance. Wish I had! Arn, is that what’s-his-name over there?” “No, that’s thingumbob. Whom do you mean?” “The little man in the blue sweater-coat talking to Fanning. See him?” “Yes. I guess it must be. Isn’t very big, is he? Fan said last night, though, that he talked a heap of sense. I’m going over. Come along and meet him.” “No, thanks. I’ll wait here.” Arnold left him by the corner of the old grandstand and made his way toward where the new coach was in conversation with Captain Fanning. Toby saw Fanning introduce Arnold to Mr. Lyle and saw the two shake hands. Then something broad and heavy smote him disconcertingly between his shoulders and he swung around to find Sid Creel’s grinning, moon-like countenance before him. “Hello, Toby!” greeted Sid, reaching for his hand. “I had a beastly fright. Just when I was lamming you I thought maybe it wasn’t you after all. You’ve sort of thickened up since last year. Rather embarrassing to find you’ve whacked a total stranger on the back, eh? Much obliged to you for being you, Toby. I’ll never forget it. What sort of a summer did you have? You’re looking hard as nails and more beautiful than ever!” “Same to you, Sid. Are you going out for football?” Toby glanced at the other’s togs. “No,” replied Sid gravely. “I’m going to tea at the Doctor’s.” “Well,” laughed Toby, “that was sort of a fool question, but I didn’t know you were a football shark.” “I’m not; I’m just a minnow. I’m trying for the Second. I always do. I’ve been trying for the Second Team for years and years. If I’m not here they postpone until next day. I should think you’d go in for the game, Toby. Ever tried it?” “A little. I was out for the Second last fall, but I didn’t stay long.” “That so? I don’t remember seeing you.” “Funny, Sid; there were only about eighty of us the first day!” “Well, I didn’t know you then, Toby. Why don’t you try again? Didn’t you like it?” “I don’t know. Guess I didn’t have time to find out whether I did or didn’t. They said I was too light and fired me after three or four days.” “Well, you certainly have enough weight now. Come on and join the goats. It’s lots of fun. You get action, son, and it lets you out of gymnasium work while you’re at it. That’s something! Come on!” Toby smiled and shook his head. “Guess not, thanks. I never would make a football player.” “You? You’re just the kind, Toby. You’re quick and you’ve got a good head, and you’re built right, too. Wish I had your build. Only thing I’m good for is center or, maybe, guard. I’m too bulky. It isn’t all fat, though, believe thou me. Feel them here biceps, son, if you doubt my word.” “I kind of envied you your fat――I mean your muscular bulk, Sid――last winter,” answered Toby. “You could fall flat on the ice without hurting yourself. You just kind of bounced up and down a few times and didn’t mind it. When I fell I felt it!” “Never mind about me bouncing,” said Sid good-naturedly, with a grin. “I got around the ice a heap faster than some of the chaps at that. But about football, Toby――――” “I haven’t got time for it, Sid; that’s another thing. I’ve got to put my nose to the grindstone, I guess, this year.” “Well, haven’t I? Rather! But football won’t cut in on studying――much. Anyway, a fellow studies better for being out-of-doors and getting plenty of exercise and――――” “Yes, but I can be outdoors without playing football, Sid.” “Gee, you’re the original little Excuse-Me! Well so be it. After all, some one’s got to stay out of it and be audience, and from the looks of things right now, Toby, you’re the only fellow left to sit in the grandstand and cheer us on to victory. Look at the gang coming down! There’s a fellow I want to see. So long! Better change your mind, though!” Arnold came back for a minute and then left in answer to the plaintive squawking of a horn from farther along the side of the field. Fully eighty youths of assorted ages and sizes gathered about the new coach and the hubbub was stilled as the small man in the blue knitted jacket began to speak. Toby could hear an occasional word, but not enough to make sense, and, since it was no concern of his, he turned toward the grandstand and climbed up into the grateful shade. Forty or fifty others had already scattered themselves about the seats in couples or groups, most of them munching peanuts or popcorn bars, ready to be amused if amusement required no exertion on their parts. A lazy way to spend a perfectly good afternoon, reflected Toby. He wished he hadn’t let Arnold persuade him to come, but, being here, he lacked energy for the hot uphill walk back to the dormitory. He would stay awhile, he told himself; at least until the afternoon had cooled a little. There was a salvo of polite handclapping from the group within sound of the coach’s voice and it broke up. Andy Ryan, the trainer, emptied a canvas bag of trickling footballs and they were pounced on and borne away to various parts of the field. The big group became half a dozen smaller ones. It was only “kindergarten stuff” to-day, even for the veterans; passing and falling and starting; not very interesting from the viewpoint of candidate or audience. Toby located Arnold working with a squad under big Jim Rose. Arn was, as Toby knew, pretty soft after a fairly lazy summer, and the boy in the shade of the big stand smiled unfeelingly as he saw his chum straighten himself slowly in deference to protesting muscles. “He will be good and sore to-night,” thought Toby. “Sailing a boat all summer doesn’t keep a football man in very good trim, I guess!” After that he lost interest in the scene before him, and, his somewhat battered straw hat on one knee and the lazy breeze drying his damp hair, let his thoughts carry him back to Greenhaven and the folks in the little white cottage on Harbor Road. It would be very pleasant there to-day on the vine-shaded steps, with the harbor and the white sails before him and the cheery _click-clock_ of the caulking iron and mallet and the busy _pip-pup, pip-pup_ of the gasoline engine sounding across from the boat yard. Better still, though, would it be to lie in the stern of a boat, main-sheet in hand, and slip merrily out past the island to where, even to-day, the white-caps would be dancing on the sunlit surface of the bay. He was getting the least bit homesick when the sound of approaching steps brought his wandering thoughts back. Climbing the aisle was a somewhat thin, carelessly dressed youth. His head was bent and so Toby couldn’t see his face well, but there was something dimly familiar about the figure. Toby wondered why, with several hundred empty seats to choose from, the boy, whoever he was, had to come stamping up here. He sighed and changed his position and was relapsing into his thoughts again when he saw to his annoyance that the approaching youth had stopped at the end of his row, two seats distant. Toby’s gaze lifted curiously to the boy’s face. Perhaps it was more the two strips of rather soiled surgeon’s plaster adorning the chap’s upper lip than the features that led Toby to recognize him. Mentally, Toby groaned. Aloud, trying to make his voice sound decently friendly, he said: “Hello! Well, how’s it going?” CHAPTER IV G. W. TUBB “Hello,” answered the other gruffly. To Toby’s further annoyance he slid into the end seat, as he did so producing a folded but rather crumpled handkerchief from a pocket. This he held across to Toby. “’Tain’t very clean,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.” “What is it?” asked Toby, accepting it doubtfully. “Oh, I see; my handkerchief. You needn’t have bothered. I told you to throw it away. Still, much obliged.” It had quite evidently been washed by the boy himself and ironed by the simple expedient of laying it while wet on some smooth surface, perhaps a windowpane. Faint brownish stains had defied the efforts of the amateur laundryman. Toby dropped it into a pocket, aware of the close and apparently hostile stare of the other. “Much obliged,” he repeated vaguely, for want of anything better to say. “’At’s all right,” answered the other. “Too good a handkerchief to throw away.” An awkward silence followed. Toby wished the youth would take himself off, but that idea was apparently far from the latter’s mind. Instead, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, stretched his thin legs before him and scowled down at the busy scene. He looked to be about fifteen, Toby thought. His features were not bad in themselves, but his expression was sullen and dissatisfied and his complexion was too much the color of putty to be pleasant to look at. Also, his skin didn’t seem clean and healthy. The same was true of the youth as a whole. Toby thought a thorough application of hot water and soap would improve him a whole lot, at least externally. His clothes were of good enough material and fairly new. But they were full of creases and needed brushing. His shoes were scratched at the toes and would have been better for dressing and polishing. His collar was cleaner than yesterday, but creased and rumpled, and the blue four-in-hand scarf needed tightening. On the whole, this chap was not a prepossessing member of Yardley Hall society, and Toby had no desire to increase the acquaintance. But so long as he was here some sort of conversation seemed in order, and so, breaking the silence: “How’s the cut getting on?” Toby asked. “All right,” the other answered without turning his head. Then: “Say,” he challenged. “Yes?” “Your name’s Tucker, ain’t it?” “Yes. What’s yours, by the way?” Toby was sorry he had asked as soon as the question was out. “Tubb,” was the answer, “George Tubb.” There was a pause. Then, defiantly: “Middle name’s William. Go on and say it!” “Say it? Why, George William Tubb,” responded Toby obligingly. The other turned and viewed him suspiciously. Then he grunted. “Guess you don’t get it,” he muttered. “George W. Tubb, see?” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” answered Toby indifferently. “You would if you saw it written,” said Mr. Tubb gloomily. “Everybody does.” He pitched his voice to a falsetto. “‘What’s the W. stand for? Wash?’ Gee, I’m sick of it. I tried to tell the guy in the office where you get registered that my middle name was Harris, but he said it couldn’t be that and begin with W. It’ll be W. in the catalogue, so you might as well know it now. Well, I’ve been ‘Wash-tub’ ever since I was a foot high, so I guess it don’t matter here!” “What’s the difference?” asked Toby. “One nickname’s as good as another, isn’t it? Names don’t matter.” “Some don’t. I suppose they call you ‘Red’ or ‘Carrot’ or something like that. I wouldn’t mind――――” “Hold on, Tubb!” Toby’s voice dropped a note. “No one calls me what you said. Some fellows have tried to, but they changed their minds. Understand?” Tubb grinned. “Don’t like it, eh? Thought you said names didn’t matter! Well, I don’t like my nickname any more than you like yours; I mean what fellows started to call you.” The grin faded and Tubb’s countenance became overcast again with the settled expression of sullenness. “Anyway, what they call me here doesn’t cut any ice. I won’t be here long.” “How’s that?” asked Toby, trying to make his question sound politely interested. “I’m going to beat it. This ain’t any kind of a school for me, Tucker. Gee, what would I do here? Look at the gang of highbrows and mamma’s darlings! They’d stand for me about two days. I know the sort. Some of ’em come to our town in summer. Think they ever have anything to do with us town guys? Not on your life! We’re too common for ’em, the dear little Willie Boys!” “Why did you come here then?” asked Toby coldly. “It was Pop’s idea,” replied Tubb. “Aunt Sarah died last spring out in Michigan and she left Pop some money. The will said some of it was to go for my schooling. I wanted to go to Huckins’s, in Logansport. Know it? It’s an all-right school and two or three fellows from my town go there. It don’t cost much, either. But Pop was set on this dive. About ten years ago Pop was in partnership with a man named Mullins in the logging business, and this Mullins had a boy who went to school here. Pop thought a lot of the Mullinses, and when he learned about Aunt Sarah’s will he said right off I was to go here. He got the high school principal to coach me all summer. I kept telling him I wouldn’t like it here, kept telling him it wasn’t any place for a storekeeper’s son, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he’d lick the hide off me if I didn’t pass the examinations, and I knew he would. So I passed. He’ll lick me if I go back home, too, so I’ve got to go and get me a job somewhere. Guess I’ll enlist in the Navy. I’ll tell ’em I’m seventeen. They don’t care. I know a fellow got in when he was a couple of months younger than I am.” Toby viewed Tubb distastefully during a brief silence. Then: “Seems to me,” he said slowly and emphatically, “the Navy is just the place for you, Tubb!” “Sure,” began the other. Then something in Toby’s tone made him pause and view the other suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded. “
-out for types, as the very picture and ideal of the typical Connaught peasant--if there are such things as typical peasants or, indeed, any other varieties of human beings, a point that might be debated. As a matter of fact, he was not in the least, however, what we mean when we talk of a typical man, for he had at least one strongly-marked trait which is even proverbially rare amongst men of his race and class--so rare, indeed, that it has been said to be undiscoverable amongst them. His first marriage--an event which took place thirty years back, while he was still barely twenty--had been of the usual _mariage de convenance_ variety, settled between his own parents and the parent of his bride, with a careful, nay, punctilious, heed to the relative number of cows, turkeys, feather-beds, boneens, black pots and the like, producible upon either side, but as regards the probable liking or compatibility of the youthful couple absolutely no heed whatsoever. Con O’Malley and Honor O’Shea (as in western fashion she was called to the hour of her death) had, all the same, been a fairly affectionate couple, judged by the current standard, and she, at any rate, had never dreamt of anything being lacking in this respect. Sundry children had been born to them, of whom only one, a daughter, at the present time survived. Then, after some eighteen years of married life, Honor O’Shea had died, and Con O’Malley had mourned her with a commendable show of woe and, no doubt, a fair share of its inner reality also. He was by that time close upon forty, so that the fires of love, if they were ever going to be kindled, might have been fairly supposed to have shown some signs of their presence. Not at all. It was not until several years later that they suddenly sprang into furious existence. An accident set them alight, as, but for such an accident, they would in all probability have slumbered on in his breast, unsuspected and unguessed at, even by himself, till the day of his death. It was a girl from the ‘Continent,’ as the islanders call the mainland, who set the spark to that long-slumbering tinder--a girl from Maam in the Joyce country, high up in the mountains of Connemara--a Joyce herself by name, a tall, wild-eyed, magnificently handsome creature, with an unmistakable dash of Spanish blood in her veins. Con had seen her for the first time at old Malachy O’Flaherty’s wake, a festivity at which--Malachy having been the last of the real, original O’Flaherties of Aranmore--nearly every man in the three islands had mustered, as well as a considerable sprinkling of more or less remotely connected Joyces and O’Flaherties from the opposite coast. Whole barrels of whisky had been broached, and the drinking, dancing, and doings generally had been quite in accordance with the best of the old traditions. Amongst the women gathered together on this celebrated occasion, Delia Joyce, of Maam in Connemara, had borne away the palm, as a Queen’s yacht might have borne it away amongst an assembly of hookers and canal barges. Not a young man present on the spot--little as most of them were apt to be troubled with such perturbations--but felt a dim, unexplained trouble awake in his breast as the young woman from Maam swept past him, or danced with measured, stately steps down the centre of the stone floor; her red petticoat slightly kilted above her ankles, her head thrown back, her great, dark, slumberous eyes sweeping round the room, as she looked demurely from one strange face to another. Upon Con O’Malley--not amongst the category of young men--the effect was the most marked, most instantaneous, most overwhelming of all! Delia Joyce, as everyone in the room discovered in ten minutes, had no fortune, and, therefore, obviously was no match. She was the orphan niece of a man who had seven living children of his own. She had not a cow, a gridiron, a penny-piece, an inch of land, not a possession of any sort in the world. Regardless of this utterly damning fact, regardless of his own age, regardless of the outrage inflicted upon public opinion, regardless of everything and everybody, Con O’Malley fell hopelessly in love with her; clung to her skirts like a leech the whole evening; followed her the next day as she was about to step on board her curragh for the mainland; carried her, in short, bodily off her feet by the sheer vehemence of his love-making. He was still a good-looking man at the time; not bent or slouching, but well set up; a ‘warm’ man, ‘well come’ and ‘well-to-do;’ a man whose pleadings no woman--short, that is, of a bailiff’s or a farmer’s daughter--would disdain to listen to. Delia Joyce coyly but gladly consented to respond to his ardour. It was a genuine love-match on both sides--that rarest of rare phenomena in peasant Ireland. That it would, as a matter of course, and for that very reason, turn out disastrously was the opinion, loudly expressed, of every experienced matron, not in Inishmaan alone, but for forty miles around that melancholy island. A ‘Black stranger,’ a ‘Foreigner,’ a girl ‘from the Continent,’ not related to anyone or belonging to the place! worse than all, a girl without a penny-piece, without a stool or a feather-bed to add to the establishment! There was not a woman, young or old, living on the three islands but felt a sense of intense personal degradation whenever the miserable affair was so much as alluded to before her! Marriages, however, are queer things, and the less we prophesy about them the less likely we are perhaps to prove conspicuously wrong. So it was in this case. A happier, more admittedly successful marriage there never was or could be, save, indeed, in one important and lamentable respect, and that was that it came to an end only too soon. About a year after the marriage little Grania was born, two years after it a boy; then, within a few days of one another, the mother and the baby both died. From that day Con O’Malley was a changed man. He displayed no overwhelming or picturesque grief. He left the weeping and howling at the funeral, as was proper, to the professional mourners hired upon that occasion. He did not wear crape on his hat--the last for the excellent reason that Denny O’Shaughnessy made none, and Denny O’Shaughnessy was much the most fashionable of the weavers upon Inishmaan. He did not mope, he did not mourn, he did not do anything in particular. But from the day of his wife’s death he went to the dogs steadily and relentlessly--to the dogs, that is, so far as it is going to the dogs to take no further interest in anything, including your own concerns. He did not even do this in any very eminent or extravagant fashion: simply became on a par with the most shiftless and thriftless of his neighbours, instead of being rather noticeably a contrast to them in these respects. Bit by bit, too, the ‘Cruskeen Beg,’ which had hitherto regarded him as only a very distant and unsatisfactory acquaintance, began to know him better. He still managed to keep the hooker afloat, but what it and his farm brought him in nearly all found its way across the counter of it or some kindred shebeen, and how Honor O’Malley contrived to keep herself and the small Grania, not to speak of a tribe of pensioners and hangers-on, upon the margin left was a marvel to all who were acquainted with the family. Nine years this process had been going on, and it was going on still, and, as the nature of things is, more and more rapidly of late. Poor Con O’Malley! He was not in the least a bad man; nay, he was distinctly a good man: kindly, religious, faithful, affectionate, generous--a goodly list surely of the virtues? But he had set his foot upon a very bad road, one which, all over the world, but especially in Ireland, there is rarely, or never, any turning back upon. CHAPTER V The hooker had by this time got into the North Sound, known to the islanders as Bealagh-a-Lurgan. Tradition talks here of a great freshwater lake called Lough Lurgan, which once covered the greater part of Galway Bay. This may be so or it may not, the word anyhow is one for the geologist. What is certain, and more important for the moment, is, that from this point we gain the best view that is to be had of the three Aran isles as a whole, their long-drawn, bluntly-peaked outlines filling the whole eye as one looks to westward. Taken together in this fashion, the three isles, with the two sounds which divide them, and an outlying fringe of jagged, vicious-looking rocks and skerries, make up a total length of some fifteen miles, containing, roughly speaking, about eleven thousand acres. Acres! As one writes down the word, it seems to rise up, mock, gibe, laugh at, and confound one, from its wild inappropriateness, at least to all the ideas we commonly associate with it. For, be it known to you, oh prosperous reader--dweller, doubtless, in a sleek land, a land of earth and water, possibly even of trees--that these islands, like their opposite neighbour, the Burren of Clare, are rock, not partially, but absolutely. Over the entire surface, save the sands upon the shore and the detritus that accumulates in the crannies, there is no earth whatsoever, save what has been artificially created, and even this is for the most part but a few inches deep. The consequence is, that a droughty season is the worst of all seasons for the Aranite. Drench him with rain from early March to late November, he is satisfied, and asks no more. Give him what to most people would seem the most moderate possible allowance of sun and dry weather, and ruin begins to stare him in the face! The earth, so laboriously collected, begins to crack; his wells--there are practically no streams--run dry; his beasts perish before his eyes; his potatoes lie out bare and half baked upon the stones; his oats--these are not cut, but plucked bodily by hand out of the sands--wither to the ground; he has no stock, nothing to send to the mainland in return for those necessaries which he gets from there, nothing to pay his rent with; worse than all, he has actually to fetch the water he requires to drink in casks and barrels from the opposite shore! A cheerful picture, you say! Difficult perhaps to realise, still more difficult, when realised, to contemplate placidly. Who so realising it can resist the wish to become, for a moment even, that dream of philanthropists--a benevolent despot, and, swooping suddenly upon the islands, carry off their whole population--priests, people, and all--and set them down in a new place, somewhere where Nature would make some little response, however slight, to so much toil, care, love, so fruitlessly and for so many centuries lavished upon her here? ‘But would they thank you?’ you, as an experienced philanthropist, perhaps, ask me. I reply that, it is, to say the least, extremely doubtful. Certainly you might carefully sift the wide world, search it diligently with a candle from pole to pole, without hitting upon another equally undesirable, equally profitless place of residence. Climate, soil, aspect, everything is against it. Ingenuity might seek and seek vainly to find a quality for which it could be upheld. And yet, so strangely are we made, that a dozen years hence, if you examined one of the inhabitants of your ideal arcadia, you would probably find that all his, or her, dreams of the future, all his, or her, visions of the past, still clung, limpet-fashion, to these naked rocks, these melancholy dots of land set in the midst of an inhospitable sea, which Nature does not seem to have constructed with an eye to the convenience of so much as a goat! The four occupants of our hooker naturally troubled their heads with no such problems. To them their islands--especially this one they were approaching, Inishmaan--were to all practical purposes the world. Even for Con O’Malley, whom business carried pretty often to the mainland, the latter was, save on the merest fringe, to all intents and purposes an unknown country. The world, as it existed beyond that grey wash of sea, was a name to him, and nothing more. Ireland--sometimes regarded by superior persons as the very Ultima Thule of civilisation--hung before his eyes as a region of dangerous novelties, dazzling, almost wicked in its sophistication, and he had never set foot on a railroad in his life. Inishmaan has no regular harbour, consequently it was necessary to get the curragh out again so as to set little Grania ashore. The child had been hoping the whole way back that Murdough Blake, too, would have come ashore with her, but he remained sitting, with the same expression of sulky dignity, upon the deck of the hooker, and it was the hated Shan Daly who rowed her to the land; which done, with a quick, furtive glance towards a particular spot a little to westward, he turned and rowed as quickly as he could back to the larger vessel again. While the boat was still on its way, before it had actually touched shore, a woman who had been waiting for it on the edge might have been seen to move hastily along the rocks, so as to be ready to meet them upon their arrival. This woman wore the usual red Galway flannel petticoat, with a loose white or yellowish flannel jacket above, known as a ‘baudeen,’ and worn by both sexes on the islands, a handkerchief neatly crossed at her neck, with blue knitted stockings and pampooties upon her feet. At first sight it would have been difficult to guess her age. Her hair, better brushed than usual, was of a deep, unglossy black, and her skin clear and unwrinkled; yet there was nothing about her which seemed to speak of youth. It was a plain face and a sickly one, with little or nothing of that play of expression which redeems many an otherwise homely Irish face, yet, if you had taken the trouble to examine it, you would have been struck, I think, with something peculiar about it, something that would have arrested your attention. Elements not often seen in combination seemed to find a meeting-place there. A look of peculiar contentedness, an indescribable placidity and repose, had stamped those homely features as with a benediction. The mild brown eyes, lifting themselves blinkingly to the sunlight, had something about them, chastened, reposeful, serene, an expression hardly seen beyond the shelter of the convent; yet, at the same time, there was something in the manner in which the woman ran down to the shore to meet the child, and, lifting her carefully over the edge of the boat, set her on her feet upon the rocks, a manner full of a sort of tender assiduity, a clinging, caressing, adoring tenderness, not often, hardly ever indeed, to be found apart from the pains and the joys of a mother. This was Honor O’Malley, little Grania’s half-sister, the only surviving daughter of Con O’Malley’s first marriage. She had been little more than a half-grown girl when her mother died, but for several years had kept house for her father. Then had come the short-lived episode of his second marriage and his wife’s death, since which time Honor’s one aim in life, her whole joy, her pride, her torment, her absorbing passion, had been her little sister. The child had been an endless trouble to her. Honor herself was a saint--a tender, self-doubting, otherwise all-believing soul. The small sister was a born rebel. No priest lived on Inishmaan, or, indeed, lives there still, so that this visible sign of authority was wanting. Even had there been one, it is doubtful whether his mere presence would have had the desired effect, though Honor always devoutly believed that it would. The child had grown up as the young seamew grows. The air, the rocks, the restless, fretting sea; a few keen loves, a few still keener and more vehement hates; the immemorial criss-cross of wishes, hindrances, circumstances--these and such as these had made her education, so far as she had had any. As for poor Honor’s part in it! Well, the child was really fond of her, really loved her, and that must suffice. There are mothers who have to put up with less. Taking her by the hand the elder sister now attempted to lead her from the shore. It was a slow process! At every rock she came to little Grania stopped dead short, turning her head mutinously back to watch the hooker, as, with its brown patched sails set almost to the cracking point, it rounded the first green-speckled spit of land, on its way to Aranmore. Whenever she did so, Honor waited patiently beside her until her curiosity was satisfied and she was ready to proceed on her way. Then they went on again. There were rocks enough to arrest even a more determined laggard. The first barnacle-coated set crossed, they got upon a paler-coloured set, out of reach of the tide, which were tumbled one against another like half-destroyed dolmens or menhirs. These stretched in all directions far as the eye could reach. The whole shore of this side of the island was one continuous litter of them. Three agents--the sea, the weathering of the air, the slow, filtering, sapping action of rain--had produced the oddest effect of sculpturing upon their surface. From end to end--back, sides, every atom of them--they were honey-combed with holes varying from those into which the two clenched fists might be thrust to those which would with difficulty have accommodated a single finger. These holes were of all depths too. Some of them mere dimples, some piercing down to the heart of the blocks, five, six, seven feet in depth, and as smooth as the torrent-worn troughs upon a glacier. Ten minutes were spent in clearing this circumvallation; then the sisters got upon a waste of sand sprinkled with sickly bent, through which thin patches of white flowering campion asserted themselves. Here, invisible until you all but brushed against its walls, rose a small chapel, roofless, windowless, its door displaced, its gable ends awry--melancholy to look at, yet not without a certain air of invitation even in its desolation. Sand had everywhere invaded it, half hiding the walls, completely covering the entrance, and forming a huge drift where once the altar had risen. Looking at it, fancy, even in calm weather, seemed involuntarily to conjure up the sweep of the frightened yellow atoms under the flail of the wind; the hurry-scurry of distracted particles; the tearing away of the frail covering of bent; the wild rush of the sand through the entrance; and, finally, its settling down to rest in this long-set-aside haven of the unprotected. West of the chapel, and a little to the left of the ruined entrance, stood a cross, though one which a casual glance would hardly have recognised as such, for there were no cross arms--apparently never had been any--and the figure upon the upright post was so worn by weather, so utterly extinguished, rubbed, and lichen-crusted by the centuries, as hardly to have a trace of humanity left. Honor never passed the place without stopping to say a prayer here. For her it had a special sanctity, this poor, shapeless, armless cross, though she would probably have been unable to explain why. Now, as usual, she stopped, almost mechanically, and, first crossing herself devoutly, bent her head down to kiss a small boss or ridge, which apparently once represented the feet, and then turned to make her sister do the same. This time Grania would willingly have gone on, but Honor was less compliant than before, and she gently bent the child’s reluctant head, coaxing her, till her lips at last touched the right place. Grania did not exactly resist, but her eyes wandered away again in the direction of the hooker, now fast disappearing round the corner. Why had Murdough Blake gone to Aranmore, instead of coming back with her? she thought, with a sense of intense grievance. The disappointment rankled, and the salt, gritty touch and taste of the boss of limestone against her small red lips could not, and did not, alter the matter an atom, one way or other. Leaving the chapel they next began to climb the slope, first crossing a sort of moraine of loose stones which lay at its foot. Like all the Aran isles, Inishmaan is divided into a succession of rocky steps or platforms, the lowest to eastward, the highest to westward, platforms which are in their turn divided and subdivided by innumerable joints and fissures. This, by the way, is a fact to be remembered, as, without it, you might easily wander for days and days over the islands without really getting to know or understand their topography. A curious symmetry marked the first of these steps, that up which the sisters were then mounting: you would have been struck in a moment by its resemblance to the backbone of some forgotten monster, unknown to geologists. A python, say, or plesiosaurus of undetermined species, but wholly impressive vastness, stretching itself lazily across about a third of the island, till its last joint, sinking towards the sea, disappeared from sight in the general mass of loose stones which lay at the bottom of the slope. It was at the head of this monster that the O’Malleys’ cabin stood, while at the other--the tail-end, so to speak--was hidden away that foul and decaying hovel in which the Shan Daly family squatted, lived, and starved. Though far above the level of the average stamp of Aran architecture, the O’Malleys’ house itself would not, perhaps, have struck a stranger as luxurious. It was of the usual solid, square-shaped, two-roomed type, set at the mouth of a narrow gorge or gully, leading from the second to the third of those steps, steps whose presence, already insisted upon, must always be borne in mind, since they form the main point, the ground lines upon which the whole island is built. A narrow entrance between two rocks, steep as the sides of a well, led to the door of the cabin, the result being that, whenever the wind was to the west or south-west--the two prevailing winds--anyone entering it was caught as by a pair of irresistible hands, twirled for a moment hither and thither, and then thrust violently forward. Impossible to enter quietly. You were shot towards the door, and, if it proved open, shot forward again, as if discharged from some invisible catapult. So well was the state of affairs understood that a sort of hedge or screen, made of heather, and known as a _corrag_, was kept between the door and fire, so that entering friends might be checked and hindered from falling, as otherwise they assuredly would have fallen, prone upon the hearthstone. There were a good many other, and all more or less futile contrivances upon that little group of wind-worn, wind-tormented islands against their omnipotent master. CHAPTER VI Blocking the mouth of the already narrow gully stood a big boulder of pink granite, a ‘Stranger’ from the opposite coast of Galway. Leaning against this boulder as the sisters mounted the pathway, a group of five figures came into sight. Only one of these was full grown, the rest were children--babies, rather--of various ages from five years old to a few weeks or less. Seen in the twilight made by the big rock you might have taken the whole group for some sort of earth or rock emanation, rather than for things of living flesh and blood, so grey were they, so wan, so much the same colour, so much apparently the same texture as what they leaned against. Honor started forward at a run as soon as she caught sight of them, her pale face lit with a warm ray of kindliness and hospitality. ‘Auch, and is it there you are, Kitty Daly?’ she exclaimed. ‘But it is the bad place you have taken to sit in, so it is, and all your poor young children too! And it is you that look bad, too, this day, God love us!--yes indeed, but bad! And is it long that you have been sitting there? My God, I would have left the door open if I had thought you would come and I not in it! Yet it is not a cold day either, praise be to God!--no it is a very fine, warm day. There has not been a finer day this season, if so be it will last till his reverence comes next week for the pathern. But what brings you up this afternoon at all, at all? It is too soon for you to be coming up the hill, and you so weak still--too soon altogether!’ While she was speaking the woman had got up, her whole little brood, save the baby which she held in her arms, rising with her as if by a single impulse. Seen in the strong light which fell upon their faces over the top of the gully they looked even more piteous, more wan and wobegone than when they were squatting in the comparative shadow at the base of the rock. She made no direct reply to Honor’s question, but looked up at her with a dumb, wistful appeal, and then down at the children, who in their turn looked up at what, no doubt, was in their eyes the embodiment of prosperity standing before them. There was no mistaking what that appeal meant. The answer was written upon every face in the whole group. Hunger was written there; worse--starvation; first, most clamorous of needs, not often, thank Heaven! seen so clearly, but when seen terrible--a vision from the deepest, most elemental depths, a cry to pity, full of ancient primordial horrors; heart-rending; appalling; impossible not to hasten to satisfy. That this was the only possible answer to her question seemed to have immediately struck the kindly-natured Honor. For, without wasting further time, she ran to her own door, taking out a big key as she did so from her pocket. Another minute and she had rummaged out a half-eaten griddle-loaf, and was hacking big morsels off it with a blunt, well-nigh disabled dinner-knife. Manners, however, had to be observed, let the need for haste be never so great, and no one was more observant of such delicacies than Honor O’Malley. ‘Then, indeed, it is not very good bread to-day, so it is not,’ she observed apologetically. ‘It was last Tuesday week I would have wished to ask you to taste of it, Mrs. Daly. The barm did not rise rightly this time, whatever the reason was, still, after your walk you would, maybe, eat a bit of it, and I would be much obliged to you, and the young children, too. But it is some cow’s milk that they must have. Run, Grania, run quick and fetch some out of the big mether, it is on the top shelf, out of the way of the cat. It is good cow’s milk, Mrs. Daly, though it has been skimmed once; I skim it now in the morning, after Grania has had her breakfast. The child grows so fast it is the best milk she must have, but it is not at all bad milk, only skimmed once, or I would not offer it you, no, indeed, I would not, Mrs. Daly, ma’am.’ But the poor visitor was past responding to any such friendly efforts to shield her self-respect. She tried to thank her entertainer, but the tears came too fast, and fairly choked her. One after another they gathered and ran down her thin white cheeks, fresh tears continually brimming her poor eyes, once a brilliant blue--not a common colour in the west of Ireland--and which still, though their brightness had waned, seemed all too blue and too brilliant for the poor faded face they shone out of. ‘Och, then! Och, then! Och, then!’ Honor O’Malley said in a gentle tone, at once soothing and remonstrating. ‘Och, then, Mrs. Daly, will you please give me the baby for a minute, ma’am? for it is not lucky, they say, to cry over such a young child. The _sidh_--God forgive me for naming such a wicked, heathen word!--the _sidh_, old people say, do be looking about, and if they see tears drop on a baby it is they will get it for themselves, so they will--God stand between us and all such work this night, amen! Well, Phelim sonny, and what ails you? Is it the milk that is sour? Then it is not very sour it can be, for it was only milked the morning before last. Grania, fetch some sugar and put it in the child’s milk. Bless me, Mrs. Daly, but he does grow, that child Phelim! only look at the legs of him!’ The boy she was addressing was the eldest of the pitiful little group, a wistful-faced, shadowy creature of about five. His eyes were blue, like his mother’s, though of a paler shade and more prominent. Big, startled eyes they were--the eyes of a child that sees phantoms in the night, that starts in its sleep and cries out, it knows not why or about what. With those big eyes fixed full upon her face he was staring hard at Grania O’Malley, the pannikin of milk which had been put into his hands remaining untasted in the intensity of his contemplation. ‘Indeed and indeed it is too good you are to them, Honor O’Malley--too good entirely!’ poor Mrs. Daly managed to say, finding her voice at last, though still speaking through the sobs which choked her. ‘But it is yourself knows where to look for the blessing so it is! And may God shield you and keep you in health and sickness, in joy and sorrow, in this world and in the world to come--yes, indeed, and beyond it too, if need be, amen! It is ashamed I am, sorry and ashamed, to be troubling you, and you not well yourself. But Shan, you see--it is very bad times Shan has had lately. There is no work at all to do, he says, not anywhere on Inishmaan, no, nor upon Aranmore even. There was some fish he was to bring in this afternoon, but he has not come back yet, and the evening it is late, and if he did catch the fish itself, it is not young children that can eat fish alone, so it is not. And me so weak still, it is but little I can do; for it is not, you know, till next Friday will be three weeks that--’ She stopped and looked bashfully down at the poor little bundle in her neighbour’s arms. Though this was her fourth child she had a feeling of delicacy about alluding to the fact of its birth which would have seemed not merely inconceivable, but monstrous to a woman of another race and breeding. Honor, however, knew as much, or more, about the matter than she did herself. She had been with her at the time, although old Mrs Flanaghan, Phil Flanaghan’s mother, was the chief official in command on the occasion. It was Honor, however, who had baptised the baby--this poor little white-faced object then in her arms, whose birth and death had seemed likely to be contemporaneous. It was an office for which she was in great demand on Inishmaan, where, as explained, there was no priest, and where her peculiar piety made her seem to her neighbours specially fitted for such semi-sacerdotal duties. Of course such a baptism was only meant as a preliminary, to serve till the more regular sacrament could be bestowed, but, from the difficulties of transport, it often happened that weeks and months passed before any other could be given; nay, not infrequently, the poor little pilgrim had found its way to the last haven for all such pilgrims, near to the old church of Cill-Cananach, unguarded from future perils by any more regular rite. Looking down at the small waxen face upturned in her lap, Honor O’Malley felt that such a consummation was not in this case far off. She did not say to herself that it was so much the better, for that would have been a sin, but her thoughts certainly ran unconsciously in that direction as, having given it back to its mother, she bustled to and fro in the cabin, putting together all the available scraps of food she could find; which done, she tied them into a bundle and deposited the bundle in the passive arms of little Phelim, who accepted it from her with the same dim, wondering stare of astonishment in his pale china-blue eyes--a stare with which every event, good or ill, seemed alike to be received by him. Five years’ experience of a very troublesome world had evidently not yet accustomed him to any of its peculiar ways or vicissitudes. CHAPTER VII The Daly brood departed with their booty, Honor next bustled about to get their own meal ready. Grania meanwhile had promptly dumped herself down upon her two small heels and sat doing nothing, except staring sulkily at the fire. The child was thoroughly cross. She wanted her playfellow, and poor Honor by no means filled the blank. An old hen, sitting upon a clutch of eggs in a hole in the wall a little to the left of the fire, put its head out, and uttered a friendly interrogative cluck, by way of suggestion that it was there and would not object to a handful of oatmeal if it came in its way. Grania, however, took no notice, but sat, with her small brows drawn close together, staring at the ash-covered heap of turf, below which a dull red glow still smouldered. Inside the cabin everything was warm, turf-scented, chocolate-tinted. Walls, roof, hearth, furniture--what furniture there was--all was dim and worn, blackened with time, smoke, and much friction. Little light came in at the small, closely-puttied windows; much smoke down the wide, imperfectly-fashioned chimney. It suited its inmates, however, and that, after all, is the main thing. To them, as to the old speckled hen, it was home--the one spot on earth that was theirs, which made the difference between warmth, self-respect, comfort, and a desolate, windy world without. Solid at least it was. There was no scamped work about it: no lath and plaster in the walls; no dust and rubble in the foundations. Had there been it would not have stood out against the first of the ten thousand storms that
among the Brécé archives, which, by the way, have been in part destroyed.” “This right,” said M. Lerond, “if it ever did exist at all, was nothing more nor less than a payment in meat or wine which serfs were called upon to bring to their lord before contracting marriage. If I remember rightly, there were certain localities where this tax existed, and was paid in ready money to the value of three halfpence.” “With regard to that,” went on the Duke, “I consider my ancestor entirely exonerated from the accusations brought against him by this M. Mazure, who, I am told, is a dangerous man. Unfortunately----” The Duke heaved a slight sigh, and continued in a lower and mysterious voice: “Unfortunately, the Good Duke was in the habit of reading pernicious books. Whole editions of Voltaire and Rousseau, bound in morocco and stamped with the Brécé coat of arms, have been discovered in the castle library. He fell, to a certain extent, under the detestable influence of the philosophical thought that was rampant among all classes of people towards the end of the eighteenth century, even among those in the highest society. He was possessed of a mania for writing, and was the author of certain Memoirs, the manuscript of which is still in my possession. Both the Duchess and M. de Terremondre have glanced through it. It is surprising to find there traces of the Voltairian spirit, and the Duke now and then shows his partiality for the Encyclopædists. He used, in fact, to correspond with Diderot. That is why I have thought it wise to withhold my consent to the publication of these Memoirs, in spite of the request of some of the savants of the district, and of M. de Terremondre himself. “The Good Duke could turn a rhyme quite prettily, and he filled whole books with madrigals, epigrams, and stories. That is quite excusable. A far more serious matter, however, is that he sometimes permitted himself to jeer at the ceremonies of our holy religion, and even at the miracles performed by the intervention of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. I beg, gentlemen, that you will say nothing of all this; it must remain strictly between ourselves. I should be very sorry to hand over anecdotes such as these to feed the unhealthy curiosity of men like M. Mazure, and the malice of the public in general. The Duc de Brécé in question was my great-great-grandfather, and my family pride is great. I am sure you will not blame me for this.” “Much valuable instruction and great consolations are to be derived from what you have just related to us, Monsieur,” said the Abbé. “The conclusion we arrive at is that France, which in the eighteenth century had turned away from Christianity, and was so steeped in wickedness, even to the very greatest in the land, that good men, such as your noble great-great-grandfather, pandered to the false philosophy; France, I say, punished for her crimes by a terrible revolution, is now amending her evil ways, and witnessing the return to piety of all classes of the nation, especially in the highest circles. Examples such as yours, Monsieur, are not to be ignored, and if the eighteenth century, taken altogether, appears as the century of crime, the nineteenth, judging by the attitude of the aristocracy, may, if I mistake not, be called the century of public penance.” “God grant that you are right,” sighed M. Lerond. “But I dare not allow myself to hope. My profession as a man of law brings me into contact with the masses, and I invariably find them indifferent, and even hostile to religion. Let me tell you, M. l’Abbé, that my experience of the world leads me to share in the deep sorrow of the Abbé Lantaigne, and not in your optimistic view of things. Now, without going further afield, do you not see that this Christian land of Brécé has become the fief of the atheist and freemason, Dr. Cotard?” “And who can say,” demanded the General, “whether the Duke will not unseat Dr. Cotard at the next elections? I am told that a contest is more than probable, and that a good number of electors are in favour of the château.” “My decision is unalterable,” replied the Duke, “and nothing can make me change it. I shall not stand again. I have not the necessary qualifications to represent the electors of Brécé, and the electors of Brécé have not the necessary qualifications for me to wish to represent them.” This speech had been composed by his secretary, M. Lacrisse, at the time of his electoral reverse, and since then he had made a point of quoting it on every possible occasion. Just at that moment three ladies, descending the terrace steps, came along the great drive towards them. They were the three Brécé ladies, the mother, wife, and daughter of the present Duke. They were all tall, massive, and freckled, with smooth hair tightly plastered back, and clad in black dresses and thick boots. They were on their way to the church of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, situated by the side of a well half-way between the town and the château. The General suggested that they should accompany the ladies. “Nothing could be more delightful,” said M. Lerond. “True,” assented the Abbé, “and all the more so because the sacred edifice, which has lately been restored and richly redecorated by the care of the Duke, is most delightful to see.” The Abbé Guitrel took a special interest in the chapel of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, of which, in archæological and pious vein, he had written a history, for the purpose of attracting pilgrims to the shrine. According to him the church dated from the reign of Clotaire II. “At this period,” wrote the historian, “St. Austrégisile, full of years and good works, and exhausted by his apostolic labours, built with his own hands in this desert spot a hut, where he could pass his days in meditation, and await the approach of blessed death; he also erected an oratory, in which he placed a miraculous statue of the Blessed Virgin.” This assertion had been vigorously contested by M. Mazure in the _Phare_. The keeper of the departmental archives maintained that the worship of Mary came well after the sixth century, and that at the time in which St. Austrégisile was supposed to have lived there were no statues of the Virgin. To which the Abbé Guitrel replied in the _Semaine Religieuse_ that before the birth of Jesus Christ the Druids themselves worshipped the image of the Virgin who was to bear a son, and thus our old earth that was to witness the remarkable spread of the worship of Mary contained her altars and images, prophetic in significance as the warnings of the sibyls, to herald her appearance upon it. Therefore, argued he, there was nothing strange in St. Austrégisile’s possessing an image of the Blessed Virgin as early as the reign of Clotaire II. M. Mazure had treated the arguments of the Abbé as idle fancies, and no one, save M. Bergeret, whose curiosity was unbounded, had read the record of this logomachy. “The sanctuary erected by the holy apostle,” went on the Abbé Guitrel’s pamphlet, “was rebuilt with great magnificence in the thirteenth century. At the time of the wars of religion that devastated the country during the sixteenth century, the Protestants fired the chapel, without, however, being able to destroy the statue, which by a miracle escaped the flames. The church was rebuilt at the behest of King Louis XIV and his pious mother, but during the Reign of Terror was totally destroyed by the commissioners of the Convention, who carried the miraculous statue, together with the furniture of the chapel, into the courtyard at Brécé and made a bonfire of the whole. Fortunately, however, one of the Virgin’s feet was saved from the flames by a good peasant-woman, who wrapped it carefully in old rags and hid it in a cauldron, where it was discovered in 1815. This foot was included in a new statue which, thanks to the generosity of the Duke, was executed in Paris in 1852.” The Abbé Guitrel went on to enumerate the miracles accomplished from the sixth century up to the present time by the intervention of Notre-Dames-des-Belles-Feuilles, who was in particular request for the cure of diseases of the respiratory organs and the lungs. And he further affirmed that in 1871 she had turned the Germans aside from the town and miraculously healed of their wounds two soldiers quartered at the château of Brécé, which had been turned into a hospital. * * * * * They reached the bottom of a narrow valley with a stream flowing between moss-grown stones. On an irregular platform of sandstone, surrounded by dwarf oak trees, rose the oratory of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, newly constructed from the plans of M. Quatrebarbe, the diocesan architect, in that modern namby-pamby style which people fondly imagine to be Gothic. “This oratory,” said the Abbé Guitrel, “was burned down in 1559 by the Calvinists, and again in 1793 by the revolutionaries, and nothing remained but a mass of ruins. Like another Nehemiah, the Duc de Brécé has rebuilt the sanctuary. The Pope, this year, has granted to it numerous indulgences, no doubt with the object of quickening the worship of the Blessed Virgin in this country. Monseigneur Charlot himself celebrated the Holy Eucharist here, and since then pilgrims have flocked to the shrine. They come from all parts of the diocese, and even farther. There is no doubt that such co-operation and zeal must draw special blessings on the country. I myself had the felicity of bringing to the feet of la Vierge des Belles-Feuilles several respectable families of the Tintelleries. And, with the permission of the Duke, I have more than once celebrated Mass at this favoured altar.” “That is true,” said the Duchess. “And it is noticeable that the Abbé takes more interest in our chapel than the Curé of Brécé himself.” “Good M. Traviès!” said the Duke. “He is an excellent priest, but an inveterate sportsman, and all he thinks of is shooting. The other day, on returning from the administration of extreme unction to a dying man, he brought down three partridges.” “Now that the branches are devoid of leaves,” said the Abbé, “you can see the chapel, which, in the summer, is entirely hidden by the thick foliage.” “One of the reasons which made me determine to rebuild the chapel of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles,” said the Duke, “was that on examining the family archives, I found that the battle-cry of the Brécés was ‘Brécé Notre-Dame!’” “How very strange!” remarked General Cartier de Chalmot. “Is it not?” replied Madame de Brécé. Just as the ladies, followed by M. Lerond, were crossing the rustic bridge that spans the stream, a ragged girl of thirteen or fourteen, with hair of the same dirty white colour as her face, slipping from a copse on the opposite side of the hollow, ran up the steps and rushed into the oratory. “There’s Honorine,” said Madame de Brécé. “I’ve been wanting to see her for a long time,” said M. Lerond, “and I must thank you, Madame, for being the means of satisfying my curiosity. I have heard so much about her!” “Yes, indeed,” said General Cartier de Chalmot. “The young girl in question has been subjected to many and searching inquiries.” “M. de Goulet,” put in the Abbé, “comes regularly to the sanctuary of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. It is his pleasure and delight to spend long hours in adoration of her whom he calls his mother.” “We are very fond of M. de Goulet,” said Madame de Brécé. “What a pity it is that he should be so delicate.” “Yes, alas!” replied the Abbé. “His strength diminishes from day to day!” “He ought to take more care of himself,” went on the Duchess, “and rest as much as possible.” “How can he, Madame?” asked the Abbé. “The management of the diocese fills up every moment of his time.” As the three ladies, the General, M. Guitrel, M. Lerond, and the Duke entered the chapel, they saw Honorine, as in an ecstasy, kneeling at the foot of the altar. With clasped hands, and uplifted head, the child knelt there motionless. Out of respect for her mysterious condition, they crossed themselves silently with holy water, letting their gaze wander from the Gothic tabernacle and fall upon the stained-glass windows, in which the Comte de Chambord appeared in the guise of St. Henry, while the faces of St. John the Baptist and St. Guy were executed from photographs of Comte Jean, who died in 1867, and the late Comte Guy, who, in 1871, was a member of the Bordeaux Assembly. The miraculous statue was covered by a veil, and stood just over the altar. But above the holy-water stoup, painted in bright colours upon the wall was a full-length figure of Notre-Dame de Lourdes, girdled with blue. The General looked at her with a set expression derived from fifty years of mechanical respect, and gazed at her blue scarf as though it had been the flag of a friendly nation. He had always been looked upon as something of a mystic, and had considered a belief in the future life to be the very base and foundation-stone of military regulations. Age and ill-health were making a devotee of him. For some days past, though he did not betray it, he had been, if not worried, at any rate grieved, by the recent scandals. His simple-mindedness had taken fright at such a tumult of words and passions, and he was obsessed by vague misgivings. He sent up a voiceless prayer to Notre-Dame de Lourdes, imploring her protection for the French Army. All of them, the women, the Duke, the lawyer, and the priest, had by this time riveted their gaze upon the worn shoes of the motionless Honorine, and these sombre, solemn, solid folk fell into an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of the lithe young body, now stiff and rigid; M. Lerond, who prided himself on being very observant, made sundry observations. At last, however, Honorine came out of her trance. She rose to her feet, bowed to the altar, and turned round; then, as though astonished at the sight of so many people, stood stock still and brushed away with both hands the hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Well, my child, did you see the Blessed Virgin to-day?” asked Madame de Brécé. In the shrill sing-song voice of a child in the catechism class answering by rote, Honorine replied: “Yes, Madame. The good Virgin remained for one moment, then rolled up like a piece of calico, and I didn’t see her any more.” “Did she speak to you?” “Yes, Madame.” “What did she say?” “She said, ‘There is much misery in your home.’” “Is that all she said?” “She said, ‘There will be much misery in the country over the harvests and the cattle.’” “Did she not tell you to be good?” “‘Pray continually,’ she said to me, and then she said like this, ‘I greet you. There is much misery in your home.’” And the words of the child rang out in the imposing silence. “Was the Blessed Virgin very beautiful?” again questioned Madame de Brécé. “Yes, Madame. But one eye and one cheek were missing, because I had not prayed long enough.” “Had she a crown upon her head?” asked M. Lerond, who, as an ex-member of the magistracy, was inquisitive and fond of asking questions. Honorine hesitated, and then, with a cunning look, replied: “Her crown was on one side.” “Right or left?” asked M. Lerond. “Right and left,” answered Honorine. Madame de Brécé intervened: “What do you mean, my child, that it was first on the right and then on the left? Isn’t that what you mean?” But Honorine would not answer. She was in the habit sometimes of indulging in obstinate silences, standing, as now, with lowered eyes, rubbing her chin on her shoulder and fidgeting. They stopped questioning her, and she slipped out and away, when the Duke began forthwith to explain her case. Honorine Porrichet, the daughter of a small farmer who had lived all his life at Brécé and had fallen into the direst poverty, had always been a sickly child. Her intelligence had developed so slowly and tardily, that at first she was looked upon as an idiot. The Curé used to reproach her for her wild disposition and the habit she had of hiding in the woods; he did not like her. But some enlightened priests who saw and questioned her could find in her nothing evil. She frequented churches, and would linger there lost in dreams unusual in a child of her age. Her zeal grew at the approach of her first communion. At that time she fell a victim to consumption, and the doctors gave her up. Dr. Cotard, among others, said there was no hope for her. When the new oratory of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles was inaugurated by Monseigneur Charlot, Honorine assiduously frequented it. She fell into ecstasies when there, and saw visions. She saw the Blessed Virgin, who said to her, “I am Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles!” One day Mary approached her, and, laying a finger upon her throat, told her she was cured. “It was Honorine herself who came back with this remarkable story,” added the Duke, “and she related it several times with the utmost simplicity. People have said that her story was never twice the same; what is certain, however, is that any inconsistency on her part only concerned the minor details of the narrative. What is also certain is that she suddenly ceased to suffer from the disease that was killing her. The doctors who examined and sounded her immediately after the miraculous apparition found nothing wrong either with the bronchial tubes or the lungs. Dr. Cotard himself confessed that he could make nothing of the cure.” “What do you think of these facts?” said M. Lerond to the Abbé. “They are worthy of attention,” replied the priest, “and give rise, in all honest observers, to more than one reflexion. It would certainly be impossible to study them too assiduously. I can say no more. I should certainly never put aside such interesting and consoling facts with bold contempt like M. Lantaigne, neither should I dare, like M. de Goulet, to call them miracles. I reserve my opinion.” “In Honorine Porrichet’s case,” said the Duke, “we must consider both the remarkable cure, which I am right in saying was directly opposed to medical knowledge, and the visions which she declares to be vouchsafed to her. Now you are aware, M. l’Abbé, that when the girl’s eyes were photographed, during one of her trances, the negatives obtained by the photographer, of whose good faith there is not the shadow of a doubt, contained the figure of the Blessed Virgin, imprinted upon the pupil of the eye. Certain persons whose evidence can be relied on swear to having seen the photographs, and to having distinguished, with the aid of a strong magnifying-glass, the statue of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles.” “These facts are worthy of notice,” repeated the Abbé, “worthy of the most careful attention. But one must be able to suspend judgment, and not rush to premature conclusions. Let us not, like the unbelievers, form hasty conclusions, prompted by passion. In the matter of miracles, the Church exercises the greatest caution; she requires proofs, indisputable proofs.” M. Lerond asked whether it were possible to obtain the photographs which portrayed the image of the Blessed Virgin in the eyes of little Honorine Porrichet, and the Duke promised to write on the subject to the photographer, whose studio, he thought, was in the Place Saint-Exupère. “Anyhow,” put in Madame de Brécé, “little Honorine is a very good, nice little girl. She must be under the special protection of Providence, for her parents, who are overcome with illness and want, have abandoned her. I have made inquiries, and understand that her conduct is good.” “That is more than can be said of all the village girls of her age,” added the dowager duchess. “That is only too true,” said the Duke. “The peasant classes are growing more and more demoralized. I will tell you of some terrible instances, General, but as for little Honorine, she is innocence itself.” * * * * * While the foregoing conversation was being held on the threshold of the church, Honorine had rejoined Isidore in the copses of La Guerche. He was lying on a bed of dead leaves, waiting impatiently, partly because he thought she would bring him something to eat, or some coppers, partly because he loved her, for she was his sweetheart. It was he who had seen the ladies and gentlemen from the château on their way to the church, and had immediately sought out Honorine, to give her time to reach the church before them, and to fall into a trance. “What have they given you?” he demanded. “Let me see.” And, as she had brought nothing, he struck her, but without hurting her very much. In return she scratched and bit him, then said: “What’s that for?” “Swear that they didn’t give you anything!” he said. She swore, and, having sucked away the blood that was trickling down their thin arms, they were reconciled. Then, for the want of something better to do, they fell back upon the pleasure that each was able to bestow upon the other. Isidore, whose mother was a widow, a bad woman given to drink, had no recognized father. He spent all his time in the woods, and nobody bothered about him. Although he was two years younger than Honorine, he was well versed in the practices of love, about the only need in his life of which he found no lack, under the trees of La Guerche, Lénonville, and Brécé. His love-making with Honorine was only by way of killing time, and for want of something better to do. Occasionally Honorine would be roused to a certain amount of interest, but she could not attach much importance to such commonplace, everyday actions, and a rabbit, a bird, or an uncommon-looking insect, would often be enough to change the entire current of their thoughts. * * * * * M. de Brécé returned to the château with his guests. The cold walls of the hall bristled with the evidences of massacre; antlers of deer, heads of young stags and of old veterans, which, in spite of the taxidermist’s care, were moth-eaten, and retained in their staring glass eyes something of the agonized sweat of a creature at bay, equivalent to human tears. Horns, antlers, bleached bones, severed heads, trophies, by means of which the victims honoured their illustrious slayers, the noblemen of France, and Bourbons of Naples and Spain. Under the great staircase stood a sort of amphibious chariot, shaped like a boat, the body of which could be removed, and was used for the purpose of crossing rivers when hunting. It was looked upon as sacred, because it had once been used by exiled kings. The Abbé Guitrel carefully placed his big cotton umbrella beneath the black visage of a ferocious wild boar, and led the way through a door on the left, flanked by two tortured-looking caryatides by Ducereau, to a drawing-room, where the three Brécé ladies, who had been the first to return, were already sitting with their friend and neighbour, Madame de Courtrai. Dressed in black, owing to the interminable series of deaths in their own and the Royal Family, they sat there, nunlike and rustic in their extreme simplicity, chatting of marriages and deaths, of illnesses and their remedies. On the painted ceiling above them, and on the panelled walls, amid the sombre rows of portraits, one caught an occasional glimpse of a grey-bearded Henri IV in the embrace of a full-bosomed Minerva; or the pale face of Louis XIII in close juxtaposition to the heavy Flemish figures of Victory and Mercy in loosely flowing robes; or, again, the naked body, brick-red in hue, of an old man, Father Time, sparing the fleurs de lis; and anywhere and everywhere the dimpled legs of little boys supporting the Brécé coat of arms with the three golden torches. All the while the dowager duchess was busy knitting black woollen scarves for the poor. Since those far off days when she had embroidered a counterpane for the bed at Chambord on which the king was to sleep, she had knitted continuously, occupying her hands, and satisfying her heart withal. The tables and consoles were covered with photographs, in frames of all colours and sizes, some resembling easels, some of porcelain or plush, others of crystal, nickel, shagreen, carved wood or stamped leather-work. There were some, again, like gilded horse-shoes, others like palettes covered with colours and brushes, some shaped like chestnut leaves or butterflies. In this assortment of frames were portraits of men, women, and children, relations by blood or by marriage; of princes belonging to the house of Bourbon, of Church dignitaries, of the Comte de Chambord, and Pope Pius IX. On the right of the fire-place in the middle of an old console supported by gilded Turks, like a spiritual father, Monseigneur Charlot smiled all over his broad face at the young soldiers grouped closely around him, officers, brigadiers, and privates, wearing upon their heads, their necks, and their breasts all the martial decoration allowed by a democratic army to her cavalry. He smiled at young men dressed in cycling or polo kit; he smiled at young girls. Ladies covered the folding tables, ladies of all ages, some of them with the decided features of men, but a few among them quite pretty. “‘Mame’ de Courtrai!” cried M. de Brécé, as he entered the room behind the General. “How are you, dear ‘Mame’?” He then returned to the conversation he had commenced with M. Lerond in the park, and, drawing him aside to one of the corners of the huge room, he concluded: “For, when all’s said and done, the Army is all that is left us. All that formerly made up the glory and strength of France has vanished, leaving us the Army alone. The Republican Parliament has overthrown the Government, compromised the magistracy, and corrupted public life. The Army alone rears its head above the ruins. That is why I insist that to meddle with it is nothing short of sacrilege.” He stopped. He was never in the habit of grappling with any question, and usually contented himself with generalities. The nobility of his sentiments was contested by none. Madame de Courtrai, who until then had been lost in reflection as to the best way of preparing cooling draughts, suddenly looked up, turning her old gamekeeper’s face to the Duke, and remarked: “I do trust you have written to the proprietors of that paper which is in league with the enemies of France and the Army, saying that you intend to discontinue it. My husband sent back the number containing that article. You know the one I mean--that disgraceful article.” “My nephew writes to me,” replied the Duke, “that a notice has been posted up at his club, insisting that the subscription to it shall be given up, and I hear that signatures are coming in thick and fast. Nearly all the members fall in with the suggestion, reserving the right to buy any single number.” “The Army is above all attack,” said M. Lerond. General Cartier de Chalmot at length broke the silence, in which, until then, he had been wrapped: “I like to hear you say that. And if, like myself, you had spent the greater part of your life among soldiers, you would be agreeably surprised to note the qualities of endurance, good discipline, and good temper, which make of the French trooper a first-class implement of war. I never tire of repeating it: such units are equal to any task. With the authority of an officer whose life’s career is drawing to a close, I maintain that anyone who takes the trouble to inquire into the spirit which animates the French Army will find it worthy of the highest praise. In the same way, it is a pleasure to me to testify to the persevering effort of several officers of high standing and great capacity who have devoted much time and thought to the organization of the Army, and I declare that their efforts have been crowned with brilliant success.” In a lower and more serious voice he added: “All that now remains for me to say is, that as far as the men are concerned, quality is to be preferred to quantity, and what should be aimed at is the formation of crack corps. I feel certain that no capable officer would contradict such an assertion. My last military will and testament is contained in this formula: ‘Quantity is nothing, quality is everything.’ I might add that unity of command is indispensable to an army, and that a great body of men must obey one unique, sovereign, and immutable will, and one only.” He ceased speaking, his pale eyes full of tears. Confused, inexplicable feelings filled the soul of the honest, simple-minded old man, who in former days had been the most dashing captain of the Imperial Guard. His health was failing, his strength exhausted, and he felt himself lost amongst the officers of the modern school, whom he could not understand. Madame de Courtrai, who did not care for theories, turned her fierce, masculine old face towards the General: “Well, General, as, thank God, the Army is respected by every one, as you say it is the only force that keeps us together, why should it not also rule us? Why not send a colonel with his regiment to the Palais Bourbon and the Élysée----?” She stopped short, as she saw the clouded brow of the General. The Duke beckoned to M. Lerond. “You have never seen the library, have you, M. Lerond? I will show it to you. You are fond of old books, and I am sure you will be interested.” Traversing a long, bare gallery, the ceiling of which was covered with clumsy painting, depicting Louis XIII and Apollo destroying the enemies of the kingdom, as represented by Furies and Hydras, they arrived at a door through which the Duke ushered the counsel for the defence of the religious communities into the room where, in 1605, Duc Guy, Grand-Marshal of France and governor of the province, had founded the library for the solace of his declining years and fortunes. It was a square room, occupying the whole of the ground floor of the west wing, lighted on the north, west, and south, by three uncurtained windows, offering three charming and magnificent pictures to the eye. Stretching away to the south was the lawn, in the centre of which was a marble vase, with a pair of ring-doves perching upon it. The trees of the park were visible, bared by the winter of their leaves, and in the purple depths of the dark walk glimmered the white statues of the pool of Galatea. To the west was a stretch of flat country, a wide expanse of sky, and the setting sun, which, like a mythological egg of light and of gold, had broken and spread its glory over the clouds. To the north were the ploughed red earth of the hills, the slate roofs and distant smoke of Brécé, and the delicate pointed steeple of the little church standing out in the cold, clear light. A Louis XIV table, two chairs, and a seventeenth-century globe with a wind-rose relating to the unexplored regions of the Pacific comprised the only furniture of this severe-looking room, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases, enclosed by wire gratings. Even upon the red marble mantelpiece the grey-painted shelves encroached, and through the mesh of gilded wire peeped the richly decorated backs of ancient volumes. “The library was founded by the Marshal,” said M. de Brécé. “His grandson, Duc Jean, added many treasures to it during the reign of Louis XIV, and it was he who fitted it up as you see it to-day. It has not been much altered since.” “Have you a catalogue?” inquired M. Lerond. The Duke said that he had not, that M. de Terremondre, who was a great lover of valuable books, had warmly recommended him to have them catalogued, but he had never yet found time to have it done. He opened one of the cases, and M. Lerond drew out several volumes in succession, octavo, quarto, and folio, bound in marbled, stippled or tree-calf, parchment, and red and blue morocco, all bearing on their covers the coat of arms with the three torches surmounted by a ducal crown. M. Lerond was not a keen book-lover, but on opening a beautifully written manuscript on Royal Tithes, presented to the Marshal by Vauban, his astonishment and admiration knew no bounds. The manuscript was further embellished with a frontispiece, besides several vignettes and tail-pieces. “Are these original drawings?” asked M. Lerond. “Very probably,” replied M. de Brécé. “They are signed,” went on M. Lerond, “and I think I can decipher the name of Sebastian Leclerc.” “Maybe,” answered M. de Brécé. These priceless shelves contained, as M. Lerond remarked, books by Tillemont on Roman and Church history, the statute book of the province, and innumerable _Fœdera_ by old doctors at law; he unearthed works on theology, on controversy, and on hagiology, long genealogical histories, old editions of Greek and Latin classics, and some of those enormous books, bigger than atlases, written on the occasion of the marriage of a king or his entry into Paris, or to celebrate his convalescence or his victories. “This is the oldest part of the library,” said M. de Brécé, “the Marshal’s collection. Here,” he added, opening two or three other cases, “are the additions of Duc Jean.” “Louis XVI’s minister, surnamed the ‘Good Duke’?” asked M. Lerond. “Just so,” replied M. de Brécé. Duc Jean’s collection took up all that side of the wall containing the mantelpiece and also the side looking out upon the little town. M. Lerond read out the titles stamped in gold between two bands, that decorated the backs of the volumes: _Encyclopédie méthodique_; _Œuvres de Montesquieu_; _Œvres de Voltaire_; _�
annoyance in no measured terms, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled, until she collapsed into a corner speechless with disgust. He left them at Rouen, and Barbara, watching her aunt sleeping in a corner, wondered what they would do when they finally did arrive at the station. But, as soon as the lights of the _Gare de Lazare_ showed through the darkness, Miss Britton began to bestir herself, and, when the train stopped, marched boldly out of the carriage as if she had been in Paris dozens of times. In a little while they were seated in a _fiacre_, going along through brightly-lighted streets, feeling very satisfied that they were actually nearing their destination. But their content did not last long, for soon leaving the lighted thoroughfares, they turned into a dark road with high walls on either side, and just a lamp now and then. It really seemed rather lonely, and they both began to feel uncomfortable and to wonder if they were being taken to the wrong place. Stories of mysterious disappearances began to flit through Barbara's brain, and she started when Aunt Anne said in a very emphatic tone, "He looked a very nice cabman, quite respectable and honest." "Yes," Barbara said meekly, though she had hardly noticed him. "I knew it was some distance from the station, of course." "Yes," Barbara replied once more, and added, "of course," as Miss Britton began to look rather fierce. "It was a little stupid of you not to think of proposing to stay in the station hotel while I was collecting the wraps," she went on rather sharply, and Barbara was trying to think of something soothing to say, when the cab drew up suddenly and they were both precipitated on to the hat-boxes on the other seat. Barbara put her hat straight and looked out of the window. It certainly seemed to be a funny place to which they had come. The houses were high and narrow, and the one they had stopped at had a dirty archway without a single light; but, as the driver showed no intention of getting down and ringing, Barbara stepped out and groped about for a bell or a knocker of some kind. Then the cabman, pointing with his whip up the archway, said, "Numero quatorze, par là." The girl did not much relish going into the darkness by herself, for she was sure there must be some mistake. But she was afraid that, if Miss Britton got out too, the man might drive away and leave them, so she begged her aunt to remain in the cab while she went into the archway to make inquiries. After some groping she found a bell-rope, and rang three times without receiving any answer. She was just about to ring again, when she heard stealthy steps approaching the door, and the next moment it was opened, disclosing to her frightened gaze a dirty-looking man, wearing a red nightcap, and carrying a candle in his hand. Barbara recoiled a step, for though she had been sure there was some mistake she had not expected anything as bad as this. However, she managed to gasp out, "Madame Belvoir's?" and was intensely relieved to see the fellow shake his head. But he leered at her so horribly that she waited to make no more inquiries, but turned and fled back to the _fiacre_. "This is not the right place," she pouted, "and I'm thankful it isn't--there's _such_ a horrid man." "A man! But she was a widow," Aunt Anne said vaguely; and her niece could not help laughing, for if that _were_ the case there might have been brothers or sons. But the cabman was getting very impatient, and it was not an easy matter to argue with him, for when they insisted that this could not be 14 Rue St. Sulpice, he merely shook his head and persisted that it was. Then suddenly a light seemed to break upon him, and he asked, "14 Rue St. Sulpice, Courcelles?" Barbara shook her head violently, and said, "Non, non, Neuilly." Whereupon with much grumbling and torrents of words that, perhaps, it was as well she did not understand, he whipped up his horse, and she had hardly time to scramble into the cab before they swung off. They were very glad to leave the neighbourhood, for they saw the red nightcap peeping out at the end of the archway, and it seemed as if there were more friends of the same kind in the rear. "It is _most_ absurd for the man to think _we_ should have been staying here. I think he must be mad." "Yes," returned Barbara, not knowing what else to say, and they continued to rumble over more cobble stones and down dark roads, till they finally stopped in a dimly-lighted street, which, however, was broad and clean, with fairly large houses on either side. Barbara got out with some misgivings, wondering what their fate would be this time. She had to ring several times as before; but as there was no dark archway, and the cab was close by, she had not the same fear. When the door opened, she could distinguish nothing at first, but presently espied a little woman, in a _white_ nightcap, holding a candle. "Dear me!" she thought, "candles and nightcaps seem to be the fashion here;" but aloud, merely asked politely for Madame Belvoir, hoping that she was not speaking to the lady in question. Before the _portière_ (for it was she) could answer, a bright light shone out at the far end of the passage, and a girl came hurrying down, saying, "Madame Belvoir? Mais oui, entrez, entrez. C'est Mademoiselle Britton, n'est-ce pas?" Mademoiselle Britton was not a little relieved, and so, I am sure, was her poor aunt, who came hurrying out of the cab, and was so glad to get rid of it that she paid the ten francs the man demanded without a murmur. The French girl explained in broken English that her mother greatly regretted being absent, having been called away suddenly to an uncle who was ill, but that she and her sister would do their utmost to make Miss Britton comfortable. By that time they had reached the end of the passage and were led into a comfortable room, where another girl was waiting. Tea was ready for them too, and Barbara thought she had never appreciated it more. She tried to explain the reason of their late arrival, and told some of their adventures; but, although both the French girls listened politely and smiled and nodded, Barbara thought that neither of them understood much of what she said. However, she did not mind that, and presently they led the way upstairs to a room that was a haven of delight to the wanderers. The windows opened on to a garden whence the scent of lilac floated, and the whole room--down to the hearth-brush, which charmed Barbara--was decorated in blue. With the memory of that other Rue St. Sulpice still fresh in their minds, their present quarters indeed seemed delightful; and Barbara declared she could have fallen upon the necks of both girls and kissed them. "A quite unnecessary and most impertinent proceeding," Aunt Anne replied curtly. "They will much prefer pounds, shillings, and pence to embraces," and Barbara thought that after all she was probably right. CHAPTER III. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE. It was very nice to waken the next morning and find the sunshine streaming in at the windows. Barbara was ready to be charmed with everything, from the pretty little maid in the mob cap, who carried in the breakfast, to the crisp rolls and coffee. Both of the travellers were quite rested, and eager to begin sight-seeing, and Miss Britton left the choice of place to her niece. The latter diligently scanned the guide-book as she took her breakfast, and kept calling out fresh suggestions every few moments; but, finally, they determined on the Louvre as most worthy of their first visit. I do not know whether it was the experience of the night before, but Aunt Anne seemed to have a fixed idea that Paris was full of thieves, and before starting out she made the most careful preparations for encountering pickpockets. She sewed some of her money into a little bag inside her dress, put some more into a pocket in her underskirt, and said that Barbara might pay for things in general, as it would teach her the use of French money. She herself kept only a few centimes in a shabby purse in her dress pocket, "to disappoint any thief who took it." As soon as the _fiacre_ stopped in the court of the Louvre, they were besieged by several disreputable and seedy-looking men wanting to act as guides through the galleries. Partly to get rid of the rest, partly because they thought it might be easier, they engaged the tidiest-looking one who seemed to know most English, and, feeling rather pleased with themselves, entered the first gallery. Of course, Barbara wished to begin by seeing those pictures which she had heard most about; but the guide had a particular way of his own of taking people round, and did not like any interference. Indeed, he did not even like to let them stay longer than a few seconds at each picture, and kept chattering the whole time, till at last they grew annoyed, and Aunt Anne told him they would do the rest by themselves. But it took some time to get rid of him, and then he went sulkily, complaining that they had not given him enough, though Barbara felt sure he had really got twice as much as was his due. They enjoyed themselves very much without him, and saw a great deal before lunch-time. At the end of the meal, when Aunt Anne was going to take out her purse to use the centimes in it for a tip for the waiter, she discovered her preparations had not been in vain, and that the purse really had been stolen. Perhaps, on the whole, she was rather glad, for she turned to Barbara in triumph. "There now, Barbara," she said, "if I had had my other purse in my pocket, it would have been just the same, and now whoever has it will be properly disappointed!" They did not return to Neuilly until the evening, where they met the rest of the pension at dinner. Besides two brothers of the Belvoir family, there were a number of French visitors and one English family, to whom Miss Britton and her niece took an immediate dislike. The father, who, they were told, was a solicitor whose health had broken down, was greedy and vulgar, and his son and daughter were pale, frightened-looking creatures, who took no part in the gay conversation which the French kept up. After dinner, when every one else went into the salon for music, the solicitor and his children retired to their rooms, which Mademoiselle Belvoir and her brothers seemed to resent. The former confided to Barbara, in very quaint English, that they had never had such people in their house before, and Aunt Anne, who overheard the remark, shook her head sagely. "I would not trust them, Mademoiselle" (Miss Britton was English from the sole of her foot to the tip of her tongue). "They seem unpleasant, and I have a great power for reading faces." At which Mademoiselle Belvoir murmured something about wishing her mother were back. However, the evening was a pleasant one, though Barbara was so tired that she was hardly an intelligent listener to the music provided, and fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She was, therefore, a little surprised when she awoke suddenly two hours later for apparently no reason at all. She had been dreaming about something exciting, and lay trying to remember what it was, when an eerie feeling stole over her, and it seemed as if she heard breathing--which was not her aunt's--close beside her. She did not dare to move for a moment. Then she turned her head very gently, and between the two windows near the recess she was sure she saw a dark figure. The longer she watched the surer she became, and she knew it could not be her aunt, whom she heard breathing quietly in the other bed. It was certainly a horrible sensation, and all the unpleasant stories she had ever read crowded into her mind. At first she could not think what to do, but at last made up her mind to go across the room to Miss Britton's bed and tell her. Yawning, and pretending to wake up gradually, though all the time she felt as if she had been lying there for hours, she called out, "Aunt Anne, I can't sleep, so I'm coming into your bed." Miss Britton awoke at once--she was a light sleeper--and at first I think she imagined her niece was mad. "If you can't sleep in your own bed," she said, "I'm quite sure you won't sleep in mine, for it's not big enough for two." But Barbara persisted, and at last her aunt gave way. "Well," she said at last, rather crossly, "be quick if you are coming. I don't want to be kept awake all night." The truth was, it seemed so horrible to cross the room close to that black figure--as she would have to do--that Barbara lingered a moment, screwing up her courage. It was hard, certainly, to walk slowly across, for she thought she should not run, feeling all the time as if two hands would catch hold of her in the darkness. She was very glad to creep in beside her aunt, and at first could not do anything but lie and listen to that lady's grumblings. Then warning her not to scream, she whispered very softly that there was a man beside the window. Miss Britton took it wonderfully coolly, and after the first start said nothing for a few minutes. Then she remarked in loud, cheerful tones, "Well, child, as you are not sleepy, let us talk about our plans for to-morrow." They talked a long time, hoping that the man would give it up and go; but still the black figure stood there motionless. At last Barbara, who could bear it no longer, said "Oh, aunt, since we can't sleep let us put on the light and read up things in the guide-book." At that moment she heard a rustle behind, and saw the man try to get into the recess; but the trunks were there, and meeting that obstruction, he turned and made a quick dash to the French window, and was out in a moment, whereupon Aunt Anne and Barbara sat up in bed and screamed. Then the girl leaped to the electric light, and her aunt to the bell, and in a few moments the maids and the Misses Belvoir came running in. "He's gone!" cried Barbara, looking out of the window and feeling quite brave now that so many people had arrived. "He's gone, and it was too dark to see his face." Aunt Anne, meanwhile, explained, as well as she could, what had happened, and the Misses Belvoir looked so frightened and worried that Barbara felt she must be a dreadful nuisance. But they were very nice and extremely apologetic, declaring that such a thing had never happened before, and that the police should be told in the morning, and their brothers would search the garden at once and sit outside their door all night if Miss Britton liked. But Aunt Anne, who had delightful common-sense, said briskly-- "Nonsense; whoever it was, he will be too frightened to think of coming back to-night, so just go to your beds, and let us get to ours." And she pushed them gently out. They continued to murmur apologies after the door was shut; but Aunt Anne paid not the least heed. "Now, my dear," she said, turning to Barbara, "I am sure you know that what I said to them is quite true, and that our friend will not return to-night. So be sensible, and go back to bed, and we will talk about it all in the morning." Of course, Barbara did as she was told, and, though she was sure she would never get to sleep, strange to say, in a very little while she was dreaming peacefully, and did not waken till late next morning. CHAPTER IV. THE MAN IN BLUE GLASSES. The nocturnal adventure caused quite an excitement in the house, and very little else was talked of at lunch-time. Aunt Anne had asked Mademoiselle Belvoir if she would rather nothing was said about the affair; but the girl said it was impossible to keep it quiet, as several people had heard the bustle in the night, and were anxious to know all about it. So Miss Britton found that she and her niece were objects of general interest, and they both struggled nobly to describe the adventure intelligibly to the others, though Barbara knew that she got horribly mixed in her French tenses, and was not quite sure whether she understood all the questions the French people put to her. The solicitor annoyed her most--he was so superior. "Why did you not rush upon the fellow and scream for help?" he said. "I was far too frightened to do anything of the kind," Barbara answered indignantly. "I would never have dared to fling myself upon a dark figure like that. If I had seen him, I shouldn't have minded so much." "So you did not see his face?" said the solicitor. "Of course I didn't," and Barbara spoke rather crossly. "If I had, I should have gone and described him to the police the first thing this morning." She felt inclined to add that it was a pity he could not inculcate his own children with some of his apparent courage, for they both seemed far more frightened than interested in the story, and the son's eyes looked as if they would jump out of his head. Perhaps the poor youth was scolded for his timidity afterwards, for when Barbara passed their room in going upstairs to get ready to go out, she heard the father speaking in very stern tones, and the boy murmuring piteously, "Oh, father! oh, father!" Miss Britton was in a hurry to get out; but, as often happens, it proved a case of "more haste, less speed," for they had just got into the street when Barbara remembered she had left her purse behind, and had to run back for it. What was her astonishment on opening the bedroom door to see the solicitor's son standing near the window. She had come upstairs very softly, and he had not heard her till she was in the room; then he turned round suddenly, and sprang back with a face filled with terror. "What _are_ you doing here?" she exclaimed in astonishment, and at first he could not answer for fright. "I--I--came to look at the place where the man was last night," he gasped at last, "and to see how he could get out of the window." "Well, I think your curiosity has run away with your politeness," Barbara said. "You might have seen from the garden that the balcony is quite close enough to the tree for any one to get out easily. Is there anything else you would like to examine?" She need hardly have asked, for he had hurried round to the door before she had half finished speaking, and, only murmuring, "I'm sorry," fled precipitately. She was really rather sorry for him; he looked so abjectly miserable. Nevertheless, she took the precaution of locking the door and putting the key under the mat. She went downstairs more slowly than she had come up, for the boy's visit had made her feel rather queer. The way he shrank back into the window when she came in had reminded her so much of the manner in which the black figure had acted in the night, and she felt there was something uncanny about the whole thing. However, she made up her mind to say nothing to her aunt just then in case of spoiling her afternoon's pleasure, but she was quite determined to make some rather pointed remarks to the solicitor that evening when no one else was listening, and see how he took them. Unfortunately, however, she had no opportunity of doing so, for when they went down to dinner, none of the solicitor's family were visible, and Mademoiselle Belvoir remarked that they had all gone out to the theatre, and would not be back till late. The remarks, Barbara supposed, must be postponed till the morrow; but, alas! she never had a chance of making them, for early on the morrow the whole house learned that the solicitor, with his son and daughter, had gone, with apparently no intention of returning. Mademoiselle Belvoir and her brother had waited up till long after the time they should have returned, and then the brother had hurried to the _préfecture_ to report the matter. He had been growing very suspicious of late, as the solicitor had not paid anything for three weeks: "Waiting for his cheque-book, which had been mislaid," he had said. But the suspicions had been acted on too late, and his mother was cheated out of ever so much money. Every one was highly indignant, and Miss Britton and her niece really felt very grieved that they should have been _British_ subjects who had behaved so badly. Aunt Anne said she almost felt as if she ought to pay for them and save the honour of their country, but Barbara thought that would be too quixotic. At first Mademoiselle Belvoir thought there might be something inside the man's trunks that would repay them a little for the money lost; but, on being opened, there proved to be nothing but a few old clothes, and Mademoiselle and her brothers remembered that the boy had often gone out carrying parcels, which they used to laugh at. When all this was being discussed, Barbara thought she might as well tell about finding the boy in her room, and she mentioned her suspicions that he and the nocturnal visitor were one and the same person, and found to her surprise that the Belvoirs had thought the same. Poor things! Barbara was heartily sorry for them, for it was an unpleasant occurrence to happen in a _pension_, and might make a difference to them in future, apart from the fact that they could hear nothing of the lost money, nor yet of the runaways. Barbara felt that hitherto her adventures in France had been quite like a story-book, and knew that when her brother Donald heard of them he would be making all kind of wonderful plans for the discovery of the miscreants. "He would fancy himself an amateur detective at once," she said to her aunt. Whereupon that lady returned grimly she would gladly become a detective for the time being if she thought there was any chance of finding the wretches, but that such people usually hid their tracks too well. Nevertheless, Barbara noticed that she eyed her fellow-men with great suspicion, and one day she persisted in pursuing a stout gentleman with blue glasses, whom she declared was the solicitor in disguise, till he noticed them and began to be nervously agitated. "I'm sure it isn't he, aunt," Barbara whispered, after they had followed him successfully from Notre Dame to St. Etienne, and from there to Napoleon's Tomb. "He speaks French--I heard him. Besides, he is too stout for the solicitor." "He may be padded," Aunt Anne said wisely. "People of that kind can do anything. There is something in his walk that assures me it _is_ he, and I _must_ see him without his spectacles." Barbara followed rather unwillingly, though she could not help thinking with amusement how the family would laugh when she wrote and described her aunt in the role of a detective. She was not to be very successful, however, for, as they were sauntering after him down one of the galleries of the Museum, the blue-spectacled gentleman suddenly turned round, and in a torrent of French asked to what pleasure he owed Madame's close interest, which, if continued, would cause him to call up a _gendarme_. "If you think to steal from me, I am far too well prepared for that," he concluded. "Steal!" Aunt Anne echoed indignantly. "_We_ are certainly not thieves, sir, whatever _you_ may be." Barbara was thankful that apparently his knowledge of English was so slight that he did not understand the remark. It was not without difficulty that she prevailed upon her aunt to pass on and cease the wordy argument, which, she pointed out, was not of much good, as neither understood the other's language sufficiently well to answer to the point. "We shall have all the visitors in the Museum round us soon," she urged, with an apprehensive glance at the people who were curiously drawing near, "and shall perhaps be turned out for making a disturbance." "Then I should go at once to the English ambassador," Aunt Anne said with dignity. "But, as I have now seen his eyes and am assured he is _not_ the man we want, we can pass on," and with a stately bow, and the remark that if he annoyed her in future she would feel compelled to complain, she moved away, Barbara following, crimson with mingled amusement and vexation. CHAPTER V. GOOD-BYE TO PARIS. The days in Paris flew past far too quickly for Barbara, who enjoyed everything to the full. As she came to know her aunt better, and got accustomed to her dry manner and rather exact ways, she found her to be a really good companion, not altogether lacking in humour, and having untiring energy in sight-seeing and a keen sympathy with Barbara's delight in what was new. Perhaps Miss Britton, too, was gaining more pleasure from the trip than she had expected, for up till now she had seen her niece only as one a little sobered by responsibility and the constraint of her own presence. Whatever the cause, it was certain that during the past fortnight Miss Britton had felt the days of her youth nearer her than for some time, and it was with mutual regret that they reached the last day of their stay in Paris. They were sitting together on the balcony, with the bees very busy in the lilac-bush near them, and the doves murmuring to each other at the end of the garden. Barbara was reading a guide-book on Brittany, and Miss Britton, with her knitting in her hands, was listening to bits the girl read aloud, and watching a little frown grow between the eyebrows. It was curious how the frown between the dark brows reminded her of her dead brother; and after a moment she laid down her knitting. [Illustration: "Barbara was reading a guide book on Brittany."] "You may think it a little unkind, Barbara," she began, "that I am not coming with you to see what kind of place it is to which you are going, but I think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent and self-reliant. I made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be very good at teaching French--they used to live in Paris--and they are quite respectable. Of course, you may not find everything just as you like it, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and I shall arrange for you to return here. But Paris would be more distracting for you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant. "Besides, I should like you really to _study_ the language, so that you may profit by your stay in France, as well as enjoy it. If I stayed with you you would never talk French all the time." She stopped a moment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tone quite different from her usual quick, precise way, "Your father was a splendidly straight, strong man--in body and mind. Try to be like him in every way. He would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensible and courageous." Barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. She had never heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forward eagerly, "Thank you, Aunt Anne--I want to be like him." She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was strong upon her. "Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?" Barbara laughed. "I used to ride Topsy--the Shetland, you know--long ago, but father sold him." Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders passed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look jolly?" she said. "I used to love it." Aunt Anne nodded. "I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your studies." "Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought it would come true." "Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick." The next morning a heavily-laden cab passed from the Rue St. Sulpice through the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friend of the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, had arranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with very regretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away, leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later in the morning, she was herself _en route_ for St. Servan. Not so her companion, however, a most talkative personage, who was hardly quiet five minutes consecutively. She poured forth all sorts of confidences about her family and friends, and seemed quite satisfied if Barbara merely nodded and murmured, "_Comme c'est interessant!_" though she did not understand nearly all her companion said. The latter pointed out places of interest in passing, and finally, with an effusive good-bye, got out at the station before St. Servan. As the train neared its destination, Barbara looked anxiously to see what the town was like, and her disappointment was great at the first glimpse of the place. When the family had looked up the Encyclopaedia for a description of St. Servan, it seemed to be that of a small, old-fashioned place, and Barbara had pictured it little more than a village with a picturesque beach. Instead of that, she saw many houses, some tall chimneys, and quays with ships lying alongside. It would have cheered her had she known that the station was really a considerable distance from the town, and in the ugliest part of it; but that she did not find out till later. Outside the station were many vociferous cab-drivers offering to take her anywhere she liked, and, choosing the one whose horse seemed best cared for, she inquired if he knew where the house of Mademoiselle Loiré, Rue Calvados, was. Grinning broadly he bade her step in, and presently they were rolling and bumping along rough cobble-stoned streets. Barbara had further imagined, from the description of the house that Mademoiselle Loiré had sent them, that it was a villa standing by itself, and was rather surprised when the _fiacre_, after climbing a very steep street, stopped at a door and deposited herself and her trunks before it. Almost before she rang the bell she heard hurried steps, and the door was opened by some one whom she imagined might be the housekeeper. "Is Mademoiselle Loiré in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-looking woman with hair parted tightly in the middle. "I am Mademoiselle Loiré," she replied stiffly in French, "and you, I suppose, are Miss Britton! I am sorry there was no one at the station to meet you, but we did not expect you so soon." "Did you not get my post-card?" Barbara asked. "I could not possibly do that," Mademoiselle Loiré returned reprovingly; "it was posted in Paris far too late for _that_. However, perhaps you will now come into the _salon_," and Barbara followed meekly into a room looking out upon the garden, and very full of all kinds of things. She had hardly got in before she heard a bustle on the stairs, which was followed by the entrance of Mademoiselle Thérèse Loiré. Her face was not so long nor her hair so tightly drawn back as her sister's, and she came forward with a rush, smiling broadly, but, somehow, Barbara felt she would like the prim sister better. After asking many questions about the journey they took her to her room, and Barbara's heart sank a little. The house seemed dark and cold after that in Neuilly, and her bedroom was paved with red brick, as was the custom in those parts in old houses. The dining-room--smelling somewhat of damp--was a long, low room leading straight into the garden, and the whole effect was rather depressing. At supper-time, Barbara was made acquainted with the rest of the household, which consisted of an adopted niece--a plump girl of about seventeen, with very red cheeks and a very small waist--and two boys about twelve, who were boarding with the Loirés so that they might go to the Lycée[1] in the town. After supper, Mademoiselle Thérèse explained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and his children who lived next door. "Poor things!" she said, "they knew nobody when they came to the town, and a widower in France is so shut off from companionship that we thought we must be kind to them. They have not a woman in the house except a charer, who comes in the first thing in the morning." Barbara, with a chuckle over the "charer," went to put on her hat, and on coming into the dining-room again, found the widower and his sons already there. Something in the shape of the back of the elder man seemed familiar to her, and on his turning round to greet her, she recognised her little friend of the train on their first arrival in France. The recognition was mutual, and before she had time to speak he rushed forward and poured forth a torrent of French, while Mademoiselle Thérèse clamoured for an explanation, which he finally gave her. At last he had to stop for want of breath, and Barbara had time to look at his sons--boys of twelve and sixteen--who seemed a great care to him. All the three, father and sons, wore cloaks with hoods to them, which they called _capucines_, and as there was very little difference in their heights, they made rather a quaint trio. Barbara was glad to see him again, however, for it seemed to bring her aunt nearer. It amused her considerably to notice how Mademoiselle Thérèse flew from one party to another, during the whole of the walk, evidently feeling that she was the chaperon of each individual. She started out beside the widower, but soon interrupted his conversation by dashing
people, or Podestà, or Council of the Commune, and afterwards finding it extremely difficult to make their definitions agree with actual facts whenever those titles recur in their pages. Such mistakes nearly always proceed from a double source. The definitions supplied by old writers regarding magistrates and their functions were extremely slight, when they alluded to their own times, and often inexact where other periods were in question. Also, modern writers generally demand a precise and fixed definition of institutions which were subject to change from the day of their birth, and unalterable only in name. The name not only remains intact after the institution has become entirely different from what it was at first, but often long outlives the institution itself. It is curious to see what ingenious theories are then started to give substance and reality to names now become ghosts of a vanished past. The only way to thread this labyrinth is by endeavouring to reconstruct the series of radical changes every one of those institutions underwent, and without once losing sight of the mutual relations preserved between them during the continual vicissitudes to which they are subject. Only by seeking the law that regulates and dominates these changes is it possible to discern the general idea of the Republic and determine the value of its institutions. But what can be done while we lack so many of the elements most needed for the completion of this task? The learned have yet to arrange, examine, and illustrate the endless series of provisions, statutes, _consulte_, _pratiche_, ambassadorial reports, and, in short, of all the State papers of the Republic, many of which are still unsought and undiscovered. Nevertheless, we believe that, without attempting for the present any complete history of Florence, some rather useful work may be performed. We may certainly follow the guidance of old chroniclers and historians regarding events of which they had ocular testimony, trying, when needed, to temper their party spirit by confronting them with writers of an opposite faction. Vast numbers of documents have been published in driblets, and many learned dissertations, although the series is still incomplete; besides, one may easily resort to the Florence archives in order to vanquish difficulties and bridge the principal gaps. And after undertaking researches of this kind, it seems easy to us to clearly prove how the whole history of Florence may be illumined by a new light, and its apparent disorder made to disappear. In fact, as soon as one begins to carefully examine the veritable first causes underlying the apparent, and often, fallacious causes of political revolutions in Florence, these revolutions will be found to follow one another in a marvellously logical sequence. Then in the wildest chaos we seem rapidly able to discern a mathematical succession and connection of causes and effects. Personal hatreds and jealousies are not causes, but only opportunities serving to accelerate the fast and feverish sequence of reforms by which the Florentine Commune, after trying by turns every political constitution possible at the time, gradually attained to the highest liberty compatible with the Middle Ages. It is this noble aim, this largeness of freedom, that rouses all the intellectual and moral force contained in the Republic, evolves its admirable political acumen, and allows letters and art and science to put forth such splendid flowers in the midst of apparent disorder. But when strictly personal passions and hatreds prevail, then real chaos begins, the constitution becomes corrupt, and the downfall of freedom is at hand. The sole aim of the present work is to offer a brief sketch of the history of Florence during the foundation of its liberties. So great is the importance of the theme that the historian Thiers has given long attention to it, and we know that an illustrious Italian has already made it the object of many years of strenuous research.[8] II. The history of every Italian republic may be divided into two chief periods: the origin of the commune, the development of its constitution and its liberties. In the first period, during which an old state of society is decaying and a new one arising, it is hard to distinguish the history of any one commune from that of the rest, inasmuch as it treats of Goths, Longobards, Greeks, and Franks, who dominate the greater part of Italy in turn, reducing the country, almost throughout its extent, to identical conditions. The position of conquerors and of conquered is everywhere the same, only altered by change of rulers. Amid the obscurity of the times and scarcity of information, there seems scarcely any difference between one Italian city and another. But differences are more clearly defined, and become increasingly prominent after the first arisal of freedom. Most obscure, though not of earliest date, was perhaps the origin of Florence, which tarried long before beginning to rise to importance. Our present purpose being merely to throw light on the history of the Florentine Constitution, we need not devote many words to the first period mentioned above--namely, of the origin of Italian communes in general. At one time this question was the theme of a learned, lengthy, and most lively dispute, chiefly carried on by Italian and German writers. But the scientific severity of researches, in which Italian scholars won much honour, was often impaired by patriotism and national prejudice. It being recognised that the origin of the Commune was likewise the origin of modern liberty and society, the problem was tacitly transformed into another question--_i.e._, whether Italians or Germans were the first founders of these liberties, this society? It is easy to understand how political feelings were then imported into the controversy, and effectually removed it from the ground of tranquil debate. Towards the end of the last century the question was often discussed in Italy by learned men of different views, such as Giannone, Maffei, Sigonio, Pagnoncelli, &c. Muratori, though lacking any prearranged system, threw powerful flashes of light on the subject, and raised it to higher regions by force of his stupendous learning. But the dispute did not become heated until Savigny took up the theme in his renowned "History of Roman Law in the Middle Ages." In endeavouring to prove the uninterrupted continuity of the said jurisprudence, he was obliged--inasmuch as all historical events are more or less connected together--to maintain that the Italians, when subject to barbarian and even to Longobard rule, lost neither all their personal liberty nor their ancient rights, and that the Roman Commune was never completely destroyed. Accordingly, the revival of our republics and of Roman law was no more than a renewal of old institutions and laws which had never entirely disappeared. Germany was quick to see to what conclusions the ideas of our great historian tended, and thereupon Eichorn, Leo, Bethmann, Karl Hegel, and others, rose up in arms against the theory of the Italian Commune being of Roman birth. They maintained, on the contrary, that the barbarians, and more especially the Longobards, whose domination was harsher and more prolonged than the rest, had stripped us of all liberty, destroyed every vestige of Roman institutions, and that, consequently, the new communes and their statutes were of new creation, and originally derived from Germanic tribes alone. To all appearance these views should have stirred Italian patriotism to furious opposition, and made Savigny's ideas universally popular among us. Yet this was not the case. We supplied many learned adherents to either side. At that time our national feeling had just awakened; we already desired--nay, claimed--a united Italy, no matter at what cost, and detested everything that seemed opposed to our unity. Well, the Longobards had been on the point of mastering the whole of Italy, and the Papacy alone had been able to arrest their conquests by securing the aid of the Franks. But for this, even the Italy of the ninth or tenth century might have become as united a country as France. Already the school of thinkers had been revived among us that, even in Machiavelli's day, had regarded the Pope as the fatal cause of Italy's divisions. Therefore, naturally enough, while confuting Savigny's views, our nineteenth-century Ghibellines exalted the Longobards, ventured to praise their goodness and humanity, and hurled invectives against the Papacy for having prevented their general and permanent conquest of Italy. But, on the other hand, there was also a political school that looked to the Pope as the future saviour of Italy, and this school, prevailing later on during the revolution of 1848, adopted the opposite theory, and possessed two most illustrious representatives in Manzoni and Carlo Troya. At any rate, they had little difficulty in proving that barbarians had been invariably barbaric, killing, destroying, and trampling down all things, and that the Papacy, by summoning the Franks, no matter for what end, had certainly rendered some help to the harshly oppressed masses. The Franks, in fact, gave some relief to the Latin population, sanctioned the use of Roman law and granted new powers to Popes and bishops, who undoubtedly contributed to the revival of the communes. Thus, although for opposite ends, identical opinions were maintained on both sides of the Alps. Throughout this controversy learning was always subordinated to political aims, although the disputants may not have been always aware of it; and historic truth and serenity consequently suffered unavoidable hurt. Balbo, Capponi, and Capei, after throwing their weight on this side or that, ended by holding very temperate views, and their teachings cast much light on the point at issue. The main difficulty proceeds from the fact that few persons are willing to believe that in the Middle Ages, as well as throughout modern history, we can always trace the continuous reciprocal action of the Latin and German races, and that it is impossible to award the merit of any of the chief political, social, or literary revolutions exclusively to either. On the contrary, wherever the absolute predominance of one of the two races seems most undoubted, we have to tread with most caution, and seek to discover what share of the work was due to the other. Likewise, in order to justly weigh and determine their reciprocal rights in history, impartial narrative would have a better chance of success than any system based on political ideas. Assuredly, when facts are once thoroughly verified, no system is needed, since general ideas result naturally from facts. Were it allowable to introduce here a comparison with far younger times, we might remark that when French literature invaded Germany in the eighteenth century it obtained general imitation there, and unexpectedly led to the revival of national German literature. In order to glorify the national tone of this literature, would it be necessary to maintain that the great previous diffusion of French writings was only imagined by historians? Later, the French flag was flaunted in nearly every city of Germany, and the people humiliated and crushed. From that moment we see the national German spirit springing to vigorous life. Must we say that this revival was due to the French? Is it not better to describe events as they occurred, rejecting all foregone conclusions? I am quite aware of the abyss between these recent events and those of old days; but, nevertheless, I consider that Balbo was right in remarking that the fact of the origin of the communes being disputed at such length and with so much heat and learning by the two rival schools, proved that the truth was not confined exclusively to either. Accordingly, we will rapidly sum up the conclusions we deem the most reasonable. Every one knows that, after the earlier barbarian descents, by which the Empire was devastated, and Rome itself frequently ravaged, Italy endured five real and thorough invasions. Odoacer, with his mercenary horde, composed of men of different tribes, but generally designated as Heruli, was the leader who dealt the mortal blow in 476, and becoming master of Italy for more than ten years, scarcely attempted to govern it, and only seized a third of the soil. But a new host poured in from the banks of the Danube, commonly styled Goths, and subdivided into Visigoths and Ostrogoths. The former division, commanded by Alaric, had already besieged and sacked Rome; the latter, led by Theodoric, appeared in 489, and speedily subjected all Italy. Theodoric's reign was highly praised. The chiefs of these early barbarian tribes had often served for many years in Roman legions, and had sometimes been educated in Rome. Accordingly they felt a genuine admiration for the majesty of the very empire that the heat of victory now urged them to destroy. Theodoric organised the government; and, according to the barbarian custom, seized a third of the land for his men; but he left the Romans their laws and their magistrates. In every province a count was at the head of the government, and held jurisdiction over the Ostrogoths. The Romans were ruled according to their own laws, and these laws administered by a mixed tribunal of both races. But Theodoric's government became gradually harsher and more intolerable to the Romans, so that, after his death, they revolted against his successors, and invoked the aid of the Greeks of the Eastern Empire. But revolt brought them nothing save increased suffering, inasmuch as the Goths began to murder the Romans in self-defence, deprived them of what liberty and institutions they had been allowed to retain, and organised a military and absolute government. This was the government Belisarius and Narses found established on coming from Constantinople to deliver and reconquer Italy; this was the government they copied with their dukes, or _duces_. The Ostrogoths had ruled Italy for fifty-nine years (493-552), and the Greeks held it for sixteen more (552-568). Theirs also was a purely martial government, under the General-in-chief Narses, but with dukes, tribunes, and inferior judges nominated by the Empire. As usual, the newcomers appropriated a share of the soil, and probably this share now went to the State. Their tyranny was different from that of the barbarians, but it was the tyranny of corrupt rulers, and therefore more cruel. The Greeks had expelled the Goths, and next came the Longobards to drive out the Greeks. They gradually extended their conquests, and in fifteen years became masters of three-fourths of Italy, leaving only a few strips of land, mainly near the sea, to the Greeks whom they never succeeded in expelling altogether. The Longobards struck deep roots in Italian soil, and dwelt on it for more than two hundred years (568-773), ruling in a very harsh and tyrannous fashion. They took a third of the land, reduced the Italians almost to slavery, and respected neither Roman laws nor Roman institutions. Beneath their sway the ancient civilisation seemed annihilated, and the germs of a newer one were prepared, although its first budding forth is still involved in much obscurity. Every controversy as to the origin of our communes started from inquiries into the condition of the Italians under the Longobard rule. If ancient tradition were at any time really broken off and replaced by a totally new one, it must have occurred under that rule. Or, if it only underwent a great change before assuming new life and vigour at a later time, the process must have dated from the same period. Nevertheless, wherever the Byzantine domination had obtained, a feebler and more vacillating government weighed less cruelly on the people; therefore, as early as the seventh and eighth centuries, certain cities were seen to develop new life. The Commune speedily took shape, even in Rome, where the power of the Papacy, hostile to the Longobards, had greatly increased. On first coming among us, these barbarians of the Arian creed respected neither the Catholic bishops, the minor clergy, nor anything sacred or profane, and later on menaced the Eternal City itself. Accordingly, as a means of defence against the threatening enemy at his gates, the Pontiff summoned the Franks to save the Church and country from oppression. They came in obedience to this call, led first by Pepin and then by Charlemagne, who, driving out the Longobards, and fortifying the Papacy by grants of land, enabled the Pope to inaugurate his temporal dominion. In reward for this Charlemagne was crowned emperor; and thus the ancient Empire of the West was re-established by the new Empire of the Franks, to which the Holy Roman-Germanic Empire afterwards succeeded. Thereupon the dissolution of barbarian institutions, already begun in Italy, proceeded at a more rapid pace. There was a ferment in Italian public life, heralding the approach of a new era. Institutions, usages, laws, traditions of all kinds--Longobard, Greek, Frankish, ecclesiastical, Roman--were found side by side and jumbled together. Next ensued a prolonged term of violence and turmoil, during which the name of Italy was scarcely heard. All old and new institutions seem at war, all struggling in vain for supremacy, when suddenly the Commune arises to solve the problem, and the era of freedom begins. But what gave birth to the Commune? This is the question by which we are always confronted. It would be outside our present purpose to follow the learned scholars who have sought to deduce ingenious and complicated theories from some doubtful phrase in an old codex, or the vague words of some chronicler. It is certain that the Roman Empire was an aggregation of municipalities exercising self-government. The city was the primitive atom, the germ-cell, as it may be called, of the great Roman society that began to disperse when the capital lost the power of attraction required to bind together so great a number of cities separated by vast tracts of country either totally deserted, or only inhabited by the slaves cultivating the soil. The barbarians, on the other hand, knew nothing of citizen life, and the _Gau_ or _Comitatus_ (whence the term _contado_ is derived), only comprising embryo towns, or rather villages, which were sometimes burnt when the tribes moved on elsewhere, resembled the primitive nucleus of Teutonic society. In the _comitatus_ the count ruled and administered justice with his magistrates; the chiefs of the soldiery were his subordinates, and became barons later on. Several countships joined together formed the dukedoms or marquisates into which Italy was then divided, and the whole of the invading nation was commanded by a king elected by the people. When, therefore, the Germanic tribes held sway over the Latin, the _Gau_ held sway over the cities which indeed formed its constituents. And the counts, as military chieftains, ruled the conquered land, of which the victors appropriated one-third. The Goths pursued the same plan; so too the Greeks, who replaced all counts by their own _duces_; and so also the Longobards. Only the latter's rule was far more tyrannous, especially at first, and their history is very obscure. They began by slaughtering the richest and most powerful Romans; they seized one-third of the revenues, it would seem, instead of the lands, thus leaving the oppressed masses without any free property, and consequently in a worse condition than before. The Goths had permitted the Romans to live in their own way, but the Longobards respected no laws, rights, nor institutions of the vanquished race. On this head Manzoni remarks[9] that no mention is found of any Italian personage, whether actual or imaginary, in connection with any royal office or public act of the time. Nevertheless, from absolute tyranny, and even downright subjection, to the total destroyal of every Roman law, right, and institution, there is a long step. In order to attribute to the Longobards--numbering, it is said, some 130,000 souls in all--the total extinction of Roman life in every direction, we must credit them with an administrative power, far too well ordered and disciplined, too steadfast and permanent, to be any way compatible with their condition. How could a tribe incapable of comprehending Roman life persecute it to extinction on all sides? Granting even, although this is another disputed point, that the Romans were deprived of all independent property; granting that Roman law was neither legally recognised nor respected by the Longobards, it by no means follows that every vestige of Roman law and civilisation was therefore destroyed at the time. Far more just and credible seems the opinion of other writers who have maintained that when the Longobards descended into Italy they thought chiefly of their own needs, made no legal provision for the Italians, and were satisfied with keeping them in subjection.[10] Thus, in all private concerns, and in matters beyond the grasp of the barbarian administration, the conquered people could continue to live according to the Roman law and in pursuance of ancient customs. In fact, Romans and Longobards lived on Italian soil as two separate nations; the fusion of victors and vanquished, so easy elsewhere, is seen to have been difficult in Italy, even after the lapse of two centuries. So great is the tenacity and persistence of the Latin race among us, that it is easier to reduce the conquered to slavery, or extirpate them altogether, than to deprive them of their individuality. In fact, whenever, by the force of things, and by long intercourse, conquerors and conquered come into closer contact, the barbarians are unavoidably driven to make large concessions to the Latin civilisation, which even when apparently extinguished is always found to have life. How explain otherwise the gradual yielding of Longobard law to the pressure of Roman law; how explain the new species of code that gradually took shape, and was styled by Capponi _an almost Roman edifice built upon Germanic foundations_? As the Longobards became more firmly established in Italy, they began to inhabit the cities which they had been unable to entirely destroy; they also began to covet real property, and accordingly, during the reign of their king Autari, instead of a third of the revenues, seized an even larger proportion of the land. This measure aggravated the condition of the vanquished on the one hand, but greatly improved it on the other, by leaving them in possession of some independent property.[11] And although, as Manzoni observed, we find no royal officials, great or small, of Roman blood, it is no less certain that the Longobards, having need of mariners, builders, and artisans, were obliged to make use of Romans and their superior skill in those capacities. It was in this way that the ancient _scholae_, or associations of craftsmen, continued to survive throughout the Middle Ages, as we know to have been the case with the _magistri comacini_, or Guild of Como Masons, to whose skill the conquering race had frequent recourse. In however rough and disorderly a fashion these associations contrived to withstand the barbarian impact, they were certainly an element of the old civilisation, and kept the thread of it unbroken. Other remains and traditions of that same civilisation also clung about them; and when every other form of government or protecting force was lacking to the inhabitants of cities, these associations guarded the public welfare to some extent. Do we not find that an ancient municipality, when first left to its own resources, sometimes closed the city gates against the barbarians, and defended itself, almost after the manner of an independent state? Was it not sometimes successful in repulsing the foe? Even when conquered, trampled, and crushed, can we suppose it to have been destroyed everywhere alike, or so thoroughly cancelled from the memory of the Latins, that, on seeing it reappear, we must attribute its resurrection to Germanic tribes, to whom all idea of a city was unknown until they had invaded our soil? Did not the resuscitation of the Greek cities of Southern Italy begin as far back as the seventh and eighth centuries--namely, in the time of the Longobards--and assuredly without the help of Germanic traditions? Did not the Roman Commune arise at the same period? And if the ancient municipalities, fallen beneath the Longobard yoke, and therefore more cruelly oppressed, delayed almost four centuries longer, did they not also follow the example of their fellow-cities at last? What is the meaning of the widely spread tradition, that only in that paragon of independent, free republics, Byzantine Amalfi, were preserved the Roman Pandects, which were then captured by Pisa, and cherished as her most valued treasure? Does not the whole subsequent history of the Commune consist of the continual struggle of the re-born Latin race against the descendants of Teuton hordes? If Latin civilisation had been utterly destroyed, how came it that the dead could rise again to combat the living? Therefore, it seems clear to us that, although the Longobards accorded no legal rights to the conquered people, they could not practically deprive them of all; they either tolerated or were unaware of many things, and the tradition, usage, and persistence of the race kept alive some remnants of Latin civilisation. Thus alone can it be explained how, after enduring a harsh and long-continued tyranny that apparently destroyed everything, no sooner were a few links snapped off the strong, barbaric chain, by which the Italian population was so straitly bound, than Latin institutions sprang to new life, and regained all the ground they had lost. Barbarian society, both in form and tendency, was essentially different from the Latin. Its predominant characteristic was the so-called Germanic individualism, as opposed to the Latin sociability. We note a prevalent tendency to divide into distinct and separate groups. As a body, it no sooner lost the force of cohesion and union induced by the progress and rush of conquest, than it immediately began to be scattered and disintegrated. Owing to their nomadic and savage life, as well as to the blood in their veins, the barbarians seemed to have inherited an exaggerated personality and independence, making it difficult for them to submit for long to a common authority. Thus, when peace was established, germs of enfeebling discord soon appeared among them. In fact, when the Longobards had completed the conquest of nearly the whole of Italy, they divided the land into thirty-six Duchies, governed by independent dukes enjoying absolute rule in their respective territories. Under the dukes were sometimes counts, residing in cities of secondary importance, and at the head of the _comitati_; while still smaller cities were often ruled by a _sculdascius_, or bailiff. Both dukes and bailies administered justice according to the Longobard code, together with the assistant judges, who, under the Franks, developed into _scabini_, or sheriffs. Little by little military leaders gained possession of the strongholds, and subsequently became almost independent chiefs. Then, too, the royal officials, styled _gasindi_, likewise exercised great power. And even as the dukes finally asserted their independence from the king, so counts and _sculdasci_ sought emancipation from the ducal sway, although without immediate success. In the first century, after the conquest, there was no law, no recognised protection for the vanquished, nor was the authority of the bishops and clergy in any way respected. The history of the Longobard rule shows it to have been so tremendously oppressive as to apparently crush the very life of the people, so that even at the most favourable moments no serious revolts were attempted. Even the example of the free cities in the South failed to excite them. Nevertheless, as we have already noted, the Church, having gained meanwhile a great increase of power, refused to tolerate the pride and arrogance of barbarians who showed her so little respect. Hence the Pope resolved to expel these strangers by the help of others, and called the Franks into Italy. Charlemagne, the founder of the new Empire, could not regard the Latins, to whom the growing civilisation of his states was so much indebted, with the inextinguishable barbarian contempt felt by the Longobards. He sought to extend his conquests and his power. He wished to assist the Pope, in order to be consecrated by him and obtain his moral support. Therefore he came to Italy, and the already disintegrated Longobards could ill withstand the firm unity of the Franks, strengthened as it was by the prestige of his own victories. In vain the Longobards had already chosen and sworn fealty to another monarch; in vain they prepared for defence. After two hundred and five years of assured and almost unchecked domination, their kingdom was overthrown for ever. In 774 Charlemagne became master of Italy, and in the year 800 was crowned emperor by the Pope in Rome. Thus the Western Empire became reconstituted and consecrated in a new shape, entirely separate and independent from the Empire of the East. The Franks deprived the Longobards of all their dominions, excepting the Duchy of Benevento in Southern Italy. The power of the Pope was greatly increased by his assumption of the right of anointing the emperor, who rewarded him with rich donations and promised additions of territory. Rome, however, was ruled as a free municipality; and Venice, after the manner of the Greek cities in the South, had already asserted her freedom. Such was the state of Italy after the last barbarian invasion--that, namely, of the Franks. As usual, the new masters appropriated one-third of the land; but the condition of the natives was now decidedly changed for the better. Roman law was recognised as the code of the vanquished, and this is an evident sign that it was never entirely obsolete during the two centuries of Longobard rule. Charlemagne greatly improved the condition of the Latins, and sometimes promoted them to _honours_, _i.e._, to offices of royal appointment. But the special characteristic of his reign in Italy was the new hierarchy he established there. He destroyed the power of the dukes, whose attitude was too threatening to the unity of the Empire, and raised instead the position of the counts. Even in the Marches, or border-provinces, he retained no dukes, but replaced them by marquises (Mark-grafen, Praefecti limitum). In this manner the ancient unity of the _comitatus_, or _Gau_, became likewise the basis of the new barbarian society. Nor did Charlemagne stop at this point, but began to distribute offices, lands, and possessions in _beneficio_--_i.e._, in fief--and therefore on condition of obligatory military service. This proved the beginning of a social revolution, possibly originated at an earlier date, but now carried to completion under the name of feudalism. Not the emperor only, but kings, counts, and marquises also granted lands, revenues, and offices in fief, in order to obtain a sufficient supply of vassals. Thus an infinite number of new potentates was created: _vassalli_, _valvassori_, and _valvassini_, the latter being lowest in degree. Gradually the whole society of the Middle Ages took a feudal shape; the recipient of a grant of land was bound to yield military service, at the head of the peasants employed on his ground. Similar privileges, similar obligations, accompanied every donation of land or bestowal of office; for even official posts were generally supplemented by a concession of land or of revenue. Thus the Germanic tendency to division and subdivision in small groups was satisfied, while, at the same time, the Empire, the cities, and even the Church itself, assumed a feudal form. The bishops in their turn soon began to possess benefices, and gradually rose to increased power, until we find them in the position of so many counts and barons. Both in their own persons, and those of their subordinates, they enjoy immunity from ordinary laws and tribunals--an inestimable advantage, serving to enhance their independence and unite large clusters of population beneath their sheltering sway. Feudalism, accordingly, is a new order, a new and thoroughly Germanic aristocracy, yet at the same time it is the root of a veritable revolution in barbaric society, the which revolution will continue to grow and extend through many vicissitudes. Step by step the Crown will begin to exempt the benefices or fiefs of the vassals from subjection to the count, and will then declare them hereditary by means of a series of laws, all designed for the purpose of irritating the lesser potentates against their superiors, and of giving increased strength to the royal authority; but which served, on the contrary, to open a way of redemption to the downtrodden people. All this, however, was still unforeseen in the days of Charlemagne. He organised the feudal system, and kept his realm united and flourishing, although soon after his death (814) the Empire was split into several kingdoms. The rule of the Franks in Italy lasted to the death of Charles the Fat, in 888. And throughout this rule of 115 years, the revolution to which we have alluded was steadily making way. On all sides the number of benefices or fiefs continually grew, and year by year exemptions increased at an equal rate. These were conceded more easily to prelates than to others, since when laymen received benefices they were entitled to leave them to their heirs, and thus became inconveniently powerful. This state of things proved very favourable to cities in which bishops held residence. At first the count was sole ruler of the city, save the portion appertaining to the Crown, and called _gastaldiale_, as being under the command of a _gastaldo_, or steward; then, as the power of the bishop increased, another portion was exempted from the count's jurisdiction, as being _vescovile_, _i.e._, the property of the bishop. Step by step this portion was enlarged until it included nearly the whole of the town: many cities, in fact, were ruled solely by the bishop. Thus the fibres of barbarian society were weakened, and we might almost say unknit, by a method that would have served to keep it in subjection to the supreme authority of the monarch, but for the fact that the people, deemed to be dead, was not only breathing, but on the point of asserting its strength against nobles, kings and emperors, prelates, and Popes. Two revolts in the cause of liberty successively took place, and both began under the Carlovingians, and continued during the reigns of their successors. The first enervated and enfeebled the barbarian society to which the soil of Italy was so ill suited; the second prepared the way for the rise of communes. With the death of Charles the Fat the rule of the Franks lapsed, and barbarian invasions likewise ceased. The Germanic tribes had settled down on Italian soil and were becoming civilised. Nevertheless, Italy had still to pass through a string of revolutions and years of ill fortune. At the dissolution of the Empire of the Franks, certain counts and marquises, especially the latter, who, by the union of several counties, had gained the power of dukes, were found asserting extravagant pretensions, even endeavouring to form independent states, and often with success. To this day, in fact, there are reigning families descended from Frankish marquises and counts. To compass their destruction benefices and immunities had been granted in vain: their power was not to be so easily extinguished. For, even in Italy, where, owing to the different character of the country, the ancient civilisation had tenaciously lingered on, and now began to awake to new life, and where, too, the Papacy and the Greeks of Byzantium had impeded the absolute triumph of Germanic institutions, feudal counts and marquises now arose to contest the crown. Next followed long years of renewed devastation and conflict, ending by the crown being retained in the grasp of German emperors and kings. The first wars and quarrels were carried on by Berengarius of Friuli and Guido of Spoleto, with other Italian and foreign nobles, a German king, two Burgundian monarchs, and finally by King Otho of Germany, who remained victor
for the "modest man" to whom, as to the poet Cowper, public appearances were so many penances; for though the world may not agree with Earle as to the degree in which this quality sets off a man, there is no question of Lord Falkland's welcome of the modest man, even if that grave divine "Mr. Earles," did not point out this diffident guest as one who "had a piece of singularity," and, for all his modesty, "scorned something." And, as "the most polite and _accurate_ men of the University of Oxford"[O] were to be met with at Tew, we may further hope that Earle there watched the social mellowing of the "downright scholar whose mind was too much taken up with his mind,"[P] and strove to carry out his own recommendation, "practising him in men, and brushing him over with good company." Symposium is a word that has been much abused and vulgarised of late, but something like its true Platonic sense must have been realised by the company at Lord Falkland's, as they "examined and refined those grosser propositions which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation":[Q] for a more Platonic programme it would be difficult to conceive. The pattern of the ideal republic is, we know, laid up somewhere in the heavens; but the republic of letters so far as it was represented, must have been as near the ideal in that house as it ever was on earth. And in this ideal one of Earle's characters already mentioned was not only a natural but a necessary element. "The contemplative man" is solitary, we are told, in company, but he would not be so in this company. "Outward show, the stream, the people," were not taken seriously at Lord Falkland's; and the man who "can spell heaven out of earth" would be the centre of a rare group--men upon whose fresh and eager appetites conversation that was "mysterious and inward" could not easily pall. Bishop Berkeley is one of the very few men who could answer with any plausibility to this last character of Earle's. But the marvellous amenity of his social gifts brings him a little closer to the kindly race of men than Earle thinks is usual with the contemplative student. In every other point it is an accurate piece of portraiture.[R] Nature might well ask approbation of her works and variety from a man who was ever feeding his noble curiosity and never satisfying it. He, too, made a "ladder of his observations to climb to God." He, too, was "free from vice, because he had no occasion to employ it." "Such gifts," said the turbulent Bishop Atterbury of him, "I did not think had been the portion of any but angels." After this it is no hyperbole to say, as Earle does of the contemplative man, "He has learnt all can here be taught him, and comes now to heaven to see more." Though Clarendon does full justice to Earle's personal charm, he uses the epithets "sharp and witty" to describe his published "discourses"; and the piercing severity of his wit is illustrated everywhere in this book. It is clear, however, from the sympathetic sketches that Earle's was no _nil admirari_ doctrine, and that while he saw grave need on all hands for men to clear their mind of cant, and their company of those who live by it, he had great store of affection for all that is noble or noble in the making. The "modest man" and the high-spirited man" are opposite types, but there is in both the worthy pursuit and the high ideal. Moreover, the second of those characters reveals a power of pathos which Earle might have developed with more opportunity.[S] "The child" whom "his father has writ as his own little story" is another indication of the same mood. These sketches are full of suggestive melancholy--not the melancholy of the misanthrope, but the true melancholy--the melancholy of Virgil--_Invalidus etiamque tremens etiam inscius aevi._[T] There is another character drawn with a most incisive pathos, though less _Virgilian_[U] in its tone. The poor man, "with whom even those that are not friends _for ends_ love not a dearness," and who, "with a great deal of virtue, obtains of himself not to hate men," is a pathetic figure, but he is something more. He is a sermon on human weakness, not drawn as some Iago might have drawn it with exultant mockery, but with the painful unflinching veracity of one who is ashamed of himself and of his kind. When one thinks how often this weakness is spoken of as if it were peculiar to the moneyed class or to the uneducated, and how many people whom one knows act and think as if poverty were a vice if not a crime, though they shrink from avowing it, so unqualified an exposure indicates a conscience of no common sensitiveness. Earle's wit and humour are deadly weapons, and it must be said that the trades and professions are treated with scant indulgence. He can even leave a mark like that of Junius when he has a mind. Thus the dull physician is present at "some desperate recovery, and is slandered with it, though he be guiltless"; and the attorney does not fear doomsday because "he hopes he has a trick to reverse judgment!" But though one would not ask on behalf of impostors or scoundrels for suspension of sentence, one does wish for more than a single picture of the young man "who sins to better his understanding." The companionship of one who by his 34th year "had so much dispatched the business of life that the oldest rarely attain to that knowledge and the youngest enter not the world with more innocence,"[V] might have induced Earle to pourtray more than the weaknesses of immature manhood. We could not, however, have missed this or the other pictures of characterless persons whether young or "having attained no proficiency by their stay in the world." Inexperience may fail to recognise them and suffer for it; or the gilding of rank and fashion may win for such persons a name in society above that which they deserve, and the moralist is bound to unmask them. These studies nevertheless are somewhat sombre;[W] and there is something much lighter and pleasanter in his presentation of some not unfamiliar phases of manners. There is the self-complacency that deals with itself like a "truant reader skipping over the harsh places"; the frank discourtesy that finds something vicious in the conventions and "circumstance" of good breeding; the patronising insolence[X] that "with much ado seems to recover your name"; the egoism of discontent that "has an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in its fancy"; or lastly, that affectation of reticence which is as modern as anything in the book, though its illustrations look so remote. Where we meet with such a temper, Earle's is still the right method--"we must deal with such a man as we do with Hebrew letters, spell him backwards and read him!" Despite all this searching analysis and the biting wit which accompanies it, I cannot think the epithet cynical, which I have heard ascribed to Earle, is defensible. There is a vast difference between recognising our frailty which is a fact, and insisting that our nature is made up of nothing else, which is not a fact. The severe critic and the cynic differ chiefly in this: the first reports distressing facts, the second invents disgraceful fictions; the one distrusts, the other insults our common nature; and in doing justice to the possibilities of that nature, no one has gone further than Earle in his "contemplative man." Something may be said of Earle's style before this introduction is brought to an end. I do not think it is uniformly conspicuous[Y] for quaintness, or that there is much that can be called affectation; though occasionally an excess of brevity has proved too tempting, or the desire to individualize runs away with him. The following passages, taken at random from the Characters, seem to contain phrases that we should be well content to use to-day if we had thought of them. _He sighs to see what innocence he hath outlived._ _We look on old age for his sake as a more reverent thing._ _He has still something to distinguish him from a gentleman, though his doublet cost more._ _It is discourtesy in you to believe him._ _An extraordinary man in ordinary things._ _His businesses with his friends are to visit them._ _The main ambition of his life is not to be discredited._ _He preaches heresy if it comes in his way, though with a mind I must needs say very orthodox._ These quotations have no very unfamiliar sound, nor much flavour of archaism about them. And there are many more, surprisingly free from conceits or other oddities, if we reflect that the book was written before Dryden was born, or modern prose with its precision and balance even thought of. There is one very distinguishing mark set on Earle's characters, the profundity of the analysis that accompanies the sketch. He lets us know not only what the grave divine or the staid man looks like, but why they are what they are, and all this without turning his sketch into an essay. This mistake Bishop Hall is inclined to make, and Butler actually makes. The author of Hudibras, it seems, would have been too fortunate had he known where his own happiness lay--to wit in that "sting" of verse, which Cowper says prose neither has nor can have. When one compares the essay in its beginnings with the essay as we know it to-day, it is not difficult to understand the change of form in the character sketch. "The Character of a Trimmer"[Z] is a very powerful piece of writing, containing some very fine things, but Halifax could not make of it that finished piece of brevity which it would have become in Earle's hands. Latin criticism has the right word for his work--"densus."[AA] We could not pack the thinking closer if we wished. And yet if we do not care to reason a type out, there are pictures enough unspoilt by commentary.[AB] Earle has some of that delightful suddenness of illustration which Selden makes so captivating in his Table-Talk. At once we are made to see likeness or unlikeness, we hear no comment on it; since the artist desires no more moral than is to be looked for in his art. When on the other hand Earle makes more of the reason of the thing, he[AC] is literally "swift and sententious"--he never takes the opportunity to draw us into an instructive disquisition, or to assume airs of profundity. And his passing hint as to the cause of what _we see_ no more injures any picture he may draw than Coleridge's prose argument at the side of the page destroys the imaginative spectacle in the Ancient Mariner. Earle, it has been said, "is not so thoroughly at home with men of all sorts and conditions as Overbury, who had probably seen far more of the world."[AD] However relatively true this may be, Earle's book [published 1628] gives evidence of an experience of men as wide as it is intimate--an experience little short of marvellous in a resident Fellow of twenty-seven, whose younger years were chiefly distinguished for "oratory, poetry, and witty fancies."[AE] (Perhaps his youth may account for some of that excessive severity in handling follies which is occasionally noticeable.) The article in the "Dictionary of National Biography" gives a somewhat different impression of Earle as an observer. "The sketches throw," it says, "_the greatest light_ upon the social condition of the time." Now this is not possible for anyone to achieve whose vision requires "the spectacles of books"; though with such help it is doubtless possible to extend and improve on the observations of others, with human nature as a constant quantity. But to be at home with one's contemporaries and to record one's intimacy means to see with the eye as well as the mind. The slow inductive method of personal contact is indispensable; and no reasoning from first principles, no assimilating of secondhand experience, with whatever touches of genius, can be mistaken for it. It is not likely that the Registrar's house (his father's house) at York added much to Earle's sketch-book; and we have to fall back on what Clarendon says of his delightful conversation, and by implication, of his delight in it. In the society of a University and in the life of a University town there would be presented to an observer of his exceptional penetration enough of the fusion or confusion of classes to furnish the analytical powers with a tolerably wide field. And Earle does not suffer by comparison with his rivals. "The concise narrative manner"[AF] of Theophrastus, though in its way as humorously informing as we find Plautus and Terence, and as we should have found the New Comedy which they copied, leaves us a little cold from the looseness or the connexion in the quasi-narrative: we rise a little unsatisfied from the ingenious banquet of conversational scraps; we desire more. Overbury, again, says less than Earle, and is more artificial in saying it. Butler and Bishop Hall too directly suggest _the essay_[AG] and the sermon. In no one of them is brevity so obviously the soul of wit as it is in Earle; no one of them is so humorously thoughtful, so lucid in conception, so striking in phrase. When one has reckoned up all these gifts, and all that his friends and contemporaries said of him, and remember also who and what these friends were, one is not startled by the eulogistic epitaph in Merton College Chapel; these words are as moving as they are strong: Si nomen ejus necdum suboleat, Lector, Nomen ejus ut pretiosa unguenta; Johannes Earle Eboracensis. But his own choicer Latin in the epitaph he wrote for the learned Peter Heylin would serve no less well for himself; and the beautiful brevity of its closing cadences has so much of the distinction of his English, and puts so forcibly what Earle deserves to have said of him, that it may fitly be the last word here: Plura ejusmodi meditanti mors indixit silentium: ut sileatur efficere non potest. S.T.I. Clifton, May, 1896. FOOTNOTES: [A] It came out in 1811. Forty-four years afterwards he wrote that in his interleaved copy the list of Seventeenth Century Characters had increased fourfold--good evidence of his affection for and interest in Earle's Characters. Yet he despaired of anyone republishing a book so "common and unimportant" (??). (See Arber's reprint of Earle.) It is to the credit of Bristol that this pessimism has not been justified. [B] Since writing this preface I have added a small supplementary appendix; but there is nothing in it to require much qualification of the opinion here expressed. It was hardly possible, as I gather, for Bliss to have known of the Durham MS. [C] Mr. John Morley has called Pattison's standard "the highest of our time." Bliss's conception of an editor's duties is well illustrated in the note on p. 73. [D] "Varium ac multiplicem expetens cultum deus."--_Mori Utopia Lib. II._ [E] Vol. iii., pp. 153 and 154. [F] Were the unorthodox opinions of Hobbes known to his friends as early as 1647? If so, Earle could hardly have been very curious in scenting out heresy, for Clarendon hopes Earle's intercession may secure for him a book of Hobbes's. (See letters of Clarendon in Supplementary Appendix.) [G] Professor Jebb, in his edition of The Characters of Theophrastus. I rejoice to see that Professor Jebb assigns Earle a place of far more distinction than is implied in the measured tribute of Hallam. His preface furnishes lovers of Earle with just those reasoned opinions with which instinctive attraction desires to justify itself; and I take this opportunity of acknowledging my great obligations to it. [H] Hallam. The same tone is taken in the article on Earle in the "Encyclopædia Britannica." [I] Mr. Bridges indeed, ("Achilles in Scyros"), finds that this character has been always with us, and gives it a place in the Heroic Age. The passage has almost the note of Troilus and Cressida:-- "My invitation, Sir, Was but my seal of full denial, a challenge For honor's eye not to be taken up. Your master hath slipped in manners." [J] We may compare Matthew Arnold's travelling companion ("Essays in Criticism," 1st Edition, Preface), who was so nervous about railway murders, and who refused to be consoled by being reminded that though the worst should happen, there would still be the old crush at the corner of Fenchurch Street, and that he would not be missed: "the great mundane movement would still go on!" [K] Chaucer could hardly have been well-known in 1811, or Dr. Bliss would scarcely have quoted in full the most familiar character in his Prologue; but I could not find courage to excise, or lay a profane hand on any of his notes. [L] It is, perhaps, superfluous to say that no disrespect is intended to the Author of the "Ring and the Book"; but it would be difficult to find another poet who has had so many of the equivocal tributes of fashion. [M] Sir Thomas Browne, "Christian Morals." [N] "So infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination."--_Clarendon (of Lord Falkland)._ [O] Clarendon. [P] "A great cherisher of good parts... and if he found men clouded with poverty, or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron."--_Clarendon, ib._ [Q] Clarendon, _ib._ [R] Between Earle himself and Berkeley there is much resemblance. Of Berkeley too it would have been said--"a person certainly of the sweetest and most obliging nature that lived in our age"; and this resemblance extends beyond their social gifts or their cast of mind, even to their language. Earle's "vulgar-spirited" man, with whom "to thrive is to do well," recalls a famous passage in the Siris. "He that hath not thought much about God, the human soul, and the _summum bonum_, may indeed be a _thriving_ earth-worm, but he will make a sorry patriot, and a sorry statesman." [S] Is this from Pliny's Letters? "Totum patrem mira similitudine exscripserat."--_Lib._ V. xvi. [T] One may recall, too, the famous words of the Sophoclean Ajax to his son in connection with Earle's phrases. "He is not come to his task of melancholy," "he arrives not at the mischief of being wise," read like a free translation of Soph. Ajax, II. 554 and 555. [U] Perhaps the simile in Æn. viii. 408 and one or two other places would justify us in calling this also Virgilian, as, indeed, one may call most good things. [V] Clarendon--his character of Lord Falkland. [W] There are certain things not at all sombre applicable not only to our day, but to our _hour_, _e.g._ "the poet (I regret to say he is 'a pot poet,') now much employed in commendations of our navy"; or this, "His father sent him to the University, because he heard there were the best fencing and dancing schools there." If we substitute athletics of some kind, we have a very modern reason for the existence of such things as Universities accepted as sound by both parents and children. _cf._ too Dr. Bliss's note on the serving-man, and its quotation, "An' a man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages nowadays, I'll not give a rush for him!" [X] _cf._ Falconbridge in "King John": "And if his name be George I'll call him Peter, For new-made honour doth forget men's names." It is this character which was the occasion of the most delightful of all stories of absence of mind, and though, doubtless, familiar to many, I cannot resist repeating it. The poet Rogers was looking at a new picture in the National Gallery in company with a friend. Rogers was soon satisfied, but his friend was still absorbed. "I say," said Rogers, "_that fellow_ [Earle's insolent man] was at Holland House again last night, and he came up and asked me if my name was Rogers." "Yes," said the friend, still intent on the picture, "_and was it_? [Y] The article in the "Dictionary of National Biography" lays stress on the freedom from conceits in Earle's few poems at a time when conceits were universal. The lines on Sir John Burroughs contain a couplet which is wonderfully close to Wordsworth's "Happy Warrior": "His rage was tempered well, no fear could daunt _His reason_, his _cold_ blood was valiant." _cf._ "Who in the heat of conflict keeps _the law_ In _calmness_ made." Earle's standard in poetry was high. "Dr. Earle would not allow Lord Falkland to be a good poet though a Great Witt," yet many poets praised his verses. Aubrey, who tells us of Earle's opinion, confirms it. "He (Lord Falkland) writt not a smooth verse, but a great deal of sense." [Z] "The Trimmer" is no doubt a political manifesto--but no retreat from politics could have chastened Halifax's style into a resemblance to Earle's; when the "Character" became a political weapon, its literary identity was all but at an end. "The Trimmer" is commended by Macaulay in his History, where it will be remembered he pays a tribute to its "vivacity." [AA] Quintilian uses it of Thucydides. [AB] The "She precise hypocrite" is a striking example--one of Earle's most humorous pieces. _cf._ also "The plain country fellow." [AC] The pictures, with the moral attached, are best seen in places: in "The Tavern, the best theatre of natures"; in "The Bowl-alley, an emblem of the world where some few justle in to the mistress fortune"; in Paul's Walk, "where all inventions are emptied and not a few pockets!" [AD] Professor Jebb, preface to "The Characters of Theophrastus." [AE] Anthony Wood. [AF] Professor Jebb. [AG] Professor Jebb justly replies to Hallam that if La Bruyère is far superior to Theophrastus the scope of the two writers makes the comparison unfair. The difference between them may perhaps be expressed by saying that an essay was the last thing that the master and the first thing that the disciple was anxious to produce. CONTENTS OF THE SUPPLEMENTARY APPENDIX. (1) THE DURHAM MS. In the Cathedral Library at Durham is a small bound volume which contains forty-six of Earle's Characters, bearing date 1627[AH],--the date of the first edition being 1628. I was enabled by the kindness of Dr. Greenwell, the Librarian, to take it away and examine it at leisure; and the courtesy of the University Librarian, Dr. Fowler, furnished me with an exact collation of the MS. versions with the printed text[AI] of these forty-six Characters, the original of the contributions made by him to "Notes and Queries," and referred to in the "Dictionary of National Biography." (2) I have printed, besides, some other versions quoted by Bliss from "Dr. Bright's MS.," and incorporated in his annotated copy of his own book. These are often the same with those of the Durham MS. I should mention that though this annotated copy is in the Bodleian Library, the Sub-Librarian, Mr. Falconer Madan, "knows of no 'Bright MS.,'[AJ] nor where Bliss's MS. with that name is." The copy in question contains so much additional matter that I have added a few things from it, but my space was necessarily limited; there is good evidence in it of Bliss's statement that he had continued collecting materials for the book for forty-four years after its publication. Moreover, in the "Bliss Sale Catalogue" in the Bodleian there are some 530 books of Characters (including duplicates). I am myself in possession, as I believe, of a copy of Bliss's edition which belonged to himself, and which is annotated by himself and Haslewood.[AK] It contains a castrated title-page (originally Bliss suppressed his name) and a notice of the book in the "Monthly Review" of 1812. (3) I have added a few "testimonies" to Earle from Anthony Wood and others. (4) I have printed three letters from Clarendon to Earle from the "Clarendon State Papers," with short extracts from two others; as well as two letters of Earle's from the Bodleian Library--interesting rather as personal relics than as containing anything very significant. All that relates to its author will, I believe, be acceptable to lovers of the "Cosmography." For this additional matter, as well as for other help and counsel, I am indebted to Mr. Charles Firth, of Balliol College, Oxford, whose learning is always at the service of his friends, and who stands in no need of the old injunction--"not to be reserved and caitiff in this part of goodness." (5) From a notebook of Bliss's (in MS.) in my possession I have added a few titles of Books of Characters. I have retained in this Appendix the spelling I found. Bliss's text has, with a few exceptions (possibly accidental), the modern spelling. FOOTNOTES: [AH] Dec. 14th, 1627. [At the end, by way of Colophon:] at the top of page 1, in a different hand, "Edw. Blunt Author." This MS. was obviously one of "the _written copies_, passing severally from hand to hand, which grew at length to be a pretty number in a little volume." (See Blount's Preface to the Reader.) [AI] As it appears in Arber's Reprint. [AJ] The "Bright MS." was obviously later than that in the Durham Cathedral Library, since it contained several Characters known to have been added to the first edition. [AK] Joseph Haslewood, Antiquary. One of the founders of the Roxburghe Club. MICROCOSMOGRAPHY; OR A Piece of the World discovered; IN ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS. BY JOHN EARLE, D.D. OF CHRIST-CHURCH AND MERTON COLLEGES, OXFORD, AND BISHOP OF SALISBURY. A NEW EDITION. TO WHICH ARE ADDED, NOTES AND AN APPENDIX, BY PHILIP BLISS, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD. _LONDON:_ PRINTED FOR WHITE AND COCHRANE, FLEET-STREET; AND JOHN HARDING. ST. JAMES'S-STREET. 1811. ADVERTISEMENT. The present edition of Bishop Earle's Characters was undertaken from an idea that they were well worthy of republication, and that the present period, when the productions of our early English writers are sought after with an avidity hitherto unexampled, would be the most favourable for their appearance. The text has been taken from the edition of 1732, collated with the first impression in 1628. The variations from the latter are thus distinguished:--those words or passages which have been added since the first edition are contained between brackets, [and printed in the common type]; those which have received some alteration, are printed in _italic_, and the passages, as they stand in the first edition, are always given in a note. For the Notes, Appendix, and Index, the editor is entirely answerable, and although he is fully aware that many superfluities will be censured, many omissions discovered, and many errors pointed out, he hopes that the merits of the original author will, in a great measure, compensate for the false judgment or neglect of his reviver. _January_ 30, 1811. THE PREFACE [TO THE EDITION OF 1732[AL].] This little book had six editions between 1628 and 1633, without any author's name to recommend it: I have heard of an eighth in 1664. From that of 33 this present edition is reprinted, without altering any thing but the plain errors of the press, and the old pointing and spelling in some places. The language is generally easy, and proves our English tongue not to be so very changeable as is commonly supposed; nay, sometimes the phrase seems a little obscure, more by the mistakes of the printer than the distance of time. Here and there we meet with a broad expression, and some characters are far below others; nor is it to be expected that so great a variety of portraits should all be drawn with equal excellence, though there are scarce any without some masterly touches. The change of fashions unavoidably casts a shade upon a few places, yet even those contain an exact picture of the age wherein they were written, as the rest does of mankind in general: for reflections founded upon nature will be just in the main, as long as men are men, though the particular instances of vice and folly may be diversified. Paul's Walk is now no more, but then good company adjourn to coffee-houses, and, at the reasonable fine of two or three pence, throw away as much of their precious time as they find troublesome. Perhaps these valuable essays may be as acceptable to the public now as they were at first; both for the entertainment of those who are already experienced in the ways of mankind, and for the information of others who would know the world the best way, that is--without trying it[AM]. FOOTNOTES: [AL] _London: Printed by E. Say, Anno Domini_ M.DCC.XXXII. [AM] A short account of Earle, taken from the _Athenæ Oxonienses_ is here omitted. ADVERTISEMENT [TO THE EDITION OF 1786[AN].] As this entertaining little book is become rather scarce, and is replete with so much good sense and genuine humour, which, though in part adapted to the times when it first appeared, seems, on the whole, by no means inapplicable to any æra of mankind, the editor conceives that there needs little apology for the republication. A farther inducement is, his having, from very good authority, lately discovered[AO] that these _Characters_ (hitherto known only under the title of _Blount's_[AP]), were actually drawn by the able pencil of JOHN EARLE, who was formerly bishop of Sarum, having been translated to that see from Worcester, A.D. 1663, and died at Oxford, 1665. Isaac Walton, in his Life of Hooker, delineates the character of the said venerable prelate. It appears from Antony Wood's Athen. Oxon. under the Life of Bishop Earle, that this book was first of all published at London in 1628, under the name of "_Edward Blount_." FOOTNOTES: [AN] _"Microcosmography; or, a Piece of the World characterized; in Essays and Characters. London, printed A.D. 1650. Salisbury, Reprinted and sold by E. Easton, 1786. Sold also by G. and T. Wilkie, St. Paul's Church-yard, London."_ [AO] I regret extremely that I am unable to put the reader in possession of this very acute discoverer's name. [AP] This mistake originated with Langbaine, who, in his account of Lilly, calls Blount "a gentleman who has made himself known to the world by the several pieces of his own writing, (as _Horæ Subsecivæ_, his _Microcosmography_, &c.") _Dramatic Poets_, 8vo, 1691, p. 327. EDITIONS OF "MICROCOSMOGRAPHY." The first edition (of which the Bodleian possesses a copy, 8vo. P. 154. Theol.) was printed with the following title: "_Microcosmographie: or, a Peece of the World discovered; In Essayes and Characters. Newly composed for the Northerne parts of this Kingdome. At London. Printed by W. S. for Ed. Blount, 1628_." This contains only fifty-four characters[AQ], which in the present edition are placed first. I am unable to speak of any subsequent copy, till one in the following year, (1629), printed for Robert Allot[AR], and called in the title "_The first edition much enlarged_." This, as Mr. Henry Ellis kindly informs me, from a copy in the British Museum, possesses seventy-six characters. The _sixth_ was printed for Allot, in 1633, (_Bodl. Mar._ 441,) and has seventy-eight, the additional ones being "a herald," and "a suspicious, or jealous man." The _seventh_ appeared in 1638, for Andrew Crooke, agreeing precisely with the sixth; and in 1650 the _eighth_. A copy of the latter is in the curious library of Mr. Hill, and, as Mr. Park acquaints me, is without any specific edition numbered in the title. I omit that noticed by the editor of 1732, as printed in 1664, for if such a volume did exist, which I much doubt, it was nothing more than a copy of the eighth with a new title-page. In 1732 appeared the _ninth_, which was a reprint of the _sixth_, executed with care and judgment. I have endeavoured in vain to discover to whom we are indebted for this republication of bishop Earle's curious volume, but it is probable that the person who undertook it, found so little encouragement in his attempt to revive a taste for the productions of our early writers, that he suffered his name to remain unknown. Certain it is that the impression, probably not a large one, did not sell speedily, as I have seen a copy, bearing date 1740, under the name of "_The World display'd: or several Essays; consisting of the various Characters and Passions of its principal Inhabitants_," &c. London, printed for C. Ward, and R. Chandler. The edition printed at Salisbury, in 1786, (which has only seventy-four characters,) with that now offered to the public, close the list. FOOTNOTES: [AQ] Having never seen or been able to hear of any copy of the second, third, or fourth editions, I am unable to point out when the additional characters first appeared. [AR] Robert Allot, better known as the editor of _England's Parnassus_, appears to have succeeded Blount in several of his copy-rights, among others, in that of Shakspeare, as the second edition (1632) was printed for him. CONTENTS. PAGE _Preface
the prosecution would marshal and present them. A man had been shot. On the table lay a pistol with one empty "hull" in its chamber. The woman was the dead man's wife, not long since a bride and shortly to become the mother of his child. If she had been the murdered man's deadly enemy why had she not left him; why had she not complained? But the brother had been heard to threaten the husband only a day or two since. He was in the dead man's house, after being forbidden to shadow its threshold. "Hell!" cried Thornton aloud. "Ef I stayed she'd hev ter come inter C'ote an' sw'ar either fer me or ergin me--an' like es not, she'd break down an' confess. Anyhow, ef they put her in ther jail-house I reckon ther child would hev hits bornin' thar. Hell--no!" He turned once more to gaze on the vague cone of a mountain that stood uplifted above its fellows far behind him. He had started his journey at its base. Then he looked westward where ridge after ridge, emerging now into full summer greenery, went off in endless billows to the sky, and he went down the slope toward the river on whose other side he was to become another man. Kenneth Thornton was pushing his way West, the quarry of a man-hunt, but long before him another Kenneth Thornton had come from Virginia to Kentucky, an ancestor so far lost in the mists of antiquity that his descendant had never heard of him; and that man, too, had been making a sacrifice. CHAPTER II Sprung from a race which had gone to seed like plants in a long-abandoned garden, once splendid and vigorous, old Caleb Harper was a patriarchal figure nearing the sunset of his life. His forebears had been mountaineers of the Kentucky Cumberlands since the vanguard of white life had ventured westward from the seaboard. From pioneers who had led the march of progress that stock had relapsed into the decay of mountain-hedged isolation and feudal lawlessness, but here and there among the wastage, like survivors over the weed-choked garden of neglect, emerged such exceptions as Old Caleb; paradoxes of rudeness and dignity, of bigotry and nobility. Caleb's house stood on the rising ground above the river, a substantial structure grown by occasional additions from the nucleus that his ancestor Caleb Parish had founded in revolutionary times, and it marked a contrast with its less provident neighbours. Many cabins scattered along these slopes were dismal and makeshift abodes which appeared to proclaim the despair and squalor of their builders and occupants. Just now a young girl stood in the large unfurnished room that served the house as an attic--and she held a folded paper in her hand. She had drawn out of its dusty corner a small and quaintly shaped horsehide trunk upon which, in spots, the hair still adhered. The storage-room that could furnish forth its mate must be one whose proprietors held inviolate relics of long-gone days, for its like has not been made since the life of America was slenderly strung along the Atlantic seaboard and the bison ranged about his salt licks east of the Mississippi. Into the lock the girl fitted a cumbersome brass key and then for a long minute she stood there breathing the forenoon air that eddied in currents of fresh warmth. The June sunlight came, too, in a golden flood and the soft radiance of it played upon her hair and cheeks. Outside, almost brushing the eaves with the plumes of its farthest flung branches, stood a gigantic walnut tree whose fresh leafage filtered a mottling of sunlight upon the age-tempered walls. The girl herself, in her red dress, was slim and colourful enough and dewy-fresh enough to endure the searching illumination of the June morning. Dark hair crowned the head that she threw back to gaze upward into the venerable branches of the tree, and her eyes were as dark as her hair and as deep as a soft night sky. Over beetling summits and sunlit valley the girl's glance went lightly and contentedly, but when it came back to nearer distances it dwelt with an absorbed tenderness on the gnarled old veteran of storm-tested generations that stood there before the house: the walnut which the people of her family had always called the "roof tree" because some fanciful grandmother had so named it in the long ago. "I reckon ye're safe now, old roof tree," she murmured, for to her the tree was human enough to deserve actual address, and as she spoke she sighed as one sighs who is relieved of an old anxiety. Then, recalled to the mission that had brought her here, she thought of the folded paper that she held in her hand. So she drew the ancient trunk nearer to the window and lifted its cover. It was full of things so old that she paused reverently before handling them. Once the grandmother who had died when she was still a small child had allowed her to glimpse some of these ancient treasures but memory was vague as to their character. Both father and mother were shadowy and half-mythical beings of hearsay to her, because just before her birth her father had been murdered from ambush. The mother had survived him only long enough to bring her baby into the world and then die broken-hearted because the child was not a boy whom she might suckle from the hatred in her own breast and rear as a zealot dedicated to avenging his father. The chest had always held for this girl intriguing possibilities of exploration which had never been satisfied. The gentle grandfather had withheld the key until she should be old enough to treat with respect those sentimental odds and ends which his women-folk had held sacred, and when the girl herself had "grown up"--she was eighteen now--some whimsey of clinging to the illusions and delights of anticipation had stayed her and held the curb upon her curiosity. Once opened the old trunk would no longer beckon with its mystery, and in this isolated life mysteries must not be lightly wasted. But this morning old Caleb Harper had prosaically settled the question for her. He had put that paper into her hand before he went over the ridge to the cornfield with his mule and plow. "Thet thar paper's right p'intedly valuable, leetle gal," he had told her. "I wants ye ter put hit away safe somewhars." He had paused there and then added reflectively, "I reckon ther handiest place would be in ther old horsehide chist thet our fore-parents fetched over ther mountings from Virginny." She had asked no questions about the paper itself because, to her, the opening of the trunk was more important, but she heard the old man explaining, unasked: "I've done paid off what I owes Bas Rowlett an' thet paper's a full receipt. I knows right well he's my trusty friend, an' hit's my notion thet he's got his hopes of bein' even more'n thet ter _you_--but still a debt sets mighty heavy on me, be hit ter friend or foe, an' hit pleasures me thet hit's sottled." The girl passed diplomatically over the allusion to herself and the elder's expression of favour for a particular suitor, but without words she had made the mental reservation: "Bas Rowlett's brash and uppety enough withouten us bein' beholden ter him fer no money debt. Like as not he'll be more humble-like a'tter this when he comes a-sparkin'." Now she sat on a heavy cross-beam and looked down upon the packed contents while into her nostrils crept subtly the odour of old herbs and spicy defences against moth and mould which had been renewed from time to time through the lagging decades until her own day. First, there came out a soft package wrapped in a threadbare shawl and carefully bound with home-twisted twine and this she deposited on her knees and began to unfasten with trembling fingers of expectancy. When she had opened up the thing she rose eagerly and shook out a gown that was as brittle and sere as a leaf in autumn and that rustled frigidly as the stiffened folds straightened. "I'll wager now, hit war a _weddin'_ dress," she exclaimed as she held it excitedly up to the light and appraised the fineness of the ancient silk with eyes more accustomed to homespun. Then came something flat that fell rustling to the floor and spread into a sheaf of paper bound between home-made covers of cloth, but when the girl opened the improvised book, with the presentiment that here was the message out of the past that would explain the rest, she knitted her brows and sat studying it in perplexed engrossment. The ink had rusted, in the six score years and more since its inscribing, to a reddish faintness which shrank dimly and without contrast into the darkened background, yet difficulties only whetted her discoverer's appetite, so that when, after an hour, she had studied out the beginning of the document, she was deep in a world of romance-freighted history. Here was a journal written by a woman in the brave and tragic days of the nation's birth. That part which she was now reading seemed to be a sort of preamble to the rest, and before the girl had progressed far she found a sentence which, for her, infused life and the warmth of intimacy into the document. "It may be that God in His goodenesse will call me to His house which is in Heaven before I have fully written ye matters which I would sett downe in this journall," began the record. "Since I can not tell whether or not I shall survive ye cominge of that new life upon which all my thoughtes are sett and shoulde such judgement be His Wille, I want that ye deare childe shall have this recorde of ye days its father and I spent here in these forest hills so remote from ye sea and ye rivers of our deare Virginia, and ye gentle refinements we put behind us to become pioneers." There was something else there that she could not make out because of its blurring, and she wondered if the blotted pages had been moistened by tears as well as ink, but soon she deciphered this unusual statement. "Much will be founde in this journall, touching ye tree which I planted in ye first dayes and which we have named ye roofe tree after a fancy of my owne. I have ye strong faithe that whilst that tree stands and growes stronge and weathers ye thunder and wind and is revered, ye stem and branches of our family also will waxe stronge and robust, but that when it falls, likewise will disaster fall upon our house." One thing became at once outstandingly certain to the unsophisticated reader. This place in the days of its founding had been an abode of love unshaken by perils, for of the man who had been its head she found such a portrait as love alone could have painted. He was described as to the modelling of his features, the light and expression of his eyes; the way his dark hair fell over his "broade browe"--even the cleft of his chin was mentioned. That fondly inspired pen paused in its narrative of incredible adventures and more than Spartan hardships to assure the future reader that, "ye peale of his laugh was as clear and tuneful as ye fox horn with which our Virginia gentry were wont to go afield with horse and hound." There had possibly been a touch of wistfulness in that mention of a renounced life of greater affluence and pleasure for hard upon it followed the observation: "Here, where our faces are graven with anxieties that besette our waking and sleeping, it seemeth that most men have forgotten ye very fashion of laughter. Joy seemes killed out of them, as by a bitter frost, yet _he_ hath ever kept ye clear peale of merriment in his voice and its flash in his eye and ye smile that showes his white teeth." Somehow the girl seemed to see that face as though it had a more direct presentment before her eyes than this faded portraiture of words penned by a hand long ago dead. He must have been, she romantically reflected, a handsome figure of a man. Then naïvely the writer had passed on to a second description: "If I have any favour of comeliness it can matter naught to me save as it giveth pleasure to my deare husbande, yet I shall endeavour to sette downe truly my own appearance alsoe." The girl read and re-read the description of this ancestress, then gasped. "Why, hit mout be _me_ she was a-writin' erbout," she murmured, "save only I hain't purty." In that demure assertion she failed of justice to herself, but her eyes were sparkling. She knew that hereabout in this rude world of hers her people were accounted both godly and worthy of respect, but after all it was a drab and poverty-ridden world with slow and torpid pulses of being. Here, she found, in indisputable proof, the record of her "fore-parents". Once they, too, had been ladies and gentlemen familiar with elegant ways and circumstances as vague to her as fable. Henceforth when she boasted that hers were "ther best folk in ther world" she would speak not in empty defiance but in full confidence! But as she rose at length from her revery she wondered if after all she had not been actually dreaming, because a sound had come to her ears that was unfamiliar and that seemed of a piece with her reading. It was the laugh of a man, and its peal was as clear and as merry as the note of a fox horn. The girl was speedily at the window looking out, and there by the roadside stood her grandfather in conversation with a stranger. He was a tall young man and though plainly a mountaineer there was a declaration of something distinct in the character of his clothing and the easy grace of his bearing. Instead of the jeans overalls and the coatless shoulders to which she was accustomed, she saw a white shirt and a dark coat, dust-stained and travel-soiled, yet proclaiming a certain predilection toward personal neatness. The traveller had taken off his black felt hat as he talked and his black hair fell in a long lock over his broad, low forehead. He was smiling, too, and she caught the flash of white teeth and even--since the distance was short--the deep cleft of his firm chin. Framed there at the window the girl caught her hands to her breast and exclaimed in a stifled whisper, "Land o' Canaan! He's jest walked spang outen them written pages--he's ther spittin' image of that man my dead and gone great-great-great-gran'-mammy married." It was at that instant that the young man looked up and for a moment their eyes met. The stranger's words halted midway in their utterance and his lips remained for a moment parted, then he recovered his conversational balance and carried forward his talk with the gray-beard. The girl drew back into the shadow, but she stood watching until he had gone and the bend in the road hid him. Then she placed the receipt that had brought her to the attic in the old manuscript, marking the place where her reading had been interrupted, and after locking the trunk ran lightly down the stairs. "Gran'pap," she breathlessly demanded, "I seed ye a-talkin' with a stranger out thar. Did ye find out who _is_ he?" "He give ther name of Cal Maggard," answered the old man, casually, as he crumbled leaf tobacco into his pipe. "He lows he's going ter dwell in ther old Burrell Thornton house over on ther nigh spur of Defeated Creek." * * * * * That night while the patriarch dozed in his hickory withed chair with his pipe drooping from his wrinkled lips his granddaughter slipped quietly out of the house and went over to the tree. Out there magic was making under an early summer moon that clothed the peaks in silvery softness and painted shadows of cobalt in the hollows. The river flashed its response and crooned its lullaby, and like children answering the maternal voice, the frogs gave chorus and the whippoorwills called plaintively from the woods. The branches of the great walnut were etched against a sky that would have been bright with stars were it not that the moon paled them, and she gazed up with a hand resting lightly on the broad-girthed bole of the stalwart veteran. Often she had wondered why she loved this particular tree so much. It had always seemed to her a companion, a guardian, a personality, when its innumerable fellows in the forest were--nothing but trees. Now she knew. She had only failed to understand the language with which it had spoken to her from childhood, and all the while, when the wind had made every leaf a whispering tongue, it had been trying to tell her many ancient stories. "I knows, now, old roof tree," she murmured. "I've done found out erbout ye," and her hand patted the close-knit bark. Then, in the subtle influence of the moonlight and the night that awoke all the young fires of dreaming, she half closed her eyes and seemed to see a woman who looked like herself yet who--in the phantasy of that moment--was arrayed in a gown of silk and small satin slippers, looking up into the eyes of a man whose hair was dark and whose chin was cleft and whose smile flashed upon white teeth. Only as the dream took hold upon her its spirit changed and the other woman seemed to be herself and the man seemed to be the one whom she had glimpsed to-day. Then her reveries were broken. In the shallow water of the ford down at the river splashed a horse's hoofs and she heard a voice singing in the weird falsetto of mountain minstrelsy an old ballade which, like much else of the life there, was a heritage from other times. So the girl brushed an impatient hand over rudely awakened eyes and turned back to the door, knowing that Bas Rowlett had come sparking. CHAPTER III It was a distraite maiden who greeted the visiting swain that night and one so inattentive to his wooing that his silences became long, under discouragement, and his temper sullen. Earlier than was his custom he bade her good-night and took himself moodily away. Then Dorothy Harper kindled a lamp and hastened to the attic where she sat with her head bowed over the old diary while the house, save for herself, slept and the moon rode down toward the west. Often her eyes wandered away from the bone-yellow pages of the ancient document and grew pensive in dreamy meditation. This record was opening, for her, the door of intimately wrought history upon the past of her family and her nation when both had been in their bravest youth. She did not read it all nor even a substantial part of it because between scraps of difficult perusal came long and alluring intervals of easy revery. Had she followed its sequence more steadily many things would have been made manifest to her which she only came to know later, paying for the knowledge with a usury of experience and suffering. Yet since that old diary not only set out essential matters in the lives of her ancestors but also things integral and germane to her own life and that of the stranger who had to-day laughed in the road, it may be as well to take note of its contents. The quaint phrasing of the writer may be discarded and only the substance which concerned her narrative taken into account, for her sheaf of yellow pages was a door upon the remote reaches of the past, yet a past which this girl was not to find a thing ended and buried but rather a ghost that still walked and held a continuing dominion. In those far-off days when the Crown still governed us there had stood in Virginia a manor house built of brick brought overseas from England. In it Colonel John Parish lived as had his father, and in it he died in those stirring times of a nation's painful birth. He had been old and stubborn and his emotions were so mixed between conflicting loyalties that the pain of his hard choice hastened his end. Tradition tells that, on his deathbed, his emaciated hand clutched at a letter from Washington himself, but that just at the final moment his eyes turned toward the portrait of the King which still hung above his mantel shelf, and that his lips shaped reverent sentiments as he died. Later that same day his two sons met in the wainscoted room hallowed by their father's books and filled with his lingering spirit--a library noted in a land where books were still few enough to distinguish their owner. Between them, even in this hour of common bereavement, stood a coolness, an embarrassment which must be faced when two men, bound by blood, yet parted by an unconfessed feud, arrive at the parting of their ways. Though he had been true to every requirement of honour and punctilio, John the elder had never entirely recovered from the wound he had suffered when Dorothy Calmer had chosen his younger brother Caleb instead of himself. He had indeed never quite been able to forgive it. "So soon as my father has been laid to rest, I purpose to repair to Mount Vernon," came the thoughtful words of the younger brother as their interview, which had been studiedly courteous but devoid of warmth ended, and the elder halted, turning on the threshold to listen. "There was, as you may recall, a message in General Washington's letter to my father indicating that an enterprise of moment awaited my undertaking," went on Caleb. "I should be remiss if I failed of prompt response." * * * * * Kentucky! Until the fever of war with Great Britain had heated man's blood to the exclusion of all else Virginia had rung with that name. La Salle had ventured there in the century before, seeking a mythical river running west to China. Boone and the Long Hunters had trod the trails of mystery and brought back corroborative tales of wonder and Ophir richness. Of these things, General Washington and Captain Caleb Parish were talking on a day when the summer afternoon held its breath in hot and fragrant stillness over the house at Mount Vernon. On a map the general indicated the southward running ranges of the Alleghanies, and the hinterland of wilderness. "Beyond that line," he said, gravely, "lies the future! Those who have already dared the western trails and struck their roots into the soil must not be deserted, sir. They are fiercely self-reliant and liberty-loving, but if they be not sustained we risk their loyalty and our back doors will be thrown open to defeat." Parish bowed. "And I, sir," he questioned, "am to stand guard in these forests?" George Washington swept out his hand in a gesture of reluctant affirmation. "Behind the mountains our settlers face a long purgatory of peril and privation, Captain Parish," came the sober response. "Without powder, lead, and salt, they cannot live. The ways must be held open. Communication must remain intact. Forts must be maintained--and the two paths are here--and here." His finger indicated the headwaters of the Ohio and the ink-marked spot where the steep ridges broke at Cumberland Gap. Parish's eyes narrowed painfully as he stood looking over the stretches of Washington's estate. The vista typified many well-beloved things that he was being called upon to leave behind him--ordered acres, books, the human contacts of kindred association. It was when he thought of his young wife and his daughter that he flinched. 'Twould go hard with them, who had been gently nurtured. "Do women and children go, too?" inquired Parish, brusquely. "There are women and children there," came the swift reply. "We seek to lay foundations of permanence and without the family we build on quicksand." * * * * * Endless barriers of wilderness peaks rose sheer and forbidding about a valley through which a narrow river flashed its thin loop of water. Down the steep slopes from a rain-darkened sky hung ragged fringes of cloud-streamer and fog-wraith. Toward a settlement, somewhere westward through the forest, a drenched and travel-sore cortège was plodding outward. A handful of lean and briar-infested cattle stumbled in advance, yet themselves preceded by a vanguard of scouting riflemen, and back of the beef-animals came ponies, galled of wither and lean of rib under long-borne pack saddles. Behind lay memories of hard and seemingly endless journeying, of alarms, of discouragement. Ahead lay a precarious future--and the wilderness. The two Dorothys, Captain Caleb Parish's wife and daughter, were ending their journey on foot, for upon them lay the duties of example and _noblesse oblige_--but the prideful tilt of their chins was maintained with an ache of effort, and when the cortège halted that the beasts might blow, Caleb Parish hastened back from his place at the front to his wife and daughter. "It's not far now," he encouraged. "To-night, at least, we shall sleep behind walls--even though they be only those of a block-house--and under a roof tree." Both of them smiled at him--yet in his self-accusing heart he wondered whether the wife whose fortitude he was so severely taxing would not have done better to choose his brother. While the halted outfit stood relaxed, there sounded through the immense voicelessness of the wilderness a long-drawn, far-carrying shout, at which the more timid women started flutteringly, but which the vanguard recognized and answered, and a moment later there appeared on the ledge of an overhanging cliff the lithe, straight figure of a boy. He stood statuesquely upright, waving his coonskin cap, and between his long deerskin leggins and breech clout the flesh of his slim legs showed bare, almost as bronze-dark as that of an Indian. "That is our herald of welcome," smiled Caleb Parish. "It's young Peter Doane--the youngest man we brought with us--and one of our staunchest as well. You remember him, don't you, child?" The younger Dorothy at first shook her head perplexedly and sought to recall this youthful frontiersman; then a flash of recognition broke over her face. "He's the boy that lived on the woods farm, isn't he? His father was Lige Doane of the forest, wasn't he?' "And still is." Caleb repressed his smile and spoke gravely, for he caught the unconscious note of condescension with which the girl used the term of class distinction. "Only here in Kentucky, child, it is as well to forget social grades and remember that we be all'men of the forest.' We are all freemen and we know no other scale." * * * * * That fall, when the mountains were painted giants, magnificently glorified from the brush and palette of the frost; when the first crops had been gathered, a spirit of festivity and cheer descended on the block-houses of Fort Parish. Then into the outlying cabins emboldened spirits began moving in escape from the cramp of stockade life. Against the palisades of Wautaga besieging red men had struck and been thrown back. Cheering tidings had come of Colonel William Christian's expedition against the Indian towns. The Otari, or hill warriors, had set their feet into the out-trail of flight and acknowledged the chagrin of defeat, all except Dragging Canoe, the ablest and most implacable of their chiefs who, sullenly refusing to smoke the pipe, had drawn far away to the south, to sulk out his wrath and await more promising auspices. Then Caleb Parish's log house had risen by the river bank a half mile distant from the stockade, and more and more he came to rely on the one soul in his little garrison whose life seemed talisman-guarded and whose woodcraft was a sublimation of instinct and acquired lore which even the young braves of the Otari envied. Young Peter Doane, son of "Lige Doane of the forest," and not yet a man in years, came and went through the wilderness as surely and fleetly as the wild things, and more than once he returned with a scalp at his belt--for in those days the whites learned warfare from their foes and accepted their rules. The little community nodded approving heads and asked no questions. It learned valuable things because of Peter's adventurings. But when he dropped back after a moon of absence, it was always to Caleb Parish's hearth-stone that Peter carried his report. It was over Caleb Parish's fire that he smoked his silent pipe, and it was upon Caleb Parish's little daughter that he bent his silently adoring glances. Dorothy would sit silent with lowered lashes while she dutifully sought to banish aloofness and the condescension which still lingered in her heart--and the months rounded into seasons. The time of famine long known as the "hard winter" came. The salt gave out, the powder and lead were perilously low. The "traces" to and through the Wilderness road were snow-blocked or slimy with intermittent thaws, and the elder Dorothy Parish fell ill. Learned physicians might have found and reached the cause of her malady--but there were no such physicians. Perhaps the longings that she repressed and the loneliness that she hid under her smile were costing her too dearly in their levies upon strength and vitality. She, who had been always fearless, became prey to a hundred unconfessed dreads. She feared for her husband, and with a frenzy of terror for her daughter. She woke trembling out of atrocious nightmares. She was wasting to a shadow, and always pretending that the life was what she would have chosen. It was on a bitter night after a day of blizzard and sleet. Caleb Parish sat before his fire, and his eyes went constantly to the bed where his wife lay half-conscious and to the seated figure of the tirelessly watchful daughter. Softly against the window sounded a guarded rap. The man looked quickly up and inclined his ear. Again it came with the four successive taps to which every pioneer had trained himself to waken, wide-eyed, out of his most exhausted sleep. Caleb Parish strode to the door and opened it cautiously. Out of the night, shaking the snow from his buckskin hunting shirt, stepped Peter Doane with his stoical face fatigue drawn as he eased down a bulky pack from galled shoulders. "Injins," he said, crisply. "Get your women inside the fort right speedily!" The young man slipped again into the darkness, and Parish, lifting the half-conscious figure from the bed, wrapped it in a bear-skin rug and carried it out into the sleety bluster. That night spent itself through a tensity of waiting until dawn. When the east grew a bit pale, Caleb Parish returned from his varied duties and laid a hand on his wife's forehead to find it fever-hot. The woman opened her eyes and essayed a smile, but at the same moment there rode piercingly through the still air the long and hideous challenge of a war-whoop. Dorothy Parish, the elder, flinched as though under a blow and a look of horror stamped itself on her face that remained when she had died. * * * * * Spring again--and a fitful period of peace--but peace with disquieting rumours. Word came out of the North of mighty preparations among the Six Nations and up from the South sped the report that Dragging Canoe had laid aside his mantle of sullen mourning and painted his face for war. Dorothy Parish, the wife, had been buried before the cabin built by the river bank, and Dorothy, the daughter, kept house for the father whom these months had aged out of all resemblance to the former self in knee breeches and powdered wig with lips that broke quickly into smiling. And Peter, watching the bud of Dorothy's childhood swell to the slim charms of girlhood, held his own counsel and worshipped her dumbly. Perhaps he remembered the gulf that had separated his father's log cabin from her uncle's manor house in the old Virginia days, but of these things no one spoke in Kentucky. Three years had passed, and along the wilderness road was swelling a fuller tide of emigration, hot with the fever of the west. Meeting it in counter-current went the opposite flow of the faint-hearted who sought only to put behind them the memory of hardship and suffering--but that was a light and negligible back-wash from an onsweeping wave. Caleb Parish smiled grimly. This spelled the beginning of success. The battle was not over--his own work was far from ended--but substantial victory had been won over wilderness and savage. The back doors of a young nation had suffered assault and had held secure. Stories drifted in nowadays of the great future of the more fertile tablelands to the west, but Caleb Parish had been stationed here and had not been relieved. The pack train upon which the little community depended for needed supplies had been long overdue, and at Caleb's side as he stood in front of his house looking anxiously east was his daughter Dorothy, grown tall and pliantly straight as a lifted lance. Her dark eyes and heavy hair, the poise of her head, her gracious sweetness and gentle courage were, to her father, all powerful reminders of the woman whom he had loved first and last--this girl's mother. For a moment he turned away his head. "Some day," he said, abruptly, "if Providence permits it, I purpose to set a fitting stone here at her head." "Meanwhile--if we can't raise a stone," the girl's voice came soft and vibrant, "we can do something else. We can plant a tree." "A tree!" exclaimed the man, almost irritably. "It sometimes seems to me that we are being strangled to death by trees! They conceal our enemies--they choke us under their blankets of wet and shadow." But Dorothy shook her head in resolute dissent. "Those are just trees of the forest," she said, whimsically reverting to the old class distinction. "This will be a manor-house tree planted and tended by loving hands. It will throw shade over a sacred spot." Her eyes began to glow with the growth of her conception. "Don't you remember how dearly Mother loved the great walnut tree that shaded the veranda at home? She would sit gazing out over the river, then up into its branches--dreaming happy things. She used to tell me that she found my fairy stories there among its leaves--and there was always a smile on her lips then." The spring was abundantly young and where the distances lengthened they lay in violet dreams. "Don't you remember?" repeated the girl, but Caleb Parish looked suddenly away. His ear had caught a distant sound of tinkling pony bells drifting down wind and he said devoutly, "Thank God, the pack train is coming." It was an hour later when the loaded horses came into view herded by fagged woodsmen and piloted by Peter Doane, who strode silently, tirelessly, at their head. But with Peter walked another young man of different stamp--a young man who had never been here before. Like his fellows he wore the backwoodsman's garb, but unlike them his tan was of newer wind-burning. Unlike them, too, he bowed with a ceremony foreign to the wilderness and swept his coonskin cap clear of his head. "This man," announced Peter, brusquely, "gives the name of Kenneth Thornton and hears a message for Captain Parish!" The young stranger smiled, and his engaging face was quickened with the flash of white teeth. A dark lock of hair fell over his forehead and his firm chin was deeply cleft. "I have the honour of bearing a letter from your brother, Sir," he said, "and one from General Washington himself." Peter Doane looked on, and when he saw Dorothy's eyes encounter those of the stranger and her lashes droop and her cheeks flush pink, he turned on his
had escaped. Perhaps because they were standing guard over valuable stores at West Point and elsewhere, perhaps because the mustering-out officer ran short of blank forms--for some unexplained reason one company survived. This single company constituted the entire U. S. army in 1784. This one company is the only military organization in America having continuous existence, which antedates the Massachusetts Coast Artillery. Moreover the situation was only slightly better later. In 1787 there were only 1,200 regulars, in 1798, 2,100, and at the opening of the Civil War, with a national area almost equal to the present, less than 10,000. Were not Gen. Heath and the Roxbury men justified in taking steps to strengthen the forces of government? If we may now resume the narrative, we note that the Dorchester Artillery, the 4th Company, was organized in 1786. Material was preparing out of which the future regiment might be built. 1786 and 1787 were years of threatening and storm in Massachusetts. In consequence of the war, people found themselves burdened with debts and taxes. They complained that the Governor’s salary was too high, the senate aristocratic, the lawyers extortionate, and that the courts were instruments of oppression, especially in the collection of debts. By way of remedy they demanded the removal of the General Court from Boston, the relief of debtors, and the issue of a large amount of paper money. Daniel Shays, an ex-captain of the Continental army, placed himself at the head of a movement to secure these ends by force, and his effort has come down thru history as “Shays’ rebellion.” In December, 1786, he appeared at Springfield with one thousand insurgents, resolved to break up the session of the supreme court. After forcing the adjournment of the session, the insurgents directed an attack against the arsenal in Springfield. Meanwhile the State government had sent Gen. Benjamin Lincoln, at the head of four thousand militia, amongst whom were included our artillery companies, to suppress the disorder; and on Jan. 25, 1787,--six days after leaving Boston,--the troops arrived in season to beat off the insurgent attack. Shays and his followers were pursued as far as Petersham, where on Feb. 9 all armed resistance was crushed out and the insurgents captured or dispersed. Since there was such abundant ground for this discontent, it is pleasing to know that the “rebels” were all pardoned, and Shays himself finally awarded a pension for his Revolutionary services. Improved economic conditions due to the new Federal constitution soon removed all danger of such disorder in the future. Please note, however, that winter campaigning in western Massachusetts is by no means an attractive holiday experience, and that the members of the command who engaged in this, the first, active service, manifested the same plucky devotion to duty as has characterized them ever since. When in 1788 the new United States constitution was ratified, Boston felt moved to celebrate the event. Gen. Benjamin Lincoln, who commanded the train-band division in the city, investigated and found that he had eight uniformed companies amongst his militia organizations. So the eight were directed to parade. The Dorchester Artillery were not present; but the Roxbury and Boston companies had prominent places in the procession. There were three other companies present, infantry companies, which would have interested anyone gifted with prophetic foresight. For just ninety years from that time, the three infantry companies were destined to unite with the two artillery in forming the 1st Regiment of today. Meanwhile, unconscious of the future, they are all parading in honor of the new Federal government; watch them. Grave, dignified men they are. And no wonder; for they are the social and political leaders of Boston-town. No one could hope for election to office in those days unless he had “done his bit” in the militia. They wore the Continental uniform, with cocked hats, blue coats having ample skirts, and white knickerbockers. In their movements they were majestic, slow, deliberate; seventy-five steps per minute were considered amply sufficient. It was not until 1891 that their hustling offspring completed the process of raising the military cadence to one hundred twenty per minute, with a pace thirty inches long. For weapons they carried smooth-bore flint-locks, which the dictionary tells us, were known as snaphaunces or “fusils,” whence we have the term, “fusiliers.” The musket was furnished by the State, and was the only part of the equipment so provided. Never mind if they were not very deadly,--they at least looked formidable. Our artillery companies drew their cannon from the “gun-house” on the common; contrast this rough shed with the South Armory of today! After the martial exhibition was concluded, our forefathers betook themselves to the “Green Dragon,” or the “Bunch of Grapes,” or the “Exchange Coffee House” where coffee was by no means the limit, or some other popular tavern, for the military exercises which constituted the climax of the entire day. A clear distinction existed between militia and volunteers in the foot branch of the service, the volunteers being designated fusiliers or grenadiers or light infantry or rifles or cadets, and the militia being known as infantry. But the distinction was obscured in the “train of artillery.” So much of technical qualification was required of the artilleryman and cavalryman that all companies of such troops had to meet the higher military standards of volunteers and were so classified. In such rosters as existed, it was customary to print the names of company officers of artillery and cavalry, while such lists included only field officers in foot commands. First mention of a battalion of artillery appears in the roster of the 1st division for 1790, when the four companies in Boston, Dorchester, Middlesex and Roxbury are so designated. No field officer had yet been commissioned. This is the beginning of the Coast Artillery, the battalion and regimental organization having continued in unbroken existence from 1789 to the present time. While under every militia law ever adopted by Congress, not only the 1st Company but also the command as a larger unit might claim “ancient privileges” on the ground of continuous organization thruout these decades, it is just and right to state that the pride of the “Old First” has always been not to claim any privilege at all, except that of serving wherever and however it could be of the most use. At this date no battalion organization existed amongst the volunteer foot companies, each being an “independent” divisionary corps of infantry. October, 1789, our companies were again in line, this time to receive and escort the President of the United States, George Washington. In October, 1793, a sadder duty summoned them forth. John Hancock, patriot, signer of the declaration of independence, Governor of Massachusetts, and President of the Continental Congress, had finished his long and noble career and gone to his rest. Boston loved and honored its chief citizen; the funeral parade, in which our companies participated, was an expression of heart-felt grief. The companies were again called out on July 4th, 1795, to help lay the corner-stone of the new State-house, the famous “Bulfinch front.” War clouds began to darken the political sky in 1794, war clouds generated by the titanic struggle between the French and their enemies thruout Europe. Controversies had been going on between us and both parties to the great European conflict; now this particular danger threatened from the French side. Altho most Americans had sympathized with the French in their revolutionary struggle, had worn tri-colored cockades and clamored for a French alliance, now French colors disappeared from view, men wore black, and “Hail Columbia,” with “independence” for its “boast,” became the popular song. As soon as America found itself involved in the threatened storm, Congress began to take measures for defence and turned its attention to the militia. It is only in war-time that Congress can be induced to notice the citizen-soldiers. A law was passed May 9, 1794, directing the states to organize active regiments of militia and to prepare for eventualities. No action seems to have resulted from this first legislation; and as the foreign danger intensified, a second act was passed in 1797, aiming to render the former law effective. Following the classical preferences of the times, the U. S. army had been rechristened, in 1792, the “legion.” Each state must now organize a “legion” of its own. 80,000 was the figure set for the total strength of this force; and it is significant of Massachusetts’ relative standing that the Commonwealth was directed to furnish 11,885 of the total--more than any other state. Massachusetts, on June 6, 1794, directed commanders of train-band divisions to draft men from their brigades who should hold themselves in instant readiness for service, as the “minute-men” of 1775 had been selected and organized. The great prestige of George Washington, for he had consented to waive his seniority and to serve as Lieut.-General under Pres. Adams, helped to render this revival of the minute-men popular, and the fashionable designation of “legion” did not detract from its popularity. On August 22, 1797, a supplementary order was issued, directing that a special regiment of such “legionaries” should be formed from the militia of each division. The number of divisions having increased to ten, this called for ten regiments of active troops in Massachusetts and Maine. While the order ostensibly affected the entire Commonwealth, in point of fact the only legionaries ever organized were in Boston. Brig.-Gen. John Winslow, a soldier of energy and ability, in civil life a hardware dealer, was commissioned to command the “legionary brigade” of Boston, and during the ten years of his incumbency the legion was so vital a factor in the city’s military life that it became a fixture. Winslow’s legionary brigade was organized in 1799, just as the war scare subsided. It consisted of legionary cavalry (one troop), a sub-legion of light infantry made up of two independent companies (the Fusiliers and the Boston Light Infantry), and a sub-legion of artillery made up of the Boston and Columbian companies, now fully organized as a battalion under Maj. Daniel Wild. The Roxbury and Dorchester companies did not join the legion, and now completed a battalion organization under Maj. James Robinson and were designated the “Battalion of Artillery, 1st Brigade, 1st Division.” These two battalions, one within and the other without the legion, represent a splitting up of the 1789 battalion. On June 4, 1844, these two battalions, numbered 1st (the legionary) and 2d (the old 1st Brigade battalion) were to consolidate in the 5th Regiment of Artillery. The legionary brigade lasted as long as Gen. Winslow continued in command. Its cavalry, light infantry and artillery sections continued to thrive; and in 1802, under the energetic leadership of Lt. Col. Robert Gardner, succeeded in 1804 by Thomas Badger, a regiment, consisting of three sub-legions of infantry, each commanded by a major, came into existence. In the artillery sub-legion, Maj. Wild was succeeded by Maj. John Bray in 1803, and by Maj. O. Johonnot in 1805. Meanwhile the 1st Brigade battalion of artillery was commanded by Maj. Robinson. In 1808 Gen. Winslow retired; and in 1809 the legionary brigade was redesignated “3d Brigade, 1st Division.” Its three sub-legions of infantry became three infantry regiments, and these, as we shall see, contained companies destined later to form part of the Coast Artillery. The sub-legion of artillery became known as the “Battalion of Artillery, 3d Brigade,” commanded by Maj. Johonnot, in 1812 by Maj. Nathan Parker, and in 1813 by Maj. William Harris. Maj. James Robinson was succeeded as commander of the 1st Brigade battalion by Maj. John Robinson in 1812, and the latter in 1814 by Maj. Isaac Gale, formerly Captain of the Roxbury Artillery. The 3d Brigade rendered one distinguished service to the city of Boston--it brought out and maintained Asa Fillebrown as leader of the brigade band. The 3d Brigade continued to be the most prominent element in Boston’s militia until the reorganization of 1840. No doubt the French war-scare and the formation of the legionary brigade stimulated militia development in Massachusetts. The Columbian Artillery, the 6th Company, was organized June 17, 1798; and the Washington Artillery, the 7th Company, on May 29, 1810. Happily the war clouds dissolved without doing serious damage to America. Meanwhile the two battalions of artillery turned out to greet and receive President John Adams on the occasion of his visit to Boston. Between the years of 1810 and 1819 and intermittently until 1855, Massachusetts state rosters contain a curious entry, “The Soul of the Soldiery.” While one could scarcely guess the fact, this was a predecessor of the modern “training school” for officers, and was maintained by the non-commissioned officers of all companies connected with the Legionary or 3d Brigade. No wonder that the Massachusetts militia excelled the corresponding force in other states, with such a spirit stirring the breasts of the enlisted men. By 1812 America did find itself involved in actual war. Statesmen had been laboring, and laboring successfully, for nearly a score of years to keep us at peace with France. Meanwhile circumstances conspired to stir up hostilities with France’s great enemy; and almost before men could realize the possibility of such a thing, we were engaged in the second war with England. This is no place to discuss the cause of the struggle; Boston’s artillery companies shared the sentiment of their section and regretted the condition of affairs. The war was unpopular in New England. But the members of the artillery companies, being soldiers, did “not reason why” and did put themselves into an attitude of preparedness. Weeks ensued which men would be glad to forget. Regiments of regulars were enlisted in Boston and transported to the Canadian frontier as part of the successive invading forces. After the lapse of months word came back of American defeat, of the incompetence displayed by untrained American officers, of hundreds of British putting to flight thousands of Americans. Boston itself lay open to hostile attack, with fortifications mostly in ruins, and such as there were, ungarrisoned. Then came the naval victories won by our gallant frigates, and Massachusetts breathed more freely. The enthusiasm which was craving an opportunity for expression found vent in ovations to victorious sailors. During the first two years of hostilities no attack was made against the New England coast, and we now know that England deliberately refrained because of the friendly sentiments of the New England people. The year 1814 brought a great change in the situation. England had downed Napoleon, and was at liberty to employ her mammoth resources in dealing with enemies elsewhere. Massachusetts, because it was part of America, and more particularly because its harbors served as a base of operations for the American navy, was to feel the consequences of war. Invasion commenced in Maine and threatened to roll southward down the coast; immunity was at an end; and an attack was actually made on Gloucester. Gov. Caleb Strong waited as long as he dared, expecting the Federal Government to take the steps necessary for defending our coast. When it finally became evident that Washington had its hands full elsewhere and could do nothing for Boston, Gov. Strong acted. As the service was to be guard duty and the erecting of fortifications, and was likely to continue thru an indefinite number of months, larger units of the militia were not called out as such. No regiment went as a whole. It seemed better to draft companies, platoons, and even squads. A guard was maintained at Chelsea bridge to keep off raiding parties. After Sept. 8, 1814, all militia organizations were held in readiness; and between that date and November, when the British fleet finally sailed away, every member of the five artillery companies gave some weeks to active service. Fort Independence on Castle Island and Fort Warren on Governor’s Island, small works of brick and earth, constituted Boston’s principal defences; these were garrisoned, and put in repair. How tremendously modern ordnance out-ranges that of a century ago! The present Fort Warren, on Georges Island, erected in 1850, is today not nearly far enough from the city it defends, not far enough out at sea; neither is its armament as long-ranged as it should be. Yet contrasted with the earlier Fort Warren, it is very remote from Boston, and is armed with guns able to do execution at almost infinite distance. The Commonwealth added to the defences of the harbor; land was purchased on Jeffries Point, East Boston, and another fort erected to support Independence and Warren. The legislature, out of compliment to the Governor, named the new work Fort Strong. Here too one must be careful not to confuse the old fort with that of the same name today on Long Island. Historians agree in pronouncing the militia a failure in the second war with England. It must be confessed that there is much ground for such a verdict; in fact, the regular army was also, for the most part, a sad failure in the same war. But in all fairness an exception should be made of the Massachusetts militia which manned the coast defences of Boston and kept the British fleet outside the harbors of the state. The Roxbury Artillerymen and their comrades in sister companies were prompt in responding, efficient in “digging” and other military labor, and entirely vigilant in guard duty. Their service in 1814 goes far to render the name of militia honorable. One moment of relaxation came during the war when the battalions paraded in Boston as escort to President James Madison. The year 1815 marked a turning point in American military history, and the artillery companies of Boston felt its influence. Danger from foreign foes was at an end; the Indians were then so far to the westward as no longer to be a serious menace. America felt free to enter upon a career of peaceful conquest--and to get rich. It is fair to note that England also began a similar stage at the same time; perhaps there was some reflex influence exerted by the mother country. The first symptom of the change was the decay of the train-band. Whereas militia service had hitherto been regarded seriously, as the most important duty of citizenship, now men laughed at it. We begin to find reference to the “corn-stalk” militia. [Illustration: THE TRAIN-BAND, 1832. WHY IT WAS ABOLISHED] Decay was gnawing at the vitals of the train-band system. Ridiculous cartoons may be seen in the museum of the A. & H. Art. Co. (Matthews’ “Militia Folk” and others) showing what a farce the institution had become. Men attended muster in outrageously improper clothing, armed with sticks, pitchforks, or nothing at all, and obviously treated this aspect of their patriotic duty as a gigantic bit of buffoonery. Quarterly training or muster-day became an occasion more noted for the rum then consumed than for the drilling done. Early temperance societies recognized this state of affairs by including in their abstinence pledges an exception in favor of muster-day; it was not “intemperate” to be drunk then. In our forefathers’ opinion this gradual abandonment of compulsory universal military service was regarded as a mark of social progress. Will such be the ultimate verdict of history? Increased importance attached to the Roxbury Artillery and other volunteer companies as the train-band became increasingly inactive. Let us inspect them, bearing in mind that they are now the chief military reliance of the Commonwealth. Discipline, judged by modern standards, may not have been strict. Men came and went pretty much at will. But they had some discipline, while their fellow-citizens did not know what the word meant. No “basic course for officers” as yet existed, and it is a fact that the higher officers were apt to be chosen more for political than military reasons. As the rank increased, the military attainments were apt to diminish; but amongst the company officers were found many brave and skilful soldiers. Uniform fashions had been modified by the recent war--now companies wore the shako on the head, at first of leather and later of bearskin, the high buttoned swallow-tail coat, white webbing cross-belts with brass breast-plates, and long trousers. Each company had a distinctive uniform of its own, as different as possible from all others; and this diversity persisted even down until after the Civil War. It was a column of companies, and judging from appearances, of extremely “separate” companies, that paraded to escort and welcome Lafayette in April and again on August 30, 1824; and to lay the corner-stone of Bunker Hill monument in 1825; and to inter President John Adams in July, 1826; and for the funeral of Gov. William Eustis. An enthusiastic reception was accorded by these companies to President Andrew Jackson, June 24, 1833. These soldiers may not have been as efficient as modern troops must be; but they made a splendid appearance on parade; and beyond question were a powerful military asset when judged by the standard of their own times. An attempt was made to increase efficiency by issuing books of drill regulations available for all, instead of depending upon oral instruction. In the earliest days drill was regulated by Prussian and French systems of tactics. The first book of tactics ever prepared in English for general popular issue was written and published in 1813 by Gen. Isaac Maltby of the Massachusetts militia, for the use of Massachusetts troops. The necessity for conciseness and speed was not then recognized. For a battalion to pass from line to close column, the drill regulations of 1911 indicate commands as follows: “Close on first company, March, Second company, Squads right, column half right, March.” Under Maltby’s system this was heard: “Battalions will form close column of platoons on the right, in rear of the first platoon, Shoulder arms, Battalion, Form close column of platoons in rear of the right, Right face, March.” Scott’s famous tactics were adopted in 1834. Maj. Joseph E. Smith succeeded to the command of the 3d Brigade battalion of artillery in 1817, Maj. Thomas J. Lobnell in 1823, Maj. Samuel Lynes in 1826, Maj. Aaron Andrews in 1830, and Maj. Horace Bacon of Cambridge in 1832. By June 29, 1834, the battalion had grown to four companies, and was for a year elevated to the dignity of a regiment. John L. White, the popular proprietor of the Union House (29 Union St.), was made Colonel, and thus became the first man ever to hold that rank in the Coast Artillery. Col. White’s military career had been meteoric; in 1831 he was elected Cornet (2d Lt.) of Light Dragoons in the 3d Brigade; 1832 saw him Major of the 1st Infantry in the same brigade; in 1834 he became Colonel of that regiment; and ten weeks later, on the date given above, he transferred and was commissioned Colonel of the new artillery regiment. However the time was not yet ripe for regimental dignity. When a few months later Col. White removed from Boston and resigned his command, the organization was allowed to slip back and again become a battalion. Maj. John Hoppen commanded in 1836. On April 24, 1840, the battalion was awarded the number “1st.” In 1841 William B. Perkins was elected Major, the last man to command it as a separate organization. Meanwhile the 1st Brigade battalion was commanded by the following Majors: 1818 Joseph Hastings of Roxbury, 1822 Robert Stetson of Dorchester (an ex-Captain of the 1st Company), 1825 John Parks of Dorchester, and 1829 Jonathan White, Jr., of Weymouth. In 1831 the strength of the battalion was reduced from three to two companies, and these were temporarily attached to an infantry regiment (the 1st of the 1st Brigade). On June 26, 1834, the battalion organization was restored, a new company having been formed, with John Webber, an ex-Captain of the 1st Company as Major. Maj. John W. Loud of Weymouth was elected to command in 1836, and Maj. Webber again in 1839. On April 24, 1840, the battalion was numbered “2d.” In 1841 Samuel F. Train of Roxbury was elected Major, the last man to command the battalion as a separate organization. Capt. John Webber was succeeded as commander of the 1st Company by Andrew Chase, Jr., a man destined to become first Colonel of the new regiment. That year the battalions paraded in celebration of the completion of Boston’s new railroad. All the companies were called out June 11, 1837, to maintain public order at the time of the Broad Street riot. The outbreak arose from a clash between a funeral procession and a fire-engine company. Which ought to have the right of way? Unfortunately racial jealousy was present to embitter the rivalry, so that blows were exchanged and a general fire-alarm “rung in” and disorder became wide-spread. First honors on this occasion belong to the newly organized National Lancers, whose horses terrified the rioters; infantry and artillery companies acted as reserve, and subsequently policed the district. This period of Corps history came to its conclusion when on March 24, 1840, the legislature voted a general reorganization of the militia, and in particular disbanded the ancient train-band. In theory, the members of the artillery battalions had been excused from the compulsory drill done by every able-bodied man in their districts on the ground that they were rendering more than the prescribed military service in their volunteer organizations. In fact, the district companies and regiments of the train-band had long since ceased to do any true drilling and were little more than a mere name. Courage is required to abate a long-standing abuse. New York continued to endure the train-band system until 1862, well into the Civil War. Massachusetts faced the condition with greater determination, and abolished the system in 1840. On March 24 the law was enacted, and on April 17 the necessary orders issued. Thereafter the volunteer companies were the only military force existing in the Commonwealth. CHAPTER III 1840-1861 Gen. William Henry Harrison had been elected President in 1840 at the conclusion of one of the most exciting political contests ever known in America. A month after assuming office, in April, 1841, he suddenly died. Public feeling which had been so stirred over the election, now reacted; and men everywhere vied with one another in expressing heart-felt sorrow. Amidst circumstances of deep gloom, intensified by bad weather, the battalions, in the very midst of the confusion attendant upon their reorganization, made a funeral parade notable for its sadness. It was not until July, 1862, that the regiment again came in touch with Harrison; then they were stationed at his birthplace, Harrison’s Landing on the James River, Virginia. And greatly did they enjoy their days of rest after the torture of the Chickahominy swamp, and the opportunity to use plenty of clean, fresh water for bathing; possibly some of the older soldiers remembered the obsequies of April 22, 1841. June, 1843, was a red-letter period in Boston history. Bunker Hill monument was at last completed after eighteen years building, and a vast concourse of people assembled for its dedication. The New York 7th Regiment, then known as the “National Guard Battalion,” arrived on the 16th, and was received and entertained by the Fusiliers. Indeed troops were present from four outside states--Maine, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and New York. That same day the artillery battalions met President John Tyler at Roxbury Crossing, and escorted him to the Tremont House, the parade taking place amidst a drenching rain-storm. The morning of the 17th was clear, cool, and delightful. At an early hour, the military part of the procession, which consisted of four grand divisions, was formed on Boston Common. As the procession moved toward Bunker Hill, the enthusiasm which was produced by the admirable appearance of the troops was only equalled by that which greeted the distinguished Webster, the gifted orator of the day; while President Tyler, in melancholy contrast, was received with ominous silence and coolness. Arriving at Bunker Hill, the orator of the day and the guests and officials passed into the already crowded square. While Webster was speaking, the soldiers were necessarily far beyond the sound of his voice, and were entertained by “a bountiful collation,” which the hospitable authorities of Boston had prepared. After the ceremonies, oratorical and gustatory, the procession returned to Boston, and the troops were reviewed by the President at the State House. At a dinner the same evening in Faneuil Hall, President Tyler gave the following toast:--“The Union,--a union of purpose, a union of feeling, the Union established by our fathers.” A few years later, he was an active enemy of that Union, which he had complimented in the most solemn manner within the sacred walls of the Cradle of Liberty. Boston’s division of the force, thereafter to be known as the Massachusetts Volunteer Militia, paraded in two brigades, with a total strength of 2,500 men. Incidentally we might note that there were two other such divisions in the state. Under the circumstances the 1st and 2d Battalions of Artillery added to their already creditable reputation and presented a fine appearance. There were five companies in the two battalions, each consisting of a captain, two lieutenants, four sergeants, four corporals, six gunners, six bombardiers, one drummer, one fifer, and sixty-four privates or “matrosses.” Part of each company was armed, equipped and drilled as infantry; but each company proudly exhibited two bronze six-pounder cannon with limbers, and a single caisson. The ordnance had increased in caliber since 1784, the change being made in 1840. The state prescribed by law what manner of uniform the artillery companies should wear. Inasmuch however as the members had to purchase their own clothing without state assistance, and since they were mostly interested in the glory of their own companies, they were pardonable for regarding the regulation state uniform as merely a point of departure from which fancy might soar in devising distinctive costumes for the company units. Caps, short jackets, and frock coats, soon to become popularized as a result of the Mexican War, were beginning to be in vogue. The year 1844 marked a still more important step in the development of the artillery battalions. Train-band companies of each district had always been organized into regiments, and the regiment was conceded to be the fundamental unit in importance. It was the tactical unit, that is, the troops maneuvered as regiments when in the presence of an enemy. It was also the administrative unit, in the sense that all records and reports centered at regimental headquarters. In drill regulations, the regiment was called a battalion; but no battalion could claim to be a regiment unless it had approximately ten companies, and was commanded by a colonel; one thousand was the membership standard. In other words the regiment was the only complete battalion. When the train-band ceased to be, the battalions of artillery began to aspire after regimental dignity in the Volunteer Militia. The 1st Battalion had actually been a regiment for a few months, ten years previously. Nor was it forgotten that the two battalions were originally one, that the regimental consolidation to be was really a reunion of those who, forty-six years before, had been a single body. On June 4, 1844, their wish was gratified; and the 5th Regiment of Artillery came into being. With the promotion on June 24 of Andrew Chase, Jr., to the colonelcy the new organization was completed. Economy reigned in the Adjutant General’s office of that day, and the state did not feel that it could afford much expenditure for printing. Our earliest rosters come from 1858, and we are unable to name many of the distinguished men who made up the 5th Regiment at its inception. It contained five companies: 1st, the Roxbury Artillery; 4th, the Dorchester Artillery; 6th, the Columbian Artillery; 7th, the Washington Artillery; and 8th, the Boston Artillery. Since all excepting the Dorchester company were strong organizations with established reputations, the regiment, from the very beginning, became the most distinguished military body in the city and state. In recognition of this fact Col. Chase was promoted to the brigadier-generalship Aug. 28, 1847. Military affairs were stimulated by the Mexican war in 1846. While no militia organization went from Massachusetts, individuals from all regiments enlisted in the 1st Massachusetts Volunteers, the single regiment sent out by the state; and tales of American valor in the southwest served to arouse all to do better work. Mexican veterans afterward organized a company in our command; and became the recognized custodians of the 1st Volunteers’ Mexican battle-flag. [Illustration: ARTILLERY IN 1917] [Illustration: Copyright by Continental Ins. Co. ARTILLERY IN 1784] Regimental responsibility was too much for the Dorchester Artillery, and it was disbanded in 1845. Only four companies remained in the 5th Regiment. In fact there was too much disbanding for the good of the militia. The state authorities seemed to think that it was cheaper to disband a company which had fallen into “hard luck” than it was to cure the difficulty by paying a little money for the restoration and support of the sufferer. This was a false economy. Of the one hundred forty-two companies which existed in 1840 in the new Volunteer Militia, seventy-eight were disbanded within the first seven years, and one hundred two passed out of existence within twenty-five years. With so many surgical operations it is marvelous that any militia survived at all. Altho few in number, the four companies of the 5th Regiment who paraded as an escort to President Polk June 29, 1847, and who welcomed Daniel Webster upon his return to Boston, gave evidence of increased efficiency. The legislature was making more liberal appropriations--was indeed spending each year (1844-1852) all of $6 per man on the militia; even this moderate expenditure was far better than nothing. The state authorities were very well satisfied with themselves and with their handiwork, reporting to inquirers that the Massachusetts system “met every need.” A fairly liberal allowance of ammunition was made to each artillery company--forty round shot, forty canister, and one hundred pounds of powder every year. William B. Perkins became Colonel Sept. 10, 1847. Altho he did not enjoy good physical health, and died in office November 16, 1849, his administration was signalized by several important events. On March 10, 1848, occurred the funeral of Ex-President John Quincy Adams. The regiment, or part of it, paraded on Oct. 25 of the same year in celebration of the completion of the Cochituate water system. On Aug.
and to teach principles, holding aloof from political action--The need of a spiritual power is common to the whole Republic of Western Europe--This Republic consists of the Italian, Spanish, British, and German populations, grouped round France as their centre--Relation of Positivism to the mediæval system, to which we owe the first attempt to separate Spiritual from Temporal power--But the mediæval attempt was premature; and Positivism will renew and complete it--The Ethical system of Positivism--Subjection of Self-love to Social love is the great ethical problem. The Social state of itself favours this result; but it may be hastened by organized and conscious effort--Intermediate between Self-love and universal Benevolence are the domestic affections: filial, fraternal, conjugal, paternal--Personal virtues placed upon a social basis--Moral education consists partly of scientific demonstration of ethical truth, but still more of culture of the higher sympathies--Organization of Public Opinion--Commemoration of great men--The political motto of Positivism: Order and Progress--Progress, the development of Order--Analysis of Progress: material, physical, intellectual, and moral--Application of our principles to actual politics. All government must for the present be provisional--Danger of attempting political reconstruction before spiritual--Politically what is wanted is Dictatorship, with liberty of speech and discussion--Such a dictatorship would be a step towards the separation of spiritual and temporal power--The motto of 1830, _Liberty and Public Order_--Liberty should be extended to Education--Order demands centralization--Intimate connexion of Liberty with Order. CHAPTER III THE ACTION OF POSITIVISM UPON THE WORKING CLASSES 140 Positivism will not for the present recommend itself to the governing classes, so much as to the People--The working man who accepts his position is favourably situated for the reception of comprehensive principles and generous sympathies--This the Convention felt; but they encouraged the People to seek political supremacy, for which they are not fit--It is only in exceptional cases that the People can be really ‘sovereign’--The truth involved in the expression is that the well-being of the people should be the one great object of government--The People’s function is to assist the spiritual power in modifying the action of government--Their combined efforts result in the formation of Public Opinion--Public opinion involves, (1) principles of social conduct, (2) their acceptance by society at large, (3) an organ through which to enunciate them--Working men’s clubs--All three conditions of Public Opinion exist, but have not yet been combined--Spontaneous tendencies of the people in a right direction. Their Communism--Its new title of Socialism--Property is in its nature social, and needs control--But Positivism rejects the Communist solution of the Problem. Property is to be controlled by moral not legal agencies--Individualization of functions as necessary as co-operation--Industry requires its captains as well as War--Communism is deficient in the historical spirit--In fact, as a system it is worthless, though prompted by noble feelings--Property is a public trust, not to be interfered with legally--Inheritance favourable to its right employment--Intellect needs moral control as much as wealth--Action of organized public opinion upon Capitalists. Strikes--Public Opinion must be based upon a sound system of Education--Education has two stages; from birth to puberty, from puberty to adolescence. The first, consisting of physical and esthetic training, to be given at home--The second part consists of public lectures on the Sciences, from Mathematics to Sociology--Travels of Apprentices--Concentration of study--Governmental assistance not required, except for certain special institutions, and this only as a provisional measure--We are not ripe for this system at present; and Government must not attempt to hasten its introduction--Intellectual attitude of the people. Emancipation from theological belief--From metaphysical doctrines--Their mistaken preference of literary and rhetorical talent to real intellectual power--Moral attitude of the people. The workman should regard himself as a public functionary--Ambition of power and wealth must be abandoned--The working classes are the best guarantee for Liberty and Order--It is from them that we shall obtain the dictatorial power which is provisionally required. CHAPTER IV THE INFLUENCE OF POSITIVISM UPON WOMEN 227 Women represent the affective element in our nature, as philosophers and people represent the intellectual and practical elements--Women have stood aloof from the modern movement, because of its anti-historic and destructive character--But they will sympathize with constructive tendencies; and will distinguish sound philosophy from scientific specialities--Women’s position in society. Like philosophers and people, their part is not to govern, but to modify--The united action of philosophers, women, and proletaries constitutes Moral Force--Superiority of the new spiritual power to the old. Self-regarding tendencies of Catholic doctrine--The spirit of Positivism, on the contrary, is essentially social. The Heart and the Intellect mutually strengthen each other--Intellectual and moral affinities of women with Positivism--Catholicism purified love, but did not directly strengthen it--Women’s influence over the working classes and their teachers--Their social influence in the _salon_--But the Family is their principal sphere of action--Woman’s mission as a wife. Conjugal love an education for universal sympathy--Conditions of marriage. Indissoluble monogamy--Perpetual widowhood--Woman’s mission as a mother--Education of children belongs to mothers. They only can guide the development of character--Modern sophisms about Woman’s rights. The domesticity of her life follows from the principle of Separation of Powers--The position of the sexes tends to differentiation rather than identity--Woman to be maintained by Man--The education of women should be identical with that of men--Women’s privileges. Their mission is in itself a privilege--They will receive honour and worship from men--Development of mediæval chivalry--The practice of Prayer, so far from disappearing, is purified and strengthened in Positive religion--The worship of Woman a preparation for the worship of Humanity--Exceptional women. Joan of Arc--It is for women to introduce Positivism into the Southern nations. CHAPTER V THE RELATION OF POSITIVISM TO ART 304 Positivism when complete is as favourable to Imagination, as, when incomplete, it was unfavourable to it--Esthetic talent is for the adornment of life, not for its government--The political influence of literary men a deplorable sign and source of anarchy--Theory of Art--Art is the idealized representation of Fact--Poetry is intermediate between Philosophy and Polity--Art calls each element of our nature into harmonious action--Three stages in the esthetic process: Imitation, Idealization, Expression--Classification of the arts on the principle of decreasing generality, and increasing intensity--Poetry--Music--Painting. Sculpture. Architecture--The conditions favourable to Art have never yet been combined--Neither in Polytheism--Nor under the Mediæval system--Much less in modern times--Under Positivism the conditions will all be favourable. There will be fixed principles, and a nobler moral culture--Predisposing influence of Education--Relation of Art to Religion--Idealization of historical types--Art requires the highest education; but little special instruction--Artists as a class will disappear. Their function will be appropriated by the philosophic priesthood--Identity of esthetic and scientific genius--Women’s poetry--People’s poetry--Value of Art in the present crisis--Construction of normal types on the basis furnished by philosophy--Pictures of the Future of Man--Contrasts with the Past. CHAPTER VI CONCLUSION. THE RELIGION OF HUMANITY 355 Recapitulation of the results obtained--Humanity is the centre to which every aspect of Positivism converges--With the discovery of sociological laws, a synthesis on the basis of Science becomes possible, science being now concentrated on the study of Humanity--Statical aspects of Humanity--Dynamical aspects--Inorganic and organic sciences elevated by their connexion with the supreme science of Humanity--The new religion is even more favourable to Art than to Science--Poetic portraiture of the new Supreme Being, and contrast with the old--Organization of festivals, representing statical and dynamical aspects of Humanity--Worship of the dead. Commemoration of their service--All the arts may co-operate in the service of religion--Positivism the successor of Christianity, and surpasses it--Superiority of Positive morality--Rise of the new Spiritual power--Temporal power will always be necessary, but its action will be modified by the spiritual--Substitution of duties for rights--Consensus of the Social Organism--Continuity of the past with the present--Necessity of a spiritual power to study and teach these truths, and thus to govern men by persuasion, instead of by compulsion--Nutritive functions of Humanity, performed by Capitalists, as the temporal power--These are modified by the cerebral functions, performed by the spiritual power--Women and priests to have their material subsistence guaranteed--Normal relation of priests, people, and capitalists--We are not yet ripe for the normal state. But the revolution of 1848 is a step towards it--First revolutionary motto; Liberty and Equality--Second motto; Liberty and Order--Third motto; Order and Progress--Provisional policy for the period of transition--Popular dictatorship with freedom of speech--Positive Committee for Western Europe--Occidental navy--International coinage--Occidental school--Flag for the Western Republic--Colonial and foreign Associates of the Committee, the action of which will ultimately extend to the whole human race--Conclusion. Perfection of the Positivist ideal--Corruption of Monotheism. A GENERAL VIEW OF POSITIVISM ‘We tire of thinking and even of acting; we never tire of loving.’ In the following series of systematic essays upon Positivism the essential principles of the doctrine are first considered; I then point out the agencies by which its propagation will be effected; and I conclude by describing certain additional features indispensable to its completeness. My treatment of these questions will of course be summary; yet it will suffice, I hope, to overcome several excusable but unfounded prejudices. It will enable any competent reader to assure himself that the new general doctrine aims at something more than satisfying the Intellect; that it is in reality quite as favourable to Feeling and even to Imagination. INTRODUCTORY REMARKS Positivism consists essentially of a Philosophy and a Polity. These can never be dissevered; the former being the basis, and the latter the end of one comprehensive system, in which our intellectual faculties and our social sympathies are brought into close correlation with each other. For, in the first place, the science of Society, besides being more important than any other, supplies the only logical and scientific link by which all our varied observations of phenomena can be brought into one consistent whole[1]. Of this science it is even more true than of any of the preceding sciences, that its real character cannot be understood without explaining its exact relation in all general features with the art corresponding to it. Now here we find a coincidence which is assuredly not fortuitous. At the very time when the theory of society is being laid down, an immense sphere is opened for the application of that theory; the direction, namely, of the social regeneration of Western Europe. For, if we take another point of view, and look at the great crisis of modern history, as its character is displayed in the natural course of events, it becomes every day more evident how hopeless is the task of reconstructing political institutions without the previous remodelling of opinion and of life. To form then a satisfactory synthesis of all human conceptions is the most urgent of our social wants: and it is needed equally for the sake of Order and of Progress. During the gradual accomplishment of this great philosophical work, a new moral power will arise spontaneously throughout the West, which, as its influence increases, will lay down a definite basis for the reorganization of society. It will offer a general system of education for the adoption of all civilized nations, and by this means will supply in every department of public and private life fixed principles of judgment and of conduct. Thus the intellectual movement and the social crisis will be brought continually into close connexion with each other. Both will combine to prepare the advanced portion of humanity for the acceptance of a true spiritual power, a power more coherent, as well as more progressive, than the noble but premature attempt of mediaeval Catholicism. The primary object, then, of Positivism is two-fold: to generalize our scientific conceptions, and to systematize the art of social life. These are but two aspects of one and the same problem. They will form the subjects of the two first chapters of this work. I shall first explain the general spirit of the new philosophy. I shall then show its necessary connexion with the whole course of that vast revolution which is now about to terminate under its guidance in social reconstruction. This will lead us naturally to another question. The regenerating doctrine cannot do its work without adherents; in what quarter should we hope to find them? Now, with individual exceptions of great value, we cannot expect the adhesion of any of the upper classes in society. They are all more or less under the influence of baseless metaphysical theories, and of aristocratic self-seeking. They are absorbed in blind political agitation and in disputes for the possession of the useless remnants of the old theological and military system. Their action only tends to prolong the revolutionary state indefinitely, and can never result in true social renovation. Whether we regard its intellectual character or its social objects, it is certain that Positivism must look elsewhere for support. It will find a welcome in those classes only whose good sense has been left unimpaired by our vicious system of education, and whose generous sympathies are allowed to develop themselves freely. It is among women, therefore, and among the working classes that the heartiest supporters of the new doctrine will be found. It is intended, indeed, ultimately for all classes of society. But it will never gain much real influence over the higher ranks till it is forced upon their notice by these powerful patrons. When the work of spiritual reorganization is completed, it is on them that its maintenance will principally depend; and so too, their combined aid is necessary for its commencement. Having but little influence in political government, they are the more likely to appreciate the need of a moral government, the special object of which it will be to protect them against the oppressive action of the temporal power. In the third chapter, therefore, I shall explain the mode in which philosophers and working men will co-operate. Both have been prepared for this coalition by the general course which modern history has taken, and it offers now the only hope we have of really decisive action. We shall find that the efforts of Positivism to regulate and develop the natural tendencies of the people, make it, even from the intellectual point of view, more coherent and complete. But there is another and a more unexpected source from which Positivism will obtain support; and not till then will its true character and the full extent of its constructive power be appreciated. I shall show in the fourth chapter how eminently calculated is the Positive doctrine to raise and regulate the social condition of women. It is from the feminine aspect only that human life, whether individually or collectively considered, can really be comprehended as a whole. For the only basis on which a system really embracing all the requirements of life can be formed, is the subordination of intellect to social feeling: a subordination which we find directly represented in the womanly type of character, whether regarded in its personal or social relations. Although these questions cannot be treated fully in the present work, I hope to convince my readers that Positivism is more in accordance with the spontaneous tendencies of the people and of women than Catholicism, and is therefore better qualified to institute a spiritual power. It should be observed that the ground on which the support of both these classes is obtained is, that Positivism is the only system which can supersede the various subversive schemes that are growing every day more dangerous to all the relations of domestic and social life. Yet the tendency of the doctrine is to elevate the character of both of these classes; and it gives a most energetic sanction to all their legitimate aspirations. Thus it is that a philosophy originating in speculations of the most abstract character, is found applicable not merely to every department of practical life, but also to the sphere of our moral nature. But to complete the proof of its universality I have still to speak of another very essential feature. I shall show, in spite of prejudices which exist very naturally on this point, that Positivism is eminently calculated to call the Imaginative faculties into exercise. It is by these faculties that the unity of human nature is most distinctly represented: they are themselves intellectual, but their field lies principally in our moral nature, and the result of their operation is to influence the active powers. The subject of women treated in the fourth chapter, will lead me by a natural transition to speak in the fifth of the Esthetic aspects of Positivism. I shall attempt to show that the new doctrine by the very fact of embracing the whole range of human relations in the spirit of reality, discloses the true theory of Art, which has hitherto been so great a deficiency in our speculative conceptions. The principle of the theory is that, in co-ordinating the primary functions of humanity, Positivism places the Idealities of the poet midway between the Ideas of the philosopher and the Realities of the statesman. We see from this theory how it is that the poetical power of Positivism cannot be manifested at present. We must wait until moral and mental regeneration has advanced far enough to awaken the sympathies which naturally belong to it, and on which Art in its renewed state must depend for the future. The first mental and social shock once passed, Poetry will at last take her proper rank. She will lead Humanity onward towards a future which is now no longer vague and visionary, while at the same time she enables us to pay due honour to all phases of the past. The great object which Positivism sets before us individually and socially, is the endeavour to become more perfect. The highest importance is attached therefore to the imaginative faculties, because in every sphere with which they deal they stimulate the sense of perfection. Limited as my explanations in this work must be, I shall be able to show that Positivism, while opening out a new and wide field for art, supplies in the same spontaneous way new means of expression. I shall thus have sketched with some detail the true character of the regenerating doctrine. All its principal aspects will have been considered. Beginning with its philosophical basis, I pass by natural transitions to its political purpose; thence to its action upon the people, its influence with women, and lastly, to its esthetic power. In concluding this work, which is but the introduction to a larger treatise, I have only to speak of the conception which unites all these various aspects. As summed up in the positivist motto, _Love, Order, Progress_, they lead us to the conception of Humanity, which implicitly involves and gives new force to each of them. Rightly interpreting this conception, we view Positivism at last as a complete and consistent whole. The subject will naturally lead us to speak in general terms of the future progress of social regeneration, as far as the history of the past enables us to foresee it. The movement originates in France, and is limited at first to the great family of Western nations. I shall show that it will afterwards extend, in accordance with definite laws, to the rest of the white race, and finally to the other two great races of man. CHAPTER I THE INTELLECTUAL CHARACTER OF POSITIVISM [The object of Philosophy is to present a systematic view of human life, as a basis for modifying its imperfections] The object of all true Philosophy is to frame a system which shall comprehend human life under every aspect, social as well as individual. It embraces, therefore, the three kinds of phenomena of which our life consists, Thoughts, Feelings, and Actions. Under all these aspects, the growth of Humanity is primarily spontaneous; and the basis upon which all wise attempts to modify it should proceed, can only be furnished by an exact acquaintance with the natural process. We are, however, able to modify this process systematically; and the importance of this is extreme, since we can thereby greatly diminish the partial deviations, the disastrous delays, and the grave inconsistencies to which so complex a growth would be liable were it left entirely to itself. To effect this necessary intervention is the proper sphere of politics. But a right conception cannot be formed of it without the aid of the philosopher, whose business it is to define and amend the principles on which it is conducted. With this object in view the philosopher endeavours to co-ordinate the various elements of man’s existence, so that it may be conceived of theoretically as an integral whole. His synthesis can only be valid in so far as it is an exact and complete representation of the relations naturally existing. The first condition is therefore that these relations be carefully studied. When the philosopher, instead of forming such a synthesis, attempts to interfere more directly with the course of practical life, he commits the error of usurping the province of the statesman, to whom all practical measures exclusively belong. Philosophy and Politics are the two principal functions of the great social organism. Morality, systematically considered, forms the connecting link and at the same time the line of demarcation between them. It is the most important application of philosophy, and it gives a general direction to polity. Natural morality, that is to say the various emotions of our moral nature, will, as I have shown in my previous work, always govern the speculations of the one and the operations of the other. This I shall explain more fully. But the synthesis, which it is the social function of Philosophy to construct, will neither be real nor permanent, unless it embraces every department of human nature, whether speculative, effective, or practical. These three orders of phenomena react upon each other so intimately, that any system which does not include all of them must inevitably be unreal and inadequate. Yet it is only in the present day, when Philosophy is reaching the positive stage, that this which is her highest and most essential mission can be fully apprehended. [The Theological synthesis failed to include the practical side of human nature] The theological synthesis depended exclusively upon our affective nature; and this is owing its original supremacy and its ultimate decline. For a long time its influence over all our highest speculations was paramount. This was especially the case during the Polytheistic period, when Imagination and Feeling still retained their sway under very slight restraint from the reasoning faculties. Yet even during the time of its highest development, intellectually and socially, theology exercised no real control over practical life. It reacted, of course, upon it to some extent, but the effects of this were in most cases far more apparent than real. There was a natural antagonism between them, which though at first hardly perceived, went on increasing till at last it brought about the entire destruction of the theological fabric. A system so purely subjective could not harmonize with the necessarily objective tendencies and stubborn realities of practical life. Theology asserted all phenomena to be under the dominion of Wills more or less arbitrary: whereas in practical life men were led more and more clearly to the conception of invariable Laws. For without laws human action would have admitted of no rule or plan. In consequence of this utter inability of theology to deal with practical life, its treatment of speculative and even of moral problems was exceedingly imperfect, such problems being all more or less dependent on the practical necessities of life. To present a perfectly synthetic view of human nature was, then, impossible as long as the influence of theology lasted; because the Intellect was impelled by Feeling and by the Active powers in two totally different directions. The failure of all metaphysical attempts to form a synthesis need not be dwelt upon here. Metaphysicians, in spite of their claims to absolute truth have never been able to supersede theology in questions of feeling, and have proved still more inadequate in practical questions. Ontology, even when it was most triumphant in the schools, was always limited to subjects of a purely intellectual nature; and even here its abstractions, useless in themselves, dealt only with the case of individual development, the metaphysical spirit being thoroughly incompatible with the social point of view. In my work on Positive Philosophy I have clearly proved that it constitutes only a transitory phase of mind, and is totally inadequate for any constructive purpose. For a time it was supreme; but its utility lay simply in its revolutionary tendencies. It aided the preliminary development of Humanity by its gradual inroads upon Theology, which, though in ancient times entrusted with the sole direction of society, had long since become in every respect utterly retrograde. [But the Positive spirit originated in practical life] But all Positive speculations owe their first origin to the occupations of practical life; and, consequently, they have always given some indication of their capacity for regulating our active powers, which had been omitted from every former synthesis. Their value in this respect has been and still is materially impaired by their want of breadth, and their isolated and incoherent character; but it has always been instinctively felt. The importance that we attach to theories which teach the laws of phenomena, and give us the power of prevision, is chiefly due to the fact that they alone can regulate our otherwise blind action upon the external world. Hence it is that while the Positive spirit has been growing more and more theoretical, and has gradually extended to every department of speculation, it has never lost the practical tendencies which it derived from its source; and this even in the case of researches useless in themselves, and only to be justified as logical exercises. From its first origin in mathematics and astronomy, it has always shown its tendency to systematize the whole of our conceptions in every new subject which has been brought within the scope of its fundamental principle. It exercised for a long time a modifying influence upon theological and metaphysical principles, which has gone on increasing; and since the time of Descartes and Bacon it has become evident that it is destined to supersede them altogether. Positivism has gradually taken possession of the preliminary sciences of Physics and Biology, and in these the old system no longer prevails. All that remained was to complete the range of its influence by including the study of social phenomena. For this study metaphysics had proved incompetent; by theological thinkers it had only been pursued indirectly and empirically as a condition of government. I believe that my work on Positive Philosophy has so far supplied what was wanting. I think it must now be clear to all that the Positive spirit can embrace the entire range of thought without lessening, or rather with the effect of strengthening its original tendency to regulate practical life. And it is a further guarantee for the stability of the new intellectual synthesis that Social science, which is the final result of our researches, gives them that systematic character in which they had hitherto been wanting, by supplying the only connecting link of which they all admit. This conception is already adopted by all true thinkers. All must now acknowledge that the Positive spirit tends necessarily towards the formation of a comprehensive and durable system, in which every practical as well as speculative subject shall be included. But such a system would still be far from realizing that universal character without which Positivism would be incompetent to supersede Theology in the spiritual government of Humanity. For the element which really preponderates in every human being, that is to say, Affection, would still be left untouched. This element it is, and this only, which gives a stimulus and direction to the other two parts of our nature: without it the one would waste its force in ill-conceived, or, at least, useless studies, and the other in barren or even dangerous contention. With this immense deficiency the combination of our theoretical and active powers would be fruitless, because it would lack the only principle which could ensure its real and permanent stability. The failure would be even greater than the failure of Theology in dealing with practical questions; for the unity of human nature cannot really be made to depend either on the rational or the active faculties. In the life of the individual, and, still more, in the life of the race, the basis of unity, as I shall show in the fourth chapter, must always be feeling. It is to the fact that theology arose spontaneously from feeling that its influence is for the most part due. And although theology is now palpably on the decline, yet it will retain, in principle at least, some legitimate claims to the direction of society so long as the new philosophy fails to occupy this important vantage-ground. We come then to the final conditions with which the modern synthesis must comply. Without neglecting the spheres of Thought and Action it must also comprehend the moral sphere; and the very principle on which its claim to universality rests must be derived from Feeling. Then, and not till then, can the claims of theology be finally set aside. For then the new system will have surpassed the old in that which is the one essential purpose of all general doctrines. It will have shown itself able to effect what no other doctrine has done, that is, to bring the three primary elements of our nature into harmony. If Positivism were to prove incapable of satisfying this condition, we must give up all hope of systematization of any kind. For while Positive principles are now sufficiently developed to neutralize those of Theology, yet, on the other hand, the influence of theology would continue to be far greater. Hence it is that many conscientious thinkers in the present day are so inclined to despair for the future of society. They see that the old principles on which society has been governed must finally become powerless. What they do not see is that a new basis for morality is being gradually laid down. Their theories are too imperfect and incoherent to show them the direction towards which the present time is ultimately tending. It must be owned, too, that their view seems borne out by the present character of the Positive method. While all allow its utility in the treatment of practical, and even of speculative, problems, it seems to most men, and very naturally, quite unfit to deal with questions of morality. [In human nature, and therefore in the Positive system, Affection is the preponderating element] But on closer examination they will see reason to rectify their judgment. They will see that the hardness with which Positive science has been justly reproached, is due to the speciality and want of purpose with which it has hitherto been pursued, and is not at all inherent in its nature. Originating as it did in the necessities of our material nature, which for a long time restricted it to the study of the inorganic world, it has not till now become sufficiently complete or systematic to harmonize well with our moral nature. But now that it is brought to bear upon social questions, which for the future will form its most important field, it loses all the defects peculiar to its long period of infancy. The very attribute of reality which is claimed by the new philosophy, leads it to treat all subjects from the moral still more than from the intellectual side. The necessity of assigning with exact truth the place occupied by the intellect and by the heart in the organization of human nature and of society, leads to the decision that Affection must be the central point of the synthesis. In the treatment of social questions Positive science will be found utterly to discard those proud illusions of the supremacy of reason, to which it had been liable during its preliminary stages. Ratifying, in this respect, the common experience of men even more forcibly than Catholicism, it teaches us that individual happiness and public welfare are far more dependent upon the heart than upon the intellect. But, independently of this, the question of co-ordinating the faculties of our nature will convince us that the only basis on which they can be brought into harmonious union, is the preponderance of Affection over Reason, and even over Activity. The fact that intellect, as well as social sympathy, is a distinctive attribute of our nature, might lead us to suppose that either of these two might be supreme, and therefore that there might be more than one method of establishing unity. The fact, however, is that there is only one; because these two elements are by no means equal in their fitness for assuming the first place. Whether we look at the distinctive qualities of each, or at the degree of force which they possess, it is easy to see that the only position for which the intellect is permanently adapted is to be the servant of the social sympathies. If, instead of being content with this honourable post, it aspires to become supreme, its ambitious aims, which are never realized, result simply in the most deplorable disorder. Even with the individual, it is impossible to establish permanent harmony between our various impulses, except by giving complete supremacy to the feeling which prompts the sincere and habitual desire of doing good. This feeling is, no doubt, like the rest, in itself blind; it has to learn from reason the right means of obtaining satisfaction; and our active faculties are then called into requisition to apply those means. But common experience proves that after all the principal condition of right action is the benevolent impulse; with the ordinary amount of intellect and activity that is found in men this stimulus, if well sustained, is enough to direct our thoughts and energies to a good result. Without this habitual spring of action they would inevitably waste themselves in barren or incoherent efforts, and speedily relapse into their original torpor. Unity in our moral nature is, then, impossible, except so far as affection preponderates over intellect and activity. [The proper function of Intellect is the Service of the Social Sympathies] True as this fundamental principle is for the individual, it is in public life that its necessity can be demonstrated most irrefutably. The problem is in reality the same, nor is any different solution of it required; only it assumes such increased dimensions, that less uncertainty is felt as to the method to be adopted. The various beings whom it is sought to harmonize have in this case each a separate existence; it is clear, therefore, that the first condition of co-operation must be sought in their own inherent tendency to universal love. No calculations of self-interest can rival this social instinct, whether in promptitude and breadth of intuition, or in boldness and tenacity of purpose. True it is that the benevolent emotions have in most cases less intrinsic energy than the selfish. But they have this beautiful quality, that social life not only permits their growth, but stimulates it to an almost unlimited extent, while it holds their antagonists in constant check. Indeed the increasing tendency in the former to prevail over the latter is the best measure by which to judge of the progress of Humanity. But the intellect may do much to confirm their influence. It may strengthen social feeling by diffusing juster views of the relations in which the various parts of society stand to each other; or it may guide its application by dwelling on the lessons which the past offers to the future. It is to this honourable service that the new philosophy would direct our intellectual powers. Here the highest sanction is given to their operations, and an exhaustless field is opened out for them, from which far deeper satisfaction may be gained than from the approbation of the learned societies, or from the puerile specialities with
led to the sympathetic pilot; "you can do anything with her." "You can that," the pilot answered, as he made his delicate zig-zags through that formidable gateway in the teeth of the wind--a feat in seamanship that the dullest landlubber could not but admire and marvel at. And so we came to shelter and calm water at last. We anchored off Queenscliff and signalled for the doctor, who did not immediately put out to us, as he should have done. We had had such hopes of getting to a shore bed that night that most of us had stripped our cabins--the furniture of which had to be of our own providing--and packed everything up; now we had to unpack again, to get out bedding for another night and find a candle by which to see to take off the smart shore clothes in which we had sat all day, eyeing each other's costumes, which for the first time seemed to reveal us in our true characters. We were ungratefully disheartened by this trivial disappointment, and retired to rest all grumbling at the Providence which had brought us through so many perils unharmed. Next morning the ship seethed with indignation because the doctor still made no sign. What happened to him afterwards I don't know, but the penalties he was threatened with for being off duty at the wrong time were heavy. He detained us so long that again our confident expectation of a shore bed was frustrated; for yet another night we had to camp in our dismantled cabin. The pair of tugs that dragged us from the Heads to Hobson's Bay, making their best pace, could not get us home until black night had fallen and it was considered too late to go up to the pier. I suppose it was about nine o'clock when we dropped anchor. All we could see of the near city was a three-quarter ring of lights dividing dark water from dark sky--just what I see now every night when I come upstairs to bed, before I draw the blinds down. We watched them, fascinated, and--still more fascinating--the boats that presently found their way to us, bringing welcoming friends and relatives to those passengers who possessed them. We, strangers in a strange land, sat apart and watched these favoured ones--listened to their callings back and forth over the ship's side, beheld their embraces at the gangway, their excited interviews in the cuddy, their gay departures into the night and the unknown, which in nearly every case swallowed them for ever as far as we were concerned. Three only of the whole company have we set eyes on since--excepting the friend who became our brother--and one of these three renewed acquaintance with us but a year or two ago. Another I saw once across a hotel dinner-table. The third was the clergyman who had been so kindly foisted on us--or we on him--before we left England; and it was enough for us to see him afar off at such few diocesan functions as we afterwards attended together; we dropped closer relations as soon as there was room to drop them. However, he was a useful and respected member of his profession, and much valued by his own parish, from which death removed him many a year ago. Quite a deputation of church members came off to welcome him on that night of his return from his English holiday, and to tell him of the things his _locum tenens_ had been doing in his absence. He was furious at learning that this person--at the present moment the head of the Church of England in this state--had had the presumption to replace an old organ--_his_ old organ--with a new one. In the deputation were ladies with votive bouquets for his wife; the perfume of spring violets in the saloon deepened the sense of exile and solitude that crept upon us when their boat and the rest had vanished from view, leaving but the few friendless ones to the hospitality of the ship for a last night's lodging. However, in the morning, we had our turn. It was the loveliest morning, a sample of the really matchless climate (which we had been informed was exactly like that of the palm-houses at Kew), clear as crystal, full of sunshine and freshness; and when we awoke amid strange noises, and looked out of our port-hole, we saw that not sea but wooden planks lay under it--Port Melbourne railway pier, exactly as it is now, only that its name was then Sandridge and its old piles thirty years stouter where salt water and barnacles gnawed them. With what joy as well as confidence did we don our best clerical coat and our best purple petticoat and immaculate black gown (the skirt pulled up out of harm's way through a stout elastic waist-cord, over which it hung behind in a soft, unobtrusive bag, for street wear), and lay out our Peter Robinson jacket and bonnet, and gloves from the hermetically sealed bottle, upon the bare bunk! And the breakfast we then went to is a memory to gloat upon--the succulent steak, the fresh butter and cream, the shore-baked rolls, the piled fruits and salads; nothing ever surpassed it except the mid-day meal following, with its juicy sirloin and such spring vegetables as I had never seen. This also I battened on, with my splendidly prepared appetite, though G. did not. The bishop's representative--our first Australian friend, whose fine and kindly face is little changed in all these years, and which I never look upon without recalling that moment, my first and just impression of it and him--appeared in our cabin doorway early in the morning; and it was deemed expedient that G. should go with him to report himself at headquarters, and return for me when that business was done. So I spent some hours alone, watching the railway station at the head of the pier through my strong glasses. In the afternoon I too landed, and was driven to lodgings that had been secured for us in East Melbourne, where we at once dressed for dinner at the house of our newest friend, and for one of the most charming social evenings that I ever spent. The feature of it that I best remember was a vivid literary discussion based upon _Lothair_, which was the new book of the hour, and from which our host read excruciating extracts. How brightly every detail of those first hours in Australia stands out in the mind's records of the past--the refined little dinner (I could name every dish on the dainty table), the beautiful and adored invalid hostess, who died not long afterwards, and whom those who knew her still speak of as "too good for this world"; the refreshment of intellectual talk after the banalities of the ship; the warm kindness of everybody, even our landlady, who was really a lady, and like a mother to me; the comfort of the sweet and clean shore life--I shall never cease to glow at the recollection of these things. The beautiful weather enhanced the charm of all, and--still more--the fact that, although at first I staggered with the weakness left by such long sea-sickness, I not only recovered as soon as my foot touched land, but enjoyed the best health of my life for a full year afterwards. The second day was a Saturday, and we were taken out to see the sights. No description that we had read or heard of, even from our fellow-passengers whose homes were there, had prepared us for the wonder that Melbourne was to us. As I remember our metropolis then, and see it now, I am not conscious of any striking general change, although, of course, the changes in detail are innumerable. It was a greater city for its age thirty years ago than it is to-day, great as it is to-day. I lately read in some English magazine the statement that tree-stumps--likewise, if I mistake not, kangaroos--were features of Collins Street "twenty-five years ago." I can answer for it that in 1870 it was excellently paved and macadamised, thronged with its waggonette-cabs, omnibuses, and private carriages--a perfectly good and proper street, except for its open drainage gutters. The nearest kangaroo hopped in the Zoological Gardens at Royal Park. In 1870, also--although the theatrical proceedings of the Kelly gang took place later--bushranging was virtually a thing of the past. So was the Bret Harte mining-camp. We are credited still, I believe, with those romantic institutions, and our local story-writers love to pander to the delusion of some folks that Australia is made up of them; I can only say--and I ought to know--that in Victoria, at any rate, they have not existed in my time. Had they existed in the other colonies, I must have heard of it. The last real bushranger came to his inevitable bad end shortly before we arrived. The cowardly Kellys, murderers, and brigands as they were, and costlier than all their predecessors to hunt down, always seemed to me but imitation bushrangers. Mining has been a sober pursuit, weighted with expensive machinery. Indeed, we have been quite steady and respectable, so far as I know. In the way of public rowdyism I can recall nothing worth mentioning--unless it be the great strike of 1890. We went to see the Town Hall--the present one, lacking only its present portico; and the splendid Public Library, as it was until a few years ago, when a wing was added; and the Melbourne Hospital, as it stands to-day; and the University, housed as it is now, and beginning to gather its family of colleges about it. We were taken a-walking in the Fitzroy Gardens--saw the same fern gully, the same plaster statues, that still adorn it; and to the Botanical Gardens, already furnished with their lakes and swans, and rustic bridges, and all the rest of it. And how beautiful we thought it all! As I have said, it was springtime, and the weather glorious. There had been excessive rains, and were soon to be more--rains which caused 1870 to be marked in history as "the year of the great floods"--but the loveliness of the weather as we first knew it I shall never forget. We finished the week in the suburban parish that included Pentridge, the great prison of the State--an awesome pile of dressed granite then as now. The incumbent was not well, and G. was sent to help him with his Sunday duty. The first early function was at the gaol, from which they brought back an exquisitely-designed programme of the music and order of service, which I still keep amongst my mementoes of those days. It was done by a prisoner, who supplied one, and always a different one, to the chaplain each Sunday. At his house--where again we were surprised to find all the refinements we had supposed ourselves to have left in England, for he and his wife were exceptionally cultivated persons--we slept on the ground floor for the first time in our lives, all mixed up with drawing-room and garden, which felt very strange and public, and almost improper. Now I prefer the bungalow arrangement to any other; I like to feel the house all round me, close and cosy, and to be able to slip from my bed into the open air when I like, and not to be cut off from folks when I am ill. For more than twenty years I was accustomed to it, sleeping with open windows and unlocked doors, like any Bedouin in his tent, unmolested in the loneliest localities by night-prowling man or beast. I miss this now, when I live in town and have to climb stairs and isolate myself--or sleep with shut windows (which I never will) in a ground-floor fortress, made burglar-proof at every point. Bishop and Mrs. Perry had a dinner-party for us on Monday. That day was otherwise given to our particular ship friend (of whom I shall say more presently); with him, a stranger in the land like ourselves, we had adventures and excursions "on our own," eluding the many kind folk who would have liked to play courier. We lunched plentifully at an excellent restaurant--I cannot identify it now, but it fixed our impression that we had indeed come to a land of milk and honey--and then rambled at large. The evening was very pleasant. Whether as host or guest, the first Bishop of Melbourne was always perfect, and we met some interesting people at his board. Others came in after dinner, amongst them two of the "sweetly pretty daughters," of whom we had heard in England, and who did not quite come up to our expectations. They are hoary-headed maiden ladies now--the youngest as white as the muslin of the frock she wore that night. We did many things during the remainder of the week, which was full of business, pleasure, and hospitalities, very little of our time being spent in privacy. The shops were surprisingly well furnished and tempting, and we acted upon our supposition that we should find none to speak of in the Bush. We made careful little purchases from day to day. The very first of them, I think, was Professor Halford's snake-bite cure. We had an idea that, once out of the city, our lives would not be safe without it for a day. It was a hypodermic syringe and bottle of stuff, done up in a neat pocket-case. That case did cumber pockets for a time, but it was never opened, and eventually went astray and was no more seen--or missed. Yet snakes were quite common objects of the country then. I used to get weary of the monotony of sitting my horse and holding G.'s, while at every mile or so he stopped to kill one, during our Bush-rides in warm weather. English readers should know that in the Bush it has ever been a point of honour, by no means to be evaded, to kill every snake you see, if possible, no matter how difficult the job, nor how great your impatience to be after other jobs. That probably is why they are so infrequent now that any chance appearance of the creature is chronicled in the papers as news. Another early purchase was a couple of large pine-apples, at threepence a-piece. We each ate one (surreptitiously, in a retired spot), and realised one of the ambitions of our lives--to get enough of that delicacy for once. On Saturday the 24th, the eighth day from our arrival, we turned our backs upon all this wild dissipation and our faces towards stern duty. We left Melbourne for the Bush. CHAPTER III THE BUSH It was not quite bush, to start with, because we travelled by railway to our immediate destination, and that was a substantial township set amongst substantial farms and stations, intersected by made roads. But on the way we had samples of typical country, between one stopping-place and another. First, there were the ugly, stony plains, with their far-apart stone fences, formed by simply piling the brown boulders, bound together by their own weight only, into walls of the required height. This dreary country represented valuable estates, and remains of the same aspect and in the hands of the same families, I believe, still. Gradually these stone-strewn levels merged into greener and softer country, which grew the gum-trees we had heard so much of; and presently we came to closely-folded, densely-forested hills, the "Dividing Range"--a locality to be afterwards associated with many charming memories--where snow and cloud-mists enwrapped one in winter, and from which the distant panorama of the low-lying capital and the sea was lovely on a clear day. But it was like eating one's first olive, that first acquaintance with Bush scenery; we had not got the taste of it. I cannot remember that we admired anything. Rather, an impression remains--the only one that does remain--of a cheerless effect upon our minds. Perhaps the weather had changed. There was no lack of cheer in the welcome awaiting us at our journey's end. Our clergyman-host met us on the railway platform with the face of a father greeting children home from school. There was a cab waiting, into which our traps were thrown, but we preferred to walk up to the parsonage through the streets of the clean little town, that we might study its unexpected points and see how enterprising and civilised the Bush could be. The parson's wife, aged twenty-one and four years married, received us on the doorstep of the cheerful house, and at once we were as perfectly at home in it as in our own. That was the way with all Australian houses, we found. Sunday was certainly wet. The two parsons drove out to a Bush service in the afternoon, and we their wives had a bad quarter of an hour listening to the bell ringing for the evening one, while yet there was no sign of their return who had promised to be back for tea; the boggy roads and swollen water-courses so delayed them that it was on the stroke of church time ere they turned up. But next day the sun shone again, and we were taken for a drive over macadamised roads and shown things that corrected our opinion of Bush scenery. And that day, neighbouring clergymen, Sunday off their minds, came to make our acquaintance, all full of information and advice for us, all eager themselves for news from the "Old Country." Mrs C. gave them shakedowns on sofas and floor, to which they repaired at disgraceful hours of the night, because they could not stop talking. Where is that party now?--the merriest clerical party I was ever in. The host, our friend from that day, and godfather to one of our sons, was made a bishop, and died but a few months ago; his merry wife is a broken-hearted widow, crippled with neuritis. One of the guests, in after years still more intimately dear, became an archdeacon, and is now dead also. Two others are past work, resting in retirement until the end comes. We, the youngest of the group, bar one, are beginning to realise that the evening for us also is drawing on. It was here, by the way, that we had news of the commencement of the war between France and Prussia. It came by the monthly mail-boat, which was our one channel of communication with the world. This budget gave texts for the discussions that are so memorable for their vivacity and charm. A great day was mail-day in those times. Looking back, I cannot remember that we fretted much over our four blank weeks, during which the most awful and personally serious things might happen without our knowing it; but I do remember that when we got the cable many of us grumbled because it took away the interest of mail-day, which became to us as a novel of which we know the ending before we begin to read it. Holiday travels ended on the last day of August. That night we started for the up-country post to which G. had been appointed, and where he was expected to begin his duties on the following Sunday. August 31st was a Wednesday, and therefore ample time seemed to have been allowed for a journey from Melbourne which the daily coach accomplished in less than a couple of days (and which is now done by the Sydney express in four hours). However, "the year of the great flood" was already making its reputation. Bridges and culverts had been washed away, and the coach-road was reported impassable for ladies. Men could wade and swim, assist to push the vehicle and extricate it from bogs--they were expected to do so--but the authorities in Melbourne advised my husband that the conditions were too rough for me. Consequently we took a round-about route, whereby it was still reckoned that we should get to our destination before Sunday. The C.'s saw us off during the afternoon--not back to town, but on by the railway which ended at the Murray. We were passed on from friend to friend until a group of kind men--whom I never saw before or since, but shall never forget--established us on board the little Murray streamer which was to be our home till Saturday. It was the mild spring night of that part of the colony, which embraces so many climates; and I can see now, in my mind's eye, the swirl of the brimming river that so soon after overflowed the town; the lights of the wharf and the boat, which spangled the dark sky and water with sparks from its wood-fed furnace; the generally romantic picturesqueness of a scene--one of a sensational series--which indelibly impressed itself upon me, an imaginative young person seeing the world for the first time. I can only with an effort remember how uncomfortable that boat was; when I think of it at all, my mind fills with recollections of the deeply interesting experiences that came to me by its means. On that flooded river--so flooded that its bed, for the greater part of the way, was marked by no banks, but only its bordering trees--I saw blacks in native costume, the now rare kangaroo and emu in flocks; black swans, white ibises, grey cranes; the iguana running up a tree, the dear laughing jackass in his glory; all the notorious characteristics of the country, and many more undreamed of. Most distinctly do I remember, the unceasing chorus of the frogs, and the solemn-sounding echo of the steamer's puffs and pants through the solitary gum-forests, especially at night. But we soon had to leave off travelling at night, on account of the many foreign bodies that the flood was whirling down--the débris of houses and bridges, trees, stacks, all sorts of things. Indeed, even in daylight the navigation of the turbulent stream was a most risky business. Consternation fell upon us when Saturday morning came, and we were informed that there was small chance of completing the passage that day. This meant being stranded in a strange township, at some possibly low public-house, on Sunday, when the coach of our last stage would not be running, and the breaking of an engagement that was considered of immense importance. "What shall we do?" we asked ourselves, and the question was overheard by fellow-passengers, anxious, as everybody was, to help us. "It's a pity you can't cut across," said one. "From here to W---- is no distance as the crow flies." Compared with the bow-loop we were making, it was no distance--a few hours' drive, with normal roads and weather; and just then the steamer stopped to take in cargo from a lonely shed, near which we perceived a cart, a grazing horse, and a man, evidently belonging to each other, and on the right (Victorian) side of the stream. "Would it be possible," one of us suggested, "to hire that cart and cut across?" G. went to try, while I leaned over the boat's rail and anxiously watched the negotiations. They were successful, and we hurriedly collected our wraps and bags, our heavy luggage was put ashore, and the steamer passed on and vanished round the next bend of the river, which was all bends, leaving us on the bank--in the real Bush for the first time, and delighted with the situation. The man with the cart had guaranteed to get us home before nightfall. We climbed over our boxes, which filled the body of the vehicle, settled ourselves upon them as comfortably as their angles permitted, and started merrily on our way. It was the morning of the day, of the season, of the Australian year, of our two lives; and I could never lose the memory of my sensations in that vernal hour. I can sniff now the delicious air, rain-washed to more than even its accustomed purity, the scents of gum and wattle and fresh-springing grass, the atmosphere of untainted Nature and the free wilds. I can see the vast flocks of screaming cockatoos and parrots of all colours that darted about our path--how wonderful and romantic I thought them! And what years it is since the wild parrot has shown himself to me in any number or variety! Like the once ubiquitous 'possum, he seems a vanishing race--at any rate, in this state. I suppose they still have sanctuary in the larger and less settled ones. I hope so. However, we were not far on this promising journey when troubles began. The rain returned, and settled to a solid downpour, that increased to a deluge as the day wore on. The Bush track became softer and softer, stickier and stickier, the dreadful bogs of its deeper parts more and more difficult of negotiation by the poor overweighted, willing horse, whose strength, as we soon saw, was unequal to the task before him. He got on fairly well until after the noonday halt, when he was rubbed down and fed--when we also were fed by a poor selector's wife at whose hut (in the absence of hotels) we solicited food, and who gave us all she had, bread and cream, as much as we could eat, and then refused to take a penny for it. But starting again, with rain heavier than before, the poor beast's struggles to do his hopeless best became more than I could bear. When I had seen him scramble through three or four bogs that sucked him down like quicksands, and it seemed that he must burst his heart in the effort to get out of them, I stopped the cart and said I would walk. My weight might not be much, but such as it was he should be relieved of it. G. also walked, but as he was needed to help the driver I left him and was soon far ahead, intending to give this negative aid to the expedition as long as I could find my way. I had been told to "follow the track," and I followed it for miles. The Bush was drowned in rain, so that I had to jump pools, and climb logs and branches, and get round swamps, in such a way that I felt it every minute more impossible to retrace my steps. I carried an umbrella, but I was wet to the skin. I was quite composed, however, except for my distress on account of the poor horse, whose master's voice and whip I could hear in the distance behind me from time to time; and I was not at all alarmed. I had prepared myself for the savageness of a savage country. I imagined that this was the sort of thing I should have to get accustomed to. Now and then I sat down to recover breath and to wring my sopping skirts, and to wait for the sound of the cart advancing, after the frequent silences that betokened bogs. By the way, I hear nothing nowadays of those bogs which, in their various forms, made our winter drives so exciting--the "glue-pots," the "rotten grounds," the "spue-holes," worst of all, indicated by a little bubble-up of clayey mud that you could cover with a handkerchief, but which, if a horse stepped on it, would take his leg to the knee, or to any depth that it would go without breaking. "Made" roads and drainage-works seem to have done away with them this long time, for the other day I met a resident of the locality who did not know, until I told him, what a spue-hole was. At last it was all silence. I waited for the cart, and it did not come. I called--there was no answer. At the end of an hour--it may have been two or three hours--the situation was the same. What had happened was that the horse was at last in a bog that he could not get out of, and that bog was miles away. I could not go back to see what had happened. I did not know where I was. I conjectured that I had turned off the track somewhere, and that my husband was travelling away from me; that I was lost in the Bush, where I might never be found again--where I should have to spend the night alone, at any rate, in the horrible solitude and darkness and the drenching rain. Appropriately, in this extremity, and just as dusk was closing in, I heard a splashing and a crashing, and my knight appeared--one of those fine, burly, bearded squatter-men who were not only the backbone of their young country, but everything else that was sound and strong. He drew rein in amazement; I rose from my log and stood before him in the deepest confusion. Finally I explained my plight, and in two minutes all trouble was over. Bidding me stay where I was for a short time longer, he galloped away, and presently returned in a buggy loaded with rugs and wraps, and bore me off to his house somewhere near, telling me that he would return again for my husband, and had sent men to the rescue of the cart and horse, now so buried in the bog that not much more than his head and neck were visible. Ah, those dear Bush-houses--so homely, so cosy, so hospitable, so picturesque--and now so rare! At least a dozen present themselves to my mind when I try to recall a perfect type, and this one amongst the first, although I never was in it after that night. They were always a nest of buildings that had grown one at a time, the house-father having been his own architect, with no design but to make his family comfortable, and to increase their comfort as his means allowed. And this must have been the golden prime of the squatter class in Victoria, for the free selector had but lately been let loose upon his lands, and the consequent ruin that he prognosticated had not visibly touched him. In the early stages of home-making, his home-life had been rough enough; but there was no roughness in it now, although there was plenty of work, and although the refinements about him were all in keeping with his hardy manliness, his simplicity, and sincerity of character. I used to be much struck by the contrast of his cherished "imported" furniture with its homely setting--the cheval glass and the mahogany wardrobe on the perhaps bare, dark-grey hardwood floor--incongruities of that sort, which somehow always seemed in taste. Never have I known greater luxury of toilet appointments than in some of those hut-like dwellings. In the humblest of them the bed stood always ready for the casual guest, a clean brush and comb on the dressing-table, and easy house-slippers under it. And then the paper-covered canvas walls used to belly out and in with the wind that puffed behind them; opossums used to get in under the roof and run over the canvas ceilings, which sagged under their weight, showing the impression of their little feet and of the round of their bodies where they sat down. The country-houses become more and more Europeanised, year by year. The inward ordering matches the outward architecture, and, although Australian hospitality has survived the homes that were its birthplaces, one hesitates to present one's self as an uninvited guest at the door with the electric bell and the white-capped maid, who asks, "What name, sir?" when you inquire if the family are at home. There is an off-chance that you may be unwelcome, or, at any rate inopportune, whereas it was impossible to imagine such a thing in what we now lovingly call "the old days." I came in, an utter stranger, out of the dark night and that wet and boggy wilderness, weary and without a dry stitch on me, to such a scene, such a welcome, as I could not forget in a dozen lifetimes. The door had been flung wide on the approach of the buggy, and I was lifted down into the light that poured from it, and passed straight into what appeared to be the living room of the family, possibly their only one. The glorious log fire of the country--the most beautiful piece of house-furniture in the world--blazed on the snowy white-washed hearth, filling every nook with warmth and comfort; and the young mistress, a new-made mother just up from her bed, in a smart loose garment that would now be called a tea-gown, came forward from her armchair to greet me as if I had been her sister, at the least. The table was spread for the dinner, to which the husband had been riding home when I encountered and delayed him; and what a feature of the charming picture it was! I remember the delicious boiled chicken and mutton curry that were presently set upon it, and how I enjoyed them. But first I was taken into an inner bedroom, to another glowing fire, around which were grouped a warm bath ready to step into, soft hot towels, sponge and soap, and a complete set of my hostess's best clothes, from a handsome black silk dress to shoes and stockings and a pocket-handkerchief. In these I dined, and, retiring early, as she had to do, found a smart nightgown, dressing-gown, and slippers toasting by my fire. And I sank to rest between fine linen sheets, and slept like a top until crowing cocks, within a few feet of me, proclaimed the break of day. That day was Sunday, and G. had to preach at morning service some eight or nine miles away. So we were early seated at a good breakfast, and a light buggy and a pair of strong, fast horses were brought round, to take us in good time to our destination. Our host himself drove us, and incidentally taught us what Bush driving meant. I remember how we made new roads for ourselves on the spur of the moment to avoid bogs, and how gamely we battled through those that were unavoidable; how we flew over the treacherous green levels that the expert eye recognised as "rotten," where, had the horses been allowed to pause for a moment, they would have sunk and stuck; and how finally we dashed in style into the township and up to the parsonage-gate, where a venerable archdeacon was anxiously looking for the curate whom he had almost given up for lost. The church-bell had not yet begun to ring. In fact, the family were still at breakfast when we arrived. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST HOME We had to wait in lodgings for a few weeks, during which time we made acquaintance with the place and people. Our lodgings were very comfortable. Sitting-room and bedroom, with a door between, our other door opening upon a big plot of virgin bush, alive with magpies, whose exquisite carolling in the early hours of the day is the thing that I remember best. There is no bird-song in the world so fresh and cheery. I seldom hear it now, but when I do I am back again, in imagination, at breakfast near that open door, drinking in the sweetness of the lovely September mornings which were the morning of my life. Never had I known such air and sunshine, or such health to enjoy them; and never do I feel so much an Australian as when I go to the Bush again and am welcomed by that fluty note. The spirit of happy youth is in it, and of those "good old times" which we old colonists have so many reasons to regret to-day. No song of English nightingale could strike deeper to my heart. Speaking of breakfast reminds me of the luxury we lived in, in respect of food. Never was such a land of plenty as this was then, when no one dreamed of butter and beef at what is their market rate this day. We had young appetites, in fine order after the sea-voyage, and the more we ate the better was our landlady pleased. It hurt her as a hostess and housewife to have any dish neglected. And she simply stuffed us with good things; the meal prepared for us two might have served half-a-dozen, and given bilious attacks to all. One mistake only did she make in the arrangement of her bill of fare--she gave us too many quinces; apparently they were a superfluity in her garden, as they have since been in nearly all of ours. At first they were a novel and welcome delicacy,
have been as blind as a mole to think Chandos had anything to do with it. It was ever so long before I found out the tops and bottoms of the business; but at last I found one of the juniors could tell something, and I got him by himself and threatened to break every bone in his skin if he didn't shell out all he knew, and then it came out that he had seen Chandos close to the farm-yard just before the animals were turned out, and the miserable little muff had gone with that tale to the governor as soon as the row began. "But you know it wasn't Chandos," I said, thinking he must have seen Tom too. "Wasn't it?" said the youngster. I gave him a shake, and ran off to Chandos, who was just going into the cricket-field. "What's this row about you and the farm-yard, Miss Chandos?" I said. He seems to be getting used to his name, and only said, "Oh, it's all right now, Stewart." "Do you know who did turn the things out?" I said. "Do you?" he asked. I nodded. "It wasn't you, and I didn't think you knew anything about it. Suspicions go for nothing, you know." "Well, let this pass. It's over now, and let's drop it." "But you've been punished for what you had no hand in. Did the governor think you did it?" "I don't think he believed I actually did it myself; but he said I was worse than those who did it if I was screening them, for I was encouraging insubordination in the school. Do you know who was suspected, Stewart?" "Me!" "Yes; I cleared you at once, but I couldn't say any more, and that vexed Dr. Mellor." "Oh, the Doctor be hanged! Why didn't you go to Tom and tell him the fix you was in? I suppose you knew he did it?" "I couldn't help knowing it where I was, and I did contrive to say a word to him about going to the Doctor, but--" "You told Tom you were to be punished for his fault, and he wouldn't make a clean breast of it to the governor!" I said, angrily. "There, I told you it was better to let it pass, Stewart; you could do no good now," said Chandos, walking away. But a sudden thought had seized me, and I placed myself in his path. "But you shall give me a plain answer to my question," I said; "not that I will believe it of Tom. It is you that are the sneak; you look one, with your white face and quiet ways, and I know you are only trying to set me against my old chum!" I was almost mad with rage, and longed to knock Chandos down; and for a minute he looked as though he would fight it out, but the next he had pushed me aside, and was striding on to take his place as long-stop in the game that was just beginning. I looked after him for a minute, thinking I would go and have it out, when I suddenly thought of going to Tom, and turned back to the workshop, where Tom was busy hacking at some wood for a rudder. "I say, old fellow, did Chandos tell you he was taking your punishment for the farm-yard scrape?" I asked. "Oh, never mind Chandos; come and rub down this mast," said Tom, turning away. "Then--he--did--tell--you!" I said, slowly. "Didn't you know Chandos was a sneak before to-day?" said Tom, sharply. "But--but tell me all about it, Tom," I said, rubbing my eyes, and feeling as though I must be dreaming. "Oh, there ain't much to tell--nothing to make such a fuss about. The fellow came to me, and said he had got into a scrape through the things getting out; but of course I didn't believe him. This was an easy way of getting me into a row, as well as helping himself out." "But, Tom, if he took your punishment, you know--" "Bah! my punishment! The governor isn't such a duffer as to think that white-faced milksop did that mischief. He hasn't pluck enough. I always told you he was a sneak, and now he's proved it, for he said the thing should always be a secret between us, whether I told or not, and now he's run open-mouthed to you with the tale." "No, he hasn't." And without another word I walked out of the workshop. I didn't feel as though I wanted to fight Tom; it didn't seem as though I could fight, for I couldn't understand things a bit. Somehow they'd got so mixed up in this row that Tom seemed to be Chandos, and Chandos Tom, and whether I should wake and find they were all right, or Tom running about with Chandos's head on his shoulders, I couldn't tell for a little while. But presently Chandos came walking through the gate on which I was mounted, and certainly he had his own straw-coloured hair safe enough. He didn't condescend to look at me as he passed, and I felt as though I hated him for robbing me of Tom. What right had he to do it--he with that white face to be so plucky? And not even for a friend either, for Tom is no friend to him any more than I am, and all the school have adopted our private name, and call him Miss Chandos. It isn't as though he didn't care about it either, for I can see he does. No boy likes to be thought a girl, or have a girl's name tacked to him; and Chandos is like the rest, but he takes it quietly, although I fancy now he would be as good in a stand-up fight as Tom himself. Bother Tom! I don't want to think about him now. I wish he had left the pigs and cows alone, or I hadn't been in such a fume to find out all about it. I don't like to think he has been mean and cowardly--my brave, bold Tom. Anyhow, I shall always hate Miss Chandos for her share in the matter, and I'll call her Miss Chandos more than ever now. It's been a miserable time, somehow, ever since I heard the tops and bottoms of this row, for though Tom and I have never said a word about it since, we both seem to remember it always, and we keep apart as we never did before. November 20th.--All the school is in a ferment about a special prize that is to be given for the best essay on something or other. I'm not going to try, so it don't trouble me much; but it seems as though everybody else is, and they can talk of nothing else. Even Tom is going in for this, it seems, though he don't stand much chance, I fancy; but he wants a watch, and thinks he may as well try for this. The weather is dull and cold, and our shipbuilding is almost at a standstill. We haven't done much since that row, and things are altogether miserable. Tom seems to be making new friends among the other fellows, and I've dropped shooting at Miss Chandos and hiding her Bible, so that altogether I'm rather glum, and ready to quarrel with anybody that is good for a stand-up fight. I know everybody thinks me a bear, and I am, I think, for I don't care for anybody or anything now. November 30th.--It seems as though there was never to be an end to this row, which has made everything so miserable for me. The governor has taken it into his head to consider the matter still unsettled, although Chandos took Tom's punishment, and now poor Chandos has been told that he can't try for this prize. It's the meanest shame, for Chandos stood as good a chance as anybody, if not better than most, and now he isn't to be allowed that chance. He tries to hide his disappointment, but I know he had begun to read up, and yesterday I asked him if he didn't mean to split on Tom, and tell the governor all about it. "I wish Haslitt would do it himself," he said; "it would be better for everybody if he did." "Of course it would; and I'll tell him so, and the governor too, if you won't." "No, no, don't do that, Stewart; the school would send you to Coventry if you split on another fellow about anything. And besides--" "Well, what more can the school do?" I asked, angrily. "Oh, nothing, only your splitting would do no good now, I fancy." "Well, Tom shall make a clean breast of it, and give up his chance of this prize. It ain't much of a chance for him, and so it won't be much for him to give it up; but you'll get it, Chandos--at least I hope you will;" and then I ran off to find Tom and have it out with him. I hardly knew how to begin, but I did it somehow; and then Tom said, crossly, "What a fuss you make about nothing! I suppose Miss Chandos has set you on. Has she taught you to say your prayers yet?" "Saying my prayers has nothing to do with this, Tom, you know that." "Oh, hasn't it! I thought the young lady was making a milksop of you, you've been so glum, lately." "Now look here, Tom, I haven't told you what I thought about this sneakish business, but I will if you don't make a clean breast of it to the governor at once." "Well, who cares what you think?" said Tom, laughing; and he tried to push past me. But I wasn't going to have that. "Now, look here, old fellow, we have been chums for ever so long, and I never knew you to do anything mean before, and I believe you're sorry for this; now make a clean breast of it, Tom, and let Miss Chandos go in for this prize." "Has she told you she's sure to get it?" "No, of course not; but you know she'd stand a good chance--a better chance than you do." "I don't know so much about that, and I don't see why I should give up my chance just to suit your whims. It wouldn't help Miss Chandos either." "Yes, it would. The governor wants to get at the bottom of this farmyard affair, and that is why he is so hard on poor Chandos." "Poor Chandos! The young lady has bewitched you, Charley! As if this had anything to do with that old row! She knows how to come it over you, the mean sneak! As though she didn't know this was for another affair altogether." "I don't believe it, Tom." "Don't you? Ask some of the other fellows, then. Here, Jackson, what did you tell me Miss Chandos had been doing to lose her chance of the prize?" called Tom. "I don't know now. Collins told me it was some artful dodge the governor had found out. Anyhow, I'm glad she's out, for the chances will be pretty evenly balanced among us now; but Chandos always goes in for such a lot of grind that he'd be sure to swamp us all. Do you go in for it, Stewart?" he asked. "I'm not fond of grind, and shouldn't have a ghost of a chance, any more than Tom has." "Oh, well, Haslitt will pass muster, I dare say, but we ain't much afraid of him," laughed Jackson, as he ran away. "I tell you the fellows will kick up no end of a row now if they find I gave up for Chandos to go in; not that I think he would mind. He's a sneak, and has just told you this to hide something he has been doing himself." "Well, I shouldn't care for what the fellows said, Tom. They want to keep Chandos out--a few of them, I don't believe they all do--just because they will stand a better chance of the prize; and it's mean and cowardly, and I wouldn't help them in it if I were you." "But I tell you, Charley, you mustn't go against a lot like this. I'm beginning to find out that you must think of others a bit when you are at school like this, and--and--" There Tom stopped. "Look here, Tom; it may be all very well to mind what other fellows say a bit, but I never knew you to do a mean thing in my life before, and I shall wish we had never come here if it's going to make you a sneak now." "Who says I am a sneak? Chandos, I suppose?" "No, it isn't Chandos. He hasn't been your chum as I have; he didn't know what you were before you came to school, and never talks about you--" "Only to call me a sneak, I suppose?" "No, he has never called you a sneak; but I do, and mean it, if you won't go to the governor and make a clean breast of everything." "It would do no good, I tell you, Charley, and the other fellows would be down upon me directly if I did. Three or four are going in for this prize that wouldn't try if Chandos wasn't out. I tell you they'd never forgive me if I split now. I'll promise this, Charley, I'll never get into a scrape like it again. I wish now I'd gone to the governor at once about it." "I wish you had; but it isn't too late, you know, now, Tom. Come on at once; we shall find him in the library. I'll go with you if you like." I really thought Tom would go then, but just as we were turning round Jackson ran to tell him Collins and the rest wanted him; and Tom went off, calling to me, "It's no good, Charley, I can't do it." I felt half ashamed to meet Chandos after this, for he knew I had been to talk to Tom, and I couldn't bear him to think he was such a sneak as he has been over this; but there was no getting out of it, for he was standing by the lobby door as I went in, and looked at me in such a way that I said, crossly, "Why don't you go to the governor yourself and tell him all about it?" "Then Haslitt won't go?" "No, he won't," I said. "This beastly school has made him a sneak--he never was before; he never served anybody such a trick, and he never would if he hadn't come here." "Well, don't get so angry about it, Stewart. My mother says one of the principal uses of a school is to try what mettle we are of. We cannot tell whether a character is strong or weak until it has been tried, and the temptations and failures at school prepare us better for the temptations of the world afterwards." "What do I care about the temptations of the world? It's this school that has spoiled Tom, and he will never be my chum again, and I shall have to look out for another lieutenant for my ship;" and I rushed off indoors, for fear Chandos should say any more, for I could not bear to hear him speak against Tom. CHAPTER III. THE SKATING PARTY. November 30th.--I haven't spoken to Tom for a week, but he's so mixed up with the other fellows now that he don't seem to mind; but I am very dull, and it makes me very miserable not to have Tom working with me at our boats as we used to do. I have found out, too, that Chandos is not a general favourite in the school, but he has two or three friends--chums, like Tom and I used to be--who seem to be fond of reading, and don't get into so many scrapes as Tom's set. I belong to nobody just now. I join in a game sometimes when I don't feel too sulky; but I miss Tom too much to feel pleased with anybody else, though Chandos and I talk a bit sometimes when we go to bed. Last night we were talking about prayer. Fancy boys talking about that; but it seems Chandos believes it is all as real--as real as writing a letter to his mother, and as sure of having an answer. I was as much surprised as when the Doctor talked about us having a conscience; for it seems Chandos is not going to be a parson after all, but is to go into his uncle's counting-house, just as mother wants me to do. The only difference is that Chandos has made up his mind to it because it is his duty, he says, though he hates it as much as I do, and wants to be a doctor awfully. I begin to think the world is a dreadful puzzle. Why can't people do just what they like, instead of being driven to do what they hate so often? Chandos is a first-rate sort of fellow too, I think, in spite of his white face and curly hair; and yet he's got to do what he don't like, so that being good don't seem to have much to do with it, though my old nurse used to say good boys were always happy. Well, I'm not good, anyhow, so it's not very wonderful that I'm pretty miserable; only Tom seems happy enough, and he ought to be miserable too, which is another of the puzzles, I suppose. December 10th.--Everybody is essay mad--that is, all the fellows in our class who have gone in for it. Chandos and I never talk about it to each other, but I know he is disappointed, for he was ill the first part of this half, and so he will have no prizes to take home at Christmas. I suppose I should be disappointed too if I was one of the fellows that grind, but I don't see the use of it, and so prizes don't come in my way. Not but what I should like to please mamma, and she would be pleased, I know, if such a wonder was to happen; but then I hate books, unless they are about the sea, or something of that sort. I shall be glad when the holidays are here now. I should not like to confess it even to Tom, but I want to see my mother, and ask her some of the questions that have puzzled me lately. Then there is always lots of fun at Christmas, and there has been so little here. Another week and this essay fuss will be over, and then the fellows will talk about the other prizes and going home, and I shall try to forget all the bother, and Tom's share in it too, if I can. I wonder who will get this essay prize--not Tom, I am certain. December 18th.--Tom has got the prize. I cannot understand it one bit. I know he has gone in for lots of grind lately, like the other fellows, but there were two or three that I felt sure would be better up to that kind of work than he was. I cannot feel glad that he has won it, and I have not told him I am; and some of the fellows that were most urgent for him to go in have scarcely spoken to him since. I wonder whether they think, as I do, that this watch should of right belong to Chandos. Tom and I are going home together. No one at home knows anything of what has happened, and I shall not tell them if I can help it. Chandos has asked me to go and see him in the holidays, and I mean to ask mamma to let him come to our house. I think I shall like that better than going to his place, for I fancy his people are dreadfully religious, and we know nothing about that sort of thing, but I don't like to be thought quite a heathen. January 20th.--The holidays are over, and we are back at school in our old places once more. Tom has taken up the notion that I am envious of his good luck in getting the watch. Good luck! I call it bad luck, for it was a bad business altogether, and I let out something about this at home; but mamma only thought it was one of our ordinary quarrels. I went to see Chandos in the holidays. He has several brothers and sisters; one of them has come back with him to school, and is among the juniors, although he is only a year or two younger than his brother; but he has been delicate, and is very backward, and so was obliged to go into the lower division of the school. I like Mrs. Chandos very much. She is religious after a different pattern from my Aunt Phoebe, and somehow everything seems so real about her that I don't wonder Chandos believes everything she says. But I don't mean to like Chandos too much. He is all very well, but he is not Tom, and can never be my lieutenant. I had a talk to mamma about going to sea, but she is as obstinate as ever. I told Chandos of this when he came to see me, and he said, "Then I am afraid you will have to give it up, Stewart." "Give it up! give up the sea! you don't know what you are talking about, Chandos!" "Yes, I do, for I wanted to be a doctor quite as badly as you want to go to sea; but when my father died, and my mother told me how impossible it was that my wish could be gratified, I set to work at once to conquer it." "Set to work to conquer it! But how could you do that?" I said. "I--I began in the only way I could; I asked God to help me for my mother's sake to overcome the selfish desire, and make me willing to do all I could to learn what was necessary to be a merchant." "But you don't hate the idea of being chained to a desk as I do, or you wouldn't talk so coolly about it." "Not now. But I did hate it quite as much as you can, Stewart; but I remembered that my mother was not rich. When my father died we were very much reduced, and if I should offend my uncle by refusing this offer he might refuse to help the younger ones by-and-by; and so you see it was my duty to forget myself and my own wishes, and do what I could to help my mother." "But my mother does not need my help, and so I don't see why I should give up everything I want, if you do." "Your mother may not want your help, but she wants you. You are her only son, and--and shall I tell you?--I have heard of such things happening, you know--she may break her heart if you run away to sea. You would not do that, Stewart." "Break her heart! Kill my mother! Chandos, you know me better than that!" "Yes, I do, Stewart, and that is why I have spoken in time; but I have heard of boys going to sea and coming home expecting to find everything as they left it, and finding mother and father both dead--killed by grief for the runaway." "Oh, that's all twaddle, you know, Chandos; nobody ever really died of a broken heart," I said. "Then you mean to try the experiment on your mother? Very well, Stewart; if you will, you will, I know; only beware of the consequences, for if the twaddle should prove truth it would cause you lifelong unhappiness afterwards." This ended his lecture, and I made up my mind to forget it as soon as I could; but somehow it mixes itself up with everything, and try as I will I cannot forget it. Of course, I don't want to run away, if I can persuade mamma to let me go to sea properly; but if she won't, what am I to do? I can't and won't go to be perched up at an office desk all day, and so there will be nothing else I can do but cut and run some fine morning. Of course, I shall write to mamma just before I sail, and tell her I'm all right and jolly, and when she knows that she'll soon be all right. Tom and I have talked over the plan dozens of times, for he was to come with me, only somehow I don't want him so much now, though his watch might be handy to sell if we were short of money on the road, for I suppose we should have to go to Liverpool, or Plymouth, or Southampton, or some of those places. Bother Chandos, making me feel uncomfortable about it. But there, I'm not going to run away to-day, and so I'll forget the whole bother. January 26th.--At last we are going to have some fun. It has been freezing splendidly these two days, and if the governor hadn't been a duffer he would have let us go out on the ice to-day, for there is a first-rate pond--two or three, in fact--close by, and I know the ice will bear; but he has promised we shall go to-morrow, and everybody has been looking up skates in readiness. I hope it will not thaw to-night, for we are all looking forward to the fun we shall have to-morrow--all but Chandos, and he has taken it into his head that his brother ought to stay at home, as he has a cold. But Chandos junior has a will of his own, I can see, and I mean to help him to stand out against his brother's coddling, and give Miss Chandos a fright into the bargain, if I can. It will be good fun to coax the youngster to go to another pond, especially if one happens to be labelled "Dangerous." I fancy I can see his brother now running about like a hen after her brood of ducklings, for he does fuss after this youngster, as though he was different from other boys, and I'll stop it if I can. February 4th.--I wonder whether I can put down in my log all that has happened. I shall try, for I am very dull to-day sitting up here alone while the others are in school. It did not thaw, as everybody feared it would, and we started for the ponds in good time, Swain and the other master with us, for the governor would not trust us alone, which made some of the fellows pretty wild, and they vowed Swain should not come for nothing. Just before we started Tom came tearing across the playground to me and said, "You've split on Chandos junior!" "Split on him! What do you mean? I don't often speak to the youngster; you and your set know more about him than I do," I said. "Yes, but you and Miss Chandos are as thick as thieves, and you know he did not want young Frank to go to-day." "Yes, I do know that, and I said if I was Frank I wouldn't be coddled to that tune. What of that?" "Why, Chandos has locked him up or something, for he isn't here." "Locked up your grandmother! How could he do that without appealing to the governor? and you know Chandos is not likely to do that now. The youngster will turn up presently, unless he has made up his mind to do as his brother wishes, and declares himself on the sick-list. There are three to stay indoors, you know." "Yes, but young Chandos won't stay if he can help it. We've laughed him out of that--told him the school calls his brother a young lady for his meek ways, and the sooner he breaks away from her apron-string the better." "Well, Chandos is too fussy," I said; "but don't lead the youngster into any harm, Tom. I'll help with some fun, just to give Chandos a fright, you know." "Bravo, Charley! Jackson was just talking about the same thing, and we'll do it now." And we both rushed off to Jackson and the rest, to inquire if they had seen anything of the youngster. "It's what I call confoundedly selfish, if Chandos has stopped the young prig from coming out," said one of the fellows. "Chandos ain't selfish," I said; for, though I felt cross with Chandos myself, I did not care to hear him run down by Tom's set. "Well, I don't know what you would call it, but if somebody tried to make me stay at home the only day we are likely to have any fun on the ice, I should feel ready to punch him." "I don't believe Chandos junior will stay. But now, what are you going to do with him when he comes?" "Do with him! Do you think we want to eat him, Stewart?" "No, I don't suppose you do; but mind, there's to be no harm done--no sousing him, or anything of that sort. If it's just a bit of fun, to give Chandos senior a fright, I'll be in it." "I should think you would, for things are awfully slow here now. Tom says you used to be up to anything, but since Miss Chandos--" "There, we won't talk about that; Tom knows all about it, if you don't." And I was just turning away when Frank Chandos ran towards us with his skates in his hand, looking angry and defiant at his brother, who had followed him half across the playground. A few minutes afterwards we started for the ponds in groups and knots of twos and threes, all laughing and chattering together, the masters at the head, and leading the way to the broadest and shallowest. "Now, boys, I think you can skate and slide to your hearts' delight here; but mind, Dr. Mellor has given orders that no one is to go to the pond round by the alder bushes, for there are dangerous holes in it, as you all know, and if the ice should break--well, you know what the consequences are likely to be." "All right, sir, we'll keep clear of that," said two or three, as they were fastening the straps of their skates, while some, who had already begun sliding, laughed at the notion of the ice breaking. "It is as firm as the schoolroom floor, and one is as likely to give way as the other." "I don't believe the governor would have let us come here at all if all the ponds hadn't been safe," I said. "Safe! of course they're safe. The governor knows that; only he must tell us something by way of a scare. He's as bad as Miss Chandos," said Tom. "Where is the young lady," I said, "and the youngster? We must look after them." We were off now spinning across the pond, Tom and I, with Jackson close behind, and the three of us managed to keep together. "What a lark it would be to take Chandos junior to the alder pond," said Jackson, looking at me as he wheeled round on his skates. "We'll do it," I said; "but not just now. Wait a bit, till the fellows get warm to the work, and they won't miss us. We must keep our eye on the youngster. Is he skating or sliding?" "Skating; but that don't matter," said Tom. "No, but if Chandos senior had the skates on it would be all the better. They are his skates too; I happen to know that, and so I shall tell Master Frank presently that he ought not to stick to them for the whole afternoon." "I see; if Chandos senior should happen to see us he will not be able to fly to the rescue of his duckling at once. But look here, Stewart, we'll manage so that he don't know anything about it." "Oh, no, we won't! I want him to see us, to tease him a bit. I say, Jackson, are you a judge of ice? Don't you think this seems to be giving a bit?" I said. "No, it's as firm as a rock. What ice would give in such a cutting wind as this?" And Jackson pulled his comforter closer round his throat as he spoke. We were all pretty well wrapped up in great-coats and mufflers and worsted gloves, so that when we had a fall, as most of us did every few minutes, we had something to break the concussion a little; but these heavy things would prove rather awkward if the ice should break and let us through. I said something about this to Jackson, but he laughed at the notion, and Tom said, "Why, what has come to you lately, Charley? You have been tied to Miss Chandos's apron-string until you have got to be a coward. I believe now you are afraid to go to the alder pond." "Am I? you shall see about that. Where's Chandos junior?" And I wheeled off at once to look for the youngster and see what Miss Chandos was about, and whether Swain was likely to have his eye upon our movements. I cannot write any more to-day. To-morrow I shall be stronger, I hope, and then I may finish this story about our skating. CHAPTER IV. THE ACCIDENT. February 5th.--It helps to pass some of the time I am obliged to spend alone to write in my log, and so I will go on from where I left off yesterday. I found everybody was on the ice, the masters enjoying the fun as much as the boys, and Chandos the merriest of the lot. He and two or three of his friends were racing, curveting, cutting figures in the ice, for I found that Frank had been glad to give up the skates and take to sliding. "It's rather crowded here," I said, as I ran the youngster down, and then stopped and wheeled round to help him up. "It's crowded everywhere, and the fellows with skates seem to think they ought to have it all their own way," he grumbled. "Come over here; there are some good slides at the farther end of the pond;" and I helped the youngster over, purposely going close to Miss Chandos. But she didn't smell mischief, or was too much occupied with her own fun to notice us, and we soon came up with Jackson and the rest. "It's dreadfully cold here," said young Chandos, shivering. "Yes, it is cold," said Tom; "the wind sweeps down upon us, freezing our very marrow if we don't keep moving." "The best place for sliding would be the alder pond. That is sheltered a good deal from this cutting wind," said Jackson. "But it isn't safe," said Frank Chandos. "Safe! As if they'd let us come near this place at all if all the ponds were not safe! I tell you it will bear as well as this," said Jackson. "Shall we go there?" proposed Tom. "Mr. Swain said we were not to go near it," feebly ventured Frank. "Oh, well, if you're afraid, stay where you are, but I'm going," said Jackson. "Stewart, will you come? Tom will, I know." "Yes, I'm off," said Tom, nodding to me; but I wanted Miss Chandos to see where we were taking her duckling, to give her a fright. The youngster saw me looking towards his brother, and said, in a whisper, "If we mean to go, Eustace had better not see us. You're sure it's safe?" he added. "Safe as the schoolroom floor," I said; and then we went after the others; but I kept looking back towards
of these metallic plates, a little to the right of the brass post, or about midway between the right and left sides, having its thumb-screw towards you, and with it screw the three plates firmly together. The platina is shorter than the zincs, to prevent its reaching the quicksilver in the bottom of the cell; and the wax balls on its sides are to insulate it from the zinc plates. This platina should never be allowed to touch the mercury or the zinc. Let the plates, properly screwed together, be now placed in the cell with the Battery Fluid. Then, with the two copper connecting-wires, connect the post which stands on the wooden bar above the platina with the post stamped P on the helix-box, and the brass clamp N with the post N on the helix-box. If, now, the screws regulating the vibrating armature be in perfect adjustment, the current will commence to run, with a buzzing sound; or it may be made to start by touching the hammer-like head of the flat steel spring. If not, the screws may be rightly adjusted in the following way: The top screw, which at its lower point is tipped with a small coil of platina wire, should be made to press delicately upon the center of the little iron plate on the upper side of the spring, so as to bear the latter down very slightly. Then raise or depress the screw-magnet, which turns up or down under the hammer, like the seat of a piano-stool, until the vibration of the spring commences. The _rapidity of the vibrations_, by which is secured the alternate closing and breaking of the electric circuit (or rather what, in practical effect, is equivalent to this--the _direct_ and _reverse_ action of the current in alternation) is increased by raising the screw-magnet and diminished by lowering it. When it is raised above what is required for ordinary use, the noise becomes too loud and harsh for many nervous patients to bear. It should then be depressed a little. With respect to curative power, I have discovered but little perceptible difference, produced by the various degrees of rapidity in the vibrations, effected within the range of this magnet. _The force_ of the current is regulated by means of a tubular magnet, which slides over the helix, and is called _the plunger_. It is approached under a brass cap at the right-hand end of the machine. The plunger is withdrawn, more or less, to increase the force; pushed in to diminish it. If in any case the current can not be softened sufficiently with the plunger, the quantity of battery fluid in use must be made less. After a time the current will become weak, and fail to run well. Then renew the battery fluid. When the quicksilver is all taken up by the zinc plates, the machine may be run for a while without adding more. But after it has considerably disappeared from the inside surface of the zinc plates, the latter will begin to show more rapid corrosion, while the current will be less. Then let a small quantity of quicksilver--one-fourth to one-third of an ounce--again be placed in the fluid. When the machine is not in use, let the metals be removed from the fluid; and, if not to be soon again used, let them be rinsed with water, carefully avoiding to wet the wooden bar in which the platina is set. _The posts_, with which the conducting-cords are to be connected, are arranged in a row near the front of the helix-box, and are marked A, B, C, D. Either two of these posts may be used to obtain a current; and since they admit of six varying combinations, six different currents are afforded by the machine, viz: the A B current, the A C current, the A D current, the B C current, the B D current, and the C D current. Whichever current is used, it may always be known which of the two posts employed is the positive and which the negative, by observing the letters stamped upon their tops. The one whose letter comes first in the order of the alphabet is positive; the other is negative. Also, the one standing towards the left hand is positive, and that at the right hand is negative. _The qualities_ of the several currents are stated in a descriptive paper on the inside of the lid of the machine, which see. It will there be found that three of the currents--viz, the A B, the A C and the A D currents--are _electrolytic_: that is, dissolving by electric action. These electrolytic currents require to be used--one or another of them--whenever any chemical action is needed; as, in decomposing or neutralizing _virus_ in the system, destroying cancers, reducing glands when chronically enlarged, removing tumors or other abnormal growths, and in treating old ulcers and chronic irritation of mucous membranes. The other three, being Faradaic or induction currents, and having no perceptibly chemical action, are used where only change of electro-vital polarization is required. These Faradaic currents differ from each other in respect to being _concentrative_ or _diffusive_ in their effects, and in their _sensational_ force. B C is concentrative and delicately sensational. C D is also concentrative, though less so than B C, and is more strongly sensational. B D is diffusive, and the most energetically sensational of the three. POLARIZATION. It may be proper, in this place, to spend a few words upon electrical polarization in general. _Electrical polarity_ may be defined as a characteristic of the electric or magnetic fluid, by virtue of which its opposite qualities, as those of _attraction_ and _repulsion_ towards the same object, are manifested in opposite parts of the electric or magnetic body. These opposite parts are called the _poles_ of the body, as the _positive_ and _negative_ poles. The difference between the positive and negative poles is believed to be that of _plus_ and _minus_--plus being positive and minus negative. This is the Franklinian view, and, if I mistake not, is the one most in favor with men of science at the present day. This view supposes that the electricity or magnetism arranges itself in _maximum_ quantity and intensity at the one extremity or pole of the magnetized body, and in _minimum_ quantity and intensity at the opposite extremity or pole; and that, between these points--the maximum and the minimum--the fluid is distributed, in respect to quantity and intensity, upon a scale of regular graduation from the one to the other. The idea may be represented by a _line_, commencing in a _point_ at the one end, and extending, with regularly increasing breadth, to the other end. The larger end would represent the positive pole, and the smaller, the negative pole. Or perhaps a better representation of the magnet would be a line of equal breadth from end to end, but having the one end _white_, or slightly tinted, say, with _red_, and the color gradually and regularly increasing in strength to the other end, where it becomes a _deep scarlet_. Let the coloring-matter represent the magnetism in the body charged, and we have the magnet illustrated in its polarization: the deep-red end is the positive pole, and the white or faintly-colored end is the negative pole. It is a law of polarization that the positive poles of different magnets repel each other, and the negative poles repel each other; while positive and negative poles attract each other. The same law of polarization rules in electric or magnetic _currents_ as in magnets at rest. THE ELECTRIC CIRCUIT. _The Electric Circuit_ is made up of any thing and every thing which serves to conduct the electric current in its passage--outward and returning--from where it leaves the inner surfaces of the zinc plates in the battery cell to where it comes back again to the outer surfaces of the same plates. When the conducting-cords are not attached to the machine, or when the communication between the cords is not complete, if the machine be running, the circuit is then composed of the battery fluid, the platina plate, the posts, the connecting-wires, which unite the battery with the helix, the helical wires, and their appendages for the vibrating action. But when a patient is under treatment, the conducting-cords, the electrodes, and so much of the patient's person as is traversed by the current while passing from the positive electrode through to the negative electrode, are also included in the whole circuit. And whatever elements may serve to conduct the current in any part of its circuit--be they metal, fluid, nerve, muscle, or bone--the same are all, for the time, component parts of _one complete magnet_, which, in all its parts, is subject to the law of polarization, precisely as if it were one magnetized bar of steel. Usually, however, it is sufficient for _practical_ purposes to contemplate the circuit as consisting only of that which the current passes through in going from the point where it leaves the positive post and enters into the negative cord, around to the point where it leaves the positive cord and enters into the negative post. POLARIZATION OF THE CIRCUIT. I have said, in effect, a little above, that, while the current is running, _the entire circuit is one complete magnet_, which extends from the inner or positive sides of the zinc plates, where the current commences, all the way around to the outer or negative aides of the zinc plates, to which it returns. Viewed in this light its negative pole or end is the battery fluid, next to the positive surfaces of the zinc plates, and its positive pole or end is the brass clamp which, holding the metals together, is in contact with the outer and negative surfaces of the zincs. But, for practical purposes, it is sufficiently exact to consider the _magnetic circuit_ as extending only from the positive _post_ around through the conducting cords, the electrodes and the person of the patient to the _negative_ post. The negative end or pole of this magnet is the wire end of the cord placed in the positive post, and the positive end or pole is the wire end of the cord placed in the negative post. But any magnet may be viewed either as one whole, or be conceived as composed of a succession of shorter magnets placed end to end. If we view it as one entire magnet, we call the end in which the magnetic essence is in greatest quantity the _positive_ end, and the end where it is in least quantity the _negative_ end. But if we imagine the one whole magnet as being divided up into several sections, then we conceive of each section as a distinct magnet, having its own positive and negative poles. And, all the way through, these sectional magnets will be arranged with the positive pole of the one joined to the negative pole of the next in advance of it. It is just so in respect to the magnetic circuit of a moving current. The whole circuit, as before remarked, is in reality one long magnet. But in applying the terms _positive_ and _negative_ in our practice we often view the whole circuit--the one long magnet--as composed of a series of shorter ones, arranged with positive and negative ends in contact; and all the way the current in each section is supposed to be running from the positive pole of the magnet behind to the negative pole of the magnet before. We consider the circuit, from the positive post around to the negative post, as composed of three magnets, as follows: Magnet No. 1, which extends from the positive post, along the cord and electrode, to the body of the patient, where the positive electrode is placed. The _negative pole_ of this magnet is the _wire end of the cord_ placed in the positive post, and its _positive_ pole in the _positive electrode_ placed upon the person of the patient. No. 2, which is composed of the parts of the patient traversed by the current between the two electrodes. Its negative end or pole is the part in contact with the positive pole of magnet No. 1, and its positive pole is the part in contact with the negative pole of magnet No. 3. No. 3 extends from the positive pole of No. 2, through the electrode and along the cord, to the negative post. Its negative pole is the _negative electrode_ in contact with the positive end or pole of magnet No. 2, and its positive pole is the _wire end of the cord_ in the negative post. Since in every magnet the magnetic fluid is supposed to be regularly graduated from minimum quantity in the negative end to maximum quantity in the positive end, this is true in respect to the one magnet, consisting of the whole magnetic circuit, as well as in respect to each one of the sectional series. Consequently there must be the same quantity of magnetism in each negative pole of the sections as there is in the positive pole of the section immediately behind it. And the magnetism of the whole circuit between the positive and the negative posts is in its _least_ volume next to the _positive post_, and in _fullest_ volume next to the _negative post_. If we consider the circuit as divided into two equal halves, the _negative half_ is plainly that which joins the _positive post_, and the _positive half_ that which joins the _negative post_. From this it will be seen that what in practice are designated as the positive and negative _posts_, and also positive and negative _poles_ or _electrodes_ are _not_ such _in relation to each other_, but the _reverse_ of it; that is to say, the positive _post_ is not _positive_ in relation to the _negative post_, but is _negative_ to it; and the positive _electrode or pole_ is not positive in relation to the _negative_ electrode, but _negative_ to it. The positive _post_, like the positive _electrode_, is called _positive_, because it is the positive end of the sectional magnet next _behind_ it. And the _negative_ post, as also the negative electrode, is _called negative_ because it is the negative end of the sectional magnet next _in advance_ of it. THE CENTRAL POINT OF THE CIRCUIT. _The central point_ of the circuit--that point which divides between its positive and negative halves--is reckoned, in practice, to be the midway point in the line over which the current passes, in its whole course from the positive post around to the negative post. When the cords are of equal length, this point will always be in the person of the patient, about midway between the parts where the two electrodes are applied. This central point, or "point of centrality," is practically neuter--neither positive nor negative; and upon the two opposite halves of the circuit, the positive and negative _qualities_ of the current are in greatest force nearest to the posts, and in least force nearest to the central point. At this point they cease altogether, and the central point is _neuter_. It may, perhaps, be observed that, in _apparent_ contradiction of this statement, the _sensational_ effect of the current on the negative half of the circuit is _least_ nearest to the positive post, and becomes regularly _greater_ as the current advances towards the central point; and that _at_ this point it is greater than at any other point between this and the positive post. To relieve this seeming contradiction, it is only necessary to consider that, in fact, the _positive_ state on the negative half of the current _does_ increase regularly from the positive post to the central point. But that which is the _increase_ of the positive state is the _decrease_ of the negative state. So it is still true that on the negative half of the circuit, the _negative_ qualities _diminish_ as we advance towards the central point just as on the positive half, the _positive_ qualities diminish regularly towards the central point, as stated above. THE CURRENT. _The current_ is that moving electric essence which traverses the circuit. The _course_ of the current is always from the positive to the negative. It leaves the machine at the positive post, where it enters the cord which holds the positive electrode or pole. Thence it advances around the circuit, going out from the opposite cord where that connects with the negative post. The forward end of the current is its positive end; the rear, of course, is its negative end. At its forward end it is in its greatest volume. At its rear end the volume is least. At the _central point_ of its circuit there is the _mean_ quantity--the _average_ volume. And because the positive and negative forces on either side exactly balance each other upon the central point, therefore this point is practically neuter--neither positive nor negative. MODIFICATIONS OF ELECTRICITY. In the present stage of electric science, the conviction has become very general among experimenters that galvanism, magnetism, faradism, frictional electricity and the electricity of the storm-cloud are, in their essential nature, one and the same; being diversified in appearance and effects by the different modes and circumstances of their development. This conviction has been reached in various ways; but chiefly, perhaps, by observing the many analogies between the phenomena of these several forces, and also by the fact that each of them can be made to produce or be produced by one or more of the others. But I must forego any detailed discussion of this matter, since my limits will not admit of it, and shall assume that these apparently several agents are but modifications of the same generic force. There are two other phases or modifications of the electric principle, as I judge them to be, which are not so generally classed here. I refer to the forces of animal and vegetable vitality, as viewed in the next section. VITAL FORCES--ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE. Upon these points I must be permitted to offer a few words. Of the _animal kingdom_, I regard the "nervous fluid" or "nervous influence," popularly so called, as being the very principle of _animal vitalization_--the life force; and that, a modification of the _electric_ force. It is, I think, pretty generally conceded at this day that the "nervous influence" is probably electric. There are some alleged facts, and other certain facts, which go far to sustain this view. It is said that if we transfix, with a steel needle, a large nerve of a living animal, as the great ischiatic, and let it remain in that condition a suitable time, the needle becomes permanently magnetized. So, too, if the point of a lancet be held for some length of time between the severed ends of a newly-divided large nerve, that point, as I have heard it affirmed, on what appeared to be good authority, becomes magnetized; although I have not attempted to verify either of these cases by experiment. However, admitting them to be true, the metal is charged with simply the "nervous fluid." But the fact on which I myself chiefly rely for evidence of this identification, being almost daily conversant with it in my practice, is this: _The "nervous influence" obeys the laws of electrical polarization, attraction and repulsion._ When I treat a paralyzed part, in which, to all appearance, the action of the nerve force is suspended, I have but to assume that this force is electric, and apply the poles of my instrument accordingly, and I _bring it in_ from the more healthy parts, along with the inorganic current from my machine. Forcing conduction through the nerves, by means of my artificial apparatus, I rouse the susceptibility of the nerves until they will normally conduct the "nervous influence" or electro-vital fluid, as I term it, and the paralysis is removed. Again, if I treat an inflamed part, in which the capillaries are engorged with arterial blood, I have but to assume that the affected part is overcharged with the electro-vital fluid, through the nerves and the arterial blood, and so to apply my electrodes, according to well known electrical law, as to produce mutual repulsion, and the inflammatory action is sure to be repressed. I manifestly change the polarization of the parts. This thing is so perfectly regular and constant that I am entirely assured, before touching the patient, what sort of effect will be produced by this or that arrangement in the application of the poles of the instrument. If I desire to increase or depress the nervous force in any given case, I find myself able, on this principle, to produce the one effect or the other, at will. Hence, I say, the nervous influence obeys the electric laws, just as does the inorganic electricity. I find this subtle agent not in the nerves only, but also in muscle and blood--more especially in arterial blood. Indeed it seems to pervade, more or less, the entire solids and fluids of the animal system. And wherever it exists, its action is just that of an _electro-vital_ force. Examples of this fact will appear further along in the present work. While, therefore, I can not _affirm_ the identity of animal electricity and animal vitality, the theory of their identification, to my view, best accords with the manifestations under correct therapeutic treatment, and I am unaware of any established fact to disprove it. _Vegetable vitality_, also, I regard as another modification of the electric force. The fact has been proved by repeated experiments, that galvanic currents, passed among the roots of vegetables, causes a quickened development of the plants to a degree that would be deemed incredible by almost any one who had neither seen it nor learned its _rationale_. I have seen it stated, on authority which commanded my credence, that by this process lettuce leaves may be grown, within a few hours only, "from the size of a mouse's ear to dimensions large enough for convenient use on the dinner-table." The following experiment has been related to me by several different parties, as having been made by _Judge Caton_, of Ottawa, Illinois; and subsequently the same has been confirmed to me by his brother, Deacon Wm. P. Caton, of Plainfield, Illinois. It is said that the Judge had some interesting _evergreens_ which appeared to be affected by an unhealthy influence, causing a suspension of growth and withering of branches here and there, until such branches died. So the process went on, terminating after a little time in the death of the trees. In this way he had lost some valuable specimens. At length a very fine and favorite evergreen was similarly attacked. He felt, of course, annoyed by the destructive process, and especially reluctant to lose this particular tree. Probably calling to his recollection something analogous to what I have referred to above, he resolved to try the efficacy of galvanism to reinforce the vitality of the shrub. Having a telegraphic wire extending from the main line in Ottawa to his own residence, he availed himself of this facility, and caused a wire to be passed among the roots of this tree in such a way as to bring the galvanic current to act upon them. It was not long before he saw, to his delight, a new set of foliage starting from the twigs, and after a little time the tree was again flourishing in all its beauty. The electric current had evidently imparted to it a fresh vitality. To insure the success of such an experiment, a proper regard to polarization must be had, such as is taught in the system presented in this book. There may not have been any attention to this matter in the case just related; but if not, the Judge must have _stumbled_ upon the correct application of poles. To have brought the roots under the influence of the wrong pole would have made sure the death of his tree. Now, although, if taken by themselves, such experiments could not be regarded as _conclusive_ in favor of the electric nature of vegetable vitality, notwithstanding that this theory best explains the phenomena; yet, when considered in connection with the fact that the nervous fluid of the animal kingdom is evidently a modification of electricity, and probably constitutes the vital force of the animal, the theory of its identification, under another modification, with the vital principle in the vegetable kingdom also, as deduced from experiments like those just adverted to, receives strong confirmation, and is now, I believe, being adopted by many of the best philosophers of the age. EXTENT OF ELECTRIC AGENCY. When we have settled upon the position that the electricity of the heavens and of the artificial machine are identical, and that their identity is essentially one with galvanism, magnetism, the electro-vital fluid of animal and the life-force of the vegetable kingdoms, it requires no extravagant imagination, nor remarkable degree of enthusiastic credulity, to suppose that all the forms of physical attraction and repulsion are due, under God, to the diversified modifications of the same all-pervading agent--ELECTRICITY. Indeed, for myself, I feel no hesitation in expressing it as my belief that electricity, in one phase or another, and controlled only by WILL, is the grand motive-power of the universe. I believe that, in the form of electro-vital fluid, the great Creator employs it as His immediate agent to carry on all the functions of animal life; and that, in respect to voluntary functions, He subordinates it as a servant to the will of the creature, to effect such cerebral action and such muscular contractions as are demanded by the creature's volitions. I am disposed to think that, by the omnipotent power of His will, He controls and uses electricity, in its various modifications, as the immediate moving-force by which He accomplishes all the changes in the physical universe. It is fast becoming a generally-received opinion among modern _savans_, that every body in nature is really magnetic, more or less; and that all visible or sensible changes are but the result of changing poles. Chemical affinities and revulsions are believed to be only the more delicate forms of electrical attraction and repulsion; the ultimate particles of matter, no less than matter in masses, being subject to the control of electrical laws. The imponderable agents, light and caloric, under the ingenious tests of scientific scrutiny, are beginning to give some very decided indications of being simply electric phenomena. Indeed, the doctrine or theory that supposes caloric to be simply _atomic motion_ is even now being very generally accepted by the scientific world. And that motion in the atoms of a body which causes in us the sensation of heat is probably electric motion. And permit me to observe that, though the operations of nature seem, at first thought, to be wonderfully complex and mysterious, yet if the views here presented be correct, the marvel is changed; and we are brought to a profound admiration of the _simplicity_ of the means by which the Almighty conducts His material operations. A _single_ agent made to perform processes so infinitely numerous, diversified and apparently complex! How amazing! Simplicity in complexity!--majestic, like the mind of God. THEORY OF MAN. Let the question now be raised--_What is man?_ The answer will have much to do with the remedial system which I aim to teach. For this reason it is thus early introduced. My answer to the above question is as follows: _Man is a threefold being, composed of a body material, a body electrical, and a spirit rational and indestructible._ Let the elements of this definition be a little amplified: 1. _The material body._ This is composed of various metals, earths, carbon, phosphorus, and gases. I need not go into a representation of their multiplied and curious combinations to form the many parts of the body complete. But these are the ultimate elements; and a most superb and wonderful structure they here compose. Yet, notwithstanding all the manifest skillfulness of its contrivance, and the power of its accomplishment, and the niceness and beauty of its execution, it were a useless display if unaccompanied with the invisible agents which compose the two other grand constituents of man, to wit: the body electrical and the spirit, or mind. Without these, it would quickly fall into decay, as we see it when deprived of them, and would be resolved into its original elements again. But to our gross material bodies the Creator has added, 2. _The body electrical._ By this, I mean that which has commonly been termed "nervous influence," "nervous fluid," "nervo-vital fluid," and "nervo-electric fluid." I object, however, to each and all of these designations. They are too restricted and specific. They all seem to imply that it is an agent or influence which appertains especially to the _nervous_ system; whereas the entire organism is under its pervading force. I do not doubt but its chief action is in and through the nervous system; but it also pervades and, as I think, vitalizes the whole body. The nervous system seems to be created as one principal means for its replenishment,[A] and to serve as the medium of its ministrations to the body at large. I choose to term it _electro-vital fluid_, or _electro-vitality_. My reasons for so designating it are the following: (1) It is demonstrably electrical in its nature. (2) It appears to be identified, or at least connected immediately, with the vitalization of the body. (3) I wish, by its name, to distinguish it from _mental_ vitality, or the vitality of _spirit_. Whether, as a peculiar manifestation of the electric principle, it vitalizes by its own nature and action solely, or whether it be _charged_ with another mysterious element--a _life-force_--and vitalizes by ministering the latter to the material organism, I will not positively affirm. Whichever it be, the name I assign to it seems sufficiently appropriate. But I strongly incline to the theory that this electro-vital principle does itself, by virtue of its own nature, vitalize the system. In other words, I am disposed to think that God makes it the _immediate_ agent of vitalization; having constituted it the _vis vitæ_ of both the animal and the vegetable kingdoms. Nor does this idea, as I conceive, necessarily conflict at all with the doctrine of _cell-life_, as maintained by the best physiologists of the present day. I also sometimes style this electro-vital element the _body electrical_, because it is certainly an entity, coëxtensive with and, in greater or less force, wholly pervading the visible, material body. At this point I will take the liberty to introduce, although somewhat digressively, a few thoughts on the DISTINCTIONS OF VITALITY OR LIFE. There are, as I suppose, the following several kinds of life: (1) _Spirit life_; (2) _Moral life_; (3) _Electric life_. (1.) There is _spirit_ life. And here are to be made several subdivisions. [1.] _Uncreated_ spirit life. This is the life of God. Of the nature of the Divine Essence we know nothing; yet that God is a real, living entity, we do know. My own conviction is that the divine essence and the divine life are identical; that God, a spirit, is necessary, infinite, conscious VITALITY--the voluntary Originator of all existencies besides himself. But as to what is the essential nature of this vitality--this eternal spirit-life--we can have no conception, only that this life is God. [2.] _Created_ spirit-life. And here we make another subdivision. (_a_) The life of created _immortal_ spirit. This is a rational, intelligent entity, representing the spirit of man and of unembodied, created intelligences above him. This spirit God created as it pleased him--"in his own likeness"--a living, indestructible essence; and, as I suppose, its essence and its life the same. (_b_) The life of created _mortal_ spirit, as the spirit of the beast. Of the intrinsic essence of this spirit, we are also necessarily ignorant. Yet, of its attributes we know that it has _consciousness_, _sensibility_, and _will_. Of its life we know as little as of its essence; both of which, however, as I conjecture, are also one and the same--the spirit substance being itself essentially vital. (2.) We pass next to _moral_ life. This life is identical with _holiness_--the very opposite of that defilement that characterizes moral _death_, which is a state of _sin_. But let me again subdivide. [1.] As to the moral life of _God_, it consists in his infinite moral purity--his _veracity_, _justice_ and _benevolence_ or _love_--qualities which, in their combination make up his holiness. [2.] The moral life of _man, as also of other rational creatures_. This consists in his _sympathy of spirit with God_ in respect to those pure qualities which constitute the Divine holiness. (3.) Finally, there is _electric_ or _physical life_. But here again there are varieties. [1.] There is _animal_ life, as of man and the lower animals. This I have already represented as consisting in the electro-vital force. [2.] _Vegetable_ life. This is another modification of the same essential principle--electro-vitality. But now, to return to the _physical_ or _animal life of man_--the electro-vital element. While this is in such _immediate_ relation to the visible body on the one hand, it holds, also, on the other hand, an _immediate_ relation to the mental part, both of man and of the other animated beings of earth. It serves to transmit, through the nervous system to the mind, all sensations and impressions from the outer world. It, moreover, receives from the mind the action of its volitions and imaginary conceptions, and conveys through the nerves the impressions or impulsions thus obtained to the various parts of the body, and there secures the fulfillment of the mind's behests. It appears to be only in this way that communication is had between the mind and its outer body. The natures of spirit and of gross matter are so totally unlike, that it seems impracticable for the mind and body to come into _immediate_ mutual relation, or to act reciprocally, without the aid of a _medium_--ethereal, semi-material and semi-spiritual, such as is the electro-vital fluid. And the Creator has accordingly provided this mysterious, invisible medium between the two, and thus, in a degree, extended man's likeness to himself by making him _a trinity in unity_. 3. _The mind or spirit._ This is immeasurably the highest and most important constituent of man. His body material may fall back to dust. His body electrical may be reabsorbed in the great ocean of natural electricity that fills the earth and the heavens. But his mind is immortal. His spirit, made in the divine image, lives and acts, thinks and feels, independently of every other existence save Him from whom its being came. While in connection with its visible body, its good or ill, its bliss or woe, has, indeed, much to do with its bodily state. But, when separated from this body, its high and more independent existence is at once asserted; and then its good or ill are determined by its Author only in accordance with the workings and affections within itself. A spiritual and indestructible being like its Creator, it can never cease to be while he exists. But our present concern is with the mind in its relation to that electro-vital medium between it and the body, and to the body itself. The mind's influence upon both of these lower parts of the entire man is truly wonderful, although perceptible mostly on the material body. Few persons are aware how much the state of the mind affects the bodily health, although the degree is often very great. Yet this is done by the mind's action, first on the electro-vital functions, and through these, by way of the nerves, upon the bodily tissue. Changes in the
fine robes, Nightly to chant boastful songs? My breast was torn and bleeding As the broken wing of the fire bird, Yet many searing times At the command of the Great Sachem Was I made to smile in the Council Lodge, And to dance the Love Dance of the Mandanas; That dance that I had learned in secret From the flying feet of my Mother, Learned only for Mountain Lion, For the great ceremonial of love giving. Medicine Man, Hear me! Not again did the eyes of Mountain Lion Travel across the Council Lodge To seek my eyes in understanding. Coüy-oüy had taken his eyes; On her face she proudly kept them, For he saw nought but the blue mist around her, The gleam of her hair, the red bow of her lips. He heard nought but the luring music Of her echo sweet voice, And the happy song of her quilled robe As she hourly passed among our people; While always clinging to her breast or shoulder Proud and fearless as in freedom, Rode the sacred wounded bird of blood redness. Her father homed in wigwams Near the lodge of the Great Sachem, Rode his hunting pony on the far chase beside him, Sat on high in the councils of our Chieftains. When the dancing and feasting were over It was known through the voices of the criers That for many moons our visitors Would home beside our campfires, Learning of our wisdom from us, Teaching, where their customs differed. The Great Sachem was swift to order, The rarest fish from sea or river, The juiciest of the small birds From the snares of the children, The tenderest fawn flesh From the arrows of the hunters, To be brought for the cooking kettles Of the strangers who trusted us. Every day I watched the slow sun, And at night I danced with the maidens, But no sleep came to my eyes, No hunger came to my body. My Mother tempted me with bits as sweet As the Sachem had commanded for Coüy-oüy, But my parched throat refused them in scorn, My dry tongue found no savour in juicy fatness, My hot hands could not place the beads evenly. Then it was that my Mother came to my wigwam, And closing the doorway she stood before me, And long and long she looked far into my heart. Deep in her eyes there gathered the black fury, And a storm like the wildest storm That ever twisted the cedars in wrath, Raged in her rocking breasts And her lightning flashing eyes. Fiercely in the silent Canawac motion tongue, Her look burning into my living spirit, She made the sign of the quick kill; And turning she slipped like a vision From my wigwam of torture. As she crept into the mouth of darkness, O Medicine Man, I knew that she had but made the outward sign For the savage inward purpose Long hardening in my deepest heart. The next sun, when our mothers sent the maidens With their baskets to the Fall nut gathering, I kept ever close beside Coüy-oüy, my enemy, And in my breast there flamed fierce anger, That she had robbed my heart. Always at the door of her wigwam, Rocking in the sunshine of each dawning, Hung a yellow osier basket woven like a ball, With its ribs placed wide enough apart To give the gifts of light and air, Close enough to prison a flame red bird. And there, healed of his wounds, But forever broken for flight, On a twig shaped and placed by Mountain Lion, Coüy-oüy, the flame feathered voyager of air, Sang a song filled with tears and wailing, The cry of a broken bird heart Pleading for wings and a mate. The Great Spirit heard his notes of sorrow, But I hardened my heart against the sacred bird; For his golden cage had been cunningly wrought By hands of such great strength that naked They had slain the mountain lion And taken its yellow skin for a ceremonial robe, Its fierce name for the sign of a great deed. Now I saw in dazed wonder That Mountain Lion had grown papoose hearted. He was not leading the hunters in the forest; He was not at the head of the fishermen Spearing and netting as of old. He had proved his manhood in deadly combat; He had won his name by the fiercest fight Ever known among any of our warriors; But now he chose to lie in his wigwam and dream, And I knew what he dreamed, O Medicine Man! So with soft words and pretty sign talk I led his evil spirit to the bright late flower; I showed her the little flitting creatures. And when I helped her fill her basket With sweet nuts that were greatly desired, My ear, quick for every sound of menace, Marked the thing the softer one did not hear. By a slender beckoning blue flower, I measured the distance, And skilfully I led the other nut pickers Far away from the spot of danger. Then I dared her to race in turn with me To leap the long leap across the nut bushes, To land at the mark of the sky flower, A fair thing to shelter death. I set down my heaped basket of furry nuts, I gathered my robe to my knees and raced swiftly, I made the leap to which I challenged her, Before her and all of the wondering maidens. She followed my footsteps like a rift of white light. She rose high in the air over the sweet nut bushes, But she had not my strength, not my purpose. My leap carried me far over the danger; But as I turned quickly to watch her I saw her touch earth in smiling confidence, At the mark of the waving sky flower. When she tore away, her eyes wide in danger, Dragging her robe from the clinging thicket, With greedy eyed, death hungry heart I watched her proud face. The Great Spirit had not pitied me, If the curved death serpent had struck at her, His awful fangs had missed her soft body. O Medicine Man, make me magic for the fire bird, Ease my spirit of the snaring water flower. Many suns I waited in hunger and spirit searching; Far and alone I wandered over the meadows, Beside the white sand shore of the sea water. One day I lost from my necklace A carved piece of rare blue shell, A beautiful heaven tinted shell, a treasure, Got from traders from the Islands of the seas Far to the south of us--across vast waters; A big shell so precious among us that only one Cost us the weaving of fifty blankets; The greatest wealth known to our people. Slipping unseen from all the others, I went alone through a trail of deep forest To the back of a far secret cavern I knew, Where lay hidden my precious blue shell, And I cut one small piece from it, For the mending of my necklace. When I came back to the sun, O Medicine Man, And through the forest followed my trail, I heard the rushing thunder footsteps And the death growl of Black Bear. I looked, and I saw at the welcoming cavern mouth, Hurrying in from the forest, the bloody killer, Mother black bear, gaunt and hard chased, With far hanging tongue and foam dripping jaws; And behind her, panting and whimpering, Her pair of travel worn hungry little children. Some far tribe had driven her from her home, And with her crying small ones following She was seeking shelter in my treasure lodge. I watched her turn and forbid her children to enter; Alone, bravely to the inner recesses she went. Her nose must have told her of my recent body, But she could lead her sleepy cubs no farther, For the death weariness was upon all of them. So she came back to the cave's homing mouth, Drove her panting cubs to the farthest wall, And making fierce boastful war talk, There she claimed the homing rights of the wild. I went back to where our women were working And I began the Brave's task of drilling my shell. Coüy-oüy came and lay beside me, watching. Her tribes had no knowledge Of such rare precious ornaments. She greatly desired to possess one For her most precious bracelet. When we were alone, as I worked I told her how to find my cavern And where the shell was hidden on a high ledge. Her heart knew no fear; Her eyes shone with gladness When I told her my great secret of blue treasure And that, if she would go alone, She might take for herself one piece. The one I was drilling so carefully I must use For the mending of my rarest necklace. When I thought of the dripping jaws Of the killer, ravenous, tormented to frenzy, And looked at the smoothness of her body, I relented; I knew mercy. It was in my softened heart To say that the hunters must go with her; But before my lips of compassion Could speak the words my heart said, With the joy light shining on her face, She told me in happy confidence: "I will take but one small piece To ornament my richest bracelet, And I will polish it smooth even as you do, And Mountain Lion shall carve it for me." O Medicine Man, look in mercy upon me! Darest say she drove not her own stake, Lighted her torture fire with fearless hands? Darest say she knew not that Mountain Lion Would now make her our Chieftainess? Darest say the buzzing of a swarm of maidens Had not told her many suns past That Mountain Lion was my man, That he had danced the Mating Dance Of the Mandanas with me, Before the assembly in the Council House On the night of her coming among us? All that night my eyes surrounded her wigwam. With first dawn ray she came slipping forth And darted down the veiled trail That led through the deep forest. Well had I marked the path That ran to the cave's mouth. When she had gone I closed the slender opening Through which I had unceasingly watched The moon's long journey for her, And for the first time in many pitiless suns I fell into the deep visionless sleep Of the body tired past endurance. It was near evening when my Mother wakened me. She told me, her eyes burning deep into mine, How hunters in the forest had found Coüy-oüy Fleeing like a doe before the furious black killer. When she fell, her utmost strength exhausted, Over her raged the foaming black death. Her beautiful breast and arms Were forever shorn of their smoothness, But she lived, and her hateful face of allurement Her trouble-maker face, was untouched. I knew what my Mother knew When she turned from my doorway. Medicine Man, the killer had not struck To the depth where life tented. She had not sent my enemy to the Great Spirit. She had only moved to compassion The heart in the breast of Mountain Lion, So that alone in his canoe he speared the rare fish, Alone on the mountains he sought the tender bird, Even the bright flower, the red leaf, To lay at her doorway--love's offering. Well I knew that when she was healed He would stand tall and straight before her, And in his fierce pleading eyes She would find the great understanding. Then, Medicine Man, despair settled in my heart; I shrivelled like the ungathered wild plum, I burned with a fierce, hot inward fire. The day came when Coüy-oüy stood forth Whitely robed in shining wonder, Untouched in her courage and her beauty Save that she hid her arms with deep fringes. In bitterness of spirit I turned from her, I followed the long lonely trail Through the fringed blue flower meadows. I lay beside the small still waters of the flat lands, And I talked to my sister, the tall blue Heron While she hunted food among the water flowers; And I told the wise old Heron For the easement of my torture, I told her, O Medicine Man, This same tale I tell you. And then, Medicine Man, The Heron gave me a sure sign. She stalked to where a great white flower Was resting in serene beauty, Like a sheaf of fallen moons upon the water, And from beneath the safety of its shelter She picked out my little frog brother so easily. She tossed him clear and high in the air, And head first he shot down her long red gullet. Then she looked at me questioningly And awaited my understanding. So I slipped from my robe of doeskin, And fighting my way through the black muck, And the snares of the entangling round leaves, I gathered the white flower riding like a spirit canoe That had sheltered fatness for my sister Heron. Clean and white as storm foam I washed it, Carefully on the home trail I carried it, Like a living thing to my wigwam I took it, And I put it in a cooking kettle Overflowing cold water from mountain torrent, Then I waited for the spirit to make me a sure sign. That night, when Coüy-oüy's shadow touched me, Like a star fallen from on high was her beauty. Her eyes rested for the first time On the white flower of the still waters. On her knees she made a little medicine over it; In her throat she chanted a hushed song Of exultation and worship, Over the wonder beauty of the white flower That she had never known In the far, cold land of the Killimacs. On her face there was a veiling breath mist Like the softest ray from the lovers' moon; All around her wrapped the blue light blanket That seemed to steal from her body Creeping through her white robe. Then, Medicine Man, I told her this fair tale: That I loved a young Brave Son of the mighty Eagle Feather, The Chief of a high mountain tribe far north of us, And that when he saw me in the deep forest Holding up high the fair water flower The lure of its white magic Would make in his cold heart That strong medicine I needed, To bring him face to face with me In that great understanding Which is followed by union, among our tribes. O Medicine Man, I told her by word And by convincing sign talk That if her heart ran soft as gold sweetness At the coming of any of our young Braves, And her roving eyes flew to them Searching for loving understanding, Until she feared they would betray her, And the tongue of her heart pled for them, And her willing hands thought sweet sign talk-- If she would hold aloft the white flower, That she had gathered from the water, Deep in the thickness of the forest Where none but her Brave could see it, It would surely make for her the great magic That would draw him straight to the flame Of the candle she set before her wigwam. Long and long and long again She watched the white flower. All her heart melted at its gold heart sweetness; And then she looked deep into my eyes, To spirit depths she searched me carefully, But pride would not let me quail before her. She knew she had barely missed The peril of the death snake: She had sent hunters to bring its rattles for her. She knew she had faced the red death By the black killer of the treasure cave; Yet was my spirit so strong over her doubting That once again in the chill of early morning She set her proud feet confidently On the forest trail I pictured for her. She knew not how the white flower Of the still water lifted to the sun, She knew not the wind reeds and flute rushes. I told her the path her feet must follow alone, That when she saw a white flower Like a rocking canoe cradled by soft wind, Riding on the breast of the blue water, She should leave her robe in the deep forest, She should run like the chased antelope, And leap from the sand shore To the resting place of the flower. She should snatch it in her hand, hold it high, And swim back to the red beach of dawning. But Medicine Man, O Medicine Man, I sent her not on the meadow path Where the war ponies fattened. I sent her not to the still black water Of the singing reeds and rushes, Where the charmed spirit flowers With sun hearts and snow faces Spread in flocks like feeding gulls Over the breast of the dark waters. Medicine Man, I sent her straight to that one spot On the sands of the great sea water in the deep bay, In the sheltered cove of the soundless depths Where every Canawac knew there crouched waiting The hungry Monster of the lazy sucking sands. Again I watched all the moon time And in the gold red morning She slipped from her wigwam And entered the ancient forest. Soft as flame ascending, swift as night bird flying, I circled past her among my familiar tree brothers. Long before her coming to the bay of torture, I dropped the snaring white flower, Fresh and lovely, a convincing decoy, Far into the heart of the pitiless death pool Where the eager mouths of the swallowing sands Embrace and draw, quietly, but so surely That no strength of arm can lift, No power of spirit can save their victim. Behind the rocks I hid and waited; In anguish I prayed to the Great Spirit That the luring white flower of wonder Might rest on the gently heaving water Until the time of the coming of my enemy. As I waited with my eyes ever watching, watching The wave cradled flower white as swan feathers, Through the air shot the slim scarred form Of Coüy-oüy, my hated enemy. Her slender feet touched the water And went down softly as a diving bird, Her reaching hand caught the white flower surely. She lifted her face to the face of the morning; The beauty that shone upon her Was like the beauty of the Great Spirit When he had first the vision of the flower world And the wonder of flower magic was sent to him. Coüy-oüy held the water flower in high triumph; She gazed at it, she laughed to it, she kissed it, She laid it against her glad face like a papoose, And chanted to it throaty words of lullaby. Then with the other hand and with her quick feet She began swimming to reach the certain shore. When her light feet would not lift to the surface And her strong stroke would not move her body, Slowly the dawn light faded from her face And a look like the look of a little hurt papoose Came over her in slow wonder-- A look of surprise, of doubt That her strength could be unavailing. Then she struggled like an arrow stricken sea bird, For the sure sands grip their captive cruelly. Then gray terrors came sweeping upon her, And her face was white, white as the white flower That she held at arm's length above her. Her black oiled braids floated out on the water, While a cry, a shrill cry, a high screaming cry, The voice of a wounded mountain lion, Rang from her lips in quivering terror. I knew who had carefully taught her To use that cry in time of trouble: I knew that for my Brave she was calling. And I knew, too, how the wood and the water Carried sound far distances to wild ears. I wondered if Mountain Lion were on the water Or if he were hunting the wide forest Or if he were drilling ornaments of blue shell Or weaving the sacred, singing fire bird A new wigwam of gold osiers. Only once she screamed that awful wild cry, Then her struggles were the final battle. Already her face of anguish was even With the treacherous water hiding death, Already her slender body was forever encased. One arm slowly beat the fair bay helplessly; But even as the gray terror closed in upon her, The stealthy catlike death of the waves And the little famished mouths of sand, The slow mealy strangling sands, She bravely held aloft the white flower. And then, Medicine Man, I cared not if he came, The Mountain Lion, my faithless man! The utmost reach of his strength could not save her, He might go down to bottomless depths with her; He might strive and bear me down to her. Come was my just and rightful hour of triumph! I arose and went forth on the white shore I smiled like a mother upon her, Then I pointed my finger, I laughed in scorn, I made bad sign talk at her, I danced the Braves' triumph dance, with song, I cried to her in the exultation of victory: "He will not come again to you, The faithless Mountain Lion, my man, He who danced the sacred Mating Dance Of the Mandanas with me in the Council Lodge, He who read into my eyes the great understanding Even upon the night of your coming among us. Go thou back to the evil spirits who sent thee!" Until the last wave overran her eyes, The slim thing of bone hardness, Of arrow straightness, and sureness, Of bird swiftness, would not look once upon me, Would not plead with me for mercy Nor sign for help at my hands. When she saw me she suddenly ceased to struggle, And with her eyes fixed upon the white flower, The fallen moon that rides the still black water, She went to bottomless depths silently; Slowly, slowly, Medicine Man, she sank, Until the flower again rested On the breast of the unconscious water. Then I went into the forest on her trail, I hunted her precious robe of snow white doeskin, I rolled a heavy stone in its rich bead work: I carried it back swiftly, And upon the face of the white flower Slowly sinking beneath the water I threw it. Then I knelt in cunning like the fox, And swiftly working my way backward, With my steady, careful fingers I sifted the sands over our footsteps, Until I came to the feather grass And the dry leaves of the deep forest. Like the hunted I ran to the safety of my wigwam, I buried myself in my soft robes of satisfaction, My heart laughed in victory, The sleep I had lost for many mocking moons While my brain thought snares, Now settled heavy, like sickness upon me. Even as I slept in deep stupor, There came dreams and yet again dreams, But they were not familiar dreams Of the low humming rattler Nor the foaming mouth of the knife footed killer. I dreamed that over my heart flamed and scorched And burned Coüy-oüy, the little sacred red bird; While my hands could not braid And put the gay ornaments in my hair, Could not put on my robe, Could not tie my moccasins, Could not lift food to my hungry mouth, Because they were full of the white flowers From the land of the still water. When the alarum cries sounded And the ponies' feet thundered, When the hunting dogs raged And shrill clamour arose in the camp, My Mother shook me, And long she looked deep into my eyes And I looked into her eyes; And then in the silent talk of our tribe I made the swift going down sign Of the Monster sands of the far bay. There was no triumph on her face When she slowly turned from me, And fear was born in my heart Because I clearly saw its awful image When it sprang into life in the deeps of her eyes. When the scouts and hunters were gathering, When the visiting Chief was threatening, And all of our Chiefs were in secret council, While the women were wailing the death cry, There came to my lodge in that hour, The footsteps I had always awaited. So I passed through my doorway And in the revealing sunlight I stood before Mountain Lion, Terrible to face in his deep rage. With dazed hand I drew sleep from my eyes; I met his gaze stupidly with smiling face; When he saw this he was forced to doubt The thing he had come expecting to see. When he tried to look far into my eyes for a sign He saw only stupid Old Man Sleep sitting there Mocking the tortured heart in his breast. Then he caught me fiercely by the shoulders, He drew me close to him, He forced my eyes to meet his, And low and hoarse he cried to me in torture: "She jumped to the mark of the sky flower, And the snake with death in its mouth was there; The mark was the mark you set for her, Yiada. "She went to the far, lonely cave Of the chased and hungry black death, And the rare shell that she sought Was a part of your treasure, Yiada. "Again she is missing, evil spirits know how long, What torture death have you sent her seeking now-- Coüy-oüy, my brave fire bird, my woman?" O Medicine Man, if he had not said soft words, I might have told him as he held me before him. I might have braved the storm of his wrath And made my journey to the Great Spirit In that menacing breath. When I saw that she lived in my place In the secret tent of his heart I laughed at him and I cried tauntingly: "She is chasing painted wings In the pasture meadows of the valley. She is at the still pool hunting the water flower: She would use its white magic To snare your wild heart, Even as she used the red magic of the fire bird. Go and seek her, O mighty hunter! Go and seek--until you find her!" PART III YIADA'S FLIGHT TO THE MANDANAS When the hunters had raced from our village Toward the land of ice, Toward the land of hot suns, Toward the land of dawn, And where the sun dives in the sea, In the conflicting cross winds Between the paths of their going, On their stoutest ponies Rode the young women and the squaws Who could be spared with safety From the watch of the campfires And the care of the little happy children. [Illustration: "_Like the wings of a snow white sea swallow Writing mating signs on the blue sky of Heaven Flashed his quick hands of entreaty, In the little love sign talk he taught her._" ] Foremost among these I rode on my fastest pony, But to my Mother I made a secret sign To remain in waiting by her campfire And yet the swifter sign of the quick return. Because I was first in the fish drying The berry picking of earth and mountain, The gathering of seeds of all kinds And the work of the women, The other maidens went where I sent them. Then swiftly I made a wide circle And slipped back to the lodge of my Mother, And leaving my pony in the tented forest I crept to the door of my Father, Unseen by any of the watchers. There I lay in hiding While my Mother worked silently. She rolled a bundle of my finest robes, My moccasins, my best bow and full quiver, Big strips of smoked venison, Dried fish and bear and deer meat, Nuts and tallow cake and dried berries, And the last little sweet meal cake That her hands would ever make me. When Old Man Moon made soft talk In his canoe among the clouds, From the back of the lodge of my Father I crept After I had stood long and again long Before my Mother, racked in fierce anguish, And made her many signs of the great crossing, For we knew that never again should I see her. We made long straight talk between us That when the others returned from the search I should be missing, as was Coüy-oüy, So that a new search would be made for my body. Then should she cry the death wail Through the length of all our village for me; And make high prayer to the Great Spirit For my safe crossing to the Happy Lands. Thus her lodge and wigwams And my Father and brothers Would be saved from all suspicion of treachery, And to the mourning of the Great Chief Who visited our campfires in confidence, Would be added the wailing of our tribe for Yiada. I rode my Father's swiftest remaining pony, I turned my face between the sun's rising And the hot suns of the South. I slipped through the forest and on, and on, Each moon on, and again on, Fast and far as the pony could run, I journeyed In the direction where my Mother had told me Lay the encampment of her people, the Mandanas. When the tired pony could travel no farther I let him feed and rest and drink; And then again I rode, moon after moon, Until he grew lean as deep snow gray wolf. When I had eaten the last crumb of meal cake, And there was nothing left in my bundle, But tough strings of deer meat, I came one sun-rising to signs of the Mandanas. Then, O Medicine Man, I slipped from the pony and bathed carefully, I oiled my body, braided my hair with ornaments And I put on a snow white robe Whose bleaching had been taught my Mother By Coüy-oüy as a secret art. I stripped the beads and the obsidian From my heaviest necklace for ceremonials And wore only the sky water blue Of the precious blue shell. When I looked into the shining water Above the white sands of the lake bed, I saw in my face great beauty like high magic, Wrought by the fear painter, the hunger moon, The far stealthy journey, the anxious heart-- Beauty even greater than the beauty of Coüy-oüy. And so, O Medicine Man, At fire lighting I rode into the village. The spies and the couriers raced before me, Crying the wonder of my coming, The fierce, snarling dogs yapped after me, The frightened children ran from me, Angered squaws with harsh voices Cried threatening, forbidding words at me. When I came to the door of the Council House At the head of the long village of fatness, I slipped from my pony, and leading him after me I walked to the feet of the Great Chief Sitting in solemn state on his throne; I gave him the deeps of my troubled spirit. My eyes slowly unfolded to his eyes The tale of the robbed heart, Of the tortured sleep, of the lone moon trail, Of a fugitive from the arrows of an enemy. With Mandan speech and by the sign language I told him that I was of his blood, Of his tribe through my Mother; Seeking refuge with her people, And I told him, O Medicine Man, These things of woe, I now tell you. Beside him came the Great Chiefs and wise men, Around him the warriors, the spies and hunters; While back of the chiefs, dim in the firelight, Again and again I felt the eye of a mighty hunter, A young Brave, with the broad shoulders The round face of compassion, And the softer eye of the Mandanas Of the lands where peace homed securely. Little of my story had I told the Chieftain, As straight and fearless I faced him, Before I knew in my heart that over his head I was speaking to the stirred heart of his son. I was asking of him rest and meat, and tribe rights, Even as Coüy-oüy had asked meal and water Of Mountain Lion, instead of our women, For the broken fire bird that rested on her breast. As I asked I knew the answer in his heart; For I was tall and I was seasoned, And I was tortured beyond bearing, And I was beautiful with a living spirit beauty Far above that of the Mandan women around me. When they learned that my Mother Was of their tribe in her youth, That I had fled as the hunted for cave rights, They held counsel, and they set me a tall wigwam; They gave me the rich food of a welcome guest, And they led me to my wrinkled, gray grandfather. The great council of Chiefs and Medicine Men, The wise men and all of the young Braves Made Mandan sign talk to hold me securely, As if born of their tribe and village, Even if Mountain Lion suspected treachery And rode in war paint against them for vengeance. Then was my body lazy with rich comfort But my spirit was gray ashes Burned out by the flames of the fire bird Nesting in the heart of my breast. I was all over sick for my Mother, For my brothers and my Father, who loved me, For the clear sky, the heavy clouds, And the taunting water of the restless sea, For the fat grass, the flower valleys And the tall mountains, with head-bands of snow, For the night fires of village and Council Lodge, And the little honey cakes of my Mother; While I dared not even remember The face of Mountain Lion's agony, As I tortured him in derision, And he turned from me in hot anger. As the sign was in the deep eyes of Star Face, Son of the Great Chief, the night of my coming, So it was in the suns that followed. Well I knew that in the day When he saw candle lighting in my eyes His willing feet would dance before me The hated Love Dance of the Mandanas. He was a broad Brave, a fierce Brave, a warrior. He would sit at the council in the seat of his father When he had made his last journey To the far Spirit Lands of final peace. His earth-lodge would be warm With the skins of beaver, mink and otter; While the white dress of a great Princess From the bleached and softened doeskin, Beaded with the sign of the Chief's mate, Would cover my sick heart with the robe of pride. So hard I worked, O Medicine Man, From the lifting to the setting of every sun, So long I danced at night in the Assembly Lodge, That when I walked to my wigwam Sleep came swift and deep upon me. Sometimes I lay visionless, My body worn to stone heaviness; Sometimes the flaming bird burned my breast To gray ashes, like dead campfires, And the white lilies overflowed my unwilling hands Until I fought to keep from choking among them, Even as Coüy-oüy was smothered By the little yielding wave hidden sands. When I had worked that season Until the troubling mating moon Sailed like a polished pearl canoe in the Spring sky, When the hurrying blood of the trees Ran fast in the red and yellow osiers, When the birches, givers of large gifts, Put out their little talking leaves of gold, When strange birds made
for his reason. But all efforts made to divert his mind from the thought of her proved unavailing. One day he ordered some Spirit-Recalling-Incense to be procured, that he might summon her from the dead. His counsellors prayed him to forego his purpose, declaring that the vision could only intensify his grief. But he gave no heed to their advice, and himself performed the rite,—kindling the incense, and keeping his mind fixed upon the memory of the Lady Li. Presently, within the thick blue smoke arising from the incense, the outline, of a feminine form became visible. It defined, took tints of life, slowly became luminous, and the Emperor recognized the form of his beloved At first the apparition was faint; but it soon became distinct as a living person, and seemed with each moment to grow more beautiful. The Emperor whispered to the vision, but received no answer. He called aloud, and the presence made no sign. Then unable to control himself, he approached the censer. But the instant that he touched the smoke, the phantom trembled and vanished. Japanese artists are still occasionally inspired by the legends of the Hangon-ho. Only last year, in Tōkyō, at an exhibition of new kakemono, I saw a picture of a young wife kneeling before an alcove wherein the smoke of the magical incense was shaping the shadow of the absent husband.[6] [6] Among the curious Tōkyō inventions of 1898 was a new variety of cigarettes called _Hangon-sō_, or “Herb of Hangon,”—a name suggesting that their smoke operated like the spirit-summoning incense. As a matter of fact, the chemical action of the tobacco-smoke would define, upon a paper fitted into the mouth-piece of each cigarette, the photographic image of a dancing-girl. Although the power of making visible the forms of the dead has been claimed for one sort of incense only, the burning of any kind of incense is supposed to summon viewless spirits in multitude. These come to devour the smoke. They are called _Jiki-kō-ki_, or “incense-eating goblins;” and they belong to the fourteenth of the thirty-six classes of Gaki (_prêtas_) recognized by Japanese Buddhism. They are the ghosts of men who anciently, for the sake of gain, made or sold bad incense; and by the evil karma of that action they now find themselves in the state of hunger-suffering spirits, and compelled to seek their only food in the smoke of incense. A Story of Divination I once knew a fortune-teller who really believed in the science that he professed. He had learned, as a student of the old Chinese philosophy, to believe in divination long before he thought of practising it. During his youth he had been in the service of a wealthy daimyō, but subsequently, like thousands of other samurai, found himself reduced to desperate straits by the social and political changes of Meiji. It was then that he became a fortune-teller,—an itinerant _uranaiya_,—travelling on foot from town to town, and returning to his home rarely more than once a year with the proceeds of his journey. As a fortune-teller he was tolerably successful,—chiefly, I think, because of his perfect sincerity, and because of a peculiar gentle manner that invited confidence. His system was the old scholarly one: he used the book known to English readers as the _Yî-King_,—also a set of ebony blocks which could be so arranged as to form any of the Chinese hexagrams;—and he always began his divination with an earnest prayer to the gods. The system itself he held to be infallible in the hands of a master. He confessed that he had made some erroneous predictions; but he said that these mistakes had been entirely due to his own miscomprehension of certain texts or diagrams. To do him justice I must mention that in my own case—(he told my fortune four times),—his predictions were fulfilled in such wise that I became afraid of them. You may disbelieve in fortune-telling,—intellectually scorn it; but something of inherited superstitious tendency lurks within most of us; and a few strange experiences can so appeal to that inheritance as to induce the most unreasoning hope or fear of the good or bad luck promised you by some diviner. Really to see our future would be a misery. Imagine the result of knowing that there must happen to you, within the next two months, some terrible misfortune which you cannot possibly provide against! He was already an old man when I first saw him in Izumo,—certainly more than sixty years of age, but looking very much younger. Afterwards I met him in Ōsaka, in Kyōto, and in Kobé. More than once I tried to persuade him to pass the colder months of the winter-season under my roof,—for he possessed an extraordinary knowledge of traditions, and could have been of inestimable service to me in a literary way. But partly because the habit of wandering had become with him a second nature, and partly because of a love of independence as savage as a gipsy’s, I was never able to keep him with me for more than two days at a time. Every year he used to come to Tōkyō,—usually in the latter part of autumn. Then, for several weeks, he would flit about the city, from district to district, and vanish again. But during these fugitive trips he never failed to visit me; bringing welcome news of Izumo people and places,—bringing also some queer little present, generally of a religious kind, from some famous place of pilgrimage. On these occasions I could get a few hours’ chat with him. Sometimes the talk was of strange things seen or heard during his recent journey; sometimes it turned upon old legends or beliefs; sometimes it was about fortune-telling. The last time we met he told me of an exact Chinese science of divination which he regretted never having been able to learn. “Any one learned in that science,” he said, “would be able, for example, not only to tell you the exact time at which any post or beam of this house will yield to decay, but even to tell you the direction of the breaking, and all its results. I can best explain what I mean by relating a story. “The story is about the famous Chinese fortune-teller whom we call in Japan Shōko Setsu, and it is written in the book _Baikwa-Shin-Eki_, which is a book of divination. While still a very young man, Shōko Setsu obtained a high position by reason of his learning and virtue; but he resigned it and went into solitude that he might give his whole time to study. For years thereafter he lived alone in a hut among the mountains; studying without a fire in winter, and without a fan in summer; writing his thoughts upon the wall of his room—for lack of paper;—and using only a tile for his pillow. “One day, in the period of greatest summer heat, he found himself overcome by drowsiness; and he lay down to rest, with his tile under his head. Scarcely had he fallen asleep when a rat ran across his face and woke him with a start. Feeling angry, he seized his tile and flung it at the rat; but the rat escaped unhurt, and the tile was broken. Shōko Setsu looked sorrowfully at the fragments of his pillow, and reproached himself for his hastiness. Then suddenly he perceived, upon the freshly exposed clay of the broken tile, some Chinese characters—between the upper and lower surfaces. Thinking this very strange, he picked up the pieces, and carefully examined them. He found that along the line of fracture seventeen characters had been written within the clay before the tile had been baked; and the characters read thus: ‘_In the Year of the Hare, in the fourth month, on the seventeenth day, at the Hour of the Serpent, this tile, after serving as a pillow, will be thrown at a rat and broken._’ Now the prediction had really been fulfilled at the Hour of the Serpent on the seventeenth day of the fourth month of the Year of the Hare. Greatly astonished, Shōko Setsu once again looked at the fragments, and discovered the seal and the name of the maker. At once he left his hut, and, taking with him the pieces of the tile, hurried to the neighboring town in search of the tilemaker. He found the tilemaker in the course of the day, showed him the broken tile, and asked him about its history. “After having carefully examined the shards, the tilemaker said: —‘This tile was made in my house; but the characters in the clay were written by an old man—a fortune-teller,—who asked permission to write upon the tile before it was baked.’ ‘Do you know where he lives?’ asked Shōko Setsu. ‘He used to live,’ the tilemaker answered, ‘not very far from here; and I can show you the way to the house. But I do not know his name.’ “Having been guided to the house, Shōko Setsu presented himself at the entrance, and asked for permission to speak to the old man. A serving-student courteously invited him to enter, and ushered him into an apartment where several young men were at study. As Shōko Setsu took his seat, all the youths saluted him. Then the one who had first addressed him bowed and said: ‘We are grieved to inform you that our master died a few days ago. But we have been waiting for you, because he predicted that you would come to-day to this house, at this very hour. Your name is Shōko Setsu. And our master told us to give you a book which he believed would be of service to you. Here is the book;—please to accept it.’ “Shōko Setsu was not less delighted than surprised; for the book was a manuscript of the rarest and most precious kind,—containing all the secrets of the science of divination. After having thanked the young men, and properly expressed his regret for the death of their teacher, he went back to his hut, and there immediately proceeded to test the worth of the book by consulting its pages in regard to his own fortune. The book suggested to him that on the south side of his dwelling, at a particular spot near one corner of the hut, great luck awaited him. He dug at the place indicated, and found a jar containing gold enough to make him a very wealthy man.” My old acquaintance left this world as lonesomely as he had lived in it. Last winter, while crossing a mountain-range, he was overtaken by a snowstorm, and lost his way. Many days later he was found standing erect at the foot of a pine, with his little pack strapped to his shoulders: a statue of ice—arms folded and eyes closed as in meditation. Probably, while waiting for the storm to pass, he had yielded to the drowsiness of cold, and the drift had risen over him as he slept. Hearing of this strange death I remembered the old Japanese saying,—_Uranaiya minouyé shiradzu:_ “The fortune-teller knows not his own fate.” Silkworms I I was puzzled by the phrase, “silkworm-moth eyebrow,” in an old Japanese, or rather Chinese proverb:—_The silkworm-moth eyebrow of a woman is the axe that cuts down the wisdom of man._ So I went to my friend Niimi, who keeps silkworms, to ask for an explanation. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you never saw a silkworm-moth? The silkworm-moth has very beautiful eyebrows.” “Eyebrows?” I queried, in astonishment. “Well, call them what you like,” returned Niimi;—“the poets call them eyebrows…. Wait a moment, and I will show you.” He left the guest-room, and presently returned with a white paper-fan, on which a silkworm-moth was sleepily reposing. “We always reserve a few for breeding,” he said;—“this one is just out of the cocoon. It cannot fly, of course: none of them can fly…. Now look at the eyebrows.” I looked, and saw that the antennae, very short and feathery, were so arched back over the two jewel-specks of eyes in the velvety head, as to give the appearance of a really handsome pair of eyebrows. Then Niimi took me to see his worms. In Niimi’s neighborhood, where there are plenty of mulberrytrees, many families keep silkworms;—the tending and feeding being mostly done by women and children. The worms are kept in large oblong trays, elevated upon light wooden stands about three feet high. It is curious to see hundreds of caterpillars feeding all together in one tray, and to hear the soft papery noise which they make while gnawing their mulberry-leaves. As they approach maturity, the creatures need almost constant attention. At brief intervals some expert visits each tray to inspect progress, picks up the plumpest feeders, and decides, by gently rolling them between forefinger and thumb, which are ready to spin. These are dropped into covered boxes, where they soon swathe themselves out of sight in white floss. A few only of the best are suffered to emerge from their silky sleep,—the selected breeders. They have beautiful wings, but cannot use them. They have mouths, but do not eat. They only pair, lay eggs, and die. For thousands of years their race has been so well-cared for, that it can no longer take any care of itself. It was the evolutional lesson of this latter fact that chiefly occupied me while Niimi and his younger brother (who feeds the worms) were kindly explaining the methods of the industry. They told me curious things about different breeds, and also about a wild variety of silkworm that cannot be domesticated:—it spins splendid silk before turning into a vigorous moth which can use its wings to some purpose. But I fear that I did not act like a person who felt interested in the subject; for, even while I tried to listen, I began to muse. II First of all, I found myself thinking about a delightful revery by M. Anatole France, in which he says that if he had been the Demiurge, he would have put youth at the end of life instead of at the beginning, and would have otherwise so ordered matters that every human being should have three stages of development, somewhat corresponding to those of the lepidoptera. Then it occurred to me that this fantasy was in substance scarcely more than the delicate modification of a most ancient doctrine, common to nearly all the higher forms of religion. Western faiths especially teach that our life on earth is a larval state of greedy helplessness, and that death is a pupa-sleep out of which we should soar into everlasting light. They tell us that during its sentient existence, the outer body should be thought of only as a kind of caterpillar, and thereafter as a chrysalis;—and they aver that we lose or gain, according to our behavior as larvæ, the power to develop wings under the mortal wrapping. Also they tell us not to trouble ourselves about the fact that we see no Psyché-imago detach itself from the broken cocoon: this lack of visual evidence signifies nothing, because we have only the purblind vision of grubs. Our eyes are but half-evolved. Do not whole scales of colors invisibly exist above and below the limits of our retinal sensibility? Even so the butterfly-man exists,—although, as a matter of course, we cannot see him. But what would become of this human imago in a state of perfect bliss? From the evolutional point of view the question has interest; and its obvious answer was suggested to me by the history of those silkworms,—which have been domesticated for only a few thousand years. Consider the result of our celestial domestication for—let us say—several millions of years: I mean the final consequence, to the wishers, of being able to gratify every wish at will. Those silkworms have all that they wish for,—even considerably more. Their wants, though very simple, are fundamentally identical with the necessities of mankind,—food, shelter, warmth, safety, and comfort. Our endless social struggle is mainly for these things. Our dream of heaven is the dream of obtaining them free of cost in pain; and the condition of those silkworms is the realization, in a small way, of our imagined Paradise. (I am not considering the fact that a vast majority of the worms are predestined to torment and the second death; for my theme is of heaven, not of lost souls. I am speaking of the elect—those worms preördained to salvation and rebirth.) Probably they can feel only very weak sensations: they are certainly incapable of prayer. But if they were able to pray, they could not ask for anything more than they already receive from the youth who feeds and tends them. He is their providence,—a god of whose existence they can be aware in only the vaguest possible way, but just such a god as they require. And we should foolishly deem ourselves fortunate to be equally well cared-for in proportion to our more complex wants. Do not our common forms of prayer prove our desire for like attention? Is not the assertion of our “need of divine love” an involuntary confession that we wish to be treated like silkworms,—to live without pain by the help of gods? Yet if the gods were to treat us as we want, we should presently afford fresh evidence,—in the way of what is called “the evidence from degeneration,”—that the great evolutional law is far above the gods. An early stage of that degeneration would be represented by total incapacity to help ourselves;—then we should begin to lose the use of our higher sense-organs;—later on, the brain would shrink to a vanishing pin-point of matter;—still later we should dwindle into mere amorphous sacs, mere blind stomachs. Such would be the physical consequence of that kind of divine love which we so lazily wish for. The longing for perpetual bliss in perpetual peace might well seem a malevolent inspiration from the Lords of Death and Darkness. All life that feels and thinks has been, and can continue to be, only as the product of struggle and pain,—only as the outcome of endless battle with the Powers of the Universe. And cosmic law is uncompromising. Whatever organ ceases to know pain,—whatever faculty ceases to be used under the stimulus of pain,—must also cease to exist. Let pain and its effort be suspended, and life must shrink back, first into protoplasmic shapelessness, thereafter into dust. Buddhism—which, in its own grand way, is a doctrine of evolution—rationally proclaims its heaven but a higher stage of development through pain, and teaches that even in paradise the cessation of effort produces degradation. With equal reasonableness it declares that the capacity for pain in the superhuman world increases always in proportion to the capacity for pleasure. (There is little fault to be found with this teaching from a scientific standpoint,—since we know that higher evolution must involve an increase of sensitivity to pain.) In the Heavens of Desire, says the _Shōbō-nen-jō-kyō_, the pain of death is so great that all the agonies of all the hells united could equal but one-sixteenth part of such pain.[1] [1] This statement refers only to the Heavens of Sensuous Pleasure,—not to the Paradise of Amida, nor to those heavens into which one enters by the Apparitional Birth. But even in the highest and most immaterial zones of being,—in the Heavens of Formlessness,—the cessation of effort and of the pain of effort, involves the penalty of rebirth in a lower state of existence. The foregoing comparison is unnecessarily strong; but the Buddhist teaching about heaven is in substance eminently logical. The suppression of pain—mental or physical,—in any conceivable state of sentient existence, would necessarily involve the suppression also of pleasure;—and certainly all progress, whether moral or material, depends upon the power to meet and to master pain. In a silkworm-paradise such as our mundane instincts lead us to desire, the seraph freed from the necessity of toil, and able to satisfy his every want at will, would lose his wings at last, and sink back to the condition of a grub…. III I told the substance of my revery to Niimi. He used to be a great reader of Buddhist books. “Well,” he said, “I was reminded of a queer Buddhist story by the proverb that you asked me to explain,—_The silkworm-moth eyebrow of a woman is the axe that cuts down the wisdom of man._ According to our doctrine, the saying would be as true of life in heaven as of life upon earth…. This is the story:— “When Shaka[2] dwelt in this world, one of his disciples, called Nanda, was bewitched by the beauty of a woman; and Shaka desired to save him from the results of this illusion. So he took Nanda to a wild place in the mountains where there were apes, and showed him a very ugly female ape, and asked him: ‘Which is the more beautiful, Nanda, —the woman that you love, or this female ape?’ ‘Oh, Master!’ exclaimed Nanda, ‘how can a lovely woman be compared with an ugly ape?’ ‘Perhaps you will presently find reason to make the comparison yourself,’ answered the Buddha;—and instantly by supernatural power he ascended with Nanda to the _San-Jūsan-Ten_, which is the Second of the Six Heavens of Desire. There, within a palace of jewels, Nanda saw a multitude of heavenly maidens celebrating some festival with music and dance; and the beauty of the least among them incomparably exceeded that of the fairest woman of earth. ‘O Master,’ cried Nanda, ‘what wonderful festival is this?’ ‘Ask some of those people,’ responded Shaka. So Nanda questioned one of the celestial maidens; and she said to him:—‘This festival is to celebrate the good tidings that have been brought to us. There is now in the human world, among the disciples of Shaka, a most excellent youth called Nanda, who is soon to be reborn into this heaven, and to become our bridegroom, because of his holy life. We wait for him with rejoicing.’ This reply filled the heart of Nanda with delight. Then the Buddha asked him: ‘Is there any one among these maidens, Nanda, equal in beauty to the woman with whom you have been in love?’ ‘Nay, Master!’ answered Nanda; ‘even as that woman surpassed in beauty the female ape that we saw on the mountain, so is she herself surpassed by even the least among these.’ [2] Sâkyamuni. “Then the Buddha immediately descended with Nanda to the depths of the hells, and took him into a torture-chamber where myriads of men and women were being boiled alive in great caldrons, and otherwise horribly tormented by devils. Then Nanda found himself standing before a huge vessel which was filled with molten metal;—and he feared and wondered because this vessel had as yet no occupant. An idle devil sat beside it, yawning. ‘Master,’ Nanda inquired of the Buddha, ‘for whom has this vessel been prepared?’ ‘Ask the devil,’ answered Shaka. Nanda did so; and the devil said to him: ‘There is a man called Nanda,—now one of Shaka’s disciples,—about to be reborn into one of the heavens, on account of his former good actions. But after having there indulged himself, he is to be reborn in this hell; and his place will be in that pot. I am waiting for him.’”[3] [3] I give the story substantially as it was told to me; but I have not been able to compare it with any published text. My friend says that he has seen two Chinese versions,—one in the _Hongyō-kyō_ (?), the other in the _Zōichi-agon-kyō_ (Ekôttarâgamas). In Mr. Henry Clarke Warren’s _Buddhism in Translations_ (the most interesting and valuable single volume of its kind that I have ever seen), there is a Pali version of the legend, which differs considerably from the above.—This Nanda, according to Mr. Warren’s work, was a prince, and the younger half-brother of Sâkyamuni. A Passional Karma One of the never-failing attractions of the Tōkyō stage is the performance, by the famous Kikugorō and his company, of the _Botan-Dōrō_, or “Peony-Lantern.” This weird play, of which the scenes are laid in the middle of the last century, is the dramatization of a romance by the novelist Encho, written in colloquial Japanese, and purely Japanese in local color, though inspired by a Chinese tale. I went to see the play; and Kikugorō made me familiar with a new variety of the pleasure of fear. “Why not give English readers the ghostly part of the story?”—asked a friend who guides me betimes through the mazes of Eastern philosophy. “It would serve to explain some popular ideas of the supernatural which Western people know very little about. And I could help you with the translation.” I gladly accepted the suggestion; and we composed the following summary of the more extraordinary portion of Enchō’s romance. Here and there we found it necessary to condense the original narrative; and we tried to keep close to the text only in the conversational passages,—some of which happen to possess a particular quality of psychological interest. —_This is the story of the Ghosts in the Romance of the Peony-Lantern:_— I There once lived in the district of Ushigomé, in Yedo, a _hatamoto_[1] called Iijima Heizayémon, whose only daughter, Tsuyu, was beautiful as her name, which signifies “Morning Dew.” Iijima took a second wife when his daughter was about sixteen; and, finding that O-Tsuyu could not be happy with her mother-in-law, he had a pretty villa built for the girl at Yanagijima, as a separate residence, and gave her an excellent maidservant, called O-Yoné, to wait upon her. [1] The _hatamoto_ were samurai forming the special military force of the Shōgun. The name literally signifies “Banner-Supporters.” These were the highest class of samurai,—not only as the immediate vassals of the Shōgun, but as a military aristocracy. O-Tsuyu lived happily enough in her new home until one day when the family physician, Yamamoto Shijō, paid her a visit in company with a young samurai named Hagiwara Shinzaburō, who resided in the Nedzu quarter. Shinzaburō was an unusually handsome lad, and very gentle; and the two young people fell in love with each other at sight. Even before the brief visit was over, they contrived,—unheard by the old doctor,—to pledge themselves to each other for life. And, at parting, O-Tsuyu whispered to the youth,—“_Remember! If you do not come to see me again, I shall certainly die!_” Shinzaburō never forgot those words; and he was only too eager to see more of O-Tsuyu. But etiquette forbade him to make the visit alone: he was obliged to wait for some other chance to accompany the doctor, who had promised to take him to the villa a second time. Unfortunately the old man did not keep this promise. He had perceived the sudden affection of O-Tsuyu; and he feared that her father would hold him responsible for any serious results. Iijima Heizayémon had a reputation for cutting off heads. And the more Shijō thought about the possible consequences of his introduction of Shinzaburō at the Iijima villa, the more he became afraid. Therefore he purposely abstained from calling upon his young friend. Months passed; and O-Tsuyu, little imagining the true cause of Shinzaburō’s neglect, believed that her love had been scorned. Then she pined away, and died. Soon afterwards, the faithful servant O-Yoné also died, through grief at the loss of her mistress; and the two were buried side by side in the cemetery of Shin-Banzui-In,—a temple which still stands in the neighborhood of Dango-Zaka, where the famous chrysanthemum-shows are yearly held. II Shinzaburō knew nothing of what had happened; but his disappointment and his anxiety had resulted in a prolonged illness. He was slowly recovering, but still very weak, when he unexpectedly received another visit from Yamamoto Shijō. The old man made a number of plausible excuses for his apparent neglect. Shinzaburō said to him:—“I have been sick ever since the beginning of spring;—even now I cannot eat anything…. Was it not rather unkind of you never to call? I thought that we were to make another visit together to the house of the Lady Iijima; and I wanted to take to her some little present as a return for our kind reception. Of course I could not go by myself.” Shijō gravely responded,—“I am very sorry to tell you that the young lady is dead!” “Dead!” repeated Shinzaburō, turning white,—“did you say that she is dead?” The doctor remained silent for a moment, as if collecting himself: then he resumed, in the quick light tone of a man resolved not to take trouble seriously:— “My great mistake was in having introduced you to her; for it seems that she fell in love with you at once. I am afraid that you must have said something to encourage this affection—when you were in that little room together. At all events, I saw how she felt towards you; and then I became uneasy,—fearing that her father might come to hear of the matter, and lay the whole blame upon me. So—to be quite frank with you,—I decided that it would be better not to call upon you; and I purposely stayed away for a long time. But, only a few days ago, happening to visit Iijima’s house, I heard, to my great surprise, that his daughter had died, and that her servant O-Yoné had also died. Then, remembering all that had taken place, I knew that the young lady must have died of love for you…. [_Laughing_] Ah, you are really a sinful fellow! Yes, you are! [_Laughing_] Isn’t it a sin to have been born so handsome that the girls die for love of you?[2] [_Seriously_] Well, we must leave the dead to the dead. It is no use to talk further about the matter;—all that you now can do for her is to repeat the Nembutsu[3]…. Good-bye.” [2] Perhaps this conversation may seem strange to the Western reader; but it is true to life. The whole of the scene is characteristically Japanese. [3] The invocation _Namu Amida Butsu!_ (“Hail to the Buddha Amitâbha!”),—repeated, as a prayer, for the sake of the dead. And the old man retired hastily,—anxious to avoid further converse about the painful event for which he felt himself to have been unwittingly responsible. III Shinzaburō long remained stupefied with grief by the news of O-Tsuyu’s death. But as soon as he found himself again able to think clearly, he inscribed the dead girl’s name upon a mortuary tablet, and placed the tablet in the Buddhist shrine of his house, and set offerings before it, and recited prayers. Every day thereafter he presented offerings, and repeated the _Nembutsu;_ and the memory of O-Tsuyu was never absent from his thought. Nothing occurred to change the monotony of his solitude before the time of the Bon,—the great Festival of the Dead,—which begins upon the thirteenth day of the seventh month. Then he decorated his house, and prepared everything for the festival;—hanging out the lanterns that guide the returning spirits, and setting the food of ghosts on the _shōryōdana_, or Shelf of Souls. And on the first evening of the Bon, after sun-down, he kindled a small lamp before the tablet of O-Tsuyu, and lighted the lanterns. The night was clear, with a great moon,—and windless, and very warm. Shinzaburō sought the coolness of his veranda. Clad only in a light summer-robe, he sat there thinking, dreaming, sorrowing;—sometimes fanning himself; sometimes making a little smoke to drive the mosquitoes away. Everything was quiet. It was a lonesome neighborhood, and there were few passers-by. He could hear only the soft rushing of a neighboring stream, and the shrilling of night-insects. But all at once this stillness was broken by a sound of women’s _geta_[4] approaching—_kara-kon, kara-kon;_—and the sound drew nearer and nearer, quickly, till it reached the live-hedge surrounding the garden. Then Shinzaburö, feeling curious, stood on tiptoe, so as to look over the hedge; and he saw two women passing. One, who was carrying a beautiful lantern decorated with peony-flowers,[5] appeared to be a servant;—the other was a slender girl of about seventeen, wearing a long-sleeved robe embroidered with designs of autumn-blossoms. Almost at the same instant both women turned their faces toward Shinzaburō;—and to his utter astonishment, he recognized O-Tsuyu and her servant O-Yoné. [4] _Komageta_ in the original. The geta is a wooden sandal, or clog, of which there are many varieties,—some decidedly elegant. The _komageta_, or “pony-geta” is so-called because of the sonorous hoof-like echo which it makes on hard ground. [5] The sort of lantern here referred to is no longer made; and its shape can best be understood by a glance at the picture accompanying this story. It was totally unlike the modern domestic band-lantern, painted with the owner’s crest; but it was not altogether unlike some forms of lanterns still manufactured for the Festival of the Dead, and called _Bon-dōrō_. The flowers ornamenting it were not painted: they were artificial flowers of crêpe-silk, and were attached to the top of the lantern. [Illustration: The Peony Lantern] They stopped immediately; and the girl cried out,—“Oh, how strange!… Hagiwara Sama!” Shinzaburō simultaneously called to the maid:—“O-Yoné! Ah, you are O-Yoné!—I remember you very well.” “Hagiwara Sama!” exclaimed O-Yoné in a tone of supreme amazement. “Never could I have believed it possible!… Sir, we were told that you had died.” “How extraordinary!” cried Shinzaburō. “Why, I was told that both of you were dead!” “Ah, what a hateful story!” returned O-Yoné. “Why repeat such unlucky words?… Who told you?” “Please to come in,” said Shinzaburō;—“here we can talk better. The garden-gate is open.” So they entered, and exchanged greeting; and when Shinzaburō had made them comfortable, he said:— “I trust that you will pardon my discourtesy in not having called upon you for so long a time. But Shijō, the doctor
white linen, and the one roller towel for all, with individual service in each room. In this hotel world the alert young widow made her court and ruled as a queen. Here little Jim slept away his babyhood and grew to consciousness with sounds of coming horses, going wheels; of chicken calls and twittering swallows in their nests; shouts of men and the clatter of tin pails; the distant song of saw mills and their noontide whistles; smells of stables mixed with the sweet breathings of oxen and the pungent odour of pine gum from new-sawn boards. And ever as he grew, he loved the more to steal from his mother's view and be with the stable hands--loving the stable, loving the horses, loving the men that were horsemen in any sort, and indulged and spoiled by them in turn. The widow was a winner of hearts whom not even the wife of Tom Ford, the rich millman and mayor of the town, could rival in social power, so Jim, as the heir apparent, grew up in an atmosphere of importance that did him little good. CHAPTER V Little Jim's Tutors "Whiskey" Mason had been for more than three years with Downey. He was an adroit barkeep. He knew every favourite "mix" and how to use the thickest glasses that would ever put the house a little more ahead of the game. But the Widow soon convinced herself that certain rumours already hinted at were well-founded, and that Mason's salary did not justify his Sunday magnificence. Mason had long been quite convinced that he was the backbone of the business and absolutely indispensable. Therefore he was not a little surprised when the queen, in the beginning of her reign, invited him to resign his portfolio and seek his fortune elsewhere, the farther off the better to her liking. Mason went not far, but scornfully. He took lodgings in the town to wait and see the inevitable wreck that the widow was inviting for her house. For two months he waited, but was disappointed. The hotel continued in business; the widow had not come to beg for his return; his credit was being injured with excessive use; and as he had found no other work, he took the stage to the larger town of Petersburg some thirty miles away. Here he sought a job, in his special craft of "joy mixer" but, failing to find that, he turned his attention to another near akin. In those days the liquor laws of Canada provided a heavy fine for any breach of regulation; and of this the informant got half. Here was an easy and honourable calling for which he was well equipped. * * * * * It has ever been law in the man's code that he must protect the place he drinks in, so that the keepers of these evil joints are often careless over little lapses. Thus Whiskey Mason easily found a victim, and within three days was rich once more with half of the thousand-dollar fine that the magistrate imposed. He felt that all the country suddenly was his lawful prey. He could not long remain in Petersburg, where he was soon well known and shunned. He had some trouble, too, for threats against his life began to reach him more and more. It was the magistrate himself who suggested contemptuously, "You had better take out a pistol license, my friend; and you would be safer in a town where no one knows you." In those early days before his dismissal by Kitty, Mason's life and Little Jim's had no point of meeting. Six years later, when he returned to Links, Jimmy was discovering great possibilities in the stables of the Inn. Mason often called at the bar-room where he had once been the ruling figure, and was received with cold aloofness. But he was used to that; his calling had hardened him to any amount of human scorn. He still found a kindred spirit, however, in the stable man, Watsie Hall, and these two would often "visit" in the feed room, which was a favourite playground of the bright-haired boy. It is always funny if one can inspire terror without actual danger to the victim. Mason and Hall taught Jim to throw stones at sparrows, cats, and dogs, when his mother was not looking. He hardly ever hit them, and his hardest throw was harmless, but he learned to love the sport. A stray dog that persisted in stealing scraps which were by right the heritage of hens, was listed as an enemy, and together they showed Jim how to tie a tin can on the dog's tail in a manner that produced amazingly funny results and the final disappearance of the cur in a chorus of frantic yelps. These laboratory experiments on animals developed under the able tutors, and Jim was instructed in the cat's war dance, an ingenious mode of inspiring puss to outdo her own matchless activity in a series of wild gyrations, by glueing to each foot a shoe of walnut shell, half filled with melted cobbler's wax to hold it on. Flattered by their attentions at first, the cat purred blandly as they fitted on the shoes. Jim's eyes were big and bright with tensest interest. The cat was turned loose in the grain room. To hear her own soft pads drop on the floor, each with a sharp, hard crack, must have been a curious, jarring experience. To find at every step a novel sense of being locked in, must have conjured up deep apprehensions in her soul. And when she fled, and sought to scale the partition, to find that her claws were gone--that she was now a thing with hoofs--must have been a horrid nightmare. Fear entered into her soul, took full control; then followed the wild erratic circling around the room, with various ridiculous attempts to run up the walls, which were so insanely silly that little James shrieked for joy, and joining in with the broom, urged the cat to still more amazing evidences of muscular activity not excelled by any other creature. It was rare sport with just a sense of sin to give it tang, for he had been forbidden to torment the cat, and Jim saw nothing but the funny side; he was only seven. It was a week later that they tried the walnut trick again, and Jim was eager to see the "circus." But the cat remembered; she drove her teeth deep into Hall's hand and fought with a feline fury that is always terrifying. Jim was gazing in big-eyed silence, when Hall, enraged, thrust the cat into the leg of a boot and growled, "I'll fix yer biting," and held her teeth to the grindstone till the body in the boot was limp. At the first screech of the cat, Jim's whole attitude had changed. Amusement and wild-eyed wonder had given way to a shocking realization of the wicked cruelty. He sprang at Hall and struck him with all the best vigour of his baby fists. "Let my kitty go, you!" and he kicked the hostler in the shins until he himself was driven away. He fled indoors to his mother, flung himself into her arms and sobbed in newly awakened horror. To his dying day he never forgot that cry of pain. He had been in the way of cruel training with these men, but the climax woke him up. It was said that he never after was cruel to any creature, but this is sure--that he never after cared to be with cats of any sort. This was the end of Hall, so far as his life had bearing on that of James Hartigan Second; for Kitty dismissed him promptly as soon as she heard the story of his brutality. * * * * * Of all the specimens of fine, physical manhood who owned allegiance to Downey's Hotel, Fightin' Bill Kenna was the outstanding figure. He was not so big as Mulcahy, or such a wrestler as Dougherty, or as skilled a boxer as McGraw; he knew little of the singlestick and nothing of knife- or gun-play; and yet his combination of strength, endurance and bullet-headed pluck made him by general voice "the best man in Links." Bill's temper was fiery; he loved a fight. He never was worsted, the nearest thing to it being a draw between himself and Terry Barr. After that Terry went to the States and became a professional pugilist of note. Bill's social record was not without blemish. He was known to have appropriated a rope, to the far end of which was attached another man's horse. He certainly had been in jail once and should have been there a dozen times, for worse crimes than fighting. And yet Bill was firmly established as Bible bearer in the annual Orangemen's parade and would have smashed the face of any man who tried to rob him of his holy office. Kenna was supposed to be a farmer, but he loved neither crops nor land. The dream of his exuberant life was to be a horse breeder, for which profession he had neither the capital nor the brains. His social and convivial instincts ever haled him townward, and a well-worn chair in Downey's bar-room was by prescriptive right the town seat of William Kenna, Esq., of the Township of Opulenta. Bill had three other good qualities besides his mighty fists. He was true to his friends, he was kind to the poor and he had great respect for his "wurd as a mahn." If he gave his "wurd as a mahn" to do thus and so, he ever made a strenuous effort to keep it. Bill was madly in love with Kitty Hartigan. She was not unmoved by the huge manliness of the warlike William, but she had too much sense to overlook his failings, and she held him off as she did a dozen more--her devoted lovers all--who hung around ever hoping for special favour. But though Kitty would not marry him, she smiled on Kenna indulgently and thus it was that this man of brawn had far too much to say in shaping the life of little Jim Hartigan. High wisdom or deep sagacity was scarcely to be named among Kenna's attributes, and yet instinctively he noted that the surest way to the widow's heart was through her boy. This explained the beginning of their friendship, but other things soon entered in. Kenna, with all his faults, was a respecter of women, and--they commonly go together--a clumsy, awkward, blundering lover of children. Little Jim was bright enough to interest any one; and, with the certain instinct of a child, he drifted toward the man whose heart was open to him. Many a day, as Kenna split some blocks of wood that were over big and knotty for the official axeman, Jim would come to watch and marvel at the mighty blows. His comments told of the imaginative power born in his Celtic blood: "Bill, let's play you are the Red Dermid smiting the bullhide bearing Lachlin," he would shout, and at once the brightness of his mental picture and his familiarity with the nursery tales of Erin that were current even in the woods created a wonder-world about him. Then his Ulster mind would speak. He would laugh a little shamefaced chuckle at himself and say: "It's only Big Bill Kenna splitting wood." Bill was one of the few men who talked to Jim about his father; and, with singular delicacy, he ever avoided mentioning the nauseating fact that the father was a papist. No one who has not lived in the time and place of these feuds can understand the unspeakable abomination implied by that word; it was the barrier that kept his other friends from mention of the dead man's name; and yet, Bill spoke with kindly reverence of him as, "a broth of a bhoy, a good mahn, afraid of no wan, and as straight as a string." Among the occasional visitors at the stable yard was young Tom Ford, whose father owned the mill and half the town. Like his father, Tom was a masterful person, hungry for power and ready to rule by force. On the occasion of his first visit he had quarrelled with Jim, and being older and stronger, had won their boyish fight. It was in the hour of his humiliation that Kenna had taken Jim on his knee and said: "Now Jim, I'm the lepricaun that can tache you magic to lick that fellow aisy, if ye'll do what I tell you." And at the word "lepricaun," the Celt in Jim rose mightier than the fighting, bullet-headed Saxon. His eager word and look were enough. "Now, listen, bhoy. I'll put the boxing gloves on you every day, an' I'll put up a sack of oats, an' we'll call it Tom Ford; an' ye must hit that sack wi' yer fist every day wan hundred times, twenty-five on the top side and siventy-five on the bottom side for the undercut is worth more than the uppercut anny day; an' when ye've done that, ye're making magic, and at the end of the moon ye'll be able to lick Tom Ford." Jim began with all his ten-year-old vigour to make the necessary magic, and had received Bill's unqualified approval until one day he appeared chewing something given him by one of the men as a joke. Jim paused before Bill and spat out a brown fluid. "Fwhat are ye doing?" said Bill; then to his disgust, he found that Jim, inspired probably by his own example, was chewing tobacco. "Spit it out, ye little divil, an' never agin do that. If ye do that three times before ye're twenty-one, ye'll make a spell that will break you, an' ye'll never lick Tom Ford." Thus, with no high motive, Kenna was in many ways, the guardian of the child. Coarse, brutish, and fierce among men, he was ever good to the boy and respectful to his mother; and he rounded out his teaching by the doctrine: "If ye give yer word as a mahn, ye must not let all hell prevent ye holding to it." And he whispered in a dreadful tone that sent a chill through the youngster's blood: "It'll bring the bone-rot on ye if ye fail; it always does." It is unfortunate that we cannot number the town school principal as a large maker of Jim's mind. Jim went to school and the teacher did the best he could. He learned to read, to write and to figure, but books irked him and held no lure. His joy was in the stable yard and the barn where dwelt those men of muscle and of animal mind; where the boxing gloves were in nightly use, the horses in daily sight, and the world of sport in ring or on turf was the only world worth any man's devotion. There were a dozen other persons who had influence in the shaping of the life and mind of Little Jim Hartigan; but there was one that overpowered, that far outweighed, that almost negatived the rest; that was his mother. She could scarcely read, and all the reading she ever tried to do was in her Bible. Filled with the vision of what she wished her boy to be--a minister of Christ--Kitty sent him to the public school, but the colour of his mind was given at home. She told him the stories of the Man of Galilee, and on Sundays, hand in hand, they went to the Presbyterian Church, to listen to tedious details that illustrated the practical impossibility of any one really winning out in the fight with sin. She sang the nursery songs of the old land and told the tales of magic that made his eyes stare wide with loving, childish wonder. She told him what a brave, kind man his father had been, and ever came back to the world's great Messenger of Love. Not openly, but a thousand times--in a thousand deeply felt, deeply meant, unspoken ways--she made him know that the noblest calling man might ever claim was this, to be a herald of the Kingdom. Alone, on her knees, she would pray that her boy might be elected to that great estate and that she might live to see him going forth a messenger of the Prince of Peace. Kitty was alive to the danger of the inherited taste for drink in her son. The stern, uncompromising Presbyterian minister of the town, in whose church the widow had a pew, was temperate, but not an abstainer; in fact, it was his custom to close the day with a short prayer and a tall glass of whiskey and water. While, with his advice, she had entirely buried her doctrinal scruples on the selling of drink to the moderate, her mother-heart was not so easily put to sleep. Her boy belonged to the house side of the hotel. He was not supposed to enter the saloon; and when, one day, she found an unscrupulous barkeeper actually amusing himself by giving the child a taste of the liquid fire, she acted with her usual promptitude and vigour. The man was given just enough time to get his hat and coat, and the boy was absolutely forbidden the left wing of the house. Later, in the little room where he was born, she told Jim sadly and gently what it would mean, what suffering the drinking habit had brought upon herself, and thus, for the first time, he learned that this had been the cause of his father's death. The boy was deeply moved and voluntarily offered to pledge himself never to touch a drop again so long as he lived. But his mother wisely said: "No, Jim; don't say it that way. Leaning backward will not make you safer from a fall; only promise me you'll never touch it till you are eighteen; then I know you will be safe." And he promised her that he never would; he gave his word--no more; for already the rough and vigorous teaching of Bill Kenna had gripped him in some sort. He felt that there was no more binding seal; that any more was more than man should give. When Jim was twelve he was very tall and strong for his age, and almost too beautiful for a boy. His mother, of course, was idolatrous in her love. His ready tongue, his gift of reciting funny or heroic verse, and his happy moods had made him a general favourite, the king of the stable yard. Abetted, inspired and trained by Kenna, he figured in many a boyish fight, and usually won so that he was not a little pleased with himself in almost every way. Had he not carried out his promise of two years before and thrashed the mayor's son, who was a year older than himself, and thereby taught a lesson to that stuck-up, purse-proud youngster? Could he not ride with any man? Yes, and one might add, match tongues with any woman. For his native glibness was doubly helped by the vast, unprintable vocabularies of his chosen world, as well as by choice phrases from heroic verse that were a more exact reflex of his mind. Then, on a day, came Whiskey Mason drifting into Links once more. He was making an ever scantier living out of his wretched calling, and had sunk as low as he could sink. But he had learned a dozen clever tricks to make new victims. At exactly eleven o'clock, P.M., the bar-room had been closed, as was by law required. At exactly eleven five, P.M. a traveller, sick and weak, supported by a friend, came slowly along the dusty road to the door, and, sinking down in agony of cramps, protested he could go no farther and begged for a little brandy, as his friend knocked on the door, imploring kindly aid for the love of heaven. The barkeeper was obdurate, but the man was in such a desperate plight that the Widow Hartigan was summoned. Ever ready at the call of trouble her kindly heart responded. The sick man revived with a little brandy; his friend, too, seemed in need of similar help and, uttering voluble expressions of gratitude, the travellers went on to lodgings on the other side of the town, carrying with them a flask in which was enough of the medicine to meet a new attack if one should come before they reached their destination. At exactly eleven ten, P.M., these two helpless, harmless strangers received the flask from Widow Hartigan. At exactly eight A.M., the next day, at the opening of the Magistrate's office, they laid their information before him, that the Widow Hartigan was selling liquor out of hours. Here was the witness and here was the flask. They had not paid for this, they admitted, but said it had been "charged." All the town was in a talk. The papers were served, and on the following day, in court, before Tom Ford, the Mayor, the charge was made and sworn to by Mason, who received, and Hall, who witnessed and also received, the unlawful drink. It was so evidently a trumped-up case that some judges would have dismissed it. But the Mayor was human; this woman had flouted his wife; her boy had licked his boy. The fine might be anything from one hundred up to one thousand dollars. The Mayor was magnanimous; he imposed the minimum fine. So the widow was mulcted a hundred dollars for playing the rôle of good Samaritan. Mason and Hall got fifty dollars to divide, and five minutes later were speeding out of town. They left no address. In this precautionary mood their instincts were right, though later events proved them to be without avail. Just one hour after the disappearance of Mason, Kenna came to town and heard how the Widow's open-hearted kindness had led her into a snare. His first question was: "Where is he?" No one knew, but every one agreed that he had gone in a hurry. Now it is well known that experienced men seeking to elude discovery make either for the absolute wilderness or else the nearest big city. There is no hiding place between. Kenna did not consult Kitty. He rode, as fast as horse could bear his robust bulk to Petersburg where Mason had in some sort his headquarters. It was noon the next day before Bill found him, sitting in the far end of the hardware shop. Mason never sat in the saloons, for the barkeepers would not have him there. He did not loom large, for he always tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, and his glance was shifty. Bill nodded to the iron dealer and passed back to the stove end of the store. Yes, there sat Mason. They recognized each other. The whiskey sneak rose in trepidation. But William said calmly, "Sit down." "Well," he continued with a laugh, "I hear you got ahead of the Widdy." "Yeh." "Well, she can afford it," said Bill. "She's getting rich." Mason breathed more freely. "I should think ye'd carry a revolver in such a business," said William, inquiringly. "Bet I do," said Mason. "Let's have a look at it," said Kenna. Mason hesitated. "Ye better let me see it, or----" There was a note of threat for the first time. Mason drew his revolver, somewhat bewildered. Before the informer knew what move was best, Kenna reached out and took the weapon. "I hear ye got twenty-five dollars from the Widdy." "Yeh." And Mason began to move nervously under the cold glitter in Kenna's eyes. "I want ye to donate that to the orphan asylum. Here, Jack!" Kenna called to the clerk, "Write on a big envelope 'Donation for the orphan asylum. Conscience money.'" "What does it say?" inquired Bill, for he could not read. The clerk held out the envelope and read the inscription. "All right," said Bill, "now, Mason, jest so I won't lose patience with you and act rough like, hand over that twenty-five." "I ain't got it, I tell you. It's all gone." "Turn out your pockets, or I will." The whiskey sneak unwillingly turned out his pockets. He had fifteen dollars and odd. "Put it in that there envelope," said Bill, with growing ferocity. "Now gum it up. Here, Jack, will ye kindly drop this in the contribution box for the orphans while we watch you?" The clerk entered into the humour of it all. He ran across the street to the gate of the orphan asylum and dropped the envelope into the box. Mason tried to escape but Bill's mighty hand was laid on his collar. And now the storm of animal rage pent up in him for so long broke forth. He used no weapon but his fists, and when the doctor came, he thought the whiskey man was dead. But they brought him round, and in the hospital he lingered long. It was clearly a case of grave assault; the magistrate was ready to issue a warrant for Kenna's arrest. But such was Bill's reputation that they could get no constable to serve it. Meanwhile, Mason hung between life and death. He did not die. Within six weeks, he was able to sit up and take a feeble interest in things about him, while Bill at Links pursued his normal life. Gossip about the affair had almost died when the Mayor at Petersburg received a document that made him start. The Attorney General of the Province wrote: "Why have you not arrested the man who committed that assault? Why has no effort been made to administer justice?" The Mayor was an independent business man, seeking no political favours, and he sent a very curt reply. "You had better come and arrest him yourself, if you are so set on it." That was why two broad, square men, with steadfast eyes, came one day into Links. They sought out Bill Kenna and found him in the bar-room, lifting the billiard table with one hand, as another man slipped wedges under it to correct the level. Little Jim, though he had no business there at all, stood on the table itself and gave an abundance of orders. "Are you William Kenna?" said the first of the strangers. "I am that," said he. "Then I arrest you in the Queen's name"; and the officer held up a paper while the other produced a pair of handcuffs. "Oi'd like to see ye put them on me." And the flood of fight in him surged up. He was covered by two big revolvers now, which argument had no whit of power to modify his mood; but another factor had. The Widow who had entered in search of Jim and knew the tragedy that hung by a hair, sped to his side: "Now, Bill, don't ye do it! I forbid ye to do it!" "If they try to put them on me, I'll kill or be killed. If they jist act dacent, I'll go quiet." "Will ye give yer word, Bill?" "I will, Kitty; I'll give me word as a mahn. I'll go peaceable if they don't try to handcuff me." "There," said Kitty to the officers. "He's give his word; and if you're wise, ye'll take him at that." "All right," said the chief constable, and between them William moved to the door. "Say, Bill, ye ain't going to be took?" piped little Jim. He had watched the scene dumbfounded from his place on the table. This was too much. "Yes," said Bill, "I've give me word as a mahn," and he marched away, while the Widow fled sobbing to her room. That was the end of Kenna, so far as Jim was concerned. And, somehow, that last sentence, "I've give me word as a mahn," kept ringing in Jim's ears; it helped to offset the brutalizing effect of many other episodes--that Fighting Bill should scoff at bonds and force, but be bound and helpless by the little sound that issued from his own lips. Bill's after life was brief. He was condemned to a year in jail for deadly assault and served the term and came again to Petersburg. There in a bar-room he encountered Hall, the pal of Whisky Mason. A savage word from Bill provoked the sneer, "You jail bird." Kenna sprang to avenge the insult. Hall escaped behind the bar. Bill still pursued. Then Hall drew a pistol and shot him dead; and, as the Courts held later, shot justly, for a man may defend his life. It was a large funeral that buried Bill, and it was openly and widely said that nine out of ten were there merely to make sure that he was dead and buried. The Widow Hartigan was chief mourner in the first carriage. She and Jim led the line, and when he was laid away, she had a stone erected with the words, "A true friend and a man without fear." So passed Kenna; but Jim bore the traces of his influence long and deeply--yes, all his life. Masterful, physical, prone to fight and to consider might as right, yet Jim's judgment of him was ever tempered by the one thought, the binding force of his "wurd as a mahn." CHAPTER VI Jim Loses Everything The Widow never forgot that her tenure of the hotel might end at any time; and, thinking ever of Jim and his future, she saved what she could from the weekly proceeds. She was a good manager, and each month saw something added to her bank account. When it had grown to a considerable size her friends advised her to invest it. There were Government bonds paying five per cent., local banks paying six and seven, and, last of all, the Consolidated Trading Stores paying eight and sometimes more--an enterprise of which Tom Ford was head. The high interest was tempting, and pride was not without some power. Kitty was pleased to think that now she could go to the pompous Mayor as a capitalist. So, creating with an inward sense of triumph the impression of huge deposits elsewhere, she announced that she would take a small block of stock in the C. T. S. as a nest-egg for her boy. Thus the accumulations of ten years went into the company of which the Mayor was head and guide. For a time, the interest was duly paid each half year. Then came a crash. After the reorganization the Mayor continued in his big brick house and his wife still wore her diamonds; but the widow's hard-earned savings were gone. Kitty was stunned but game; falling back on the strength that was inside, she bravely determined to begin all over and build on a rock of safety. But fortune had another blow in store for Jim. And it fell within a month, just as he turned thirteen. It was the end of the Canadian winter. Fierce frost and sudden thaw were alternated as the north wind and the south struggled for the woods, and the heat of work in the warm sun left many ill prepared for the onset of bitter cold at dusk. Bustling everywhere, seeing that pigs were fed, pies made, and clothes mended; now in the hot kitchen, a moment later in the stable yard to manage some new situation; the Widow fell a victim to pneumonia much as John Downey had done. For three days she lay in fever and pain. Jim was scarcely allowed to see her. They did not understand pneumonia in those days, and as it was the general belief that all diseases were "catching," the boy was kept away. The doctor was doing his best with old-fashioned remedies, blisters, mustard baths, hot herb teas and fomentations. He told her she would soon be well, but Kitty knew better. On the third day, she asked in a whisper for Jim, but told them first to wash his face and hands with salt water. So the long-legged, bright-eyed boy came and sat by his mother's bed and held her hot hands. As he gazed on her over-bright eyes, she said softly: "My darling, you'll soon be alone, without friend or kith or kin. This place will no longer be your home. God only knows where you'll go. But He will take care of you as He took care of me." For the first time Jim realized the meaning of the scene--his mother was dying. She quieted his sobs with a touch of her hand and began again, slowly and painfully: "I tried to leave you well fixed, but it was not to be. The hotel will go to another. This is all I have for you." She drew a little cedar box from under the covers, and opening it, showed him her Bible, the daguerreotype of his father and a later photograph of herself. "Jim, promise me again that you will never touch tobacco or liquor till you are eighteen." "Oh, mother, mother!" he wept. "I'll do anything you say. I'll promise. I give you my word I never will touch them." She rested in silence, her hand was on his head. When her strength in a little measure came again, she said in a low tone: "My wish was to see you educated, a minister for Christ. I hope it may yet be so." She was still a long time; then, gently patting his head, she said to those around: "Take him away. Wash him with salt and water." * * * * * Thus it came about that the hotel which had been Jim's only home and which he thought belonged to his mother, passed into the hands of John Downey, Jr., nephew of the original owner. It was Mrs. John Downey who offered the first ray of comfort in Jim's very bleak world. When she saw the tall handsome boy she put her arms around him and said: "Never mind, Jim, don't go away. This will always be home for you." So the lad found a new home in the old house, but under greatly changed conditions. The new mistress had notions of her own as to the amount of education necessary and the measure of service to be returned for one's keep. Jim was able to read, write, and cipher; this much was ample in the opinion of Mrs. Downey, and Jim's school days ended. The understanding that he must make himself useful quickly resulted in his transference to the stable. A garret in the barn was furnished with a bed for him, and Jim's life was soon down to its lowest level. He had his friends, for he was full of fun and good to look upon: but they were not of the helpful kind, being recruited chiefly from the hostlers, the pugilists, and the horsemen. He had time for amusements, too; but they were nearly always of the boxing glove and the saddle. Books had little charm for him, though he still found pleasure in reciting the heroic ballads of Lachlin, the Raid of Dermid, the Battle of the Boyne, and in singing "My Pretty, Pretty Maid," or woodmen's "Come all ye's." His voice was unusually good, except at the breaking time; and any one who knew the part the minstrel played in Viking days would have thought the bygone times come back to see him among the roystering crowd at Downey's. The next three years that passed were useless except for this, they gifted Jim with a tall and stalwart form and shoulders like a grown man. But they added little to the good things he had gathered from his mother and from Fightin' Bill. At sixteen he was six feet high, slim and boyish yet, but sketched for a frame of power. All this time his meagre keep and his shabby clothes were his only pay. But Jim had often talked things over with his friends and they pointed out that he was now doing man's work and getting less than boy's pay. The scene that followed his application for regular wages was a very unpleasant one; and John Downey made the curious mistake of trying to throw young Jimmy out. The boy never lost his temper for a moment but laughingly laid his two strong hands on the landlord's fat little shoulders and shook him till his collar popped and his eyes turned red. Then Jim grinned and said: "I told ye I wasn't a kid anny more." It was the landlady's good sense that made a truce, and after a brief, stormy time the long-legged boy was reinstated at wages in the yard. At seventeen Jim was mentioned among the men as a likely "bhoy." Women in the street would turn to look in admiration at his square shoulders, lithe swing, and handsome head. But the life he led was flat, or worse than flat. The best that can be said of it is that in all this sordid round of bar and barn he learned nothing that in any sort had
which within the strict limits of health may cause such a condition of the brain as to produce sleep. Authors, in considering sleep, have not always drawn the proper distinction between the exciting and the immediate cause. Thus Macario,[5] in alluding to the alleged causes of sleep, says: "Among physiologists some attribute it to a congestion of blood in the brain; others to a directly opposite cause, that is, to a diminished afflux of blood to this organ; some ascribe it to a loss of nervous fluid, others to a flow of this fluid back to its source; others again find the cause in the cessation of the motion of the cerebral fibers, or rather in a partial motion in these fibers. Here I stop, for I could not, even if I wished, mention all the theories which have prevailed relative to this subject. I will only add that, in my opinion, the most probable proximate and immediate cause appears to be feebleness. What seems to prove this view is the fact that exhaustive hot baths, heat, fatigue, too great mental application are among the means which produce sleep." Undoubtedly the influence mentioned by Macario, and many others which he might have cited, lead to sleep. They do so through the medium of the nervous system--causing a certain change to take place in the physical condition of the brain. We constantly see instances of this transmission of impressions and the production of palpable effects. Under the influence of fatigue, the countenance becomes pale; through the actions of certain emotions, blushing takes place. When we are anxious or suffering or engaged in intense thought, the perspiration comes out in big drops on our brows; danger makes some men tremble, grief causes tears to flow. Many other examples will suggest themselves to the reader. It is surely, therefore, no assumption to say that certain mental or physical influences are capable of inducing such an alteration in the state of the brain as necessarily to cause sleep. These influences or exciting causes I propose to consider in detail, after having given my views relative to the condition of the brain which immediately produces sleep. It is well established as regards other viscera, that during a condition of activity there is more blood in their tissues than while they are at rest. It is strange, therefore, that, relative to the brain, the contrary doctrine should have prevailed so long, and that even now, after the subject has been so well elucidated by exact observation, it should be the generally received opinion that during sleep the cerebral tissues are in a state approaching congestion. Thus Dr. Marshall Hall,[6] while contending for this view, also advances the theory that there is a special set of muscles, the duty of which is, by assuming a condition of tonic contraction, so to compress certain veins as to prevent the return of the blood from the heart. Dr. Carpenter[7] is of the opinion that the first cause of sleep in order of importance is the pressure exerted by distended blood-vessels upon the encephalon. Sir Henry Holland[8] declares that a "degree of pressure is essential to perfect and uniform sleep." Dr. Dickson[9] regards an increased determination of blood to the cerebral mass, and its consequent congestion in the larger vessels of the brain, as necessary to the induction of sleep. In his very excellent work on Epilepsy, Dr. Sieveking[10] says: "Whether or not there is actually an increase in the amount of blood in the brain during sleep, and whether, as has been suggested, the choroid plexuses become turgid or not, we are unable to affirm otherwise than hypothetically; the evidence is more in favor of cerebral congestion than of the opposite condition inducing sleep--evidence supplied by physiology and pathology." Dr. Sieveking does not, however, state what this evidence is. Barthez[11] is of the opinion that during sleep there is a general plethora of the smaller blood-vessels of the whole body. He does not appear to have any definite views relative to the condition of the cerebral circulation. Cabanis[12] declares that as soon as the necessity for sleep is experienced, there is an increased flow of blood to the brain. To come to more popular books than those from which we have quoted, we find Mr. Lewes,[13] when speaking of the causes of sleep, asserting that: "It is caused by fatigue, because one of the natural consequences of continued action is a slight congestion; and it is the _congestion_ which produces sleep. Of this there are many proofs." Mr. Lewes omits to specify these proofs. Macnish[14] holds the view that sleep is due to a determination of blood to the head. That a similar opinion has prevailed from very ancient times, it would be easy to show. I do not, however, propose to bring forward any further citations on this point, except the following, from a curious old black-letter book now before me, in which the views expressed, though obscure, are perhaps as intelligible as many met with in books of our own day: "And the holy scripture in sundrie places doth call death by the name of sleepe, which is meant in respect of the resurrection; for, as after sleepe we hope to wake, so after death we hope to rise againe. But that definition which Paulus Ægineta maketh of sleepe, in my judgment, is most perfect where he saith: Sleepe is the rest of the pores animall, proceeding of some profitable humour moistening the braine. For here is shewed by what means sleepe is caused; that is, by vapours and fumes rising from the stomache to the head, where through coldness of the braine they being congealed, doe stop the conduites and waies of the senses, and so procure sleepe, which thing may plainly be perceived hereby; for that immediately after meate we are most prone to sleepe, because then the vapours ascende most abundantly to the braine, and such things as be most vaporous do most dispose to sleepe, as wine, milke, and such like."[15] The theory that sleep is due directly to pressure of blood-vessels, filled to repletion, upon the cerebral tissues, doubtless originated in the fact that a comatose condition may be thus induced. This fact has long been known. Servetus, among other physiological truths, distinctly announces it in his _Christianismi Restitutio_, when he says: "_Et quando ventriculi ita opplentur pituita, ut arteriæ ipsæ choroidis ea immergantur, tunc subito generatur appoplexia._" Perhaps the theory which prevails at present, of sleep being due to the pressure of distended blood-vessels upon the choroid plexus, is derived from these words of Servetus. That stupor may be produced by pressure upon the brain admits of no doubt. It is familiarly known to physicians, surgeons, and physiologists; the two former meet with instances due to pathological causes every day, and the latter bring it on at will in their laboratories. But this form of coma and sleep are by no means identical. On the contrary, the only point of resemblance between the two consists in the fact that both are accompanied by a loss of volition. It is true, we may often arrive at a correct idea of a physiological process from determining the causes and phenomena of its pathological variations, but such a course is always liable to lead to great errors, and should be conducted with every possible precaution. In the matter under consideration it is especially of doubtful propriety, for the reason stated, that coma is not to be regarded as a modification of sleep, but as a distinct morbid condition. Sir T. C. Morgan,[16] in alluding to the fact that sleep has been ascribed to a congested state of the brain, for the reason that in apoplectic stupor the blood-vessels of that organ are abnormally distended, objects to the theory, on the ground that it assimilates a dangerous malady to a natural and beneficial process. He states (what was true at the time he wrote) that the condition of the circulation through the brain, during sleep, is wholly unknown. It is important to understand clearly the difference between stupor and sleep, and it is very certain that the distinction is not always made by physicians; yet the causes of the two conditions have almost nothing in common, and the phenomena of each are even more distinct. 1. In the first place, stupor never occurs in the healthy individual, while sleep is a necessity of life. 2. It is easy to awaken a person from sleep, while it is often impossible to arouse him from stupor. 3. In sleep the mind may be active, in stupor it is as it were dead. 4. Pressure upon the brain, intense congestion of its vessels, the circulation of poisoned blood through its substance cause stupor, but do not induce sleep. For the production of the latter condition a diminished supply of blood to the brain, as will be fully shown hereafter, is necessary. Perhaps no one agent so distinctly points out the difference between sleep and stupor as opium and its several preparations. A small dose of this medicine acting as a stimulant increases the activity of the cerebral circulation, and excites a corresponding increase in the rapidity and brilliancy of our thoughts. A larger dose lessens the amount of blood in the brain, and induces sleep. A very large dose sometimes diminishes the power of the whole nervous system, lessens the activity of the respiratory function, and hence allows blood which has not been properly subjected to the influence of the oxygen of the atmosphere to circulate through the vessels of the brain. There is nothing in the opium itself which produces excitement, sleep, or stupor, by any direct action upon the brain. All its effects are due to its influence on the heart and blood-vessels, through the medium, however, of the nervous system. This point can be made plainer by adducing the results of some experiments which I have lately performed. _Experiment._--I placed three dogs of about the same size under the influence of chloroform, and removed from each a portion of the upper surface of the skull an inch square. The dura mater was also removed, and the brain exposed. After the effects of the chloroform had passed off--some three hours subsequent to the operation--I administered to number one the fourth of a grain of opium, to number two a grain, and to number three two grains. The brain of each was at the time in a perfectly natural condition. At first the circulation of the blood in the brain was rendered more active, and the respiration became more hurried. The blood-vessels, as seen through the openings in the skulls, were fuller and redder than before the opium was given, and the brain of each animal rose through the hole in the cranium. Very soon, however, the uniformity which prevailed in these respects was destroyed. In number one the vessels remained moderately distended and florid for almost an hour, and then the brain slowly regained its ordinary appearance. In number two the active congestion passed off in less than half an hour, and was succeeded by a condition of very decided shrinking, the surface of the brain having fallen below the surface of the skull, and become pale. As these changes supervened, the animal gradually sank into a sound sleep, from which it could easily be awakened. In number three the surface of the brain became dark, almost black, from the circulation of blood containing a superabundance of carbon, and owing to diminished action of the heart and vessels it sank below the level of the opening, showing, therefore, a diminished amount of blood in its tissue. At the same time the number of respirations per minute fell from 26 to 14, and they were much weaker than before. A condition of complete stupor was also induced from which the animal could not be aroused. It persisted for two hours. During its continuance, sensation of all kind was abolished, and the power of motion was altogether lost. It might be supposed that the conditions present in numbers two and three differed only in degree. That this was not the case is shown by the following experiment: _Experiment._--To the dogs two and three I administered on the following day, as before, one and two grains of opium respectively. As soon as the effects began to be manifested upon the condition of the brain, I opened the trachea of each, and, inserting the nozzle of a bellows, began the process of artificial respiration. In both dogs the congestion of the blood-vessels of the brain disappeared. The brain became collapsed, and the animals fell into a sound sleep, from which they were easily awakened. If the action of the bellows was stopped and the animals were left to their own respiratory efforts, no change ensued in number two, but in number three the surface of the brain became dark, and stupor resulted. In order to be perfectly assured upon the subject, I proceeded as follows with another dog: _Experiment._--The animal was trephined as was the others, and five grains of opium given. At the same time the trachea was opened and the process of artificial respiration instituted. The brain became slightly congested, then collapsed, and sleep ensued. The sleep was sound, but the animal was easily awakened by tickling its ear. After I had continued the process for an hour and a quarter, I removed the nozzle of the bellows, and allowed the animal to breathe for itself. Immediately the vessels of the brain were filled with black blood, and the surface of the brain assumed a very dark appearance. The dog could no longer be aroused, and died one hour and a quarter after the process was stopped. I have only stated those points of the experiments cited which bear upon the subject under consideration, reserving for another occasion others of great interest. It is, however, shown that a small dose of opium excites the mind, because it increases the amount of blood in the brain; that a moderate dose causes sleep, because it lessens the amount of blood; and that a large dose produces stupor by impeding the respiratory process, and hence allowing blood loaded with carbon, and therefore poisonous, to circulate through the brain. It is also shown that the condition of the brain during stupor is very different from that which exists during sleep. In the one case its vessels are loaded with dark blood; in the other they are comparatively empty, and the blood remains florid. I think it will be sufficiently established, in the course of these remarks, that sleep is directly caused by the circulation of a less quantity of blood through the cerebral tissues than traverses them while we are awake. This is the immediate cause of healthy sleep. Its exciting cause is, as we have seen, the necessity for repair. The condition of the brain which is favorable to sleep may also be induced by various other causes, such as heat, cold, narcotics, anæsthetics, intoxicating liquors, loss of blood, etc. If these agents are allowed to act excessively, or others, such as carbonic oxide, and all those which interfere with the oxygenation of the blood, are permitted to exert their influence, stupor results. The theory above enunciated, although proposed in a modified form by Blumenbach several years since, and subsequently supported by facts brought forward by other observers, has not been received with favor by any considerable number of physiologists. Before, therefore, detailing my own experience, I propose to adduce a few of the most striking proofs of its correctness which I have been able to collect, together with the opinions of some of those inquirers who have recently studied the subject from this point of view. Blumenbach[17] details the case of a young man, eighteen years of age, who had fallen from an eminence and fractured the frontal bone, on the right side of the coronal suture. After recovery took place a hiatus remained, covered only by the integument. While the young man was awake this chasm was quite superficial, but as soon as sleep ensued it became very deep. The change was due to the fact that during sleep the brain was in a collapsed condition. From a careful observation of this case, as well as from a consideration of the phenomena attendant on the hibernation of animals, Blumenbach[18] arrives at the conclusion that the proximate cause of sleep consists in a diminished flow of oxygenated blood to the brain. Playfair[19] thinks that sleep is due to "a diminished supply of oxygen to the brain." Dendy[20] states that there was, in 1821, at Montpellier, a woman who had lost part of her skull, and the brain and its membranes lay bare. When she was in deep sleep the brain remained motionless beneath the crest of the cranial bones; when she was dreaming it became somewhat elevated; and when she was awake it was protruded through the fissure in the skull. Among the most striking proofs of the correctness of the view that sleep is due to diminished flow of blood to the head, are the experiments of Dr. Alexander Fleming,[21] late Professor of Medicine, Queen's College, Cork. This observer states, that while preparing a lecture on the mode of operation of narcotic medicines, he conceived the idea of trying the effect of compressing the carotid arteries on the functions of the brain. The first experiment was performed on himself, by a friend, with the effect of causing immediate and deep sleep. The attempt was frequently made, both on himself and others, and always with success. "A soft humming in the ears is heard; a sense of tingling steals over the body, and in a few seconds complete unconsciousness and insensibility supervene, and continue so long as the pressure is maintained." Dr. Fleming adds, that whatever practical value may be attached to his observations, they are at least important as physiological facts, and as throwing light on the causes of sleep. It is remarkable that his experiments have received so little notice from physiologists. Dr. Bedford Brown,[22] of North Carolina, has recorded an interesting case of extensive compound fracture of the cranium, in which the opportunity was afforded him of examining the condition of the cerebral circulation while the patient was under the influence of an anæsthetic, preparatory to the operation of trephining being performed. A mixture of ether and chloroform was used. Dr. Brown says: "Whenever the anæsthetic influence began to subside, the surface of the brain presented a florid and injected appearance. The hemorrhage increased, and the force of the pulsation became much greater. At these times so great was the alternate heaving and bulging of the brain, that we were compelled to suspend operations until they were quieted by a repetition of the remedy. Then the pulsations would diminish, the cerebral surface recede within the opening of the skull, as if by collapse; the appearance of the organ becoming pale and shrunken with a cessation of the bleeding. In fact, we were convinced that diminished vascularity of the brain was an invariable result of the impression of chloroform or ether. The changes above alluded to recurred sufficiently often, during the progress of the operation, in connection with the anæsthetic treatment, to satisfy us that there could be no mistake as to the cause and effect." It will be shown, in the course of the present memoir, that Dr. Brown's conclusions, though in the main correct, are erroneous so far as they relate to the effect of chloroform upon the cerebral circulation; nor does it appear that he employed this agent unmixed with ether, in the case which he has recorded so well. He has, probably, based his remarks on this point upon the phenomena observed when the compound of ether and chloroform was used--the action of pure chloroform, as regards its effect upon the quantity of blood circulating through the brain, being the reverse of that which he claims for it. But the most philosophical and most carefully digested memoir upon the proximate cause of sleep, which has yet been published, is that of Mr. Durham.[23] Although my own experiments in the same direction, and which will be hereafter detailed, were of prior date, I cheerfully yield all the honor which may attach to the determination of the question under consideration to this gentleman, who has not only worked it out independently, but has anticipated me several years in the publication, besides carrying his researches to a much further point than my own extended. With the view of ascertaining by ocular examination the vascular condition of the brain during sleep, Durham placed a dog under the influence of chloroform, and removed with a trephine a portion of bone as large as a shilling from the parietal region; the dura mater was also cut away. During the continuance of the anæsthetic influence, the large veins of the surface of the pia mater were distended, and the smaller vessels were full of dark-colored blood. The longer the administration of the chloroform was continued, the greater was the congestion. As the effects of this agent passed off, the animal sank into a natural sleep, and then the condition of the brain was very materially changed. Its surface became pale and sank down below the level of the bone; the veins ceased to be distended, and many which had been full of dark blood could no longer be distinguished. When the animal was roused, the surface of the brain became suffused with a red blush, and it ascended into the opening through the skull. As the mental excitement increased, the brain became more and more turgid with blood, and innumerable vessels sprang into sight. The circulation was also increased in rapidity. After being fed, the animal fell asleep, and the brain again became contracted and pale. In all these observations the contrast between the two conditions was exceedingly well marked. To obviate any possible effects due to atmospheric pressure, watch-glasses were applied to the opening in the skull, and securely cemented to the edges with Canada balsam. The phenomena observed did not differ from those previously noticed; and, in fact, many repetitions of the experiment gave like results. Durham, in the next place, applied ligatures to the jugular and vertebral veins, with the effect--as was to be expected--of producing intense congestion of the brain, attended with coma. This last condition he very properly separates from sleep, which is never caused by pressure from the veins. He likens sleep to the state induced by preventing the access of blood to the brain through the carotids, but does not allude to Fleming's researches on this point. From his observations, Durham deduces the following conclusions: "1. Pressure of distended veins upon the brain is not the cause of sleep, for during sleep the veins are not distended; and when they are, symptoms and appearances arise which differ from those which characterize sleep. "2. During sleep the brain is in a comparatively bloodless condition, and the blood in the encephalic vessels is not only diminished in quantity, but moves with diminished rapidity. "3. The condition of the cerebral circulation during sleep is, from physical causes, that which is most favorable to the nutrition of the brain tissue; and, on the other hand, the condition which prevails during waking is associated with mental activity, because it is that which is most favorable to oxydation of the brain substance, and to various changes in its chemical constitution. "4. The blood which is derived from the brain during sleep is distributed to the alimentary and excretory organs. "5. Whatever increases the activity of the cerebral circulation tends to preserve wakefulness; and whatever decreases the activity of the cerebral circulation, and, at the same time, is not inconsistent with the general health of the body, tends to induce and favor sleep. Such circumstances may act primarily through the nervous or through the vascular system. Among those which act through the nervous system, may be instanced the presence or absence of impressions upon the senses, and the presence or absence of exciting ideas. Among those which act through the vascular system, may be mentioned unnaturally or naturally increased or decreased force or frequency of the heart's action. "6. A probable explanation of the reason why quiescence of the brain normally follows its activity, is suggested by the recognized analogical fact that the products of chemical action interfere with the continuance of the action by which they are produced." Luys,[24] after stating the two opposite views relative to the state of the cerebral circulation during sleep, gives his adhesion on principles of analogy to that which holds to a diminished afflux of blood. Taking the condition of the salivary glands during their periods of inaction as the basis of his argument, he says: "We are then naturally led, in making the application of known facts to those which are yet unknown, to say that the nervous tissue and the glandular tissue present, between themselves, the closest analogy, so far as circulatory phenomena and the double alternation of their periods of activity and repose are concerned. And that if the period during which the gland reconstitutes its immediate principles corresponds to a period of reduced activity of circulatory phenomena--to a state of relative anæmia--and that when it functionates it is awakened to a state in which its capillaries are turgid with blood, it is very admissible that the same circulatory conditions should be present in the nervous tissue, and that the period of inactivity, or of sleep, should be characterized by an anemic state. Inversely, the period of activity or wakefulness should be marked by an acceleration of the flow of blood, and by a kind of erethism of the vascular element." Having thus, in as succinct a manner as possible, brought forward the principal observations relative to the immediate cause of sleep, which up to the present time have been published, I come, in the next place, to detail the result of my own researches. In 1854 a man came under my observation who had, through a frightful railroad accident, lost about eighteen square inches of his skull. There was thus a fissure of his cranium three inches wide and six inches long. The lost portion consisted of a great part of the left parietal, and part of the frontal, occipital, and right parietal bones. The man, who was employed as a wood chopper, was subject to severe and frequent epileptic fits, during which I often attended him. In the course of my treatment, I soon became acquainted with the fact that, at the beginning of the comatose condition which succeeded the fits, there was invariably an elevation of that portion of the scalp covering the deficiency in the cranium. As the stupor passed away, and sleep from which he could easily be aroused ensued, the scalp gradually became depressed. When the man was awake, the region of scalp in question was always nearly on a level with the upper surface of the cranial bones. I also noticed on several occasions that during natural sleep the fissure was deeper, and that in the instant of awaking, the scalp covering it rose to a much higher level. After my attention was thus drawn to this subject, I observed that in young infants the portion of scalp covering the anterior fontanelle was always depressed during sleep, and elevated during wakefulness. During the summer of 1860 I undertook a series of experiments, with the view of ascertaining the condition of the cerebral circulation during sleep, of which the following is a brief abstract: A medium-sized dog was trephined over the left parietal bone, close to the sagittal suture, having previously been placed under the full anæsthetic influence of ether. The opening made by the trephine was enlarged with a pair of strong bone-forceps, so as to expose the dura mater to the extent of a full square inch. This membrane was then cut away and the brain brought into view. It was sunk below the inner surface of the skull, and but few vessels were visible. Those which could be perceived, however, evidently conveyed dark blood, and the whole exposed surface of the brain was of a purple color. As the anæsthetic influence passed off, the circulation of the blood in the brain became more active. The purple hue faded away, and numerous small vessels filled with red blood became visible; at the same time the volume of the brain increased, and when the animal became fully aroused, the organ protruded through the opening in the skull to such an extent that, at the most prominent part, its surface was more than a quarter of an inch above the external surface of the cranium. While the dog continued awake, the condition and position of the brain remained unchanged. After the lapse of half an hour, sleep ensued. While this state was coming on I watched the brain very attentively. Its volume slowly decreased; many of its smaller blood-vessels became invisible, and finally it was so much contracted that its surface, pale and apparently deprived of blood, was far below the level of the cranial wall. Two hours subsequently the animal was again etherized, in order that the influence of the ether upon the cerebral circulation might be observed from the commencement. At the time the dog was awake, and had a few minutes previously eaten a little meat and drank a small quantity of water. The brain protruded through the opening in the skull, and its surface was of a pink hue, with numerous red vessels ramifying over it. The ether was administered by applying to the muzzle of the animal a towel folded into the shape of a funnel, and containing a small sponge saturated with the agent. As soon as the dog commenced to inspire the ether, the appearance of the brain underwent a change of color, and its volume became less. As the process of etherization was continued, the color of the surface darkened to a deep purple, and it ceased to protrude through the opening. Finally, when a state of complete anæsthesia was reached, it was perceived that the surface of the brain was far below the level of the cranial fissure, and that its vessels conveyed black blood alone. Gradually the animal regained its consciousness; the vessels resumed their red color, and the brain was again elevated to its former position. In this last experiment there did not appear to be any congestion of the brain. Had this condition existed, it would have been difficult to account for the diminution in bulk, which certainly took place. There was evidently less blood in the cerebral tissue than there had been previously at the etherization; but this blood, instead of being oxygenated, was loaded with excrementitial matters, and consequently was not fitted to maintain the brain in a condition of activity. The following morning, the dog being quite lively, I removed the sutures which had been placed in the skin, covering the hole in the cranium, with the view of ascertaining the effects of chloroform upon the brain, when introduced into the system by inhalation. Suppuration had not yet taken place, and the parts were in good condition. The opening in the skull was completely filled by the brain, and the surface of the latter was traversed by a great many small vessels carrying red blood. The chloroform was administered in the same way in which the ether had been given the previous day. In a few seconds the change in color of the blood circulating in the vessels began to take place, but there was no sinking of the brain below the level of the chasm in the skull. On the contrary, its protrusion was greater than before the commencement of the experiment. There was thus not only unoxygenated blood circulating to too great an extent through the brain, but there was very decided congestion. The foregoing experiments were frequently repeated on other dogs, and also on rabbits, with like results. Within a short period I have in part gone over the ground again, without observing any essential point of difference in the effects produced. I have never repeated Fleming's experiment on the human subject, except in one instance, and then sleep, or a condition resembling it, was instantaneously produced. As soon as the pressure was removed from the carotids, the individual gained his consciousness. On dogs and rabbits, however, I have performed it frequently, and though if the pressure be continued for longer than one minute, convulsions generally ensue, a state of insensibility resembling natural sleep is always the first result. Lately, I have had, through the kindness of my friend, Dr. Van Buren, the opportunity of examining a case which affords strong confirmation of the correctness of the preceding views. It was that of a lady in whom both common carotids were tied for a cirsoid aneurism, involving a great portion of the right side of the scalp. One carotid was tied by the late Dr. J. Kearney Rogers, and the other by Dr. Van Buren, seven years ago, with the effect of arresting the progress of the disease. No peculiar symptoms were observed in consequence of these operations, except the supervention of persistent drowsiness, which was especially well marked after the last operation, and which, even now, is at times quite troublesome. We thus see that the _immediate_ cause of sleep is a diminution of the quantity of blood circulating in the vessels of the brain, and that the _exciting_ cause of periodical and natural sleep is the necessity which exists that the loss of substance which the brain has undergone, during its state of greatest activity, should be restored. To use the simile of the steam-engine again, the fires are lowered and the operatives go to work to repair damages and put the machine in order for next day's work. Whatever other cause is capable of lessening the quantity of blood in the brain is also capable of inducing sleep. There is no exception to this law, and hence we are frequently able to produce this condition at will. Several of these factors have been already referred to, but it will be interesting to consider them all somewhat more at length. _Heat._--Most persons in our climate, and in those of higher temperatures, have felt the influence of heat in causing drowsiness, and eventually sleep, if the action is powerful enough and sufficiently prolonged. It is not difficult to understand the mode by which heat acts in giving rise to sleep. During the prevalence of high temperatures the blood flows in increased proportion to the surface of the body and to the extremities, and consequently the quantity in the brain is diminished. Sleep accordingly results unless the irritation induced by the heat is so great as to excite the nervous system. Heat applied directly to the head exerts, of course, a directly contrary effect upon the cerebral circulation, as we see in sun-stroke. Here there is internal cerebral congestion, loss of consciousness, stupor, etc. That the effect of heat is to dilate the vessels of the part subjected to its influence, can be ascertained by putting the arm or leg into hot water. The swelling of the blood-vessels is then very distinctly seen. It will be shown hereafter that one of the best means of causing sleep in morbid wakefulness is the warm-bath. _Cold._--A slight degree of cold excites wakefulness at first, but if the constitution be strong the effect is to predispose to sleep. This it does by reason of the determination of blood to the surface of the body which moderate cold induces in vigorous persons. The ruddy complexion and warmth of the hands and feet produced in such individuals under the action of this influence are well known. But if the cold be very intense, or the reduction of temperature sudden, the system, even of the strongest persons, cannot maintain a resistance, and then a very different series of phenomena result. Stupor, not sleep, is the consequence. The blood-vessels of the surface of the body contract and the blood accumulates in the internal organs, the brain among them. Many instances are on record showing the effect of extreme cold in producing stupor and even death. One of the most remarkable of these is that related by Captain Cook, in regard to an excursion of Sir Joseph Banks, Dr. Solander, and nine others, over the hills of Terra del Fuego. Dr. Solander, knowing from his experience in Northern Europe that the stupor produced by severe cold would terminate in death unless resisted, urged his companions to keep in motion when they began to feel drowsy. "Whoever sits down will sleep," said he, "and whoever sleeps will rise no more." Yet he was the first to feel this irresistible desire for repose, and entreated his companions to allow him to lie down. He was roused from his stupor
the head nodded emphatically several times, as if in agreement at something the King was saying. Then John felt some one touch his arm, and found that the Dominican had come to him noiselessly, and was smiling into his face with a flash of white teeth and steady, watchful eyes. He started violently and turned his head from the Royal couple in some confusion. He felt as though he had been detected in some breach of manners, of espionage almost. "Buenos dias, señor, como anda usted?" Don Diego asked in a low voice. "Thank you, I am very well," Johnnie answered in Spanish. "Como está su padre?" "My father is very well also. He has just left me to ride home to Kent," John replied, wondering how in the world this foreign priest knew of the old knight's visit. It was true, then, what Sir James Clinton had said! He was being carefully watched. Even in the Royal Closet his movements were known. "A loyal gentleman and a good son of the Church," said the priest, "we have excellent reports of him, and of you also, señor," he concluded, with another smile. John bowed. "_Los negocios del politica_--affairs of state," the chaplain whispered with a half-glance at the couple in the window. "There are great times coming for England, señor. And if you prove yourself a loyal servant and good Catholic, you are destined to go far. His Most Catholic Majesty has need of an English gentleman such as you in his suite, of good birth, of the true religion, with Spanish blood in his veins, and speaking Spanish." Again the young man bowed. He knew very well that these words were inspired. This suave ecclesiastic was the power behind the throne. He held the King's conscience, was his confessor, more powerful than any great lord or Minister--the secret, unofficial director of world-wide policies. His heart beat high within him. The prospects opening before him were enough to dazzle the oldest and most experienced courtier; he was upon the threshold of such promotion and intimacies as he, the son of a plain country gentleman, had never dared to hope for. It had grown very hot; he remarked upon it to the priest, noticing, as he did so, that the room was darker than before. The air of the closet was heavy and oppressive, and glancing at the windows, he saw that it was no fancy of strained and excited nerves, but that the sky over the river was darkening, and the buildings upon London Bridge stood out with singular sharpness. "A storm of thunder," said Don Diego indifferently, and then, with a gleam in his eyes, "and such a storm shall presently break over England that the air shall be cleared of heresy by the lightnings of Holy Church--ah! here cometh His Grace of London!" The Captain of the Guard had suddenly beaten upon the door. It was flung open, and Sir James Clinton, who had come down the passage from the Ante-room, preceded the Bishop, and announced him in a loud, sonorous voice. Johnnie instinctively drew himself up to attention, the chaplain hastened forward, King Philip, in the window, stood upright, and the Queen remained seated. From the wall Johnnie saw all that happened quite distinctly. The scene was one which he never forgot. There was the sudden stir and movement of his lordship's entrance, the alteration and grouping of the people in the closet, the challenge of the captain at the door, the heralding voice of Sir James--and then, into the room, which was momentarily growing darker as the thunder clouds advanced on London, Bishop Bonner came. The man _pressed_ into the room, swift, sudden, assertive. In his scarlet chimere and white rochet, with his bullet head and bristling beard, it was as though a shell had fallen into the room. A streak of livid light fell upon his face--set, determined, and alive with purpose--and the man's eyes, greenish brown and very bright, caught a baleful fire from the waning gleam. Then, with almost indecent haste, he brushed past John Commendone and the eager Spanish monk, and knelt before the Queen. He kissed her hand, and the hand of the King Consort also, with some murmured words which Johnnie could not catch. Then he rose, and the Queen, as she had done upon her arrival from Winchester after her marriage, knelt for his blessing. Commendone and the chaplain knelt also; the King of Spain bowed his head, as the rapid, breathless pattering Latin filled the place, and one outstretched hand--two white fingers and one white thumb--quivered for a moment and sank in the leaden light. There was a new grouping of figures, some quick talk, and then the Queen's great voice filled the room. "Mr. Commendone! See that there are lights!" Johnnie stumbled out of the closet, now dark as at late evening, strode down the passage, burst into the Ante-room, and called out loudly, "Bring candles, bring candles!" Even as he said it there was a terrible crash of thunder high in the air above the Palace, and a simultaneous flash of lightning, which lit up the sombre Ante-room with a blinding and ghostly radiance for the fraction of a second. White faces immobile as pictures, tense forms of all waiting there, and then the voice of Sir James and the hurrying of feet as the servants rushed away.... It was soon done. While the thunder pealed and stammered overhead, the amethyst lightning sheets flickered and cracked, the white whips of the fork-lightning cut into the black and purple gloom, a little procession was made, and gentlemen ushers followed Johnnie back to the Royal Closet, carrying candles in their massive silver sconces, dozens of twinkling orange points to illumine what was to be done. The door was closed. The King, Queen, and the Bishop sat down at the central table upon which all the lights were set. Don Diego Deza stood behind Philip's chair. The Queen turned to John. "Stand at the door, Mr. Commendone," she said, "and with your sword drawn. No one is to come in. We are engaged upon affairs of state." Her voice was a second to the continuous mutter of the thunder, low, fierce, and charged with menace. Save for the candles, the room was now quite dark. A furious wind had risen and blew great gouts of hot rain upon the window-panes with a rattle as of distant artillery. Johnnie drew his sword, held it point downwards, and stood erect, guarding the door. He could feel the tapestry which covered it moving behind him, bellying out and pressing gently upon his back. He could see the faces of the people at the table very distinctly. The King of Spain and his chaplain were in profile to him. The Queen and the Bishop of London he saw full-face. He had not met the Bishop before, though he had heard much about him, and it was on the prelate's countenance that his glance of curiosity first fell. Young as he was, Johnnie had already begun to cultivate that cool scrutiny and estimation of character which was to stand him in such stead during the years that were to come. He watched the face of Edmund Bonner, or Boner, as the Bishop was more generally called at that time, with intense interest. Boner was to the Queen what the Dominican Deza was to her husband. The two priests ruled two monarchs. In the yellow candle-light, an oasis of radiance in the murk and gloom of the storm, the faces of the people round the table hid nothing. The Bishop was bullet-headed, had protruding eyes, a bright colour, and his moustache and beard only partially hid lips that were red and full. The lips were red and full, there was a coarseness, and even sensuality, about them, which was, nevertheless, oddly at war with their determination and inflexibility. The young man, pure and fastidious himself, immediately realised that Boner was not vicious in the ordinary meaning of the word. One hears a good deal about "thin, cruel lips"--the Queen had them, indeed--but there are full and blood-charged lips which are cruel too. And these were the lips of the Bishop of London. There was a huge force about the man. He was plebeian, common, but strong. Don Diego, Commendone himself, the Queen and her husband, were all aristocrats in their different degree, bred from a line--pedigree people. That was the bond between them. The Bishop was outside all this, impatient of it, indeed; but even while the groom of the body twirled his moustache with an almost mechanical gesture of disgust and misliking, he felt the power of the man. And no historian has ever ventured to deny that. The natural son of the hedge-priest, George Savage--himself a bastard--walked life with a shield of brutal power as his armour. The blood-stained man from whom--a few years after--Queen Elizabeth turned away with a shudder of irrepressible horror, was the man who had dared to browbeat and bully Pope Clement VII himself. He took a personal and undignified delight in the details of physical and mental torture of his victims. In 1546 he had watched with his own eyes the convulsions of Dame Anne Askew upon the rack. He was sincere, inflexible, and remarkable for obstinacy in everything except principle. As Ambassador to Paris in Henry's reign he had smuggled over printed sheets of Coverdale's and Grafton's translation of the Bible in his baggage--the personal effects of an ambassador being then, as now, immune from prying eyes. During the Protectorate he had lain in prison, and now the strenuous opposer of papal claims in olden days was a bishop in full communion with Rome. ... He was speaking now, in a loud and vulgar voice, which even the presence of their Majesties failed to soften or subdue. --"And this, so please Your Grace, is but a sign and indication of the spirit abroad. There is no surcease from it. We shall do well to gird us up and scourge this heresy from England. This letter was delivered by an unknown woman to my chaplain, Father Holmes. 'Tis a sign of the times." He unfolded a paper and began to read. "I see that you are set all in a rage like a ravening wolf against the poor lambs of Christ appointed to the slaughter for the testimony of the truth. Indeed, you are called the common cut-throat and general slaughter-slave to all the bishops of England; and therefore 'tis wisdom for me and all other simple sheep of the Lord to keep us out of your butcher's stall as long as we can. The very papists themselves begin now to abhor your blood-thirstiness, and speak shame of your tyranny. Like tyranny, believe me, my lord, any child that can any whit speak, can call you by your name and say, 'Bloody Boner is Bishop of London'; and every man hath it as perfectly upon his fingers'-ends as his Paternoster, how many you, for your part, have burned with fire and famished in prison; they say the whole sum surmounteth to forty persons within this three-quarters of this year. Therefore, my lord, though your lordship believeth that there is neither heaven nor hell nor God nor devil, yet if your lordship love your own honesty, which was lost long agone, you were best to surcease from this cruel burning of Christian men, and also from murdering of some in prison, for that, indeed, offendeth men's minds most. Therefore, say not but a woman gave you warning, if you list to take it. And as for the obtaining of your popish purpose in suppressing the Truth, I put you out of doubt, you shall not obtain it as long as you go to work this way as ye do; for verily I believe that you have lost the hearts of twenty thousand that were rank papists within this twelve months." The Bishop put the letter down upon the table and beat upon it with his clenched fist. His face was alight with inquiry and anger. Every one took it in a different fashion. Philip crossed himself and said nothing, formal, cold, and almost uninterested. Don Diego crossed himself also. His face was stern, but his eyes flitted hither and thither, sparkling in the light. Then the Queen's great voice boomed out into the place, drowning the thunder and the beating rain upon the window-panes, pressing in gouts of sound on the hot air of the closet. Her face was bagged and pouched like a quilt. All womanhood was wiped out of it--lips white, eyes like ice.... "I'll stamp it out of this realm! I'll burn it out. Jesus! but we will burn it out!" The Bishop's face was trembling with excitement. He thrust a paper in front of the Queen. "Madam," he said, "this is the warrant for Doctor Rowland Taylor." Mary caught up a pen and wrote her name at the foot of the document in the neat separated letters of one accustomed to write in Greek, below the signature of the Chancellor Gardiner and the Lords Montague and Wharton, judges of the Legantine Court for the trial of heretics. "I will make short with him," the Queen said, "and of all blasphemers and heretics. There is the paper, my lord, with my hand to it. A black knave this, they tell me, and withal very stubborn and lusty in blasphemy." "A very black knave, Madam. I performed the ceremony of degradation upon him yestereen, and, by my troth, never did the walls of Newgate chapel shelter such a rogue before. He would not put on the vestments which I was to strip from him, and was then, at my order, robed by another. And when he was thoroughly furnished therewith, he set his hands to his sides and cried, 'How say you, my lord, am I not a goodly fool? How say you, my masters, if I were in Chepe, should I not have boys enough to laugh at these apish toys?'" The Queen crossed herself. Her face blazed with fury. "Dog!" she cried. "Perchance he will sing another tune to-morrow morn. But what more?" "I took my crosier-staff to smite him on the breast," the Bishop continued. "And upon that Mr. Holmes, that is my chaplain, said, 'Strike him not, my lord, for he will sure strike again.' 'Yes, and by St. Peter will I,' quoth Doctor Taylor. 'The cause is Christ's, and I were no good Christian if I would not fight in my Master's quarrel.' So I laid my curse on him, and struck him not." The King's large, sombre face twisted into a cold sneer. "_Perro labrador nunca buen mordedor_--a barking dog is never a good fighter," he said. "I shall watch this clerk-convict to-morrow. Methinks he will not be so lusty at his burning." The Bishop looked up quickly with surprise in his face. "My lord," the Queen said to him, "His Majesty, as is both just and right, desireth to see this blasphemer's end, and will report to me on the matter. Mr. Commendone, come here." Johnnie advanced to the table. "You will go to Sir John Shelton," the Queen went on, "and learn from him all that hath been arranged for the burning of this heretic. The King will ride with the party and you in close attendance upon His Majesty. Only you and Sir John will know who the King is, and your life depends upon his safety. I am weary of this business. My heart grieves for Holy Church while these wolves are not let from their wickedness. Go now, Mr. Commendone, upon your errand, and report to Father Deza this afternoon." She held out her hand. John knelt on one knee and kissed it. As he left the closet the rain was still lashing the window-panes, and the candles burnt yellow in the gloom. By a sudden flash of lightning he saw the four faces looking down at the death warrant. There was a slight smile on all of them, and the expressions were very intent. The great white crucifix upon the panelling gleamed like a ghost. CHAPTER II THE HOUSE OF SHAME; THE LADDER OF GLORY It was ten o'clock in the evening. The thunderstorm of the morning had long since passed away. The night was cool and still. There was no moon, but the sky above London was powdered with stars. The Palace of the Tower was ablaze with lights. The King and Queen had supped in state at eight, and now a masque was in progress, held in the glorious hall which Henry III painted with the story of Antiochus. The sweet music shivered out into the night as John Commendone came into the garden among the sleeping flowers. "And the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe, and wine are in their feasts." Commendone had never read the Bible, but the words of the Prophet would have well expressed his mood had he but known them. For he was melancholy and ill at ease. The exaltation of the morning had quite gone. Though he was still pleasantly conscious that he was in a fair way to great good fortune, some of the savour was lost. He could not forget the lurid scene in the Closet--the four faces haunted him still. And he knew also that a strange and probably terrible experience waited him during the next few hours. "God on the Cross," he said to himself, snapping his fingers in perplexity and misease--it was the fashion at Court to use the great Tudor oaths--"I am come to touch with life--real life at last. And I am not sure that I like it. But 'tis too new as yet. I must be as other men are, I suppose!" As he walked alone in the night, and the cool air played upon his face, he began to realise how placid, how much upon the surface, his life had always been until now. He had come to Court perfectly equipped by nature, birth, and training for the work of pageantry, a picturesque part in the retinue of kings. He had fallen into his place quite naturally. It all came easy to him. He had no trace of the "young gentleman from the country" about him--he might have started life as a Court page. But the real emotions of life, the under-currents, the hates, loves, and strivings, had all been a closed book. He recognised their existence, but never thought they would or could affect him. He had imagined that he would always be aloof, an interested spectator, untouched, untroubled. And he knew to-night that all this had been but a phantom of his brain. He was to be as other men. Life had got hold on him at last, stern and relentless. "To-night," he thought, "I really begin to live. I am quickened to action. Some day, anon, I too must make a great decision, one way or the other. The scene is set, they are pulling the traverse from before it, the play begins. "I am a fair white page," he said to himself, "on which nothing is writ, I have ever been that. To-night comes Master Scrivener. 'I have a mind to write upon thee,' he saith, and needs be that I submit." He sighed. The music came to him, sweet and gracious. The long orange-litten windows of the Palace spoke of the splendours within. But he thought of a man--whose name he had never heard until that morning--lying in some dark room, waiting for those who were to come for him, the man whom he would watch burning before the sun had set again. It had been an evening of incomparable splendour. The King and Queen had been served with all the panoply of state. The Duke of Norfolk, the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke, Lord Paget and Lord Rochester, had been in close attendance. The Duke had held the ewer of water, Paget and Rochester the bason and napkin. After the ablutions the Bishop of London said grace. The Queen blazed with jewels. The life of seclusion she had led before her accession had by no means dulled the love of splendour inherent in her family. Even the French ambassador, well used to pomp and display, leaves his own astonishment on record. She wore raised cloth of gold, and round her thin throat was a partlet or collar of emeralds. Her stomacher was of diamonds, an almost barbaric display of twinkling fire, and over her gold caul was a cap of black velvet sewn with pearls. During the whole of supper it was remarked that Her Grace was merry. The gay lords and ladies who surrounded her and the King--for all alike, young maids and grey-haired dames of sixty must blaze and sparkle too--nodded and whispered to each other, wondering at this high good-humour. When the Server advanced with his white wand, heading the procession of yeomen-servers with the gilt dishes of the second course--he was a fat pottle-bellied man--the Queen turned to the Duke of Norfolk. "_Dame!_" she said in French, "here is a prancing pie! _Ma mye!_ A capon of high grease! Methinks this gentleman hath a very single eye for the larder!" "Yes, m'am," the Duke answered, "and so would make a better feast for Polypheme than e'er the lean Odysseus." They went on with their play of words upon the names of the dishes in the menu.... "But say rather a porpoise in armour." "Halibut engrailed, Madam, hath a face of peculiar whiteness like the under belly of that fish!" "A jowl of sturgeon!" "A Florentine of puff paste, m'am." "_Habet!_" the Queen replied, "I can't better that. Could you, Lady Paget? You are a great jester." Lady Paget, a stately white-haired dame, bowed to the Duke and then to the Queen. "His Grace is quick in the riposte," she said, "and if Your Majesty gives him the palm--_qui meruit ferat_! But capon of high grease for my liking." "But you've said nothing, Lady Paget." "My wit is like my body, m'am, grown old and rheumy. The salad days of it are over. I abdicate in favour of youth." Again this adroit lady bowed. The Queen flushed up, obviously pleased with the compliment. She looked at the King to see if he had heard or understood it. The King had been talking to the Bishop of London, partly in such Latin as he could muster, which was not much, but principally with the aid of Don Diego Deza, who stood behind His Majesty's chair, and acted as interpreter--the Dominican speaking English fluently. During the whole of supper Philip had appeared less morose than usual. There was a certain fire of expectancy and complacence in his eye. He had smiled several times; his manner to the Queen had been more genial than it was wont to be--a fact which, in the opinion of everybody, duly accounted for Her Grace's high spirits and merriment. He looked up now as Lady Paget spoke. "_Ensalada!_" he said, having caught one word of Lady Paget's speech--salad. "Yes, give me some salad. It is the one thing"--he hastened to correct himself--"it is one of the things they make better in England than in my country." The Queen was in high glee. "His Highness grows more fond of our English food," she said; and in a moment or two the Comptroller of the Household came up to the King's chair, followed by a pensioner bearing a great silver bowl of one of those wonderful salads of the period, which no modern skill of the kitchen seems able to produce to-day--burridge, chicory, bugloss, marigold leaves, rocket, and alexanders, all mixed with eggs, cinnamon, oil, and ginger. Johnnie, who was sitting at the Esquires' table, with the Gentlemen of the Body and Privy Closet, had watched the gay and stately scene till supper was nearly over. The lights, the music, the high air, the festivity, had had no power to lighten the oppression which he felt, and when at length the King and Queen rose and withdrew to the great gallery where the Masque was presently to begin, he had slipped out alone into the garden. "His golden locks time hath to silver turned." The throbbing music of the old song, the harps' thridding, the lutes shivering out their arpeggio accompaniment, the viols singing together--came to him with rare and plaintive sweetness, but they brought but little balm or assuagement to his dark, excited mood. Ten o'clock beat out from the roof of the Palace. Johnnie left the garden. He was to receive his instruction as to his night's doing from Mr. Medley, the Esquire of Sir John Shelton, in the Common Room of the Gentlemen of the Body. He strode across the square in front of the façade, and turned into the long panelled room where he had breakfasted that morning. It was quite empty now--every one was at the Masque--but two silver lamps illuminated it, and shone upon the dark walls of the glittering array of plate upon the beaufet. He had not waited there a minute, however, leaning against the tall carved mantelpiece, a tall and gallant figure in his rich evening dress, when steps were heard coming through the hall, the door swung open, and Mr. Medley entered. He was a thick-set, bearded man of middle height, more soldier than courtier, with the stamp of the barrack-room and camp upon him; a brisk, quick-spoken man, with compressed lips and an air of swift service. "Give you good evening, Mr. Commendone," he said; "I am come with Sir John's orders." Johnnie bowed. "At your service," he answered. The soldier looked round the room carefully before speaking. "There is no one here, Mr. Medley," Johnnie said. The other nodded and came close up to the young courtier. "The Masque hath been going this half-hour," he said, in a low voice, "but His Highness hath withdrawn. Her Grace is still with the dancers, and in high good-humour. Now, I must tell you, Mr. Commendone, that the Queen thinketh His Highness in his own wing of the Palace, and with Don Diego and Don de Castro, his two confessors. She is willing that this should be so, and said 'Good night' to His Highness after supper, knowing that he will presently set out to the burning of Dr. Taylor. She knoweth that the party sets out for Hadley at two o'clock, and thinketh that His Highness is spending the time before then in prayer and a little sleep. I tell you this, Mr. Commendone, in order that you go not back to the Masque before that you set out from the Tower to a certain house where His Highness will be with Sir John Shelton. You will take your own servant mounted and armed, and a man-at-arms also will be at the door of your lodging here at ten minutes of midnight. The word at the Coal Harbour Gate is 'Christ.' With your two men you will at once ride over London Bridge and so to Duck Lane, scarce a furlong from the other side of the bridge. Doubtless you know it"--and here the man's eyes flickered with a half smile for a moment--"but if not, the man-at-arms, one of Sir John's men, will show you the way. You will knock at the big house with the red door, and be at once admitted. There will be a light over the door. His Highness will be there with Sir John, and that is all I have to tell you. Afterwards you will know what to do." Johnnie bowed. "Give you good night," he said. "I understand very well." As soon as the Esquire had gone, Johnnie turned out of the Common Room, ascended the stairs, went to his own chamber and threw himself upon the little bed. He had imagined that something like this was likely to occur. The King's habits were perfectly well known to all those about him, and indeed were whispered of in the Court at large, Queen Mary, alone, apparently knowing nothing of the truth as yet. The King's unusual bonhomie at supper could hardly be accounted for, at least so Johnnie thought, by the fact that he was to see his own and the Queen's bigotry translated into dreadful reality. To the keen young student of faces the King had seemed generally relieved, expectant, with the air of a boy about to be released from school. Now, the reason was plain enough. His Highness had gone with Sir John Shelton to some infamous house in a bad quarter of the city, and it was there the Equerry was to meet him and ride to the death scene. Johnnie tossed impatiently upon his bed. He remembered how on that very morning he had expressed his hopes to Sir Henry that his duties would not lead him into dubious places. A lot of water had run under the bridges since he kissed his father farewell in the bright morning light. His whole prospects were altered, and advanced. For one thing, he had been present at an intimate and private conference and had received marked and special favour--he shuddered now as he remembered the four intent faces round the table in the Privy Closet, those sharp faces, with a cruel smirk upon them, those still faces with the orange light playing over them in the dark, tempest-haunted room. "I' faith," he said to himself, "thou art fairly put to sea, Johnnie! but I will not feed myself with questioning. I am in the service of princes, and must needs do as I am told. Who am I to be squeamish? But hey-ho! I would I were in the park at Commendone to-night." About eleven o'clock his servant came to him and helped him to change his dress. He wore long riding-boots of Spanish leather, a light corselet of tough steel, inlaid with arabesques of gold, and a big quilted Spanish hat. Over all he fastened a short riding-cloak of supple leather dyed purple. He primed his pistols and gave them to a man to be put into his holsters, and about a quarter before midnight descended the stairs. He found a man-at-arms with a short pike, already mounted, and his servant leading the other two horses; he walked toward the Coal Harbour Gate, gave the word to the Lieutenant of the Guard, and left the Tower. A light moon was just beginning to rise and throw fantastic shadows over Tower Hill. It was bright enough to ride by, and Johnnie forbade his man to light the horn lantern which was hanging at the fellow's saddle-bow. They went at a foot pace, the horses' feet echoing with an empty, melancholy sound from the old timbered houses back to the great bastion wall of the Tower. The man-at-arms led the way. When they came to London Bridge, where a single lantern showed the broad oak bar studded with nails, which ran across the roadway, Johnnie noticed that upon the other side of it were two halberdiers of the Tower Guard in their uniforms of black and crimson, talking to the keeper of the gate. As they came up the bar swung open. "Mr. Commendone?" said the keeper, an elderly man in a leather jerkin. Johnnie nodded. "Pass through, sir," the man replied, saluting, as did also the two soldiers who were standing there. The little cavalcade went slowly over the bridge between the tall houses on either side, which at certain points almost met with their overhanging eaves. The shutters were up all over the little jewellers' shops. Here and there a lamp burned from an upstairs window, and the swish and swirl of the river below could be heard quite distinctly. At the middle of the bridge, just by the well-known armourer's shop of Guido Ponzio, the Italian sword-smith, whose weapons were eagerly purchased by members of the Court and the officers both of the Tower and Whitehall, another halberdier was standing, who again saluted Commendone as he rode by. It was quite obvious to Johnnie that every precaution had been taken so that the King's excursion into _les coulisses_ might be undisturbed. The pike was swung open for them on the south side of the bridge directly they drew near, and putting their horses to the trot, they cantered over a hundred yards of trodden grass round which houses were standing in the form of a little square, and in a few minutes more turned into Duck Lane. At this hour of the night the narrow street of heavily-timbered houses was quite dark and silent. It seemed there was not a soul abroad, and this surprised Johnnie, who had been led to understand that at midnight "The Lane" was frequently the scene of roistering activity. Now, however, the houses were all blind and dark, and the three horsemen might have been moving down a street in the city of the dead. Only the big honey-coloured moon threw a primrose light upon the topmost gables of the houses on the left side of "The Lane"--all the rest being black velvet, sombreness and shadow. John's mouth curved a little in disdain under his small dark moustache, as he noted all this and realised exactly what it meant. When a king set out for furtive pleasures, lesser men of vice must get them to their kennels! Lights were out, all manifestation of evil was thickly curtained. The shameless folk of that wicked quarter of the town must have shame imposed upon them for the night. The King was taking his pleasure. John Commendone, since his arrival in London, and at the Court, had quietly refused to be a member of any of those hot-blooded parties of young men who sallied out from the Tower or from Whitehall when the reputable world was sleeping. It was not to his taste. He was perfectly capable of tolerating vice in others--looking on it, indeed, as a natural manifestation of human nature and event. But for himself he had preferred aloofness. Nevertheless, from the descriptions of his friends, he knew that Duck Lane to-night was wearing an aspect which it very seldom wore, and as he rode slowly down that blind and sinister thoroughfare with his attendants, he realised with a little cold shudder what it was to be a king. He himself was the servant of a king, one of those whom good fortune and opportunity had promoted to be a minister to those almost super-human beings who could do no wrong, and ruled and swayed all other men by means of their Divine Right. This was a position he perfectly accepted, had accepted from the first. Already he was rising high in the course of life he had started to pursue. He had no thought of questioning the deeds of princes. He knew that it was his duty, his _métier_, in life to be a pawn in the great game. What affected him now, however, as they came up to a big house of free-stone and timber, where a lanthorn of horn hung over a door painted a dull scarlet, was a sense of the enormous and irrevocable power of those who were set on high to rule. No! They were not human, they were not as other men and women are. He had been in the Queen's Closet that morning, and had seen the death warrant signed. The great convulsion of nature, the furious thunders of God, had only been
to see it again,” said Monsieur Bergeret timidly. They hesitated a moment. It seemed to them that in entering the deep dark vaulted way they were entering the region of the shades. Scouring the streets in search of a flat, they had chanced to cross the narrow Rue des Grands-Augustins, which has preserved its old-world aspect, and whose greasy pavements are never dry. They remembered that they had passed six years of their childhood in one of the houses in this street. Their father, a professor at the University, had settled there in 1856, after having led for four years a wandering and precarious existence, ceaselessly hunted from town to town by an inimical Minister of Instruction. And, as witnessed the battered notice-board, the very flat in which Lucien and Zoe had first seen the light of day, and tasted the savour of life, was now to let. As they passed down the path which led under the massive forefront of the building, they experienced an inexplicable feeling of melancholy and reverence. The damp courtyard was hemmed in by walls which since the minority of Louis XIV had slowly been crumbling in the rains and the fogs rising from the Seine. On the right as they entered was a small building, which served as a porter’s lodge. There, on the window-sill, a magpie hopped about in a cage, and in the lodge, behind a flowering plant, a woman sat sewing. “Is the second floor on the courtyard to let?” “Yes, do you wish to see it?” “Yes, we should like to see it.” Key in hand, the concierge led the way. They followed her in silence. The gloomy antiquity of the house caused the memories which the blackened stones evoked for the brother and sister to recede into an unfathomable past. They climbed the stone stairs in a state of sorrowful eagerness, and when the concierge opened the door of the flat they remained motionless upon the landing, afraid to enter the rooms that seemed to be haunted by the host of their childish memories, like so many little ghosts. “You can go in; the flat is empty.” At first they could find nothing of the past in the wide empty rooms, freshly papered. They were amazed to find that they had become strangers to things which had formerly been so familiar. “Here is the kitchen,” said the concierge, “and here are the dining-room and the drawing-room.” A voice cried from the courtyard: “M’ame Falempin!” The concierge looked out of the window, apologized, and grumbling to herself went down the stairs with feeble steps, groaning. Then the brother and sister began to remember. Memories of inimitable hours, of the long days of childhood, began to return to them. “Here is the dining-room,” said Zoe. “The sideboard used to be there, against the wall.” “The mahogany sideboard, ‘battered by its long wanderings,’ as our father used to say, when he and his family and his furniture were ceaselessly hunted from north to south and from east to west by the Minister of the 2nd of December. It remained here a few years, however, maimed and crippled.” “There is the porcelain stove in its old corner.” “The flue is different.” “Do you think so?” “Yes, Zoe. Ours had a head of Jupiter Trophonius upon it. In those far-off days it was the custom of the stove-makers in the Cour du Dragon to decorate porcelain flues with a head of Jupiter Trophonius.” “Are you sure?” “Sure. Don’t you remember a crowned head with a pointed beard?” “No.” “Oh, well that is not surprising; you were always indifferent to the shapes of things. You don’t look at anything.” “I am more observant than you, my poor Lucien; it is you who never notice things. The other day, when Pauline had waved her hair, you didn’t notice it. If it were not for me——” She did not finish her sentence, but peered about the empty room with her green eyes and sharp nose. “Over there in that corner near the window, Mademoiselle Verpie used to sit with her feet on her foot-warmer. Saturday was the sewing-woman’s day, and Mademoiselle Verpie never missed a Saturday.” “Mademoiselle Verpie,” said Lucien with a sigh: “how old would she be to-day? She was getting on in life when we were children. She used to tell a story about a box of matches. I have always remembered that story and can repeat it now word for word just as she used to tell it. ‘It was when they were placing the statues on the Pont des Saints-Pères. It was so cold that my fingers were quite numb. Coming back from doing my marketing, I was watching the workmen. There was a whole crowd of people waiting to see how they would lift such heavy statues. I had my basket on my arm. A well-dressed gentleman said to me, “Mademoiselle, you are on fire.” Then I smelt a smell of sulphur and saw smoke pouring out of my basket. My threepenny box of matches had caught fire.’ That was how Mademoiselle Verpie related the adventure,” added Monsieur Bergeret. “She often used to tell us of it. Probably it was the greatest adventure of her life.” “You’ve forgotten an important part of the story, Lucien. These were Mademoiselle Verpie’s exact words: ‘A well-dressed gentleman said to me, “Mademoiselle, you are on fire.” I answered “Go away and leave me alone.” “Just as you like, Mademoiselle.” Then I smelt a smell of sulphur.’” “You are quite right, Zoe. I was mutilating the text and omitted an important passage. By her reply, Mademoiselle Verpie, who was hump-backed, showed that she was a virtuous woman. It is a point that one should bear in mind. I seem to recollect, too, that she was very easily shocked.” “Our poor mother,” said Zoe, “had a mania for mending. What an amount of darning used to be done!” “Yes, she was fond of her needle. But what I thought so charming was that before she sat down to her sewing she always placed a pot of wallflowers or daisies or a dish of fruit and green leaves on the table before her just where the light caught it. She used to say that rosy apples were as pretty as roses. I never met anyone who appreciated as she did the beauty of a peach or a bunch of grapes. When she went to see the Chardins at the Louvre, she knew by instinct that they were good pictures, but she could not help feeling that she preferred her own groups. With what conviction she would say to me: ‘Look, Lucien, have you ever seen anything so beautiful as this feather from a pigeon’s wing?’ I think no one ever loved nature more simply and frankly than she.” “Poor Mother,” sighed Zoe, “and in spite of that her taste in dress was dreadful. One day she chose a blue dress for me at the Petit-Saint-Thomas. It was called electric blue, and it was terrible. That frock was the burden of my childish days.” “You were never fond of dress, you.” “You think so, do you? Well, you are mistaken. I should have loved to have pretty dresses, but the elder sister had to go short because little Lucien needed tunics. It couldn’t be helped.” They passed into a narrow room, more like a passage. “This was Father’s study,” said Zoe. “Hasn’t it been cut in two by a partition? I thought it was much larger than this.” “No, it was always the same as it is now. His writing-desk was there, and above it hung the portrait of Monsieur Victor Leclerc. Why haven’t you kept that engraving, Lucien?” “What! do you mean to say that this narrow room held his motley crowd of books and contained whole nations of poets, orators and historians? When I was a child I used to listen to the silent eloquence that filled my ears with a buzz of glory. No doubt the presence of such an assembly pressed back the walls. I certainly remember it as a spacious room.” “It was very overcrowded. He would never let us tidy anything in his study.” “So it was here that our father used to work, seated in his old red arm-chair with his cat Zobeide on a cushion at his feet. Here it was that he used to look at us with the same slow smile that he never lost all through his illness, even up to the very last. I saw him smile gently at death itself, as he had smiled at life.” “You are mistaken in that, Lucien. Father did not know he was going to die.” Monsieur Bergeret did not speak for a moment, then he said: “It is strange. I can see him now, in memory, not worn out and white with age, but still young as he was when I was quite a little child. I can see his slight, supple figure and his long black wind-tossed hair. Such mops of hair, that seemed as though whipped up by a gust of wind, crowned many of the enthusiastic heads of the men of 1830 and ’48. I know it was only a trick of the brush that arranged their hair like that, but it made them look as though they lived upon the heights and in the storm. Their thoughts were loftier and more generous than ours. Our father believed in the advent of social justice and universal peace. He announced the triumph of the Republic and the harmonious formation of the United States of Europe. He would be cruelly disappointed were he to come back among us.” He was still speaking although Mademoiselle Bergeret was no longer in the study. He followed her into the empty drawing-room. There they both recalled the arm-chairs and sofa of green velvet, which as children, in their games, they used to turn into walls and citadels. “Oh, the taking of Damietta!” cried Monsieur Bergeret. “Do you remember it, Zoe? Mother, who allowed nothing to be wasted, used to collect all the silver paper round the bars of chocolate, and one day she gave me a pile which pleased me as much as if it had been a magnificent present. I gummed it to the leaves of an old atlas and made it into helmets and cuirasses. One day when Cousin Paul came to dinner I gave him one of these sets of armour, a Saracen’s, and put the other on myself: it was the armour of St. Louis. If one goes into the matter, neither Saracens nor Christian knights wore such armour in the thirteenth century, but such a consideration did not trouble us, and I took Damietta. “That recollection reminds me of the cruellest humiliation of my life. As soon as I had made myself master of Damietta, I took Cousin Paul prisoner and tied him up with skipping-ropes; then I pushed him with such enthusiasm that he fell on his nose, uttering piercing shrieks in spite of his courage. Mother came running in when she heard the noise, and when she saw Cousin Paul bound and prostrate on the floor she picked him up, kissed him and said: ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Lucien, to hit a child so much smaller than yourself.’ And as a matter of fact Cousin Paul, who never grew very big, was then very small. I did not say that it had happened in the wars. I said nothing at all, and remained covered with confusion. My shame was increased by the magnanimity of Cousin Paul who said, between his sobs, ‘I haven’t hurt myself.’ “Ah, our beautiful drawing-room,” sighed Monsieur Bergeret. “I hardly know it with this new paper. How I loved the ugly old paper with its green boughs! What a gentle shade, what a delicious warmth dwelt in the folds of the hideous claret-coloured rep curtains! Spartacus with folded arms used to look at us indignantly from the top of the clock on the mantelpiece. His chains, which I used idly to play with, came off one day in my hand. Our beautiful drawing-room! Mother would sometimes call us in there when she was entertaining old friends. We used to come here to kiss Mademoiselle Lalouette. She was over eighty years of age; her cheeks were covered with a mossy growth and her chin was bearded. One long yellow tooth protruded from her lips. They were spotted with black. What magic makes the memory of that horrible little old woman full of an attractive charm for me now? What force compels me to recall details of her queer far-away personality? Mademoiselle Lalouette and her four cats lived on an annuity of fifteen hundred francs, one half of which she spent in printing pamphlets on Louis XVII. She always had about a dozen of them in her hand-bag. The good lady’s mania was to prove that the Dauphin escaped from the Temple in a wooden horse. Do you remember the day she gave us lunch in her room in the Rue de Verneuil, Zoe? There, under layers of ancient filth, lay mysterious riches, boxes full of gold and embroideries.” “Yes,” said Zoe, “she showed us some lace that had belonged to Marie Antoinette.” “Mademoiselle Lalouette’s manners were excellent,” continued Monsieur Bergeret. “She spoke the purest French and adhered to the old pronunciation. She used to say ‘un _segret_, un _fil_, une _do_’; she made me feel as though I were living in the reign of Louis XVI. Mother used to send for us also to speak to Monsieur Mathalène who was not so old as Mademoiselle Lalouette; but he had a hideous face. Never did a gentler soul reveal itself in a more frightful shape. He was an inhibited priest whom my father had met in the clubs in 1848 and whom he esteemed for his Republican opinions. Poorer than Mademoiselle Lalouette, Monsieur Mathalène would go without food in order, like her, to print his pamphlets; but his went to prove that the sun and the moon move round the earth and are in reality no bigger than cheeses. That, by the way, was the opinion of Pierrot, but Monsieur Mathalène arrived at his conclusion only after thirty years of meditation and calculation. One still comes upon one of his pamphlets occasionally on the old bookstalls. Monsieur Mathalène was full of zeal for the happiness of mankind, whom he terrified by his dreadful ugliness. The only exceptions to his universal love were the astronomers, whom he suspected of the blackest designs on himself. He imagined that they wanted to poison him, and insisted on preparing his own food as much out of prudence as on account of his poverty.” Thus in the empty rooms, like Ulysses in the land of the Cimmerii, did Monsieur Bergeret evoke the shades. For a moment he remained sunk in thought; then he said: “Zoe, it must be one of two things; either in the days of our childhood there were more maniacs about than there are now, or our father befriended more than his fair share. I think he must have liked them. Pity probably drew him to them, or maybe he found them less tedious than other people; anyhow, he had a great following of them.” Mademoiselle Bergeret shook her head. “Our parents used to receive very sensible and deserving people. I should say rather that the harmless peculiarities of some old people impressed you, and that you have retained a vivid memory of them.” “Zoe, make no mistake; we were both brought up among people who did not think in a common or usual fashion. Mademoiselle Lalouette, Abbé Mathalène and Monsieur Grille were wanting in ordinary common sense, that is certain. Do you remember Monsieur Grille? He was tall and stout, with a red face and a close-clipped white beard. He had lost both his sons in an Alpine accident in Switzerland, and ever since, summer and winter alike, he had worn garments made of bed-ticking. Our father considered him an exquisite Hellenist. He had a delicate feeling for the poetry of the Greek lyrics. He touched with a light and sure hand the hackneyed text of Theocritus. It was his happy mania never to believe in the certain death of his two sons, and while with crazy confidence he awaited their return he lived, clad in the raiment of a carnival clown, in loving intimacy with Alcæus and Sappho.” “He used to give us caramels,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret. “His remarks were always wise, well-expressed and beautiful,” went on Monsieur Bergeret, “and that used to frighten us. Logic is what alarms us most in a madman.” “On Sunday nights the drawing room was ours,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret. “Yes,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “It was there we used to play games after dinner. We used to write verses and draw pictures, and mother would play forfeits with us. Oh, the candour and simplicity of those bygone days! The simple pleasures, the charm of the old-world manners! We used to play charades; we ransacked your wardrobes, Zoe, in search of things to dress up in.” “One day you pulled the white curtains off my bed.” “That was to make robes for the Druids in the mistletoe scene, Zoe. The word we chose was _guimauve_. We were very good at charades, and Father was such a splendid audience. He did not listen to a word, but he smiled at us. I think I should have been quite a good actor, but the grown-ups never gave me a chance; they always wanted to do all the talking.” “Don’t labour under any delusions, Lucien; you were incapable of playing your part in a charade. You are too absent-minded. I am the first to recognize your intellect and your talents, but you never had the gift of improvisation. You must not try to go outside your books and manuscripts.” “I am just to myself, Zoe, and I know I am not eloquent; but when Jules Guinaut and Uncle Maurice played with us one could not get a word in.” “Jules Guinaut had a real talent for comedy,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret, “and an unquenchable spirit.” “He was studying medicine,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “A good-looking fellow!” “So people used to say.” “I think he was in love with you.” “I don’t think so.” “He paid you a great deal of attention.” “That’s quite a different matter.” “Then, quite suddenly, he disappeared.” “Yes.” “Don’t you know what became of him?” “No. Come, Lucien, let us go.” “Yes, let us go, Zoe; here we are the prey of the shades.” And, without turning their heads, the brother and sister stepped over the threshold of their childhood’s old home and went silently down the stone staircase. When they found themselves again in the Rue des Grands-Augustins, amid the cabs and drays, the housewives and the artisans, the noise and movement of the outer world bewildered them as though they had just emerged from a long period of solitude. CHAPTER V Monsieur Panneton de La Barge had prominent eyes and a shallow mind. But his skin was so shiny that you could not help thinking that his mind must of necessity be of a fatty nature. His whole being was eloquent of arrogance, brusqueness and a pride that apparently had no fear of being importunate. Monsieur Bergeret guessed that the man had come to ask a favour of him. They had known one another in the country. The professor, taking a walk beside the sluggish river, had often noted, on a green hillside, the slated roof of the château inhabited by Monsieur de La Barge and his family. Monsieur de La Barge himself he saw less frequently, for the latter was on visiting terms with the aristocracy of the countryside, without being sufficiently grand himself to receive the humbler folk. In the country he knew Monsieur Bergeret only on those critical days when one or another of his sons was going in for some examination; but now, in Paris, he wished to be friendly, and he made an effort to be so. “Dear Monsieur Bergeret, I must first of all congratulate you.” “Please do not trouble,” replied Monsieur Bergeret, with a little gesture of refusal that Monsieur de La Barge quite wrongly interpreted as inspired by modesty. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Bergeret, a professorship at the Sorbonne is a much-coveted position, and one that you well deserve.” “How is your son Adhémar?” inquired Monsieur Bergeret, remembering the name as that of a candidate for the bachelor’s degree who had interested in his incompetence the authorities of civil, military and ecclesiastical society. “Adhémar? He is doing well, very well; a little wild perhaps, but what would you have? He has nothing to do. In some ways it might be better for him to have some settled occupation. However, he is very young; there is plenty of time; he takes after me; he will settle down once he has found his vocation.” “Didn’t he do a little demonstrating at Auteuil?” asked Monsieur Bergeret gently. “For the army, for the army,” answered Monsieur de La Barge, “and I must confess that I could not find it in my heart to blame him. It can’t be helped. I am connected with the army through my father-in-law, the general, my brothers-in-law, and my cousin, the commandant.” He was too modest to mention his father, the eldest of the Panneton brothers, who was also connected with the army through the supply department, and who, in 1872, as the result of an annoying charge in the police courts, was given a light sentence, for having supplied to the Army of the East, which was marching through the snow, shoes with cardboard soles. He died ten years later, in his château of La Barge, rich and honoured. “I was brought up to venerate the army,” continued Monsieur Panneton de La Barge. “When quite a child I worshipped a uniform. It is a family tradition. I do not attempt to hide the fact that I hold by the old style of things. I can’t help it, it is in my blood. I am a Monarchist and authoritarian by temperament. I am a Royalist. Now the army is all that is left us of the Monarchy; all that is left of a glorious past. It consoles us for the present and fills us with hope for the future.” Monsieur Bergeret might have interposed with some observations of historical interest; but he did not do so, and Monsieur de La Barge continued: “That is why I regard those who attack the army as criminals, and those who would dare to interfere with it as fools.” “When Napoleon wished to praise one of the plays of Luce de Lancival,” replied the professor, “he called it a headquarters tragedy. May I say that your philosophy is that of a General Staff? However, seeing that we live under the rule of liberty, it may perhaps be as well to conform to its customs. When one lives with men who have the habit of speech one must accustom oneself to hear anything. Do not hope that the right to discuss any subject will ever again be denied in France. Consider, too, that the army is by no means immutable; nothing in the world is that. Institutions can exist only by ceaseless modifications. The army has undergone such transformations in the course of its existence that it will probably undergo even greater changes in the future, and it is conceivable that in twenty years’ time it will be quite another thing than what it is to-day.” “I prefer to tell you at once,” replied Monsieur Panneton de La Barge, “that where the army is concerned I admit of no discussion. I repeat, it must not be interfered with. It represents, as it were, the battle-axe, and as such it must not be touched. During the last session of the Conseil Général of which I have the honour to be president, the Radical-Socialist minority put forward a vote in favour of two years’ service. I protested against so unpatriotic a suggestion. I had no difficulty in proving a two years’ service would mean the end of the army. You cannot make an infantryman in two years, much less a cavalryman. Perhaps you will style those who clamour for the two years’ service reformers. I call them wreckers. And it is the same with all other reforms. They are machinations directed against the army. If only the Socialists would say that their desire is to replace the army by a vast national guard, they would at least be honest.” “The Socialists,” replied Monsieur Bergeret, “are against all attempts at territorial conquest; they propose to organize militia solely for purposes of home defence. They do not hide their views, they spread them broadcast. And possibly their views are worth some examination. You need not fear that their desires will be too quickly realized. All progress is slow and uncertain, and is followed, more often than not, by retrograde movements. The advance toward a better order of things is vague and indeterminate. The profound and innumerable forces which chain man to the past cause him to cherish its errors, superstitions, prejudices and cruelties as precious symbols of his security. Salutary innovation terrifies him. Prudence makes him imitative, and he dare not quit the tumble-down shelter that protected his fathers and which is about to fall in upon him. Do you not agree with me, Monsieur Panneton?” inquired Monsieur Bergeret, with a charming smile. Monsieur Panneton de La Barge’s reply was that he defended the army. He represented it as misunderstood, persecuted and menaced, and in rising tones he continued: “This campaign in favour of the Traitor, obstinate and enthusiastic as it is, whatever may be the intentions of its leaders, has a certain visible and undeniable effect. It weakens the army and injures its chiefs.” “I am going to tell you some very simple facts,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “If the army is attacked in the person of certain of its chiefs, that is not the fault of those who have asked for justice; it is the fault of those who have so long refused it. It is not the fault of those who demanded an explanation, but of those who have obstinately avoided one with extraordinary stupidity and abominable wickedness. After all, if crimes have been committed the evil is not that they have been made known but that they have been committed. They have concealed themselves in all their enormity and in all their deformity. They were not recognizable; they passed over the crowds like dark clouds. Did you imagine they would never burst? Did you think the sun would never shine again upon the classic land of Justice, upon the country that taught the Law to Europe and the world?” “Don’t let us speak of the Affair,” replied Monsieur de La Barge. “I know nothing of it. I wish to know nothing. I did not read a word of the Inquiry. Commandant de La Barge, my cousin, assured me that Dreyfus was guilty. That affirmation was enough for me. I came, dear Monsieur Bergeret, to ask your advice about my son Adhémar, whose prospects in life are now engaging my attention. A year of military service is a long time for a young fellow of good family. Three years would be nothing short of disaster. It is essential to find a means of exemption. I had thought of letting him take his degree in literature, but I’m afraid it is too difficult. Adhémar is intelligent, but he has no taste for literature.” “Well,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “try the School of Higher Commercial Studies; or the Commercial Institute, or the School of Commerce. I do not know if the Watchmakers’ College at Cluses would still furnish means of exemption. It used not to be difficult, I’ve been told, to obtain the certificate.” “But Adhémar cannot very well make watches,” replied Monsieur de La Barge with a certain modesty. “Then try the School of Oriental Languages,” said Monsieur Bergeret obligingly. “It was an excellent institution to begin with.” “It has gone down since,” sighed Monsieur de La Barge. “It still has its good points. What about Tamil, for instance?” “Tamil, do you think?” “Or Malagasy.” “Malagasy, perhaps.” “There is also a certain Polynesian language which was spoken, at the beginning of this century, by only one old yellow woman. She died, leaving behind her a parrot. A German scholar collected a few words of the language from the parrot, and from these he compiled a dictionary. Perhaps this language is still taught at the School of Oriental Languages. I should advise your son to find out.” Upon this advice, Monsieur Panneton de La Barge made his adieux and thoughtfully took his departure. CHAPTER VI Events followed their due course. Monsieur Bergeret continued to look for a flat; it was his sister who found one. Thus the positive mind has the advantage over the speculative mind. It must be admitted that Mademoiselle Bergeret made an excellent choice. She was lacking neither in experience of life nor in common sense. Having been a governess, she had lived in Russia, and had travelled about Europe. She had observed the manners and customs of the different nations. She knew the world, and that helped her to know Paris. “That’s it,” she said to her brother, stopping before a new house overlooking the Luxembourg garden. “The stairs look decent enough,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “but it’s rather a stiff climb.” “Nonsense, Lucien. You are quite young enough to go up five short flights of stairs without getting exhausted.” “Do you really think so?” said Lucien, flattered. She was careful to point out that the stair-carpet ran right to the top of the house, and he smilingly accused her of being susceptible to trifling vanities. “But it is possible,” he added, “that I myself should feel slightly offended were the carpet to stop short at the floor below ours. We profess to be wise, but we still have our weak points. That reminds me of what I noticed yesterday, after lunch, as I was passing a church. The outer steps were covered with a red carpet which had been trodden, after the ceremony, by the guests at some great wedding. A working-class couple with their party were waiting for the last of the wealthy company to leave so that they might enter the church. They were laughing at the idea of climbing the steps upon this unexpected splendour. The little bride’s white feet were already on the edge of the carpet when the beadle waved her away. The men in charge of the trappings of the wealthy wedding slowly rolled up the carpet of honour, and only when it formed a huge cylinder did they allow the humble wedding party to mount the bare steps. I stood for a moment and watched the worthy folk, who seemed greatly amused by the incident. Humble folk surrender with admirable equanimity to social inequality, and Lamennais was quite right to say ‘that the whole social order rests on the resignation of the poor.’” “Here we are,” said Mademoiselle Bergeret. “I’m out of breath,” remarked Monsieur Bergeret. “Because you would talk,” replied Mademoiselle Bergeret. “You shouldn’t tell anecdotes while you are going upstairs.” “After all,” said Monsieur Bergeret, “it is the common destiny of men of learning to live close under the roof. Science and meditation are often hidden away in garrets, and when we come to think of it, no marble hall is worth an attic filled with beautiful thoughts.” “This room,” replied Mademoiselle Bergeret, “is not a garret. It is lighted by a big window and is to be your study.” On hearing this, Monsieur Bergeret looked at the four walls in alarm, like a man on the brink of a precipice. “What is the matter?” asked his sister uneasily. But he did not reply. The little square room, hung with light paper, seemed to him dark with the unknown future. He entered with a slow and fearful step as though he were entering upon a hidden destiny. Then, measuring on the floor the position of his work-table, he said: “I shall sit there. It is a mistake to be too sentimental over the past and the future. They are nothing but abstract ideas, which were not originally possessed by primitive man; he acquired them only after long effort, to his great misfortune. The thought of the past in itself is sufficiently painful. I do not think anyone would be willing to begin life again if he had to go over precisely the same ground. That there are delightful hours and exquisite moments I do not deny, but they are pearls and precious stones sparsely sprinkled on the harsh and dismal web of life. The course of the years is, for all its brevity, of tedious slowness, and if it be sometimes sweet to remember it is because we are able to make our minds dwell upon certain moments. And even then the sweetness is pale and melancholy. As for the future, we dare not look it in the face, so threatening is its gloomy countenance. And when you told me a moment since, Zoe, that this was to be my study, I saw myself in the future, and I could not bear the sight. I am not without courage, I think, but I am given to reflection, and reflection and fearlessness are not the best of friends.” “The most difficult thing of all,” put in Zoe, “was to find three bedrooms.” “It is certain,” rejoined Monsieur Bergeret, “that humanity, in its youth, did not conceive of the future and the past as we do. Now these ideas that devour us have no reality outside ourselves. We know nothing of life, and the theory of its development through time is pure illusion. It is by some infirmity of our senses that we do not see to-morrow realized as we see yesterday. We can very well conceive of beings so organized as to be capable of the simultaneous perception of phenomena which to us appear to be separated from one another by an appreciable interval of time. We ourselves do not perceive light and sound in the order of time. We ourselves take in at a single glance, when we raise our eyes to the sky, aspects which are by no means contemporaneous. The beams of light from the stars seem indistinguishable to our eyes, yet they mingle in them, in a fraction of a second, centuries and thousands of centuries. With instruments other than those we now possess we might see ourselves lying dead in the very midst of our own life. For, as time does not in reality exist, and as the succession of facts is only an appearance, all facts are realized simultaneously and there is no such thing as the future. The future has already been; we merely discover it. Now, perhaps, you have some idea, Zoe, why I stopped short at the door of the room where I am to live. Time is a pure idea, and space is no more real than time.” “That may be,” remarked Zoe, “but it is very expensive in Paris at any rate. You must have noticed that while you were house-hunting. I don’t expect you care to see my room; come, Pauline’s will interest you more.” “Let us go and see them both,” said Monsieur Bergeret, as he obediently promenaded his animal mechanism through the little square rooms hung with flowered paper, pursuing the course of his reflections the while. “The savages,” he said, “make no distinction between past, present and future. Languages, which are undoubtedly the oldest monuments of the human race, permit us to go back to the days when our ancestors had not yet accomplished this metaphysical operation. Monsieur Michel Bréal, who has just published an admirable essay on the subject, shows that the verb, so
theon, Paris 278 JOHN GIBSON: “HYLAS AND THE NYMPHS.” Tate Gallery, London 282 ALFRED STEVENS: FIGURE FROM THE FIREPLACE, DORCHESTER HOUSE, LONDON 286 LORD LEIGHTON: “ATHLETE AND PYTHON.” Tate Gallery 288 THOMAS BROCK: “EVE.” The Tate Gallery, London 290 HAMO THORNYCROFT: “THE MOWER.” Liverpool 290 MEUNIER (Belgian School): “THE MOWER” 292 ALFRED GILBERT: “SAINT GEORGE.” From the Clarence Memorial, Windsor 296 ONSLOW FORD: “EGYPTIAN SINGER.” The Tate Gallery, London 298 HARRY BATES: “PANDORA.” The Tate Gallery, London 300 J. M. SWAN: “ORPHEUS” 300 GEORGE J. FRAMPTON: “MYSTERIARCH” 302 PART I HELLENIC SCULPTURE CHAPTER I THE RISE OF GREEK SCULPTURE AND THE ATHLETIC SCULPTURES OF GREECE Nowadays sculpture is not an acknowledged queen in the Tourney of the Arts. The writer who has thrust her colours into his casque and would break a lance on her behalf, struggles for some unstoried damsel about whose very existence he has been playfully twitted by the champions of the reigning beauties. Rightly considered, art is but a form of speech—sculpture speaking through words formed from chiselled marble and moulded bronze. Such a language can only have lost its meaning if the men of to-day differ fundamentally from those of the past. But is this the case? Can any one doubt that human thought and action are ever substantially repeating themselves, since men and women are at all times actuated by substantially the same passions? The twentieth century simply requires to realise that sculpture throbs with the thought and emotion astir in itself. Though it cannot be claimed that the art is popular in the sense that music and painting are popular, our firm conviction is that its peculiar thrill only needs to be felt, for sculpture to become as widely appreciated as the sister arts. Dancing may be a lost art; we are assured sculpture is not. Under these circumstances, honesty compels us to preface this book with a confession. It is a history of sculpture with a purpose. It seeks to entice a few men and women into the belief that sculpture is, essentially, a living art. Its one object is to marshal the evidence in favour of the proposition that the marbles and bronzes of the great sculptors are not dead things which may well be left to gather dust in national museums and unfrequented corners of public galleries. Though marble and bronze have not lost their potency, it would be folly to regard all sculpture as equally vital. Much has only an archæological or antiquarian interest in these latter days. Consequently, though building from the bricks of the past, everything which has lost its meaning for the men of to-day will be ruthlessly excluded. Our purpose is to write a history of the art itself, to show how its various manifestations arose from social and political circumstances, to trace the emotions and thoughts which stimulated the artists to produce their greatest works and to gauge the action and interaction which created the various national styles. On the one hand is the sculptor expressing what appears to be his own thoughts and emotions. On the other, the men of his country and time providing him with the raw material of thought and feeling, and compelling the production of works which could never have seen the light had he dwelt on a column in the desert after the manner of some Alexandrian mystic. Nor is this all. In addition, there is the influence which the sculptor exerts upon those around him, and particularly upon his fellow craftsmen. Out of the reciprocal modification arises a body of sculptural production, endowed with a definite national style. The task of estimating these actions and counteractions and their effects cannot be an easy one. It calls for heart as well as mind, both from writer and reader. It would be fatal to treat the bronzes of Polyclitus, the marbles of Phidias, Donatello, and Michael Angelo, as too many historians do the documents from which they presume to create the past. Even if political history can be profitably reduced to a dull catalogue of charters and enactments—which we deny—the history of an art cannot. That _must_ take human passion and emotion into account, and must be written by those who are not afraid to feel or ashamed of their feelings. From any other standpoint, art becomes divorced from life. The reader is denied a glimpse of its most potent force—its mysterious power of arousing echoes in his own heart. Fortunately, the ground to be covered is pregnant with interest. The story of the meteoric rise of the art in Greece, so sudden that a paltry half-century separated the dead work of the sixth century from the vitalised marbles of the Parthenon, will be followed by an account of the “Golden Age,” in which sculpture expressed the whole nature—physical, mental, and spiritual—of the most complete men who have ever lived. Thence to the art of the Alexandrian and Roman Empires, leading up to the great revival of sculpture in the city states of Northern Italy. Finally, a consideration of the sculpture of Monarchical, Imperial, and Republican France will lead up to the works of our own time and the final problem—how near such a sculptor as Rodin is to assimilating and expressing the strange and wonderful experiences arising from the stress of modern life. In the nature of things all our correlations will not be equally exhaustive or correct. The philosophical method is more open to errors arising from individual prejudice than the more strictly scientific one, which is content to collect and group examples. In some cases, moreover, peculiarities of style and subject will depend upon circumstances extremely remote from present-day experience, and, therefore, peculiarly difficult to express adequately. Nevertheless, we hope to suggest a method, and to lay a foundation upon which our readers will be able to build. Though we shall base our generalisations upon a comparatively few examples, we shall seek to provide niches into which practically all the greater works of sculpture can be fitted. THE EARLY BEGINNINGS (1000 B.C. TO 550 B.C.) Bearing in mind that our only concern is with what may be termed “vital sculpture”—art with a message for the twentieth century—we may ask, where should a beginning be made? Unfortunately, the art of sculpture, unlike history, has never been blessed with an Archbishop Ussher willing to vouch for the day and hour of its birth in some year after 4004 B.C. As a _craft_, of course, sculpture dates from the very earliest times. While the prehistoric painter was scratching his first rude picture in the sands about his doorway, his sculptor brother was whittling a stick into the semblance of a human figure, or roughly moulding the river clay to his fancy. The results interest the archæologist, and rightly find a place in our museums rather than in our art galleries. But they are not what we have in mind when we speak of “paintings” or “sculpture.” How far then must we go back to find the birth of the _art_ of sculpture? In other words, when did man first awaken to a sense of the real beauty of human form; and, under the impulse of this feeling, when did he first seek to perpetuate the fleeting beauties he saw around him, and the still more fleeting imaginations which these beauties evoked? Where must we begin if we would determine the various human influences—social, political, and religious—which have determined the course of sculpture as an art? The man in the street answers readily enough—and he is quite right—“Fifth Century Greece.” He is satisfied that, speaking in general terms, it was not until after Marathon and Salamis that “Human hands first mimicked, and then mocked With moulded limbs more lovely than its own, The human form, till marble grew divine.” The average man, who has none of the yearnings of the archæologist, sees the interest of some of the plastic art of the earlier civilisations. He even grants it a certain beauty. Yet he knows that it is not what he expects to find in a gallery of sculpture. In Babylonia, the art was too closely identified with architecture to ever attain a vigorous independent growth. In Egypt, the conventionalities that resulted from the influence of an all-powerful priesthood and an extremely narrow emotional and intellectual experience, proved too strong for the native sculptor. The brilliant civilisation that existed during the second millennium in pre-Hellenic Greece and the islands and coasts of the Ægean, was too short-lived to allow of any art reaching maturity. It was only when the final defeat of the Persians permitted the Greeks to devote their great intellectual gifts to the task that the workers proved the full capabilities of stone and bronze as mediums of emotional expression, and “marble grew divine.” But the efflorescence of the sculptor’s art in fifth-century Greece can only be realised by reference to the efforts of an earlier age. In comparison with poetry, sculpture developed late in Greece. Homer had lived and died. His epics had been chanted by the minstrels of the feudal courts for hundreds of years; but it was not until the tribal organisation became weakened, and the Greek trading and manufacturing cities arose, that men looked to marble and bronze to give material form to their fleeting imaginations. The case of Greece is, however, typical. The sculptor, like the dramatist, needs the atmosphere of a city and the vivifying effects of a city’s ever-changing influences to kindle the vital spark. Both are inspired, not by the appreciation of the few, but by the homage of the many. So long as the Greek husbandmen met by tens to honour Dionysus, the god’s feast was the occasion of a rude medley of rustic song and dance. When thousands gathered in the theatre below the Acropolis at Athens, an Æschylus showed that an art, using the same elements, could sound the depths of all hearts and imaginations. So, in the spot where a few rustics offered up their prayers and their praises for the increase of their herds, a rude wooden image was sufficient to mark the resting-place of the god. But when the Athenian populace gathered near the shrine of Athene, the goddess was symbolised by the great ivory and gold statue of Phidias. The earliest Hellenic images were of wood hewn into the rough semblance of human figures. There was no attempt at more than vaguely indicating the limbs. The heavy blocks were, however, covered with richly embroidered dresses which served to hide some of their rudeness. When stone began to be used instead of the more perishable wood, the masons did not conceive the possibility of any great improvement. Yet these painted wooden images were not the first instances of the sculptor’s art in the Ægean peninsula. Six hundred years before, the Mycenæan civilisation in the south of the Peloponnesus and in the island of Crete, which the excavations of Dr. Schliemann and Sir Arthur Evans have recently revealed, had given birth to work far nearer to nature than any produced in the eighth and ninth centuries. But during the years following the so-called Dorian invasion this was lost. Mycenæ, Tiryns, and Cnossus became vague memories—the dwelling-places of mythical kings and heroes—invaders and natives, settling down to an agricultural life in a not-too-fruitful country. The bare necessities of life were hard to come by. There was no leisured class such as alone could support an art like sculpture. But this is scarcely a sufficient explanation of the extreme roughness of the early temple images of Greece before the sixth century. We still ask why a race in which the artistic instinct was so strong, and which had already inspired a great epic poem, did not produce more natural representations of the deities they had evidently clearly imaged mentally. An answer is suggested by an analogous case in early Egyptian history. Among the temple shrines of the Nile Valley, natural flints have been found that had evidently been selected on account of their rough resemblance to some animal form. Limestone figures have been found alongside these, the workmanship of which is almost as rough. These carved lumps of limestone are rather the result of improving natural forms than of actual modelling. Applying this analogy to the case of Greece, the early temple images seem to have been chosen, in the first place, on account of some fancied resemblance to a human or superhuman figure. The temptation to commit a pious fraud by adding a nostril, or an eye, or a suggestion of drapery would be very great, but it could not be carried too far. Beauty or naturalism were not aimed at or desired. The suggestion that the extreme rudeness of the early Hellenic religious sculptures was deliberate, becomes still more probable when we turn to the history of Renaissance art, two thousand years after the age of which we speak. At a time when the artists of Italy were lavishing all their imagination and technical skill upon figures of the Madonna, the old symbolic representations of the Byzantine type were still preserved as precious relics in church and cathedral. Of the Italians of his day, for instance, no man realised the beauty of physical form and the possibility of expressing it by means of pigment and brush, more than Guido, the father of Italian painting. Yet he did not worship at the foot of one of his own pictures of the Madonna. Week by week he knelt before the little Madonna della Guardia from the East, black with age as it was. He felt instinctively that, for all the sheer beauty that he was striving to impart to his pictures of the Mother of Christ, they lacked the spiritual appeal of this old work. And so it was long after the time of Guido. Seeing that the Italian worshipper, who saw the most lovely representations of the Divine Motherhood in every church, still regarded the old conventional types with awe, we need not be surprised that the Greek peasant was content to worship the rough wood or stone image which he was told was heaven sent. If this explanation is correct, the image would be an object of awe on account of the very artlessness which is surprising in a race so gifted as the Greeks. We escape the difficulty of believing that such a temple image as the “Hera of Samos,” in the Louvre, was the highest stage that the craftsmanship and the imagination of the Greek sculptor could then attain. THE GROWTH OF NATURALISM (550 B.C. TO 480 B.C.) The Ionic Colonies in Asia Minor were the first of the Greek-speaking races to acquire material prosperity, and it was there that the sculptor first began to shake off the old conventional shackles. The Ionians were in touch with the civilisations of Babylonia and Egypt, and merchandise from the East flowed through their markets for Greece and the Grecian Colonies in the far west. Sculpture, in which the Oriental influence was strongly marked, flourished there considerably earlier than in Argos or Attica. About the middle of the seventh century B.C. these Ionian Colonies began to influence Greece strongly, and Athens in particular. This is evidenced by the manner in which the Ionic linen chiton, or sleeved tunic, gradually superseded the woollen peplos which the Athenians had worn earlier. At this time the Greeks were becoming richer; their Colonies continued to demand ever increasing quantities of their manufactures, and to send more and more of the raw materials. The greater cities were able to replace the old shrines of brick and wood, which had contained the wooden images of their gods, by new stone structures. During the second half of the sixth century, temples were erected all over the Greek-speaking world, the ruins of those at Ægina and Selinus still remaining to show us the general type. Sculpture was the twin sister of architecture. Pediments, metopes, and friezes were all adorned with marble groups or reliefs. In Greece proper, the tyrants, who had usurped the power in many States, spent vast sums on beautifying their capitals. Such a one as Pisistratus turned to Ionia for the craftsmen he needed, and, particularly, to the school of sculpture in the island of Chios. Many Ionians skilled in the working of marble from Naxos and Paros settled in Athens, and they instructed their Athenian brethren. With the increasing facility that resulted from the greater number of workmen who could give their lives to mastering its technical difficulties, sculpture gradually lost its conventionalities. By this time the art had made immense strides beyond the rude wooden images of the earlier age, as can be seen from the well-known archaistic “Diana,” in the National Museum, Naples. This particular work was executed in Roman times under the influence of a strong tendency to reproduce the prominent characteristics of the archaic style. But though it dates from a time when sculpture was once more falling into lifeless conventionalism, it gives a good idea of the results of the first earnest efforts after truthful representation. The sculptor is not yet master of his material. Note the strange expression known as “the archaic smile,” a direct consequence of the craftsman’s inability to represent correctly the human eye in profile. [Illustration: DEDICATORY STATUE (ARCHAIC) Acropolis Museum, Athens] [Illustration: DIANA (ARCHAISTIC) National Museum, Naples] A number of painted archaic sculptures have been unearthed in recent years on the Athenian Acropolis, which show the originals upon which the archaistic style of the “Diana” at Naples was formed. They were buried during the improvements consequent upon the rebuilding after the Persian Wars. Many of these were dedicatory offerings. The increasing custom of substituting such statues for the tripods and craters dedicated in earlier days, did much to provide artists at the end of the sixth, and the beginning of the fifth century, with opportunities for experiment. In such work the artist had only to satisfy the donor. Private individuals were less insistent upon conventional forms than the temple priests. Under these influences the drapery gradually became less angular, and the set smile of the older statues gave place to a dignified repose. The illusion of form became more and more complete, and there was less and less insistence upon the reproduction of the detail in every fold of the elaborate Ionic drapery. In other words, the artist was no longer a slave to his material. He was learning how to make the marble express what he had in mind. The numerous discoveries of these archaic statues illustrate the gradual change and, particularly, the growing beauty after which the Athenian artists were striving. Incidentally, they afford interesting evidence of the practice of painting marble which was general in Greece. From the remains of the actual pigments used, it can be seen that the hair was coloured, and the brow, lashes, pupil and iris of the eye indicated. The borders of the dress too were strongly marked, so that one garment could be readily distinguished from another. With the growing naturalism even portrait statues became possible. For instance, after the dismissal of the sons of Pisistratus, a group in honour of Harmodius and Aristogiton, who had headed an insurrection against the tyrant, was erected in the Agora by their democratic admirers. When this was carried off by Xerxes, it was replaced by a group, the work of Critius and Nesiotes, a marble copy of which can be seen in the National Museum at Naples. We have chosen the statue of “Harmodius” as an illustration of the earliest Greek iconic statuary. It will be seen that it entirely lacks the ideality of treatment which was to be the leading characteristic of the art fifty years later. THE ATHLETIC SCULPTURES (480 B.C. TO 400 B.C.) The magnificent full length “Charioteer,” reins in hand, excavated by the French Expedition at Delphi, is not only the finest pre-Phidian bronze in existence, but marks the “border line between dying archaism and the vigorous life of free naturalism.” The statue may have formed part of a chariot group set up as a dedicatory offering by Polyzalus, the brother of Hieron of Syracuse, in honour of a victory in the games at Delphi. The entire work portrayed a high-born youth, waiting in a chariot at the starting-post. A companion was at his side, grooms, no doubt, standing at the horses’ heads. The driver’s chiton is gathered across the shoulders by a curious arrangement of threads, run through the stuff in order to prevent the loose garment fluttering in the wind. It dates from about 470 B.C. The bronze is representative of the highest achievements of Greek art before the advent of the three great sculptors of the fifth century. Traces of archaic workmanship are most noticeable in the face and drapery. The arms and the feet, however, are beautifully natural. [Illustration: THE CHARIOTEER (BRONZE) Delphi Museum] [Illustration: HARMODIUS National Museum, Naples] Still the stiffness and conventionality of the archaic period died hard. Even in the works of Myron, whose reputation was established by the middle of the fifth century, there are still traces of archaic treatment, as in the hair. But in such a statue as his “Discobolus,” with its truthfulness to nature, its rhythmic grace of design and its triumphant mastery over all technical difficulties, we can realise how far the sculpture of his age was ahead of the best work possible fifty years earlier. The mention of Myron, the earliest artist to benefit by the freeing of the plastic arts from the shackles of conventionalism, brings us upon one of the prime problems of Greek sculpture. Practically, the history of Greek sculpture depends upon the connections which can be established between the art and three leading ideals. The difficulty of really understanding it depends upon the distance we moderns have progressed—pardon us the term—from those three dominating ideas. “How we jabber about the Greeks! What do we understand of their art, the soul of which is the passion for naked male beauty?” So says Nietzsche. And he proceeds to point out that for this very reason the Greeks had a perspective altogether different from our own. Nothing can be truer; nor can anything be more certain than that this truth must be realised absolutely by all who would penetrate beyond the outer courts of the temple of Hellenic sculpture. But though we cannot look at a Greek statue with the understanding of a Hellene, though classic sculpture is, as it were, written in an alien tongue, the historian can readily enumerate the influences by which the art was fostered, and the ideals which it sought to embody. _The first_ was a civic pride so intense that no Greek of the best period hesitated to sacrifice all individual considerations for the sake of the common weal. To the true Hellene, life was life in the Greek city-state. _The second_ was a realisation of the extent and limit of human powers so complete that it left little room for the idea of the extra-mundane God which Christian nations have found so satisfying. The immediate consequence was a religious tolerance so complete that we Christians, who are apt to estimate religious fervour by proselytising energy, too often regard it as proceeding from a mere poetical philosophy. _The third_ was a love, amounting to worship, for the human physical frame—for the actual bone, flesh and muscle, which make the man. Every Greek statue owes its greatness to the intensity of the artist’s attachment to one or other of these dominating beliefs. The Panathenaic frieze on the Parthenon was, primarily, the result of the first; the great temple statues of Zeus, Hera, Athena and Asclepius represent the fruits of the second; the glorious series of athletic statues by Hellenic sculptors of every period witness to the potency of the third. Like most ultimate problems, the puzzle goes back to a question of morality. To-day, virtue is personal, morality is practically a bargain between man and man and between the individual creature and his Creator. We cannot easily realise the position of the fifth-century Hellene, whose moral sense did not depend upon the promptings of an individual conscience, but upon the influence of an unwritten, but unbending, civil code. There was not one such code in Greece, but a hundred and fifty. Each city-state had its own fixed ideals. Greatly as these differed, all agreed that the interests of the individual were as nothing compared with those of the city. And to this all added as the second great commandment, “Thou shalt love thy body as thyself.” To-day, we appoint Degeneration Commissions. In Greece they went to the root of the matter and made a well-proportioned and strong body a prime condition of citizenship. In Sparta every child was submitted to the inspection of the heads of the tribe, whose task it was to decide if any bodily weakness or deformity was present or seemed likely to develop. If so, the verdict was death. At seven the Spartan boy left home and entered the state schools, his life, until he reached manhood at thirty, being a continual round of exercises, athletic and military. And so it was with the fairer sex. The one end of the education and training of a Spartan woman was to give birth to perfectly-proportioned sons. Each girl attended the public gymnasium. Nor were these customs peculiar to Sparta. The maidens of the Greek world had their athletic festivals, under the guardianship of the goddess Hera. A typical example, the Heræa of Elis, was celebrated once in every Olympiad, and was presided over by the sixteen matrons who had woven the sacred peplos of the goddess. The principal solemnity was the race of the maidens in the Olympic stadium. The course, however, was much shorter than that of the Olympian games, in fact a sixth part. The girls were divided into three classes according to age, their prize being the garland of wild olive awarded at Olympia. The victors were allowed to set up statues of honour, and a marble copy of one of these bronzes, often called “The Spartan Girl,” has come down to us. The forearms have been wrongly restored, but the statue evidently represents a maiden of about sixteen years of age at the starting-point, waiting for the signal. She is clad in the short linen chiton, reaching to the knees. But to return to the main thread of our argument. The Spartan system was not singular but typical. It is true that no other Greek state called upon its parents to expose their halt, maimed, and blind weaklings on the wild slopes of Mount Taygetus. So drastic a method was only necessary where military considerations were paramount. But every Greek city relied upon the physical fitness of its citizens, and any Greek commander might confidently have followed the example of the officer who stripped the rich robes and jewels from his Persian captives and exposed their unmanly limbs to his company. “Such plunder as this,” he cried, “and such bodies as those!” The Hellenic belief in the prime importance of physical fitness and the worship of bodily beauty to which it gave rise explain why the school of “Athletic” sculptors, who first shook off the chains which had hampered the progress of the plastic arts, made such an immediate impression. These men appealed to more than the sense of physical beauty. They touched a chord in the Greek heart which was in a very true sense “religious.” An Athenian of the time of Pericles must have inspired Mr. Arthur Balfour when in answer to the query “What do you mean by a beautiful soul?” he replied, “Well, to tell you the truth, my dear lady, I mean a beautiful body.” The mythological religion of Greece had retarded, as we have seen, the progress of the sculptor. In its early stages the art, of course, owed much to its position as a handmaiden of religion. The first artists found the priests, and still more those making dedicatory offerings at the shrines of the great gods, their chief patrons. When, however, the craftsmen proved the possibility of not only a truthful but even an ideal representation of nature, and were ready to discard the meaningless conventionalities of the earlier stage, these religious influences proved a bar rather than an aid to progress. When a city desired to erect a new statue in its chief temple, it offered the commission, not to the daring innovator, but to one of the old school, or at least to an artist who was willing to confine his experiments to other classes of subjects. [Illustration: “THE SPARTAN GIRL” Vatican, Rome] [Illustration: THE DORYPHORUS OF POLYCLITUS National Museum, Naples] In this plight the sculptor, consciously or unconsciously, sealed an alliance with the worshipper at the shrine of bodily beauty. The results were immediate. After the middle of the sixth century it became customary to erect statues in honour of victors in the national games. They were frequently set up by the victor’s colony or state in the sacred grove of Zeus at Olympia, in honour of their subject’s success. An iconic statue was the peculiar privilege of one who had proved the winner on at least three occasions, but others were erected of a more general character. These portrayed the pick of the youth of the Grecian world in all the varied attitudes of the different sports. No subjects could have offered better opportunities to an artist appealing to a race with the characteristics we have sketched. Moreover, the circumstances under which his work was given to the world were ideal. Compare the sculpture-rooms at Burlington House with the sacred grove of Zeus at Olympia, compare the average private-view “crowd” with the gathering of Greeks every four years for the Olympian festival, and one can see why men speak of sculpture as “a lost art.” THE OLYMPIAN GAMES When the Olympian games started they were confined to the south of Greece, and grew up under the patronage of Sparta. As early as 776 B.C. the meetings determined the chronological system of Greece. A few years later the festival had established itself so firmly in the Hellenic social system that it became the occasion of a national assembly of the Greek-speaking world. At all other times the distinction between Athenian and Spartan, between Argive and Theban, was absolute. During the Olympian games the Greek escaped from the grinding effort to preserve his civic individuality—the price he paid for citizenship in such a state as Athens or Sparta. Under the shadow of Mount Cronus, at the time of the second full moon after Midsummer Day, the competitors and spectators came together from Italy, Sicily, Asia Minor, and the islands of the Ægean. A sacred armistice had been proclaimed by the Olympian heralds in all the states of Greece. The deputies from every part vied with one another in the splendour of their equipment and the value of their offerings to the state of which they were the guests. Remembering that we are endeavouring to account for the rise of one of the great arts of all time, let us call to mind the scene on the plain between the Alpheus and the Cladeus on one of the five days during which the festival lasted. With one exception—the Priestess of Demeter—there is no woman in the vast assembly. It is the fourth day of the games. The judges can be seen, clad in the purple robes of their office. Near by, in the brilliant sunshine, his naked form standing out in clear outline, is one of the competitors in the Pentathlon. This comprises leaping, running, wrestling, and hurling the spear and discus. All who enter must excel in each. Victory is not certain until three of the five events have been won. The most famous Pentathli are light men—not bulky wrestlers. Of all the competitions, this needs the finest physique and is most calculated to develop that elasticity and harmonious balance which the Greek prizes in his youth. Well might Aristotle call the Pentathli “the most handsome of all athletes.” The youthful figure, on a space raised slightly above the ground, is of pure Hellenic blood. He rests on his right foot, his knee bent and his body leaning forward. In his hand is the stone discus, ten or twelve inches in diameter, which reaches half way up his forearm. In front, in the distance, stands a friend ready to mark the spot where the stone falls. The eyes of Greece are upon the discobolus. His only reward is the right to lay the crown of leaves in the shrine of the god of his native town. Can it be wondered that the artists of Greece were inspired to their grandest achievements by such sights? It would have been strange indeed if their finest works had not included the representations of the winners of the garland of wild olive. But the truth goes deeper than this. Without such inspirations Greek sculpture would never have risen to the heights it did attain. And without the achievements of the Hellene, can we be sure that Michael Angelo would have ever been more than a struggler? He might have painted the Sistine ceiling, but would he have modelled the David or carved the monuments in the Medici Chapel? The festival at Olympia and the gymnasia in every Greek city were surely necessary if the art which depends upon “the passion for naked male beauty” was to come to its own. In no other way could “every limb present”—we are quoting from Schopenhauer—“its plastic significance to criticism and to comparison with the ideal which lay undeveloped” in the imaginations of men. Under circumstances less strenuous the dull anticipation of bodily beauty would never have been raised “to such distinct consciousness that men would have become capable of objectifying it in works of art.” We have seen that the initiation of the Olympian games was due to Sparta and its Peloponnesian allies. Moreover, the custom of laying aside all clothing for the various sports was first adopted by the Peloponnesians, and only spread slowly through the other Greek city-states. These facts, together with the location of Olympia in the centre of the Peloponnese, suggest why the “Dorian” sculptors devoted particular attention to such subjects as the Olympian festivals offered. In the fifth century Argos was second only to Athens as an artistic centre, and Polyclitus of Argos, who headed “the Dorian School,” was considered the equal of Phidias himself. The ideal for which Polyclitus worked was the portrayal of the healthy human form in its most complete and harmonious development, and, particularly, the preservation of a due proportion between the various parts of the body. His success may be judged from the fact that his statue, the “Doryphorus”—spear-bearer—was adopted by his artistic successors as the standard of perfection of the youthful male figure, and was known as “The Canon.” The bronze originals of the “Doryphorus” and its companion, the “Diadumenus,” which depicts a youth binding the diadem of victory about his brow, have perished. We are therefore compelled to gauge the genius of Polyclitus by the marble copies. There is a famous copy of the “Doryphorus” in the National Museum at Naples. [Illustration: _Photo. Holliday, Oxford_ MYRON’S DISCOBOLUS The Ashmolean, Oxford] The chief point of interest in the Dorian school, however, arises from a comparison of the works produced under its direct influence with the better-known examples of the Attic school. Early in the fifth century the school of sculpture located around Argos seems to have been one of the most influential in Greece. The Argive Ageladas, under whom Polyclitus was a student, is credited with having instructed the two other early masters—Myron and Phidias
-----------+---------- Woodland: 101 species \| 58 \| 16.7 \| 44.4 Limnic: 36 species[B] \| 21 \| 6.0 \| 38.5 Grassland: 23 species \| 13 \| 3.8 \| 71.3 Xeric scrub: 3 species \| 2 \| 0.5 \| 10.2 Unanalyzed: 11 species \| 6 \| 2.0 \| 55.0 +--------+-----------+---------- Totals: 174 species \| 100 \| 29.0 \| 43.2 ------------------------+--------+-----------+---------- [B] Does not include the Canvasback (_Aythya valisineria_), the Forster Tern (_Sterna forsteri_), and the Black Tern (_Chlidonias niger_), all recently added to the breeding avifauna of Kansas. _Woodland Habitats_ One hundred one species of Kansan birds are woodland species (tables 1 and 2). The analysis of Udvardy (1958) showed woodland birds to be the largest single avifaunal element in North America, with 38 per cent of North American birds relegated to it. It is likewise the largest element in the Kansan avifauna, representing 58 per cent of Kansan birds. Although woodland makes up a relatively small fraction of the vegetational complexes in Kansas, a large number of habitats exist in what woodland is present. An even larger number of possible woodland habitats is clearly missing, however, because the 101 Kansan species actually represent but 44 per cent of all woodland birds in North America, according to Udvardy's analysis. Broad-leaved, deciduous woodlands in Kansas are of restricted horizontal and vertical stratification. More complex deciduous forest associations and all coniferous forest associations are absent from the State. Using Mayr's (1946) breakdown of geographical origin of the North American bird fauna, about 53 per cent of the woodland passerine birds in Kansas are of "North American" origin, 22 per cent are of "Eurasian" origin, and 14 per cent are of "South American" origin (Table 3). These figures for Kansas are commensurate with those found for other geographic districts at the same latitude in North America (Mayr, 1946:28). Other characteristics of woodland birds are summarized in tables 4 and 5. TABLE 3.--ANALYSIS OF ECOLOGIC GROUPS OF BIRDS BY STATUS OF RESIDENCY AND AREA OF ORIGIN Column headings: A: Migrant E: N. Amer. B: Resident F: S. Amer. C: Pt. Migr. G: Unanalyzed D: Old World ==========================+=====+=====+=====+=====+======+=====+===== \| A \| B \| C \| D \| E \| F \| G --------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+------+-----+----- Woodland species, 101:58% \| 60% \| 29% \| 11% \| 22% \| 53% \| 14% \| 11% Limnic species, 36:21% \| 94% \| 0 \| 6% \| 0 \| 14% \| 0 \| 86% Grassland species, 23:13% \| 61% \| 26% \| 13% \| 9% \| 56% \| 3% \| 30% Xeric Scrub species, 3:2% \| 33% \| 66% \| 0 \| 0 \| 100% \| 0 \| 0 Unanalyzed species, 11:6% \| 64% \| 27% \| 9% \| 26% \| 26% \| 0 \| 48% --------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+------+-----+----- _Limnic Habitats_ Of Kansan birds, 36 species (20 per cent) prefer limnic habitats (Table 1). Udvardy found this group to represent 15 per cent of the North American avifauna. Kansas is not notably satisfactory for limnic species, and only 38 per cent of the total North American limnic avifauna is present in the State. Thirty-one species of limnic birds belong to families that Mayr (1946) considered to be unanalyzable as to their geographic origin; of the five remaining species, all seem to be of North American origin. Other characteristics of limnic birds are summarized in tables 4 and 5. _Grassland Habitats_ Twenty-three species of our total can be called grassland species (Table 1). The subtotal is less than one-fifth of the Kansan avifauna, but it represents 72 per cent of the grassland birds of North America; grassland habitats abound in Kansas. Only 5.3 per cent of all North American birds are grassland species (Udvardy, 1958). About 56 per cent of these birds are of North American stocks, nine per cent of Eurasian stocks, and three per cent of South American stocks. The percentage of North American species is the greatest for any habitat group here considered. Other characteristics of grassland birds are summarized in tables 4 and 5. TABLE 4.--ANALYSIS BY HABITAT-TYPE AND RESIDENCY STATUS OF HISTORIC AVIAN STOCKS IN KANSAS Column Headings: A: Woodland E: Unanal. Hab. B: Limnic F: Migrant C: Grassland G: Resident D: Xeric Scrub H: Partly Migrant =======================+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+===== \| A \| B \| C \| D \| E \| F \| G \| H -----------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- Old World Element \| 80% \| 0 \| 8% \| 0 \| 12% \| 11% \| 78% \| 11% 27:16% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| North American Element \| 69% \| 6% \| 17% \| 4% \| 4% \| 72% \| 14% \| 14% 77:44% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| South American Element \| 93% \| 0 \| 7% \| 0 \| 0 \| 93% \| 7% \| 0 15:8% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Unanalyzed Origin \| 22% \| 56% \| 13% \| 0 \| 9% \| 79% \| 16% \| 5% 53:32% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| -----------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- _Xeric-Scrub Habitats_ Three species of Kansan birds can be placed in this category (Table 1). This is less than one per cent of the North American avifauna, two per cent of the Kansan avifauna, and ten per cent of the birds of xeric scrub habitats in North America. The three species are considered to be of North American origin. _Unanalyzed as to Habitat_ Eleven species of Kansan birds could not be assigned to any of the habitat-types mentioned above. The total represents two per cent of the North American avifauna, six per cent of the birds of Kansas, and 55 per cent of the species reckoned by Udvardy (_loc. cit._) to be unanalyzable. Fifty-five per cent is a large fraction, but only to be expected: species are considered unanalyzable if they show a broad, indiscriminate use of more than one habitat-type, and such birds tend to be widely distributed. TABLE 5.--ANALYSIS BY ECOLOGIC STATUS AND AREA OF ORIGIN OF MIGRANT AND RESIDENT BIRDS Column headings: A: Woodland F: Old World B: Limnic G: North America C: Grassland H: South America D: Xeric Scrub I: Unanalyzed E: Unanal. Hab. =================+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+===== \| A \| B \| C \| D \| E \| F \| G \| H \| I -----------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- Migrant species \| 52% \| 29% \| 12% \| 1% \| 6% \| 2% \| 49% \| 12% \| 37% 117:67% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Resident species \| 73% \| 0 \| 15% \| 5% \| 7% \| 51% \| 26% \| 2% \| 21% 40:23% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| Partly migrant \| 64% \| 11% \| 17% \| 0 \| 6% \| 17% \| 66% \| 0 \| 17% 17:10% \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| \| -----------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+----- Species Reaching Distributional Limits in Kansas The distributional limits of a species are useful in indicating certain of its adaptive capacities and implying maintenance of or shifts in characteristics of habitats. Although it is generally an oversimplification to ignore abundance when treating of distribution, the present remarks of necessity do not pertain to abundance. TABLE 6.--BREEDING BIRDS REACHING DISTRIBUTIONAL LIMITS IN KANSAS Species reaching northern distributional limits _Florida caerulea_ _Geococcyx californianus_ _Leucophoyx thula_ _Caprimulgus carolinensis_ _Coragyps atratus_ _Muscivora forficata_ _Elanoides forficatus_ _Parus carolinensis_ _Ictinia misisippiensis_ _Vireo atricapillus_ _Tympanuchus pallidicinctus_ _Passerina ciris_ _Callipepla squamata_ _Aimophila cassinii_ Species reaching southern distributional limits _Aythya americana_ _Empidonax minimus_ _Parus atricapillus_ _Steganopus tricolor_ _Bombycilla cedrorum_ _Chlidonias niger_ _Dolichonyx oryzivorus_ _Coccyzus erythropthalmus_ _Pedioecetes phasianellus_ Species reaching eastern distributional limits _Eupoda montana_ _Corvus cryptoleucus_ _Numenius americanus_ _Salpinctes obsoletus_ _Phalaenoptilus nuttallii_ _Icterus bullockii_ _Colaptes cafer_ _Pheucticus melanocephalus_ _Tyrannus verticalis_ _Passerina amoena_ _Sayornis saya_ Species reaching western distributional limits _Aix sponsa_ _Vireo griseus_ _Buteo platypterus_ _V. flavifrons_ _Philohela minor_ _Mniotilta varia_ _Ectopistes migratorius_ _Protonotaria citrea_ _Conuropsis carolinensis_ _Parula americana_ _Chaetura pelagica_ _Dendroica discolor_ _Archilochus colubris_ _Seiurus motacilla_ _Dryocopus pileatus_ _Oporornis formosus_ _Centurus carolinus_ _Wilsonia citrina_ _Myiarchus crinitus_ _Setophaga ruticilla_ _Empidonax virescens_ _Sturnella magna_ _E. traillii_ _Piranga olivacea_ _Parus bicolor_ _Pheucticus ludovicianus_ _Thryothorus ludovicianus_ _Pipilo erythrophthalmus_ _Cistothorus platensis_ _Passerherbulus henslowii_ _Hylocichla mustelina_ _Western Limits Reached in Kansas_ Thirty-one species (tables 6 and 7) reach the western limits of their distribution somewhere in Kansas. Most of these limits are in eastern Kansas, and coincide with the gradual disappearance of the eastern deciduous forest formation. Twenty-nine species are woodland birds, and few of these seem to find satisfactory conditions in the riparian woods extending out through western Kansas. The Wood Thrush is the one woodland species that has been found nesting in the west (Decatur County; Wolfe, 1961). Descriptively, therefore, the dominant reason for the existence of distributional limits in at least 28 of these birds is the lack of suitable woodland in western Kansas; these 28 are the largest single group reaching distributional limits in the State. Many other eastern woodland birds occur in western Kansas along riparian woodlands, as is mentioned below. Two species showing western limits in Kansas are characteristic of grassland habitats; the Eastern Meadowlark seems to disappear with absence of moist or bottomland prairie grassland and the Henslow Sparrow may be limited westerly by disappearance of tall-grass prairie. The Short-billed Marsh Wren, a marginal limnic species, reaches its southwesterly mid-continental breeding limits in northeastern Kansas. The species breeds in Kansas in two or three years of each ten, in summers having unusually high humidity. _Northern Limits Reached in Kansas_ Fourteen species (tables 6 and 7) reach their northern distributional limits in Kansas. Eight of these are birds of woodland habitats, but of these only the Carolina Chickadee is a species of the eastern deciduous woodlands; the other seven live in less mesic woodland. Three of these species (Chuck-will's-Widow, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher and Painted Bunting) have breeding ranges that suggest the northwesterly occurrences of summer humid warm air masses ("gulf fronts") and this environmental feature perhaps is of major importance for these birds, as it is also for the vegetational substratum in which the birds live. The Lesser Prairie Chicken and the Cassin Sparrow are the two birds of grasslands that are limited northerly in Kansas. Xeric, sandy grassland is chiefly limited to the southwestern quarter of Kansas, and this limitation is perhaps of major significance to these two species. The Scaled Quail and Roadrunner tend to drop out as the xeric "desert scrub" conditions of the southwest drop out in Kansas. TABLE 7.--ANALYSIS BY HABITAT-TYPE OF BIRDS REACHING DISTRIBUTIONAL LIMITS IN KANSAS ========================+=============================================== \| Habitat-types DIRECTIONAL +----------+-----------+--------+-------+------- LIMIT \| \| \| \| Xeric \| \| Woodland \| Grassland \| Limnic \| Scrub \| Total ------------------------+----------+-----------+--------+-------+------- Western extent \| 28 \| 2 \| 2 \| 0 \| 31 Northern extent \| 8 \| 2 \| 2 \| 2 \| 14 Eastern extent \| 6 \| 4 \| 0 \| 2 \| 11 Southern extent \| 4 \| 2 \| 3 \| 0 \| 9 +----------+-----------+--------+-------+------- Totals \| 46 \| 10 \| 6 \| 3 \| 65 \| \| \| \| \| Per cent of the Species \| \| \| \| \| in Stated Habitat \| 46 \| 43 \| 14 \| 100 \| 37 ------------------------+----------+-----------+--------+-------+------- _Eastern Limits Reached in Kansas_ Eleven species (tables 6 and 7) reach their eastern distributional limits in Kansas. Six of these are woodland birds. Four of these are members of well-known species-pairs: the Red-shafted Flicker, Bullock Oriole, Black-headed Grosbeak, and Lazuli Bunting. Presence to the east of complementary species has much to do with the absence of these species in eastern Kansas. Four of the eleven are birds of grasslands, and they drop out as the short-grass prairie is restricted easterly. The Rock Wren may be considered characteristic of xeric scrub in Kansas, and it is not found to the east in the absence of such scrub. _Southern Limits Reached in Kansas_ Eight species (tables 6 and 7) reach their southern distributional limits in Kansas. Half of these birds are of woodland habitats, and of these four, the Black-capped Chickadee and Cedar Waxwing are chiefly of sub-boreal distribution. The Black-capped Chickadee also finds its niche partly pre-empted in southern Kansas by the Carolina Chickadee. The Bobolink and Sharp-tailed Grouse are grassland species that are seemingly adapted to cooler, dryer grassland than is found in most of Kansas. The Redhead, Wilson Phalarope, and Black Tern are limnic species, perhaps limited southerly by high summer temperatures; the three species are entirely marginal anywhere in Kansas. TABLE 8.--BIRDS OF THE EASTERN DECIDUOUS FOREST FOUND IN WESTERN KANSAS IN RIPARIAN WOODLAND _Accipiter cooperii_[C] _Coccyzus americanus_[C] _Centurus carolinus_ _Melanerpes erythrocephalus_ _Tyrannus tyrannus_ _Myiarchus crinitus_ _Contopus virens_ _Sayornis phoebe_ _Cyanocitta cristata_ _Dumetella carolinensis_ _Toxostoma rufum_ _Sialia sialis_ _Vireo olivaceus_ _Icterus spurius_[C] _Icterus galbula_ _Quiscula quiscalus_ _Piranga rubra_[A] _Passerina cyanea_ _Richmondena cardinalis_ _Pipilo erythrophthalmus_[C] _Spizella passerina_[C] [C] Breeds farther west in North America in other types of vegetation. _Influence of Riparian Woodland_ Although the largest single element of the Kansan avifauna that reaches distributional limits in Kansas is made up of birds of the eastern deciduous forest, several species of the eastern woodlands are present in Kansas along the east-west river drainages in riparian woodland; the species are listed in Table 8. Twenty-one kinds are involved if we include the Cooper Hawk, Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Orchard Oriole, Summer Tanager, Rufous-sided Towhee, and Chipping Sparrow, all of which breed farther to the west but are present in western Kansas only along river drainages. This leaves 15 species of eastern deciduous woodlands that occur west in Kansas along riparian woodland (_versus_ 30 species that drop out chiefly where eastern woodland drops out). These 15 species are about one-third of all woodland birds in western Kansas. Riparian woodland does not seem to afford first-rate habitat for most of the eastern woodland species that do occur; breeding density seems to be much lower than in well-situated eastern woodland. The importance of these linear woodlands as avenues for gene-flow between eastern and western populations, especially of species-pairs (grosbeaks, flickers, orioles, and buntings), is obviously great. Likewise significant is the existence of these alleys for dispersal from the west of certain species (for instance, the Black-billed Magpie and the Scrub Jay) into new but potentially suitable areas. BREEDING SEASONS Introduction An examination of breeding seasons or schedules is properly undertaken at several levels. The fundamental description of variation in breeding schedules must itself be detailed in several ways and beyond this there are causal factors needing examination. The material below is a summary of the information on breeding schedules of birds in Kansas, treated descriptively and analytically in ways now thought to be of use. Almost any event in actual reproductive activity has been used in the following report; nestbuilding, egg-laying, incubation, brooding of young, feeding of young out of the nest are considered to be of equal status. To any such event days are added or subtracted from the date of observation so as to yield the date when the clutch under consideration was completed. Such corrected dates can be used in making histograms that show the time of primary breeding activity, or the "egg-season." All such schedules are generalizations; data are used for a species from any year of observation, whether 50 years ago or less than one year ago. One advantage of such procedure is that averages and modes are thus more nearly representative of the basic temporal adaptations of the species involved, as is explained below. When information on the schedule of a species from one year is lumped with information from another year or other years, two (and ordinarily more than two) frequency distributions are used to make one frequency distribution. The great advantage here is that the frequency distribution composed of two or more frequency distributions is more stable than any one of its components. Second, the peak of the season, the mode of egg-laying, is represented more broadly than it would have been for any one year alone. Third, the extremes of breeding activity are fairly shown as of minute frequency and thus of limited importance, which would not be true if just one year were graphed. All these considerations combine to support the idea that general schedules in fact represent the basic temporal adaptations of a species much better than schedules for one year only. Variation in Breeding Seasons In the chronology of breeding seasons of birds, there are three basic variables: time at which seasons begin, time at which seasons end, and time in which the major breeding effort occurs. These variables have been examined in one population through time (Lack, 1947; Snow, 1955; Johnston, 1956), in several populations of many species over wide geographic ranges (Baker, 1938; Moreau, 1950; Davis, 1953), and in several populations of one species (Lack, _loc. cit._; Paynter, 1954; Johnston, 1954). The analysis below is concerned with breeding of many kinds of birds of an arbitrarily defined area and with the influence of certain ecologic and zoogeographic factors on the breeding seasons for those several species. THE INFLUENCE OF SEASONAL STATUS.--Here we are interested in whether a species is broadly resident or migrant in Kansas; 70 species are available for analysis. _Resident Species_ Twenty-four species, furnishing 875 records of breeding, are here considered to be resident birds in northeastern Kansas. These species are Cooper Hawk, Red-tailed Hawk, Prairie Chicken, Bobwhite, Rock Dove, Great Horned Owl, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, Horned Lark, Blue Jay, Common Crow, Black-billed Magpie, Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Wren, Bewick Wren, Mockingbird, Eastern Bluebird, Loggerhead Shrike, Starling, House Sparrow, Eastern Meadowlark, and Cardinal. The distribution of completed clutches (Fig. 1) runs from mid-January to mid-September, with a modal period in the first third of May. Conspicuous breeding activity occurs from mid-April to the first third of June. _Migrant Species_ Forty-six species, furnishing 2,522 records of breeding, are considered to be migrant in northeastern Kansas. These species are Great Blue Heron, Green Heron, Swainson Hawk, American Coot, Killdeer, Upland Plover, American Avocet, Least Tern, Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Black-billed Cuckoo, Burrowing Owl, Common Nighthawk, Chimney Swift, Red-headed Woodpecker, Eastern Kingbird, Western Kingbird, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, Great Crested Flycatcher, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Wood Pewee, Bank Swallow, Rough-winged Swallow, Barn Swallow, Purple Martin, Brown Thrasher, Catbird, House Wren, Robin, Wood Thrush, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Bell Vireo, Warbling Vireo, Prothonotary Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Chat, Western Meadowlark, Red-winged Blackbird, Orchard Oriole, Baltimore Oriole, Common Grackle, Black-headed Grosbeak, Indigo Bunting, Dickcissel, Lark Sparrow, and Field Sparrow. The distribution of completed clutches runs from mid-March to the first third of September, with a modal period of egg-laying in the first third of June (Fig. 1). Conspicuous breeding activity occurs from the first third of May to the last third of June. THE INFLUENCE OF DOMINANT FORAGING ADAPTATION.--Five categories here considered reflect broad foraging adaptation: woodland species, taking invertebrate foods in the breeding season from woody vegetation or the soil within wooded habitats; grassland species, taking invertebrate foods in the breeding season from within grassland situations; limnic species, foraging within marshy or aquatic habitats; aerial species, foraging on aerial arthropods; raptors, feeding on vertebrates or large insects. _Raptors_ Six species, furnishing 174 records of breeding, are here considered, as follows: Cooper Hawk, Red-tailed Hawk, Swainson Hawk, Great Horned Owl, Burrowing Owl, and Loggerhead Shrike. The distribution of clutches (Fig. 1) runs from mid-January to the first third of July and is bimodal. One period of egg-laying occurs in mid-February and a second in the last third of April. Such a distribution indicates that two basically independent groups of birds are being considered. The first peak of laying reflects activities of the large raptors, and the second peak is that of the insectivorous Burrowing Owl and Loggerhead Shrike. The peak for these two birds is most nearly coincident with that for grassland species, a category to which the Burrowing Owl might well be relegated. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Histograms representing breeding schedules of ten categories of Kansan birds. Heights of columns indicate percentage of total of clutches of eggs, and widths indicate ten-day intervals of time, with the 5th, 15th, and 25th of each month as medians. The occurrences of monthly means of temperature and precipitation are indicated at the bottom of the figure.] _Limnic Species_ Six species, the Great Blue Heron, Green Heron, American Coot, American Avocet, Least Tern and Red-winged Blackbird, furnish 264 records of breeding. The distribution of clutches (Fig. 1) runs from mid-March to the last third of July and is bimodal. This is another heterogeneous assemblage of birds; the Great Blue Heron is responsible for the first peak, in the first third of April. The other five species, however, show fair consistency and their peak of egg-laying almost coincides with peaks for aerial foragers, woodland species, and migrants, considered elsewhere in this section. _Grassland Species_ Ten species, Greater Prairie Chicken, Bobwhite, Killdeer, Upland Plover, Horned Lark, Starling, Eastern Meadowlark, Western Meadowlark, Common Grackle, and Dickcissel, furnish 404 records of breeding activity. The distribution of clutches (Fig. 1) runs from the first of March to mid-September. The peak of egg-laying occurs in the first third of May. This is coincident with the peak for resident species, perhaps a reflection of the fact that half the species in the present category are residents in northeastern Kansas. _Woodland Species_ In this category are included species characteristic of woodland edge. Thirty-four species, furnishing 1,882 records of breeding, are here treated: Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Black-billed Cuckoo, "flicker" (includes birds thought to be relatively pure red-shafted, pure yellow-shafted, as well as clear hybrids), Red-bellied Woodpecker, Red-headed Woodpecker, Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, Blue Jay, Black-billed Magpie, Common Crow, Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Wren, Bewick Wren, House Wren, Brown Thrasher, Catbird, Mockingbird, Robin, Wood Thrush, Eastern Bluebird, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Bell Vireo, Warbling Vireo, Prothonotary Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Chat, Orchard Oriole, Baltimore Oriole, Cardinal, Black-headed Grosbeak, Indigo Bunting, Lark Sparrow, and Field Sparrow. The distribution of clutches runs from the first third of March to mid-September (Fig. 1). The modal period for completed clutches is the first third of June. Conspicuous breeding activity occurs from the first third of May to mid-June. The distribution of the season in time is almost identical with that for migrant species, reflecting the large number of migrant species in woodland habitats in Kansas. _Aerial Foragers_ Twelve species, Common Nighthawk, Chimney Swift, Eastern Kingbird, Western Kingbird, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, Great Crested Flycatcher, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Wood Pewee, Bank Swallow, Rough-winged Swallow, Barn Swallow, and Purple Martin, furnish 587 records of breeding. The distribution of clutches (Fig. 1) extends from the last third of March to the first third of August, and the modal date of clutches is in the first third of June. Conspicuous breeding activity occurs from the end of May to the end of June. The peak of nesting essentially coincides with that characteristic of migrants. Zoogeographic Categories Three categories of Mayr (1946) are of use in analyzing trends in breeding schedules of birds in Kansas. These categories of presumed ultimate evolutionary origin are the "Old World Element," the "North American Element," and the "South American Element." Not always have I agreed with Mayr's assignments of species to these categories, and such differences are noted. There is some obvious overlap between these categories and those discussed previously. _Old World Element_ Eighteen species, Red-tailed Hawk, Rock Dove, Great Horned Owl, Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, Black-billed Magpie, Common Crow, Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Robin, Loggerhead Shrike, Starling, House Sparrow, Bank Swallow, Barn Swallow, and Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, furnish 969 records of breeding (Fig. 1). Species for which I have records but which are not here listed are the Blue Jay and the Wood Thrush, both of which I consider to be better placed with the North American Element. The distribution of completed clutches runs from mid-January to the first third of August, and shows a tendency toward bimodality. The second, smaller peak is due to the inclusion of relatively large samples of three migrant species (Robin, Bank Swallow, and Barn Swallow). The timing of the breeding seasons of these three species is in every respect like that of most other migrants; if they are removed from the present sample the bimodality disappears, indicating an increase in homogeneity of the unit. _North American Element_ Twenty-six species, Greater Prairie Chicken, Bobwhite, "flicker," Rough-winged Swallow, Purple Martin, Blue Jay, Carolina Wren, Bewick Wren, House Wren, Mockingbird, Catbird, Brown Thrasher, Wood Thrush, Bell Vireo, Warbling Vireo, Prothonotary Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Chat, Eastern Meadowlark, Western Meadowlark, Red-winged Blackbird, Orchard Oriole, Baltimore Oriole, Common Grackle, Lark Sparrow, and Field Sparrow, furnish 1,233 records of breeding (Fig. 1). The distribution of completed clutches runs from the first third of April to the first third of September. The modal date for completion of clutches is June 1. _South American Element_ Twelve species, Eastern Kingbird, Western Kingbird, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, Great Crested Flycatcher, Yellow-bellied Flycatcher, Traill Flycatcher, Eastern Wood Pewee, Eastern Phoebe, Cardinal, Black-headed Grosbeak, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and Indigo Bunting, furnish 552 records of breeding (Fig. 1). The curve representing this summary schedule is bimodal, wholly as a result of including the Eastern Phoebe and the Cardinal with this sample. _Relationship of Schedules to Temperature and Precipitation_ In outlining the ten categories above, attention has been given to certain similarities and differences in the frequency distributions. A slightly more refined way of comparing the frequency distributions is to relate them to other, seasonally variable phenomena. Figure 1 shows the frequency distributions of egg-laying of these ten categories of birds in terms of the regular changes in mean temperature and mean precipitation characteristic of the environments in which these birds live in the breeding season. Table 9 shows that there are two basic groups of birds according to peak of egg-laying and incidence of precipitation; raptors, birds of Eurasian origin, resident birds, and birds of grassland habitats tend to have their peaks of egg-laying prior to the peak of spring-summer rains, and the other six categories tend to have their peaks of egg-laying occur in the time of spring-summer rains. Regarding temperature, there are four categories of birds; these are evident in the table. Some of the correspondences deserve comment. Residents and grassland species both breed before the rains come and before mean temperatures reach 70°F., and this correspondence probably results from most of the grassland species being residents. Contrariwise, most birds of Eurasian stocks are residents, but not all residents are of such stocks; the two groups are discrete when mean temperature at breeding is considered. Woodland birds, aerial foragers, and birds of South American evolutionary stocks breed after temperatures surpass 70°F. on the average. Almost all such species are migrants, but many migrants have different temporal characteristics, and the categories thus are shown to be discrete on the basis of temperature at time
1931 253-4 3-4 50m-100m 2.75 12.00 1933 255-74 5-24 1m-200m 6.50 26.00 170-4 25-29 5m-20m .65 2.75 _ERITREA_ 1934 500-5 1-6 25c-2L .50 2.00 800-9 7-16 25c/10c-25L/2L 4.00 16.00 100 25L/2L 17.50 75.00 _ESTONIA_ 1920-23 201-3 1-3 5m-15m .80 4.00 1923 204-6 4-6 10m-45m 3.00 14.00 207-8 7-8 10m, 20m 5.00 25.00 1924 212-16 9-13 5m-45m .65 2.75 1928 218-22 14-18 5m-45m .45 2.00 _ETHIOPIA_ 1929 451-61 1-10 1/8m-3t 2.75 12.00 1931 462-68 11-17 1g-3t 2.75 12.00 _FINLAND_ 1930 401 1 10m 1.25 5.00 _FRANCE_ 1927 351-2 1-2 2F, 5F 1.25 5.00 1928 353-4 3-4 10F/90c, 10F/1F50 125.00 650.00 1930 355 5 1F50 .15 .75 356 6 1F50 .15 .75 1934 357 7 2F25 .20 .80 1936 8-13 85c-3F50 1.35 5.40 _FRENCH GUIANA_ 1933 301-08 1-8 50c-20F 3.85 15.50 _FRENCH MOROCCO_ 1922 501 1 75c 5.50 35.00 502-11 2-11 1F-3F 1.50 6.00 1928 551-60 12-21 5c-5F 2.75 11.00 1929 561-70 22-31 5c-5F 2.75 11.00 1931 512-13 32-33 1F-1F50 .35 1.40 1933 514-19 34-39 50c-10F 1.85 7.40 1935 571 40 1F50/1F50 .45 2.00 _FRENCH OCEANICA_ 1934 250 1 5F .45 1.80 _GERMANY_ 1919-23 601-21 1-19 10pf-200m .35 1.50 1924 622-28 20-26 5pf-300pf 4.50 18.00 1926 629-36 27-34 5pf-15pf 3.75 15.00 1928 637-8 35-36 2m-4m 4.00 16.00 1930 639-40 37-38 2m-4m 10.00 50.00 1931 641 39 1m .60 2.50 642-44 40-42 1m-4m 16.00 85.00 1933 645-47 43-45 1m-4m 6.00 25.00 1934 648-58 46-56 5pf-3m 4.75 19.00 1936 57 40pf .25 1.00 58-59 50pf, 75pf .65 2.60 _GREECE_ 1926 751-4 1-4 2d-10d .30 1.50 1933 755-7 5-7 30d-120d 3.50 14.00 1933 758-64 8-14 50l-50d 1.50 6.00 765-71 15-21 50l-50d 1.50 6.00 1935 772-80 22-30 1d-100d 3.10 12.40 _GUATEMALA_ 1929 701-4 1-4 3c-20c .75 3.75 704d 5 5c on 15p .50 2.50 705 6 3c on 2.50p .30 1.50 1930 706 7 6c .12 .60 707-11 8-12 1c-10c .40 2.00 1931 712-13 13-14 4c-6c .15 .75 714-15 15-16 15c-30c .75 4.50 716-18 17-19 2c-15c 2.00 10.00 1932 719-23 20-24 2c-15c .70 3.50 1933 724 25 4c .10 .40 1934 725-27 26-28 2c-15c .30 1.20 1935 728-30 29-31 10c-30c .75 3.00 1936 731-39 32-40 2c-1q 6.50 26.00 740-50 41-51 1c-1q 7.50 20.00 _HAITI_ 1929-30 401-4 1-4 25c-1g .75 3.75 1933 405-6 5-6 50c-1g .45 1.60 324 7 60c on 20c 3.00 12.00 407-8 8-9 50c-60c .35 1.40 _HONDURAS_ 1925 401 1 5c (B) 25.00 200.00 402 2 5c (B1) 75.00 500.00 403 4 10c (R) 25.00 200.00 404 5 10c (B) 900.00 405 6 20c (B) 25.00 200.00 406 7 20c (B1) 90.00 600.00 407 8 50c (B) 100.00 850.00 408 9 1p (B) 200.00 1,500.00 409 11 25c on 1c (B) 25.00 200.00 410 12 25c on 5c (B1) 50.00 300.00 411 13 25c on 20c (B1) 60.00 400.00 1929 15-19 50c-50c/20c 6.00 25.00 412 20 25c on 50c 2.00 10.00 413-15 21-23 5c/20c-15c/1p 3.75 15.00 416-17 24-25 5c/10c-20c/50c .70 3.50 1930 418 26 5c on 10c (R) .15 .75 419 27 5c on 10c (Y) 300.00 1,500.00 420 28 5c on 20c (B1) 40.00 200.00 421 29 10c on 20c (B) .40 2.00 422 30 10c on 20c (V) 300.00 1,500.00 423 31 25c on 50c (B) .40 2.00 425-27 32-34 5c-20c .75 3.75 428 35 10c on 5c on 20c .20 1.00 429 36 10c on 10c on 20c 50.00 250.00 430 37 50c on 25c on 1p 1.25 6.25 431 38 5c on 20c .20 1.00 432 39 5c on 10c 300.00 1,500.00 433 40 5c on 20c 300.00 1,500.00 434 41 25c on 50c 200.00 1,000.00 435 42 20c on 50c 500.00 2,500.00 436 43 50c .75 3.75 438-40 44-46 20c-1p 1.50 7.50 441-45 47-51 5c-1p 2.00 8.50 446-50 10c-5c/6c 2.00 10.00 451-55 5c-1p 4.50 22.50 456-59 79-82 15c/20c-15c/1p 5.50 27.50 460-63 83-86 15c/20c-15c/50c 3.60 16.00 464-72 87-95 1c-1p 2.50 10.00 473-75 105-7 15c/2c-15c/10c .45 1.50 476 108 15c on 10c 125.00 500.00 477-83 132-38 8c-1L 1.65 6.50 _HUNGARY_ 1918 951-2 1-2 1k50-4k50 .50 2.50 1920 953-5 2-4 3k-12k .07 .12 1924 956-61 5-10 100k-10,000k .50 2.50 1927 962-69 11-18 12f-80f 1.50 6.00 1930 970-73 19-22 4f-5p 4.25 17.00 1931 974-75 22-23 1p-2p 1.25 6.25 1933 976-84 24-32 1Of-5p 3.75 15.00 _ICELAND_ 1928 301 1 10a .08 .40 1929 302 2 50a .20 1.00 1930 303 3 10a .05 .20 304-8 4-8 15a-1k 1.00 5.00 1931 309-11 9-11 30a-2k 1.00 5.00 1933 312-14 12-14 5k-10k 7.00 35.00 1934 315-20 15-20 10a-2k 1.40 6.00 1930 331 100 10a .30 _INDIA_ 1929 501-6 1-6 2a-12a 3.50 15.00 _INDO-CHINA_ 1933 701-14 1-14 1c-10pi 18.50 75.00 _ITALIAN COLONIES_ 1932 301-06 1-6 50c-10L/2L50 3.85 15.25 307-11 7-11 50c-5L/1L 1.35 5.00 312 12 100L 12.00 50.00 400-1 13-14 2L25/1L, 4L50/1L50 1.10 4.40 1933 313-19 15-21 50c-50L 3.75 15.00 320-27 22-29 50c-50L 4.25 17.00 1934 328 30 25L 1.10 4.40 329-35 31-37 50c-50L 4.50 18.00 _ITALIAN SOMALILAND_ 1934 300-5 1-6 25c-2L .50 2.00 1934 700-9 7-16 25c/10c-25L/2L 4.00 16.00 50 25L/2L 17.50 70.00 _ITALY_ 1917-28 1001-11 1-11 25c-80c 1.50 6.00 1930 1012-16 12-16 50c-5L 1.10 4.40 1017-19 17-19 50c-5L/2L 1.00 4.00 1020-23 20-23 50c-9L/2L 1.60 6.40 1024 24 10L 1.20 4.80 1931 1025 25 7L70 9.00 40.00 1932 1026-31 26-31 50c-10L/2L50 3.75 15.00 1032-36 32-36 50c-5L/1L 1.35 5.40 1037-38 37-38 25c-75c .15 .60 1481-82 39-40 2L25/1L, 4L50/1L50 1.20 4.80 1039 41 100L 12.00 50.00 1040-41 42-43 50c, 75c .15 .60 1933 1483 44 2L25 .30 1.20 1042-47 45-50 3L-20L 5.75 23.00 1048-49 51-52 5L25/19L74, 5L25/44L75 12.00 50.00 1050-51 53-54 50c/25c, 75c/50c .30 1.25 1934 1052-55 55-58 2L/2L-10L/2L 1.75 7.00 1056-61 (59-66) 25c-4L50/2L 3.00 12.00 & 1484-5 1062-65 67-70 50c-10L/5L 2.75 9.50 1487 71 2L .25 1.00 1486 72 2L/1L25 .40 1.60 1066-72 (73-81) 25c-4L50/2L 2.75 11.00 & 1488-89 1073-78 82-87 1L-10L 2.25 9.00 1600 88 50c/50c .12 .50 89-93 25c-5L/2L 1.25 5.00 94-97 20c-1L25 .30 1.20 1261 200 5L25/44L75 25.00 125.00 1262 201 10L 8.50 35.00 _JAPAN_ 1919 451-2 1-2 1½s, 3s 4.75 20.00 1929 453-57 3-7 8½s-33s .50 2.00 1934 8 Exhibition sheet of 4 1.00 _JUGOSLAVIA_ 1934 1000-04 1-5 50pa-10d .60 2.50 1005 6 3d .25 1.00 _KUWAIT_ 1933-34 200-03 1-4 2a-6a 13.25 66.25 _LATAKIA_ 1931 301-10 1-10 Op50-100pi 4.00 16.00 1933 311 11 Op50 .03 .15 _LATVIA_ 1921 251-2 1-2 10r, 20r .40 253-4 3-4 10r, 20r 1.50 1928 255-7 6-7 10s-25s .25 1930 8-11 10s/20s-15s/30s 10.00 40.00 1931 258-60 12-14 10s-25s .25 301-6 15-20 10s/5Os-25s/1.50 1.10 1932 307-12 21-26 10s/20s-25s/50s 3.50 27-36 5s/25s-25s/125s 6.00 28.00 1933 37-44 2s/52s-20s/70s 4.00 16.00 45-50 3s/53s-35s/135s 4.00 51-58 8s/68s-40s/190s 10.00 40.00 _LEBANON_ 1924 201-4 1-4 2pi-10pi 1.75 7.00 205-8 5-8 2pi-10pi 1.25 5.00 1925 209-12 9-12 2pi-10pi .35 1.40 1926 213-16 13-16 2pi-10pi .50 2.00 413-16 17-20 2pi-10pi .55 2.75 1927 217-20 21-24 2pi-10pi .40 1.60 1928 221-24 25-28 2pi-10pi 1.10 4.50 225-28 29-32 2pi-10pi .40 1.60 229-32 37-40 2pi-10pi 35.00 150.00 1929-30 233-36 41-44 Op50-25pi 5.50 22.00 237 45 Op50 on Op75 .04 .20 238 46 2Opi on 1p25 .05 .25 1930-31 239-48 47-56 Op50-100pi 4.00 16.00 _LIBIA_ 1928 151-2 1-2 50c, 80c .25 1.25 _LIECHTENSTEIN_ 1930 401-6 1-6 15rp-1F 2.25 11.00 1931 407-8 7-8 1F, 2F 2.00 9.00 1934-35 409-13 9-13 10rp-50rp 1.00 4.00 1935 414 14 60rp on 1F .75 3.75 _LITHUANIA_ 1921 401-7 1-7 2Osk-5auk 1.25 5.00 408-14 8-14 2Osk-5auk .45 2.50 1922 415-17 15-17 1auk-5auk .25 418-20 18-20 2auk-10auk .60 2.50 421-31 21-31 10c-1L 5.00 25.00 1924 432-35 32-35 20c-1L .60 2.40 36 20c 40.00 160.00 438 37 60c 30.00 150.00 551-54 38-41 20c/20c-1L/1L 1.20 5.00 42 60c/60c 30.00 150.00 1926 440-42 43-45 20c-60c .25 1.00 1930 443-49 46-52 5c-1L .40 1.60 1932 450-65 53-68 5c-2L 1.50 6.00 69-84 5c-2L 2.50 10.00 1933 85-89 20c-2L 30.00 150.00 90-105 5c-2L 2.75 11.00 1934 106-21 5c-2L 2.75 11.00 466-71 122-27 20c-5L 3.00 12.00 _LUXEMBURG_ 1931 501-4 1-4 75c-1¾F .30 1.25 1933 505-6 5-6 1F50, 3F .30 1.25 _MADAGASCAR_ 1935 300-12 1-13 50c-20F 8.25 33.00 _MALTA_ 1926 601 1 6p .25 1.00 _MEMEL_ 1921 301-7 1-7 60pf/40c-3m/60c 6.50 27.50 1922 308-19 8-19 40pf/40c-4m/2F 5.75 25.00 320-30 20-29 40pf/40c-9m/5F .80 3.25 _MEXICO_ 1922 901a 1 50c 9.00 45.00 1927 902 2 50c .40 1.75 901 3 50c 2.00 10.00 1928 903 4 25c .25 1.00 905 5 25c .15 .60 1929 906-11 15-20 5c-1p 1.35 6.00 913-22 21-28 10c-10p 8.50 34.00 1929-30 923-28 29-33 10c-50c .60 2.40 930-31 34-35 20c, 40c 3.00 15.00 1930 932 36 10c .08 .40 933-34 37-38 5c, 15c .25 1.25 935-40 39-44 5c-1p 1.50 7.00 1931 941 45 25c .15 .60 941a 45a 25c 3.00 15.00 942 46 15c/20c .75 3.75 943 47 15c/20c .10 .40 1932 944 48 5c .03 .12 947-51 49-53 5c-50c 1.00 4.00 952 59 20c/25c .10 .40 952a 60 20c/25c 3.00 15.00 953 61 30c-20c .85 4.00 954 62 40c/25c .25 1.00 955 63 40c/25c 1.00 5.00 956 64 30c/20c .15 .60 957 65 80c/25c .50 2.00 1933 958-60 66-68 20c-1p 3.00 15.00 1934 961 69 50c .30 1.20 962-69 70-77 20c-20p 40.00 200.00 970 78 20c .10 .40 971 79 30c .15 .60 972-79 80-87 5c-5p 3.25 13.00 1935 980 88 30c .50 2.50 89 20c 200.00 1,000.00 981 90 20c .10 .40 982 91 40c .20 .80 1929 1151 201 25c .40 1.75 1152 202 25c .80 4.00 203 25c 2.50 12.60 1153-59 204-10 2c-40c 35.00 175.00 1160 211 1p 215.00 1,050.00 1930 1161 212 20c .15 .75 213 20c 4.00 20.00 1164-68 214-17 20c-70c 1.00 4.00 1931 1168 218 15c/20c .10 .40 1932 1169 219 5c .03 .12 1170 220 50c 125.00 750.00 1171 221 50c .25 1.00 1172 222 10c 1.25 5.00 1173 223 15c 10.00 50.00 1174 224 10c .05 .20 1175 225 15c .10 .40 1176 226 20c .70 3.00 1933 1178 227 5c .05 .25 1179 228 20c .10 .40 1180 229 50c .25 1.00 1934 1181 230 10c .05 .20 1182 231 50c .30 1.25 1183 232 10c 6.00 25.00 _MONACO_ 1933 601 1 1F50/5C .15.60 _MOZAMBIQUE COMPANY_ 1935 165-74 1-10 5c-80c .25 1.00 250-64 11-25 5c-20E 2.75 11.00 _NETHERLANDS_ 1921 701-3 1-3 10c-60c 1.50 7.50 1928 704-5 4-5 40c-75c 1.15 5.75 1929 706-8 6-8 1½gld-7½gld 12.00 50.00 1931 709 9 36c .35 1.50 1933 710 10 30c .45 1935 409 11 6c/4c .10 .40 _NEW CALEDONIA_ 1932 164-65 1-2 40c, 50c 35.00 175
with the requirements of vision. A star transmits to us its feeble rays of light, and from those rays the image is formed. Even with the most widely-opened pupil, it may, however, happen that the image is not bright enough to excite the sensation of vision. Here the telescope comes to our aid: it catches all the rays in a beam whose original dimensions were far too great to allow of its admission through the pupil. The action of the lenses concentrates those rays into a stream slender enough to pass through the small opening. We thus have the brightness of the image on the retina intensified. It is illuminated with nearly as much light as would be collected from the same object through a pupil as large as the great lenses of the telescope. [Illustration: Fig. 1.--Principle of the Refracting Telescope.] In astronomical observatories we employ telescopes of two entirely different classes. The more familiar forms are those known as _refractors_, in which the operation of condensing the rays of light is conducted by refraction. The character of the refractor is shown in Fig. 1. The rays from the star fall upon the object-glass at the end of the telescope, and on passing through they become refracted into a converging beam, so that all intersect at the focus. Diverging from thence, the rays encounter the eye-piece, which has the effect of restoring them to parallelism. The large cylindrical beam which poured down on the object-glass has been thus condensed into a small one, which can enter the pupil. It should, however, be added that the composite nature of light requires a more complex form of object-glass than the simple lens here shown. In a refracting telescope we have to employ what is known as the achromatic combination, consisting of one lens of flint glass and one of crown glass, adjusted to suit each other with extreme care. [Illustration: Fig. 2.--The Dome of the South Equatorial at Dunsink Observatory Co Dublin.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.--Section of the Dome of Dunsink Observatory.] The appearance of an astronomical observatory, designed to accommodate an instrument of moderate dimensions, is shown in the adjoining figures. The first (Fig. 2) represents the dome erected at Dunsink Observatory for the equatorial telescope, the object-glass of which was presented to the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, by the late Sir James South. The main part of the building is a cylindrical wall, on the top of which reposes a hemispherical roof. In this roof is a shutter, which can be opened so as to allow the telescope in the interior to obtain a view of the heavens. The dome is capable of revolving so that the opening may be turned towards that part of the sky where the object happens to be situated. The next view (Fig. 3) exhibits a section through the dome, showing the machinery by which the attendant causes it to revolve, as well as the telescope itself. The eye of the observer is placed at the eye-piece, and he is represented in the act of turning a handle, which has the power of slowly moving the telescope, in order to adjust the instrument accurately on the celestial body which it is desired to observe. The two lenses which together form the object-glass of this instrument are twelve inches in diameter, and the quality of the telescope mainly depends on the accuracy with which these lenses have been wrought. The eye-piece is a comparatively simple matter. It consists merely of one or two small lenses; and various eye-pieces can be employed, according to the magnifying power which may be desired. It is to be observed that for many purposes of astronomy high magnifying powers are not desirable. There is a limit, too, beyond which the magnification cannot be carried with advantage. The object-glass can only collect a certain quantity of light from the star; and if the magnifying power be too great, this limited amount of light will be thinly dispersed over too large a surface, and the result will be found unsatisfactory. The unsteadiness of the atmosphere still further limits the extent to which the image may be advantageously magnified, for every increase of power increases in the same degree the atmospheric disturbance. A telescope mounted in the manner here shown is called an _equatorial_. The convenience of this peculiar style of supporting the instrument consists in the ease with which the telescope can be moved so as to follow a star in its apparent journey across the sky. The necessary movements of the tube are given by clockwork driven by a weight, so that, once the instrument has been correctly pointed, the star will remain in the observer's field of view, and the effect of the apparent diurnal movement will be neutralised. The last refinement in this direction is the application of an electrical arrangement by which the driving of the instrument is controlled from the standard clock of the observatory. [Illustration: Fig. 4.--The Telescope at Yerkes Observatory, Chicago. (_From the Astrophysical Journal, Vol. vi., No. 1._)] The power of a refracting telescope--so far as the expression has any definite meaning--is to be measured by the diameter of its object-glass. There has, indeed, been some honourable rivalry between the various civilised nations as to which should possess the greatest refracting telescope. Among the notable instruments that have been successfully completed is that erected in 1881 by Sir Howard Grubb, of Dublin, at the splendid observatory at Vienna. Its dimensions may be estimated from the fact that the object-glass is two feet and three inches in diameter. Many ingenious contrivances help to lessen the inconvenience incident to the use of an instrument possessing such vast proportions. Among them we may here notice the method by which the graduated circles attached to the telescope are brought within view of the observer. These circles are necessarily situated at parts of the instrument which lie remote from the eye-piece where the observer is stationed. The delicate marks and figures are, however, easily read from a distance by a small auxiliary telescope, which, by suitable reflectors, conducts the rays of light from the circles to the eye of the observer. [Illustration: Fig. 5.--Principle of Herschel's Refracting Telescope.] Numerous refracting telescopes of exquisite perfection have been produced by Messrs. Alvan Clark, of Cambridgeport, Boston, Mass. One of their most famous telescopes is the great Lick Refractor now in use on Mount Hamilton in California. The diameter of this object-glass is thirty-six inches, and its focal length is fifty-six feet two inches. A still greater effort has recently been made by the same firm in the refractor of forty inches aperture for the Yerkes Observatory of the University of Chicago. The telescope, which is seventy-five feet in length, is mounted under a revolving dome ninety feet in diameter, and in order to enable the observer to reach the eye-piece without using very large step-ladders, the floor of the room can be raised and lowered through a range of twenty-two feet by electric motors. This is shown in Fig. 4, while the south front of the Yerkes Observatory is represented in Fig. 6. [Illustration: Fig. 6.--South Front of the Yerkes Observatory, Chicago. (_From the Astrophysical Journal, Vol. vi., No. 1._)] [Illustration: Fig. 7.--Lord Rosse's Telescope.] Within the last few years two fine telescopes have been added to the instrumental equipment of the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, both by Sir H. Grubb. One of these, containing a 28-inch object-glass, has been erected on a mounting originally constructed for a smaller instrument by Sir G. Airy. The other, presented by Sir Henry Thompson, is of 26 inches aperture, and is adapted for photographic work. There is a limit to the size of the refractor depending upon the material of the object-glass. Glass manufacturers seem to experience unusual difficulties in their attempts to form large discs of optical glass pure enough and uniform enough to be suitable for telescopes. These difficulties are enhanced with every increase in the size of the discs, so that the cost has a tendency to increase at a very much greater rate. It may be mentioned in illustration that the price paid for the object-glass of the Lick telescope exceeded ten thousand pounds. There is, however, an alternative method of constructing a telescope, in which the difficulty we have just mentioned does not arise. The principle of the simplest form of _reflector_ is shown in Fig. 5, which represents what is called the Herschelian instrument. The rays of light from the star under observation fall on a mirror which is both carefully shaped and highly polished. After reflection, the rays proceed to a focus, and diverging from thence, fall on the eye-piece, by which they are restored to parallelism, and thus become adapted for reception in the eye. It was essentially on this principle (though with a secondary flat mirror at the upper end of the tube reflecting the rays at a right angle to the side of the tube, where the eye-piece is placed) that Sir Isaac Newton constructed the little reflecting telescope which is now treasured by the Royal Society. A famous instrument of the Newtonian type was built, half a century ago, by the late Earl of Rosse, at Parsonstown. It is represented in Fig. 7. The colossal aperture of this instrument has never been surpassed; it has, indeed, never been rivalled. The mirror or speculum, as it is often called, is a thick metallic disc, composed of a mixture of two parts of copper with one of tin. This alloy is so hard and brittle as to make the necessary mechanical operations difficult to manage. The material admits, however, of a brilliant polish, and of receiving and retaining an accurate figure. The Rosse speculum--six feet in diameter and three tons in weight--reposes at the lower end of a telescope fifty-five feet long. The tube is suspended between two massive castellated walls, which form an imposing feature on the lawn at Birr Castle. This instrument cannot be turned about towards every part of the sky, like the equatorials we have recently been considering. The great tube is only capable of elevation in altitude along the meridian, and of a small lateral movement east and west of the meridian. Every star or nebula visible in the latitude of Parsonstown (except those very near the pole) can, however, be observed in the great telescope, if looked for at the right time. [Illustration: Fig. 8.--Meridian Circle.] Before the object reaches the meridian, the telescope must be adjusted at the right elevation. The necessary power is transmitted by a chain from a winch at the northern end of the walls to a point near the upper end of the tube. By this contrivance the telescope can be raised or lowered, and an ingenious system of counterpoises renders the movement equally easy at all altitudes. The observer then takes his station in one of the galleries which give access to the eye-piece; and when the right moment has arrived, the star enters the field of view. Powerful mechanism drives the great instrument, so as to counteract the diurnal movement, and thus the observer can retain the object in view until he has made his measurements or finished his drawing. Of late years reflecting telescopes have been generally made with mirrors of glass covered with a thin film of silver, which is capable of reflecting much more light than the surface of a metallic mirror. Among great reflectors of this kind we may mention two, of three and five feet aperture respectively, with which Dr. Common has done valuable work. We must not, however, assume that for the general work in an observatory a colossal instrument is the most suitable. The mighty reflector, or refractor, is chiefly of use where unusually faint objects are being examined. For work in which accurate measurements are made of objects not particularly difficult to see, telescopes of smaller dimensions are more suitable. The fundamental facts about the heavenly bodies have been chiefly learned from observations obtained with instruments of moderate optical power, specially furnished so as to enable precise measures of position to be secured. Indeed, in the early stages of astronomy, important determinations of position were effected by contrivances which showed the direction of the object without any telescopic aid. Perhaps the most valuable measurements obtained in our modern observatories are yielded by that instrument of precision known as the _meridian circle_. It is impossible, in any adequate account of the Story of the Heavens, to avoid some reference to this indispensable aid to astronomical research, and therefore we shall give a brief account of one of its simpler forms, choosing for this purpose a great instrument in the Paris Observatory, which is represented in Fig. 8. The telescope is attached at its centre to an axis at right angles to its length. Pivots at each extremity of this axis rotate upon fixed bearings, so that the movements of the telescope are completely restricted to the plane of the meridian. Inside the eye-piece of the telescope extremely fine vertical fibres are stretched. The observer watches the moon, or star, or planet enter the field of view; and he notes by the clock the exact time, to the fraction of a second, at which the object passes over each of the lines. A silver band on the circle attached to the axis is divided into degrees and subdivisions of a degree, and as this circle moves with the telescope, the elevation at which the instrument is pointed will be indicated. For reading the delicately engraved marks and figures on the silver, microscopes are necessary. These are shown in the sketch, each one being fixed into an aperture in the wall which supports one end of the instrument. At the opposite side is a lamp, the light from which passes through the perforated axis of the pivot, and is thence ingeniously deflected by mirrors so as to provide the requisite illumination for the lines at the focus. The fibres which the observer sees stretched over the field of view of the telescope demand a few words of explanation. We require for this purpose a material which shall be very fine and fairly durable, as well as somewhat elastic, and of no appreciable weight. These conditions cannot be completely fulfilled by any metallic wire, but they are exquisitely realised in the beautiful thread which is spun by the spider. The delicate fibres are stretched with nice skill across the field of view of the telescope, and cemented in their proper places. With instruments so beautifully appointed we can understand the precision attained in modern observations. The telescope is directed towards a star, and the image of the star is a minute point of light. When that point coincides with the intersection of the two central spider lines the telescope is properly sighted. We use the word sighted designedly, because we wish to suggest a comparison between the sighting of a rifle at the target and the sighting of a telescope at a star. Instead of the ordinary large bull's-eye, suppose that the target only consisted of a watch-dial, which, of course, the rifleman could not see at the distance of any ordinary range. But with the telescope of the meridian circle the watch-dial would be visible even at the distance of a mile. The meridian circle is indeed capable of such precision as a sighting instrument that it could be pointed separately to each of two stars which subtend at the eye an angle no greater than that subtended by an adjoining pair of the sixty minute dots around the circumference of a watch-dial a mile distant from the observer. This power of directing the instrument so accurately would be of but little avail unless it were combined with arrangements by which, when once the telescope has been pointed correctly, the position of the star can be ascertained and recorded. One element in the determination of the position is secured by the astronomical clock, which gives the moment when the object crosses the central vertical wire; the other element is given by the graduated circle which reads the angular distance of the star from the zenith or point directly overhead. Superb meridian instruments adorn our great observatories, and are nightly devoted to those measurements upon which the great truths of astronomy are mainly based. These instruments have been constructed with refined skill; but it is the duty of the painstaking astronomer to distrust the accuracy of his instrument in every conceivable way. The great tube may be as rigid a structure as mechanical engineers can produce; the graduations on the circle may have been engraved by the most perfect of dividing machines; but the conscientious astronomer will not be content with mere mechanical precision. That meridian circle which, to the uninitiated, seems a marvellous piece of workmanship, possessing almost illimitable accuracy, is viewed in a very different light by the astronomer who makes use of it. No one can appreciate more fully than he the skill of the artist who has made that meridian circle, and the beautiful contrivances for illumination and reading off which give to the instrument its perfection; but while the astronomer recognises the beauty of the actual machine he is using, he has always before his mind's eye an ideal instrument of absolute perfection, to which the actual meridian circle only makes an approximation. Contrasted with the ideal instrument, the finest meridian circle is little more than a mass of imperfections. The ideal tube is perfectly rigid, the actual tube is flexible; the ideal divisions of the circle are perfectly uniform, the actual divisions are not uniform. The ideal instrument is a geometrical embodiment of perfect circles, perfect straight lines, and perfect right angles; the actual instrument can only show approximate circles, approximate straight lines, and approximate right angles. Perhaps the spider's part of the work is on the whole the best; the stretched web gives us the nearest mechanical approach to a perfectly straight line; but we mar the spider's work by not being able to insert those beautiful threads with perfect uniformity, while our attempts to adjust two of them across the field of view at right angles do not succeed in producing an angle of exactly ninety degrees. Nor are the difficulties encountered by the meridian observer due solely to his instrument. He has to contend against his own imperfections; he has often to allow for personal peculiarities of an unexpected nature; the troubles that the atmosphere can give are notorious; while the levelling of his instrument warns him that he cannot even rely on the solid earth itself. We learn that the earthquakes, by which the solid ground is sometimes disturbed, are merely the more conspicuous instances of incessant small movements in the earth which every night in the year derange the delicate adjustment of the instrument. When the existence of these errors has been recognised, the first great step has been taken. By an alliance between the astronomer and the mathematician it is possible to measure the discrepancies between the actual meridian circle and the instrument that is ideally perfect. Once this has been done, we can estimate the effect which the irregularities produce on the observations, and finally, we succeed in purging the observations from the grosser errors by which they are contaminated. We thus obtain results which are not indeed mathematically accurate, but are nevertheless close approximations to those which would be obtained by a perfect observer using an ideal instrument of geometrical accuracy, standing on an earth of absolute rigidity, and viewing the heavens without the intervention of the atmosphere. In addition to instruments like those already indicated, astronomers have other means of following the motions of the heavenly bodies. Within the last fifteen years photography has commenced to play an important part in practical astronomy. This beautiful art can be utilised for representing many objects in the heavens by more faithful pictures than the pencil of even the most skilful draughtsman can produce. Photography is also applicable for making charts of any region in the sky which it is desired to examine. When repeated pictures of the same region are made from time to time, their comparison gives the means of ascertaining whether any star has moved during the interval. The amount and direction of this motion may be ascertained by a delicate measuring apparatus under which the photographic plate is placed. If a refracting telescope is to be used for taking celestial photographs, the lenses of the object-glass must be specially designed for this purpose. The rays of light which imprint an image on the prepared plate are not exactly the same as those which are chiefly concerned in the production of the image on the retina of the human eye. A reflecting mirror, however, brings all the rays, both those which are chemically active and those which are solely visual, to one and the same focus. The same reflecting instrument may therefore be used either for looking at the heavens or for taking pictures on a photographic plate which has been substituted for the observer's eye. A simple portrait camera has been advantageously employed for obtaining striking photographs of larger areas of the sky than can be grasped in a long telescope; but for purposes of accurate measurement those taken with the latter are incomparably better. It is needless to say that the photographic apparatus, whatever it may be, must be driven by delicately-adjusted clockwork to counteract the apparent daily motion of the stars caused by the rotation of the earth. The picture would otherwise be spoiled, just as a portrait is ruined if the sitter does not remain quiet during the exposure. Among the observatories in the United Kingdom the Royal Observatory at Greenwich is of course the most famous. It is specially remarkable among all the similar institutions in the world for the continuity of its labours for several generations. Greenwich Observatory was founded in 1675 for the promotion of astronomy and navigation, and the observations have from the first been specially arranged with the object of determining with the greatest accuracy the positions of the principal fixed stars, the sun, the moon, and the planets. In recent years, however, great developments of the work of the Observatory have been witnessed, and the most modern branches of the science are now assiduously pursued there. The largest equatorial at Greenwich is a refractor of twenty-eight inches aperture and twenty-eight feet long, constructed by Sir Howard Grubb. A remarkable composite instrument from the same celebrated workshop has also been recently added to our national institution. It consists of a great refractor specially constructed for photography, of twenty-six inches aperture (presented by Sir Henry Thompson) and a reflector of thirty inches diameter, which is the product of Dr. Common's skill. The huge volume published annually bears witness to the assiduity with which the Astronomer Royal and his numerous staff of assistant astronomers make use of the splendid means at their disposal. The southern part of the heavens, most of which cannot be seen in this country, is watched from various observatories in the southern hemisphere. Foremost among them is the Royal Observatory at the Cape of Good Hope, which is furnished with first-class instruments. We may mention a great photographic telescope, the gift of Mr. M'Clean. Astronomy has been greatly enriched by the many researches made by Dr. Gill, the director of the Cape Observatory. [Illustration: Fig. 9.--The Great Bear.] It is not, however, necessary to use such great instruments to obtain some idea of the aid the telescope will afford. The most suitable instrument for commencing astronomical studies is within ordinary reach. It is the well-known binocular that a captain uses on board ship; or if that cannot be had, then the common opera-glass will answer nearly as well. This is, no doubt, not so powerful as a telescope, but it has some compensating advantages. The opera-glass will enable us to survey a large region of the sky at one glance, while a telescope, generally speaking, presents a much smaller field of view. Let us suppose that the observer is provided with an opera-glass and is about to commence his astronomical studies. The first step is to become acquainted with the conspicuous group of seven stars represented in Fig. 9. This group is often called the Plough, or Charles's Wain, but astronomers prefer to regard it as a portion of the constellation of the Great Bear (Ursa Major). There are many features of interest in this constellation, and the beginner should learn as soon as possible to identify the seven stars which compose it. Of these the two marked a and b, at the head of the Bear, are generally called the "pointers." They are of special use, because they serve to guide the eye to that most important star in the whole sky, known as the "pole star." Fix the attention on that region in the Great Bear, which forms a sort of rectangle, of which the stars a b g d are the corners. The next fine night try to count how many stars are visible within that rectangle. On a very fine night, without a moon, perhaps a dozen might be perceived, or even more, according to the keenness of the eyesight. But when the opera-glass is directed to the same part of the constellation an astonishing sight is witnessed. A hundred stars can now be seen with the greatest ease. But the opera-glass will not show nearly all the stars in this region. Any good telescope will reveal many hundreds too faint for the feebler instrument. The greater the telescope the more numerous the stars: so that seen through one of the colossal instruments the number would have to be reckoned in thousands. We have chosen the Great Bear because it is more generally known than any other constellation. But the Great Bear is not exceptionally rich in stars. To tell the number of the stars is a task which no man has accomplished; but various estimates have been made. Our great telescopes can probably show at least 50,000,000 stars. The student who uses a good refracting telescope, having an object-glass not less than three inches in diameter, will find occupation for many a fine evening. It will greatly increase the interest of his work if he have the charming handbook of the heavens known as Webb's "Celestial Objects for Common Telescopes." CHAPTER II. THE SUN. The vast Size of the Sun--Hotter than Melting Platinum--Is the Sun the Source of Heat for the Earth?--The Sun is 92,900,000 miles distant--How to realise the magnitude of this distance--Day and Night--Luminous and Non-Luminous Bodies--Contrast between the Sun and the Stars--The Sun a Star--Granulated Appearance of the Sun--The Spots on the Sun--Changes in the Form of a Spot--The Faculæ--The Rotation of the Sun on its Axis--View of a Typical Sun-Spot--Periodicity of the Sun-Spots--Connection between the Sun-Spots and Terrestrial Magnetism--Principles of Spectrum Analysis--Substances present in the Sun--Spectrum of a Spot--The Prominences surrounding the Sun--Total Eclipse of the Sun--Size and Movement of the Prominences--Their connection with the Spots--Spectroscopic Measurement of Motion on the Sun--The Corona surrounding the Sun--Constitution of the Sun. In commencing our examination of the orbs which surround us, we naturally begin with our peerless sun. His splendid brilliance gives him the pre-eminence over all other celestial bodies. The dimensions of our luminary are commensurate with his importance. Astronomers have succeeded in the difficult task of ascertaining the exact figures, but they are so gigantic that the results are hard to realise. The diameter of the orb of day, or the length of the axis, passing through the centre from one side to the other, is 866,000 miles. Yet this bare statement of the dimensions of the great globe fails to convey an adequate idea of its vastness. If a railway were laid round the sun, and if we were to start in an express train moving sixty miles an hour, we should have to travel for five years without intermission night or day before we had accomplished the journey. When the sun is compared with the earth the bulk of our luminary becomes still more striking. Suppose his globe were cut up into one million parts, each of these parts would appreciably exceed the bulk of our earth. Fig. 10 exhibits a large circle and a very small one, marked S and E respectively. These circles show the comparative sizes of the two bodies. The mass of the sun does not, however, exceed that of the earth in the same proportion. Were the sun placed in one pan of a mighty weighing balance, and were 300,000 bodies as heavy as our earth placed in the other, the luminary would turn the scale. [Illustration: Fig. 10.--Comparative Size of the Earth and the Sun.] The sun has a temperature far surpassing any that we artificially produce, either in our chemical laboratories or our metallurgical establishments. We can send a galvanic current through a piece of platinum wire. The wire first becomes red hot, then white hot; then it glows with a brilliance almost dazzling until it fuses and breaks. The temperature of the melting platinum wire could hardly be surpassed in the most elaborate furnaces, but it does not attain the temperature of the sun. It must, however, be admitted that there is an apparent discrepancy between a fact of common experience and the statement that the sun possesses the extremely high temperature that we have just tried to illustrate. "If the sun were hot," it has been said, "then the nearer we approach to him the hotter we should feel; yet this does not seem to be the case. On the top of a high mountain we are nearer to the sun, and yet everybody knows that it is much colder up there than in the valley beneath. If the mountain be as high as Mont Blanc, then we are certainly two or three miles nearer the glowing globe than we were at the sea-level; yet, instead of additional warmth, we find eternal snow." A simple illustration may help to lessen this difficulty. In a greenhouse on a sunshiny day the temperature is much hotter than it is outside. The glass will permit the hot sunbeams to enter, but it refuses to allow them out again with equal freedom, and consequently the temperature rises. The earth may, from this point of view, be likened to a greenhouse, only, instead of the panes of glass, our globe is enveloped by an enormous coating of air. On the earth's surface, we stand, as it were, inside the greenhouse, and we benefit by the interposition of the atmosphere; but when we climb very high mountains, we gradually pass through some of the protecting medium, and then we suffer from the cold. If the earth were deprived of its coat of air, it seems certain that eternal frost would reign over whole continents as well as on the tops of the mountains. The actual distance of the sun from the earth is about 92,900,000 miles; but by merely reciting the figures we do not receive a vivid impression of the real magnitude. It would be necessary to count as quickly as possible for three days and three nights before one million was completed; yet this would have to be repeated nearly ninety-three times before we had counted all the miles between the earth and the sun. Every clear night we see a vast host of stars scattered over the sky. Some are bright, some are faint, some are grouped into remarkable forms. With regard to this multitude of brilliant points we have now to ask an important question. Are they bodies which shine by their own light like the sun, or do they only shine with borrowed light like the moon? The answer is easily stated. Most of those bodies shine by their own light, and they are properly called _stars_. Suppose that the sun and the multitude of stars, properly so called, are each and all self-luminous brilliant bodies, what is the great distinction between the sun and the stars? There is, of course, a vast and obvious difference between the unrivalled splendour of the sun and the feeble twinkle of the stars. Yet this distinction does not necessarily indicate that our luminary has an intrinsic splendour superior to that of the stars. The fact is that we are nestled up comparatively close to the sun for the benefit of his warmth and light, while we are separated from even the nearest of the stars by a mighty abyss. If the sun were gradually to retreat from the earth, his light would decrease, so that when he had penetrated the depths of space to a distance comparable with that by which we are separated from the stars, his glory would have utterly departed. No longer would the sun seem to be the majestic orb with which we are familiar. No longer would he be a source of genial heat, or a luminary to dispel the darkness of night. Our great sun would have shrunk to the insignificance of a star, not so bright as many of those which we see every night. Momentous indeed is the conclusion to which we are now led. That myriad host of stars which studs our sky every night has been elevated into vast importance. Each one of those stars is itself a mighty sun, actually rivalling, and in many cases surpassing, the splendour of our own luminary. We thus open up a majestic conception of the vast dimensions of space, and of the dignity and splendour of the myriad globes by which that space is tenanted. There is another aspect of the picture not without its utility. We must from henceforth remember that our sun is only a star, and not a particularly important star. If the sun and the earth, and all which it contains, were to vanish, the effect in the universe would merely be that a tiny star had ceased its twinkling. Viewed simply as a star, the sun must retire to a position of insignificance in the mighty fabric of the universe. But it is not as a star that we have to deal with the sun. To us his comparative proximity gives him an importance incalculably transcending that of all the other stars. We imagined ourselves to be withdrawn from the sun to obtain his true perspective in the universe; let us now draw near, and give him that attention which his supreme importance to us merits. [Illustration: Fig. 11.--The Sun, photographed on September 22, 1870.] To the unaided eye the sun appears to be a flat circle. If, however, it be examined with the telescope, taking care of course to interpose a piece of dark-coloured glass, or to employ some similar precaution to screen the eye from injury, it will then be perceived that the sun is not a flat surface, but a veritable glowing globe. The first question which we must attempt to answer enquires whether the glowing matter which forms the globe is a solid mass, or, if not solid, which is it, liquid or gaseous? At the first glance we might think that the sun cannot be fluid, and we might naturally imagine that it was a solid ball of some white-hot substance. But this view is not correct; for we can show that the sun is certainly not a solid body in so far at least as its superficial parts are concerned. A general view of the sun as shown by a telescope of moderate dimensions may be seen in Fig. 11, which is taken from a photograph obtained by Mr. Rutherford at New York on the 22nd of September, 1870. It is at once seen that the surface of the luminary is by no means of uniform texture or brightness. It may rather be described as granulated or mottled. This appearance is due to the luminous clouds which float suspended in a somewhat less luminous layer of gas. It is needless to say that these solar clouds are very different from the clouds which we know so well in our own atmosphere. Terrestrial clouds are, of course, formed from minute drops of water, while the clouds at the surface of the sun are composed of drops of one or more chemical elements at an exceedingly high temperature. The granulated appearance of the solar surface is beautifully shown in the remarkable photographs on a large scale which M. Janssen, of Meudon, has succeeded in obtaining during the last twenty years. We are enabled to reproduce one of them in Fig. 12. It will be observed that the interstices between the luminous dots are of a greyish tint, the general effect (as remarked by Professor Young) being much like that of rough drawing paper seen from a little distance. We often notice places over the surface of such a plate where the definition seems to be unsatisfactory. These are not, however, the blemishes that might at first be supposed. They arise neither from casual imperfections of the photographic plate nor from accidents during the development; they plainly owe their origin to some veritable cause in the sun itself, nor shall we find it hard to explain what that cause must be. As we shall have occasion to mention further on, the velocities
call forth, I should not retard the discussion to emphasize a point so obvious. But though the presence of social factors is obvious, how to measure them is not obvious. General principles that bear on a specific case are hard to locate and difficult to apply. Even the broad lines of social and business policy are not always clear, and the probable trend of future policy is still less clear. Just what are the principles that are being worked put in order to determine the forms and the limitations under which business energy shall be expended, and how do they differ from those followed a generation ago? Take the other side of the efficiency ratio: toward what results are we trying to have business energy directed? Again, what are the instruments with which society is enforcing its purpose? How effective are they, how effective are they likely to become? Finally, what bearing will this social effectiveness or lack of effectiveness have on standards of business efficiency for the generation about to begin its work? Even though we cannot answer these questions to-day, we have, to-day, the task of educating the generation that must answer them. More than this, the education we provide for the generation about to begin its work will determine, in no small measure, the kind of answers the future will give. It is, therefore, of great importance that in our ideals and our policies for educating future business men we should try to anticipate the social environment in which these men will do their work. We are in the habit of speaking of the present as a time of transition--the end of the old and the beginning of the new. In a very real sense every period is a period of transition. Society is always in motion, but that motion at times is accelerated and at other times retarded. Clearly we are living now in a period of acceleration--a period which must be interpreted not so much in terms of where we are, as of whence we came and whither we are going. This means that we cannot hope to prepare an educational chart for the future without understanding the past. In our study of business we are always emphasizing the "long-time point of view," and we fall back upon this convenient phrase to harmonize many discrepancies between our so-called scientific principles and present facts. On the whole, we are well justified in assuming these long-time harmonies, but it will not do to overlook the fact that many important and legitimate enterprises have to justify themselves from a short-time viewpoint. Of more importance still is the fact that in this country enterprises of the latter sort have predominated in the past. This circumstance has a very marked bearing on the nature of our task, when we try to approach business from the standpoint of education. There are strong historical and temperamental reasons why nineteenth-century Americans were inclined to take a short-time view of business situations. Our fathers were pioneers, and the pioneer has neither the time, the capital, the information, the social insight, nor the need to build policies for a distant future. The pioneer must support himself from the land; he must get quick results, and he must get them with the material at hand. Every one of our great industries--steel, oil, textiles, packing, milling, and the rest--has its early story colored with pioneer romance. The same romantic atmosphere gave a setting of lights and shadows to merchandising and finance and most of all to transportation. Whether we view these nineteenth-century activities from the standpoint of private business or of public policy, they bear the same testimony to the pioneer attitude of mind. Considering our business life in its national aspects, our two greatest enterprises in the nineteenth century were the settlement of the continent and the building-up of a national industry. In both these enterprises we gave the pioneer spirit wide range. With respect to the latter, industrial policy before 1900 was summed up in three items: protective tariff, free immigration, and essential immunity from legal restraints. This is not the place to justify or condemn a policy of _laissez-faire_, or to strike a balance of truth and error in the intricate arguments for protection and free trade; nor need we here trace the industrial or social results of immigration. We need only point out that the policy in general outline illustrates the attitude of the pioneer. The thing desired was obvious; obvious instruments were at hand--immediate means used for immediate ends. From his viewpoint, the question of best means or of ultimate ends did not need to be considered. In building our railways and settling our lands the pioneer spirit operated still more directly, and in this connection it has produced at the same time its best and its worst results. The problem of transportation and settlement was not hard to analyze; its solution seemed to present no occasion for difficult scientific study or for a long look into the future. The nation had lands, it wanted settlers, it wanted railroads. If half the land in a given strip of territory were offered at a price which would attract settlers, the settlers would insure business for a railroad. The other half of the land, turned over to a railroad company, would give a basis for raising capital to build the line. With a railroad in operation, land would increase in value, the railroad could sell to settlers at an enhanced price and with one stroke recover the cost of building and add new settlers to furnish more business. In its theory and its broad outline the land-grant policy is not hard to defend. The difficulties came with execution. We know that in actual operation the policy meant reckless speculation and dishonest finance. We know that no distinction in favor of the public was made between ordinary farm lands, forest lands, mineral lands, and power sites. We know that the beneficiaries of land grants were permitted to exchange ordinary lands for lands of exceptional value without any adequate _quid pro quo_; and we know that there were no adequate safeguards against theft. Wholesale alienation of public property was intended to secure railroads and settlers, but the government did not see to it that the result was actually achieved. Speculation impeded the railways in doing their part of the task, while individuals enriched themselves from the proceeds of grants or withheld the grants from settlement to become the basis of future speculative enterprises. All this seems to show that in execution at least our policy from a national standpoint was short-sighted. Careful analysis and a more painstaking effort to look ahead might have brought more happy results. And how about the railroads from the standpoint of private enterprise? A railway financier once described a western railway as "a right of way and a streak of rust." The phrase was applicable to many railways. Deterioration and lack of repairs were, of course, responsible for part of the condition it suggests, but much of the fault went back to original construction. It was the wonder and the reproach of European engineers that their so-called reputable American colleagues would risk professional standing on such temporary and flimsy structures as the original American lines. Poor road bed; poor construction; temporary wooden trestles across dangerous spans--everything the opposite of what sound engineering science seemed to demand. Why did not the owners of the roads exercise business foresight to provide for reasonably solid construction? What seems like an obvious and easy answer to all these questions is that both the Government and the road were controlled in many cases, as the people of California well know, by the same men, and these men were privately interested. As public servants or as officers of corporations they were supposed to be promoting settlement and transportation; as individuals they were promoting their own fortunes. This result was secured by the appropriation of public lands and the conversion of investments which the public lands supported. That this sort of thing occurred on a large scale and that it involved the violation of both public and private trusts is fairly clear. Public sentiment has judged and condemned the men who in their own interests thus perverted national policy; and we approve the verdict. But it is not so easy to condemn the policy itself or to indict the generation that adopted it. Looking at the matter from the standpoint of the nation, it was precisely the inefficiency and the corruption in government which augmented the theoretical distrust of government and made it unthinkable to the people of the seventies, that the Government should build and operate railways directly. The land-grant policy entailed corruption and waste, of course; but what mattered a few million acres of land! No one had heard of a conservation problem at the close of the Civil War. Resources were limitless; without enterprise, without labor and capital, without transportation they had no value, they were free goods. The great public task of the nineteenth century was to settle the continent and make these resources available for mankind. This task it performed with nineteenth-century methods. From our standpoint they may have been wasteful methods, but they did get results. In its historical setting, the viewpoint from which the task of settlement was approached was not so far wrong. When we examine the counts against the railroads as private enterprises, we find that the poor construction, which from our point of vantage looks like dangerous, wasteful, hand-to-mouth policy, is only in part explained by the fact of reckless and dishonest finance. I am advised by an eminent and discriminating observer that the distinguished Italian engineer to whom Argentina entrusted the building of its railroad to Patagonia, produced a structure which in engineering excellence is the equal of any in the United States to-day. But the funds are exhausted and the Patagonia railroad is halted one hundred and fifty miles short of its goal; there are no earnings to maintain the investment. The reaction of high interest rates on the practical sense of American capitalists and engineers has made operation at the earliest possible moment and with the smallest possible investment of capital the very essence of American railway building in new territory. Actual earnings are expected to furnish capital, or a basis for credit, with which to make good early engineering defects. All this, of course, is but another way of saying that the criterion of engineering efficiency is not "perfection," but "good enough." This distinction has placed a large measure of genuine efficiency to the credit of American engineers, and it explains why Americans have done many things that others were unwilling to undertake. It is a great thing to build a fine railroad in Patagonia, but I am sure we all rejoice that the first Pacific railroad did not have its terminus in the Nevada sagebrush. The standard of technical perfection set by the Italian engineer did not fit the facts. It is not the failure to attain his standard but the failure to measure up to a well-considered standard of "good enough" that stands as an indictment against American railway enterprise. Viewed in historical perspective the business environment of the pioneer appears to have been dominated by two outstanding facts: one, seemingly inexhaustible resources; the other, a set of political and economic doctrines which told him that these resources must be developed by individual initiative and not by the State. The faster the resources were developed the more rapidly the nation became economically independent and economically great, and since they could not be developed by the State it is not strange that private initiative was stimulated by offering men great and immediate rewards. These rewards have encouraged individuals and associations of individuals to aspire to a quick achievement of great economic power, and their aspirations have been realized. Such achievements have been a dominating feature of our business life, and we have regarded them as an index of national greatness. Abundance of resources, if it did not make this the best way, at least made it an obvious way, for the nineteenth century to solve its business problems. From our vantage point we can see that serious mistakes were made. When we set the foresight of our fathers against our own informed and chastened hindsight their methods appear clumsy and amateurish. But in the main they did solve their problems: they gave us a settled continent; they gave us transportation and diversified industry. We now have our garden and the tools with which to work it. If the pioneer allowed the children to pick flowers and in some cases to run away with the plants and the soil, he did not fail to develop the estate. Our inheritance from the pioneer is not only material but psychological. The pioneer attitude of mind has made a real contribution to our business standards. The very magnitude of our enterprises, the fact that we have had to develop our methods as we went, our success in approaching problems that way, have given us a confidence in ourselves and a readiness to undertake big things without counting the cost. This readiness is a large, perhaps a dominant, factor in our contribution to world progress. It is not an accident that the greatest problems of mountain railway building have been met and solved by American engineers, or that they have carried a great railroad under two rivers to the heart of our greatest city. These in a private way, and the Panama Canal in a public way, are typical of American engineering enterprise. As with engineering, so with general business. Our pioneer managers did not lack imagination; they were not afraid to undertake; they were not constrained by worry lest they make mistakes. They made many mistakes. Some were corrected, others ignored, but many more were concealed by an abundant success. The pioneer could afford to do the next thing and let the distant thing take care of itself, and in large measure he escaped the penalties which normally follow a failure to look ahead. Substantial forces have tended to keep the pioneer spirit alive. If some resources have been depleted, other resources have been found to take their place. Scientific discovery, invention, and the development of technique have placed new forces at our command. Products have been multiplied, but the demand for products has multiplied faster. We have been able to continue offering men great and immediate rewards for the development of new enterprises. As labor was needed, our neighbors have continued to supply it. The result is that our business has continued to go ahead without being too much concerned about the direction in which it was going. Business has eagerly appropriated the results of science without itself becoming scientific. The difficult way of science makes slow progress against the dazzling rewards of unbridled daring. So many strong but untrained men have been enriched by seizing upon the immediate and obvious circumstance--there has been so little necessity for sparing materials or men and so little penalty for waste--that we have developed a national impatience with the slow and tedious process of finding out. Along with our technical and business enterprise, with the courage and imagination of which we are justly proud, a too easy success has given us a tendency to drop into a comfortable and optimistic frame of mind. Imagination, intuition, power to picture the future interplay of forces, courage and capacity for quick action--all these qualities are as essential to-day as they ever were to business success. The pioneer environment reacting on our native temperament has given us these qualities in full measure, but it has also given us a habit of doing things in a hit-or-miss fashion. Our very imagination and courage applied to wrong circumstances and in perverted form have often borne the fruit of national defects. There is a strong inclination to assume that the old approach to problems will bring the same results that it did in the past, and to forget that we are living in a new world. The problems confronting the pioneer were not the problems we face to-day. It requires great ability to draft a prospectus; in many of our greatest enterprises drafting the prospectus has been the crucial task. But a prospectus is not a going concern. There is a vast difference between promotion and administration. In the promotional stage of our business life we were solving problems made up of unknown quantities, problems for which the only angle of approach was found in the formula _x_+_y_=_z_. We still have and shall always have problems of the _x_+_y_=_z_ type, but if we apply that formula to a problem in which 2+2=4 we are not likely to get the best results. Business may not yet be a science, but it is rapidly becoming scientific. Scientific inquiry is all the while carrying new factors from the category of the unknown to that of the known, and by so doing it is setting a new standard of business efficiency. The more brilliant qualities, like courage and imagination, must be coupled with capacity for investigation and analysis, with endless patience in seeking out the twos and the fours and eliminating them from the equation. When it is possible by scientific research to distinguish a right way and a wrong way to do a task, it is not an evidence of courage or imagination but of folly to act on a faulty and imperfect reckoning with the facts. The person who uses scientific method takes account of all his known forces; he prepares his materials, controls his processes and isolates his factors so as to reveal the bearing of every step in the process upon an ultimate and often a far distant result. In other words, he tries at every stage to build upon a sure foundation. His trained imagination and judgment working on known facts set the limit on what he may expect to find, and interpret what he does find, all along the way. In so far as particular business enterprises have rested on engineering, chemistry, biology, and other sciences, a scientific method of approach has long had large use in business; but the scientist in business has usually been a salaried expert--a man apart from the management--and it has been his results, and not necessarily his methods, that have influenced business practice. We are now coming to understand that scientific method is the only sure approach to all problems; it is a thing of universal application, and far from being confined to the technical departments of business, where the technical scientists hold sway in their particular specialties, it may have its widest application in working out the problems of management. The way in which a man trained in scientific method may determine business practice in a scientific manner finds illustration in a multitude of practical business problems, ranging all the way from the simplest office detail to the most far-reaching questions of policy. To cite an example, of the simpler sort: if an item in an order sheet is identical for eight out of ten orders is it better to have a clerk typewrite the eight repetitions along with the two deviations or to use a rubber stamp? Of course, there are not one or two, but many, items in an order sheet and the repetitions and deviations are not the same for all items. In practical application, the rubber-stamp method means a rack of rubber stamps placed in the most advantageous position. It requires also a decision as to the precise percentage of repetitions which makes the stamp advantageous. Then arises the further question, why not have the most numerous repetitions numbered and keyed and thus avoid the necessity of transcribing them at all? The rule-of-thumb approach to this kind of problem would proceed from speculations concerning the effect of interrupting the process to use the stamp, the result of such interruptions on the accuracy of work, difficulties in the way of necessary physical adjustments, and many other questions that would occur to the practical manager. The scientific method of approach would first inquire whether there are any principles derived from previous motion study or other investigations, that apply to the case in hand. In accord with such principles it would then proceed, as far as possible, to eliminate neutral or disturbing third factors and to arrange a test. The results of the test would lead, either to a continuance of the old practice, or to the establishment of a new practice for a certain period, after which, if serious difficulties were not revealed, the new practice would be definitely installed. It should be emphasized at this point, that there is a fundamental difference between investigations or tests which contemplate an immediate modification of practice and those investigations in which research--that is, the discovery of new truths--is the sole object. Tests which are carried on within the business must never lose sight of the fact that a business is a going concern and that it is impracticable and usually undesirable to transform a business into a research laboratory. Scientific methods in business should not be confused with the larger problem of scientific business research. This larger task, if undertaken by the individual business concern, is the work of a separate department. For business generally, it will have to be conducted either by the Government, or by business-research endowments. The point at which, in practical business, research should give place to action is a question that wise counsel and the sound sense of the trained executive must determine. An example of the contrast between a scientific and a rule-of-thumb approach, as applied to a question of major policy, is found in discussions of the relative advantages of a catalogue and mail-order policy over against a policy of distribution by traveling salesmen. A few years ago the head of one of the largest wholesale organizations in the United States, talking with an intimate friend, expressed fear that his house, which employed salesmen, might be at a dangerous disadvantage with its chief competitor, which did an exclusively mail-order business. The friend comforted him with the assurance that there are many buyers who prefer to be visited by salesmen and to have goods displayed before them. This fact, he held, would always give an adequate basis for the prosperity of a house that employed the salesman method of distribution. Neither the fear nor the assurance here expressed reveals a scientific attitude of mind. Careful analysis shows, on the one hand, that the mail-order policy is not the most effective means of cultivating intensively a well populated territory. On the other hand, it shows that the expense of sending salesmen to distant points in sparsely populated areas more than absorbs the profits from their sales. Individual concerns have arrived at these conclusions by experiment and accurate cost-keeping and have succeeded in reaching a scientific decision as to which territories should be cultivated by salesmen and which ones should be covered exclusively through advertising and the distribution of catalogues and other literature. The difficulty that business men find in applying scientific method consistently in the analysis of their problems is strikingly revealed in the labor policy of the great majority of industrial concerns. While many men of scientific training are dealing with problems of employment, probably no concern has undertaken to make a scientific analysis to determine what are the foundations of permanent efficiency of the labor force which they employ. This is not surprising, when we remember how complicated is the problem and how short the time during which we have been emphasizing the human relations as distinguished from the material or mechanistic aspect of business organization. To state even a simple problem of management, like the one concerning the order sheet, set forth above, is to reveal some of the difficulties of analysis which characterize all subject-matter having to do with human activity. This means that we should not expect results too quickly nor should we be disappointed if the first results of efforts at scientific analysis are not absolutely conclusive. As soon as we recognize that business is primarily a matter of human relations, that it has to do with groups and organizations of human beings, we see that scientific analysis of it cannot proceed in exactly the same way as with units of inanimate matter. The reaction of human relations to changed influences, frequently cannot be predicted until the changes occur. Business, in other words, is a social science and, like all social sciences, must deal primarily with contingent rather than exact data; likewise conclusions drawn from scientific analysis must in large measure be contingent rather than exact. Although we cannot always isolate our factors, control our processes, and otherwise apply scientific method, with results as conclusive as those obtained in laboratories of chemistry, physics, or biology, we need not therefore reject scientific method in favor of a rule-of-thumb. We should, however, be suspicious of too sweeping claims based on any but the most careful and painstaking analysis of facts by persons who are thoroughly trained in the kind of analysis they undertake. While a scientific approach will help in solving many problems of business detail, the substitution of scientific method for a rule-of-thumb approach will realize its object most completely in the influences exerted upon fundamental long-time policy, influences which cannot bear fruit in a day or a year. The circumstances of our history have retarded the acceptance of a long-time scientific viewpoint in business, but forces now at work are making powerfully for a scientific approach to business management. First among these is a realization that our resources are measured in finite terms. We have begun to take account of what we have, and we are able in a rough way to figure the loss from what we have squandered. The situation is not desperate, but we can see that it may become so. To insure against possible disaster in the future we need to exercise effective economy in turning resources into finished goods, and we need to eliminate waste in the distribution and the consumption of these goods. In private business the need for such economy is reflected in rising prices for raw materials. In its public aspect we have labeled the problem, conservation. A second force making for a scientific approach to business is found in the beginnings of a social policy to which I have referred. This policy is showing itself in limitations upon the way in which materials and men may be utilized and in a sharper definition of the business man's obligations to employees, to competitors and consumers. As long as resources are to be had for the asking, while cheap labor can be imported and utilized without restraint, and where no questions are asked in marketing the product, there is not the right incentive to do things in a scientific way. As business becomes more and more the subject of legal definition, as the tendency grows of regarding it as a definite service, performed under definite limitations, and for definite social ends, margins will be narrowed and it will become increasingly necessary to do things in the right way. The scientific approach to business has made great progress during the past decade. Out of the hostile criticism to which so-called big business has been subjected have come several government investigations and court records, in which policies of different concerns have been explained, criticized, and compared. Besides, business men themselves have become less jealous of trade secrets and have shown an increasing inclination to compare results. A good illustration of this tendency is seen in the growth of "open price associations" and in the spirit in which credit men, sales managers' associations, and other business groups exchange information. In the same spirit, business and trade journals have given a large exposition of individual experience and increasing attention to questions of fundamental importance. More significant still has been the scientific management propaganda. Mr. Brandeis's dramatic exposition of this movement in the railway rate cases in 1911 at once made it a matter of public interest. Later discussion may not have extended acceptance of scientific management, but it has not caused interest in it to flag. The movement has become essentially a cult. Its prophet, the late Frederick Taylor, by ignoring trade-unionism and labor psychology in the exposition of his doctrines, at once drew down upon them the hostility of organized labor; the movement was branded as another speeding-up device. More serious than the antagonism has been the spirit in which some of the scientific management enthusiasts--not all--have met it. They seem to assume that their science is absolute and inexorable, that it eliminates disturbing factors and hence needs no adjustment to adapt it to the difficulties met in its application. This air of omniscient dogmatism, together with the disasters of false prophets, has somewhat compromised the movement and has diminished its direct influence. However, business men have been stirred up. They have become accustomed to using the words "science" and "business" in the same sentence. They are in a receptive attitude for ideas. The indirect influence has been great. A final, and probably in the long-run the most permanent, influence making for the extension of scientific method in business has been the new viewpoint from which universities have been approaching the task of educating men for business. Prior to 1900, university education for business in the few universities that attempted anything of the sort was confined to such branches of applied economics as money and banking, transportation, corporation finance, commercial geography, with accounting and business law to give it a professional flavor. There were also general courses labeled commercial organization and industrial organization, but these were almost entirely descriptive of the general business fabric of the country, and had but the most remote bearing on the internal problems of organization and management which an individual business man has to face. The assumption was that a man who was looking forward to business would probably do well to secure some information about business, but there was little attempt at definite professional training of the kind given to prospective lawyers, physicians, or engineers. Within the past few years universities have begun to undertake seriously the development of professional training for business. The result has been that through organized research and through investigations by individual teachers and students, the universities are gathering up the threads of different tendencies toward scientific business and are themselves contributing important scientific results. Out of all this there is emerging a body of principles and of tested practice which constitutes an appropriate subject-matter for a professional course of study, and points the way to still further research. One of the earliest results of an approach to business in an attitude of scientific research, is the discovery that there are certain fundamental principles which are alike for all lines of business, however diverse the subject-matter to which analysis is applied. Substituting the principle of likeness for diversity as the starting-point of business analysis, has far-reaching consequences not only for education and research but for management as well. First among these consequences is the fact that search for elements of likeness leads at once to replacing the trade or industry with the function as the significant unit both of research and organization. If we start our study of business by separating manufacturing, railroading, merchandising, banking, and the rest, with a large number of more or less logical subdivisions in each field, and then try to work out a body of principles applicable to each subdivision, we soon run into endless combinations and lose all sense of unity in business as a whole. As soon, however, as we approach business from the standpoint of accounting, sales management, employment, executive control, and when we find that lessons in statistics, advertising, moving materials, or executive management, learned in connection with a factory, can be carried over with but slight adaptation to the management of a store, we at once get a manageable body of material on which to work. Recognition of the principle of likeness and of its corollary, analysis by function rather than by trade, marks perhaps the greatest single step yet taken in the development of scientific business. The principle, however, has its dangers. Analysis by function implies functional specialization in research and a similar tendency in business practice. Without specialization there can be no adequate analysis of any large and complex body of facts. With too intense specialization there is always danger that the assembling and digesting of facts, and especially the conclusions drawn from them, will reflect some peculiar slant of an individual or of a particular specialty. The accountant does not always go after the same facts as the sales manager, and even with the same facts the two are likely to draw quite different conclusions as to their bearing on a general policy. Specialization, too, may result in setting an intense analysis of one group of facts over against a very superficial view of other facts--or again, an intense analysis of the same facts from one viewpoint with failure to consider them from another, and perhaps equally important, viewpoint. Unless these weaknesses are corrected, the business will lack balance; the work of departments will not harmonize; there will be no fundamental policy; goods sold on a quality basis will be manufactured on a price basis--all of which leads to disastrous results. Scientific method is the first article in the creed by which business training must be guided. The growing necessity for critical and searching analysis of business problems, justifies all the effort we can put forth to develop plans for training into a structure of which scientific method shall be the corner-stone. But analysis is not all. Following analysis must come synthesis. Somewhere all the facts and conclusions must be assembled and gathered up into a working plan. It is this task of leveling up rough places in the combined work of department specialists, that puts the training and insight of both the executive and the director of research to the most severe test. It is a mark of a well-trained executive that in performing his task he instinctively follows principles instead of trusting alone to momentary intuitions, however valuable and necessary these may be. And here it is that the second article in the creed of business training appears. The executive's task is primarily to adjust human relations, and the nature of the principles by which these adjustments are made, determines the relations of a concern to its laborers, to competitors, to customers, and to the public. If the executive comes to his task without a mind and spirit trained to an appreciation of human relations, he is not likely so to synthesize the work of his subordinates as to make for either maximum efficiency within the business or its maximum contribution to the life of the State. The term "executive" in large and highly organized concerns is likely to mean the head of a department. A large proportion of the department heads now in business are men of purely empirical training. Their horizon is likely to be limited and to center too much in the departmental viewpoint. They may perhaps be able to see the whole business, but if they do, they will probably see it exclusively from the inside. There is frequently nothing in their business experience that has made them think of the great forces at work in society at large. As the bulk of business has been organized in the past, there has been no department in which, automatically and in the regular course of business, a view looking outward is brought to bear. If it came at all, it was reflected back from the larger relations and the larger social contacts of the head of the business. Many general executives have been promoted from the position of head of department at a period in life when their habits of thought had become crystallized, and it was not natural that they should entirely change those habits with the change in their responsibilities. Besides, the economics of competition and a strong group sentiment among business men have tended to make them resist social influences which might react upon the policies of their own business. Superficial conclusions drawn from such experiments as those of Pullman and of Patterson, to which reference has been made, have seemed to justify such resistance and have fortified men in the belief that business and response to social influence should be kept separate in water-tight compartments. More recently men have been coming to understand the fundamental defects in the Pullman and the original Cash Register plans and have come to realize that even a separate welfare department may be successfully incorporated in a business, if only certain fundamental policies are followed in its management. Still more significant is the view looking-outward and the consequent harmonizing of social and business motives, which is coming in the ordinary development of business policies as a result of their more fundamental analysis. Perhaps the greatest step toward a fuller consideration of facts on the outside is taken, when a business creates a separate department of employment. It is hard to see how the head of an employment department can have the largest measure of success if he sees only the facts on the inside. A comprehensive application of scientific method to problems of employment leads a long way into analysis of the social facts affecting the people who are employed. From different angles the same thing is true in other departments of business, notably so in the case of advertising and sales. One of the most obvious outside facts which affect sales, is the location and density of the population, and yet it is a fact which frequently is neglected. Another outside fact, which ultimately advertisers will have to consider, is the consuming power of population. They have been very keen to study our psychological reactions, and in doing this they have undertaken the entire charge of the evolution of our wants. But they have not always gone at their work from the long-time point of view. Sometime they will have to take account of the fact that unwise consumption impairs efficiency and depletes the purchasing power from which advertisers must be paid. The next step in the scientific analysis of business is to provide for more ample analysis of facts on the outside. Weakness at this point explains the defects in many plans for the welfare of employees, it explains the defects in scientific management, mentioned above, and it explains many other shortcomings in projects for increasing the effectiveness of business. But men who approach business from the standpoint of university research are not free from the same danger. In their effort to orient themselves with the business facts, they get the business point of view and run the risk of centering attention too much on materials and material forces. Even psychological reactions of men and women may be analyzed from the standpoint of their mechanics, without ever going back to those impelling motives which have their roots in the human instincts and complex social reactions of which the men and women are a part. Approached from the standpoint of scientific method, the field of conflict between different interests in business and between so-called "good business" and "good ethics" becomes measurably narrowed. I do not mean to give science the sole credit for achievements along this line. More frequently advance in
to be cut down, rocks to be moved, swamps to be filled up, and streams to be bridged. While in the midst of these toils, the bread gave out, and the lack of food made the men too weak to work. In spite of all these ills they made out to move at the rate of four miles a day, up steep hills, and through dense woods that have since borne the name of "The Shades of Death." While at a large stream where they had to stop to build a bridge, Wash-ing-ton was told that it was not worth while for him to try to go by land to Red-stone Creek, when he could go by boat in much less time. This would be a good plan, if it would work; and to make sure, Wash-ing-ton took five men with him in a bark boat down the stream. One of these men was a red-skin guide. When they had gone ten miles, the guide said that that was as far as he would go. Wash-ing-ton said, "Why do you want to leave us now? We need you, and you know that we can not get on with-out you. Tell us why you wish to leave." The red-man said, "Me want gifts. The red-men will not work with-out them. The French know this, and are wise. If you want the red-men to be your guides, you must buy them. They do not love you so well that they will serve you with-out pay." Wash-ing-ton told the guide that when they got back he would give him a fine white shirt with a frill on it, and a good great-coat, and this put an end to the "strike" for that time. They kept on in the small boat for a score of miles, till they came to a place where there was a falls in the stream at least 40 feet. This put a stop to their course, and Wash-ing-ton went back to camp with his mind made up to go on by land. He was on his way to join his troops when word was brought him from Half-King to be on his guard, as the French were close at hand. They had been on the march for two days, and meant to strike the first foe they should see. Half-King said that he and the rest of his chiefs would be with Wash-ing-ton in five days to have a talk. Wash-ing-ton set to work at once to get his troops in shape to meet the foe. Scouts were sent out. There was a scare in the night. The troops sprang to arms, and kept on the march till day-break. In the mean-time, at nine o'clock at night, word came from Half-King, who was then six miles from the camp, that he had seen the tracks of two French-men, and the whole force was near that place. Wash-ing-ton put him-self at the head of two score men, left the rest to guard the camp, and set off to join Half-King. The men had to grope their way by foot-paths through the woods. The night was dark and there had been quite a fall of rain, so that they slipped and fell, and lost their way, and had to climb the great rocks, and the trees that had been blown down and blocked their way. It was near sun-rise when they came to the camp of Half-King, who at once set out with a few of his braves to show Wash-ing-ton the tracks he had seen. Then Half-King called up two of his braves, showed them the tracks, and told them what to do. They took the scent, and went off like hounds, and brought back word that they had traced the foot-prints to a place shut in by rocks and trees where the French were in camp. It was planned to take them off their guard. Wash-ing-ton was to move on the right, Half-King and his men on the left. They made not a sound. Wash-ing-ton was the first on the ground, and as he came out from the rocks and trees at the head of his men, the French caught sight of him and ran to their arms. A sharp fire was kept up on both sides. De Ju-mon-ville, who led the French troops, was killed, with ten of his men. One of Wash-ing-ton's men was killed, and two or three met with wounds. None of the red-men were hurt, as the French did not aim their guns at them at all. In less than half an hour the French gave way, and ran, but Wash-ing-ton's men soon came up with them, took them, and they were sent, in charge of a strong guard, to Gov-er-nor Din-wid-die. This was the first act of war, in which blood had been shed, and Wash-ing-ton had to bear a great deal of blame from both France and Eng-land till the truth was made known. He was thought to have been too rash, and too bold, and in more haste to make war than to seek for peace. These sins were charged to his youth, for it was not known then how much more calm, and wise, and shrewd he was than most men who were twice his age. The French claimed that this band had been sent out to ask Wash-ing-ton, in a kind way, to leave the lands that were held by the crown of France. But Wash-ing-ton was sure they were spies; and Half-King said they had bad hearts, and if our men were such fools as to let them go, he would give them no more aid. Half-King was full of fight, and Wash-ing-ton was flushed with pride, and in haste to move on and brave the worst. He wrote home: "The Min-goes have struck the French, and I hope will give a good blow be-fore they have done." Then he told of the fight he had been in, and how he had won it, and was not hurt though he stood in the midst of the fierce fire. The balls whizzed by him, "and," said Wash-ing-ton "I was charmed with the sound." This boast came to the ears of George II. who said, in a dry sort of a way, "He would not say so if he had heard ma-ny." When long years had passed, some one asked Wash-ing-ton if he had made such a speech. "If I did," said he, "it was when I was young." And he was but 22 years of age. He knew that as soon as the French heard of the fight and their bad luck, they would send a strong force out to meet him, so he set all his men to work to add to the size of the earth-work, and to fence it in so that it might be more of a strong-hold. Then he gave to it the name of _Fort Ne-ces-si-ty_, for it had been thrown up in great haste in time of great need, when food was so scant it was feared the troops would starve to death. At one time, for six days they had no flour, and, of course, no bread. News came of the death of Col-o-nel Fry, at Will's creek, and Wash-ing-ton was forced to take charge of the whole force. Fry's troops--300 in all--came up from Will's Creek, and Half-King brought 40 red-men with their wives and young ones and these all had to be fed and cared for. Young as he was Wash-ing-ton was like a fa-ther to this strange group of men. On Sundays, when in camp, he read to them from the word of God, and by all his acts made them feel that he was a good and true man, and fit to be their chief. The red-men did quite well as spies and scouts, but were not of much use in the field, and they, and some men from South Car-o-li-na, did much to vex young Wash-ing-ton. Half-King did not like the way that white men fought, so he took him-self and his band off to a safe place. The white men from South Car-o-li-na, who had come out to serve their king, were too proud to soil their hands or to do hard work, nor would they be led by a man of the rank of Col-o-nel. In the midst of all these straits Wash-ing-ton stood calm and firm. The South Car-o-li-na troops were left to guard the fort, while the rest of the men set out to clear the road to Red-stone Creek. Their march was slow, and full of toil, and at the end of two weeks they had gone but 13 miles. Here at Gist's home, where they stopped to rest, word came to Wash-ing-ton that a large force of the French were to be sent out to fight him. Word was sent to the fort to have the men that were there join them with all speed. They reached Gist's at dusk, and by dawn of the next day all our troops were in that place, where it was at first thought they would wait for the foe. But this plan they gave up, for it was deemed best to make haste back to the fort, where they might at least screen them-selves from the fire of the foe. The roads were rough; the heat was great; the food was scant, and the men weak and worn out. There were but few steeds, and these had to bear such great loads that they could not move with speed. Wash-ing-ton gave up his own horse and went on foot, and the rest of the head men did the same. The troops from Vir-gin-i-a worked with a will and would take turns and haul the big field guns, while the King's troops, from South Car-o-li-na, walked at their ease, and would not lend a hand, or do a stroke of work. On the morn of Ju-ly 3, scouts brought word to the fort that the French were but four miles off, and in great force. Wash-ing-ton at once drew up his men on the ground out-side of the fort, to wait for the foe. Ere noon the French were quite near the fort and the sound of their guns was heard. Wash-ing-ton thought this was a trick to draw his men out in-to the woods, so he told them to hold their fire till the foe came in sight. But as the French did not show them-selves, though they still kept up their fire, he drew his troops back to the fort and bade them fire at will, and do their best to hit their mark. The rain fell all day long, so that the men in the fort were half drowned, and some of the guns scarce fit for use. The fire was kept up till eight o'clock at night, when the French sent word they would like to make terms with our men. Wash-ing-ton thought it was a trick to find out the state of things in the fort, and for a time gave no heed to the call. The French sent two or three times, and at last brought the terms for Wash-ing-ton to read. They were in French. There was no-thing at hand to write with, so Van Bra-am, who could speak French, was called on to give the key. It was a queer scene. A light was brought, and held close to his face so that he could see to read. The rain fell in such sheets that it was hard work to keep up the flame. Van Bra-am mixed up Dutch, French, and Eng-lish in a sad way, while Wash-ing-ton and his chief aids stood near with heads bent, and tried their best to guess what was meant. They made out at last that the main terms were that the troops might march out of the fort, and fear no harm from French or red-skins as they made their way back to their homes. The drums might beat and the flags fly, and they could take with them all the goods and stores, and all that was in the fort--but the large guns. These the French would break up. And our men should pledge them-selves not to build on the lands which were claimed by the King of France for the space of one year. The weak had to yield to the strong, and Wash-ing-ton and his men laid down their arms and marched out of the fort. A note of thanks was sent to Wash-ing-ton, and all his head men but Van Bra-am, who was thought to have read the terms in such a way as to harm our side and serve the French. But there were those who felt that Van Bra-am was as true as he was brave, and that it was the fault of his head and not his heart, for it was a hard task for a Dutch-man to turn French in-to Eng-lish, and make sense of it. CHAPTER V. AS AIDE-DE-CAMP. In spite of the way in which the fight at Great Mead-ows came to an end Gov-er-nor Din-wid-die made up his mind that the troops, led by Wash-ing-ton, should cross the hills and drive the French from Fort Du-quesne. Wash-ing-ton thought it a wild scheme; for the snow lay deep on the hills, his men were worn out, and had no arms, nor tents, nor clothes, nor food, such as would fit them to take the field. It would need gold to buy these things, as well as to pay for fresh troops. Gold was placed in the Gov-er-nor's hands to use as he pleased. Our force was spread out in-to ten bands, of 100 men each. The King's troops were put in high rank, and Col-o-nel Wash-ing-ton was made Cap-tain. This, of course, was more than he could bear, so he left the ar-my at once, and with a sad heart. In a short time Gov-er-nor Sharpe of Ma-ry-land was placed by King George at the head of all the force that was to fight the French. He knew that he would need the aid of Wash-ing-ton, and he begged him to come back and serve with him in the field. But Wash-ing-ton did not like the terms, and paid no heed to the call. The next Spring, Gen-er-al Brad-dock came from Eng-land with two large bands of well-trained troops, which it was thought would drive the French back in-to Can-a-da. Our men were full of joy, and thought the war would soon be at an end. Brad-dock urged Wash-ing-ton to join him in the field. Wash-ing-ton felt that he could be of great use, as he knew the land and the ways of red-men, so he took up the sword once more, as Brad-dock's aide-de-camp. Ben-ja-min Frank-lin, who had charge of the mails, lent his aid to the cause, and did all that he could to serve Brad-dock and his men. Brad-dock, with his staff and a guard of horse-men, set out for Will's Creek, by the way of Win-ches-ter, in A-pril, 1755. He rode in a fine turn-out that he had bought of Gov-er-nor Sharpe, which he soon found out was not meant for use on rough roads. But he had fought with dukes, and men of high rank, and was fond of show, and liked to put on a great deal of style. He thought that this would make the troops look up to him, and would add much to his fame. In May the troops went in-to camp, and Wash-ing-ton had a chance to learn much of the art of war that was new and strange to him, and to see some things that made him smile. All the rules and forms of camp-life were kept up. One of the head men who died while in camp, was borne to the grave in this style: A guard marched in front of the corpse, the cap-tain of it in the rear. Each man held his gun up-side down, as a sign that the dead would war no more, and the drums beat the dead march. When near the grave the guard formed two lines that stood face to face, let their guns rest on the ground, and leaned their heads on the butts. The corpse was borne twixt these two rows of men with the sword and sash on the top of the box in which he lay, and in the rear of it the men of rank marched two and two. When the corpse was put in the ground, the guard fired their guns three times, and then all the troops marched back to camp. The red-men--the Del-a-wares and Shaw-nees came to aid Gen-er-al Brad-dock. With them were White Thun-der, who had charge of the "speech-belts," and Sil-ver Heels, who was swift of foot. Half-King was dead, and White Thun-der reigned in his stead. The red-men had a camp to them-selves, where they would sing, and dance, and howl and yell for half the night. It was fun for the King's troops to watch them at their sports and games, and they soon found a great charm in this wild sort of life. In the day time the red-men and their squaws, rigged up in their plumes and war paint, hung round Brad-dock's camp, and gazed spell-bound at the troops as they went through their drills. But this state of things did not last long, and strife rose twixt the red and white men, and some of the red-skins left the camp. They told Brad-dock they would meet him on his march, but they did not keep their word. Wash-ing-ton was sent to Will-iams-burg to bring the gold of which there was need, and when he came back he found that Brad-dock had left a small guard at Fort Cum-ber-land, on Will's Creek, and was then on his way to Fort Du-quesne. He would give no heed to those who knew more of the back-woods than he did, nor call on the red-men to serve as scouts and guides. He was not used to that kind of war-fare, and scorned to be taught by such a youth as George Wash-ing-ton. The march was a hard one for man and beast. Up steep hills and through rough roads they had to drag the guns, and Brad-dock soon found out that these new fields were not like the old ones on which he had been wont to fight. Hard as it was for his pride to seek the aid of so young a man, he was at last forced to ask Wash-ing-ton to help him out of these straits. They had then made a halt at Lit-tle Mead-ows. Wash-ing-ton said there was no time to lose. They must push on at once. While at this place Cap-tain Jack, and his brave band of hunts-men came in-to camp. They were fond of the chase, and were well-armed with knives and guns, and looked quite like a tribe of red-skins as they came out of the wood. Brad-dock met them in a stiff sort of way. Cap-tain Jack stepped in front of his band and said that he and his men were used to rough work, and knew how to deal with the red-men, and would be glad to join the force. Brad-dock looked on him with a gaze of scorn, and spoke to him in a way that roused the ire of Cap-tain Jack. He told his men what had been said, and the whole band turned their backs on the camp, and went through the woods to their old haunts where they were known and prized at their true worth. In the mean-time Wash-ing-ton, who had had a head-ache for some days, grew so ill that he could not ride on his horse, and had to be borne part of the time in a cart. Brad-dock--who well knew what a loss his death would be--said that he should not go on. Wash-ing-ton plead with him, but Brad-dock was firm, and made him halt on the road. Here he was left with a guard, and in care of Doc-tor Craik, and here he had to stay for two long weeks. By that time he could move, but not with-out much pain, for he was still quite weak. It was his wish to join the troops in time for the great blow, and while yet too weak to mount his horse, he set off with his guards in a close cart, and reached Brad-dock's camp on the eighth of Ju-ly. He was just in time, for the troops were to move on Fort Du-quesne the next day. The fort was on the same side of the Mon-on-ga-he-la as the camp, but twixt them lay a pass two miles in length, with the stream on the left and a high range of hills on the right. The plan was to ford the stream near the camp, march on the west bank of the stream for five miles or so, and then cross to the east side and push on to the fort. By sun-rise the next day the troops turned out in fine style, and marched off to the noise of drum and fife. To Wash-ing-ton this was a grand sight. Though still weak and ill, he rode his horse, and took his place on the staff as aide-de-camp. At one o'clock the whole force had crossed the ford north of the fort, and were on their way up the bank, when they were met by a fierce and sharp fire from foes they could not see. Wild war-whoops and fierce yells rent the air. What Wash-ing-ton feared, had come to pass. Brad-dock did his best to keep the troops in line; but as fast as they moved up, they were cut down by foes screened by rocks and trees. Now and then one of the red-men would dart out of the woods with a wild yell to scalp a red-coat who had been shot down. Wild fear seized Brad-dock's men, who fired and took no aim. Those in the front rank were killed by those in the rear. Some of the Vir-gin-i-a troops took post back of trees, and fought as the red-men did. Wash-ing-ton thought it would be a good plan for Brad-dock's men to do the same. But he thought there was but one way for troops to fight, and that brave men ought not to skulk in that way. When some of them took to the trees, Brad-dock stormed at them, and called them hard names, and struck them with the flat of his sword. All day long Wash-ing-ton rode here and there in the midst of the fight. He was in all parts of the field, a fine mark for the guns of the foe, and yet not a shot struck him to do him harm. Four small shots went through his coat. Two of his steeds were shot down; and though those who stood near him fell dead at his side, Wash-ing-ton had not one wound. The fight raged on. Death swept through the ranks of the red-coats. The men at the guns were seized with fright. Wash-ing-ton sprang from his horse, wheeled a brass field-piece with his own hand, and sent a good shot through the woods. But this act did not bring the men back to their guns. Brad-dock was on the field the whole day, and did his best to turn the tide. But most of his head-men had been slain in his sight; five times had he been forced to mount a fresh horse, as one by one was struck down by the foe-man's shot, and still he kept his ground and tried to check the flight of his men. At last a shot struck him in the right arm and went in-to his lungs. He fell from his horse, and was borne from the field. The troops took fright at once, and most of them fled. The yells of the red-men still rang in their ears. "All is lost!" they cried. "Brad-dock is killed!" Wash-ing-ton had been sent to a camp 40 miles off, and was on his way back when he heard the sad news. But Brad-dock did not die at once. He was brought back to camp, and for two days lay in a calm state but full of pain. Now and then his lips would move and he was heard to say, "Who would have thought it! We shall know how to deal with them the next time!" He died at Fort Ne-ces-si-ty on the night of Ju-ly 13. Had he done as Wash-ing-ton told him he might have saved his own life, and won the day. But he was a proud man, and when he made up his mind to do a thing he would do it at all risks. Through this fault he missed the fame he hoped to win, lost his life, and found a grave in a strange land. His loss was a great gain to Wash-ing-ton, for all felt that he, so calm, so grave, so free from fear, was the right sort of man to lead troops to war. Those who had seen him in the field thought that he bore a charmed life, for though he stood where the shot fell thick and fast he was not hurt, and showed no signs of fear. But Wash-ing-ton was weak, and in need of rest, and as the death of Brad-dock left him with no place in the force, he went back to Mount Ver-non where he thought to spend the rest of his days. The fight which he took part in as aide-de-camp, and which had so sad an end, goes by the name of _Brad-dock's de-feat_. CHAPTER VI. COL-O-NEL OF VIR-GIN-I-A TROOPS. The troops in Vir-gin-i-a were left with-out a head. There was no one to lead them out to war, and if this fact came to the ears of the French, they would be more bold. Wash-ing-ton's friends urged him to ask for the place. But this he would not do. His brother wrote him thus: "Our hopes rest on you, dear George. You are the man for the place: all are loud in your praise." But Wash-ing-ton was firm. He wrote back and told in plain words all that he had borne, and how he had been served for the past two years. "I love my land," he said, "and shall be glad to serve it, but not on the same terms that I have done so." His mo-ther begged him not to risk his life in these wars. He wrote her that he should do all that he could to keep out of harm's way, but if he should have a call to drive the foes from the land of his birth, he would have to go! And this he was sure would give her much more pride than if he were to stay at home. On the same day, Au-gust 13, that this note was sent, word came to Wash-ing-ton that he had been made chief of all the troops in Vir-gin-i-a, and the next month he went to Win-ches-ter to stay. Here he found much to do. There was need of more troops, and it was hard work to get them. Forts had to be built, and he drew up a plan of his own and set men to work it out, and went out from time to time to see how they got on with it. He rode off thus at the risk of his life, for red-men lay in wait for scalps, and were fierce to do deeds of blood. The stir of war put new life in-to the veins of old Lord Fair-fax. He got up a troop of horse, and put them through a drill on the lawn at Green-way Court. He was fond of the chase, and knew how to run the sly fox to the ground. The red-man was a sort of fox, and Fair-fax was keen for the chase, and now and then would mount his steed and call on George Wash-ing-ton, who was glad to have his kind friend so near. In a short time he had need of his aid, for word came from the fort at Will's Creek that a band of red-men were on the war-path with fire-brands, and knives, and were then on their way to Win-ches-ter. A man on a fleet horse was sent post-haste to Wash-ing-ton, who had been called to Will-iams-burg, the chief town. In the mean-time Lord Fair-fax sent word to all the troops near his home to arm and haste to the aid of Win-ches-ter. Those on farms flocked to the towns, where they thought they would be safe; and the towns-folks fled to the west side of the Blue Ridge. In the height of this stir Wash-ing-ton rode in-to town, and the sight of him did much to quell their fears. He thought that there were but a few red-skins who had caused this great scare, and it was his wish to take the field at once and go out and put them to flight. But he could get but a few men to go with him. The rest of the town troops would not stir. All the old fire-arms that were in the place were brought out, and smiths set to work to scour off the rust and make them fit to use. Caps, such as are now used on guns, were not known in those days. Flint stones took their place. One of these was put in the lock, so that when it struck a piece of steel it would flash fire, and the spark would set off the gun. These were called flint-lock guns. Such a thing as a match had not been thought of, and flint stones were made use of to light all fires. Carts were sent off for balls, and flints, and for food with which to feed all those who had flocked to Win-ches-ter. The tribes of red-men that had once served with Wash-ing-ton, were now on good terms with the French. One of their chiefs, named Ja-cob, laughed at forts that were built of wood, and made his boast that no fort was safe from him if it would catch fire. The town where these red-men dwelt was two score miles from Fort Du-quesne, and a band of brave white men, with John Arm-strong and Hugh Mer-cer at their head, set out from Win-ches-ter to put them to rout. At the end of a long march they came at night on the red-men's strong-hold, and took them off their guard. The red-men, led by the fierce chief Ja-cob, who chose to die ere he would yield, made a strong fight, but in the end most of them were killed, their huts were set on fire, and the brave strong-hold was a strong-hold no more. In the mean-time Wash-ing-ton had left Win-ches-ter and gone to Fort Cum-ber-land, on Will's Creek. Here he kept his men at work on new roads and old ones. Some were sent out as scouts. Brig-a-dier Gen-er-al Forbes, who was in charge of the whole force, was on his way from Phil-a-del-phi-a, but his march was a slow one as he was not in good health. The plan was when he came to move on the French fort. The work that was to have been done north of the fort, by Lord Lou-doun, hung fire. It was felt that he was not the right man for the place, and so his lord-ship was sent back to Eng-land. Ma-jor Gen-er-al Ab-er-crom-bie then took charge of the King's troops at the north. These were to charge on Crown Point. Ma-jor Gen-er-al Am-herst with a large force of men was with the fleet of Ad-mi-ral Bos-caw-en, that set sail from Hal-i-fax the last of May. These were to lay siege to Lou-is-berg and the isle of Cape Bre-ton, which is at the mouth of the Gulf of St. Law-rence. Forbes was to move on Fort Du-quesne, and was much too slow to suit Wash-ing-ton who was in haste to start. His men had worn out their old clothes and were in great need of new ones, which they could not get for some time. He liked the dress the red-men wore. It was light and cool, and, what had to be thought of most, it was cheap. Wash-ing-ton had some of his men put on this dress, and it took well, and has since been worn by those who roam the woods and plains of our great land. I will not tell you of all that took place near the great Lakes at this time, as I wish to keep your mind on George Wash-ing-ton. The schemes laid out by Gen-er-al Forbes did not please Wash-ing-ton, who urged a prompt march on the fort, while the roads were good. He wrote to Ma-jor Hal-ket, who had been with Brad-dock, and was now on Forbes' staff: "I find him fixed to lead you a new way to the O-hi-o, through a road each inch of which must be cut when we have scarce time left to tread the old track, which is known by all to be the best path through the hills." He made it plain that if they went that new way all would be lost, and they would be way-laid by the red-skins and meet with all sorts of ills. But no heed was paid to his words, and the warm days came to an end. Six weeks were spent in hard work on the new road with a gain of less than three-score miles, when the whole force might have been in front of the French fort had they marched by the old road as Wash-ing-ton had urged. At a place known as Loy-al Han-nan, the troops were brought to a halt, as Forbes thought this was a good place to build a fort. Some men in charge of Ma-jor Grant went forth as scouts. At dusk they drew near a fort, and set fire to a log house near its walls. This was a rash thing to do, as it let the French know just where they were. But not a gun was fired from the fort. This the King's troops took for a sign of fear, and were bold and proud, and quite sure that they would win the day. So Brad-dock had thought, and we know his fate. At length--when Forbes and his men were off their guard--the French made a dash from the fort, and poured their fire on the King's troops. On their right and left flanks fell a storm of shot from the red-skins who had hid back of trees, rocks, and shrubs. The King's troops were then brought up in line, and for a while stood firm and fought for their lives. But they were no match for the red-skins, whose fierce yells made the blood run chill. Ma-jor Lew-is fought hand to hand with a "brave" whom he laid dead at his feet. Red-skins came up at once to take the white-man's scalp, and there was but one way in which he could save his life. This was to give him-self up to the French, which both he and Ma-jor Grant were forced to do, as their troops had been put to rout with great loss. Wash-ing-ton won much praise for the way in which the Vir-gin-i-a troops had fought, and he was at once put in charge of a large force, who were to lead the van, serve as scouts, and do their best to drive back the red-skins--work that called for the best skill and nerve. It was late in the fall of the year when the King's troops all met at Loy-al Han-nan, and so much had to be done to clear the roads, that snow would be on the ground ere they could reach the fort. But from those of the French that they had seized in the late fight, they found out that there were but few troops in the fort, that food was scarce, and the red-skins false to their trust. This lent hope to the King's troops, who made up their minds to push on. They took up their march at once, with no tents or stores, and but few large guns. Wash-ing-ton rode at the head. It was a sad march, for the ground was strewn with the bones of those who had fought with Grant and with Brad-dock, and been slain by the foe, or died of their wounds. At length the troops drew near the fort, and made their way up to it with great care, for they thought the French would be in wait for them, and that there would be a fierce fight. But the French had had such bad luck in Can-a-da, that
down over a fresh rose-colored morning-glory. “Oh!” cried Prue, “isn’t it the handsomest butterfly you ever saw?” “Yes, and look at the dewdrops on the pink morning-glory,” said imaginative Randy; “I wonder if the necklace that the fairy queen wore looked as bright as that? In the picture in the book it looks just like strings and strings of beads.” “I liked the beads and her dress, with a long train to it; but in the picture she didn’t have a nice face ’t all,” said Prue, the young critic. “Oh, but she was bea-utiful,” said Randy. “She must have been, the story said so,” but just here Randy’s raptures over the heroine of the fairy tale were cut short by a loud call of “Randy! Randy! Prue! it’s time to come downstairs!” So Randy hurried on her own clothing, and Prue amused herself while waiting by counting the buttons on Randy’s best gingham dress as it hung on the first hook in the closet, and this is the way she half said and half sung it:— “Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer,—Randy, what’s a lawyer? Your last button is a lawyer.” “I don’t know,” said Randy; “ask father;” but when they had reached the lowest stair and entered the kitchen Prue had forgotten her question and asked another. “Father,” she cried, “have you read the book yet? Are you going to let Randy read it? the fairy book, I mean?” “Two questions in one,” said Mr. Weston, laughing. “Why, yes, I guess I’ll have to let her read it, if she wants to,” said he. “Going to let Randy read those outlandish tales?” said Mrs. Weston coming out of the closet with a pie in her hand, which she placed upon the table. “Why there wasn’t a word of truth in them.” “I know it,” said her husband, smiling, “but I didn’t see anything wrong about them, and the yarns that are in the book are so big that no sensible girl, like our Randy, would s’pose she was expected to believe them a minute. I looked it over last night after I’d thought over that piece of medder land of Jason Meade’s that he wants to swap for my little pasture, and cal-lated ’bout what the bargain was worth. I just took down that fairy book from behind the clock, and I thought I’d just look it over to see if it was all right for Randy and Prue, and, if you’d believe me, ’fore I knew it, I was ’most as interested as the children was. As you say, there ain’t any sense in it, but it reads kinder fine, I must say.” Mrs. Weston laughed, and said that she was willing enough to let them have it if the book was all right. “Right enough,” rejoined her husband, “only kind of foolish,” and smiling at the children’s eager faces he said kindly, “Read it if you like, only don’t let it make you forget to help mother, Randy.” [Illustration: Randy and Prue started for the Brook] “Randy don’t often forget that,” said Mrs. Weston, at which unwonted bit of praise, Randy flushed with delight. Mrs. Weston was a hard-working woman who loved her husband and children dearly, but so busy was she, that she forgot to say the encouraging word, or give the bit of praise, justly won, which seems a reward to the husband for his care and toil, and to the child for “being good.” When the hot forenoon’s work was done, and the dinner dishes put away, Randy and Prue started for the brook, Randy carrying the wonderful book very carefully, and little Prue skipping along beside her. Across the fields, behind the barn, into a bit of woodland went the children, and there they found the brook, calm and placid in one place, rippling and chattering in another. “Hark! hear it talk,” said Randy, but practical little Prue said, “It only says ‘wobble, wobble, wobble,’ as it goes over the stones, and I don’t call that talking.” “Well, I do,” said Randy, “and I always wonder what it says.” “How’ll you find out?” said Prue. “Oh, Prue!” said Randy, “what makes you ask questions that nobody could answer?” “But somebody could,” said the child; “if it really says anything, somebody, somewhere, would know what it means, now wouldn’t they, Randy?” “I do believe there is some one who could understand it.” Randy spoke so earnestly that Prue stopped throwing pebbles at the water-spiders and throwing her arms around Randy, she said, “Oh, Randy! don’t look that way. When your eyes get big, and you just think and think, it makes me lonesome. Do begin to read the fairy stories.” So Randy roused herself from her dream about the brook, and sat down, with Prue close beside her, on a rough plank which spanned the tiny stream. There, with the book upon her lap, and one arm around her little sister, she read the tales of wonder and enchantment, while the sunlight, sifting through the leaves, touched her hair and made a halo around the sweet face. Parts of the stories were too much for little Prue to understand, but such of them as her small brain could take in delighted her. Randy read very well, although she had had but little schooling, and her delight in the splendor which the stories described gave added expression to her reading, and delighted little Prue exclaimed, “Oh, Randy, you make it seem as if it was true!” Randy laughed, well pleased with the compliment, and continued reading: “‘And as soon as she heard the witch’s voice, she unbound her tresses.’” “What’s ‘tresses’?” interrupted Prue. “Why, hair,” explained Randy. “Then, why didn’t they say ‘hair’?” said the child. “Tresses sounds nicer,” answered Randy. “I don’t know,” said Prue, doubtfully. “Well, I do,” said Randy. “If my hair was long, I’d enough rather have it called tresses.” “I’ll call it tresses,” said obliging little Prue, “even if it isn’t very long. Now, go on, Randy.” So Randy continued: “‘She unbound her tresses, and they fell down twenty ells, and the witch mounted up by them.’” “Oh, my, my!” interrupted Prue, “your hair’s longer’n that!” “Longer than what?” said the astonished Randy. “Twenty ells,” said Prue. “When you showed me the other day how to print a L, it wasn’t very big. Would twenty of ’em be so very much? Your hair is most down to your waist, when I stretch the ends out so they don’t curl.” “O you funny child!” said Randy, half laughing, half impatient. “It doesn’t mean that kind of ell. What’s the use of reading the stories? You ask so many questions, I don’t believe you half hear them.” “Oh, I do truly want to hear the stories, and if you’ll only read, I won’t ask a question, ’less it’s something I can’t make out.” Again Randy found the place, and for some time the story went on without interruption. Once they paused to see the picture of the lovely girl in the tower, then Randy went on:— “‘The king’s son wished to ascend to her, and looked for a door in the tower, but he could not find one. So he rode home, but the song which she had sung had touched his heart so much that he went every day to the forest and listened to it. As he thus stood one day behind a tree, he saw the witch come up and heard her call out:— “‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your hair.’ “‘Then Rapunzel let down her tresses, and the witch mounted up.’” “Oh, Randy!” cried Prue, excitedly, “why, didn’t it ’most pull her head off?” Randy laughed. “O Prue, Prue!” she said, “I do believe you think of the funniest questions to ask.” “But, Randy, do you b’lieve it didn’t pull like everything?” And Prue’s eyes were round with wonder. “Oh!” said Randy, “don’t you know that father said we wouldn’t be expected to believe the stories, only just enjoy them?” But the little girl looked bewildered; so, closing the book, Randy sought other means to amuse her. “Let’s play this is a beautiful bridge, this plank we’re sitting on, and this brook, a great big river,” said Randy, “and we’re princesses waiting for a prince to come and save us—I mean rescue us,” she corrected. Again little Prue showed her lack of imagination. “Save us from what?” said she. “Oh, dragons that live in this big, roaring river.” “It don’t roar much,” said Prue, doubtfully; “but,” she added, “we can play it does.” Thus encouraged, Randy went on, giving her fancy full play. “And that pretty green branch overhead, with sun on the leaves, that’s an arch of flowers such as the princess rode under in another story.” That was too much for Prue. “But, Randy!” she exclaimed, “there isn’t a blossom on it. If we were princesses, Randy, I could love you just the same, couldn’t I?” questioned Prue, looking up at her sister with eager eyes. “Of course you could,” said Randy, giving Prue a hug, who thus assured began to hum a little tune, swinging her legs to keep time with her singing. They made a pretty picture, Randy with her arm still about the little sister, Prue nestling as close as possible to Randy, and in the brook below a reflection showing the two children. Randy was looking off as if for the coming of the prince, while little Prue, becoming drowsy, laid her head against her sister. Suddenly Prue started: “S’pose that’s the prince?” said she, as a low, merry whistle sounded through the woods. Randy looked toward the opening, then her laugh rang out. “Oh, Prue,” said she, “it’s ’Bijah Bowstock, the deacon’s hired man, going after the cows. Just look at him!” she added. And Prue looked. Little enough like the prince in the fairy book looked he! An old straw hat upon the back of his head, a blue “jumper,” and a pair of overalls tucked into his boots, completed his costume. He did not see Randy and Prue as he passed through the woods to a path far beyond the brook, whisking off the blossoms with his switch as he went along. “His clothes wasn’t the kind the prince wore in the picture, was they, Randy?” said Prue, when ’Bijah was out of sight. “In the picture in the fairy book they wear such long, long stockings way over their knees, and hats with feathers in them, and everything,” said Prue, intending thus to supply all the details of costume which she might possibly have omitted. Randy made no answer. Little Prue felt as many a grown person does, that the clothes made the man; but Randy, thoughtful Randy, felt that, given all the fine raiment, ’Bijah never could have even _looked_ the prince. Little Prue edged her way along the plank on which they sat, and at last succeeded in slipping off from the end of the board down to the edge of the brook. There she found bits of bark which she freighted with moss, and then floated them down the tiny stream. The little crafts, aided by a gentle push, floated out into a placid little pool just under Randy’s feet. For an instant they paused, wavered, then turning about they flew over the miniature rapids, made there by three small stones below the surface, then sailed around a bend in the brook and disappeared behind a clump of brakes growing at the foot of an alder. Sometimes the tiny boats foundered, and the passengers were tipped out into the stream, but little Prue found other bits of bark for the boats and gaily loaded them with moss for more passengers. “Look, Randy! Look!” screamed Prue, “there’s a fine new boat just under your feet. The gray moss is mens, and the moss with the red tops is womens. The red is their bonnets. Randy, Randy! why don’t you hear me when I’m close to you?” Randy shook herself and sat upright, laughing. “I did hear you,” she said, “only I didn’t think to answer. I guess I was dreaming.” “Well, don’t dream in the daytime!” said Prue; “I’ve sent lots and lots of pretty boats down the stream, and I kept telling you to look, and now I don’t believe you’ve seen one of them.” “Oh, yes, I have,” said Randy, “only I was so busy thinking that I didn’t say anything about them. Come, we’ll sail a few boats together, and then I guess we’d better go home.” Prue was delighted, and to reward Randy for agreeing to play with her, she hunted with all her might for finer pieces of bark and choicer bits of moss, and gay indeed was the little fleet with its red-capped crew and passengers. Prue wandered off to find even finer mosses, and Randy was trying to capture a big water-spider for a passenger for a piece of birch bark, when Prue came rushing down the path, crying, “Look, Randy! Look! Here’s old Mr. Plimpkins to sail in one of our boats.” In her surprise Randy let the water-spider escape, and, turning about, saw Prue quite alone, running toward her, laughing and holding out something which she had in her hand. “Prue Weston! what do you mean?” said Randy. Old Mr. Plimpkins was a farmer who lived at the outskirts of the town, but Prue had seen him at church, and she thought him the funniest man she had ever seen. He was nearly as broad as he was tall. Winter and summer, he habitually wore very broad-brimmed hats, and he walked with a comical waddle, because his legs were completely bowed. As if to attract attention to these members, they were always encased in light, snuff-colored trousers, while about his neck, hot weather or cold, was always wrapped an immense red plaid cotton handkerchief. As Prue came along, she handed out to Randy the object which she called Mr. Plimpkins, and, sure enough, clutched tightly in the little hot hand, was a bit of twig on which two stems bowed together until they nearly touched. On it, for a broad-brimmed hat, she had stuck a round green leaf. “Oh, I think it must be naughty to laugh about him, even if he is funny,” said Randy. “But doesn’t it look like him?” persisted Prue, “besides, _you’re_ laughing, Randy, only not out loud.” Indeed, Randy was laughing, so, without attempting to reprove the little sister, she placed the bit of birch, which represented the old farmer, on the bark, and watched Prue as she floated it down the stream. Then, turning toward home, they walked along the path which led to the entrance to the wood. Prue sang all the way, and, seeing her happiness, Randy, sweet Randy, felt rewarded for the afternoon given up to her little sister’s amusement; but she felt that the reading of the fairy tales was not a success. Clearly, the stories were beyond little Prue; for, at the supper table, when there was a pause in the conversation, she described the afternoon and Randy’s reading, much to Randy’s surprise and her father’s amusement. “Oh, father!” she exclaimed, “we’ve been down to the brook, sailing boats, an’ Randy read me the beautifulest story! The girl’s name was—I’ve forgotten what, but her hair comed down to the ground, and the prince clumb up on it, and ’most pulled her head off, and the tower was so small the old witch couldn’t live in it, and she cut her hair off, and that’s all I can think of, ’cept the girl sang all the time, and the prince could hear her, and we sat on the plank and waited for the prince to come.” All this she said in one breath. Her father laughed heartily at her manner of telling the story, but Mrs. Weston said, “What on airth does the child mean?” while Randy decided to read the stories to herself, thereafter, and amuse Prue in another way. CHAPTER III—RANDY AT CHURCH “Come, Randy, come! It wants a quarter to ten, an’ you’d better hurry.” “Yes, mother, I’m coming,” said Randy, pleasantly, and with redoubled energy she reached for the middle button of her dress waist, which was fastened at the back. This button was just too high for her left hand to reach up to, and almost too low for her right hand to reach down to, but at last she succeeded in crowding the refractory little button into its buttonhole, and, flushed with the struggle, she stood before the tiny looking-glass brushing a stray curling lock from her temple. The glass was a poor one, and Randy’s reflection appeared to be making a most unpleasant grimace at the real girl standing there. When she lifted her chin, a flaw in the glass made one eye appear much larger than the other, and when she bent her head, you would never have believed that the little nose in the glass was a reproduction of Randy’s, so singular was its contour. Truly, with such mirrors as the farm-house afforded, Randy stood little chance of becoming vain. “Come, Randy!” Randy started, took one more look at the stiff gingham dress, then hastened down the stairs. At the door stood Mrs. Weston, impatiently waiting for her, while little Prue patted the old cat and told her that she “mustn’t be lonesome while they were all at church.” Into the wagon they climbed, and away they started to the church. Their progress was slow, for the old horse was far from a “racer” at any time, and on Sunday Mr. Weston felt it to be wrong to more than walk the horse; yet, even with such slow locomotion, they did at last reach the church, and the old horse was duly ensconced in the carriage-shed to dream away the forenoon. The Westons had arrived a bit early, and Randy amused herself surveying the few parishioners who had already come. In that country town the neighbors were few and far between. The Westons’ nearest neighbor was about a mile and a half distant, and so on Sundays it was quite a treat to see so many people. There were the Babson girls just a few pews in front of Randy. Randy thought Belinda Babson very pretty, mainly because of her fine yellow braids of straight hair. These braids lay down Belinda’s broad back, falling quite below her waist. Her sister Jemima’s braids were even thicker and longer; but then, Randy reflected, Jemima’s braids were red. There was Jotham Potts, whose black eyes always espied Randy at church or school, but whose regard she did not at all value. True, on one hot Sunday when Randy had found it well-nigh impossible to keep awake, Jotham had reached over the top of the pew and dropped some big peppermints in her lap. His intention was good, and Randy blushed and was delighted, although her pleasure was partly spoiled by a snicker from Phœbe Small, who longed to win Jotham’s admiration, but thus far had failed to gain it. Randy had inspected every boy and girl in the church and was just watching a big blue fly that was circling around a web in the angle of the window, when a slight stir among the occupants of the other pews caused Randy to look around and become delighted with a sweet vision. With Farmer Gray and his wife came a number of ladies and gentlemen; summer boarders who were to be at the Gray homestead a number of weeks; but to Randy’s eyes, the young lady who took a seat next to Mrs. Gray seemed a dream of beauty. She wore a simple white muslin and a very large hat trimmed with daisies, but to the little country maid the city girl’s costume was nothing short of magnificent. It had always been Randy’s delight when the choir arose to sing, to watch Miss Dobbs, the little woman who sang soprano, as she drew herself up to her full height in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of the page of the hymn book, the other half of which was held by Silas Barnes, the phenomenally tall tenor. Equally amusing was the tall, thin woman who sang “second,” standing beside her cousin, John Hobson, who sang bass with all his might. He was short, fat, and very dark, and his musical efforts, which were mighty, caused a scowl upon his usually jovial countenance, and a deal of perspiration as well. But to-day when the choir arose, Randy had no eyes for any one but the Grays’ lovely boarder, and she almost held her breath as she wondered if the girl would sing. The tall tenor touched his tuning fork, the choir sounded the chord, then choir and congregation joined in singing the old missionary hymn, “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains,” and round and full rang out the sweet contralto voice of the tall, fair girl in white. Randy was spellbound. She had never admired that hymn, but to-day it sounded sweeter than anything she had ever heard. Little Prue looked at the singer with round eyes, and as they sat down she clutched Randy’s skirts and in a loud whisper said, “Oh, Randy, do you s’pose she is the fairy princess?” “Oh, hush!” said Randy, alarmed lest the young girl should hear the child. Did she hear her? She sat in the pew just in front of the Westons’, and when Prue whispered her eager question, a faint suggestion of a smile hovered about the lovely mouth, and a bright twinkle glimmered for an instant in her beautiful eyes. Just then Parson Spooner arose, gave out the text, and commenced one of his long sermons. He was a good man, with a kindly word and smile for every one, and all of his people were devoutly fond of him. The people liked him, and he always had a pleasant chat with every child whom he met, and most of them thought that he was “lots” nicer on week-days than on Sundays. On week-days he talked with the boy whom he chanced to meet with his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and laughingly wished him good luck. Or, if it happened that the small owner of a home-made kite could not make it fly, the genial parson had been known to tie a new bob (usually a few weeds tied together) to the tail of the refractory kite, and off it would sail to the delight of the small boy and his clerical friend. But on Sundays, his sermons, delivered in a drowsy sing-song, tried the patience of his small parishioners. Prue and Randy settled down as if for a long day of it, and Randy resolved that, however long the sermon might be, she would not get sleepy; whereupon, she stretched her eyes to their fullest extent, and stared at nothing so persistently, that Prue became uneasy, and whispered, “What’s the matter, Randy? you look so queer!” “Nothing,” said Randy. “I just mean to keep my eyes open, that’s all.” “They _are_ open, just monstrous!” said Prue, at which Randy could not help laughing. As the little girl was not aware that she had said anything that was at all funny, she thought Randy’s amusement quite out of place, and sat quietly for a few moments, in injured silence. Randy tried very hard to attend to the sermon, but in spite of good intentions, her mind wandered from Parson Spooner’s flushed face, as he proceeded to make his meaning clear by loud vocal efforts, and to enforce his meaning by many thumps of his fat fist upon the pulpit cushion. Mrs. Brimblecom sat over by the window, slowly waving a palm-leaf fan to and fro, and occasionally nudging her husband, to keep him awake. In front of her, sat Joel Simpkins, his sandy hair brushed so carefully that not one hair was awry, and just across the aisle, Janie Clifton sat, in all the glory of a new pink calico. Janie’s black curls were very pretty, and she knew it; and her bright, black eyes had been pointedly praised in an alleged poem, which had appeared in the county paper a few weeks before. It was entitled the “Black-eyed Coquette,” and Janie felt sure that Joel had written it, in which case, its boldly expressed flattery could have been meant for none other than herself. Accordingly, she shook her curls, and occasionally looked at Joel, in a manner which Randy considered shockingly bold, and she wondered if, at eighteen, she could act like that. She decided that she could never be so bold, not even if the object of her admiration looked like a prince. She thought, too, that Joel was very ordinary; then she looked again at the girl in the daisy-trimmed hat and white muslin gown, and fell to wondering how fine and handsome a prince would have to be to gain her favor. “Probably there isn’t any one in these parts that would please her,” thought Randy. “’Tisn’t only her clothes,” mused she, “it’s something else that makes her different from the folks around here.” All this time Prue had been unusually still, and Randy looked to see if she was asleep. The little girl was very wide awake, and sat staring at the large hat in front of her, her lips moving as if she were counting. Prue’s manner of counting was something unique, and as Randy bent her head to listen, she could hardly help laughing, for this is what she heard:— “One, two, four, five, two, six, ten, nine, two,—oh, Randy, there’s more daisies on her hat than I can count. Are they truly daisies? If they are, why don’t they wilt?” “Hush-sh-sh,” said Randy. “Keep still and watch that big bumble bee that’s just come in the window.” [Illustration: Prue counts the Daisies on Miss Dayton’s Hat] “Hear him bum,” said Prue, thus making Randy laugh again. She felt very wicked, laughing in church, and knew that her father would not approve; but how could she help laughing, for while she watched the bee, and wondered where he would fly next, little Prue watched him, too, all the time softly imitating his monotonous tune by saying under her breath, “bum, bum, bum.” The heat increased, and Prue looked out of the window at the green branches moving in the breeze, and longed to be out there, too. At last the bee tired of the church and flew out of the window, and just as Randy was thinking that she could not bear the heat, Parson Spooner’s sermon came to an end. He had become entangled in his own eloquence; and seeing no way to extricate himself, or make his meaning clear, he abruptly closed his sermon and suggested singing the Doxology. After the service Mrs. Gray stopped to talk with Mrs. Weston, and then, to the mingled delight and embarrassment of Randy and Prue, the beautiful stranger turned, and, stooping, spoke to the little girl. “How very good you have been,” said she, “to sit still this long, hot morning. Do you know I had some candy in my pocket which I longed to share with you, but I didn’t like to turn quite around, as I should have had to, to give it to you. Let me give it to you now, and you and your sister can enjoy it during the long ride home. See!” And from a pretty chatelaine bag which hung from her belt, she took a small box of bonbons. “If I give you this, will you give me a kiss?” And she stooped and placed the gift in Prue’s eager little hands. For an instant the child hesitated; then shyly she lifted her face, and as the young girl stooped to take the kiss, Prue’s pudgy little arm went around her neck. Then, turning to Randy, she extended her hand in its dainty glove, saying, “I have seen you and your sister many times when I have strolled past your home, and once, when you were standing near the tall clump of sunflowers, watching the bees, I was tempted to stop and chat with you awhile.” “Oh, I wish you had,” said Randy, so eagerly, that the girl laughed merrily, saying, “Well, the next time I am out for a walk and am going up the long hill, I will make you a little call.” Just at that moment Mrs. Weston’s friendly chat with her neighbor came to an end, and with her usual hasty manner she hurried the two children out of the church and into the old wagon. Mr. Weston gathered up the reins, and with a loud “g’lang” and a few jerks, the old horse seemed to awaken from his forenoon’s nap in the carriage-shed and ambled a few steps, then subsided into the habitual jog. “Look, mother, just see what she gave me,” said Prue, swinging the tiny package of bonbons before her mother’s eyes. “What is it?” said her mother; “who gave it to you?” “The princess,” said Prue, as plainly as she could, considering the size of the bonbon which she was eating. Mrs. Weston looked puzzled, and Randy, helping herself to a bit of the candy, explained:— “It was that beautiful, tall girl with Mrs. Gray. She gave Prue the candy for being good and keeping still this morning, and she’s coming to see me soon’s ever she takes a walk past our house, and isn’t she the handsomest person that ever lived?” “Wal’, I don’t know as I noticed,” said Mrs. Weston. “Why, how could you help seeing her?” said Randy, in amazement. “Wal’, I s’pose I did see her, but I didn’t ’specially notice her, ’cept that she was talkin’ to you children, for Mrs. Gray was tellin’ me a new way to make cookies with two eggs instead of four, and I made her tell me twice so’s I’d remember; two eggs is quite a savin’.” But this new bit of economy was lost on Randy. “Did Mrs. Gray tell you her name?” asked Randy, eagerly. “Seems to me she said it was Dayton, or something like that, but I was so took up with that two-egg rule for cookies that I didn’t notice.” So, failing to interest her mother, Randy subsided. CHAPTER IV—PRUE’S MISHAP Down the long, dusty road trudged Randy and Prue one hot morning on their way to the village store. At every step the dust arose like smoke, then settled upon their shoes, making a thick coating like that which whitened the blackberry vines growing luxuriantly over the wall by the roadside. Randy was far from pleased to be taking this long walk in the dust and heat. She had been sitting upon the rough, wooden seat just outside the kitchen door, reading the beloved fairy book, when her mother had stepped briskly to the doorway, calling her back from fairyland abruptly, saying: “Come, Randy, you must go down to the store after some sugar. I’ve got my cookies ’bout half done and my sugar’s given out, so you must put on your sunbonnet and take Prue, and go as quick as you can. Ye needn’t run, only don’t waste time.” “Oh, mother,” said Randy, “it’ll take me twice as long if I have to take Prue, she’s so little, and she walks so slow.” “I know it,” said Mrs. Weston, “but I’ve got lots to do while you’re gone, and I can’t watch her and work at the same time; so you take her ’long o’ you, and I’ll know she’s all right.” Randy took her sunbonnet from its peg on the wall and called little Prue, who was playing in the sun. The child’s delight when told that she might go to the store with Randy made the elder girl regret that she had demurred when told that she must take her little sister with her. Prue laughed with delight, and, thrusting her little sunburned hand into Randy’s, she trudged along, scuffling her feet and laughing to see the dust rise in little gray clouds. At any other time Randy would have checked Prue, but that day her mind was too much occupied with the heroine of the fairy tale to notice Prue’s movements or comment upon them; but Prue was getting tired of walking in silence, while Randy indulged herself in day-dreams. “Why don’t you talk, Randy? You haven’t talked any since we started,” said Prue. “Oh, it’s too hot to talk,” answered Randy, and she once more relapsed into silence. Prue dropped Randy’s hand, and, leaving the road, she clambered upon the wall to hunt among the dusty vines for blackberries. There were more leaves than fruit, so the little girl, after finding a few small berries, walked along upon the wall until she came to another lot of vines, where she again searched for fruit. While Prue looked for berries Randy was critically inspecting her own and her little sister’s costume. How ugly they looked! The girl who, up to that time, had never seen any one arrayed in anything more beautiful than a print or gingham gown, varied by a long apron of blue-checked cotton, or a dark, chocolate-colored calico, now looked with startling dislike upon that style of apparel. “Only think,” mused Randy, “if we wore white dresses and fine shoes, and big hats, ’twouldn’t seem near as hot doing errands. Seems as though we could sit still in meeting if we had on different clothes and—why, Prue, what’s the matter?” cried Randy, in answer to a doleful wail from the little sister. “Oh, my foot, my foot!” screamed Prue; “it hurts drefful, and I can’t get it out.” “Let me see,” said Randy. “Hold still a minute; I can get it out, Prue,” which, however, proved to be easier said than done. While walking upon the wall the little foot had slipped between the stones and seemed firmly fixed. Randy worked gently and patiently, and at last the little foot was out of prison. Prue insisted upon having her shoe and stocking taken off, saying that her foot felt “awful big,” and sure enough it had become a trifle swollen. Randy tried in every way to soothe her, assuring her that it was but a short walk to the store, but Prue wailed dismally. “Oh, I can’t walk, Randy, my foot aches just drefful, and I can’t have any shoes on, ’cause my foot has grown big.” Randy blamed herself for the mishap. “I ought to have been taking care of Prue instead of thinking of fine clothes,” thought Randy. “It ought to have been me that got hurt instead of little Prue. ’Twould have served me right for being real silly, almost vain, I do believe.” And thus she berated herself. Poor, repentant Randy!
that is--we may learn from her reading of the Akashic Records what danger threatens." "There is a danger then?" "Yes, and a very real one, which has to do with this adversary I told you about. A desire to defeat him brought me to you, and as he is your enemy as well as mine, you are wise to obey me in all things." "Yet I know that when you have no further use for me, you will cast me aside as of no account," said Enistor bitterly. "Why not?" rejoined the other coolly. "You would act in the same way." "I am not so sure that I would." "Ah. You have still some human weakness to get rid of before you can progress on the path along which you ask me to lead you. I have no use for weaklings, Enistor. Remember that." The host drew himself up haughtily. "I am no weakling!" "For your own sake, to-morrow, I hope you are not." "Why to-morrow?" "Because a blow will fall on you." Enistor looked uneasy. "A blow! What kind of a blow?" "Something to do with a loss of expected money. That is all I can tell you, my friend. You keep certain things from me, so if you are not entirely frank, how can you expect me to aid you?" Enistor dropped into his chair again, and the perspiration beaded his dark face. "A loss of expected money," he muttered, "and Lucy is ill." "Who is Lucy?" "My sister who lives in London. A widow called Lady Staunton. She has five thousand a year which she promised years ago to leave to me, so that I might restore the fortunes of the Enistor family. I had news a week ago that she is very ill, and this week I was going up to see her in order to make sure she had not changed her mind." "It is useless your going to see Lady Staunton," said Narvaez leisurely, "for she _has_ changed her mind and has made a new will." Enistor scowled and clenched his hands. "How do you know?" "Well, I don't know details," said the Spaniard agreeably, "those have to be supplied by you. All I am certain of is that to-morrow you will receive a letter stating that you have lost some expected money. As the sole money you hope to receive is to come from Lady Staunton, it is logical to think that this is what will be lost. You should have told me about this and I could have worked on her mind to keep her true to you." "But it is impossible," cried Enistor, rising to stride up and down in an agitated way. "Lucy is as proud of our family as I am, and always said she would leave her fortune to restore us to our old position in the country." "Lady Staunton is a woman, and women are fickle," said Narvaez cruelly. "I fear you have lost your chance this time." "You may be wrong." "I may be, but I don't think so. I was looking over your horoscope last evening, Enistor, and from what I read therein I made further inquiries, which have to do with invisible powers I can control." "Elementals?" "And other things," said the magician carelessly; "however I learned positively that you will get bad news of the nature I explained to-morrow. It is too late to counteract what has been done." "The will----?" "Exactly, the will. From what you say I feel convinced that my knowledge applies to Lady Staunton and her fortune. See what comes of not being frank with me, Enistor. You are a fool." "I don't believe what you say." "As you please. It does not matter to me; except," he added with emphasis, "that it makes my hold over you more secure." "What do you mean by that?" "My poor friend!" Narvaez glanced back from the door towards which he had walked slowly. "You are losing what little powers you have obtained, since you cannot read my mind. Why, I mean that with five thousand a year you might not be inclined to give me your daughter in marriage. As a poor man you are forced to do so." "It seems to me," said Enistor angrily, "that in any case I must do so, if I wish to learn the danger which threatens me as well as you." "Why, that is true. You are clever in saying that." "But perhaps this possible loss of money is the danger." "No. The danger is a greater one than the loss of money. It has to do with your life and my life in Chaldea; with our adversary and with the unknown man, who is coming to take part in the drama of repayment. I have a feeling," said Narvaez, passing his hand across his brow, "that the curtain rises on our drama with this loss of money." "I don't believe Lucy will cheat me," cried Enistor desperately. "Wait until to-morrow's post," said Narvaez significantly, "you will find that I am a true prophet. Our bargain of my marriage with Alice must continue on its present basis, as the want of money will still prevent your becoming independent. I might suggest," he added, opening the door, "that you forbid your daughter to see too much of young Hardwick. She might fall in love with him and that would in a great measure destroy her clairvoyant powers. She will be of no use to either of us then. Good night! When you sleep we shall meet as usual on the other plane!" Narvaez departed chuckling, for disagreeables befalling others always amused him. He was absolutely without a heart and without feelings, since for ages in various bodies he had worked hard to rid himself of his humanity. Enistor was on the same evil path, but as yet was human enough to worry over the inevitable. Until he slept he did his best to convince himself that Narvaez spoke falsely, but failed utterly in the attempt. CHAPTER III THE FULFILMENT Next morning Enistor was gloomy and apprehensive, for he had slept very badly during the hours of darkness. He tried to persuade himself that the Spaniard prophesied falsely, but some inward feeling assured him that this was not the case. Before the sun set he was convinced, against his inclinations, that the sinister prediction would be fulfilled. Therefore he picked up his morning letters nervously, quite expecting to find a legal one stating that Lady Staunton was dead and had left her five thousand a year to some stranger. Fortunately for his peace of mind there was no letter of the kind, and he made a better breakfast than he might have done. All the same he was morose and sullen, so that Alice had anything but a pleasant time. Towards the end of the meal he relieved his feelings by scolding the girl. "I forbid you to see much of that young Hardwick," he declared imperiously, "he is in love with you, and I don't wish you to marry a pauper painter!" Aware that her father wished her to accept Narvaez, it would have been wise for the girl to have held her tongue, since a later confession of a feigned engagement to the artist was her sole chance of resisting the loveless marriage. But Enistor was one of those people who invariably drew what was worst in a person to the surface, and she answered prematurely. "Mr. Hardwick proposed yesterday and I refused him. Therefore I can see as much of him as I want to, without running any risk of becoming his wife." Enistor ignored the latter part of her reply, proposing to deal with it later. "You refused him? And why, may I ask?" "He is not the man I want for my husband. He does not complete me!" "Are you then incomplete?" sneered Enistor scornfully. "To my mind every woman and every man must be incomplete until a true marriage takes place!" "What is a true marriage, you silly girl?" "A marriage of souls!" "Pooh! Pooh! That foolish affinity business." "Is it foolish?" queried Alice sedately. "It appears to me to be a great truth." "Appears to you!" scoffed her father. "What does a child such as you are know about such things? At your age you should be healthy enough not to think of your soul and even forget that you have one. Nevertheless I am glad that you have refused Hardwick, as I have other views for you." "If they include marriage with Don Pablo, I decline to entertain them." "Do you indeed? Rubbish! You are my daughter and shall do as I order." "I am a human being also, and in this instance I shall not obey." Enistor frowned like a thunderstorm. "You dare to set your will against my will?" he demanded, looking at her piercingly. "In this instance I do," replied Alice, meeting his gaze firmly. "I am quite willing to be an obedient daughter to you in all else. But marriage concerns my whole future and therefore I have a right to choose for myself." "You have no rights, save those I allow you to have! In refusing Hardwick you have shown more sense than I expected. But Don Pablo you must marry!" "Must I, father? And why?" "He is wealthy and he adores you." Alice in spite of her nervousness laughed outright. "I am woman enough to see that Don Pablo only adores himself. He wants a hostess to sit at the foot of his table and entertain his friends: he has no use for a wife. As to his wealth, I would sooner be happy with a pauper than with a millionaire, provided I loved him." "Silly romance: silly romance." "Perhaps it is. But that is my view!" Enistor frowned still more darkly, as he saw very plainly that, frail as she was, he could not hope to bend her to his will. In some way he could not explain the girl baffled his powerful personality. Yet it was necessary that she should become the wife of Narvaez, if the danger which the old man hinted at was to be known and conquered. "Alice, listen to me," said the man entreatingly, "we are very poor and Don Pablo is very rich. If you marry him, you will soon be his wealthy widow, as he cannot live long. Then with the money you will be able to restore the fortunes of our family and marry whomsoever you desire. Be sensible!" "I refuse to sacrifice myself to a loveless marriage for your sake," said Alice doggedly, and standing up like a weak lily against the force of a tempest. "You don't love me, father: you have never loved me, so why----" "I am not going to argue the point with you any longer," stormed Enistor, rising hastily; "I shall force you to marry Don Pablo." "In that case I shall marry Julian Hardwick and ask him to protect me," said the girl, rising in her turn, shaking and white, but sullenly determined. "Protect you! Who can protect you against me? I can deal with Hardwick and with you in a way you little dream of." "What you can do to Mr. Hardwick I do not know," said the girl steadily, "but me you cannot harm in any way, nor can you compel me, else you would long ago have used your boasted power." "Are you aware that you are speaking to your father?" demanded Enistor, astonished at her daring. "Perfectly! I wish to be a good daughter to you, father, but in a matter which concerns my whole life I must decline to yield either to your commands or prayers!" Enistor could have struck her pale face in his wrath, but, sensitive to invisible things, he became aware that there was a barrier around her which kept him at arm's length. He knew instinctively that the powerful influence pervading the room had to do with the unknown individual whom Narvaez called "Our Adversary," and felt that he was not prepared to measure his strength against such a force. So uncomfortable and daunted did he feel, that his one desire was to leave the room, and he began to back towards the door. Alice was astonished to see the perspiration beading her father's forehead and watched his departure in dismay. Unaware of what was taking place, she looked upon the withdrawal as a declaration of war, and believed, with some truth, that she would have to suffer for opposing resistance to the marriage with Narvaez. Yet she still held out, as she felt a singular sense of security. The same power which weakened Enistor strengthened her, but not being a trained occultist, she wondered how she could dare to face her father so boldly. "I shall talk to you later," breathed Enistor with an effort, so hostile was the atmosphere. "Meanwhile you may as well know that if you decline to become Don Pablo's wife, you will ruin me." The Squire--that was his title as the owner of Polwellin village--left his obstinate daughter in the room, and went to the library, which was his own particular domain. Here the opposing influence did not follow him. Sitting down heavily, he began to breathe more freely, and wondered why he had been so craven as to fly from the field of battle. Although he had been anxious all his life to acquire forbidden lore, he had only learned something of the practical side of occultism since the arrival of Narvaez, some three years ago. That ancient sinner was accomplished in black arts, and for his own ends was willing to impart something of his knowledge to Enistor. A considerable amount of sinister teaching had been given to the Squire, but as yet he was but a neophyte, and ignorant of many things. Narvaez withheld much purposely, as he was keenly aware of Enistor's powerful will and unscrupulous greed for power. The Spaniard did not so much desire to instruct his host as to make use of him. Those servants of Christ, who walk on the Right-hand Path, are possessed entirely by the Spirit of Love, and are only too anxious to teach to the ignorant all that they may be capable of assimilating. But the Brothers of the Shadow are too inherently selfish to be generous, and merely give out sufficient knowledge to render their pupils useful servants and docile slaves. Narvaez had no intention of cultivating Enistor's latent powers to such a strength that they might be dangerous to himself. Consequently, although the man was on the threshold of power, he had not yet crossed it, and therefore was unable to deal with the force in the dining-room, the strength of which he could not calculate. To influence Alice to work for self in a way which would lure her from behind the barrier of the protecting power required more knowledge than Enistor possessed. Yet Narvaez likewise professed fear of the Adversary, and could only use cunning instead of command. The Squire smiled grimly to himself as he reflected that the Master himself would have been ignominiously driven from the dining-room in the same way, had he been present. Of course Enistor did not wish to injure his daughter in any way at which the world would look askance. He merely desired her to make a loveless marriage so as to acquire the wealth of Narvaez, and so that she might be educated in clear-seeing for the purpose of averting a possible danger. What that danger might be Enistor did not know, and so far as he could guess Don Pablo was equally ignorant. Therefore it was absolutely necessary that the latent clairvoyant powers of the girl should be brought to the surface and trained, if the safety of the Black Magician and his pupil was to be assured. Enistor was aggressively selfish, and to save himself was ready to sacrifice his daughter and a dozen human beings if necessary to the Dark Powers. Her body, her fortune, her honour, would not be injured, but--as Enistor very well knew--her soul would be in danger. For this however he cared nothing. Better that the girl should perish than that he should be balked of his daring ambition. But he did not intend to surrender Alice to Don Pablo unless his price was paid, and that price included unlimited wealth together with unlimited power over weaker mortals. Narvaez alone could instruct him in the arts which could command such things. Meanwhile, as Enistor needed money, it was necessary for him to attend to practical matters, which had to do with Lady Staunton! For many years Enistor had influenced his sister strongly to leave her entire fortune to him, and until Narvaez had spoken on the previous evening, he had every reason to believe that he would get what he wanted. But the prediction rendered him uneasy, even though the expected letter had not yet arrived. The Ides of March had truly come, but had not passed, and although the fatal epistle had failed to appear in the morning's batch of letters, it might be delivered by the evening post. All that day Enistor was naturally uncomfortable and apprehensive. Positive that his sister would leave him her fortune, he had rejoiced when the news of her illness arrived, and in his fancied security he had not even gone up to London to make sure that all was safe. Certainly he had never dreamed of taking so long a journey to console the old lady on her death-bed; but he deeply regretted for the sake of the inheritance that he had not sought her company during her sickness. Also it might have been advisable to enlist the evil services of Narvaez to clinch the matter, and this omission the Squire deeply lamented. However, it was now too late to do anything save wait for the post and hope for the best. He suffered as only a selfish nature can suffer, and the agonies of a truly selfish man are very great when he is thwarted. It was close upon three o'clock when he was put out of his misery by the arrival of an unexpected stranger. Enistor, finding that Alice had betaken herself to the safer spaces of the moorlands, had no one to torment, so he busied himself with evil practices in his gloomy library. That is, he used the teaching of Narvaez to concentrate his will-power on Lady Staunton, so that she might still desire to leave him her money. With her visualised image in his mind's eye, he was sending powerful thoughts to her sick-bed insisting that he and he only should benefit by the will. An ignorant person would have laughed at the idea of any one being so controlled from a distance, but Enistor knew perfectly well what he was doing, and made ardent use of his unholy telepathy. Later when the footman announced that Lady Staunton's solicitor, Mr. Cane, desired an interview, Enistor granted it without delay. It was better, he wisely thought, to know the best or the worst at once, without suffering the agonies of suspense until the evening post. The new-comer was a bustling, rosy-cheeked little man, well dressed, expansive and voluble. He had no nerves to speak of, and still less imagination, therefore he was not in the least impressed by the grey atmosphere of Tremore. In fact before he condescended to business, he complimented his host on the breezy altitude of the house and the beauty of the surroundings. His courtesy was not at all appreciated, as Enistor soon let him know. "I don't suppose you came here to admire the view, Mr. Cane," said the Squire irritably. "Your unexpected presence argues that my sister is dead." Mr. Cane's lively face assumed a solemn expression, and his airy manner became heavily professional. "You are right, Mr. Enistor," he said pompously, "my lamented client, Lady Staunton, passed away to the better land in a peaceful frame of mind at ten o'clock last night." Enistor frowned and winced as he remembered his wasted telepathy. "I am sorry," he said conventionally, "and I regret greatly that I was not at hand to soothe her last moments. But unexpected business prevented my taking the journey. Still, had I guessed that she was likely to die, I should have managed to be with her." "Pray do not grieve, Mr. Enistor," exclaimed the solicitor with unintentional irony. "My lamented client's last moments were tenderly soothed by her best friend." "Her best friend?" "So Lady Staunton termed Mr. Montrose!" "I never heard of him," said Enistor abruptly. "Who is he?" A most unexpected reply took away the Squire's breath. "He is the fortunate young gentleman who inherits Lady Staunton's property." Enistor rose in a black fury, with clenched fists and incredulous looks. "I don't understand: you must be mistaken," he said hoarsely. "I am not mistaken," replied Cane dryly. "I was never more in earnest in my life, sir. It is hard on you as my late lamented client's nearest relative, I admit. In fact Lady Staunton thought so too, and asked me to come down as soon as she died to explain her reasons for leaving the money to Mr. Montrose. Otherwise, since your sister, Mr. Enistor, did not encourage legal matters being attended to out of order, you would not have heard the news until the reading of the will after the funeral. As Lady Staunton died last night, the burial will take place in four days. I have no doubt as a sincere mourner you will be there." "A sincere mourner!" cried Enistor, pacing the room hastily to work off his rage. "How can I be that when my sister has cheated me in this way?" "Oh, not cheated, Mr. Enistor, not cheated," pleaded the rosy-cheeked little man more volubly than ever. "Lady Staunton's money was her own to dispose of as she desired. Besides, she did not forget you entirely: she has left you the sum of one thousand pounds." "Really!" sneered the Squire savagely, "and this Montrose creature inherits five thousand a year! It is wicked: infamous, scandalous. I shall upset the will, Mr. Cane!" The lawyer remonstrated mildly. "I fear that is impossible, Mr. Enistor. My lamented client was quite in her right senses when she signed the will, and as I drew it up in accordance with her instructions, you may be certain that all is in good order. I feel for you: upon my word I feel for you," added Mr. Cane plaintively, "and my errand cannot be called a pleasant one!" "Oh, hang your feelings: what do I care for your feelings! It is my sister's iniquitous will that I am thinking about. She knew how poor I was: she was proud of being an Enistor, and she faithfully promised that I should have the money in order to mend our family fortunes. What devil made her change her intentions?" "No devil that I am aware of," said Cane with puny dignity. "Lady Staunton did make a will in your favour. But a year ago she signed a new one leaving her income to Mr. Montrose, who is now my client. I decline on these grounds to hear him spoken of as a devil." "Oh. Then it was this Montrose beast who made her change her mind?" "No. Certainly he did not. He is not even aware that he has inherited, as Lady Staunton asked me to see you first. Only when the will is read, after the funeral in four days, will Mr. Montrose learn of his good fortune." "Montrose does not know," said Enistor, striding forward to stand over the little lawyer in a threatening way. "Then why not destroy this last will and read the old one which is in my favour!" Cane wriggled beneath Enistor's fiery gaze and slipped sideways out of his chair. "Are you in your right senses to----" he began, puffing indignantly. Enistor cut him short. "Oh, the deuce take your heroics! You know perfectly well that I should benefit rather than a stranger. I want the money and I intend to get the money. By righting this wrong you will be doing a good act, since it seems you have a conscience of sorts. If it is a matter of money----" This time it was Cane who interrupted. "You insult me," he vociferated shrilly. "I am an honest lawyer----" "Rather an anomaly," interpolated Enistor scoffingly. "An honest lawyer," continued the little man sturdily, "and as such I am bound to consider the wishes of my client. You are asking me to commit a felony, Mr. Enistor. How dare you! How dare you!" he mopped his perspiring brow. "What have you seen in me to lead you to make so infamous a proposition?" "I thought I saw some vestiges of common sense," said Enistor dryly. "But it seems that you are a fool with a conscience!" "I have a conscience, but I am no fool, Mr. Enistor! I have a great mind to tell the world at large how you endeavoured to tempt me!" "If you do, I shall put forth a counter-slander saying that you came down here to tempt _me_." "To tempt you? To tempt you, sir?" "Why not? If I say that you offered to destroy the last will and substitute the first provided I gave you a large sum of money, who will refuse to believe the statement?" "Any one who knows me." "Ah. But the whole world does not know you, Mr. Cane. Your immediate friends may reject the calumny, but the majority of people won't. My word is as good as yours, you know!" "You will not dare----" "Oh yes, I shall dare if you dare!" "Am I dealing with a gentleman or a scoundrel?" asked Cane, appealing to the carved ceiling. "Pooh! Pooh!" said Enistor cynically. "What is the use of calling names? Why, a gentleman is only a scoundrel who is clever enough not to be found out." "I disagree: I disagree entirely." "I thought you would. You are not strong enough to be original. However, all this chatter will not alter circumstances. My sister has sold me in favour of this--what do you say his name is?" "Mr. Montrose. Douglas Montrose!" said Cane sulkily. "He is----" "Won't you sit down and explain? You will be more comfortable." "No I won't," said Cane sharply and still fretted by the proposition which had been made to him. "I doubt if it would not be better for me to retire after what you have said." "Oh," said Enistor ironically, "your duty to your late lamented client forbids." "It does, and therefore I remain to explain. But I shall not sit down again in your presence, nor drink your wine, nor eat your food." "Better wait until you are asked, Mr. Cane. Go on and tell me about Montrose." Confounded by his host's disconcerting calm, the little lawyer came to the point, but delivered his explanation standing. "Mr. Montrose is a young Scotchman, poor and handsome and clever. He is a poet and a journalist, who lives in a Bloomsbury garret, ambitious of literary fame. Eighteen months ago he saved Lady Staunton's life when her horses bolted in Hyde Park. He stopped them at the risk of his limbs, and prevented a serious accident!" "Silly ass," muttered Enistor, "if Lucy had died then, the money would have come to me. Go on." Appalled by this crudely evil speech, Cane started back. "Are you a man or a demon, Mr. Enistor?" "You can ask riddles when you have delivered your message. Though, to be sure," said Enistor, sitting down, "there is little need. This handsome young pauper paid court to my sister, who was always weak and silly. His sham heroism and his good looks and effusive compliments worked on her feeble mind, and she made him her heir. Am I right?" "Lady Staunton made Mr. Montrose her heir certainly," said Cane, shutting up his little black bag and putting on his hat to leave. "But your description of my new client is wrong. He does not flatter any one, and his heroism was not a sham. Nor was your sister feeble-minded, but a very clever----" "Woman," ended Enistor sharply, "and being so became the prey of this adventurer. Well, Mr. Cane, now that you have delivered your message you can go, and I shall be obliged if you will send me the one thousand pounds as soon as possible." "Oh, certainly," cried Cane eagerly. Enistor saw why he spoke so agreeably. "You think that by taking the one thousand pounds I condone the testament of Lady Staunton. Perhaps you are right, but I have more strings to my bow than one. I have been infamously treated and I shall have my revenge." "You cannot revenge yourself on your sister who is dead," said Cane rebukingly, "and to punish Mr. Montrose, who is perfectly innocent of harming you, would not be the act of a Christian." "Ah, but you see I am nothing so feeble-minded as a Christian." "What are you then?" Cane stared. "A wronged man, who intends to be revenged." "I shall protect my client," cried the lawyer vigorously. "Naturally, your fees will be larger if you do. But don't protect him at the cost of my character, or it will be the worse for your own." "I am not afraid!" "Indeed you are! Horribly afraid. However, you needn't faint on my doorstep as that would be inconvenient. Good-day: your trap is waiting." Cane got away at once, quite convinced that Enistor was not wholly in his right mind. His rosy cheeks were pale as he drove away, and his courage was dashed by Enistor's unscrupulous threat. "He is dangerous," thought the lawyer. "I must hold my tongue!" and he did. CHAPTER IV PLOTTING The prophecy of Narvaez should have softened the blow to Enistor in the moment of its fulfilment. But it did not, for the simple reason that he had tried his best to disbelieve the Spaniard, in spite of his knowledge of the man's powers. Don Pablo, as the result of prying beyond the boundaries of the visible, possessed in active working super-senses latent in the ordinary man, and so he could literally see through a brick wall. Certainly his vision was not invariably clear, and at times the details of his prognostications were incorrect. In the present instance he had foretold that Enistor should receive his bad news by letter, whereas Mr. Cane had come down personally to convey the disagreeable intelligence. But the actual fact that Enistor would lose the money had been proved beyond all doubt, and the Squire found the one undeniable truth so unpleasant that he was careless about minor mistakes. As soon as Cane, without bite or sup, had driven away in the direction of Perchton, Enistor made his way across the moors to the back-country where Narvaez had his abode. It was impossible that he could keep the knowledge of his bad fortune to himself, and moreover he wanted advice with regard to his future actions. The Squire was clever as men go, and usually decided all matters for himself; but in this instance it was necessary to consult a mastermind. Don Pablo was not only a shrewd and highly educated man, versed in knowledge of the world, but also possessed super-physical information which was both dangerous and useful. That is, the lore was dangerous to any who did not possess the spirit of love, and useful to an unscrupulous and wholly selfish man. Both Enistor and his master thought only of themselves and were prepared to crush without remorse all that stood in their way. At the present moment the unknown Montrose was an obstacle in Enistor's path and he wished Narvaez to assist in his removal. The Spaniard would only give his services if he saw that their use would benefit himself. And as the Squire knew that the wily old man wished him to remain poor in order to retain mastery over him, it was not likely that he would help him to gain a fortune. Enistor therefore was not certain that he would be aided, and more for the sake of talking himself free of care than for any other reason sought the cottage of the magician. And Don Pablo's abode was really and truly a four-roomed cottage, where he lived along with a simple-minded old Cornish woman of sixty, who attended to his few wants. Enistor knew that Narvaez was immensely rich, and wondered why he should live so penuriously and humbly. But the man was almost wholly devoid of desire for things which mankind covets. He ate and drank sparingly: he cared nothing for society: his dress was plain but neat, and he was too much taken up with study to entertain. Narvaez, as his neighbour soon found out, was consumed by a passion for power: not that kind of power which is displayed openly by royalty or politicians or merchant-princes, but the secret power which sways the destinies of individuals and nations without apparent sign. For this he studied day and night, and crossed constantly the boundaries between the worlds visible and invisible. He obtained no physical benefit from the exercise of such command, but the passion of hidden sovereignty satisfied his soul, and that was all he cared about. He had long since risen above the sphere wherein the virtues and vices of men dispute pre-eminence, and lived above the healthy necessary turmoil of ordinary life to reign in solitude as a cold, calm, intellectual and merciless tyrant, doing evil because it gratified Self. He disobeyed the law of love which is giving, and isolated himself in a kingdom of his own, which his desire for rule had cut off from the great empire of God. His sole connection with men and women was to destroy their protecting will and make them slaves to his whims. In this way he acted with regard to Enistor, else he would not have taught the man anything about dark magic. But Narvaez knew well that Enistor, possessed of as fierce and unscrupulous a nature as his own, and almost as powerful a will, would never be a slave. Consequently he was obliged to act cautiously in his association with him. Enistor, if he became too learned in forbidden lore, might well become Don Pablo's rival, to dispute the bad sovereignty which the Spaniard loved. As a matter of fact Narvaez would not have meddled with the Cornish squire at all but that he knew that a common danger menaced both, which Enistor, through his daughter, might avert. Narvaez was clever and powerful, and wholly given to self-worship, but he was by no means omnipotent, and at times it was necessary to defend his position. Thus by the offer to teach Enistor how to realise his ambitions, he managed to make the man more or less obedient: but there was always the danger of revolt should Enistor learn too thoroughly the laws of the invisible world, which interpenetrates the visible. Don Pablo, however, was content with the position of affairs, as his pupil was not yet strong enough to measure swords. And before he was, the Spaniard hoped to secure his ends and leave Enistor in the lurch. The cottage was of grey stone, a clumsy rugged-looking habitation set on the side of a purple-clothed hill, beside a grass-grown lane, which meandered down the valley. On the slope of the hill were many disused mining shafts with huge mounds of earth and ruined buildings beside them. The hilltops had been a Roman camp, and the boundaries could still be defined. In the centre and amongst many gigantic stones was a sacrificial altar of the Druids, with grooves cut in its hardness so that the blood of the victims might stream to the ground. Alice never liked this unholy hill, as she was sensitive enough to feel the influence which clung round it. But Narvaez had established his home beside the miniature mountain, because on moonless nights he could perform uncanny ceremonies on the altar, which was given over to the Dark Powers he worshipped and propitiated. Enistor had likewise taken part in these sacrilegious doings and shivered at
and all who could went to see him lowered gently by the lift into the barge. Later, we had letters to say that he had survived the amputation of his leg, and was slowly recovering. But that was the longest period that any patient stayed with us. Short as the time generally was, however, it was sometimes long enough to become very intimate, since both were so ready to meet. There is not, and never has been a religious revival, in the usual sense of the term, on the Flanders front, and I am afraid it is true that modern war knocks and smashes any faith he ever had out of many a man. Yet in a hospital there is much ground for believing that shining qualities which amid the refinements of civilisation are often absent--staunch, and even tender comradeship, readiness to judge kindly if judge at all, resolute endurance, and absence of self-seeking, so typical of our fighting men--have their root in a genuine religious experience more often than is, in the battalions, immediately evident. It has been my experience, again and again, that with dying men who have sunk into the last lethargy, irresponsive to every other word, the Name of Jesus still can penetrate and arouse. The hurried breathing becomes for a moment regular, or the eyelids flicker, or the hand faintly returns the pressure. I have scarcely ever known this to fail though all other communication had stopped. It is surely very significant and moving. THE AFTERMATH OF LOOS CHAPTER IV THE AFTERMATH OF LOOS I _The Flavour of Victory_ The jolliest man in the field is the man who, so to say, has been safely wounded, that is, whose wound is serious enough to take him right down the line, with a good prospect of crossing to Blighty, but not so serious as to cause anxiety. I never met so hilarious a crowd as the first batch of wounded from the fighting of 25th September 1915. We had been prepared for a 'rush.' The growling of the guns had for days past been growing deeper and more extended. It is, as a matter of fact, impossible to keep a future offensive concealed. The precise time and place may be unknown, but the gathering together of men, the piling up of ammunition, and the necessary preparations for great numbers of wounded, advertise inevitably that something is afoot. The ranks are not slow to read the signs of the times: they say, for example, that an inspection by the divisional-general can only mean one thing. How much crosses to the other side it is hard to say, but the local inhabitants know all that is common talk, and sometimes a great deal more. They have eyes in their heads; they can see practice charges being carried through, and note which regiments carry battle-marks on their uniforms; and the little shops and estaminets are just soldiers' clubs where gossip is'swapped' as freely as in the London west-end clubs, and unfortunately, is much better informed. A woman working on a farm once told me to what part of the line a certain division was going on returning from rest, and she gave a date. The commanding officers of the battalions concerned knew nothing of it, and indeed a quite contrary rumour was in circulation, but time proved the old woman to be right. The Loos offensive was no exception, and for many days anxious thoughts and prayers had filled our hearts. We went from hope to despondency, and back to hope again. I dare say the talk round the mess table was very foolish. Compared with the earlier days of the war the country seemed full of men, and we heard stories of great accumulation of ammunition. Anything seemed possible. By nine o'clock on the morning of the 25th the convoys were coming in, and the wounded streamed into the reception room. They were 'walking cases,' men who had been wounded in the early part of the attack and, able to walk, had made their way on foot to the regimental aid-post. All had been going well when they left. They were bubbling over with good spirits and excitement. Three--four--no, five lines of trenches had been taken and 'the Boche was on the run.' They joked and laughed and slapped one another on the back, and indeed this jovial crowd presented an extraordinary appearance, caked and plastered with mud, with tunics ripped and blood-stained, with German helmets, black or grey, stuck on the back of their heads, and amazing souvenirs 'for the wife.' One man with a rather guilty glance round produced for my private inspection from under his coat an enormous silver crucifix about a foot long. He found it in a German officer's dug-out, but probably it came originally from some ruined French chapel. All souvenirs taken from dead enemies are loathsome to me. It is merciful that so many people have no imagination. I have never been able to understand, either, the carrying home of bits of shell and mementoes of that kind. Any memento of these unspeakable scenes of bloodshed is repulsive. Yet the British soldier is as chivalrous as he is brave. He speaks terrible words about what he will do to his foes, but when they are beaten and in his power he can never carry it through. This was very striking when you consider that until quite recently the German was 'top-dog' and how much our men had suffered at his hands. But once the fight is over he is ready to regard their individual account as settled. I remember so well one fire-eating officer who was going to teach any prisoners that came into his hands what British sternness meant. In due course twenty wounded Prussians came in. He was discovered next day actually distributing cigarettes to them. Now we must recollect that the British Tommy is not a class apart; he is simply the'man in the street,' the people. Sometimes there is savage bitterness, not without good reason, and frequently the sullen or frightened temper of the prisoners made friendliness difficult, but Tommy--and by that name I mean the British citizen under arms--does not long nourish grudges when the price has been paid. He is essentially chivalrous, and even to his enemy, when the passion of fighting or the strain of watchfulness is past, he is incurably kind. An atmosphere of hope and cheerfulness pervaded the clearing station this first morning of the 'great offensive.' Passing through a ward I said to the nurse, 'Well, sister, everything seems to be going splendidly.' She looked up sombrely from the wound she was dressing and replied, 'So they said in the first hours of Neuve Chapelle.' I was chilled by what she said and felt angry with her. II _Doubts and Fears_ As the day wore on the news was not so good. The Meerut Division, which had delivered the containing attack in front of us on the Moulin du Pietre, was where it had been before it attacked, so the wounded said, with the exception of some units, notably Leicesters and Black Watch, who had apparently disappeared. Perhaps all that had been intended had been achieved. After all, the real battle--none could be more real and more costly to those taking part in it than a containing attack, forlorn hope as it often is--the _decisive_ battle was further south at Loos. But the changed mood of the wounded now coming in was noticeable. Our fighting men hate to be beaten, and the story was of confusion and lack of support. Our own gas, too, had lingered on the ground and then drifted back on our own trenches. A young German student who was brought in wounded admitted the gallantry of the first rush, but he said, 'We always understood those trenches could be rushed, but we also know that they cannot be held on so small a front. They are commanded on either side.' In all seven hundred wounded and gassed were brought in from the British regiments of this division, and there was much work to be done. Sunday was a bright, warm day, and in the afternoon we gathered all who could walk to a service in the green meadow behind the operating theatre. (There, too, they were busy enough, God knows.) The men came very willingly. I spoke a few words from the text 'Blessed are the peacemakers,' for that benediction was meant also for those lads who had just struck so brave a blow for a decent world. A gunner said afterwards, 'Do you know, I have only heard two sermons since I came out ten months ago. The other was by the Bishop of London, and he took the same text!' It is, as a matter of fact, very difficult to serve the gunners properly; they were so scattered in little groups. It was very peaceful that Sunday afternoon--no sign of war anywhere, except the maimed results of it--as those men remembered with tears those whom it had 'pleased Almighty God to take out of this transitory world into His mercy.' Every wounded man has a letter to write or to have written for him, and it was essential that since the people at home knew there was heavy fighting going on all messages should be sent off at once. This is one of the chaplain's voluntary tasks, and we were kept close to it every afternoon for some weeks after the offensive began. For some time the number of letters was about four hundred every day. A number of men had written farewell letters--very moving they seemed, but I did not think it part of my duty to look too closely at these. They had addressed them and then put them in their pockets, hoping that if they were killed they might be discovered. Some had been finished just before the order to go over the parapet. But the curious thing was that these were sent home, with a few words in a covering note saying they were alive and well, as a sort of keepsake. In those written after arrival in hospital a sense of gratitude to God was very frequent, and a great longing for home and the children. Some strange phrases were used: a mother would be addressed as 'Dear old face,' or simply 'Old face.' But poets used to write verses to their mistresses' eyebrows, and why not a letter to a mother's face? The German prisoners sent a message asking if they might speak with the _Hauptmann-Pfarrer_. They besought me to send word to their relatives that they were safe. I took the full particulars and promised to ask the Foreign Office to forward, but could not guarantee the messages getting through, as their government was behaving very badly over the matter. They were all very anxious that I should be sure and say their wounds were slight (_leicht_). Next day came urgent orders that all wounded were to be evacuated who could possibly be moved. So far as we had heard events seemed to be moving fairly well at Loos, but there were some ugly rumours and the atmosphere was one of great uneasiness. After dinner that evening the commanding officer, Major Frankau, took me aside, and asked me not to go to bed as they would need every available pair of hands throughout the night. III _Our Share of the Fifty Thousand_ It was ten o'clock when the first cars came crunching into the station yard, and the convoys arrived one after another until five in the morning. Then, as we could take in no more, the stream was diverted to the other clearing station up the road. Before the war the deep hoot of a car always seemed to say: 'Here am I, rich and rotund, rolling comfortably on my way; I have laid up much goods and can take mine ease'; but after that night it had another meaning: 'Slowly, tenderly, oh! be pitiful. I am broken and in pain,' as the cars crept along over the uneven roads. These were our share of the wounded from Loos, the overflow of serious'stretcher cases' who could not be taken in at the already overworked stations immediately behind their own front. Many had been lying on the battlefield many hours. They were for the most part from the 15th (Scottish) Division and the 47th (London) Division. Both had made a deathless name. The former got further forward than any other, and paid the penalty with over six thousand casualties. All this night the rain fell in torrents. It streamed from the tops and sides of the ambulances, it lashed the yard till it rose in a fine spray; the lamps shone on wetness everywhere--the dripping, anxious faces of the drivers, the pallid faces of the wounded, eyes staring over their drenched brown blankets, eyes puzzled in their pain and distress, like those of hunted animals; and the reception room was filled with the choking odours of steaming dirty blankets and uniforms, of drying human bodies and of wounds and mortality. As each ambulance arrived the stretchers, their occupants for the most part silent, were drawn gently out and carried into the reception hall and laid upon the floor. At once each man--the nature of whose wounds permitted it--was given a cup of hot tea or of cold water, and a cigarette. Two by two they were lifted on to the trestles, and examined and dressed by the surgeons. Their fortitude was, as one of the surgeons said to me, uncanny. It was supernatural. I could not have believed what could be endured without complaint, often without even a word to express the horrid pain, unless I had seen it. Amid all that battered, bleeding, shattered flesh and bone, the human spirit showed itself a very splendid thing that night. The reception room at last filled to overflowing and could not be emptied. All the wards and lofts and tents were crammed. By the time the other station was filled the two had taken in three thousand men. They remained with us for a week, because the hospital trains were too busy behind Loos to come our way. Every day every man had to have his wounds dressed. Some were covered with wounds; many of the wounds were dangerous, all were painful; and gas gangrene, which the surgeon so hates to see, had to be fought again and again. The medical staff, seven in number, worked on day after day, and night after night, skilfully, tenderly, ruthlessly. There were also a great many operations, and scores of difficult critical decisions. As we stepped out from among the blanketed forms I thought bitterly of the 'glory' of war. Yet if there was any glory in war this was it. It was here, in this patient suffering and obedience. These men might well glory in their infirmities. This was heroism, the real thing, the spirit rising to incredible heights of patient endurance in the foreseen possible result of positive action for an ideal. The reaction from battle is overwhelming. Passions that the civilised man simply does not know, so colourless is his experience of them in ordinary days, are let loose, anger and terror and horror and lust to kill. So for a while, as nearly always happens, even wounds lost their power to pain in the sleep of bottomless exhaustion. Those who could not sleep were drugged with morphine. The moaning never stopped, but rose and fell and rose again. It shook my heart. We turned from the ashen faces and went out into the grey morning light. Everything seemed very grey. A mist was drawing up slowly from the sluggish Lys, and we wondered as we went shivering through it across the soaked grass what was happening beyond it over there at Loos. Next afternoon at tea we were all cheered by the news that a man who had had his leg taken off three hours before was asking for a penny whistle. At last it was discovered that one of the cooks had one. (Cooks in the army are a race apart, possessors of all kinds of strange accomplishments.) It was willingly handed over, and soon the strains of 'Annie Laurie' were rising softly from a cot in Ward VIII. A month later the Principal Chaplain asked me to go to a battalion. Chaplains who had been through the previous winter with battalions were not anxious for another winter of it, if fresh men could be found. I was thankful to go, in spite of all the kindness there had been on every hand and the friendships made. The devilish ingenuity of wounds was getting the better of me. My charge was a brigade, containing a battalion of the Gordon Highlanders, with which I was directed to mess. But the day I joined, this battalion was taken out of the brigade, and as soon as the rearrangement was completed I was transferred to one of the battalions of The Royal Scots. While I was with this unit both its commanding officer and its adjutant were changed. In both cases the cause was the promotion of the officer in question. DUMBARTON'S DRUMS _The Regimental Ribbon of The Royal Scots is shown on the wrapper of this book_ CHAPTER V DUMBARTON'S DRUMS I _Back Again!_ The landing of the British Expeditionary Force in the far-away days of August 1914 was one of the great moments of history. And Scotland has a special share in the pride and sorrow that surround that great day, for in her premier regiment centred memories of warfare and endurance, of ancient alliances and ancient enmities, without a parallel in the story of any other regular regiment. The oldest regiment in Europe was on the battlefield once again. The First, or Royal Regiment of Foot, now known as The Royal Scots, when it climbed the steep streets of Boulogne, marched on a soil sacred to it by the memories of heroic campaigns. Names that were as yet unfamiliar to the world at large were dear to it as the last resting-places of its comrades of long ago--names such as Dunkirk and Dixmude, Furnes and Ypres, Saberne and Bar-le-Duc. Hepburn's Regiment had fought over every foot of the ground on which it was now to share the waging of the greatest of all campaigns. Dumbarton's Drums were once more beating their way through Europe to the making of history. The trust of Gustavus Adolphus and Turenne, of Marlborough and Wellington, marched with them as the promise of victory; and from the old Royals, dustily climbing the cobbled street, spoke all the glamour of 'age-kept victories.' France was a smiling land in those days, for the sun shone in the hearts of Frenchwomen as the rumour of war rose from the anxiously expected British columns and drifted across the shining August fields. The 2nd battalion--the 1st was still in India--tramped cheerily on its way. To no one then was there revealed that dreary vista of trenches that was to be war to the mind of the modern soldier. II _The First Shock of War_ Mons and the 23rd of August saw The Royals in action. With other battalions they occupied the Mons salient, actually the point on which the torrent of war first broke and for a brief moment spent itself. On that still night it seemed to hang suspended as a great wave does before falling. As the battalion lay in the shallow trench the pregnant silence was at last broken by the high, clear call of a bugle, one single long note, indescribably eerie and menacing, and then the listening men heard the rustling tread of feet moving through the grass with a steady, regular, ominous advance. The might of Germany was on the move, and still the thin brown line lay tense and silent, until only forty paces separated the two. Then, at a word, The Royals' line broke into a storm of flame which swept the line of the advancing men as a scythe sweeps through the corn; and for the British infantry the great war had begun. Mons was a victory; the German advance was held up temporarily. But all night the British troops were being withdrawn. It was after five in the morning before The Royals got their orders to move, and 'A' Company claims to be the last of the British army to leave Mons. But Le Cateau was another story. Here our men learned what the concentrated fire of artillery could be. The shallow trenches were obliterated; our gunners, hopelessly outclassed in weight and number of pieces, could do little, in spite of the greatest gallantry, to protect the infantry; and that the army was able to withdraw at all was a striking proof of its stern discipline. Audencourt was a shambles. Colonel McMicking, wounded near this village and left behind, as all the wounded who were unable to walk had to be, was hit again while being carried out of the blazing church. The command devolved on Major, now Brigadier-General, Duncan. From this time onwards the German guns had the range of the roads, and such a superiority of fire that they could do almost as they pleased. The infantry, at first furious at the necessity of retreat, turned again and again--as did the guns--on their pursuers, but even so the pressure was perilously near breaking point. The enemy had every means of mechanical transport, and was able to find time for rest. Our men had to press on to the last point of human endurance. There was no respite. The French Foreign Legion have a grim saying, 'March or die.' Here the word was 'March or be captured,' and even when every other conscious feeling but that of utter exhaustion seemed dead, somewhere deep down in their hearts the will to endure urged them on. Is there no painter, no poet, who can enshrine for future generations the memory of this historic scene? We have here a sudden glimpse of Britain at her best. Hot sun, torment of burning feet on the cruel, white, and endless roads, the odour and sight and sound of death and wounds, pressure of pressing men, and love of life and the horrid loneliness of fear--all that was Giant Circumstance; but he could not extinguish the souls of men made in the image of God for suffering and endurance and triumph. English and Irish and Scottish--but brothers in hatred of retreat and in their determination to push on until they could turn and strike--the glamour of great names hung round all those tattered battalions; and the very essence of it was in the oldest of them all, in history and in campaigns, this famous Lowland regiment. Of that at such a time they thought little, if at all; sheer physical facts pressed too hard, yet in their desperate victory over circumstance they wrote the most golden page of their story, and enriched the blood of all who follow them. You can find a certain humour in war if you look for it, though war is not amusing, and life at home has many more entertaining incidents in it than life at the front. One officer of The Royals fell sound asleep in a trench during the climax of a terrific bombardment, and awoke to find himself alone among the dead. (He makes us laugh when he tells the story, but at the time it cannot have been just very humorous.) He pushed on after the retreating army, and though--owing to the mistake of an officer at a cross-roads who stood saying, 'Third division to the right, So-and-so division to the left,' when it should have been the other way about--he lost his way, he found the battalion a fortnight later. Two others came in sight of the last bridge standing on one river just as the explosive was about to be detonated, and maintain that, running furiously toward the bridge, they persuaded the engineer in charge to postpone the fatal moment by brandishing a large loaf, rarest of all articles on the heels of a retreating army. Another who had been sent on ahead to find a billet in a château saw a beautiful bathroom, and was preparing to make use of a priceless opportunity when he found that the enemy was upon him, and fled in haste. The transport officer, peering round the corner of a house, saw his beloved transport which he had gathered and cherished until it was reputed the best in the army, go up in matchwood and iron splinters. One subaltern, finding himself on the ground, discovered to his horror that he had a hole in his chest, but struggled gamely on, now walking, now stealing a ride on a limber--just catching the last train of all--and finally arriving in England with no other articles of kit or clothing but a suit of pink pyjamas and a single eyeglass. At Meaux the steeples of Paris were in sight; but the hour had struck, and The Royals at last wheeled to pursue. III _At the Nose of the Salient_ The battalion had come through much since then, on the Marne and the Aisne and the Lys, and in trench warfare from Hooge to Neuve Chapelle. Here is a picture of a day's fighting from the diary of an eyewitness--a bald note of facts. It refers to 25th September 1915:-- 'The brigade formed up in the trench in the following order from left to right, 1st Gordons, 4th Gordons, 2nd Royals, one company Royal Scots Fusiliers. Each battalion received separate point of attack, namely, Bellevarde Farm, Hooge Château, Redoubt, Sandbag Castle. Artillery bombardment 3.50-4.20 A.M. General attack then launched. "B" Company was at the nose of the salient; "C" Company on right of "B"; "A" Company on left; "D" Company in dug-outs in reserve. At 4.20 A.M. the battalion advanced to the attack. Complete silence was observed and bayonets were dulled. The front line was captured with few casualties on our side, and shortly after the final objective was successfully attained. Our line was consolidated. One hundred and sixteen prisoners belonging to the 172nd Regiment of XV. Prussian Corps were taken and three lines of trenches. All four officers of "B" Company were hit before German front line was reached. Touch was established with R.S.F. on right and 4th G.H. on left. There was heavy German shell-fire on the captured trenches. A party from "D" Company tried to make communication trench back to our old front line, 1st Gordons unfortunately were not able to reach the German front line owing to wire being undestroyed and too thick to cut. A gap was thus made between 1st and 4th Gordons. The enemy pushed bombers through, thus getting behind 4th Gordons. Desperate hand-to-hand fighting ensued. O.C. "A" Company was forced to defend his left flank. A German counter-attack moving N. to S. by C.T. across the Menin Road, The Royals' machine-gun did great execution. Terrific bombardment by German heavies (H.E.). "A" Company was ordered to retire on our old front line to get in touch with 4th G.H. on left. "B" Company to keep in touch ordered to do the same. "C" Company rinding enemy on left rear, position became critical. No battalion at all now on left, 1st Gordons having failed in their objective, and 4th having been withdrawn owing to flank attack in front of 1st. No battalion now on right either. "C" Company in danger of being surrounded. Captain N.S. Stewart personally reported the danger of his position. A company of 4th Middlesex were rushed up--all our men by this time having been used up--to the nose of the salient, but could not man it owing to terrific barrage of fire. "C" Company, completely cut off, fought its way with the bayonet back to its former front line. Colonel Duncan reorganised the firing line. Both sides spent the night in gathering in the wounded.' So ended the containing attack from the Ypres salient. But is not every sentence a spur to the imagination? Two days later, the Corps commander, in personally thanking the battalion, complimented it on 'the smart appearance of the men who _showed no signs of what they had gone through_.' It was to this famous battalion of a great Regiment that I was now attached as one of the four Presbyterian chaplains to the 'fighting Third' Division. WINTER WARFARE CHAPTER VI WINTER WARFARE I _The Shell Area_ The shell area is all the land behind the trenches which is under fire from the enemy's guns as a matter of course. It is not a pleasant place, for that reason, to walk about in, and our own artillery, cleverly concealed, is apt to open fire unexpectedly within a few yards of the passer-by in a way that is very disturbing. It is a dreary land; a dank air broods over it, an atmosphere of destruction and death, of humanity gone awry and desolate. I remember the almost ecstasy with which one April afternoon some of us found ourselves among the purple hyacinths on Kemmel hill. Poor Kemmel, once a pleasure resort whither happy Belgians went for the benefit of their health, now far from that--and not particularly healthy! These battered villages are now merely sordid; only Ypres maintains a personality, an air of undefeat all its own. It too is a ruin, but unlike the others it is a splendid ruin. At every cross-roads the brooding crucifixes hang. The British mind does not like this constant reiteration of mishandling and defeat in the death of Christ. It does not seem to it to be the final message of the Cross. Indeed, it is the product of the mediaeval, monkish mind. It was not until the tenth century that the representations of the Crucifixion showed Our Lord as dead; it was much later before the emphasis was laid on agony and despair. Once from among the debris of the convent in Voormezeele I rescued such a representation of the Body of Christ, limbs gone, broken arms outstretched, and it seemed a symbol. But that is not the final truth, defeat and despair. The cross-road shrines would not look down on those groups of tramping Islanders if it were so. And as you look back over the parados of the firing trench, across the bleached and scarred countryside, you remember that _that_, like the scenes of agony in the clearing station after Loos, is the plain, visible proof that His Spirit lives in the world of men. But what a Via Dolorosa it is, that grim ditch dug across Europe, with its crouching men behind the snipers' plates. Strange path for the twentieth century to have to walk in, to prove that compassion and righteousness still live. In all this area the British soldier walks with a singular _insouciance_. It is not simply that he is brave. He is that, supremely so, and not least when he is very much afraid and will not show it and carries on with his job. But there is more in it than that. There is a kind of warlike genius in him which makes him do the right thing in the right way, so that he appeals to humour and comradeship as well as to gallantry. It was one of our sergeant-majors who before a battalion attack offered £5 to the man of his company who was first in the enemy's trench. Think of it for a moment. He appealed to their sporting instinct; he turned their thoughts from death and wounds and introduced a jest into every dug-out that night; and he indicated, without boasting, that he was going to be first over the parapet. He made it certain that every sportsman in the company--and what British regular is not--would strain every nerve to be first across. And the cream of the jest was that, stalwart athlete that he was, he was first across himself! The same may be said of the officer; he wins more than obedience from his men. I have seen senior N.C.O.'s crying like children because their young officer was dead. Along with this courage and comradeship and humour there is often a great deal of fatalism. It expresses itself in many ways, in the reading of Omar Khayyam--'The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes'--for example, in the indifference so often shown by men if they lose through their own fault some 'cushy job' and have to go back to the line, or in the doing of really foolish things, foolish because dangerous, but useless. I remember sitting outside the dug-out of Captain Chree (who afterwards laid down his life on the Somme) at battalion headquarters, and watching the shelling of one of our batteries of 18-pounders some five hundred yards back. The Germans had searched for it repeatedly with lavish expenditure of ammunition, and that afternoon they got it repeatedly, with very unpleasant results. But of course there were many misses. Whenever the German shells fell short they burst in the field, in front of the battery, which was bounded on two sides by a road. In the midst of the bombardment a soldier came down the road facing us and, instead of walking round by the cross-roads, cut across the field in which shells were bursting. He deliberately left comparative safety for real danger simply in order to save himself five minutes' walk. On another occasion, when I was at dusk one evening in Vierstraat, a Tommy came along carrying some burden. At this point he got tired and planted it down right in the middle of the cross-roads. Another man told him he could not have chosen a worse place for a rest, that the Boche was always firing rifles and machine-guns up the road, but he was prevailed upon to move only with the greatest difficulty. Perhaps in another class was the soldier the doctor and I came upon suddenly in a ruined house in Ypres kicking with all the strength of an iron-shod boot at the fuse of an unexploded German shell. A friend with his hands in his pockets was watching the proceedings with much interest. He said he was only wanting the fuse as a souvenir, but he would soon have got that to keep and a good deal more. The doctor was quite peevish about it, as the saying is! When an attack is being made or repelled, the concentration of batteries in action turns the country in front of them into a nightmare of noise--'a terrific and intolerable noise' in Froissart's phrase. The incessant slamming of the guns makes it impossible to hear enemy shells coming. The first intimation is their arrival. But the orderlies go backwards and forwards through it all with superb courage. Wounded trickle down the trolley line to the dressing station, and an occasional group of prisoners come through. It was on a day like this that I saw Davidson and Rainie for the last time. When The Royals were moved up from the support trenches to take over from the battalion which had delivered the attack at St. Eloi, some one said to Captain Davidson, who was going up at the head of his company through a terrible barrage, 'This is going to be a risky affair.' 'Yes,' he replied, 'but it's not our business whether it's risky or not. My orders are to go through.' Soon after he fell. He was barely twenty years of age. II _'I hate war: that is why I am fighting'_ There is a garden in Vlamertynghe with a marble seat overturned beside a smashed tree, a corner just made for lovers, once. An enormous crump hole fills the greater part of the garden, and the wall has fallen outwards in one mass leaving the fruit trees standing in a line, their arms outstretched. Across on the other side of the road Captain Norman Stewart lies buried. But his memory lives in the hearts of men, and wherever the 2nd battalion gathers round its braziers and in the glow of them the stories of the heroes of the regiment are passed on from the veterans to the younger men, Stewart will be remembered with reverence as one who not only upheld but created regimental tradition. It was a bombing affair in which he died, detachments of Suffolks, Middlesex, and Royal Scots, under his leadership, being ordered to drive the enemy out of the tip of the salient. Barricades made progress almost impossible
have made a great impression on people living in clean city wards. Meanwhile, not five blocks away, congested city slums never visited by the prosperous, concealed from popular view, festering social corruption and indescribable poverty and vice. Let us be fair in our sociological comparisons and no longer judge our rural worst by our urban best. Let the rural slum be compared with the city slum and the city avenues with the prosperous, self-respecting sections of the country; then contrasts will not be so lurid and we shall see the facts in fair perspective. As soon as we learn to discriminate we find that country life as a whole is wholesome, that country people as a rule are as happy as city people and fully as jovial and light-hearted and that the fundamental prosperity of most country districts has been gaining these past two decades. While rural depletion is widespread, rural _decadence_ must be studied not as a general condition at all, but as the abnormal, unusual state found in special sections, such as regions handicapped by poor soil, sections drained by neighboring industrial centers, isolated mountain districts where life is bare and strenuous, and the open country away from railroads and the great life currents. With this word of caution let us examine the latest reports of rural depletion. III. Rural Depletion and Rural Degeneracy. _The Present Extent of Rural Depletion_ The thirteenth census (1910) shows that in spite of the steady gain in the country districts of the United States as a whole, thousands of rural townships have continued to lose population. These shrinking communities are found everywhere except in the newest agricultural regions of the West and in the black belt of the South. The older the communities the earlier this tendency to rural depletion became serious. The trouble began in New England, but now the rural problem is moving west. Until the last census New England was the only section of the country to show this loss as a whole; but the 1910 figures just reported give a net rural loss for the first time in the group of states known as the "east north central." Yet in both cases, the net rural loss for the section was less than 1%. Taking 2,500 as the dividing line, the last census reports that in every state in the country the urban population has increased since 1900, but in six states the rural population has diminished. In two states, Montana and Wyoming, the country has outstripped the city; but in general, the country over, the cities grew from 1900 to 1910 three times as fast as the rural sections. While the country communities of the United States have grown 11.2% the cities and towns above 2,500 have increased 34.8%. In the prosperous state of Iowa, the only state reporting an absolute loss, the rural sections lost nearly 120,000. Rural Indiana lost 83,127, or 5.1%; rural Missouri lost 68,716, or 3.5%; rural villages in New Hampshire show a net loss of 10,108, or 5.4%; and rural Vermont has suffered a further loss of 8,222, or 4.2%, though the state as a whole made the largest gain for forty years. These latest facts from the census are valuable for correcting false notions of rural depletion. It is unfair to count up the number of rural townships in a state which have failed to grow and report that state rurally decadent. For example, a very large majority of the Illinois townships with less than 2,500 people failed to hold their own the past decade,--1,113 out of 1,592. But in many cases the loss was merely nominal; consequently we find, in spite of the tremendous drain to Chicago, the rural population of the state as a whole made a slight gain. This case is typical. Thousands of rural villages have lost population; yet other thousands have gained enough to offset these losses in all but the six states mentioned. _Losses in Country Towns_ New England continues to report losses, not only in the rural villages, but also in the country towns of between 2,500 and 5,000 population. This was true the last decade in every New England state except Vermont. Massachusetts towns of this type made a net loss of about 30,000, or 15%; although nearly all the larger towns and many villages in that remarkably prosperous state made gains. This class of towns has also made net losses the past decade in Indiana, Iowa, South Dakota, South Carolina, Alabama and Mississippi, although in these last four states the smaller communities under 2,500 made substantial gains. This indicates in some widely different sections of the country an apparently better prosperity in the open country than in many country towns. Similarly in several states, the larger towns between five and ten thousand population have netted a loss in the last decade, as in New York State, although the smaller villages have on the average prospered. _The Need of Qualitative Analysis of the Census_ We must not be staggered by mere figures. A _qualitative_ analysis of the census sometimes saves us from pessimism. Someone has said "Even a _growing_ town has no moral insurance." Mere growth does not necessarily mean improvement either in business or morals. It is quite possible that some of the "decadent" villages which have lost 15% of their population are really better places for residence than they were before and possibly fully as prosperous. It depends entirely on the kind of people that remain. If it is really the survival of the fittest, there will be no serious problem. But if it is "the heritage of the unfit," if only the unambitious and shiftless have remained, then the village is probably doomed. In any case, the situation is due to the inevitable process of social and economic adjustment. Changes in agricultural method and opportunity are responsible for much of it. Doubtless farm machinery has driven many laborers away. Likewise the rising price of land has sent away the speculative farmer to pastures new, especially from eastern Canada and the middle west in the States to the low-priced lands of the rich Canadian west.[2] The falling native birthrate, especially in New England, has been as potent a factor in diminishing rural sections as has the lure of the cities. "In the main," says Dr. Anderson in his very discriminating study of the problem, "rural depletion is over. In its whole course it has been an adjustment of industrial necessity and of economic health; everywhere it is a phase of progress and lends itself to the optimist that discerns deeper meanings. Nevertheless depletion has gone so far as to affect seriously all rural problems within the area of its action. "The difficult and perplexing problems are found where the people are reduced in number. That broad though irregular belt of depleted rural communities, stretching from the marshes of the Atlantic shore to the banks of the Missouri, which have surrendered from ten to forty per cent. of their people, within which are many localities destined to experience further losses, calls for patient study of social forces and requires a reconstruction of the whole social outfit. But it should be remembered that an increasing population gathers in rural towns thickly strewn throughout the depleted tract, and that the cheer of their growth and thrift is as much a part of the rural situation as the perplexity incident to a diminishing body of people."[3] Whereas the main trend in rural districts is toward better social and moral conditions as well as material prosperity, we do not have to look far to find local degeneracy in the isolated places among the hills or in unfertile sections which have been deserted by the ambitious and intelligent, leaving a pitiable residuum of "poor whites" behind. Such localities furnish the facts for the startling disclosures which form the basis of occasional newspaper and magazine articles such as Rollin Lynde Hartt's in the _Atlantic Monthly_, Vol. 83, _The Forum_, June 1892, the _St. Albans Messenger_ Jan. 2, 1904, et cetera. _The Question of Degeneracy in City and Country_ The question has long been debated as to whether criminals and defectives are more common in the city or the country. Dwellers in prosperous, well-governed suburban cities, that know no slums, are positive that the rural districts are degenerate. Country people in prosperous rural sections of Kansas, for instance, where no poor-house or jail can be found for many miles, insist that degeneracy is a city symptom! It is obvious that discrimination is necessary. The great majority of folks in both city and country are living a decent life; degeneracy is everywhere the exception. It would be fully as reasonable to condemn the city as a whole for the breeding places of vice, insanity and crime which we call the slums, as it is to characterize rural life in general as degenerate. In view of the evident fact that both urban and rural communities have their defectives and delinquents, in varying ratio, depending on local conditions, Professor Giddings suggests a clear line of discrimination. "Degeneration manifests itself in the protean forms of suicide, insanity, crime and vice, which abound in the highest civilization, where the tension of life is extreme, and in those places from which civilization has ebbed and from which population has been drained, leaving a discouraged remnant to struggle against deteriorating conditions.... Like insanity, crime occurs most frequently in densely populated towns on the one hand, and on the other in partially deserted rural districts. Murder is a phenomenon of both the frontier life of an advancing population and of the declining civilization in its rear; it is preeminently the crime of the new town and the decaying town.... Crimes of all kinds are less frequent in prosperous agricultural communities and in thriving towns of moderate size, where the relation of income to the standard of living is such that the life struggle is not severe."[4] [Illustration: Rural Schools in Daviess County, Indiana.] _Stages and Symptoms of Rural Decadence_ In his discussion of the country problem, Dr. Josiah Strong reminds us that rural decadence comes as an easy evolution passing through rather distinct stages, when the rural community has really lost its best blood. Roads deteriorate,--those all-important arteries of country life; then property soon depreciates; schools and churches are weakened; often foreign immigrants crowd out the native stock, sometimes infusing real strength, but often introducing the continental system of rural peasantry, with absentee landlords. Then isolation increases, with a strong tendency toward degeneracy and demoralization. Where this process is going on we are not surprised to find such conditions as Rev. H. L. Hutchins described in 1906 in an address before the annual meeting of the Connecticut Bible Society at New Haven. From a very intimate experience of many years in the rural sections of Connecticut, he gave a most disheartening report, dwelling upon the increasing ignorance of the people, their growing vices, the open contempt for and disregard of marriage, the alarming growth of idiocy, partly the result of inbreeding and incest, some localities being cited where practically all the residents were brothers and sisters or cousins, often of the same name, so that surnames were wholly displaced by nicknames; the omnipresence of cheap whiskey with its terrible effects, the resulting frequency of crimes of violence; the feebleness and backwardness of the schools and the neglect and decay of the churches, resulting in inevitable lapse into virtual paganism and barbarism, in sections that two generations ago were inhabited by stalwart Christian men and women of the staunch old New England families. Doubtless similar illustrations of degradation could be cited from the neglected corners of all the older states of the country, where several generations of social evolution have ensued under bad circumstances. In all the central states, conditions of rural degeneracy now exist which a few years ago were supposed to be confined to New England; for the same causes have been repeating themselves in other surroundings. An illustration of "discouraged remnants" is cited by Dr. Warren H. Wilson. "I remember driving, in my early ministry, from a prosperous farming section into a weakened community, whose lands had a lowered value because they lay too far from the railroad. My path to a chapel service on Sunday afternoon lay past seven successive farmhouses in each of which lived one member of a family, clinging in solitary misery to a small acreage which had a few years earlier supported a household. In that same neighborhood was one group of descendants of two brothers, which had in two generations produced sixteen suicides. 'They could not stand trouble,' the neighbors said. The lowered value of their land, with consequent burdens, humiliation and strain, had crushed them. The very ability and distinction of the family in the earlier period had the effect by contrast to sink them lower down."[5] _The Nam's Hollow Case_ Ordinary rural degeneracy, however, is more apt to be associated with feeble-mindedness. An alarming, but perhaps typical case is described in a recent issue of _The Survey_. A small rural community in New York state, which the author calls for convenience Nam's Hollow, contains 232 licentious women and 199 licentious men out of a total population of 669; the great proportion being mentally as well as morally defective. A great amount of consanguineous marriage has taken place,--mostly without the formalities prescribed by law. Sex relations past and present are hopelessly entangled. Fifty-four of the inhabitants of the Hollow have been in custody either in county houses or asylums, many are paupers, and forty have served terms in state's prison or jail. There are 192 persons who are besotted by the use of liquor "in extreme quantities." Apparently most of this degeneracy can be traced back to a single family whose descendants have numbered 800. With all sorts of evil traits to begin with, this family by constant inbreeding have made persistent these evil characteristics in all the different households and have cursed the whole life of the Hollow, not to mention the unknown evil wrought elsewhere, whither some of them have gone. "The imbeciles and harlots and criminalistic are bred in the Hollow, but they do not all stay there." A case is cited of a family of only five which has cost the county up to date $6,300, and the expense likely to continue for many years yet. "Would you rouse yourself if you learned there were ten cases of bubonic plague at a point not 200 miles away?" asks the investigator of Nam's Hollow. "Is not a breeding spot of uncontrolled animalism as much of a menace to our civilization?"[6] _A Note of Warning_ These sad stories of rural degeneracy must not make us pessimists. We need not lose our faith in the open country. It is only the exceptional community which has really become decadent and demoralized. These communities however warn us that even self-respecting rural villages are in danger of following the same sad process of decay unless they are kept on the high plane of wholesome Christian living and community efficiency. What is to prevent thousands of other rural townships, which are now losing population, gradually sinking to the low level of personal shiftlessness and institutional uselessness which are the marks of degeneracy? Nothing can prevent this but the right kind of intelligent, consecrated leadership. It is not so largely a quantitative matter, however, as Dr. Josiah Strong suggested twenty years ago in his stirring treatment of the subject. After citing the fact that 932 townships in New England were losing population in 1890, and 641 in New York, 919 in Pennsylvania, 775 in Ohio, et cetera, he suggests: "If this migration continues, and no new preventive measures are devised, I see no reason why isolation, irreligion, ignorance, vice and degradation should not increase in the country until we have a rural American peasantry, illiterate and immoral, possessing the rights of citizenship, but utterly incapable of performing or comprehending its duties." After twenty years we find the rural depletion still continuing. Though New England in 1910 reports 143 fewer losing towns than in 1890, the census of 1910 in general furnishes little hope that the migration from the country sections is diminishing.[7] Our hope for the country rests in the fact that the problem has at last been recognized as a national issue and that a Country Life Movement of immense significance is actually bringing in a new rural civilization. "We must expect the steady deterioration of our rural population, unless effective preventive measures are devised," was Dr. Strong's warning two decades ago. To-day the challenge of the country not only quotes the peril of rural depletion and threatened degeneracy, but also appeals to consecrated young manhood and womanhood with a living faith in the permanency of a reconstructed rural life. Our rural communities must be saved from decadence, for the sake of the nation. Professor Giddings well says: "Genius is rarely born in the city. The city owes the great discoveries and immortal creations to those who have lived with nature and with simple folk. The country produces the original ideas, the raw materials of social life, and the city combines ideas and forms the social mind." In the threatened decadence of depleted rural communities, and in the lack of adequate leadership in many places, to revive a dying church, to equip a modern school, to develop a new rural civilization, to build a cooperating community with a really satisfying and efficient life, we have a problem which challenges both our patriotism and our religious spirit, for the problem is fundamentally a religious one. IV. The Urgency of the Problem. A broad-minded leader of the religious life of college men has recently expressed his opinion that _the rural problem is more pressing just now than any other North American problem_. He is a city man and is giving his attention impartially to the needs of all sections. Two classes of people will be surprised by his statement. Many of his city neighbors are so overwhelmed by the serious needs of the city, they near-sightedly cannot see any particular problem in the country,--except how to take the next train for New York! And doubtless many country people, contented with second-rate conditions, are even unaware that they and their environment are being studied as a problem at all. Some prosperous farmers really resent the "interference" of people interested in better rural conditions and say "the country would be all right if let alone." But neither sordid rural complacency nor urban obliviousness can satisfy thinking people. We know there is something the matter with country life. We discover that the vitality and stability of rural life is in very many places threatened. It is the business of Christian students and leaders to study the conditions and try to remove or remedy the causes. [Illustration: An Abandoned Church, Daviess County, Indiana.] _A Hunt for Fundamental Causes_ Depletion added to isolation, and later tending toward degeneracy, is what makes the rural problem acute. It is the growth of the city which has made the problem serious. If we would discover a constructive policy for handling this problem successfully by making country life worth while, and better able to compete with the city, then we must find out why the boys and girls go to the big towns and why their parents rent the farm and move into the village. For two generations there has been a mighty life-current toward the cities, sweeping off the farm many of the brightest boys and most ambitious girls in all the country-side, whom the country could ill afford to spare. The city needed many of them doubtless; but not all, for it has not used all of them well. Everywhere the country has suffered from the loss of them. Why did they go? It is evident that a larger proportion of the brightest country boys and girls must be kept on the farms if the rural communities are to hold their own and the new rural civilization really have a chance to develop as it should. _The Unfortunate Urbanizing of Rural Life_ As a rule the whole _educational_ trend is toward the city. The teachers of rural schools are mostly from the larger villages and towns where they have caught the city fever, and they infect the children. Even in the lower grades the stories of city life begin early to allure the country children, and with a subtle suggestion the echoes of the distant city's surging life come with all the power of the Arabian Nights tales. Early visits to the enchanted land of busy streets and wonderful stores and factories, the circus and the theater, deepen the impression, and the fascination grows. In proportion to the nearness to the city, there has been a distinct urbanizing of rural life. To a degree this has been well. It has raised the standard of comfort in country homes and has had a distinct influence in favor of real culture and a higher plane of living. But the impression has come to prevail widely that the city is the source of all that is interesting, profitable and worth while, until many country folks have really come to think meanly of themselves and their surroundings, taking the superficial city estimate of rural values as the true one. A real slavery to city fashions has been growing insidiously in the country. So far as this has affected the facial adornments of the farmer, it has made for progress; but as seen in the adoption of unhospitable vertical city architecture for country homes,--an insult to broad acres which suggest home-like horizontals,--and the wearing by the women of cheap imitations of the flaunting finery of returning "cityfied" stenographers, it is surely an abomination pure and simple. Bulky catalogs of mail-order houses, alluringly illustrated, have added to the craze, and the new furnishings of many rural homes resemble the tinsel trappings of cheap city flats, while substantial heirlooms of real taste and dignity are relegated to the attic. Fine rural discrimination as to the appropriate and the artistic is fast crumbling before the all-convincing argument, "It is _the thing_ now in the city." To be sure there is much the country may well learn from the city, the finer phases of real culture, the cultivation of social graces in place of rustic bashfulness and boorish manners, and the saving element of industrial cooperation; but let these gains not be bought by surrendering rural self-respect or compromising rural sincerity, or losing the wholesome ruggedness of the country character. The new rural civilization must be indigenous to the soil, not a mere urbanizing veneer. Only so can it foster genuine community pride and loyalty to its own environment. But herein is the heart of our problem. _Why Country Boys and Girls Leave the Farm_ The mere summary of reasons alleged by many individuals will be sufficient for our purpose, without enlarging upon them. Many of these were obtained by Director L. H. Bailey of Cornell, the master student of this problem. Countless boys have fled from the farm because they found the work monotonous, laborious and uncongenial, the hours long, the work unorganized and apparently unrewarding, the father or employer hard, exacting and unfeeling. Many of them with experience only with old-fashioned methods, are sure that farming does not pay, that there is no money in the business compared with city employments, that the farmer cannot control prices, is forced to buy high and sell low, is handicapped by big mortgages, high taxes, and pressing creditors. It is both encouraging and suggestive that many country boys, with a real love for rural life, but feeling that farming requires a great deal of capital, are planning "to farm someday, after making enough money in some other business." The phantom of farm drudgery haunts many boys. They feel that the work is too hard in old age, and that it cannot even be relieved sufficiently by machinery, that it is not intellectual enough and furthermore leaves a man too tired at night to enjoy reading or social opportunities. The work of farming seems to them quite unscientific and too dependent upon luck and chance and the fickle whims of the weather. Farm life is shunned by many boys and girls because they say it is too narrow and confining, lacking in freedom, social advantages, activities and pleasures, which the city offers in infinite variety. They see their mother overworked and growing old before her time, getting along with few comforts or conveniences, a patient, uncomplaining drudge, living in social isolation, except for uncultivated neighbors who gossip incessantly. Many ambitious young people see little future on the farm. They feel that the farmer never can be famous in the outside world and that people have a low regard for him. In their village high school they have caught visions of high ideals; but they fail to discover high ideals in farm life and feel that high and noble achievement is impossible there, that the farmer cannot serve humanity in any large way and can attain little political influence or personal power. With an adolescent craving for excitement, "something doing all the time," they are famished in the quiet open country and are irresistibly drawn to the high-geared city life, bizarre, spectacular, noisy, full of variety in sights, sounds, experiences, pleasures, comradeships, like a living vaudeville; and offering freedom from restraint in a life of easy incognito, with more time for recreation and "doing as you please." But with all the attractiveness of city life for the boys and girls, as compared with the simplicity of the rural home, the main pull cityward is probably "the job." They follow what they think is the easiest road to making a living, fancying that great prizes await them in the business life of the town. Superficial and unreasonable as most of these alleged reasons are to-day, we must study them as genuine symptoms of a serious problem. If country life is to develop a permanently satisfying opportunity for the farm boys and girls, these conditions must be met. Isolation and drudgery must be somehow conquered. The business of farming must be made more profitable, until clerking in the city cannot stand the competition. The social and recreative side of rural life must be developed. The rural community must be socialized and the country school must really fit for rural life. The lot of the farm mothers and daughters must be made easier and happier. Scientific farming must worthily appeal to the boys as a genuine profession, not a mere matter of luck with the weather, and the farm boy must no longer be treated as a slave but a partner in the firm.[8] _The Folly of Exploiting the Country Boy_ An eminent Western lawyer addressing a rural life conference in Missouri a few weeks ago explained thus his leaving the farm: "When I was a boy on the farm we were compelled to rise about 4 o'clock every morning. From the time we got on our clothes until 7:30 we fed the live stock and milked the cows. Then breakfast. After breakfast, we worked in the field until 11:30, when, after spending at least a half hour caring for the teams we went to dinner. We went back to work at 1 o'clock and remained in the field until 7:30 o'clock. After quitting the fields we did chores until 8:30 or 9 o'clock, and then we were advised to go to bed right away so that we would be able to do a good day's work on the morrow." No wonder the boy rebelled! This story harks back to the days when a father owned his son's labor until the boy was twenty-one, and could either use the boy on his own farm or have him "bound out" for a term of years for the father's personal profit. Such harsh tactlessness is seldom found today; but little of it will be found in the new rural civilization.[9] Country boys must not be exploited if we expect them to stay in the country as community builders. Many of them will gladly stay if given a real life chance. _The City's Dependence upon the Country_ The country is the natural source of supply for the nation. The city has never yet been self-sustaining. It has always drawn its raw materials and its population from the open country. The country must continue to produce the food, the hardiest young men and women, and much of the idealism and best leadership of the nation. All of these have proven to be indigenous to country life. Our civilization is fundamentally rural, and the rural problem is a national problem, equally vital to the city and the whole country. The cities should remember that they have a vast deal at stake in the welfare of the rural districts. The country for centuries got along fairly well without the city, and could continue to do so; but the city could not live a month without the country! The great railway strike last fall in England revealed the fact that Birmingham _had but a week's food supply_. A serious famine threatened, and this forced a speedy settlement. Meanwhile food could not be brought to the city except in small quantities, and the people of Birmingham learned in a striking way their utter dependence upon the country as their source of supply. The philosophy of one of the sages of China, uttered ages ago, is still profoundly true: "The well-being of a people is like a tree; agriculture is its root, manufactures and commerce are its branches and its life; but if the root be injured, the leaves fall, the branches break away and the tree dies."[10] That far-seeing Irish leader, Sir Horace Plunkett, after a searching study of American conditions, is inclined to think that our great prosperous cities are blundering seriously in not concerning themselves more earnestly with the rural problem: "Has it been sufficiently considered how far the moral and physical health of the modern city depends upon the constant influx of fresh blood from the country, which has ever been the source from which the town draws its best citizenship? You cannot keep on indefinitely skimming the pan and have equally good milk left. Sooner or later, if the balance of trade in this human traffic be not adjusted, the raw material out of which urban society is made will be seriously deteriorated, and the symptoms of national degeneracy will be properly charged against those who neglected to foresee the evil and treat the cause.... The people of every state are largely bred in rural districts, and the physical and moral well-being of those districts must eventually influence the quality of the whole people."[11] V. A Challenge to Faith. The seriousness of our problem is sufficiently clear. Our consideration in this chapter has been confined mainly to the personal factors. Certain important social and institutional factors will be further considered in Chapter V under Country Life Deficiencies. With all its serious difficulties and discouragements the rural problem is a splendid challenge to faith. There are many with the narrow city outlook who despair of the rural problem and consider that country life is doomed. There are still others who have faith in the country town and village but have lost their faith in the open country as an abiding place for rural homes. Before giving such people of little faith further hearing, we must voice the testimony of a host of country lovers who have a great and enduring faith in the country as the best place for breeding men, the most natural arena for developing character, the most favorable place for happy homes, and, for a splendid host of country boys and girls the most challenging opportunity for a life of service. TEST QUESTIONS ON CHAPTER I 1.--How would you define the Rural Problem? 2.--Illustrate how the growth of the city has affected the rural problem. 3.--Explain the terms rural, urban, city, town, and village. 4.--What misleading comparisons have been made between city and country conditions? 5.--In what six states has the rural population, as a whole, shown a net loss in the last ten years? 6.--To what extent has rural America grown in population the past half century? 7.--Describe the symptoms of a decadent village. 8.--Under what conditions do you find a village improving even when losing population? 9.--Discuss carefully the comparative degeneracy of the city and the country. 10.--Describe some of the stages of rural degeneracy. 11.--What signs of rural degeneracy have come under your personal observation and how do you account for the conditions? 12.--What evidences have you seen of the "urbanizing" of rural life, and what do you think about it? 13.--Why do country boys and girls leave the farm and go to the city? 14.--What must be done to make country life worth while, so that a fair share of the boys and girls may be expected to stay there? 15.--How do you think a farmer ought to treat his boys? 16.--To what extent is the city dependent upon the country. 17.--Why do so many prosperous farmers rent their farms and give up country life? 18.--How does the village problem differ from the problem of the open country? 19.--Do you believe the open country will be permanently occupied by American homes, or must we develop a hamlet system, as in Europe and Asia? 20.--To what extent have you faith in the ultimate solution of the country problem? CHAPTER II COUNTRY LIFE OPTIMISM CHAPTER II COUNTRY LIFE OPTIMISM I. _Signs of a New Faith in Rural Life_ A tribute from the city. The Country Boy's Creed. City-bred students in agricultural colleges. Reasons for this city-to-country movement. II. _The Privilege of Living in the Country_ Some city life drawbacks. The attractiveness of country life. The partnership with nature. Rural sincerity and real neighborliness. The challenge of the difficult in rural life. III. _The Country Life Movement_ Its real significance. Its objective: a campaign for rural progress. Its early history: various plans for rural welfare. Its modern sponsors: the agricultural colleges. The Roosevelt Commission on Country Life. Its call for rural leadership. Its constructive program for rural betterment. IV. _Institutions and Agencies at Work_ Organized forces making for a better rural life. CHAPTER II COUNTRY LIFE OPTIMISM I. Signs of a New Faith in Rural Life. THE FARM: BEST HOME OF THE FAMILY: MAIN SOURCE OF NATIONAL WEALTH: FOUNDATION OF CIVILIZED SOCIETY: THE NATURAL PROVIDENCE This tribute to the fundamental value of rural life is a part of the classic inscription, cut in the marble over the massive entrances, on the new union railroad station at Washington, D. C. Its calm, clear faith is reassuring. It reminds us that there is unquestionably an abiding optimism in this matter of country life. It suggests, that in spite of rural depletion and decadence here and there, country life is so essential to our national welfare it will permanently maintain itself. So long as there is a city civilization to be fed and clothed, there must always be a rural civilization to produce the raw materials. The question is, will it be a _Christian_ civilization? Our opening chapter has made it clear, that if the rural problem is to be handled constructively and successfully, rural life must be made permanently satisfying and worth while. It must not only be attractive enough to retain _a fair share_ of the boys and girls, but also rich enough in opportunity for self-expression, development and service to warrant their investing a life-time there without regrets. The writer believes there are certain great attractions in country life and certain drawbacks and disadvantages in city life which, if fairly considered by the country boy, would help him to appreciate the privilege of living in the country. It is certainly true that there is a strong and growing sentiment in the city favoring rural life. Many city people are longing for the freedom of the open country and would be glad of the chance to move out on the land for their own sake as well as for the sake of their children. In this connection the most interesting fact is the new interest in country life opportunity which city boys and young men are manifesting. The discontented country boy who has come to seek his fortune in the city finds there the city boy anxious to fit himself for a successful life in the country! In view of the facts, the farm boy tired of the old farm ought to ponder well Fishin' 'Zeke's philosophy: "Fish don't bite just for the wishin', Keep a pullin'! Change your bait and keep on fishin'; Keep a pullin'! Luck ain't nailed to any spot; _Men you envy, like as not, Envy you your job and lot!_ Keep a pullin'!" In many agricultural colleges and state universities, we find an increasing proportion of students _coming from the cities_ for training in the science of agriculture
he thought of the risk he had run. That night when he said his evening prayer, he thanked God for having protected him. He dreamed it all over again in the night. He saw the dog coming at him with his mouth wide open, the froth dropping from his lips, and his eyes glaring. He heard his growl,--only it was not a growl, but a branch of the old maple which rubbed against the house when the wind blew. That was what set him a-dreaming. In his dream he had no gun, so he picked up the first thing he could lay his hands on, and let drive at the dog. Smash! there was a great racket, and a jingling of glass. Paul was awake in an instant, and found that he had jumped out of bed, and was standing in the middle of the floor, and that he had knocked over the spinning-wheel, and a lot of old trumpery, and had thrown one of his grandfather's old boots through the window. "What in the world are you up to, Paul?" his mother asked, calling from the room below, in alarm. "Killing the dog a second time, mother," Paul replied, laughing and jumping into bed again. CHAPTER III. MERRY TIMES. When the long northeast storms set in, and the misty clouds hung over the valley, and went hurrying away to the west, brushing the tops of the trees; when the rain, hour after hour, and day after day, fell aslant upon the roof of the little old house; when the wind swept around the eaves, and dashed in wild gusts against the windows, and moaned and wailed in the forests,--then it was that Paul sometimes felt his spirits droop, for the circumstances of life were all against him. He was poor. His dear, kind mother was sick. She had worked day and night to keep that terrible wolf from the door, which is always prowling around the houses of poor people. But the wolf had come, and was looking in at the windows. There was a debt due Mr. Funk for rice, sugar, biscuit, tea, and other things which Doctor Arnica said his mother must have. There was the doctor's bill. The flour-barrel was getting low, and the meal-bag was almost empty. Paul saw the wolf every night as he lay in his bed, and he wished he could kill it. When his mother was taken sick, he left school and became her nurse. It was hard for him to lay down his books, for he loved them, but it was pleasant to wait upon her. The neighbors were kind. Azalia Adams often came tripping in with something nice,--a tumbler of jelly, or a plate of toast, which her mother had prepared; and she had such cheerful words, and spoke so pleasantly, and moved round the room so softly, putting everything in order, that the room was lighter, even on the darkest days, for her presence. When, after weeks of confinement to her bed, Paul's mother was strong enough to sit in her easy-chair, Paul went out to fight the wolf. He worked for Mr. Middlekauf, in his cornfield. He helped Mr. Chrome paint wagons. He surveyed land, and ran lines for the farmers, earning a little here and a little there. As fast as he obtained a dollar, it went to pay the debts. As the seasons passed away,--spring, summer, and autumn,--Paul could see that the wolf howled less fiercely day by day. He denied himself everything, except plain food. He was tall, stout, hearty, and rugged. The winds gave him health; his hands were hard, but his heart was tender. When through with his day's work, though his bones ached and his eyes were drowsy, he seldom went to sleep without first studying awhile, and closing with a chapter from the Bible, for he remembered what his grandfather often said,--that a chapter from the Bible was a good thing to sleep on. The cool and bracing breezes of November, the nourishing food which Paul obtained, brought the color once more to his mother's cheeks; and when at length she was able to be about the house, they had a jubilee,--a glad day of thanksgiving,--for, in addition to this blessing of health, Paul had killed the wolf, and the debts were all paid. As the winter came on, the subject of employing Mr. Rhythm to teach a singing-school was discussed. Mr. Quaver, a tall, slim man, with a long, red nose, had led the choir for many years. He had a loud voice, and twisted his words so badly, that his singing was like the blare of a trumpet. On Sundays, after Rev. Mr. Surplice read the hymn, the people were accustomed to hear a loud Hawk! from Mr. Quaver, as he tossed his tobacco-quid into a spittoon, and an Ahem! from Miss Gamut. She was the leading first treble, a small lady with a sharp, shrill voice. Then Mr. Fiddleman sounded the key on the bass-viol, do-mi-sol-do, helping the trebles and tenors climb the stairs of the scale; then he hopped down again, and rounded off with a thundering swell at the bottom, to let them know he was safely down, and ready to go ahead. Mr. Quaver led, and the choir followed like sheep, all in their own way and fashion. The people had listened to this style of music till they were tired of it. They wanted a change, and decided to engage Mr. Rhythm, a nice young man, to teach a singing-school for the young folks. "We have a hundred boys and girls here in the village, who ought to learn to sing, so that they can sit in the singing-seats, and praise God," said Judge Adams. But Mr. Quaver opposed the project. "The young folks want a frolic, sir," he said; "yes, sir, a frolic, a high time. Rhythm will be teaching them newfangled notions. You know, Judge, that I hate flummididdles; I go for the good old things, sir. The old tunes which have stood the wear and tear of time, and the good old style of singing, sir." Mr. Quaver did not say all he thought, for he could see that, if the singing-school was kept, he would be in danger of losing his position as chorister. But, notwithstanding his opposition, Mr. Rhythm was engaged to teach the school. Paul determined to attend. He loved music. "You haven't any coat fit to wear," said his mother. "I have altered over your grandfather's pants and vest for you, but I cannot alter his coat. You will have to stay at home, I guess." "I can't do that, mother, for Mr. Rhythm is one of the best teachers that ever was, and I don't want to miss the chance. I'll wear grandpa's coat just as it is." "The school will laugh at you." "Well, let them laugh, I sha'n't stay at home for that. I guess I can stand it," said Paul, resolutely. The evening fixed upon for the school to commence arrived. All the young folks in the town were there. Those who lived out of the village,--the farmers' sons and daughters,--came in red, yellow, and green wagons. The girls wore close-fitting hoods with pink linings, which they called "kiss-me-if-ye-dares." Their cheeks were all aglow with the excitement of the occasion. When they saw Mr. Rhythm, how pleasant and smiling he was,--when they heard his voice, so sweet and melodious,--when they saw how spryly he walked, as if he meant to accomplish what he had undertaken,--they said to one another, "How different he is from Mr. Quaver!" Paul was late on the first evening; for when he put on his grandfather's coat, his mother planned a long while to see if there was not some way by which she could make it look better. Once she took the shears and was going to cut off the tail, but Paul stopped her. "I don't want it curtailed, mother." "It makes you look like a little old man, Paul; I wouldn't go." "If I had better clothes, I should wear them, mother; but as I haven't, I shall wear these. I hope to earn money enough some time to get a better coat; but grandpa wore this, and I am not ashamed to wear what he wore," he replied, more resolute than ever. Perhaps, if he could have seen how he looked, he would not have been quite so determined, for the sleeves hung like bags on his arms, and the tail almost touched the floor. Mr. Rhythm had just rapped the scholars to their seats when Paul entered. There was a tittering, a giggle, then a roar of laughter. Mr. Rhythm looked round to see what was the matter, and smiled. For a moment Paul's courage failed him. It was not so easy to be laughed at as he had imagined. He was all but ready to turn about and leave the room. "No I won't, I'll face it out," he said to himself, walking deliberately to a seat, and looking bravely round, as if asking, "What are you laughing at?" There was something in his manner which instantly won Mr. Rhythm's respect, and which made him ashamed of himself for having laughed. "Silence! No more laughing," he said; but, notwithstanding the command, there was a constant tittering among the girls. Mr. Rhythm began by saying, "We will sing Old Hundred. I want you all to sing, whether you can sing right or not." He snapped his tuning-fork, and began. The school followed, each one singing,--putting in sharps, flats, naturals, notes, and rests, just as they pleased. "Very well. Good volume of sound. Only I don't think Old Hundred ever was sung so before, or ever will be again," said the master, smiling. Michael Murphy was confident that he sang gloriously, though he never varied his tone up or down. He was ciphering in fractions at school, and what most puzzled him were the figures set to the bass. He wondered if 6/4 was a vulgar fraction, and if so, he thought it would be better to express it as a mixed number, 1-1/2. During the evening, Mr. Rhythm, noticing that Michael sang without any variation of tone, said, "Now, Master Murphy, please sing _la_ with me";--and Michael sang bravely, not frightened in the least. "Very well. Now please sing it a little higher." "_La_," sang Michael on the same pitch, but louder. "Not louder, but higher." "LA!" responded Michael, still louder, but with the pitch unchanged. There was tittering among the girls. "Not so, but thus,"--and Mr. Rhythm gave an example, first low, then high. "Now once more." "LA!" bellowed Michael on the same pitch. Daphne Dare giggled aloud, and the laughter, like a train of powder, ran through the girls' seats over to the boys' side of the house, where it exploded in a loud haw! haw! Michael laughed with the others, but he did not know what for. Recess came. "Halloo, Grandpa! How are you, Old Pensioner? Your coat puckers under the arms, and there is a wrinkle in the back," said Philip Funk to Paul. His sister Fanny pointed her finger at him; and Paul heard her whisper to one of the girls, "Did you ever see such a monkey?" It nettled him, and so, losing his temper, he said to Philip, "Mind your business." "Just hear Grandaddy Parker, the old gentleman in the bob-tailed coat," said Philip. "You are a puppy," said Paul. But he was vexed with himself for having said it. If he had held his tongue, and kept his temper, and braved the sneers of Philip in silence, he might have won a victory; for he remembered a Sunday-school lesson upon the text, "He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city." As it was, he had suffered a defeat, and went home that night disgusted with himself. Pleasant were those singing-school evenings. Under Mr. Rhythm's instructions the young people made rapid progress. Then what fine times they had at recess, eating nuts, apples, and confectionery, picking out the love-rhymes from the sugar-cockles! "I cannot tell the love I feel for you, my dove." was Philip's gift to Azalia. Paul had no money to purchase sweet things at the store; his presents were nuts which he had gathered in the autumn. In the kindness of his heart he gave a double-handful to Philip's sister, Fanny; but she turned up her nose, and let them drop upon the floor. Society in New Hope was mixed. Judge Adams, Colonel Dare, and Mr. Funk were rich men. Colonel Dare was said to be worth a hundred thousand dollars. No one knew what Mr. Funk was worth; but he had a store, and a distillery, which kept smoking day and night and Sunday, without cessation, grinding up corn, and distilling it into whiskey. There was always a great black smoke rising from the distillery-chimney. The fires were always roaring, and the great vats steaming. Colonel Dare made his money by buying and selling land, wool, corn, and cattle. Judge Adams was an able lawyer, known far and near as honest, upright, and learned. He had a large practice; but though the Judge and Colonel were so wealthy, and lived in fine houses, they did not feel that they were better than their neighbors, so that there was no aristocracy in the place, but the rich and the poor were alike respected and esteemed. The New Year was at hand, and Daphne Dare was to give a party. She was Colonel Dare's only child,--a laughing, blue-eyed, sensible girl, who attended the village school, and was in the same class with Paul. "Whom shall I invite to my party, father?" she asked. "Just whom you please, my dear," said the Colonel. "I don't know what to do about inviting Paul Parker. Fanny Funk says she don't want to associate with a fellow who is so poor that he wears his grandfather's old clothes," said Daphne. "Poverty is not a crime, my daughter. I was poor once,--poor as Paul is. Money is not virtue, my dear. It is a good thing to have; but persons are not necessarily bad because they are poor, neither are they good because they are rich," said the Colonel. "Should you invite him, father, if you were in my place?" "I do not wish to say, my child, for I want you to decide the matter yourself." "Azalia says that she would invite him; but Fanny says that if I invite him, she shall not come." "Aha!" The Colonel opened his eyes wide. "Well, my dear, you are not to be influenced wholly by what Azalia says, and you are to pay no attention to what Fanny threatens. You make the party. You have a perfect right to invite whom you please; and if Fanny don't choose to come, she has the privilege of staying away. I think, however, that she will not be likely to stay at home even if you give Paul an invitation. Be guided by your own sense of right, my darling. That is the best guide." "I wish you'd give Paul a coat, father. You can afford to, can't you?" "Yes; but he can't afford to receive it," Daphne looked at her father in amazement. "He can't afford to receive such a gift from me, because it is better for him to fight the battle of life without any help from me or anybody else at present. A good man offered to help me when I was a poor boy; but I thanked him, and said, 'No, sir.' I had made up my mind to cut my own way, and I guess Paul has made up his mind to do the same thing," said the Colonel. "I shall invite him. I'll let Fanny know that I have a mind of my own," said Daphne, with determination in her voice. Her father kissed her, but kept his thoughts to himself. He appeared to be pleased, and Daphne thought that he approved her decision. The day before New Year Paul received a neatly folded note, addressed to Mr. Paul Parker. How funny it looked! It was the first time in his life that he had seen "Mr." prefixed to his name. He opened it, and read that Miss Daphne Dare would receive her friends on New Year's eve at seven o'clock. A great many thoughts passed through his mind. How could he go and wear his grandfather's coat? At school he was on equal footing with all; but to be one of a party in a richly furnished parlor, where Philip, Fanny, and Azalia, and other boys and girls whose fathers had money, could turn their backs on him and snub him, was very different. It was very kind in Daphne to invite him, and ought he not to accept her invitation? Would she not think it a slight if he did not go? What excuse could he offer if he stayed away? None, except that he had no nice clothes. But she knew that, yet she had invited him. She was a true-hearted girl, and would not have asked him if she had not wanted him. Thus he turned the matter over, and decided to go. But when the time came, Paul was in no haste to be there. Two or three times his heart failed him, while on his way; but looking across the square, and seeing Colonel Dare's house all aglow,--lights in the parlors and chambers, he pushed on resolutely, determined to be manly, notwithstanding his poverty. He reached the house, rang the bell, and was welcomed by Daphne in the hall. "Good evening, Paul. You are very late. I was afraid you were not coming. All the others are here," she said, her face beaming with happiness, joy, and excitement. She was elegantly dressed, for she was her father's pet, and he bought everything for her which he thought would make her happy. "Better late than never, isn't it?" said Paul, not knowing what else to say. Although the party had been assembled nearly an hour, there had been no games. The girls were huddled in groups on one side of the room, and the boys on the other, all shy, timid, and waiting for somebody to break the ice. Azalia was playing the piano, while Philip stood by her side. He was dressed in a new suit of broadcloth, and wore an eye-glass. Fanny was present, though she had threatened not to attend if Paul was invited. She had changed her mind. She thought it would be better to attend and make the place too hot for Paul; she would get up such a laugh upon him that he would be glad to take his hat and sneak away, and never show himself in respectable society again. Philip was in the secret, and so were a dozen others who looked up to Philip and Fanny. Daphne entered the parlor, followed by Paul. There was a sudden tittering, snickering, and laughing. Paul stopped and bowed, then stood erect. "I declare, if there isn't old Grandaddy," said Philip, squinting through his eye-glass. "O my! how funny!" said a girl from Fairview. "Ridiculous! It is a shame!" said Fanny, turning up her nose. "Who is he?" the Fairview girl asked. "A poor fellow who lives on charity,--so poor that he wears his grandfather's old clothes. We don't associate with him," was Fanny's reply. Paul heard it. His cheek flushed, but he stood there, determined to brave it out. Azalia heard and saw it all. She stopped playing in the middle of a measure, rose from her seat with her cheeks all aflame, and walked towards Paul, extending her hand and welcoming him. "I am glad you have come, Paul. We want you to wake us up. We have been half asleep," she said. The laughter ceased instantly, for Azalia was queen among them. Beautiful in form and feature, her chestnut hair falling in luxuriant curls upon her shoulders, her dark hazel eyes flashing indignantly, her cheeks like blush-roses, every feature of her countenance lighted up by the excitement of the moment, her bearing subdued the conspiracy at once, hushing the derisive laughter, and compelling respect, not only for herself, but for Paul. It required an effort on his part to keep back the tears from his eyes, so grateful was he for her kindness. "Yes, Paul, we want you to be our general, and tell us what to do," said Daphne. "Very well, let us have Copenhagen to begin with," he said. The ice was broken. Daphne brought in her mother's clothes-line, the chairs were taken from the room, and in five minutes the parlor was humming like a beehive. "I don't see what you can find to like in that disagreeable creature," said Philip to Azalia. "He is a good scholar, and kind to his mother, and you know how courageous he was when he killed that terrible dog," was her reply. "I think he is an impudent puppy. What right has he to thrust himself into good company, wearing his grandfather's old clothes?" Philip responded, dangling his eye-glass and running his soft hand through his hair. "Paul is poor; but I never have heard anything against his character," said Azalia. "Poor folks ought to be kept out of good society," said Philip. "What do you say to that picture?" said Azalia, directing his attention towards a magnificent picture of Franklin crowned with laurel by the ladies of the court of France, which hung on the wall. "Benjamin Franklin was a poor boy, and dipped candles for a living; but he became a great man." "Dipped candles! Why, I never heard of that before," said Philip, looking at the engraving through his eye-glass. "I don't think it is any disgrace to Paul to be poor. I am glad that Daphne invited him," said Azalia, so resolutely that Philip remained silent. He was shallow-brained and ignorant, and thought it not best to hazard an exposure of his ignorance by pursuing the conversation. After Copenhagen they had Fox and Geese, and Blind-man's-buff. They guessed riddles and conundrums, had magic writing, questions and answers, and made the parlor, the sitting-room, the spacious halls, and the wide stairway ring with their merry laughter. How pleasant the hours! Time flew on swiftest wings. They had a nice supper,--sandwiches, tongue, ham, cakes, custards, floating-islands, apples, and nuts. After supper they had stories, serious and laughable, about ghosts and witches, till the clock in the dining-room held up both of its hands and pointed to the figure twelve, as if in amazement at their late staying. "Twelve o'clock! Why, how short the evening has been!" said they, when they found how late it was. They had forgotten all about Paul's coat, for he had been the life of the party, suggesting something new when the games lagged. He was so gentlemanly, and laughed so heartily and pleasantly, and was so wide awake, and managed everything so well, that, notwithstanding the conspiracy to put him down, he had won the good will of all the party. During the evening Colonel Dare and Mrs. Dare entered the room. The Colonel shook hands with Paul, and said, "I am very happy to see you here to-night, Paul." It was spoken so heartily and pleasantly that Paul knew the Colonel meant it. The young gentlemen were to wait upon the young ladies home. Their hearts went pit-a-pat. They thought over whom to ask and what to say. They walked nervously about the hall, pulling on their gloves, while the girls were putting on their cloaks and hoods up stairs. They also were in a fever of expectation and excitement, whispering mysteriously, their hearts going like trip-hammers. Daphne stood by the door to bid her guests good night. "I am very glad that you came to-night, Paul," she said, pressing his hand in gratitude, "I don't know what we should have done without you." "I have passed a very pleasant evening," he replied. Azalia came tripping down the stairs. "Shall I see you home, Azalia?" Paul asked. "Miss Adams, shall I have the delightful pleasure of being permitted to escort you to your residence?" said Philip, with his most gallant air, at the same time pushing by Paul with a contemptuous look. "Thank you, Philip, but I have an escort," said Azalia, accepting Paul's arm. The night was frosty and cold, though it was clear and pleasant. The full moon was high in the heavens, the air was still, and there were no sounds to break the peaceful silence, except the water dashing over the dam by the mill, the footsteps of the departing guests upon the frozen ground, and the echoing of their voices. Now that he was with Azalia alone, Paul wanted to tell her how grateful he was for all she had done for him; but he could only say, "I thank you, Azalia, for your kindness to me to-night." "O, don't mention it, Paul; I am glad if I have helped you. Good night." How light-hearted he was! He went home, and climbed the creaking stairway, to his chamber. The moon looked in upon him, and smiled. He could not sleep, so happy was he. How sweet those parting words! The water babbled them to the rocks, and beyond the river in the grand old forest, where the breezes were blowing, there was a pleasant murmuring of voices, as if the elms and oaks were having a party, and all were saying, "We are glad if we have helped you." CHAPTER IV. MUSIC AND PAINTING. Philip went home alone from the party, out of sorts with himself, angry with Azalia, and boiling over with wrath toward Paul. He set his teeth together, and clenched his fist. He would like to blacken Paul's eyes and flatten his nose. The words of Azalia--"I know nothing against Paul's character"--rang in his ears and vexed him. He thought upon them till his steps, falling upon the frozen ground, seemed to say, "Character!--character!--character!" as if Paul had something which he had not. "So because he has character, and I haven't, you give me the mitten, do you, Miss Azalia?" he said, as if he was addressing Azalia. He knew that Paul had a good name. He was the best singer in the singing-school, and Mr. Rhythm often called upon him to sing in a duet with Azalia or Daphne. Sometimes he sang a solo so well, that the spectators whispered to one another, that, if Paul went on as he had begun, he would be ahead of Mr. Rhythm. Philip had left the singing-school. It was dull music to him to sit through the evening, and say "Down, left, right, up," and be drilled, hour after hour. It was vastly more agreeable to lounge in the bar-room of the tavern, with a half-dozen good fellows, smoking cigars, playing cards, taking a drink of whiskey, and, when it was time for the singing-school to break up, go home with the girls, then return to the tavern and carouse till midnight or later. To be cut out by Paul in his attentions to Azalia was intolerable. "Character!--character!--character!" said his boots all the while as he walked. He stopped short, and ground his heels into the frozen earth. He was in front of Miss Dobb's house. Miss Dobb was a middle-aged lady, who wore spectacles, had a sharp nose, a peaked chin, a pinched-up mouth, thin cheeks, and long, bony fingers. She kept the village school when Paul and Philip were small boys, and Paul used to think that she wanted to pick him to pieces, her fingers were so long and bony. She knew pretty much all that was going on in the village, for she visited somewhere every afternoon to find out what had happened. Captain Binnacle called her the Daily Advertiser. "You are the cause of my being jilted, you tattling old maid; you have told that I was a good-for-nothing scapegrace, and I'll pay you for it," said Philip, shaking his fist at the house; and walked on again, meditating how to do it, his boots at each successive step saying, "Character! character!" He went home and tossed all night in his bed, not getting a wink of sleep, planning how to pay Miss Dobb, and upset Paul. The next night Philip went to bed earlier than usual, saying, with a yawn, as he took the light to go up stairs, "How sleepy I am!" But, instead of going to sleep, he never was more wide awake. He lay till all in the house were asleep, till he heard the clock strike twelve, then arose, went down stairs softly, carrying his boots, and, when outside the door, put them on. He looked round to see if there was any one astir; but the village was still,--there was not a light to be seen. He went to Mr. Chrome's shop, stopped, and looked round once more; but, seeing no one, raised a window and entered. The moon streamed through the windows, and fell upon the floor, making the shop so light that he had no difficulty in finding Mr. Chrome's paint buckets and brushes. Then, with a bucket in his hand, he climbed out, closed the window, and went to Miss Dobb's. He approached softly, listening and looking to see if any one was about; but there were no footsteps except his own. He painted great letters on the side of the house, chuckling as he thought of what would happen in the morning. "There, Miss Vinegar, you old liar, I won't charge anything for that sign," he said, when he had finished. He left the bucket on the step, and went home, chuckling all the way. In the morning Miss Dobb saw a crowd of people in front of her house, looking towards it and laughing. Mr. Leatherby had come out from his shop; Mr. Noggin, the cooper, was there, smoking his pipe; also, Mrs. Shelbarke, who lived across the street. Philip was there. "That is a 'cute trick, I vow," said he. Everybody was on a broad grin. "What in the world is going on, I should like to know!" said Miss Dobb, greatly wondering. "There must be something funny. Why, they are looking at my house, as true as I am alive!" Miss Dobb was not a woman to be kept in the dark about anything a great while. She stepped to the front door, opened it, and with her pleasantest smile and softest tone of voice said: "Good morning, neighbors; you seem to be very much pleased at something. May I ask what you see to laugh at?" "Te-he-he-he!" snickered a little boy, who pointed to the side of the house, and the by-standers followed his lead, with a loud chorus of guffaws. Miss Dobb looked upon the wall, and saw, in red letters, as if she had gone into business, opened a store, and put out a sign,--"MISS DOBB, LIES, SCANDAL, GOSSIP, WHOLESALE AND RETAIL." She threw up her hands in horror. Her eyes flashed; she gasped for breath. There was a paint-bucket and brush on the door-step; on one side of the bucket she saw the word Chrome. "The villain! I'll make him smart for this," she said, running in, snatching her bonnet, and out again, making all haste towards Squire Capias's office, to have Mr. Chrome arrested. The Squire heard her story. There was a merry twinkling of his eye, but he kept his countenance till she was through. "I do not think that Mr. Chrome did it; he is not such a fool as to leave his bucket and brush there as evidence against him; you had better let it rest awhile," said he. Mr. Chrome laughed when he saw the sign. "I didn't do it; I was abed and asleep, as my wife will testify. Somebody stole my bucket and brush; but it is a good joke on Dobb, I'll be blamed if it isn't," said he. Who did it? That was the question. "I will give fifty dollars to know," said Miss Dobb, her lips quivering with anger. Philip heard her and said, "Isn't there a fellow who sometimes helps Mr. Chrome paint wagons?" "Yes, I didn't think of him. It is just like him. There he comes now; I'll make him confess it." Miss Dobb's eyes flashed, her lips trembled, she was so angry. She remembered that one of the pigs which Paul painted, when he was a boy, was hers; she also remembered how he sent Mr. Smith's old white horse on a tramp after a bundle of hay. Paul was on his way to Mr. Chrome's shop, to begin work for the day. He wondered at the crowd. He saw the sign, and laughed with the rest. "You did that, sir," said Miss Dobb, coming up to him, reaching out her long hand and clutching at him with her bony fingers, as if she would like to tear him to pieces. "You did it, you villain! Now you needn't deny it; you painted my pig once, and now you have done this. You are a mean, good-for-nothing scoundrel," she said, working herself into a terrible passion. "I did not do it," said Paul, nettled at the charge, and growing red in the face. "You are a liar! you show your guilt in your countenance," said Miss Dobb. Paul's face was on fire. Never till then had he been called a liar. He was about to tell her loudly, that she was a meddler, tattler, and hypocrite, but he remembered that he had read somewhere, that "he who loses his temper loses his cause," and did not speak the words. He looked her steadily in the face, and said calmly, "I did not do it," and went on to his work. Weeks went by. The singing-school was drawing to a close. Paul had made rapid progress. His voice was round, rich, full, and clear. He no longer appeared at school wearing his grandfather's coat, for he had worked for Mr. Chrome, painting wagons, till he had earned enough to purchase a new suit of clothes. Besides, it was discovered that he could survey land, and several of the farmers employed him to run the lines between their farms. Mr. Rhythm took especial pains to help him on in singing, and before winter was through he could master the crookedest anthem in the book. Daphne Dare was the best alto, Hans Middlekauf the best bass, and Azalia the best treble. Sometimes Mr. Rhythm had the four sing a quartette, or Azalia and Paul sang a duet. At times, the school sang, while he listened. "I want you to learn to depend upon yourselves," said he. Then it was that Paul's voice was heard above all others, so clear and distinct, and each note so exact in time that they felt he was their leader. One evening Mr. Rhythm called Paul into the floor, and gave him the rattan with which he beat time, saying, "I want you to be leader in this tune; I
, and Mallet, assisted him by their lyrical contributions. Encouraged by the popularity of these books, he published, in October, 1724, the Evergreen, "a collection of Scots poems written by the ingenious before 1600." For the duties of an editor of such a work, it is generally agreed that Ramsay was not well fitted. For, neither had he a complete knowledge of the ancient Scottish language, nor was his literary conscience sufficiently tender and scrupulous to that fidelity, which is required by the office of editor. He abridged, he varied, modernized, and superadded. In that collection first appeared under a feigned signature his Vision, a poem, full of genius, and rich with Jacobitism, but disguising the author and his principles under the thin concealment of antique orthography. At length appeared in 1725 his master-work, the Gentle Shepherd, of which two scenes had been previously printed, [the first] in 1721, under the title of Patie and Roger, and [the second] in 1723, under that of Jenny and Meggy. [In the quarto of 1721, there is likewise to be found (Sang XI.) the dialogue song between Patie and Peggy, afterwards introduced into the second act.] The reputation he had obtained by these detached scenes, and the admonitions of his friends, who perceived how easily and how happily they could be connected, induced him to re-model and embody them into a regular pastoral drama. Its success corresponded to his own hopes, and to his friends' anticipations. [In the following letter, (published for the first time by R. Chambers in his Scottish Biographical Dictionary, 1835,) it will be seen that he was engaged on this task in spring, 1724. ALLAN RAMSAY to WILLIAM RAMSAY, of TEMPLEHALL, Esq. "Edinburgh, _April_ 8th, 1724. "Sir,--These come to bear you my very heartyest and grateful wishes. May you long enjoy your Marlefield, see many a returning spring pregnant with new beautys; may everything that's excellent in its kind continue to fill your extended soul with pleasure. Rejoyce in the beneficence of heaven, and let all about ye rejoyce--whilst we, alake, the laborious insects of a smoaky city, hurry about from place to place in one eternal maze of fatiguing cares, to secure this day our daylie bread--and something till't. For me, I have almost forgot how springs gush from the earth. Once, I had a notion how fragrant the fields were after a soft shower; and often, time out of mind! the glowing blushes of the morning have fired my breast with raptures. Then it was that the mixture of rural music echo'd agreeable from the surrounding hills, and all nature appear'd in gayety. "However, what is wanting to me of rural sweets I endeavour to make up by being continually at the acting of some new farce, for I'm grown, I know not how, so very wise, or at least think so (which is much about one), that the mob of mankind afford me a continual diversion; and this place, tho' little, is crowded with merry-andrews, fools, and fops, of all sizes, [who] intermix'd with a few that can think, compose the comical medley of actors. "Receive a sang made on the marriage of my young chief.--I am, this vacation, going through with a Dramatick Pastoral, which I design to carry the length of five acts, in verse a' the gate, and if I succeed according to my plan, I hope to tope[5] with the authors of Pastor Fido and Aminta. [Footnote 5: Cope.] "God take care of you and yours, is the constant prayer of, sir, your faithful humble servant, "ALLAN RAMSAY."] A second edition followed next year, and numerous impressions spread his fame, not only through Scotland, but through the united kingdom, and the colonies. His name became known, principally through this drama, to the wits of England, and Pope took delight in reading his pastoral, the obscurer phraseology of which was interpreted to him by Gay, who, during his residence in Scotland, had been careful to instruct himself in its dialect, that he might act as interpreter to the poet of Twickenham. In 1726 our Poet, now a thriving bookseller, removed from his original dwelling at the Mercury opposite Niddry's-wynd, to a shop in the east end of the Luckenbooths, which was afterwards occupied by the late Mr. Creech, (whose Fugitive Pieces are well known), and, after his death, by his successor Mr. Fairbairn. With his shop he changed his sign, and leaving Mercury, under the protection of whose witty godship he had so flourished, he set up the friendly heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden. Here he sold books, and established a circulating library, the first institution of that kind, not only in Scotland, but we believe in Great Britain.[6] The situation being near the Cross, and commanding a full view of the High-street, his shop became the resort of all the wits of the city; and here Gay, who is described by Mr. Tytler, as "a little pleasant-looking man, with a tyewig," used to look out upon the population of Edinburgh, while Ramsay pointed out to him the principal characters as they passed. Of this house no vestiges now remain, for as the beauty and magnificence of the High-street had been long disfigured by the cumbrous and gloomy buildings called the Luckenbooths, they were, a few years ago, completely removed, and the street cleared of that misplaced mass of deformity. [Footnote 6: To this library Mr. Sibbald succeeded, who greatly augmented it. It is now (1819) in possession of Mr. Mackay, High-street.] In 1728 he printed in quarto a second volume, containing, [his portrait by Smibert, and,] with other poems, a Masque on the Marriage of the Duke of Hamilton, one of his most ingenious productions; [also the Gentle Shepherd, complete.[7]] Of this quarto an octavo edition followed next year; and so extended was now the circle of his reputation, and so universal the demand for his poems, that the London booksellers published an edition of his Works in 1731, and two years after an edition also appeared at Dublin. His collection of thirty Fables appeared in 1730, when he was in his 45th year, after which period the public received nothing from his pen. "I e'en gave o'er in good time," he says, in his letter to Smibert, "ere the coolness of fancy attending advanced years made me risk the reputation I had acquired." [Footnote 7: ["Soon after the first edition, in octavo, of this pastoral was published, and about the time of the publication of his second volume in quarto, the 'Beggar's Opera' made its appearance, with such success that it soon produced a great number of other pieces upon the same musical plan. Amongst the rest, Ramsay, who had always been a great admirer of Gay, especially for his ballads, was so far carried away by the current as to print a new edition of his pastoral, interspersed with songs adapted to the common Scotch tunes, He did not reflect at the time that the 'Beggar's Opera' was only meant as a piece of ironical satire; whereas his 'Gentle Shepherd' was a simple imitation of nature, and neither a mimickry nor mockery of any other performance. He was soon, however, sensible of his error, and would have been glad to have retracted those songs; but it was too late; the public was already in possession of them, and as the number of singers is always greater than that of sound critics, the many editions since printed of that pastoral have been almost uniformly in this vitiated taste. He comforted himself, however, with the thought that the contagion had not infected his second volume in quarto, where the 'Gentle Shepherd' is still to be found in its original purity." (General Biographical Dictionary, Vol. XXVI.)] [The following letter was first published in the Scots Magazine, August, 1784: we give it verbatim et literatim. ALLAN RAMSAY To MR. JOHN SMIBERT,[8] in BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND. "Edinburgh, _May_ 10, 1736. "My dear old friend, your health and happiness are ever ane addition to my satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant--half a century of years have now row'd o'er my pow; yes, row'd o'er my pow, that begins now to be lyart; yet, thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as I did twenty years syne; yes, I laugh heartily too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever: fools, fops, and knaves, grow as rank as formerly; yet here and there are to be found good and worthy men, who are an honour to human life. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our old world; then let us be virtuous, and hope to meet in heaven.--My good auld wife is still my bedfellow: my son, Allan, has been pursuing your science since he was a dozen years auld--was with Mr. Hyssing, at London, for some time, about two years ago; has been since at home, painting here like a Raphael--sets out for the seat of the Beast, beyond the Alps, within a month hence--to be away about two years.--I'm sweer[9] to part with him, but canna stem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclinations.--I have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, one of twelve years old, and no waly-dragle[10] among them, all fine girls. These six or seven years past, I have not wrote a line of poetry; I e'en gave o'er in good time, before the coolness of fancy that attends advanced years should make me risk the reputation I had acquired. [Footnote 8: [John Smibert, who drew his first breath in the Grass-Market of Edinburgh, was the son of a dyer, and bred a coach painter: but travelling into Italy for instruction, he painted portraits, on his return, at London, till he was induced, by the fascination of Bishop Berkeley, to emigrate with him to Bermuda, and thence to New England. Smibert was born in 1684 and died at Boston, in 1751. (Life of Ramsay by George Chalmers, in Works, Edition of 1800.)]] [Footnote 9: Unwilling.] [Footnote 10: A feeble ill-grown person.] "Frae twenty-five to five-and-forty, My Muse was nowther sweer[11] nor dorty; My Pegasus wad break his tether, E'en at the shakking[12] of a feather, And through ideas scour like drift, Streaking[13] his wings up to the lift: Then, then my saul was in a low, That gart my numbers safely row; But eild and judgment 'gin to say, Let be your sangs, and learn to pray. [Footnote 11: Unwilling.] [Footnote 12: Shaking.] [Footnote 13: Stretching.] "I am, sir, your friend and servant, "ALLAN RAMSAY."] He now therefore intermeddled no longer with the anxieties of authorship, but sat down in the easy chair of his celebrity to enjoy his laurels and his profits. After a lapse of six years of silence, and of happiness, his ardour for dramatic exhibitions involved him in some circumstances of perplexity, attended, it is believed, with pecuniary loss. As Edinburgh possessed as yet no fixed place for the exhibition of the drama, he endeavoured to supply that deficiency to the citizens, by building, at his own expense a theatre in Carrubber's-close. Shortly after, the Act for licensing the stage was passed, which at once blasted all his hopes of pleasure and advantage; for, the Magistrates availing themselves of the power entrusted to them by the Act, shewed no indulgence to the author of the Gentle Shepherd, but, in the true spirit of that puritanism which reckons as ungodly all jollity of heart, and relaxation of countenance, they shut up his theatre, leaving the citizens without exhilaration, and our poet without redress. This was not all; he was assailed with the satirical mockery of his laughter-hating enemies, who turned against him his own weapons of poetical raillery. Pamphlets appeared, entitled, "The flight of religious piety from Scotland, upon the account of Ramsay's lewd books, and the hell-bred playhouse comedians, who debauch all the faculties of the soul of our rising generation;"--"A looking-glass for Allan Ramsay;"--"The dying words of Allan Ramsay." These maligners, in the bitterness of their sanctimonious resentments, reproached him with "having acquired wealth,"--with "possessing a fine house,"--with "having raised his kin to high degree;" all which vilifications must have carried along with them some secret and sweet consolations into the bosom of our bard. Amid the perplexities caused by the suppression of his theatre, he applied by a poetical petition to his friend the Honourable Duncan Forbes, then Lord President of the Court of Session, in order that he might obtain some compensation for his expenses; but with what success is not recorded by any of his biographers. His theatrical adventure being thus unexpectedly crushed, he devoted himself to the duties of his shop, and the education of his children. He sent in 1736 his son Allan to Rome, there to study that art by which he rose to such eminence. In the year 1743 he lost his wife, who was buried on the 28th of March in the cemetery of the Greyfriars. He built, probably about this time, a whimsical house of an octagon form, on the north side of the Castle-hill, where his residence is still known by the name of Ramsay-Garden. [The site of this house was selected with the taste of a poet and the judgment of a painter. It commanded a reach of scenery probably not surpassed in Europe, extending from the mouth of the Forth on the east to the Grampians on the west, and stretching far across the green hills of Fife to the north; embracing in the including space every variety of beauty, of elegance, and of grandeur.[14]] This house he deemed a paragon of architectural invention. He showed it with exultation to the late Lord Elibank, telling his Lordship at the same time, that the wags of the town likened it to a "goose-pye:" "Indeed, Allan," replied his Lordship, "now that I see you in it, I think it is well named." [Footnote 14: Chambers' Scottish Biographical Dictionary.] Having for several years before his death retired from business, he gave himself up in this fantastical dwelling to the varied amusements of reading, conversation, and the cultivation of his garden. Being now "loose frae care and strife," he enjoyed, in the calmness and happiness of a philosophical old age, all the fruits of his many and well rewarded labours. A considerable part of every summer was spent in the country with his friends, of whom he had many, distinguished both for talents and rank. The chief of these were, Sir Alexander Dick of Prestonfield, and Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, one of the Barons of Exchequer, a gentleman who united taste to scholarship, and had patronized and befriended Ramsay from the beginning. This amiable gentleman died in 1756, a loss which must have been severely felt by our Poet, and which he himself did not long survive. He had been afflicted for some time with a scorbutic complaint in his gums, which after depriving him of his teeth, and consuming part of the jaw-bone, at last put an end to his sufferings and his existence on the 7th of January, 1758, in the 72d year of his age. He was interred in the cemetery of Greyfriars' church on the 9th of that month, and in the record of mortality he is simply called, "Allan Ramsay, Poet, who died of old age." Of his person, Ramsay has given us a minute and pleasant description. He was about five feet four inches high, "A blackavic'd[15] snod[16] dapper fallow, Nor lean, nor overlaid with tallow." [Footnote 15: Of a dark complexion.] [Footnote 16: Neat.] He is described by those who knew him towards the latter part of his life, as a squat man, with a belly rather portly, and a countenance full of smiles and good humour. He wore a round goodly wig rather short. His disposition may be easily collected from his writings. He possessed that happy Horatian temperament of mind, that forbids, for its own ease, all entrance to the painful and irascible passions. He was a man rather of pleasantry and laughter, than of resentment and moody malignancy. His enemies, of whom he had some, he did not deem so important as on their account to ruffle his peace of mind, by indulging any reciprocal hostility, by which they would have been flattered. He was kind, benevolent, cheerful; possessing, like Burns, great susceptibility for social joys, but regulating his indulgences more by prudence, and less impetuous and ungovernable than the impassioned poet of Ayrshire. By his genius he elevated himself to the notice of all those of his countrymen who possessed either rank or talents; but these attentions proceeded spontaneously from their admiration of his talents, and were not courted by any servilities or unworthy adulations. Never drawn from business by the seductions of the bowl, or the invitations of the great, he consulted his own respect, and the comfort of his family, by attending to the duties of his shop, which so faithfully and liberally rewarded him. His vanity (that constitutional failing of all bards) is apparent in many of his writings, but it is seasoned with playfulness and good humour. He considered, indeed, that "pride in poets is nae sin," and on one occasion jocularly challenges superiority in the temple of Fame, even to Peter the Great of Russia, by saying, "But haud, proud Czar, I wadna niffer[17] fame."--He is called by Mr. William Tytler, who enjoyed his familiarity, "an honest man, and of great pleasantry." [Footnote 17: Exchange.] Of learning he had but little, yet he understood Horace faintly in the original; a congenial author, with whom he seems to have been much delighted, and in the perusal of whose writings he was assisted by Ruddiman. He read French, but knew nothing of Greek. He did not, however, like Burns, make an appearance of vilifying that learning of which he was so small a partaker; he bewailed his "own little knowledge of it;" and, like the Ayrshire bard, he was sufficiently ostentatious and pedantic in the display of what little he possessed. He composed his verses with little effort or labour; his poetry seems to have evaporated lightly and airily from the surface of a mind always jocose and at its ease. And as _it lightly came_, he was wont to say, _so it lightly went_; for after composition, he dismissed it from his mind without further care or anxiety. In 1759 an elegant obelisk was erected to the memory of Ramsay, by Sir James Clerk, at his family-seat of Pennycuik, containing the following inscription: Allano Ramsay, Poetae egregio, Qui Fatis concessit VII. Jan. MDCCLVIII. Amico paterno et suo, Monumentum inscribi jussit D. Jacobus Clerk. Anno MDCCLIX. At Woodhouselee, near the [supposed] scene of the Gentle Shepherd,[18] a rustic temple was dedicated, by the late learned and accomplished Lord Woodhouselee, with the Inscription ALLANO RAMSAY, et Genio Loci. [Footnote 18: "According to Mr. Tytler, this supposition is founded in error; and the estate of New Hall in the parish of Pennycuik, was to a certainty the legitimate parent of the pastoral. This fact has been since farther confirmed, in a dissertation[19] from the elegant pen of Sir David Rae, Lord Justice-Clerk; a descendant of Sir David Forbes, proprietor of New Hall, and contemporary of Ramsay. Even without such respectable evidence, however, we would inevitably be led to the same conclusion, by the poet's well known acquaintance with the natural beauties of the landscape at New Hall, where he was a constant and welcome visitor; and because within the boundaries of that fine estate, there is actually to be found all the peculiar scenery, so graphically and beautifully described in the drama." (Gentle Shepherd, edition of 1828.)] [Footnote 19: Sir John Sinclair's Statistical account of Scotland; Vol. XVII., appendix.] REMARKS ON THE WRITINGS OF ALLAN RAMSAY. BY W. TENNANT. Of Ramsay's Poems, the largest, and that on which his fame chiefly rests, is his _Gentle Shepherd_. Though some of his smaller poems contain passages of greater smartness, yet its more general interest as a whole, and the uniformity of talent visible in its scenes, render it one of the finest specimens of his genius. We have no hesitation in asserting, that it is one of the best pastoral dramas in the wide circle of European literature; an excellent production in a department of writing in which the English language has as yet nothing to boast of. While other modern tongues have been enriching themselves with pastoral, the English, copious in all other kinds, continues, in this, barren and deficient. No English production, therefore, can enter into competition with the Gentle Shepherd. We must look to the south of Europe for similar and rival productions, with which it can be compared. The shepherd plays of Tasso, and Guarini, and Bonarelli, contain more invention, and splendour, and variety of incident and of dialogue, than our Scottish drama; but they have also more conceit and flimsiness of sentiment, more artifice of language, more unnatural and discordant contrivance of fable. _In its plot_, the Gentle Shepherd is simple and natural, founded on a story whose circumstances, if they did not really happen, are at least far within the compass of verisimilitude. Its development is completed by means interesting but probable, without the intervention of gods, or satyrs, or oracles, or such heathenish and preposterous machinery. _The characters_ of the Gentle Shepherd are all framed by the hand of one evidently well acquainted with rural life and manners. They are not the puling, sickly, and unimpressive phantoms that people the bowers of Italian pastoral; they are lively, stirring creatures, bearing in their countenances the hardy lineaments of the country, and expressing themselves with a plainness, and downright sincerity, with which every mind sympathizes. They are rustics, it is true, but they are polished, not only by their proximity to the metropolis, but by the influence of the principal shepherd, who, besides the gentility of blood that operates in his veins, ----also reads and speaks, With them that kens them, Latin words and Greeks. The situations in which the persons are placed are so ingeniously devised, as to draw forth from their bosoms all those feelings and passions which accompany the shepherd, life, and which are described with a happiness and a simplicity, the truer to nature, on account of its being removed from that over-wrought outrageousness of passion which we sometimes think is the fault of modern writing. The tenderness of correspondent affections,--the hesitation and anxiety of a timid lover,--the mutual bliss on the mutual discovery of long concealed attachment,--the uneasiness of jealousy, with the humorous and condign punishment of its evil devices,--the fidelity of the shepherd notwithstanding his elevation to an unexpected rank,--the general happiness that crowns, and winds up the whole, are all impressively and vividly delineated. With regard to _its sentiments_, the Gentle Shepherd has nothing to be ashamed of; though in a very few places coarse, the thoughts are nowhere impure; they have somewhat of the purity of Gesner, with rather more vivacity and vigour. There is no affectation; every character thinks as country people generally do, artlessly, and according to nature. With regard to _its language_, we know not whether to say much, or to say little. Much has been already said, to redeem from the charge of vulgarity a language once courtly and dignified, but now associated with meanness of thought, and rudeness of manners. We do not think it necessary, however, to stand up in defence of a dialect which has, since the days of Ramsay, been ennobled by the poems of Burns, and is eternized more lately in the tales of that mighty genius, who sits on the summit of Northern Literature, and flashes forth from behind his cloud his vivid and his fiery productions. In the use of this dialect, Ramsay is extremely fortunate; for Scottish shepherds he could have employed none other; and he wields his weapon with a dexterity which we do not think has been since exceeded. Out of his own familiar language, he is indeed heavy and wearisome; English armour is too cumbrous for him; he cannot move in it with grace and activity. We find, accordingly, that in his Gentle Shepherd the most unskilful passages are in English, without beauty or energy; whereas his Scottish has in it a felicity which has rendered it popular with all ranks, and caused his verses to pass with proverbial currency among the peasants of his native country. Next in value to his Gentle Shepherd, we think, are his imitations of Horace. To this good-humoured author Ramsay had, from congeniality of mind, a strong predilection; and he in some places has fully equalled, if not surpassed, his prototype in happy hits of expression. Pope himself is not so fortunate. Take for instance, Daring and unco stout he was, With heart _hool'd in three sloughs_[20] of brass, Wha ventur'd first on the rough sea, With _hempen branks_,[21] _and horse of tree_. Again, Be sure ye dinna quat the grip O' ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And _lay ye twafald o'er a rung_.[22] [Footnote 20: Coats.] [Footnote 21: A sort of bridle.] [Footnote 22: A stout staff.] In his _Vision_ there is more grandeur, and a nearer approach to sublimity than in any other of his poems. He is indeed, here, superior to himself, and comes nearer to the strength and splendour of Dunbar, whose antiquated style he copied. The 5th stanza may be a specimen. Grit[23] daring dartit frae his ee, A braid-sword schogled[24]at his thie,[25] On his left arm a targe; A shinnand[26] speir filld his richt hand, Of stalwart[27] mak, in bane and brawnd, Of just proportions large; A various rainbow-colourt plaid Owre[28] his left spawl[29] he threw, Doun his braid back, frae his quhyte[30] heid, The silver wymplers[31] grew. [Footnote 23: Great.] [Footnote 24: Dangled.] [Footnote 25: Thigh.] [Footnote 26: Shining] [Footnote 27: Strong.] [Footnote 28: Over.] [Footnote 29: Shoulder.] [Footnote 30: White.] [Footnote 31: Waving locks of hair.] His _Tales_ and _Fables_, a species of writing which he himself deemed as "casten for his share," display great ease and readiness of versification, with much comic vivacity. The best of these are the _Twa Cats and the Cheese_; the _Lure_, in which the Falconer's "foregathering with auld Symmie" is excellently described; and the _Monk and the Miller's Wife_, for the story of which he is indebted to Dunbar. As a song writer we are not inclined to give Ramsay a very high place. His mind had not those deep and energetic workings of feeling that fitted Burns so admirably for this difficult species of writing. He is stiff, where passion is required; and is most easy, as usual, where he is comic. Several of his songs yet retain their popularity; but even of these none are without some faults. We prefer the Highland Laddie, Gie me a Lass wi' a Lump o' Land, The Carle he came o'er the Craft, The Lass of Patie's Mill and Jenny Nettles. His _Christ's Kirk_ is no mean effort of his muse; the idea of continuing King James's production was good, and he has executed it happily. Ramsay's humour must, however, be acknowledged to be inferior to the pure, strong, irresistible merriment that shines even through the dim and nearly obsolete language of his royal master. In the _Third Canto_, the morning, with its effect on the crapulous assemblage, is well painted. _Now frae east nook o' Fife the dawn Speel'd[32] westlins up the lift_, Carles wha heard the cock had crawn Begoud, &c. An' greedy wives, wi' girning thrawn, Cry'd lasses up to thrift; Dogs barked, an' the lads frae hand Bang'd[33] to their breeks,[34] like drift, Be break o' day [Footnote 32: Climbed.] [Footnote 33: Started up from bed.] [Footnote 34: Breeches.] Of a character similar to the first two lines of the above stanza, are the following other passages of Ramsay's works, which remind us a little of the Italian poets;-- Now Sol wi' his lang whip gae cracks Upon his nichering coosers'[35] backs, _To gar them tak th' Olympian brae, Wi' a cart-lade o' bleezing day_. [Footnote 35: Stallions.] _Tale of the Three Bonnets._ And ere the sun, though he be dry, Has driven down the westlin sky, To drink his wamefu' o' the sea. _Fables and Tales._ Soon as the clear goodman o' day Does bend his morning draught o' dew. _Fables and Tales._ To sum up our opinion of Ramsay's merits as a poet--he was fortunate, and he deserved well, in being the first to redeem the Muse of Scotland from wasting her strength in a dead language, which, since the _days_ of Buchanan, had been the freezing vehicle of her exertions. He re-established the popularity of a dialect, which, since the removal of the Scottish Court, had received no honour from the pen of genius, but which, near two hundred years before, had been sublimed into poetical dignity by Dunbar and the bards of that age. To Ramsay, and to his treasures of Scottish phraseology, succeeding poets have been much indebted; he knew the language well, and had imbibed the facetious and colloquial spirit of its idioms. Ramsay, therefore, when he employs his beloved dialect, manages it masterly, and, though never lofty, he is always at his ease: Burns, in his highest flights, soared out of it. The genius of the first was pleasing, placid, versatile, in quest rather of knacks, and felicities of expression, than originating bold and masculine thoughts: The genius of the latter was richer, more original, more impressive, and formidable, but less equal, and less careful of the niceties and tricks of phraseology. The tone of Ramsay's mind was good-humoured composure, and facile pleasantry; of Burns's, intensity of feeling, tenderness, and daring elevation approaching to sublimity. Of Burns's superiority no man is doubtful; but Ramsay's merits will not be forgotten; and the names of _both_ will be forever cherished by the lovers of Scottish poetry. ESSAY ON RAMSAY'S GENTLE SHEPHERD. BY LORD WOODHOUSELEE. As the writings of _Allan Ramsay_ have now stood the test of the public judgment, during more than seventy years;[36] and, in the opinion of the best critics, he seems to bid fair to maintain his station among our poets, it may be no unpleasing, nor uninstructive employment, to examine the grounds, on which that judgment is founded; to ascertain the rank, which he holds in the scale of merit; and to state the reasons, that may be given, for assigning him that distinguished place among the original poets of his country, to which I conceive he is entitled. [Footnote 36: Written in 1800.] The genius of Ramsay was original; and the powers of his untutored mind were the gift of nature, freely exercising itself within the sphere of its own observation. Born in a wild country, and accustomed to the society of its rustic inhabitants, the poet's talents found their first exercise in observing the varied aspects of the mountains, rivers, and vallies; and the no less varied, though simple manners, of the rude people, with whom he conversed. He viewed the former with the enthusiasm which, in early childhood, is the inseparable attendant of genius; and on the latter he remarked, with that sagacity of discriminating observation, which instructed the future moralist, and gave the original intimations to the contemporary satirist. With this predisposition of mind, it is natural to imagine, that the education, which he certainly received, opened to him such sources of instruction as English literature could furnish; and his kindred talents directed his reading chiefly to such of the _poets_ as occasion threw in his way. Inheriting that ardour of feeling, which is generally accompanied with strong sentiments of moral excellence, and keenly awake even to those slighter deviations from propriety, which constitute the foibles of human conduct, he learned, as it were from intuition, the glowing language, which is best fitted for the scourge of vice; as well as the biting ridicule
consciously from wrong by the presence of those whom they love and who love them. Such intervals of bright joy are easily arranged by friends for friends; but if strangers are invited _en masse_, it is difficult to keep any of these recreations innocent. All these ways of meeting are invaluable as binding us together; still, they would avail little were it not for the work by which we are connected--for the individual care each member of the little circle receives. Week by week, when the rents are collected, an opportunity of seeing each family separately occurs. There are a multitude of matters to attend to: first, there is the mere outside business--rent to be received, requests from the tenant respecting repairs to be considered: sometimes decisions touching the behavior of other tenants to be made, sometimes rebukes for untidiness to be administered. Then come the sad or joyful remarks about health or work, the little histories of the week. Sometimes grave questions arise about important changes in the life of the family--shall a daughter go to service? or shall the sick child be sent to a hospital? etc. Sometimes violent quarrels must be allayed. Much may be done in this way, so ready is the response in these affectionate natures to those whom they trust and love. For instance: two women among my tenants fought; one received a dreadful kick, the other had hair torn from her head. They were parted by a lad who lived in the house. The women occupied adjoining rooms, they met in the passages, they used the same yard and wash-house, endless were the opportunities of collision while they were engaged with each other. For ten days I saw them repeatedly: I could in no way reconcile them--words of rage and recrimination were all that they uttered; while the hair, which had been carefully preserved by the victim, was continually exhibited to me as a sufficient justification for lasting anger. One was a cold, hard, self-satisfied, well-to-do woman; the other a nervous, affectionate, passionate, very poor Irishwoman. Now it happened that in speaking to the latter one evening, I mentioned my own grief at the quarrel: a look of extreme pain came over her face; it was a new idea to her that I should care. That, and no sense of the wrong of indulging an evil passion, touched her. The warm-hearted creature at once promised to shake hands with her adversary; but she had already taken out a summons against the other for assault, and did not consider she could afford to make up the quarrel, because it implied losing the two shillings the summons had cost. I told her the loss was a mere nothing to her if weighed in the balance with peace, but that I would willingly pay it. It only needed that one of the combatants should make the first step towards reconciliation for the other (who, indeed, rather dreaded answering the summons) to meet her half-way. They are good neighbors now of some months' standing. A little speech which shows the character of the Irishwoman is worth recording. Acknowledging to me that she was very passionate, she said: "My husband never takes my part when I'm in my tanthrums, and I'm that mad with him; but, bless you, I love him all the better afterwards; he knows well enough it would only make me worse." I may here observe that the above-mentioned two shillings is the only money I ever had to give to either woman. It is on such infinitesimally small actions that the success of the whole work rests. My tenants are mostly of a class far below that of mechanics. They are, indeed, of the very poor. And yet, although the gifts they have received have been next to nothing, none of the families who have passed under my care during the whole four years have continued in what is called "distress," except such as have been unwilling to exert themselves. Those who will not exert the necessary self-control cannot avail themselves of the means of livelihood held out to them. But, for those who are willing, some small assistance in the form of work has, from time to time, been provided--not much, but sufficient to keep them from want or despair. The following will serve as an instance of the sort of help given, and its proportion to the results. Alice, a single woman, of perhaps fifty-five years, lodged with a man and his wife--the three in one room--just before I obtained full possession of the houses. Alice, not being able to pay her rent, was turned into the street, where Mrs. S. (my playground superintendent) met her, crying dreadfully. It was Saturday, and I had left town till Monday. Alice had neither furniture to pawn, nor friends to help her; the workhouse alone lay before her. Mrs. S. knew that I esteemed her as a sober, respectable, industrious woman, and therefore she ventured to express to Alice's landlord the belief that I would not let him lose money if he would let her go back to her lodging till Monday, when I should return home, thus risking for me a possible loss of fourpence--not very ruinous to me, and a sum not impossible for Alice to repay in the future. I gave Alice two days' needlework, then found her employment in tending a bed-ridden cottager in the country, whose daughter (in service) paid for the nursing. Five weeks she was there, working and saving her money. On her return I lent her what more she required to buy furniture, and she then took a little room direct from me. Too blind to do much household work, but able to sew almost mechanically, she just earns her daily bread by making sailors' shirts! but her little home is her own, and she loves it dearly; and, having tided over that time of trial, Alice can live--has paid all her debts, too, and is more grateful than she would have been for many gifts. At one time I had a room to let which was ninepence a week cheaper than the one she occupied. I proposed to her to take it; it had, however, a different aspect, getting less of the southern and western sunlight. Alice hesitated long, and asked _me_ to decide, which I declined to do; for, as I told her, her moving would suit my arrangements rather better. She, hearing that, wished to move; but I begged her to make her decision wholly irrespective of my plans. At last she said, very wistfully: "Well, you see, miss, it's between ninepence and the sun." Sadly enough, ninepence had to outweigh the sun. My tenants are, of course, encouraged to save their money. It should, however, be remarked, that I have never succeeded in getting them to save for old age. The utmost I have achieved is that they lay by sufficient either to pay rent in times of scarcity, to provide clothes for girls going to service, or boots, or furniture, or even to avail themselves of opportunities of advancement which must be closed to them if they had not a little reserve fund to meet expenses of the change. One great advantage arising from the management of the houses is, that they form a test-place, in which people may prove themselves worthy of higher situations. Not a few of the tenants have been persons who had sunk below the stratum where once they were known, and some of these, simply by proving their character, have been enabled to regain their former stations. One man, twenty years ago, had been a gentleman's servant, had saved money, gone into business, married, failed, and then found himself out of the groove of work. When I made his acquaintance he was earning a miserable pittance for his wife and seven unhealthy children, and all the nine souls were suffering and sinking unknown. After watching and proving him for three years I was able to recommend him to a gentleman in the country, where now the whole family are profiting by having six rooms instead of one, fresh air, and regular wages. But it is far easier to be helpful than to have patience and self-control sufficient, when the times come, for seeing suffering and not relieving it. And yet the main tone of action must be severe. There is much of rebuke and repression needed, although a deep and silent under-current of sympathy and pity may flow beneath. If the rent is not ready, notice to quit must be served. The money is then almost always paid, when the notice is, of course, withdrawn. Besides this in inexorable demand for rent (never to be relaxed without entailing cumulative evil on the defaulter, and setting a bad example, too readily followed by others) there must be a perpetual crusade carried on against small evils--very wearing sometimes. It is necessary to believe that in thus setting in order certain spots on God's earth, still more in presenting to a few of His children a somewhat higher standard of right, we are doing His work, and that he will not permit us to lose sight of His large laws, but will rather make them evident to us through the small details. The resolution to watch pain which cannot be radically relieved except by the sufferer himself is most difficult to maintain. Yet it is wholly necessary in certain cases not to help. Where a man persistently refuses to exert himself, external help is worse than useless. By withholding gifts we say to him in action more mournful than words: "You will not do better. I was ready--I will be ready whenever you come to yourself; but until then you must pursue your own course." This attitude has often to be taken; but it usually proves a summons to a more energetic spirit, producing nobler effort in great matters, just as the notice to quit arouses resolution and self-denial in pecuniary concerns. Coming together so much as we do for business with mutual duties, for recreation with common joy, each separate want or fault having been dealt with as it arose, it will be readily understood that in such a crisis as that which periodically occurs in the East End of London, instead of being unprepared, I feel myself somewhat like an officer at the head of a well-controlled little regiment, or, more accurately, like a country proprietor with a moderate number of well-ordered tenants. For, firstly, my people are numbered; not merely counted, but known, man, woman, and child. I have seen their self-denying efforts to pay rent in time of trouble, or their reckless extravagance in seasons of abundance; their patient labor, or their failure to use the self-control necessary to the performance of the more remunerative kinds of work; their efforts to keep their children at school, or their selfish, lazy way of living on their children's earnings. Could any one, going suddenly among even so small a number as these thirty-four families--however much penetration and zeal he might possess--know so accurately as I what kind of assistance would be really helpful, and not corrupting? And if positive gifts must be resorted to, who can give them with so little pain to the proud spirit, so little risk of undermining the feeble one, as the friend of old standing?--the friend, moreover, who has rigorously exacted the fulfillment of their duty in punctual payment of rent; towards whom, therefore, they might feel that they had done what they could while strength lasted, and need not surely be ashamed to receive a little bread in time of terrible want? But it ought hardly ever to come to an actual doling out of bread or alms of any kind. During the winter of 1867-68, while the newspapers were ringing with appeals in consequence of the distress prevalent in the metropolis, being on the Continent, and unable to organize more satisfactory schemes of assistance, I wrote to the ladies who were superintending the houses for me, to suggest that a small fund (which had accumulated from the rents, after defraying expenses and paying interest) should be distributed in gifts to any of the families who might be in great poverty. The answer was that there were none requiring such help. Now, how did this come to pass? Simply through the operation of the various influences above described. The tenants never having been allowed to involve themselves in debt for rent (now and then being supplied with employment to enable them to pay it), they were free from one of the greatest drags upon a poor family, and had, moreover, in times of prosperity been able really to save. It is but too often the case that, even when prosperous times come, working people cannot lay by, because then they have to pay off arrears of rent. The elder girls, too, were either in service or quite ready to go; and so steady, tidy, and respectable as to be able to fill good situations. This was owing, in many cases, to a word or two spoken long before, urging their longer attendance at school, or to their having had a few happy and innocent amusements provided for them, which had satisfied their natural craving for recreation, and had prevented their breaking loose in search of it. Health had been secured by an abundance of air, light, and water. Even among this very lowest class of people, I had found individuals whom I could draft from my lodging-houses into resident situations (transplanting them thus at once into a higher grade), simply because I was able to say, "I know them to be honest, I know them to be clean." Think of what this mere fact of _being known_ is to the poor! You may say, perhaps, "This is very well as far as you and your small knot of tenants are concerned, but how does it help us to deal with the vast masses of poor in our great towns?" I reply, "Are not the great masses made up of many small knots? Are not the great towns divisible into small districts? Are there not people who would gladly come forward to undertake the systematic supervision of some house or houses, if they could get authority from the owner? And why should there not be some way of registering such supervision, so that, bit by bit, as more volunteers should come forward, the whole metropolis might be mapped out, all the blocks fitting in like little bits of mosaic to form one connected whole?" The success of the plan does not depend entirely upon the houses being the property of the superintendent. I would urge people, if possible, to purchase the houses of which they undertake the charge; but if they cannot, they may yet do a valuable little bit of work by registering a distinct declaration that they will supervise such and such a house, or row, or street; that if they have to relinquish the work, they will say so; that if it becomes too much for them, they will ask for help; that any one desiring information about the families dwelling in the houses they manage may apply to them. It is well known that the societies at work among the poor are so numerous, and labor so independently of each other, that, at present, many sets of people may administer relief to a given family in one day, and perhaps not one go near them again for a long interval; yet each society may be quite systematic in its own field of operation. It seems to me, that though each society might like to go its own way (and, perhaps, to supply wants which the house-overseer might think it best to leave unsupplied), they might at least feel it an advantage to know of a recognized authority, from whom particulars could be learned respecting relief already given, and the history of the families in question. Any persons accustomed to visit among the poor in a large district, would, I believe, when confining themselves to a much smaller one, be led, if not to very unexpected conclusions, at least to very curious problems. In dealing with a large number of cases the urgency is so great, one passes over the most difficult questions to work where sight is clear; and one is apt to forget Sissy Jupe's quick sympathetic perception that percentage signifies literally nothing to the friends of the special sufferer, who surely is not worth less than a sparrow. The individual case, if we cared enough for it, would often give us the key to many. Whoever will limit his gaze to a few persons, and try to solve the problems of their lives--planning, for instance, definitely, how he, even with superior advantages of education, self-control, and knowledge, could bring up a given family on given wages, allowing the smallest amount conceivably sufficient for food, rent, clothes, fuel, and the rest--he may find it in most cases a much more difficult thing than he had ever thought, and sometimes may be an impossibility. It may lead to strange self-questioning about wages. Again, if people will watch carefully the different effect of self-help and of alms, how the latter, like the out-door relief system under the old Poor-Law, tends to lower wages, undermines the providence of the poor, it may make them put some searching questions to themselves upon the wisdom of backing up wages with gifts. Then they may begin to consider practically whether in their own small sphere they can form no schemes of help, which shall be life-giving, stimulating hope, energy, foresight, self-denial, and choice of right rather than wrong expenditure. They may earnestly strive to discover plans of help which shall free them from the oppressive responsibility of deciding whether aid is deserved--a question often complicated inextricably with another, namely, whether at a given moment there is a probability of reformation. All of us have felt the impossibility of deciding either question fairly, yet we have been convinced that gifts coming at the wrong time are often deadly. Earnest workers feel a heavy weight on their hearts and consciences from the conviction that the old command "Judge not" is a divine one, and yet that the distribution of alms irrespective of character is fatal. These difficulties lead to variable action, which is particularly disastrous with the poor. But there are plans which cultivate the qualities wherein they are habitually wanting, namely, self-control, energy, prudence, and industry; and such plans, if we will do our part, may be ready at any moment for even the least deserving, and for those who have fallen lowest. Further details as to modes of help must vary infinitely with circumstances and character. But I may mention a few laws which become clearer and clearer to me as I work. It is best strictly to enforce fulfillment of all such duties as payment of rent, etc. It is far better to give work than either money or goods. It is most helpful of all to strengthen by sympathy and counsel the energetic effort which shall bear fruit in time to come. It is essential to remember that each man has his own view of his life, and must be free to fulfill it; that in many ways he is a far better judge of it than we, as he has lived through and felt what we have only seen. Our work is rather to bring him to the point of considering, and to the spirit of judging rightly, than to consider or judge for him. The poor of London (as of all large towns) need the development of every power which can open to them noble sources of joy. FOOTNOTE: [3] The ultimate step taken to enforce payment of rent is to send in a broker to distrain. BLANK COURT; OR, LANDLORDS AND TENANTS. _October, 1871._ Three ladies were standing, not long ago, in a poor and dingy court in London, when a group of dirty-faced urchins exclaimed, in a tone, partly of impudence and partly of fun: "What a lot o' landladies, this morning!" The words set me thinking, for I felt that the boys' mirth was excited, not only by the number of landladies (or of ladies acting as such), but also, probably, by the contrast between these ladies and the landladies they usually saw. For the landlady to the London poor is too often a struggling, cheated, much-worried, long-suffering woman; soured by constant dealing with untrustworthy people; embittered by loss; a prey to the worst lodgers, whom she allows to fall into debt, and is afraid to turn out, lest she should lose the amount they owe her; without spirit or education to enable her to devise improvements, or capital to execute them--never able, in short, to use the power given her by her position to bring order into the lives of her tenants: being, indeed, too frequently entirely under their control. There is a numerous class of landladies worse even than this--bullying, violent, passionate, revengeful, and cowardly. They alternately cajole and threaten, but rarely intend to carry out either their promises or their threats. Severe without principle, weakly indulgent towards evil, given to lying and swearing, too covetous to be drunken, yet indulgent to any lodger who will "treat" them; their influence is incalculably mischievous. Ought this to be the idea suggested by the word "landlady" to the poor of our cities? The old word "landlord" is a proud one to many an English gentleman, who holds dominion over the neat cottage, with its well-stocked garden; over the comfortable farm-house; over broad, sloping parks, and rich farm-lands. It is a delight to him to keep thus fair the part of the earth over which it has been given him to rule. And, as to his people, he would think it shameful to receive the rents from his well-managed estates in the country, year by year, without some slight recognition of his tenantry--at least on birthdays or at Christmas. But where are the owners, or lords, or ladies, of most courts like that in which I stood with my two fellow-workers? Who holds dominion there? Who heads the tenants there? If any among the nobly born, or better educated, own them, do they bear the mark of their hands? And if they do _not_ own them, might they not do so? There are in those courts as loyal English hearts as ever loved or reverenced the squire in the village, only they have been so forgotten. Dark under the level ground, in kitchens damp with foulest moisture, there they huddle in multitudes, and no one loves or raises them. It must not be thought that the over-worked clergymen and missionaries, heroic as they often are, can do all that might be done for them. They count their flock by thousands, and these people want watching one by one. The clergy have no control over these places, nor have they half the power of directing labor to useful ends, which those might have who owned the houses, and were constantly brought into direct contact with the people. How this relation of landlord and tenant might be established in some of the lowest districts of London, and with what results, I am about to describe by relating what has been done in the last two years in Blank Court. I have already, in these pages,[4] given an account of my former efforts to establish this relation on a healthy footing in another London court; of the details of my plan of action; and of its success. I am not, therefore, in what follows, putting forth anything new in its main idea, but am simply insisting on principles of the truth of which every day's experience only makes me the more deeply assured, and recounting the history of an attempt to spread those principles to a class still lower than that alluded to in my former paper. It was near the end of 1869 that I first heard that a good many houses in Blank Court were to be disposed of. Eventually, in the course of that year, six ten-roomed houses were bought by the Countess of Ducie, and five more by another lady, and placed partially under my care. I was especially glad to obtain some influence here, as I knew this place to be one of the worst in Marylebone; its inhabitants were mainly costermongers and small hawkers, and were almost the poorest class of those amongst our population who have any settled home, the next grade below them being vagrants who sleep in common lodging-houses; and I knew that its moral standing was equally low. Its reputation had long been familiar to me; for when unruly and hopeless tenants were sent away from other houses in the district, I had often heard that they had gone to Blank Court, the tone in which it was said implying that they had now sunk to the lowest depths of degradation. A lawyer friend had also said to me, on hearing that it was proposed to buy houses there, "Blank Court! why, that is the place one is always noticing in the police reports for its rows." Yet its outward appearance would not have led a casual observer to guess its real character. Blank Court is not far from Cavendish Square, and daily in the season, scores of carriages, with their gayly dressed occupants, pass the end of it. Should such look down it, they would little divine its inner life. Seen from the outside, and in the daytime, it is a quiet-looking place, the houses a moderate size, and the space between them tolerably wide. It has no roadway, but is nicely enough paved, and old furniture stands out for sale on the pavement, in front of the few shops. But if any one had entered those houses with me two years ago, he would have seen enough to surprise and horrify him. In many of the houses the dustbins were utterly unapproachable, and cabbage-leaves, stale fish, and every sort of dirt were lying in the passages and on the stairs; in some the back kitchen had been used as a dustbin, but had not been emptied for years, and the dust filtered through into the front kitchens, which were the sole living and sleeping rooms of some families; in some, the kitchen stairs were many inches thick with dirt, which was so hardened that a shovel had to be used to get it off; in some there was hardly any water to be had; the wood was eaten away, and broken away; windows were smashed; and the rain was coming through the roofs. At night it was still worse; and during the first winter I had to collect the rents chiefly then, as the inhabitants, being principally costermongers, were out nearly all day, and they were afraid to entrust their rent to their neighbors. It was then that I saw the houses in their most dreadful aspect. I well remember wet, foggy, Monday nights, when I turned down the dingy court, past the brilliantly-lighted public-house at the corner, past the old furniture outside the shops, and dived into the dark, yawning, passage ways. The front doors stood open day and night, and as I felt my way down the kitchen stairs, broken, and rounded by the hardened mud upon them, the foul smells which the heavy, foggy air would not allow to rise, met me as I descended, and the plaster rattled down with a hollow sound as I groped along. It was truly appalling to think that there were human beings who lived habitually in such an atmosphere, with such surroundings. Sometimes I had to open the kitchen door myself, after knocking several times in vain, when a woman, quite drunk, would be lying on the floor on some black mass which served as a bed; sometimes, in answer to my knocks, a half-drunken man would swear, and thrust the rent-money out to me through a chink of the door, placing his foot against it, so as to prevent it from opening wide enough to admit me. Always it would be shut again without a light being offered to guide me up the pitch-dark stairs. Such was Blank Court in the winter of 1869. Truly, a wild, lawless, desolate little kingdom to come to rule over. On what principles was I to rule these people? On the same that I had already tried, and tried with success, in other places, and which I may sum up as the two following: firstly, to demand a strict fulfillment of their duties to me,--one of the chief of which would be the punctual payment of rent; and secondly, to endeavor to be so unfailingly just and patient, that they should learn to trust the rule that was over them. With regard to details, I would make a few improvements at once--such, for example, as the laying on of water and repairing of dustbins, but, for the most part, improvements should be made only by degrees, as the people became more capable of valuing and not abusing them. I would have the rooms distempered, and thoroughly cleansed, as they became vacant, and then they should be offered to the more cleanly of the tenants. I would have such repairs as were not immediately needed, used as a means of giving work to the men in times of distress. I would draft the occupants of the underground kitchens into the upstair rooms, and would ultimately convert the kitchens into bath-rooms and wash-houses. I would have the landlady's portion of the house--_i. e._ the stairs and passages--at once repaired and distempered, and they should be regularly scrubbed, and, as far as possible, made models of cleanliness, for I knew, from former experience, that the example of this would, in time, silently spread itself to the rooms themselves, and that payment for this work would give me some hold over the elder girls. I would collect savings personally, not trust to their being taken to distant banks or saving clubs. And finally, I knew that I should learn to feel these people as my friends, and so should instinctively feel the same respect for their privacy and their independence, and should treat them with the same courtesy that I should show towards any other personal friends. There would be no interference, no entering their rooms uninvited, no offer of money or the necessaries of life. But when occasion presented itself, I should give them any help I could, such as I might offer without insult to other friends--sympathy in their distresses; advice, help, and counsel in their difficulties; introductions that might be of use to them; means of education; visits to the country; a lent book when not able to work; a bunch of flowers brought on purpose; an invitation to any entertainment, in a room built at the back of my own house, which would be likely to give them pleasure. I am convinced that one of the evils of much that is done for the poor springs from the want of delicacy felt, and courtesy shown, towards them, and that we cannot beneficially help them in any spirit different to that in which we help those who are better off. The help may differ in amount, because their needs are greater. It should not differ in kind. To sum up: my endeavors in ruling these people should be to maintain perfect strictness in our business relations, perfect respectfulness in our personal relations. These principles of government and plans of action were not theoretical: they had not been _thought out_ in the study, but had been _worked out_ in the course of practical dealings with individual cases. And though I am able thus to formulate them, I want it understood that they are essentially living, that they are not mere dead rules, but principles the application of which is varying from day to day. I can say, for example, "It is our plan to keep some repairs as employment for men out of work;" but it needs the true instinct to apply this plan beneficially--the time to give the work, its kind, its amount, above all the mode of offering it, have to be felt out fresh on each fresh occasion, and the circumstances and characters vary so that each case is new. The practical carrying out in Blank Court of these various plans of action involved, as may readily be imagined, a great deal of personal supervision. Hence the "lot o' landladies" which excited the attention of the street boys. Several ladies, whether owners of houses or not, have worked there energetically with me since the property was bought; and when I use the word "we," I would have it understood to apply to these ladies and myself: it is often upon them that much of the detail of the work devolves. But to proceed with the history of Blank Court. Our first step on obtaining possession was to call on all the inhabitants to establish our claim to receive rents. We accepted or refused the people as tenants, made their acquaintance, and learnt all they might be disposed to tell us about themselves and their families. We came upon strange scenes sometimes. In one room a handsome, black, tangle-haired, ragged boy and girl, of about nine and ten, with wild dark eyes, were always to be found, sometimes squatting near the fire, watching a great black pot, sometimes amusing themselves with cutting paper into strips with scissors. It was difficult to extract a word: the money and dirty rent-book were generally pushed to us in silence. No grown person was ever to be seen. For months I never saw these children in the open air. Often they would lie in bed all day long; and I believe they were too ignorant and indolent to care to leave the house except at night, when the boy, as we afterwards found, would creep like a cat along the roofs of the outbuildings to steal lumps of coal from a neighboring shed. At one room we had to call again and again, always finding the door locked. At last, after weeks of vain effort, I found the woman who owned the room at home. She was sitting on the floor at tea with another woman, the tea being served on an inverted hamper. I sat down on an opposite hamper, which was the only other piece of furniture in the room, and told her I was sorry that I had never been able to make her acquaintance before. To which she replied, with rather a grand air and a merry twinkle in her eye, that she had been "unavoidably absent:" in other words, some weeks in prison,--not a rare occurrence for her. When we set about our repairs and alterations, there was much that was discouraging. The better class of people in the court were hopeless of any permanent improvement. When one of the tenants of the shops saw that we were sending workmen into the empty rooms, he said considerately, "I'll tell you what it is, Miss, it'll cost you a lot o' money to repair them places, and it's no good. The women's 'eads 'll be druv through the door panels again in no time, and the place is good enough for such cattle as them there." But we were not to be deterred. On the other hand, we were not to be hurried in our action by threats. These were not wanting. For no sooner did the tenants see the workmen about than they seemed to think that if they only clamored enough they would get their own rooms put to rights. Nothing had been done for years. Now, they thought, was their opportunity. More than one woman locked me in her room with her, the better to rave and storm. She would shake the rent in her pocket to tempt me with the sound of the money, and roar out "that never a farthing of it would she pay till her grate was set," or her floor was mended, as the case might be. Perfect silence would make her voice drop lower and lower, until at last she would stop, wondering that no violent answers were hurled back at her, and a pause would ensue. I felt that promises would be little believed in, and, besides, I wished to feel free to do as much, and only as much, as seemed best to me; so that my plan was to trust to my deeds to speak for themselves, and inspire confidence as time went on. In such a pause, therefore, I once said to a handsome, gypsy-like Irishwoman, "How long have you lived here?" "More than four years," she replied, her voice swelling again at the remembrance of her wrongs; "and always was a good tenant, and paid my way, and never a thing done! And my grate, etc., etc., etc." "And how long have I had the houses?" "Well, I suppose since Monday week," in a gruff but somewhat mollified tone. "Very well, Mrs. L----, just think over quietly what has been done in the houses since then; and if you like to leave and think you can suit yourself better, I am glad you should make yourself comfortable. Meantime, of course, while you stay, you pay rent. I will call for it this evening if it doesn't suit you to pay now. Good morning." Almost immediately after the purchase of the houses, we had the accumulated refuse of years carted
the axle and, stamping to and fro, endeavoured to restore circulation. Two ladies, one old and one young, stepped from the interior of the coach and looked around distractedly. He went forward and asked whether he could be of any service. “Lunch?” he echoed. “Why, of course! I declare I had nearly forgotten lunch. Pray follow me. The others have preceded us, but doubtless—” “We are greatly indebted to you, sir,” declared the elder lady. “My niece is unused to any but the most delicate refinements of life, and it is on her account rather than my own that I ventured to appeal to you.” “I could wish for no greater honour,” he said, bowing, “than to render assistance to beauty.” The girl blushed, and looked very properly at the ground. “We had a most objectionable travelling companion, so different from the class my niece and myself mix with. Her grandfather, you will be interested, perhaps, to hear, was no less a person than—” “Aunt, dear?” “Yes, my love.” “Food!” In the largest room (which seemed too small for its sudden rush of custom) male passengers were feeding themselves noisily and screaming, with mouths full, to the dazed serving-maids and to the apoplectic landlady; they gave a casual glance at the two ladies and their escort, and made no effort to give space at the one table. The young man appealed; they jerked him off impatiently. One continued an anecdote after the interruption. “If there are any gentlemen present,” said the youth, in a loud voice, “will they be so good as to note that here are two ladies, desirous of obtaining some refreshment before proceeding on the journey.” There was a pause, and the sulky passenger who had travelled in the second seat looked up from his tankard, which he had nearly finished. “Did you say ‘if’?” “That was the first word of my remark, sir.” “Then here’s my answer to you!” The ladies shrieked and fainted. The youth, wiping from his face the contents of the sulky man’s tankard, demanded whether any one possessed a brace of pistols. Willing hands pressed forward, showing an eagerness to assist that had hitherto been absent. As the serving-maids brought burnt feathers to the two lady passengers, he strode out to a snow-covered field at the back, the conductor in attendance, the rest tossing coins on the way to decide who should have the honour of supporting the sulky man. The coachman, restored to cheerfulness, paced the ground with laborious exactitude. “Are you ready, gentlemen? Then at the word ‘Three.’ One, two—” * * * * * He filled in the second form, with a determination to get as far away as possible from the winter of years ago. The ruler-like pipe was again handed to him; he took this time but a single whiff, for it occurred to him that in his first experiment he had perhaps erred on the side of extravagance. There was no need to give himself a series of shocks. * * * * * The youth went down Great Portland Street in such good humour with himself that he greatly desired to confer a benefit on somebody, to assist some one less fortunate. He looked about for an old woman selling matches, or for a boy shivering in the attempt to dispose of newspapers, and unable to find either, searched for a narrow side-street, where he might hope to have better success. Here again he received a check, for Devonshire Street and Weymouth Street and New Cavendish Street had disappeared, and in their place he found one broad, straight thoroughfare; he made inquiries and found it was called J & C. This he did not mind, and, indeed, it seemed an excellent arrangement when, anticipating that the next street would be J & D, he found this to be the case. But he still wanted to play the part of Lord Bountiful, and to satisfy his appetite for benevolence, and it pained him—although on broad grounds this should have furnished gratification—that up to the present he had discovered none who varied in apparent prosperity; not a high-level by any means, but, so far as he could perceive, an unmistakable level. Little variation existed in costume. “I hope you will excuse me—” he began. “What’s that?” “You must pardon me, please, for speaking, but—” “Whom do you want?” “I can scarcely give the name, but if you will permit me to explain, I think I could make it clear to you, sir.” “Don’t chatter,” interrupted the man curtly. “And don’t call me sir. You’re as good as I am.” “I don’t know,” retorted the youth, with spirit, “why you should think it necessary to mention the fact!” “Because you had apparently forgotten it.” “Don’t go for a moment. I only wish to ask one question. Where are the poor?” “Spell it!” The young man complied; the other shook his head. They took to the edge of the broad pavement; the centre appeared to be rigidly reserved for those who were youthful and walked with a certain briskness, whilst either side was used by elderly folk, and by those whose movements were deliberate. The young man gave further details. “I see what you mean now,” said the other. “There was a story about a man like yourself in one of the journals the other day. He, too, had been away in a distant colony for his health.” “One of the humorous journals?” “All of our journals are humorous. Any paragraph or column in which a pleasing strain of the ludicrous does not appear is blacked out by the censor. It isn’t always very clever, but it has to be as clever as can be reasonably expected for thirty-two and six a week.” “One pound twelve and sixpence?” “The rate fixed by the central governing body,” said the other. “Every man on leaving school receives a wage of thirty-two and six a week, and in this way all the old class distinctions have vanished, the yawning spaces between the clever and the foolish, the industrious and the indolent have been bridged. The sum was fixed—this may interest you—because it was found that a narrow majority existed of those earning less than that amount, and the injustice of the change was therefore lessened.” “Not sure that I quite follow you,” he said politely, “but it’s exceedingly good of you to take so much trouble. I’m not delaying you from your work?” “So long as I do thirty hours a week, it doesn’t matter when I do them.” “An ideal existence!” “Exactly!” cried the man, with triumph. “That’s what we have been aiming at! Just what we have achieved. Nothing short of perfection is good enough for us. If there’s any sensible criticism you can pass upon our present conditions, we shall be ready to consider it.” “That reminds me!” he exclaimed. “I miss the poor, especially at this time of the year, when I feel generous. But of course it’s all to the good to have altered that. Only where are the children? I should like to see some children.” “You’ll have to manage without them, unless you can get a special permit from the Minister of Education in Whitehall. In the old days parents were, I believe, allowed to bring up children in almost any manner they thought fit, and some of the results were exceedingly unsatisfactory. Let me see!” He considered for a few moments, detaining the other with one hand; his brow wrinkled with the effort of thought. “Pinner!” he exclaimed; “I rather think Pinner is the nearest. You’ll find about five thousand youngsters in the Infant Barracks there.” “I can do with less,” he remarked. “What I want is about three or four, nephews and nieces if possible; just enough to play at charades, and musical chairs, and games of some one going out of the room—” The other smiled pityingly. “Going out of the room whilst the rest think of a man alive, and then the person who has been outside comes in and puts questions, and gradually guesses who it is. Surely they still play at it.” “My dear sir, under the old scheme, a child wasted valuable years. Now we arrange that not a single opportunity shall be missed. Go to any of the barracks and you will find that every child, providing it has begun to speak, can give quite a pretty little lecture on, say, milk, with all the latest scientific facts relating to the subject. Each youngster is made to realise the value of moments. ‘Time is Flying’ are the words that form the only decoration on the walls of the dormitories.” “I have it!” he cried. Folk going by stopped and raised eyebrows at this outbreak of irritation; a small crowd gathered. “Now I see why you make your journals amusing. You learn nearly everything in your early days, but you omit to learn how to laugh. When you are grown up, you have to adopt the most determined means in order to—” He went on with excitement as he addressed the increasing circle around him. The frowns and the murmurs did not prevent him from speaking his mind, and he commenced to whirl his arms. “I tell you what it is. I came here expecting to find happiness. The present didn’t suit me and I thought I’d try the past and the future. I declare you’re worse than anything.” The crowd closed in. The man to whom he had been speaking tugged at his sleeve; he gave a sharp jerk and disengaged himself. “And the conceit of you is the most unsatisfactory feature of the whole situation. What have you to be proud about? Here you are in the New Year, and not one of you is showing any special signs of amiability towards his fellow-man; you can’t look back to a cosy family gathering; you have bought no presents, and you have received none. If you knew how much you had lost, you would never rest until you had— But I suppose you are too sensible. Ah, you don’t like to be accused of that!” They took him at a run through the straight street that in his time had been curved and called Regent, crying as they went, “To the fountain, to the fountain!” Almost dazed by the swiftness, and nearly choked by the grip at the back of his collar, he nevertheless recognised that their intentions were not friendly, and he endeavoured to struggle and make escape. He heard the sound of ice being smashed. “Now then, boys. Altogether!” A dozen pair of hands competed for the honour of ducking him; they seized his wrists, elbows, head, ankles. * * * * * “Can’t read this,” said the voice. “You’ve written it so badly.” “Not my best penmanship,” he admitted tremblingly. “What it’s intended for is—” He wrote it afresh. “If I’m’ giving too much trouble, you can tear it up and let me go. I can easily find what I want, once I’m outside. How’s the time going?” * * * * * The smallest boy, overcoated and muffled to the eyes, had been dispatched to meet visitors at the station, and a good deal of anxiety existed in the household when one of his sisters mentioned a grisly fear that he would talk too much on the way, betraying facts which should be hidden and guarded as secrets. His mother declared Franky had too much common sense to make a blunder of the kind, and, giving a final look-round in the dining-room, expressed a hope that there would be room for everybody. She had no doubts concerning food supplies, and, indeed, any one who peeped into the kitchen, and saw the two noble birds there, would have been reassured on this point; the cold pies formed an excellent reserve in case the birds should be reduced, by the invaders, to ruins. The young man, looking on, without being seen, noticed the eldest girl (whom he loved) standing perilously on a high chair to give a touch with duster to a frame, and nearly screamed an urgent appeal for care; it was a relief to see her step down to the safety of the carpet. He was wondering whether he would come into the pleasant household, and found some encouragement in the circumstance that she took a particular interest in her reflection in the mirror; left alone for a moment, she selected his card from the rest which crowded the mantelpiece and kissed it. She also peeped behind the screen, and counted the crackers there; when her mother called, requesting to be done up at the back, she went immediately. A dear girl; he could scarce remember why or how he had found an excuse for quarrelling. Voices of youngsters outside the front door, and the small brother rattling at the letter-box in his impatience. One of the two maids, answering, found herself as nearly as possible bowled over in the narrow hall, saving herself by clutching at a peg of the hat-stand and allowing the inrush to sweep by and through to the drawing-room. All the children loaded with parcels, which they dropped on the way, and all shouting: “Many happy returns, many happy returns!” and demanding the immediate production of an aunt, and several cousins, paying no regard whatever to the reminders from elders that they had formally promised to behave like little ladies and gentlemen. The hostess came down in a stately way, pretending to be unaware of the fact that she was wearing a new dress. The visitors had experienced some amazing adventures on the journey, and they told them in chorus, with many interruptions, given in solo form and made up of urgent amendments concerning unimportant details. Such funny people they had met in the train, to be sure; somehow at this time of the year one always encountered the most extraordinary folk. And just as they started, who should come rushing along the platform, just too late to catch the train, but Mr.— “Oh, here you are!” turning to the eldest girl, who had entered the room, to be instantly surrounded and tugged in every direction by the youngsters. “We were just telling your mother that your friend— Oh, look at her blushing!” “We’ll put dinner back twenty minutes,” said the mother, interposing on her daughter’s behalf. “That will give him time if he catches the next.” “Perhaps he never meant to come by that train,” said Uncle Henry. “Very likely he’s gone off somewhere else. One can never depend on these bachelors.” “Tease away,” said the girl courageously. “To tell you the truth, I rather like it.” “In that case,” remarked the uncle, “I decline to proceed. If I can’t give annoyance, I shall simply shut up. Supposing I have a kiss instead.” Tragic moments for the children who were being released from the control of neck-wraps and safety-pins and rubber shoes, for, apart from the tantalising scent of cooking, they had to endure the trial of saying nothing about the parcels brought. They clustered around the eldest girl, knowing this to be the surest quarter for entertainment, and she would have found a dozen arms few enough for the embraces they required; some of their questions she answered as though her mind were absent, and she glanced now and again, when everybody was talking, at the clock on the mantelpiece. A sharp knock at the front door made smiles come again to her features; the mother gave a warning word to the kitchen and met the young man in the hall, where the boys were helping him in the task of disengaging himself from his overcoat by pulling at it in all directions. He could not express his regrets at the missing of the train, but every one knew what motor-omnibuses were, and as he shook hands formally with the eldest girl (who appeared rather surprised, remarking to him, “Oh, is that you?”) an aunt began a moving anecdote concerning one of these conveyances which she had boarded on a recent afternoon opposite St. Martin’s Church. She asked the conductor as distinctly as she could speak whether it went to the Adelaide, and she felt certain that he replied, “Yes, lady,” but, happening to glance out later, found herself whirling along Marylebone Road, whereupon she, with great presence of mind, took her umbrella, prodded the conductor in the small of his back— “If you please, ’m, dinner is served!” There were chairs at the long table that had the shy appearance of having been borrowed from the bedroom, but only one of the children made a remark concerning this, and she found herself told that another word from her would result in a lonely return to home forthwith. They all declared they had plenty of room, and Uncle Henry accepted with modesty a position near to the birds with the comment that he could always manage to eat a couple; perhaps the others would not mind looking on whilst he enjoyed the pleasures of the table; the children, now accustomed to Uncle Henry’s humour, declined to be appalled by this threat, and, indeed, challenged him, offering the prize of one penny if he should consume the contents of the dishes, bones and all. They stopped their ears whilst he sharpened the big knife, and when he said, “Now, has any one got any preference?” the grown-ups gave a fine lesson in behaviour by declaring that they would be content with whatever portions were sent down to them. The maid, waiting at table, exhibited evidence of mental aberration over the task of handing plates in the right order of precedence, but wireless telegraphy from her mistress, and from the eldest daughter, gave instructions and averted disaster. “Do look after yourself, Uncle Henry!” Uncle Henry asserted that, but for this reminder, he would have neglected to fill his own plate, and one of the children, unable to reconcile the extreme selfishness hinted at in an earlier stage with the astonishing effacement now proclaimed, stared at him open-mouthed. The same child later on, after expressing loudly his determination not to be frightened when the plum-pudding—over a month old and the last of its race—was brought, surrounded by a purple blaze, found performance a harder task than that of hypothetical daring, and, burying his little head in the lap of the eldest daughter, gave way to tears, declining to resume the appearance of serenity until the flames had been blown out; he regained complete self-possession on finding in the portion served out to him a bright silver sixpence, and announced his intention of purchasing with that sum Drury Lane Theatre, together with the pantomime for the current year. The elder children listened with tolerance and gave a nod to the grown-ups, showing that they knew the sum would be altogether insufficient. “Well,” said Uncle Henry, after he had resolutely turned his head away from the offer of a second meringue, “if I never have a worse dinner, I shan’t complain.” “Beautifully cooked,” agreed the young man. “Credit to whom credit is due,” asserted the hostess generously. “If Mary there hadn’t superintended—” “Mother, dear!” protested the eldest girl. Great jokes in trying to induce the ladies to smoke, but the men were left alone together with the eldest son of the family, who had not yet taken to cigarettes and was strongly recommended by the others never to begin. The eldest son found his views on tobacco, on the work of borough councils, on parliamentary procedure, and other topics, listened to with great deference by the young man visitor, who declared there was a great deal in the opinions held by the son of the family with which he felt able to agree. Nevertheless, it was he who first suggested that they should rejoin the company of the ladies. He came out wonderfully so soon as games were started, but it appeared he could do little without the assistance of the eldest daughter. Together, they gave an exhibition of thought-reading, and, after whispered consultation, he, being out of the room whilst the children selected four figures, came in when called, and standing at the doorway whilst she appealed for order, gave the exact figures. Even Uncle Henry had to admit himself flabbergasted. “Do tell us how it’s done?” “Please!” “Don’t believe you know yourselves!” They declared it a secret which could not be lightly shared, but in giving way to the general appeal, explained that if the first figure was (say) one, then she had used a sentence beginning with the first letter of the alphabet, such as: “All quiet, please!” If the next was two, she said: “Be quiet, please!” If the next was three: “Can’t you be quiet!” And so on. Parcels came in now and strings were cut, and presents given to the owner of the day. She thanked him very prettily for the brooch and pinned it at once near to her neck; he followed her out of the room to help in carrying the brown paper and to tell her that, when his birthday came, she could reciprocate by offering him the precious gift of herself. The quarrel had been all his fault. He was bending down to touch her lips when— * * * * * “No, thank you,” he said, tearing up the fourth slip. “The present time is good enough for me. Is this the way out?” “Interesting to observe,” remarked the voice, as the curtain went back and showed the exit, “that our clients, however dissatisfied they may be in entering, are always perfectly content when they depart!” IV—COUNTRY CONFEDERATES “LET me get this yer all down on paper,” said George Hunt, searching his pockets. “I find if I trust to my memory everything goes clean out of my ’ead. Been like that since I was a boy.” The man from London with the empty kit bag remarked that George was scarcely an octogenarian. “I believe in eating roast meat if I can get it,” admitted the lad. “Never been what you London people call a crank. Spite of which, somehow or other, I don’t seem to make what you may call progress, and that’s the truth, Mr. Polsworthy.” “How do you know that is my name?” “I don’t,” he admitted. “All I know is that that’s the name you’ve give up at the ‘Unicorn’ where you be staying. Here’s something I can write on. ‘Advice to Intending Emigrants.’ I’ve got no special use for that. Now then, sir, let’s have it all over again.” “I want you,” said the London man, drawing him away to a sheeted truck, and speaking with great distinctness, “to take a message for me up to the Vicarage.” “Here’s a question I’ve very often considered to myself,” said George, stopping with the paper flat against the truck. “Is there a ‘k’ in it, or isn’t there a ‘k’ in it, or doesn’t it matter whether you put one or not?” “And see Miss Thirkell, and tell her—” “She’s the one with the reddish hair, isn’t she?” “She’s the one with black hair.” “Not fur out,” remarked George, complacently. “Go on, sir.” He continued to write laboriously. “Tell her that some one from town wishes to see her on important business, and will she be at the station here at half-past eight this evening.” “But they’ve got their party on. ’Sides which—” “Nothing could be better.” “’Sides which there’s no train about that time.” “I don’t want her to go by train,” shouted the other in an irritable way. “I only want to have a talk.” “Excuse me asking, sir, but is it love?” “You’ve guessed it!” “A wonderful thing, once it catches you. I never been mixed up in it to any considerable extent, but I keep my eyes open, and I noticed that once parties get affected by it, why there’s no telling.” “That,” said the other, “is the case with me. It’s all on her account that I have come down here for a week, and I find it impossible for me to go back until I have seen her. Just a few whispered words of affection with her and October to me will seem like June.” “Can’t promise to repeat all you say word for word,” mentioned George, “but I’ll give her the general bearing of your remarks. I shall say that you’re over head and ears.” “I believe,” said Mr. Polsworthy, with something like enthusiasm, “I shall have to give you a present. You’re an honest, worthy fellow, and the most intelligent young man in the whole village.” “I’ve said that to myself,” declared George, “frequent.” He folded the document. “About what time, sir, did you think of getting me to do this little job for you?” When the Londoner had finished an address on the slothfulness of country life, he permitted himself to announce, more calmly, that he expected it to be performed now and at once. The young railway porter went across the station-yard, spoke a word to the signalman on duty, and started off up the hill at a pace that seemed too good to last. He did, indeed, return to say that if later Mr. Polsworthy observed he was wearing a white flower in his jacket, this might be taken as a hint that Miss Thirkell was willing to keep the appointment; if the flower was red, it would indicate she was unable to come. Mr. Polsworthy went to his hotel, where, with the aid of scented soap, he put good sharp points to his moustache, and ordered, seemingly to give opportunity for range and ability in criticism, certain refreshment; the landlady said that his complaint was the first she had received since the year ’92, and strongly recommended him to take his bag to the “King’s Head,” which possessed but a limited licence. Mr. Polsworthy, in apologising, remarked that he was one accustomed to the very best of everything, and the lady expressed an opinion that his looks and general appearance failed to bear out this assertion. George Hunt, sweeping the platform, was wearing a red flower, and Mr. Polsworthy turned away regretfully, to consider some new mode of approaching the vicarage lady. A whistle recalled him, and George managed to make it clear that everything was right; he had placed the wrong flower in his jacket—a mistake, he said, that might have happened to anybody. George seemed highly interested now in the scheme, and produced a beard with wires to go over each ear; challenged, he confessed that he was not prepared to say to what use it should be put, or to declare that it was of any use, but it had been in his possession for some time, and he felt that either he or Mr. Polsworthy ought to wear it. “By that means,” he urged, “recognition, if you understand what I mean, will be avoided.” “But who is there to recognise us, and what does it matter if we are recognised?” “There is that,” conceded George. “You’re a fool,” declared Mr. Polsworthy. “Not the first to pass that remark to me, not by a long chalk, you ain’t. Mother says it ’bout once a day.” Miss Thirkell came up the slope of the platform, and George went back discreetly to his work with the broom, touching his cap to the young woman as she went by. She acknowledged the salutation distantly, saying, “Good evening, my man!” and gave a start of amazement on Mr. Polsworthy lifting his hat and throwing away his cigar. She said that he had the advantage over her and he expressed regret that her memory should constitute the one defect in an otherwise perfect and beautiful nature. Was it, asked Miss Thirkell, was it in Dover Street, the tenth of July of the current year, on the occasion of coming out of a dressmaker’s with her mistress? That, answered Mr. Polsworthy, was the very moment, and the precise occasion. Miss Thirkell considered this curious and interesting, since she was not in town on the date mentioned, and had never been in Dover Street. Mr. Polsworthy, slightly taken aback, begged of her to refresh a brain that could never be relied upon implicitly; she admitted that they had met once. Miss Thirkell remembered the day well, because her master took the opportunity to make some extensive purchases at a sale in King Street, St. James’s, and the articles had crowded the compartment on the way down. “A race special came in,” said Mr. Polsworthy, corroborating, “just before your train went out from Victoria, and whilst your people were having a few words with the guard I strolled across to see what was the matter.” “Now,” cried Miss Thirkell, delightedly, “now I know you’re telling the truth!” Her mistress, it appeared, was one who did not mind the expenditure of money in useful things, such as dress and hats, but entertained a strong objection to lumbering the house with a lot of old silver and other articles, neither, in her opinion, useful or decorative. Mr. Polsworthy expressed the view that in married life certain concessions had to be made; he had not hitherto considered the possibility of entering the state, but he was prepared to be generous in the direction referred to. George Hunt, each time they went by, looked up and nodded and made some reference to the weather; there was more rain about, in his opinion; what we wanted was sunshine, so that cricket bats might be once more used. The two, interested in their own conversation, scarcely gave notice to his meteorological comments. “When can I come up and see you?” asked Mr. Polsworthy. “I’m only down here for a little while.” “What seems so wonderful,” sighed Miss Thirkell, dreamily, “is that you should have come specially to meet me.” “To do that I would travel to the furthermost ends of the earth.” He took her hand. “Axcuse me interrupting,” said George, suddenly, “but in which direction do you reckon Canada is? You’re better acquainted with geography than what I am. S’posin’ now, you was going to walk there; which turning would you take?” Miss Thirkell cried alarmingly that she had to be getting home; she had no idea the hour was so late. On Mr. Polsworthy offering to accompany her, she gave a short sharp scream and declared this impossible; he, a Londoner, little knew the appetite for scandal that existed in country villages. George, corroborating, said that if, for instance, he himself were observed escorting Miss Thirkell across the line, there were busybodies about who would assert they were as good as engaged. The visitor seemed inclined to snap fingers at public opinion, and dare it to do its worst; the young woman said this was all very well for him, but not nearly good enough for her; she had no wish to lose an excellent situation. “Character’s everything in these parts,” confirmed George. “Up in London it probably don’t matter, but here it’s important. When I leave the line—” “Will to-night at ten be a suitable time for me to call at the house to see you?” “My dear, good man,” cried Miss Thirkell, “you must be off your head to think of carrying on like that! Why, the dog would make short work of any one who wasn’t in uniform. Besides, the butler has to go down to the gate and let in everybody that comes to the party. Now I must run. You send a message through George Hunt. He’s reliable. We were boy and girl together.” With a wave of the hand she went. Mr. Polsworthy looked steadily at George for some moments. “You’re a dull dog,” he said, slowly, “and that’s the only thing which makes me inclined to trust you. If you were a sharp lad, the idea would never come into my head.” “I’m all for straightforwardness myself.” “There is no use,” said the other, with a burst of recklessness, “no sense whatever in disguising the fact that I’m madly in love with that girl. And when a man’s in love, there’s nothing he’s not prepared to do. In some way I must manage to gain admission to that house this evening.” “And in some way, you’ll have to manage to get out of it.” “An easy matter.” George looked in at the booking-hall to make sure that no passengers were about. “You’re not the first, mister, that’s tried it on,” he remarked in an undertone. “What’s that? I’m the last man in the world to do anything dishonest!” “If you are,” said George, evenly, “that means Wormwood Scrubs will have to be took over by the White City. In any case, your best plan is to treat me fairly, and treat me generously, and I’ll do what I can, so long as my name’s not brought into it. My name must be kept out, on account of mother.” Mr. Polsworthy declared his satisfaction, and hinted at surprise, on finding that George possessed so much acuteness. He did, in a general way, prefer to work alone, but sometimes cases were encountered—here was one—where assistance was indispensable. The great thing was to have a quiet half-hour inside the vicarage, and to catch the 10.23 p.m. for town. George nodded, and made one or two suggestions. Recommended a sailor’s bag; there were two in the cloakroom at the present time left by men home on furlough; one could be emptied. Mr. Polsworthy, having inspected these, made his selection and, arranging concerning the loan of an old uniform, shook hands. The kit-bag was presented to George, who said he might be able to make use of it. “All I can say is,” remarked the man from London, “that I’m very much obliged to you. You shan’t be the loser.” “Question is,” said George, “how much be I going to gain? I ain’t what you’d call mercenary, but I like to make a bit of money as well as anybody.” Mr. Polsworthy seemed hurt by this view of the matter, and taking half a sovereign from his pocket, placed it in the other’s hand; George said he could go on. Polsworthy went on to the extent of four pounds and then stopped, declaring irascibly that rather than go beyond this amount he would take the entire sum back; George pointed out difficulties, one of which included a reference to Police-Constable Saxby. The amount reached five pounds, and the two again shook hands; the heartiness was this time on the side of George. “If you have a chance of seeing her,” said Polsworthy, “keep up the idea that it’s simply and solely a love affair. It’ll make a good excuse in case I happen to be interrupted at my work. Mention that I seem to be able to talk of nothing else but her!” “And that you worship the very ground she walks on.” “Don’t overdo it. You can say it’s all because of love that I’m going to dress up and come and see her. Say that from what you know of me I’m as true as gold.” “As true as five pound.” “For Heaven’s sake,” urged Polsworthy, with some temper, “do try to avoid making a muddle. If the business goes wrong, I’ll dog your footsteps to the very last day of your life. If I get into trouble I shan’t be alone. Make no mistake about that. Where’s that
lonely pine-cliffed lakes and far-reaching island-studded bays, that its bed is cumbered with immense wave-polished rocks, that its vast solitudes are silent and its cascades ceaselessly active,--to say all this is but to tell in bare items of fact the narrative of its beauty. For the Winnipeg, by the multiplicity of its perils and the ever-changing beauty of its character, defies the description of civilized men as it defies the puny efforts of civilized travel. It seems part of the savage,--fitted alone for him and for his ways, useless to carry the burdens of man's labor, but useful to shelter the wild things of wood and water which dwell in its waves and along its shores. And the red man who steers his little birch-bark canoe through the foaming rapids of the Winnipeg, how well he knows its various ways! To him it seems to possess life and instinct, he speaks of it as one would of a high-mettled charger which will do anything if he be rightly handled. It gives him his test of superiority, his proof of courage. To shoot the Otter Falls or the Rapids of Barrière, to carry his canoe down the whirling of Portage-de-l'Isle, to lift her from the rush of water at the Seven Portages, or launch her by the edge of the whirlpool below the Chute-à-Jocko, all this is to be a brave and a skilful Indian, for the man who can do all this must possess a power in the sweep of his paddle, a quickness of glance, and a quiet consciousness of skill, not to be found except after generations of practice. For hundreds of years the Indian has lived amidst these rapids, they have been the playthings of his boyhood, the realities of his life, the instinctive habit of his old age. What the horse is to the Arab, what the dog is to the Esquimaux, what the camel is to those who journey across Arabian deserts, so is the canoe to the Ojibbeway. Yonder wooded shore yields him from first to last the materials he requires for its construction: cedar for the slender ribs, birch bark to cover them, juniper to stitch together the separate pieces, red pine to give resin for the seams and crevices. By the lake or river shore, close to his wigwam, the boat is built; "And the forest life is in it,-- All its mystery and its magic, All the tightness of the birch-tree, All the toughness of the cedar, All the larch's supple sinews. And it floated on the river Like a yellow leaf in autumn, Like a yellow water-lily." It is not a boat, it is a house; it can be carried long distances overland from lake to lake. It is frail beyond words, yet you can load it down to the water's edge; it carries the Indian by day, it shelters him by night; in it he will steer boldly out into a vast lake where land is unseen, or paddle through mud and swamp or reedy shallows; sitting in it, he gathers his harvest of wild rice, or catches his fish or shoots his game; it will dash down a foaming rapid, brave a fiercely running torrent, or lie like a sea bird on the placid water. For six months the canoe is the home of the Ojibbeway. While the trees are green, while the waters dance and sparkle, while the wild rice bends its graceful head in the lake, and the wild duck dwells amidst the rush-covered mere, the Ojibbeway's home is the birch-bark canoe. When the winter comes and the lake and rivers harden beneath the icy breath of the north wind, the canoe is put carefully away; covered with branches and with snow, it lies through the long dreary winter until the wild swan and the wavey, passing northward to the polar seas, call it again from its long icy sleep. Such is the life of the canoe, and such the river along which it rushes like an arrow. The days that now commenced to pass were filled from dawn to dark with moments of keenest enjoyment, everything was new and strange, and each hour brought with it some fresh surprise of Indian skill or Indian scenery. The sun would be just tipping the western shores with his first rays when the canoe would be lifted from its ledge of rock and laid gently on the water; then the blankets and kettles, the provisions and the guns, would be placed in it, and four Indians would take their seats, while one remained on the shore to steady the bark upon the water and keep its sides from contact with the rock; then when I had taken my place in the centre, the outside man would spring gently in, and we would glide away from the rocky resting-place. To tell the mere work of each day is no difficult matter: start at five o'clock A.M., halt for breakfast at seven o'clock, off again at eight, halt at one o'clock for dinner, away at two o'clock, paddle until sunset at seven-thirty; that was the work of each day. But how shall I attempt to fill in the details of scene and circumstance between these rough outlines of time and toil, for almost every hour of the long summer day the great Winnipeg revealed some new phase of beauty and of peril, some changing scene of lonely grandeur? I have already stated that the river in its course from the Lake of the Woods to Lake Winnipeg, one hundred and sixty miles, makes a descent of three hundred and sixty feet. This descent is effected not by a continuous decline, but by a series of terraces at various distances from each other; in other words, the river forms innumerable lakes and wide expanding reaches bound together by rapids and perpendicular falls of varying altitude; thus when the _voyageur_ has lifted his canoe from the foot of the Silver Falls and launched it again above the head of that rapid, he will have surmounted two-and-twenty feet of the ascent; again, the dreaded Seven Portages will give him a total rise of sixty feet in a distance of three miles. (How cold does the bare narration of these facts appear beside their actual realization in a small canoe manned by Indians!) Let us see if we can picture one of these many scenes. There sounds ahead a roar of falling water, and we see, upon rounding some pine-clad island or ledge of rock, a tumbling mass of foam and spray studded with projecting rocks and flanked by dark wooded shores; above we can see nothing, but below, the waters, maddened by their wild rush amidst the rocks, surge and leap in angry whirlpools. It is as wild a scene of crag and wood and water as the eye can gaze upon, but we look upon it not for its beauty, because there is no time for that, but because it is an enemy that must be conquered. Now mark how these Indians steal upon this enemy before he is aware of it. The immense volume of water, escaping from the eddies and whirlpools at the foot of the fall, rushes on in a majestic sweep into calmer water; this rush produces along the shores of the river a counter- or back-current which flows up sometimes close to the foot of the fall; along this back-water the canoe is carefully steered, being often not six feet from the opposing rush in the central river; but the back-current in turn ends in a whirlpool, and the canoe, if it followed this back-current, would inevitably end in the same place. For a minute there is no paddling, the bow-paddle and the steersman alone keeping the boat in her proper direction as she drifts rapidly up the current. Among the crew not a word is spoken, but every man knows what he has to do, and will be ready when the moment comes; and now the moment has come, for on one side there foams along a mad surge of water, and on the other the angry whirlpool twists and turns in smooth hollowing curves round an axis of air, whirling round it with a strength that would snap our birch bark into fragments, and suck us down into the great depths below. All that can be gained by the back-current has been gained, and now it is time to quit it; but where? for there is often only the choice of the whirlpool or the central river. Just on the very edge of the eddy there is one loud shout given by the bow-paddle, and the canoe shoots full into the centre of the boiling flood, driven by the united strength of the entire crew; the men work for their very lives, and the boat breasts across the river, with her head turned full towards the falls; the waters foam and dash about her, the waves leap high over the gunwale, the Indians shout as they dip their paddles like lightning into the foam, and the stranger to such a scene holds his breath amidst this war of man against nature. Ha! the struggle is useless; they cannot force her against such a torrent; we are close to the rocks and foam; but see, she is driven down by the current, in spite of those wild fast strokes. The dead strength of such a rushing flood must prevail. Yes, it is true, the canoe has been driven back; but behold, almost in a second the whole thing is done,--we float suddenly beneath a little rocky isle on the foot of the cataract. We have crossed the river in the face of the fall, and the portage landing is over this rock, while three yards out on either side the torrent foams its headlong course. Of the skill necessary to perform such things it is useless to speak. A single false stroke and the whole thing would have failed; driven headlong down the torrent, another attempt would have to be made to gain this rock-protected spot, but now we lie secure here; spray all around us, for the rush of the river is on either side, and you can touch it with an outstretched paddle. The Indians rest on their paddles and laugh; their long hair has escaped from its fastening through their exertion, and they retie it while they rest. One is already standing upon the wet, slippery rock, holding the canoe in its place; then the others get out. The freight is carried up, piece by piece, and deposited on the flat surface some ten feet above; that done, the canoe is lifted out very gently, for a single blow against this hard granite boulder would shiver and splinter the frail birch-bark covering; they raise her very carefully up the steep face of the cliff and rest again on the top. What a view there is from coigne of vantage! We are on the lip of the fall; on each side it makes its plunge, and below we mark at leisure the torrent we have just braved; above, it is smooth water, and away ahead we see the foam of another rapid. The rock on which we stand has been worn smooth by the washing of the water during countless ages, and from a cleft or fissure there springs a pine-tree or a rustling aspen. We have crossed the Petit Roches, and our course is onward still. Through many scenes like this we held our way during the last days of July. The weather was beautiful; now and then a thunder-storm would roll along during the night, but the morning sun, rising clear and bright, would almost tempt one to believe that it had been a dream, if the pools of water in the hollows of the rocks and the dampness of blanket or oil-cloth had not proved the sun a humbug. Our general distance each day would be about thirty-two miles, with an average of six portages. At sunset we made our camp on some rocky isle or shelving shore: one or two cut wood, another got the cooking things ready, a fourth gummed the seams of the canoe, a fifth cut shavings from a dry stick for the fire; for myself, I generally took a plunge in the cool, delicious water; and soon the supper hissed in the pans, the kettle steamed from its suspending stick, and the evening meal was eaten with appetites such as only the _voyageur_ can understand. Then when the shadows of the night had fallen around and all was silent, save the river's tide against the rocks, we would stretch our blankets on the springy moss of the crag, and lie down to sleep with only the stars for a roof. Happy, happy days were these,--days the memory of which goes very far into the future, growing brighter as we journey farther away from them; for the scenes through which our course was laid were such as speak in whispers, only when we have left them,--the whispers of the pine-tree, the music of running water, the stillness of great lonely lakes. A FINE SCENIC ROUTE. HENRY T. FINCK. [From Henry T. Finck's "The Pacific Coast Scenic Tour" we select the following description of the Canadian Pacific Railway route, which is acknowledged to possess a long succession of grand and beautiful scenery, unequalled by any other railroad route in America. The description is too long a one to be given in full, and for further acquaintance with it the reader must be referred to the book itself.] After leaving Vancouver, and before reaching Westminster, the train for some time runs along Burrard Inlet, on which is situated Fort Moody, another town which had hoped to be chosen as terminus, and actually did enjoy that privilege for a short time. The shores of the inlet are beautifully wooded, and some of the trees are of enormous size. At the crossing of Stave River a fine view is obtained of Mount Baker, looking forward to the right; and the bridge over the Harrison River, where it meets the Frazer, also affords a picturesque view. For the next fifteen or sixteen hours the train follows the banks of the Frazer River and its tributaries, and this is one of the grandest sections of the route. At the first the Frazer is a muddy, yellow river, about the size of the Willamette above Oregon City, but more rapid and winding, and an occasional steamer may be seen floating along with the current, or slowly making headway against it. In some places the railway runs so close to the precipitous bank of the river that a handkerchief might be dropped from a car window into the swirling eddies, fifty feet below. At other places it leaves room--and just room enough--for the old wagon-road between the track and the river; but it would take a cool driver, with much confidence in his horses, to remain on his wagon here when a train passes. At last the road itself becomes frightened and crosses the river on a bridge, whereupon it winds along the hill-side above the opposite bank, at a safe distance. This road was made during the Frazer River gold excitement in 1858, when twenty-five thousand miners flocked into this region, and wages for any kind of work were ten to eighteen dollars a day. To-day the metal no longer exists in what white men consider paying quantity; but Chinamen may still be seen along the river, washing for remnants, their earnings being about fifty cents a day. There is also a "Ruby Creek" in this neighborhood, and some Indian habitations and salmon-fishing places. Shortly before reaching Yale, which for a long time was the western end of the road, there is a slight intermission in the scenic drama, represented by some rich, level, agricultural lands, as if to give the passengers a moment's rest before the wonders of the Frazer Cañon begin to monopolize their bewildered attention, till darkness sets in and drops the curtain on the superb panorama. Yale, which is so completely shut in by high, frowning mountain walls on every side that the sun touches the village only during part of the day, has lost its importance since it ceased to be a terminus, and seems at present to be inhabited chiefly by Indians and half-breeds. The train is invaded by a bevy of half-breed girls with baskets of splendid apples and pears, which could not be beaten for size and flavor in any of our States, and indicate a possible use for these mountain regions in the future. And now the train plunges into the midst of the series of terrific gorges which constitute the Frazer Cañon, and which make this railway literally the most gorge-ous in the world. Here were appalling engineering difficulties to overcome, which no private corporation without the most liberal government support could have undertaken. Yet the builders had to be thankful even for this wild and rugged cañon dug out by the Frazer River, without which the Cascade range would have been impassable. The palace cars of the Canadian Pacific, which contain all the best features of the Pullman cars, with home improvements, have a special observatory, with large windows, at the end of the train, whence the cañon should be viewed; but to see it at its best one must sit on the rear platform, so as to see at the same time both of the wild and precipitous cañon walls, between which the river rushes along as if pursued by demons. At every curve you think the gorge must come to an end, but it only grows more stupendous, and the river, lashed into foam and fury, dashes blindly against the rocks which try to arrest its course. These rocks, ten to thirty feet wide and sometimes twice as long, form many pretty little stone islands in the middle of the torrent, and are a characteristic feature of the cañon scenery. Numerous tunnels, resembling those on the Columbia River, are built through arches seemingly projecting over the river. The train plunges into them recklessly, but always comes out fresh and smiling on the other side, although it seems that if the bottom of the tunnel should by any chance drop out, the train would be precipitated into the river below. Once in a while the river takes a short rest, and in these comparatively calm stretches hundreds of beautiful large red fish can be seen from the train, in the clear water, struggling up-stream. With their dark backs and bright red sides they form a sight which is none the less interesting when you are told that they are "only dog salmon," which are not relished by whites, though the Indians eat them. [A night now passes, during which much fine scenery is missed. But the best is reserved for the next day.] Scenic wonders now succeed one another with bewildering rapidity throughout the day. This second day, in fact, represents the climax of the trip, and the attention is not allowed to flag for a second. However much such a confession may go against the grain of patriotism, every candid traveller must admit that there is nothing in the United States in the way of massive mountain scenery (except, perhaps, in Alaska) to compare with the glorious panorama which is unfolded on this route. Within thirty-six hours after leaving Vancouver we traverse three of the grandest mountain ranges in America,--the Cascades, Selkirks, and Rockies,--all of them the abode of eternal snow and glaciers, and all of them traversed through by cañons which vie with each other in terrific grandeur. [Illustration: MEMORIAL MONUMENT TO SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN, FOUNDER OF QUEBEC] Before the Selkirks are reached the train passes the Columbia or Gold range, through the Eagle Pass, so called because it was discovered by watching an eagle's flight. Eagle's Pass is a poetic and appropriate name, and yet I think it would be well to re-name this mountain pass and call it Mirror Lake Cañon, because that would call the attention of tourists to what is its most characteristic feature, which may otherwise be overlooked. There are four lakes and many smaller bodies of water in this valley, in whose placid surface the finely-sloped mountain ridges and summits of the pass are reflected with marvellous distinctness, so that here, as in the Yosemite Mirror Lake, the copy is more lovely than the original. Some of the mountain-sides reflected in these mirrors are naked rocks, others are covered with living evergreen trees, and others still with dead trees. In the mirror these dead forests look hardly less beautiful than the living ones; but in the original the eye dwells with more pleasure on the green forests which here, and almost everywhere in British Columbia, grow with the rank luxuriance of a Ceylon jungle. The soil under these dense tree-masses, consisting of decayed pine- and fir-needles, a foot deep, and always moist, makes a paradise for lovely mosses and ferns. Here, also, is the home of the bear, and one would not have to walk far in this thicket to encounter a grizzly, black, or cinnamon bruin. On emerging from the Mirror Lake Cañon, a great surprise awaits the passengers. The Columbia River--to which they had fancied they had said a final farewell when they were ferried across it on the way from Portland to Tacoma--suddenly comes upon the scene again, as clear and as picturesque as ever; and even at this immense distance from its mouth still large enough to require a bridge half a mile long to cross it. A few hours later the train again crosses the Columbia, at Donald, where the river has become much smaller than it seems that it should in such a short distance. To get an explanation of this circumstance, it is interesting to glance at the map and notice what an immense curve northward the Columbia has made in this interval in order to find a passage through the Selkirk range; and in thus encircling the snowy Selkirks it has, of course, added to its volume the contents of innumerable glacier streams and mountain brooks. Its real sources are southeast of Donald, on the summit of the Rockies, separated by but a short distance from springs which run down on the eastern side and find their way through the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. Thus do extremes meet. It would be difficult to find anything so curious in the course of any other river as this immense, irregular parallelogram which the Columbia here describes from its sources to Arrow Lake.... The snow-peaks of the Selkirks are now looming up on all sides, and the atmosphere becomes more bracing and Alpine as the train slowly creeps up the mountain-side, doubling up on itself in a loop. The Glacier House is reached before long, and here every tourist who has time to spare should get off and spend a day or two, since next to Banff, in the National Park, this is the finest point along the whole route, scenically speaking, while the air is even more salubrious, cool, and intoxicating than at Banff, owing to the nearness of the glacier. It would be difficult, even in Switzerland, to find a more romantic spot for a hotel than the location of the Glacier House. High peaks rise up on every side, so finely moulded, so deeply mantled with snow, and presenting such various aspects from different points of view, that we forget our disgust at the fact that, as usual in the West, these grand eternal peaks have been named after ephemeral mortals,--Browns, Smiths, and Joneses. The Grizzly and Cougar Mountains are more aptly named, as these animals will long continue to abound in the impenetrable forests which adorn these peaks below the snow-line. Looking from the hotel towards the glacier, to the left is a peak which looks like the Matterhorn, the most unique mountain in Switzerland, and, what is still more striking, at its side is another smaller peak, which is an exact copy of the Little Matterhorn.... The principal difference between the Swiss Alps and the Selkirk range lies in the aspect of the mountain-sides below the snow-line. These, in Switzerland, are green meadows dotted with browsing cows, and presenting one unbroken mass of dark green, except where an avalanche has tobogganed down and opened what seems at a distance like a roadway, but is found to be a battle-field strewn with the corpses of cedars three and four feet in diameter. The most imposing view of such a mountain forest unbroken by a single avalanche path is obtained from the snow-sheds just above the hotel. Sitting outside these sheds and looking towards the left, you see a vast mountain slope covered with literally millions of dark-green trees. Why has none of the world's greatest poets ever been permitted to gaze on such a Selkirk forest, that he might have aroused in his unfortunate readers who are not privileged to see one emotions similar to those inspired by it? But I fear that neither verse nor photographs, nor even the painter's brush, can ever more than suggest the real grandeur of such a forest scene. This mountain is not snow-crowned in September, but its wooded summit makes a sharp green line against the snow-peaks beyond and above. From this summit down to the foot stand the giant cedars, as crowded as the yellow stalks in a Minnesota wheatfield. But in place of the flat monochrome of a wheatfield, our sloping forest presents a most fascinating color spectacle. The slanting rays of the sun tinge the waving tree-tops with a deeply saturated yellowish-green, curiously interspersed with a mosaic of dark, almost black streaks and patches of shade, due to clouds and other causes, and the whole edged by the dazzling snow. If we descend and enter this forest, a cathedral-like awe thrills the nerves. Daylight has not the power to penetrate to the ground hidden by this dense mass of tree-tops rising two hundred to three hundred feet into the air,--except that an occasional ray of sunlight may steal in for a second, like a flash of lightning. And the carpet on which this forest stands! In America we rarely see a house, even of a day-laborer, without a carpet; why, then, should these royal trees do without one? The carpet is itself a miniature forest of ferns and mosses, luxuriating in riotous profusion on an ever-moist soil, the product of thousands of generations of pine-needles. Nor is this carpet a monochrome, for the green is varied by numerous berries of various kinds, most of which are red, as they should be,--the complementary color of green. But there are also acres of blueberries as large as cherries; and if you will tear off a few branches of these and bring them to the young bear chained up near the Glacier Hotel, he will be very grateful, and you will find it amusing to watch him eating them. There is music, too, in this Forest Cathedral, which is heard to best advantage from the elevated gallery occupied by the snow-sheds. It takes a trained ear to distinguish the steady, rippling _staccato_ sound of a snow-fed mountain brook from the prolonged _legato_ sigh of a pine forest, swelling to _fortissimo_, and dying away by turns. In the romantic spot we have chosen these sounds are blended, the music of the torrents being caught up by the sloping forest as by a huge sounding-board, and increased in loudness by being mingled with the mournful strains of the tree-tops, as orchestral colors are blended by modern masters. Those err who say there is no music in nature. It is not in "Siegfried" alone that the _Waldweben_ is musical, that leaves sing as well as birds, while the thunder occasionally adds its loud _basso profundo_. The æsthetic exhilaration which we owe to these poetic sights and sounds is intensified by the salubrious breezes which waft this music to our ears. Born among the clouds and glaciers, they are perfumed in passing across the forests, warmed by the sun's rays in passing over the valley; and every breath of this elixir adds a day to one's life. It is not surprising that mountains should make the best health-resorts; for do they not themselves understand and obey the laws of health? They keep their heads cool under a snow-cap, their feet warm in a mossy blanket, and their sides covered with a dense _fir_ overcoat.... For the greater part of the two hours which the train requires to go from Donald to Golden City it passes along the bank of the Columbia River; and there is, perhaps, no part of the whole route where grandeur and beauty are so admirably united as here, especially in the autumn. The grandeur lies in the snowy summits which frame in this Columbia valley--the Selkirks on one side, the Rockies on the other. The beauty lies in the river itself and in the young trees and bushes along its banks, dressed in fall styles and colors, some as richly yellow as a golden-rod, others as deeply purple or crimson as fuchsias or begonias, the yellow predominating. These colored trees occur in groups and streaks along the river, and in isolated patches on the mountain-sides, where they might be mistaken for brown mosses or lichen-colored rocks. There may be as beautifully colored trees in our Eastern forests, but they are not mixed, as here, with young evergreen pines, nor have they a framework of snow mountains, like these, to enhance their beauty. High up on the ridges there is another variety of trees of a beautiful russet color set off by a deep-blue sky. Talk of color symphonies. Here they are--miles of them--long as a Wagner trilogy, and as richly orchestrated. Even the masses of blackened logs and stumps--if one can set aside for the moment all thought of pity for the poor charred trees, so happy before the fire in their green luxuriance, and of the sad waste of useful timber--enhance the charm of this scene by contrast. I have said that the time-table of the Canadian Pacific Railway is so arranged that the finest scenery is passed in daylight, in both directions; but of course there must be exceptions, and, as a matter of fact, as long as the road crosses the three great mountain ranges of the Cascades, Selkirks, and Rockies, there is hardly a mile that does not offer something worth seeing. Consequently, as darkness again closes in soon after leaving Golden, east-bound passengers must resign themselves to lose sight of the Kicking Horse Cañon, the Beaverfoot and Ottertail Mountains, the large glacier on Mount Stephen, etc.,--which is all the more provoking as they have to sit up anyway till midnight, when Banff is reached; for, of course, every tourist who is in his right senses and not a slave to duty gets off here to spend a few days in the Canadian National Park. [The description of this park we can give only in summary.] Summing up on the Canadian National Park, we may say it has not so many natural wonders as the Yellowstone Park,--no geysers, steam-holes, gold-bottomed rivulets, paint-pots, nor anything to place beside the Yellowstone Cañon and Falls. But the Minnewonka Lake may fairly challenge comparison with the Yellowstone Lake, and the mountain scenery is grander in the Canadian Park, and the snow and glaciers are nearer, though not so near as at the Glacier House, where the air is in consequence cooler and more bracing in summer than even at Banff. As the Canadian Park is only twenty-six miles long and ten wide, while the Yellowstone Park is about sixty-two by fifty-four miles, the former can be seen in much less time than it takes to do justice to the latter. When we get ready to leave Banff we have to take the midnight train, so there is no chance to say good-by to the mountains. But we have seen so much of them since leaving Vancouver, that we have felt almost tempted to cry out to Nature, "Hold, enough; less would be more!" Now we get ample opportunity to ruminate in peace over our crowded impressions. When we get up we are on the prairie; we go to bed on the prairie, after traversing a territory larger than a European kingdom; again we rise on the prairie, and again go to bed on it; and not till Lake Superior is approached does the scenery once more become interesting.... As a general thing, it is no doubt wiser to take the Canadian Pacific Railway westward than eastward, as the scenic climax is on the western side. However, it is quite possible to avoid the feeling of anti-climax on going east, if we conclude the trip with the Thousand Islands and the Rapids of the St. Lawrence, together with Montreal; or with Niagara Falls and the Hudson River. The Pacific slope, no doubt, is scenically far more attractive than the Atlantic; still, there are some things in the East which even California would be proud to add to her attractions. SOUTH PASS AND FREMONT'S PEAK. JOHN C. FREMONT. [Captain John Charles Fremont, one of the earliest government explorers of the Rocky Mountain region and the Pacific slope, was born at Savannah, Georgia, in 1813. Becoming a civil engineer in the government service, in 1842 he explored the South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, ascending in August the highest peak in the Wind River range. This has since been known as Fremont's Peak. In the following year he explored Great Salt Lake. In 1845 he led a third expedition to the Pacific, and during the Mexican war was instrumental in securing California for the United States. He led subsequent expeditions westward, was Republican candidate for the Presidency in 1856, served during the war, and in 1878-82 was governor of Arizona. He died in 1890. We subjoin his account of the crossing of the South Pass and discovery and ascent of Fremont's Peak.] The view [of the Wind River Mountains] dissipated in a moment the pictures which had been created in our minds by many travellers who have compared these mountains with the Alps in Switzerland, and speak of the glittering peaks which rise in icy majesty amidst the eternal glaciers nine or ten thousand feet into the region of eternal snows. [Continuing their course, they encamped on August 7 near the South Pass, and the next morning set out for the dividing ridge.] About six miles from our encampment brought us to the summit. The ascent had been so gradual that, with all the intimate knowledge possessed by Carson, who had made the country his home for seventeen years, we were obliged to watch very closely to find the place at which we reached the culminating point. This was between two low hills, rising on either hand fifty or sixty feet. When I looked back at them, from the foot of the immediate slope on the western plain, their summits appeared to be about one hundred and twenty feet above. From the impression on my mind at this time, and subsequently on our return, I should compare the elevation which we mounted immediately at the Pass to the ascent of the Capitol hill from the avenue at Washington. It is difficult for me to fix positively the breadth of this pass. From the broken ground where it commences, at the foot of the White River chain, the view to the southeast is over a champaign country, broken, at the distance of nineteen miles, by the Table Rock, which, with the other isolated hills in its vicinity, seem to stand in a comparative plain. This I judged to be its termination, the ridge recovering its rugged character with the Table Rock. It will be seen that it in no manner resembles the places to which the term is commonly applied,--nothing of the gorge-like character and winding ascents of the Alleghany passes in America; nothing of the Great St. Bernard and Simplon passes in Europe. Approaching it from the mouth of the Sweet Water, a sandy plain, one hundred and twenty miles long, conducts, by a gradual and regular ascent, to the summit, about seven thousand feet above the sea; and the traveller, without being reminded of any change by toilsome ascents, suddenly finds himself on the waters which flow to the Pacific Ocean. By the route we had travelled, the distance from Fort Laramie is three hundred and twenty miles, or nine hundred and fifty from the mouth of the Kansas. [They continued their course westward, crossing several tributaries of the Colorado River, and on the 10th reached unexpectedly a beautiful lake.] Here
goes to another world, How is it that he comes not back again, restless for love of his kindred? Hence it is only as a means of livelihood that Brahmans have established here All these ceremonies for the dead,--there is no other fruit anywhere. The three authors of the Vedas were buffoons, knaves, and demons. All the well-known formulæ of the pandits, jarpharí, turpharí, &c.[27] And all the obscene rites for the queen commanded in the Aswamedha, These were invented by buffoons, and so all the various kinds of presents to the priests,[28] While the eating of flesh was similarly commanded by night-prowling demons. Hence in kindness to the mass of living beings must we fly for refuge to the doctrine of Chárváka. Such is the pleasant consummation. E. B. C. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 6: "Sankara, Bháskara, and other commentators name the Lokáyatikas, and these appear to be a branch of the Sect of Chárváka" (Colebrooke). Lokáyata may be etymologically analysed as "prevalent in the world" (_loka_ and _áyata_). Laukáyatika occurs in Pánini's ukthagana.] [Footnote 7: _Kinwa_ is explained as "drug or seed used to produce fermentation in the manufacture of spirits from sugar, bassia, &c." Colebrooke quotes from Sankara: "The faculty of thought results from a modification of the aggregate elements in like manner as sugar with a ferment and other ingredients becomes an inebriating liquor; and as betel, areca, lime, and extract of catechu chewed together have an exhilarating property not found in those substances severally."] [Footnote 8: Of course Sankara, in his commentary, gives a very different interpretation, applying it to the cessation of individual existence when the knowledge of the Supreme is once attained. Cf. Sabara's Comm. Jaimini Sút., i. i. 5.] [Footnote 9: I take _kana_ as here equal to the Bengali _kunr_. Cf. Atharva-V., xi. 3, 5. _Asváh kaná gávas tandulá masakás tusháh._] [Footnote 10: See Nyáya Sútras, ii. 57.] [Footnote 11: _I.e._, personality and fatness, &c.] [Footnote 12: I read _dehe_ for _dehah_.] [Footnote 13: Literally, "must be an attribute of the subject and have invariable concomitance (_vyápti_)."] [Footnote 14: For the _sandigdha_ and _nischita upádhi_ see Siddhánta Muktávali, p. 125. The former is accepted only by one party.] [Footnote 15: Literally, the knowledge of the invariable concomitance (as of smoke by fire).] [Footnote 16: The attributes of the class are not always found in every member,--thus idiots are men, though man is a rational animal; and again, this particular smoke might be a sign of a fire in some other place.] [Footnote 17: See Sáhitya Darpana (Ballantyne's trans. p. 16), and Siddhánta-M., p. 80.] [Footnote 18: The properly logical, as distinguished from the rhetorical, argument.] [Footnote 19: "_Upamána_ or the knowledge of a similarity is the instrument in the production of an inference from similarity. This particular inference consists in the knowledge of the relation of a name to something so named." Ballantyne's Tarka Sangraha.] [Footnote 20: The upádhi is the condition which must be supplied to restrict a too general middle term, as in the inference "the mountain has smoke because it has fire," if we add wet fuel as the condition of the fire, the middle term will be no longer too general. In the case of a true vyápti, there is, of course, no upádhi.] [Footnote 21: '[Greek: Antistrephei] (Pr. Anal., ii. 25). We have here our A with distributed predicate.] [Footnote 22: If we omitted the first clause, and only made the upádhi "that which constantly accompanies the major term and is constantly accompanied by it," then in the Naiyáyika argument "sound is non-eternal, because it has the nature of sound," "being produced" would serve as a Mímámsaka upádhi, to establish the _vyabhichára_ fallacy, as it is reciprocal with "non-eternal;" but the omitted clause excludes it, as an upádhi must be consistent with _either_ party's opinions, and, of course, the Naiyáyika maintains that "being produced" _always_ accompanies the class of sound. Similarly, if we defined the upádhi as "not constantly accompanying the middle term and constantly accompanied by the major," we might have as an upádhi "the nature of a jar," as this is never found with the middle term (the class or nature of sound only residing in sound, and that of a jar only in a jar), while, at the same time, wherever the class of jar is found there is also found non-eternity. Lastly, if we defined the upádhi as "not constantly accompanying the middle term, and constantly accompanying the major," we might have as a Mímámsaka upádhi "the not causing audition," _i.e._, the not being apprehended by the organs of hearing; but this is excluded, as non-eternity is not always found where this is, ether being inaudible and yet eternal.] [Footnote 23: This refers to an obscure sloka of Udayanáchárya, "where a reciprocal and a non-reciprocal universal connection (_i.e._, universal propositions which severally do and do not distribute their predicates) relate to the same argument (as _e.g._, to prove the existence of smoke), there that non-reciprocating term of the second will be a fallacious middle, which is not invariably accompanied by the other reciprocal of the first." Thus "the mountain has smoke because it has fire" (here fire and smoke are non-reciprocating, as fire is not found invariably accompanied by smoke though smoke is by fire), or "because it has fire from wet fuel" (smoke and fire from wet fuel being reciprocal and always accompanying each other); the non-reciprocating term of the former (fire) will give a fallacious inference, because it is also, of course, not invariably accompanied by the special kind of fire, that produced from wet fuel. But this will not be the case where the non-reciprocating term _is_ thus invariably accompanied by the other reciprocal, as "the mountain has fire because it has smoke;" here, though fire and smoke do not reciprocate, yet smoke will be a true middle, because it is invariably accompanied by heat, which is the reciprocal of fire. I wish to add here, once for all, that I own my explanation of this, as well as many another, difficulty in the Sarva-darsana-sangraha to my old friend and teacher, Pandit Mahesa Chandra Nyáyaratna, of the Calcutta Sanskrit College.] [Footnote 24: Cf. Sextus Empiricus, P. Hyp. ii. In the chapter on the Buddhist system _infra_, we have an attempt to establish the authority of the universal proposition from the relation of cause and effect or genus and species.] [Footnote 25: _Adrishta_, _i.e._, the merit and demerit in our actions which produce their effects in future births.] [Footnote 26: This is an old Buddhist retort. See Burnouf, Introd., p. 209.] [Footnote 27: Rig-Veda, x. 106. For the Aswamedha rites, see Wilson's Rig-Veda, Preface, vol. ii. p. xiii.] [Footnote 28: Or this may mean "and all the various other things to be handled in the rites."] CHAPTER II. THE BAUDDHA SYSTEM. At this point the Buddhists remark: As for what you (Chárvákas) laid down as to the difficulty of ascertaining invariable concomitance, your position is unacceptable, inasmuch as invariable concomitance is easily cognisable by means of identity and causality. It has accordingly been said-- "From the relation of cause and effect, or from identity as a determinant, results a law of invariable concomitance--not through the mere observation of the desired result in similar cases, nor through the non-observation of it in dissimilar cases."[29] On the hypothesis (of the Naiyáyikas) that it is concomitance and non-concomitance (_e.g._, A is where B is, A is not where B is not) that determine an invariable connection, the unconditional attendance of the major or the middle term would be unascertainable, it being impossible to exclude all doubt with regard to instances past and future, and present but unperceived. If one (a Naiyáyika) rejoin that uncertainty in regard to such instances is equally inevitable on our system, we reply: Say not so, for such a supposition as that an effect may be produced without any cause would destroy itself by putting a stop to activity of any kind; for such doubts alone are to be entertained, the entertainment of which does not implicate us in practical absurdity and the like, as it has been said, "Doubt terminates where there is a practical absurdity."[30] 1. By ascertainment of an effectuation, then, of that (viz., of the designate of the middle) is ascertained the invariable concomitance (of the major); and the ascertainment of such effectuation may arise from the well-known series of five causes, in the perceptive cognition or non-cognition of cause and effect. That fire and smoke, for instance, stand in the relation of cause and effect is ascertained by five indications, viz., (1.) That an effect is not cognised prior to its effectuation, that (2.) the cause being perceived (3.) the effect is perceived, and that after the effect is cognised (4.) there is its non-cognition, (5.) when the (material) cause is no longer cognised. 2. In like manner an invariable concomitance is ascertained by the ascertainment of identity (_e.g._, a sisu-tree is a tree, or wherever we observe the attributes of a sisu we observe also the attribute arboreity), an absurdity attaching to the contrary opinion, inasmuch as if a sisu-tree should lose its arboreity it would lose its own self. But, on the other hand, where there exists no absurdity, and where a (mere) concomitance is again and again observed, who can exclude all doubt of failure in the concomitance? An ascertainment of the identity of sisu and tree is competent in virtue of the reference to the same object (_i.e._, predication),--This tree is a sisu. For reference to the same object (predication) is not competent where there is no difference whatever (_e.g._, to say, "A jar is a jar," is no combination of diverse attributes in a common subject), because the two terms cannot, as being synonymous, be simultaneously employed; nor can reference to the same object take place where there is a reciprocal exclusion (of the two terms), inasmuch as we never find, for instance, horse and cow predicated the one of the other. It has thus been evinced that an effect or a self-same supposes a cause or a self-same (as invariable concomitants). If a man does not allow that inference is a form of evidence, _pramána_, one may reply: You merely assert thus much, that inference is not a form of evidence: do you allege no proof of this, or do you allege any? The former alternative is not allowable according to the maxim that bare assertion is no proof of the matter asserted. Nor is the latter alternative any better, for if while you assert that inference is no form of evidence, you produce some truncated argument (to prove, _i.e._, infer, that it is none), you will be involved in an absurdity, just as if you asserted your own mother to be barren. Besides, when you affirm that the establishment of a form of evidence and of the corresponding fallacious evidence results from their homogeneity, you yourself admit induction by identity. Again, when you affirm that the dissentiency of others is known by the symbolism of words, you yourself allow induction by causality. When you deny the existence of any object on the ground of its not being perceived, you yourself admit an inference of which non-perception is the middle term. Conformably it has been said by Tathágata-- "The admission of a form of evidence in general results from its being present to the understanding of others. "The existence of a form of evidence also follows from its negation by a certain person." All this has been fully handled by great authorities; and we desist for fear of an undue enlargement of our treatise. These same Bauddhas discuss the highest end of man from four standpoints. Celebrated under the designations of Mádhyamika, Yogáchára, Sautrántika, and Vaibháshika, these Buddhists adopt respectively the doctrines of a universal void (nihilism), an external void (subjective idealism), the inferribility of external objects (representationism), and the perceptibility of external objects (presentationism).[31] Though the venerated Buddha be the only one teacher (his disciples) are fourfold in consequence of this diversity of views; just as when one has said, "The sun has set," the adulterer, the thief, the divinity student, and others understand that it is time to set about their assignations, their theft, their religious duties, and so forth, according to their several inclinations. It is to be borne in mind that four points of view have been laid out, viz., (1.) All is momentary, momentary; (2.) all is pain, pain; (3.) all is like itself alone; (4.) all is void, void. Of these points of view, the momentariness of fleeting things, blue and so forth (_i.e._, whatever be their quality), is to be inferred from their existence; thus, whatever _is_ is momentary (or fluxional) like a bank of clouds, and all these things _are_.[32] Nor may any one object that the middle term (existence) is unestablished; for an existence consisting of practical efficiency is established by perception to belong to the blue and other momentary things; and the exclusion of existence from that which is not momentary is established, provided that we exclude from it the non-momentary succession and simultaneity, according to the rule that exclusion of the continent is exclusion of the contained. Now this practical efficiency (here identified with existence) is contained under succession and simultaneity, and no medium is possible between succession and non-succession (or simultaneity); there being a manifest absurdity in thinking otherwise, according to the rule-- "In a reciprocal contradiction there exists no ulterior alternative; "Nor is their unity in contradictories, there being a repugnance in the very statement."[33] And this succession and simultaneity being excluded from the permanent, and also excluding from the permanent all practical efficiency, determine existence of the alternative of momentariness.--Q.E.D. Perhaps some one may ask: Why may not practical efficiency reside in the non-fluxional (or permanent)? If so, this is wrong, as obnoxious to the following dilemma. Has your "permanent" a power of past and future practical efficiency during its exertion of present practical efficiency or no? On the former alternative (if it has such power), it cannot evacuate such past and future efficiency, because we cannot deny that it has power, and because we infer the consequence, that which can at any time do anything does not fail to do that at that time, as, for instance, a complement of causes, and this entity is thus powerful. On the latter alternative (if the permanent has no such power of past and future agency), it will never do anything, because practical efficiency results from power only; what at any time does not do anything, that at that time is unable to do it, as, for instance, a piece of stone does not produce a germ; and this entity while exerting its present practical efficiency, does not exert its past and future practical efficiency. Such is the contradiction. You will perhaps rejoin: By assuming successive subsidiaries, there is competent to the permanent entity a successive exertion of past and future practical efficiency. If so, we would ask you to explain: Do the subsidiaries assist the entity or not? If they do not, they are not required; for if they do nothing, they can have nothing to do with the successive exertion. If they do assist the thing, is this assistance (or supplementation) other than the thing or not? If it is other than the thing, then this adscititious (assistance) is the cause, and the non-momentary entity is not the cause: for the effect will then follow, by concomitance and non-concomitance, the adventitious supplementation. Thus it has been said: "What have rain and shine to do with the soul? Their effect is on the skin of man; "If the soul were like the skin, it would be non-permanent; and if the skin were like the soul, there could be no effect produced upon it." Perhaps you will say: The entity produces its effect, _together with_ its subsidiaries. Well, then (we reply), let the entity not give up its subsidiaries, but rather tie them lest they fly with a rope round their neck, and so produce the effect which it has to produce, and without forfeiting its own proper nature. Besides (we continue), does the additament (or supplementation) constituted by the subsidiaries give rise to another additament or not? In either case the afore-mentioned objections will come down upon you like a shower of stones. On the alternative that the additament takes on another additament, you will be embarrassed by a many-sided regress _in infinitum_. If when the additament is to be generated another auxiliary (or additament) be required, there will ensue an endless series of such additaments: this must be confessed to be one infinite regress. For example, let a seed be granted to be productive when an additament is given, consisting of a complement of objects such as water, wind, and the like, as subsidiaries; otherwise an additament would be manifested without subsidiaries. Now the seed in taking on the additament takes it on with the need of (ulterior) subsidiaries; otherwise, as there would always be subsidiaries, it would follow that a germ would always be arising from the seed. We shall now have to add to the seed another supplementation by subsidiaries themselves requiring an additament. If when this additament is given, the seed be productive only on condition of subsidiaries as before, there will be established an infinite regression of additaments to (or supplementations of) the seed, to be afforded by the subsidiaries. Again, we ask, does the supplementation required for the production of the effect produce its effect independently of the seed and the like, or does it require the seed and the like? On the first alternative (if the supplementation works independently), it would ensue that the seed is in no way a cause. On the second (if the supplementation require the seed), the seed, or whatever it may be that is thus required, must take on a supplementation or additament, and thus there will be over and over again an endless series of additaments added to the additament constituted by the seed; and thus a second infinite regression is firmly set up. In like manner the subsidiary which is required will add another subsidiary to the seed, or whatever it may be that is the subject of the additions, and thus there will be an endless succession of additaments added to the additaments to the seed which is supplemented by the subsidiaries; and so a third infinite regression will add to your embarrassment. Now (or the other grand alternative), let it be granted that a supplementation identical with the entity (the seed, or whatever it may be) is taken on. If so, the former entity, that _minus_ the supplementation, is no more, and a new entity identical with the supplementation, and designated (in the technology of Buddhism) _kurvad rúpa_ (or effect-producing object), comes into being: and thus the tree of my desires (my doctrine of a universal flux) has borne its fruit. Practical efficiency, therefore, in the non-momentary is inadmissible. Nor is practical efficiency possible apart from succession in time; for such a possibility is redargued by the following dilemma. Is this (permanent) entity (which you contend for) able to produce all its effects simultaneously, or does it continue to exist after production of effects? On the former alternative, it will result that the entity will produce its effects just as much at one time as at another; on the second alternative, the expectation of its permanency is as reasonable as expecting seed eaten by a mouse to germinate. That to which contrary determinations are attributed is diverse, as heat and cold; but this thing is determined by contrary attributions. Such is the argumentation applied to the cloud (to prove that it has not a permanent but a fluxional existence). Nor is the middle term disallowable, for possession and privation of power and impotence are allowed in regard to the permanent (which you assert) at different times. The concomitance and non-concomitance already described (viz., That which can at any time do anything does not fail to do that at that time, and What at any time does not do anything, that at that time is unable to do it) are affirmed (by us) to prove the existence of such power. The negative rule is: What at any time is unable to produce anything, that at that time does not produce it, as a piece of stone, for example, does not produce a germ; and this entity (the seed, or whatever it may be), while exerting a present practical efficiency, is incapable of past and future practical efficiencies. The contradiction violating this rule is: What at any time does anything, that at that time is able to do that thing, as a complement of causes is able to produce its effect; and this (permanent) entity exerts at time past and time future the practical efficiencies proper to those times. (To recapitulate.) Existence is restricted to the momentary; there being observed in regard to existence a negative rule, that in regard to permanent succession and simultaneity being excluded, existence which contains succession and simultaneity is not cognisable; and there being observed in regard to existence a positive rule, in virtue of a concomitance observed (viz., that the existent is accompanied or "pervaded" by the momentary), and in virtue of a non-concomitance observed (viz., that the non-momentary is accompanied or "pervaded" by the non-existent). Therefore it has been said by Jñána-srí-- "What is is momentary, as a cloud, and as these existent things; "The power of existence is relative to practical efficiency, and belongs to the ideal; but this power exists not as eternal in things eternal (ether, &c.); "Nor is there only one form, otherwise one thing could do the work of another; "For two reasons, therefore (viz., succession and simultaneity), a momentary flux is congruous and remains true in regard to that which we have to prove." Nor is it to be held, in acceptance of the hypothesis of the Vaiseshikas and Naiyáyikas, that existence is a participation in the universal form existence; for were this the case, universality, particularity, and co-inhesion (which do not participate in the universal) could have no existence. Nor is the ascription of existence to universality, particularity, and co-inhesion dependent on any _sui generis_ existence of their own; for such an hypothesis is operose, requiring too many _sui generis_ existences. Moreover, the existence of any universal is disproved by a dilemma regarding the presence or non-presence (of the one in the many); and there is not presented to us any one form running through all the diverse momentary things, mustard-seeds, mountains, and so forth, like the string running through the gems strung upon it. Moreover (we would ask), is the universal omnipresent or present everywhere in its subjicible subjects? If it is everywhere, all things in the universe will be confounded together (chaos will be eternal), and you will be involved in a tenet you reject, since Prasasta-páda has said, "Present in all its subjects." Again (if the universal is present only in its proper subjects), does the universal (the nature of a jar) residing in an already existing jar, on being attached to another jar now in making, come from the one to attach itself to the other, or not come from it? On the first alternative (if it comes), the universal must be a substance (for substances alone underlie qualities and motions); whereas, if it does not come, it cannot attach itself to the new jar. Again (we ask), when the jar ceases to exist, does the universal outlast it, or cease to exist, or go to another place? On the first supposition it will exist without a subject to inhere in; on the second, it will be improper to call it eternal (as you do); on the third, it will follow that it is a substance (or base of qualities and motions). Destroyed as it is by the malign influence of these and the like objections, the universal is unauthenticated. Conformably it has been said-- "Great is the dexterity of that which, existing in one place, engages without moving from that place in producing itself in another place. "This entity (universality) is not connected with that wherein it resides, and yet pervades that which occupies that place: great is this miracle. "It goes not away, nor was it there, nor is it subsequently divided, it quits not its former repository: what a series of difficulties!" If you ask: On what does the assurance that the one exists in the many rest? You must be satisfied with the reply that we concede it to repose on difference from that which is different (or exclusion of heterogeneity). We dismiss further prolixity. That all transmigratory existence is identical with pain is the common verdict of all the founders of institutes, else they would not be found desirous to put a stop to it and engaging in the method for bringing it to an end. We must, therefore, bear in mind that all is pain, and pain alone. If you object: When it is asked, like what? you must quote an instance,--we reply: Not so, for momentary objects self-characterised being momentary, have no common characters, and therefore it is impossible to say that this is like that. We must therefore hold that all is like itself alone, like itself alone. In like manner we must hold that all is void, and void alone. For we are conscious of a determinate negation. This silver or the like has not been seen by me in sleeping or waking. If what is seen were (really) existent, then reality would pertain to the corresponding act of vision, to the (nacre, &c.), which is the basis of its particular nature (or haecceity), to the silver, &c., illusorily superposed upon that basis, to the connection between them, to the co-inherence, and so forth: a supposition not entertained by any disputant. Nor is a semi-effete existence admissible. No one imagines that one-half of a fowl may be set apart for cooking, and the other half for laying eggs. The venerated Buddha, then, having taught that of the illusorily superposed (silver, &c.), the basis (nacre, &c.), the connection between them, the act of vision, and the _videns_, if one or more be unreal it will perforce ensue that all are unreal, all being equally objects of the negation; the Mádhyamikas excellently wise explain as follows, viz., that the doctrine of Buddha terminates in that of a total void (universal baselessness or nihilism) by a slow progression like the intrusive steps of a mendicant, through the position of a momentary flux, and through the (gradual) negation of the illusory assurances of pleasurable sensibility, of universality, and of reality. The ultimate principle, then, is a void emancipated from four alternatives, viz., from reality, from unreality, from both (reality and unreality), and from neither (reality nor unreality). To exemplify this: If real existence were the nature of a water-pot and the like, the activity of its maker (the potter) would be superfluous. If non-existence be its nature the same objection will accrue; as it is said-- "Necessity of a cause befits not the existent, ether and the like, for instance; "No cause is efficacious of a non-existent effect, flowers of the sky and the like, for instance." The two remaining alternatives, as self-contradictory, are inadmissible. It has accordingly been laid down by the venerated Buddha in the Alankárávatára[34]-- "Of things discriminated by intellect, no nature is ascertained;[35] "Those things are therefore shown to be inexplicable and natureless." And again-- "This matter perforce results, which the wise declare, No sooner are objects thought than they are dissipated." That is to say, the objects are not determined by any one of the four alternatives. Hence it is that it has been said-- "A religious mendicant, an amorous man, and a dog have three views of a woman's person, respectively that it is a carcass, that it is a mistress, and that it is a prey." In consequence, then, of these four points of view, when all ideas are come to an end, final extinction, which is a void, will result. Accordingly we have overtaken our end, and there is nothing to be taught to us. There consequently remain only two duties to the student--interrogation and acceptance. Of these, interrogation is the putting of questions in order to attain knowledge not yet attained. Acceptance is assent to the matters stated by the sacred teacher. These (Bauddha nihilists) are excellent in assenting to that which the religious teacher enounces, and defective in interrogation, whence their conventional designation of Mádhyamikas (or mediocre). Certain other Buddhists are styled Yogácháras, because while they accept the four points of view proclaimed by the spiritual guide, and the void of external things, they make the interrogation: Why has a void of the internal (or baselessness of mental phenomena) been admitted? For their technology is as follows:--Self-subsistent cognition must be allowed, or it will follow that the whole universe is blind. It has conformably been proclaimed by Dharmakírti: "To one who disallows perception the vision of objects is not competent." An external _percipibile_ is not admissible in consequence of the following dilemma. Does the object cognitively apprehensible arise from an entity or not? It does not result from an entity, for that which is generated has no permanence. Nor is it non-resultant, for what has not come into being is non-existent. Or (we may proceed) do you hold that a past object is cognitively apprehensible, as begetting cognition? If so, this is childish nonsense, because it conflicts with the apparent presentness of the object, and because on such a supposition the sense organs (and other imperceptible things) might be apprehended. Further (we ask), Is the _percipibile_ a simple atom or a complex body? The latter it cannot be, this alternative being ejected by the dilemma as to whether part or whole is perceived. The former alternative is equally impossible, an atom being supersensible, and it not being able to combine simultaneously with six others; as it has been said-- "If an atom could simultaneously combine with six, it would have six surfaces; "And each of these being taken separately, there would be a body of atomic dimension." Intellect, therefore, as having no other _percipibile_ but itself, is shown to be itself its own _percipibile_, self-subsistent, luminous with its own light, like light. Therefore it has been said-- "There is naught to be objectified by intellect; there is no cognition ulterior thereto; "There being no distinction between percept and percipient, intellect shines forth of itself alone." The identity of percipient and percept is inferrible, thus: That which is cognised by any cognition is not other than that cognition, as soul, for instance, is not other than the cognition of soul; and blue and other momentary objects are cognised by cognitions. For if there were a difference (between percept and percipient), the object could not now have any connection with the cognition, there being no identity to determine a constancy of connection, and nothing to determine the rise of such a connection. As for the appearance of an interval between the object and subject consciousnesses, this is an illusion, like the appearance of two moons when there is only one. The cause of this illusion is ideation of difference in a stream without beginning and without interruption; as it has been said-- "As invariably cognised together, the blue object and the cognition thereof are identical; "And the difference should be accounted for by illusory cognitions, as in the example of the single moon." And again-- "Though there is no division, the soul or intellect, by reason of illusory perceptions, "Appears to possess a duality of cognitions, of percepts and of percipient." Nor must it be supposed that (on this hypothesis) the juice, the energy, and the digestion derivable from an imaginary and an actual sweetmeat will be the same; for it cannot be questioned that though the intellect be in strictness exempt from the modes of object and subject, yet there is competent to it a practical distinction in virtue of the succession of illusory ideas without beginning, by reason of its possessing diverse modes percept and percipient, conformably to its illusory supposition of practical agency, just as to those whose eyes are dim with some morbid affection a hair and another minute object may appear either diverse or identical; as it has been said-- "As the intellect, not having object and subject modes, appears, by reason of illusory cognitions, "Illuded with the diverse forms of perception, percept and percipient; "So when the intellect has posited a diversity, as in the example of the differences of the cognition of a hair and the like, "Then it is not to be doubted that it is characterised as percipient

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