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most of them are. They may live rich and expensive lives for a
season; ill-gotten gains are not lasting. Heaven pity the girl that
marries one of these adventurers, for the end is bitterness! A friend
met one on the Pacific road, married him, and learned to her sorrow
that he drank to excess, swore like a pirate, lived in debauchery,
and early offered to swap wives for a season with a boon-companion.
“And that man,” she said, “was as handsome as a dude, as slick as
an auctioneer, as oily as a pedler; I loved him only one day after
marriage.”
_Don’t marry a hypocrite._ Of all things get sincerity. Get the genuine
article. If you get a hypocrite, he is brass jewelry, and will easily
tarnish. Make careful inquiry, see that he is all that he pretends to
be, or never trust him. The habit of deceit is one of a lifetime.
Some join churches for no other reason than to cloak iniquity. It is
not the rule by any means; it is a too common exception. One who goes
from city to city and captivates too many by his oil of blandness; one
who has no business, an idler; one who apes the rich and is ground
down in poverty; one who lacks the courage to live like himself and
had rather live a lie and deceive the world around him,--is an unfit
companion, and will bear watching.
_Don’t marry a coquette._ One that is worn out by a long list of
discarded admirers is like stale bread--worse every day and seldom
grows better by long standing. There are women, and girls sometimes,
who glory and revel in the names of discarded lovers; whose sense
of honesty has been poisoned, numbed, and frozen by cheating their
victims through pretended affection, until they have lost all heart
or honesty; who deserve to be left alone to ponder on their cruelty
for the balance of their miserable existence. Of all the worst forms
of flirting, coquetry is the most detestable. It is not only trifling
away the time of both, but casting distrust on the holiest of all
sentiments, the purity of womanhood. To steal money is honorable
compared to stealing affection.
The habit of coquetry will, or may, last long after marriage. She
who practises it will follow up in unpleasant references to her
conquests, wishing she had married at this offer or that, and wear
out the happiness of her last conquest by a frequent reminder of his
inferiority to the others.
_Don’t marry a woman for her money._ These people are tenacious to a
minute degree. They long to remind you of my house, my property, my
farm, my lots on Lincoln Avenue, my furniture, my bank account, and the
like--making one a pensioner all his life for his board and clothing.
If there is any difference, it should be with the man. He is expected
to control property. He is the master of his house, or the manager of
his expenses. Very naturally he says “my” store or “my” lots, but it
will sound far more fair and considerate even if he says “our” in lieu
of “my” sometimes.
The only fair way to act about it is to treat marriage as a partnership
where nobody owns all, but each has an equal interest. It is fair to
divide a good portion of one’s property with his wife, fair to deed her
a nice homestead and present her a given allowance--liberal as one’s
income will warrant--and let her draw from it as her own, and not be a
beggar each time she needs money.
_Don’t elope to marry._ It is a weak affection that cannot wait
awhile. Jacob served seven years, then seven more, for Rebecca. She was
a fine specimen of womanhood--as represented in paintings; housekeeping
was easy and inexpensive then, but they patiently waited and were
handsomely rewarded.
Ruth was an excellent example of girlhood. In no great hurry to marry,
taking the hardships of travel, her devotion to her mother touched the
heart of a king, and she won a splendid prize for her patience. She
might have eloped with a stage-driver or a coachman, and ended her life
with many less historical-society notices.
_Don’t dally about proposing._ What is it to ask a fine girl to marry
you? The simplest, easiest thing on earth, if you “strike while the
iron is hot.” Go about it sensibly. To begin with, you never expect
much encouragement from a discreet maiden; she is in the background;
her promise is to be invited; she is not her own spokeswoman. Think of
the embarrassment.
I venture to say, if you like her, that you will say so. Often you may
have told her how fine her eyes are, or how well you like her singing,
or talking, and her company; but when you ask a simple question, you
get down on your knees (they do in novels, not in reality) and beg for
it. Nonsense! Such a girl is unworthy. Begging is a silly fashion,
seldom now indulged in, all out of date, and no longer tolerated
outside of novels and theatres. Use a little sense about it.
Find out first if you have the right one, then settle the matter in
one of five ways: First, in the parlor (don’t propose in church, or at
a donation, or in a crowd, or on a street-car, or while the horse is
prancing), get up your resolution at the right moment and say: “Do we
understand each other, Clemantha?” Then, if she doesn’t, explain it
to her in a sensible fashion, and in little short words that cannot be
mistaken; give her time, if necessary.
The second way is, on a fine walk or drive, “Would you like to walk
always?” or, “If you were to choose whom you would walk with forever,
who would it be?” She will say, “I don’t care to be so personal.”
Certainly then you may be more explicit.
Third, suppose you are to separate, what a grand opportunity! See
that you improve it earnestly. To tell a girl that she is fairer than
flowers, clearer than coffee, and sweeter than honey is old, very old,
and uncalled-for. Tell her she is what she is, and you like her with
all her surroundings; that you can better her condition sometime. Dwell
on the “sometime.”
Be honest about it. If she doesn’t love you, let her love some one
else, and you will be surprised to find how many pure and beautiful
beings there are all around you, holding their finger-tips to hide
a smile of welcome and ready--“yes, Edgar”--eager to mate with one
worthy and ready to marry them, for marriage is a natural hope of every
right-minded woman.
This is a fourth method: read aloud of characters like Arden, Romeo,
or Abelard, or Paul and Virginia, and make your comments audibly. You
will not be long in tracing a conclusion. Be a little ingenious about
it, find out through your sister. Prepare the way and don’t ask until
you find she is unpledged, remember; or at least tarry long enough to
be reasonably certain. And what if refused? No harm done. Like the
German’s sugar, “The other pound is shust so good as the first one.”
One man I know drew off a list of all his acquaintances worthy of
marriage, and went about it like a regular wheat-buyer. He was a
bachelor, of course, and very eccentric. Coming to the first, he
explained his object, concealing all names, but saying she was first
of a long list furnished him by a friend (each one was first, always);
then he would say, “I will give you a week to consider it, and no harm
done; if not then, I must pursue my list further.” Of all the sold-out
men, he was sold the cheapest! He married a whole family. The first two
were disgusted, the third or fourth accepted. This looks too much like
a purchase and sale, and don’t try the method.
The last way is sensible; by writing--many a proposal is in writing.
Even in that be a little guarded; once a no, yeses come with
reluctance. It is best not to give one an opportunity to say no, but to
parry long enough to test the opposition. If it were a race-horse to
buy, a house to contract for, or a block to purchase, it would not be
very hard to strike a bargain. So that, once finding form, character,
fitness, affection, desire to be mated, go about the rest by a direct
and sensible method, and don’t wear out the gate-hinges, burn out all
the oil, weary the old folks, or turn gray with anxiety, but do it.
_Don’t marry a drunkard._ He will promise, by all that’s good, great,
and holy, to reform. How many more like him have made just such
promises? He can’t keep such a promise if he would. Make him reform a
couple of years at least, on trial, before you marry him. It will be
time enough then to risk a life-partnership, to chain your hopes to an
unfortunate creature whose sense and judgment are corrupted, not by
will, perhaps, but by habit stronger than reason. With most men this
habit becomes a desire. They are bound to feed the fire that burns
them. They have no voice in the matter, and cannot, if they would,
break the strong fetters that bind them in irons, like the prison bars
confine their victims.
It’s a sorry picture to behold a fair young girl chained to a being
with a will all lost and debauched in appetite for drink; a section
of the land of departed evil spirits can only equal her daily misery.
Children must bear it, friends submit to it, and all of character,
sweetness of temper, or refinement in one’s nature will revolt at the
coarseness of the wrecked and wretched career of a drunkard’s life. He
is an object of pity, and a being to be shunned in matrimony, no matter
how many promises he makes or how good he is otherwise.
To avoid long sorrow, disgrace, and regret, avoid him. If you had two
lives and one to dispose of, at any cost, mate with a drunkard and die
a thousand deaths. Your health, peace, and happiness will go with his.
“Art thou mated with a clown,
Then the baseness of his nature
Will have weight to drag thee down.”
Such a man will kill his wife, burn his own child, sacrifice everything
on earth when scourged by this degrading passion. More could be urged,
but let the starving families, the criminal courts, the idiotic
children, tell the rest: the story is too dreadful to dwell upon. It is
monstrous. Life becomes a burden, and death a sweet release from such a
cross. Of all the matches on earth, the most to be dreaded and avoided
is the drunkard’s wife.
_Don’t marry a fast man or woman._ Something tells us that black logs
will darken the whitest garments. The edge of virtue once dulled
is never quite so keen afterwards. It may be very well to speak
slightingly of wild oats, but who cares to know that their oats are a
second crop? Who is willing to believe that they are the last resort of
one who has pleaded and pledged to hundreds or even dozens before her,
or waits an opportunity to make as many more pledges as occasion may
offer? Fast men are not satisfied with one vice merely, but follow on
to many. They may drink, gamble, sport, and venture, and step by step
indulge in the kindred vices of lewdness, till disease shall fasten its
clutches in their burning blood and run in their veins for a lifetime.
They are rarely satisfied with one home, one wife, and one family.
_Don’t marry a foreigner_,--one who comes from a far-away country and
returns to it. It is very uncertain; think ahead carefully. The new and
strange customs of his country may and may not be congenial. They may
be a dreary dream of home and early separation. Think of the ties of
friendship, the cords of affection twined and woven around your nature;
ties that are not severed without many pangs of sorrow. Life is a
short, strange journey, and, make it when we will or where we will, it
is pleasant to be made with company. Those who know us best will love
us most if we deserve it, and few will continue on in friendship long
after we go to strange and unknown countries. A stranger neighbor soon
comes nearer than a long-absent friend whom we never hear from.
_Don’t marry a spendthrift._ The habit of living is formed early.
Either one is bent on rising or going lower. As water seeks its level,
so men seek their ambition and find it. Prosperity comes not on silver
trays, ready-made and ready for use to everybody; most men work for
it, strive for it, and deserve it. The sons of the rich, who inherit
property and have formed the habit of useless spending, are a little
bit lower than the poor. It is not disgraceful at all to be born poor;
but to become so after once being rich, and that through reckless
spending, is a dishonor to any one. “One thing we can be proud of,”
said Ingersoll; “we’ve made some improvement on the original implements
and the common stock.”
A young man who lives on his father’s earnings has very little to
boast of, but one who squanders his inheritance in riotous living
is an object of contempt and ridicule. “He is one of the old man’s
pensioners,” said a business man lately of a rich man’s son. “But for
his father’s thrift he would be a beggar; he lives like a refined
beggar on the food furnished by another. What a brilliant genius he is!”
_Don’t marry your cousin._ It may be very tempting; relatives are often
warmly attached to each other from long and intimate acquaintance.
Remember that constantly thrown in each other’s society will often
create such attachments. With many persons, marriage of blood relations
will more or less lead to deafness, blindness, or deformity. It may
skip one generation and find another. It may result in disease and
weakness. It may be all right, but seven to eight it is risky and
uncertain, and you can’t afford to be uncertain in such matters.
_Don’t marry too far above or below you._ There is no such thing as
station in this country, like the titles and surroundings of Europe;
but ignorance mated with refinement must be lost and confused, and ill
at ease every hour.
Such matches are hasty, and poorly considered. They lead to gossip and
resentment of relatives, and an uncomfortable ill-feeling, seldom cured
for a full generation. If one has beauty and refinement and is poor,
never mind the poverty; the good qualities are more than a balance. But
the marriage of a millionaire’s daughter with a coachman is supreme
folly. It ends in disunion, and never in harmony. Water and oil will as
soon mix as such elements. Avoid them.
_Don’t marry a doubly divorced man or woman_: it’s risky. Something
is wrong surely. One divorce should cure any one. Two is a profusion.
It may be that the doubly divorced is innocent,--he will claim to be;
but if he seeks a new party to a possible divorce case (it will be a
habit by this time), tell him to wait a little longer. Grass widows may
be very lovable creatures, but unless their other halves were clearly
blamable, beyond reasonable question, give them a wide road and avoid
them entirely. It is a very bad sign, possibly a habit, that a man and
woman mate and divide soon after; the fault may belong to either, and
most likely relates to both, in similar proportions.
_Don’t marry a miser._ Of all the old “curmudgeons” on earth, deliver
me from crabbed, narrow-minded, pinch-penny, miserable misers.
They begrudge you your meals and clothing. They count your shillings
and control your pin purchases; they make life a burden, by owning much
and using little, and eternally twit you of every quarter used ever so
sparingly.
Life is made to live in and enjoy. We make only one journey. We need
not open up our purses and leak out the pennies, just to see them roll
around promiscuously; but cutting notches on a stick for each one of
them, and never spending, even for necessaries, without dread and
grudging, is intolerable. I had rather be poor and enjoy something.
_Don’t marry too far apart in ages._ June and December is a long, long
distance in matrimony. Some people are as young-hearted at sixty
as others are at forty. Some men at forty-five have hardly reached
their manhood. But old, white-headed men, marrying girls in their
teens--servants generally--are pitiable spectacles. To the girl it is
suicide; to the man sheer folly; no need of marrying the man. The girl
is the most interested in this don’t sentence. Why not, if you love
him? This is the reason, not jealousy,--that is a partial reason,--but
consistency. Think of a trip round the world or across the continent
with one older than your father, to be called your husband, to be your
husband! It must be humiliating. It is annoying. It is foolishly silly
and inconsistent. Money is a small compensation for such a sacrifice.
Love, and love only, should govern marriage, and I doubt its sincerity
when the difference goes beyond reason.
Marry one whom you trust, admire, respect, look up to, and confide in,
can be true to, and one whom you love from good and earnest motives.
“Respect is a cold lunch in a dark dining-room. Love is a picnic in the
woods.” Think of a picnic and an old man escort!
_Don’t marry too old._ Be in earnest about it. Here is the thought in a
nut-shell:
TOO OLD TO LOVE.
I.
“I never loved but one,” she said;
“I loved him just for fun,” she said;
And, saying this, she swung her head--
Had she been frank, they had been wed.
I saw her at a ball that night,
Her eyes so dark and face so white,
Her tone and manner wild delight;
I knew she served him not aright.
II.
“I am too old to love,” she said;
“The one I loved in fun is dead!
I plant these flowers above his head,
Here lies my idol, dead!” she said.
“’Tis sad to think it might have been;
’Tis sadder yet to feel my sin.
Love learns too late; but then, but then,
He loved me once--the best of men.
III.
“I never see a pure, good face,
Nor painting outlines ever trace,
But he is near, his love is dear,
Had I been earnest; he were here!”
She veiled her dark eyes with her hand;
I turned away,--“True love is grand,”
I murmured, in an undertone;
“Life gives no more than love of one.”
_Don’t marry odd sizes._ A tall man with a little woman looks awkward
enough; but a tall woman with a little, tiny man is a misfit, surely.
See if you can’t find someone of your size, as the school-lads say in
a wrestle. Pair off like soldiers in time of dress parade, with an eye
to unity.
This caution relates to extremes, of course, and not to small
variances. Some change and grow portly after marriage, but none get
very much taller after twenty-four.
Just for the looks of the thing, pair off in uniform lines.
_Don’t marry a man or woman without a character._ Soon enough you’ll
see the value of this caution. Character is a matter that grows through
a lifetime, but enough of it crops out early to be noticed. One is
known not only by his company but by his habits, his tastes, and his
inclinations. It is said that some whole families are born fast; some
thievish, some inclined to crabbedness, others mild, upright, honest,
and reliable. It runs in the blood in some cases.
Suppose one is to marry for virtue, purity, and uprightness, he will
seek it in the blood as much as he would look for quality in a racer.
If a woman loves a rakish “man of the world,” so called,--a name too
often used to varnish a bad character,--she will very easily find him
around the different bar-rooms of almost any crowded hotel in the city
or village. He will be after marriage what he was before.
Tell me where a man goes, and I will tell you what he is. If he is
fast, he will cultivate fast habits, live a rapid life, and earn that
character very early. If these are the traits you are looking for,
“inquire within” and you will find them. It may be a woman you are
asking about, a girl for a wife, a life-long companion. Which are you
seeking for? A dashy, fly-away dancer, or a domestic home-lover, and
one whom you can trust with your keys, your secrets, your conscience?
Look to her character. In either case, the man or woman has lived
somewhere. Find out about it,--how long, how well, how faithfully.
A well-to-do widow, was crazy to marry a man that she fancied, and
who actually refused to give more than his name and hotel, and no
references. On careful inquiry such a person was known by no less
than two to four names,--changed to suit circumstances. The spell was
broken, the match ended.
Men and women often rush into matrimony as game is run into a trap, for
the little tempting bait set to catch them (a catch-as-catch-can race).
They marry and risk a life-long happiness on less actual information
of each other’s real nature than a good horseman would exact of his
carriage horse’s pedigree. This may do in the country, but never will
answer in a city. Sense and reason dictate that men and women, to enjoy
each other’s society, should see well to the match beforehand. A fine
hand, a small foot, a becoming hat, a twist of the head, a simper,
or a half-witty saying will do well in their places; but colors must
_wash_ and _wear_ to stand a lifetime.
_Don’t marry a clown._ A silly fellow that jokes on every subject never
did amount to anything, and never will. All he says may be very funny,
very; but how many times can he be funny?
Fun will grow stale and threadbare; one cannot live by it. Life is a
trip that costs car fare, wash bills, board bills, trinkets, notions,
and actual outlays. Real providers are never clowns; the clownish
fellow is a favorite in school-days. He is so cute, just as cute as a
cotton hat, so cunning, so witty, so nice. Is he? Wait a few years,
until his nice nonsense turns to active business!
_Don’t marry a dude._ Of all milk-and-water specimens, a dude is
the lowest,--a little removed from nothing; a dressed-up model for
a tailor-shop (sometimes it’s in woman form); a street flirt, a
hotel-step gazer, an eye-glass ogler, a street strut; one who finds his
enjoyment in the looking-glass--a masher.
Very many are called, but few are chosen. The many that are called are
ridiculed. The time will come when a tailor’s suit and a fancy outfit
will no more make one respectable than it would make a gentleman of a
wooden Indian in front of a cigar-stand.
Men, real men of business, and men fit to marry, are not dudes, but
manly, upright beings, with sense, integrity, and genius or industry;
who come upon the stage of life as real actors in its affairs, not as
“supes” and sham soldiers in “Pinafore” battle-scenes, where a few
parade in fancy feathers as commodores for the amusement of spectators.
Life is too earnest to spend on silly, tawdry, fancy colors or showy
clothing; and the one who has the less of it is the most likely to be
marked for a gentleman, and the brand will be correctly designated.
With women, no less than men, is this silly street-walking habit quite
prevalent. A flirting woman on a public street is a sorry picture;
even one who stoops to notice her must secretly know her measure. She
deceives no one, for her character, like the dude’s, is so transparent
that no one mistakes its meaning. The habit of going nowhere for
nothing is as foolish as it is injurious.
Character grows out of little things. It may be that being seen with a
disreputable person three times, or even once, will change the whole
current of our career. Don’t practise the vices of dudes nor the habits
of street flirts.
_Do not marry a boy or girl who is not good at home._ That is the
golden test of duty,--to do one’s duty alone, away from the eyes of
men and the notice of the world; to be good from a right disposition.
There is no safer rule to marry by than this: “She loves her mother,
and isn’t afraid to work. She has a good name at home among her near
neighbors. She is neat, sweet, and tidy. Seven days each week she is
never off guard, always a lady.”
And of a man may it be said, “He is a man, take him all in all; he
is manly, he is truthful; he loves his home; he treats his sisters
and mother kindly. He is capable of good deeds, and incapable of mean
ones. He has a good name.” He deserves success, and it will follow
him. He is plain, perhaps, but man outgrows it. He is not a painting,
an imitation, a counterfeit, but simply a man. He will do to marry; so
will she, the last-named.
_Don’t marry from pity._ It may be akin to love, but the kinship
is quite distant. Many a weak woman has so married, and only once
regretted it--each and every day afterwards. A life-long regret must
follow. What a cold respect is that compliment to any woman, “I took
pity on her!” Away with such base uses of pity! Many a woman has had
pity on a rakish man or a drunkard and married him to reform his
nature. Better, far better, trust a child with a runaway horse or a
mad dog. Danger seen and not avoided is criminal carelessness. Surely
you can save one life, and its happiness, in such cases. One is quite
enough to be sacrificed. Let bravery be shown by demanding a full
surrender and reasonable atonement.
_Don’t marry for an ideal marriage only._ The girlish dream of marriage
is so wide of the reality as to be dangerous. She is to grow up and
go away, off to Italy, or some far-away clime of sunshine; there to
be taught music and the classics. On some clear moonlight evening,
in a summer-time, where birds sing all day long, near a brook or
flower-garden, she is to be surprised by a creature of form and make
and mental endowment that shall thrill her whole being into rapturous
joy. They will go to the parlor, and there, by a grand-piano, she will
unseal the pent-up currents of her heart, till tears flow from all eyes
around her; there she will seem to hear the childhood melodies, the
song of departed friends, the harmony of all the senses, mingling in
one sweet welcome to her new-found happiness.
Her prisoned soul is no longer grovelling in common themes; all the
latent power of her being is to burst forth in gladness; and music of
the heart is to bear her up until the cottage walls are narrow, till
flowers and falling water, brilliant company, ease and riches, smile
upon her glad career.
She is to be lifted up, and raised to heights before unknown to
mortals. He of whom she dreams of now is fit for Paradise. Finer and
finer every day will his genius grow, and nearer to her liking every
hour. There is just such joy and just such glory in a new-born love,
that seems to reach a grander height each moment, as on eagle’s wings.
And this is but the generous dream that Nature gives, as a preface to
a real life after,--so very, very different. The girl that twines her
tender arms around her mother’s neck, and thrills with joyous pride in
telling of the brilliant prize that’s offered her, thinks not of rainy
days ahead. Perhaps it is just as well; who would begrudge her such
half-hours of happiness? But, seeing sometime she must break the spell
and know all, it may be safe to drop a hint in season, and say, This
way lies safety, that way danger!
_Don’t marry a man of even doubtful character._ No matter how handsome
or brilliant, a bad man has in him elements that are always repulsive;
they are poison to his blood and his surroundings, and the only safe
guide is his character.
No matter how many promises of reformation; you need not turn reformer
for his sake. If you will take the risk, do it after he proves himself
reformed, and be in no great haste about it.
No amount of spicing and seasoning can make tainted meat palatable, and
no amount of promising will reclaim a character tainted with vicious
habits once seated.
Young ladies who enter upon the reforming mission furnish more women
and children for prisons, later in life, by their own misfortunes than
any one class. Cases of reclaimed men after marriage are so rare as to
be exceptional. It’s always a dangerous experiment.
_Don’t marry too cautiously as to perfection._ It has before been fully
stated that men and women are human, and imperfect. That is, if you are
hunting angels it’s a fool’s errand; there are none unpledged. If you
look for tall, handsome, rich, manly, cultivated, talented, brilliant
men, or pure, refined, fascinating, beautiful women, and one for each
man the world over, the supply never equals the demand of either sex.
But to presume that the persons marked under head of “don’t marry”
cover all the rest is unreasonable. There are thousands of noble women
and men, possessed of sterling sense, strong bodies, affectionate
natures, ability to conduct a home, become a genial companion, raise a
family, shine in society, and bear their full share of life’s earnest
work. Occasionally a man or woman will tower above their fellows, but,
generally, the real difference is less than is often supposed. The
great majority are good, and live and go to their reward unheard of
outside of their neighborhood.
One has put it rather strongly in this, to many: “The lives of men
and women, the best of them, are marred and ruined by uncongenial
marriages. They mostly suffer in silence, ashamed to complain of
the chain they cannot break. Men and woman cannot know what their
sweethearts will be after marriage. I have known a sensitive man,
a genius with a soul like a star, whose life was a pilgrimage over
burning coals, because his wife was a coarse termagant. Many a gifted
woman, fit to be a queen or an empress, is chained to a clod of a
husband, whose forced companionship is to her the tortures of Inferno.”
_Don’t marry expecting all the virtues in one person._ If you do, the
disappointment will be startling. There are no perfect characters.
History gives none since the Saviour. Even Joseph was willing to
punish his enemies.
The majority of men and women are good and pure and fair-looking.
The numbers who go to the bad are few compared to the good. Take the
country population, and ninety per cent will be good; and sixty per
cent of all cities are people of fair characters.
It is a mistake to think that most people are bad because the bad
ones get so often chronicled in public journals. The good, like the
virtuous, live and die and demand no praise of their virtue. The great
mass of men are sensible, and honest and upright and sober, and worthy
to marry.
_Don’t break a marriage abruptly._ This is the wrong way to break a bad
match. It intensifies affection. It leads to elopement, or that slow
canker in a girl’s nature ending in melancholy, or insanity.
Love is a plant so tender that to uproot or transplant it may touch a
vital part. There are ways enough to change its current; but of all
food to increase its growth, give it a little opposition. Tell a child
to leave something alone, and he sulks to touch it. Tell a girl that
the man she admires is distasteful to her relatives, and she half
despises them from a simple motive of resentment. Lead her by reason to
see with her own eyes, and she will be convinced.
The great London actor, Garrick, played the drunkard to disenchant a
girl, and succeeded. Her parents might have tried it a lifetime and
failed. Human nature is queer. It will lead when the way is enticing.
It will magnify discoveries, but they must be discovered in the right
manner. Remove not the prop till the safety of the structure is secure
without it.
_Don’t oppose one’s marriage choice suddenly._ Should a girl fall in
love with one of bad character, it is best not to call him so at one
breath; but say, “What are his habits? Is he good enough and worthy of
so pure and comely a person as you are?” Let this task be performed by
some girl of same age and class as the one you seek to change. Let them
be often together, and find ways of expressing the objections by this
method--coming from a classmate, a friend, a chum or companion--and
your object may be easily accomplished. A proposed absence without
showing why, a long journey with genial company, may have the desired
effect. At least use one caution; see that the girl knows the real
habits and character of the man you are opposed to her marrying. It
will do more than all the urging, scolding, coaxing, or threatening.
_Don’t marry for spite._ Why should you? If the one whom you loved most
has deceived you and taken another, it will be folly to try to punish
him by hanging yourself, or committing a double suicide in a loveless
marriage.
You will learn this lesson all too dearly when it’s over. Life is too
short for those who love it and are well mated; but many a miserable
marriage has made one or the other wish for death a million times, to
be rid of its burden.
You are the one most interested. You will find out, after the knot is
tied, that there are many conditions in life better and easier to be
endured than a silly marriage to spite some one. You will spite them
better by showing what a noble choice they had missed when they took
another in your place.
_Don’t propose on a wash-day, in the rain, at breakfast, or in a
tunnel._ There is no room for fainting in the former, and a narrow
chance for time in the latter.
Many ladies have singular notions on how proposals should be accepted,
and to such any rudeness is extremely shocking. A very modest fellow,
in deep anxiety, took up his fair lady’s cat, and said, “Pussy, may I
marry your mistress?” when the young lady replied, “Say yes, pussy,
when he gets brave enough to ask for her.” More than likely this
brought the young fellow to his senses. It certainly brought matters to
a crisis.
Most young people talk to each other as though a tall stone wall stood
between them and they must find a door in it. Strange enough, the
difference in views vanishes at the merest mention of each other’s
sentiments.
_Don’t mitten a mechanic_, simply on account of his business. If he is
worthy, never mind his business. He can grow out of it, and will grow
out of it. Collier was a blacksmith, Wilson a shoemaker, Andrew Johnson
a tailor, Peter Cooper a glue-maker, Grant a tanner, and Lincoln the
humblest of farmers. In this country it is not a question what a man
was, but what he is; not even
|
+--------
Name | _a_ | _P_ | _e_ | [pi] | [AN] | _i_
-----------------+--------+---------+--------+----------+----------+--------
149. Medusa | 2.1327 | 1137.7d | 0.1194 | 246° 37´ | 342° 13´ | 1° 6´
244. Sita | 2.1765 | 1172.8 | 0.1370 | 13 8 | 208 37 | 2 50
228. Agathe | 2.2009 | 1192.6 | 0.2405 | 329 23 | 313 18 | 2 33
8. Flora | 2.2014 | 1193.3 | 0.1567 | 32 54 | 110 18 | 5 53
43. Ariadne | 2.2033 | 1194.5 | 0.1671 | 277 58 | 264 35 | 3 28
254. Augusta | 2.2060 | 1196.8 | 0.1227 | 260 47 | 28 9 | 4 36
72. Feronia | 2.2661 | 1246.0 | 0.1198 | 307 58 | 207 49 | 5 24
40. Harmonia | 2.2673 | 1247.0 | 0.0466 | 0 54 | 93 35 | 4 16
207. Hedda | 2.2839 | 1260.7 | 0.0301 | 217 2 | 28 51 | 3 49
136. Austria | 2.2863 | 1262.7 | 0.0849 | 316 6 | 186 7 | 9 33
18. Melpomene | 2.2956 | 1270.4 | 0.2177 | 15 6 | 150 4 | 10 9
80. Sappho | 2.2962 | 1270.9 | 0.2001 | 355 18 | 218 44 | 8 37
261. Prymno | 2.3062 | 1278.4 | 0.0794 | 179 35 | 96 33 | 3 38
12. Victoria | 2.3342 | 1302.7 | 0.2189 | 301 39 | 235 35 | 8 23
27. Euterpe | 2.3472 | 1313.5 | 0.1739 | 87 59 | 93 51 | 1 36
219. Thusnelda | 2.3542 | 1319.4 | 0.2247 | 340 34 | 200 44 | 10 47
163. Erigone | 2.3560 | 1320.9 | 0.1567 | 93 46 | 159 2 | 4 42
169. Zelia | 2.3577 | 1322.3 | 0.1313 | 326 20 | 354 38 | 5 31
4. Vesta | 2.3616 | 1325.6 | 0.0884 | 250 57 | 103 29 | 7 8
186. Celuta | 2.3623 | 1326.2 | 0.1512 | 327 24 | 14 34 | 13 6
84. Clio | 2.3629 | 1326.7 | 0.2360 | 339 20 | 327 28 | 9 22
51. Nemausa | 2.3652 | 1328.6 | 0.0672 | 174 43 | 175 52 | 9 57
220. Stephania | 2.3666 | 1329.8 | 0.2653 | 332 53 | 258 24 | 7 35
30. Urania | 2.3667 | 1329.9 | 0.1266 | 31 46 | 308 12 | 2 6
105. Artemis | 2.3744 | 1336.4 | 0.1749 | 242 38 | 188 3 | 21 31
113. Amalthea | 2.3761 | 1337.8 | 0.0874 | 198 44 | 123 11 | 5 2
115. Thyra | 2.3791 | 1340.3 | 0.1939 | 43 2 | 309 5 | 11 35
161. Athor | 2.3792 | 1340.5 | 0.1389 | 310 40 | 18 27 | 9 3
172. Baucis | 2.3794 | 1340.6 | 0.1139 | 329 23 | 331 50 | 10 2
249. Ilse | 2.3795 | 1340.6 | 0.2195 | 14 17 | 334 49 | 9 40
230. Athamantis | 2.3842 | 1344.6 | 0.0615 | 17 31 | 239 33 | 9 26
7. Iris | 2.3862 | 1346.4 | 0.2308 | 41 23 | 259 48 | 5 28
9. Metis | 2.3866 | 1346.7 | 0.1233 | 71 4 | 68 32 | 5 36
234. Barbara | 2.3873 | 1347.3 | 0.2440 | 333 26 | 144 9 | 15 22
60. Echo | 2.3934 | 1352.4 | 0.1838 | 98 36 | 192 5 | 3 35
63. Ausonia | 2.3979 | 1356.3 | 0.1239 | 270 25 | 337 58 | 5 48
25. Phocea | 2.4005 | 1358.5 | 0.2553 | 302 48 | 208 27 | 21 35
192. Nausicaa | 2.4014 | 1359.3 | 0.2413 | 343 19 | 160 46 | 6 50
20. Massalia | 2.4024 | 1365.8 | 0.1429 | 99 7 | 206 36 | 0 41
265. Anna | 2.4096 | 1366.2 | 0.2628 | 226 18 | 335 26 | 25 24
182. Elsa | 2.4157 | 1371.4 | 0.1852 | 51 52 | 106 30 | 2 0
142. Polana | 2.4194 | 1374.5 | 0.1322 | 219 54 | 317 34 | 2 14
67. Asia | 2.4204 | 1375.4 | 0.1866 | 306 35 | 202 47 | 5 59
44. Nysa | 2.4223 | 1377.0 | 0.1507 | 111 57 | 131 11 | 3 42
6. Hebe | 2.4254 | 1379.3 | 0.2034 | 15 16 | 138 43 | 10 47
83. Beatrix | 2.4301 | 1383.6 | 0.0859 | 191 46 | 27 32 | 5 0
135. Hertha | 2.4303 | 1383.8 | 0.2037 | 320 11 | 344 3 | 2 19
131. Vala | 2.4318 | 1385.1 | 0.0683 | 222 50 | 65 15 | 4 58
112. Iphigenia | 2.4335 | 1386.6 | 0.1282 | 338 9 | 324 3 | 2 37
21. Lutetia | 2.4354 | 1388.2 | 0.1621 | 327 4 | 80 28 | 3 5
118. Peitho | 2.4384 | 1390.8 | 0.1608 | 77 36 | 47 30 | 7 48
126. Velleda | 2.4399 | 1392.1 | 0.1061 | 347 46 | 23 7 | 2 56
42. Isis | 2.4401 | 1392.2 | 0.2256 | 317 58 | 84 28 | 8 35
19. Fortuna | 2.4415 | 1394.4 | 0.1594 | 31 3 | 211 27 | 1 33
79. Eurynome | 2.4436 | 1395.2 | 0.1945 | 44 22 | 206 44 | 4 37
138. Tolosa | 2.4492 | 1400.0 | 0.1623 | 311 39 | 54 52 | 3 14
189. Phthia | 2.4505 | 1401.1 | 0.0356 | 6 50 | 203 22 | 5 10
11. Parthenope | 2.4529 | 1403.2 | 0.0994 | 318 2 | 125 11 | 4 37
178. Belisana | 2.4583 | 1407.8 | 0.1266 | 278 0 | 50 17 | 2 5
198. Ampella | 2.4595 | 1408.9 | 0.2266 | 354 46 | 268 45 | 9 20
248. Lameia | 2.4714 | 1419.1 | 0.0656 | 248 40 | 246 34 | 4 1
17. Thetis | 2.4726 | 1420.1 | 0.1293 | 261 37 | 125 24 | 5 36
46. Hestia | 2.5265 | 1466.8 | 0.1642 | 354 14 | 181 31 | 2 17
89. Julia | 2.5510 | 1488.2 | 0.1805 | 353 13 | 311 42 | 16 11
232. Russia | 2.5522 | 1489.3 | 0.1754 | 200 25 | 152 30 | 6 4
29. Amphitrite | 2.5545 | 1491.3 | 0.0742 | 56 23 | 356 41 | 6 7
170. Maria | 2.5549 | 1491.7 | 0.0639 | 95 47 | 301 20 | 14 23
262. Valda | 2.5635 | 1496.4 | 0.2172 | 61 42 | 38 40 | 7 46
258. Tyche | 2.5643 | 1499.8 | 0.1966 | 15 42 | 208 4 | 14 50
134. Sophrosyne | 2.5647 | 1500.3 | 0.1165 | 67 33 | 346 22 | 11 36
264. Libussa | 2.5672 | 1502.4 | 0.0925 | 0 7 | 50 23 | 10 29
193. Ambrosia | 2.5758 | 1510.0 | 0.2854 | 70 52 | 351 15 | 11 39
13. Egeria | 2.5765 | 1510.6 | 0.0871 | 120 10 | 43 12 | 16 32
5. Astræa | 2.5786 | 1512.4 | 0.1863 | 134 57 | 141 28 | 5 19
119. Althea | 2.5824 | 1515.7 | 0.0815 | 11 29 | 203 57 | 5 45
157. Dejanira | 2.5828 | 1516.1 | 0.2105 | 107 24 | 62 31 | 12 2
101. Helena | 2.5849 | 1518.0 | 0.1386 | 327 15 | 343 46 | 10 11
32. Pomona | 2.5873 | 1520.1 | 0.0830 | 193 22 | 220 43 | 5 29
91. Ægina | 2.5895 | 1522.1 | 0.1087 | 80 22 | 11 7 | 2 8
14. Irene | 2.5896 | 1522.1 | 0.1627 | 180 19 | 86 48 | 9 8
111. Ate | 2.5927 | 1524.8 | 0.1053 | 108 42 | 306 13 | 4 57
151. Abundantia | 2.5932 | 1525.3 | 0.0356 | 173 55 | 38 48 | 6 30
56. Melete | 2.6010 | 1532.2 | 0.2340 | 294 50 | 194 1 | 8 2
132. Æthra | 2.6025 | 1533.5 | 0.3799 | 152 24 | 260 2 | 25 0
214. Aschera | 2.6111 | 1541.1 | 0.0316 | 115 55 | 342 30 | 3 27
70. Panopea | 2.6139 | 1543.6 | 0.1826 | 299 49 | 48 18 | 11 38
194. Procne | 2.6159 | 1545.4 | 0.2383 | 319 33 | 159 19 | 18 24
53. Calypso | 2.6175 | 1546.8 | 0.2060 | 92 52 | 143 58 | 5 7
78. Diana | 2.6194 | 1548.5 | 0.2088 | 121 42 | 333 58 | 8 40
124. Alceste | 2.6297 | 1557.6 | 0.0784 | 245 42 | 188 26 | 2 56
23. Thalia | 2.6306 | 1558.4 | 0.2299 | 123 58 | 67 45 | 10 14
164. Eva | 2.6314 | 1559.1 | 0.3471 | 359 32 | 77 28 | 24 25
15. Eunomia | 2.6437 | 1570.0 | 0.1872 | 27 52 | 188 26 | 2 56
37. Fides | 2.6440 | 1570.3 | 0.1758 | 66 26 | 8 21 | 3 7
66. Maia | 2.6454 | 1571.6 | 0.1750 | 48 8 | 8 17 | 3 6
224. Oceana | 2.6465 | 1572.6 | 0.0455 | 270 51 | 353 18 | 5 52
253. Mathilde | 2.6469 | 1572.9 | 0.2620 | 333 39 | 180 3 | 6 37
50. Virginia | 2.6520 | 1577.4 | 0.2852 | 10 9 | 173 45 | 2 48
144. Vibilia | 2.6530 | 1578.4 | 0.2348 | 7 9 | 76 47 | 4 48
85. Io | 2.6539 | 1579.2 | 0.1911 | 322 35 | 203 56 | 11 53
26. Proserpine | 2.6561 | 1581.1 | 0.0873 | 236 25 | 45 55 | 3 36
233. Asterope | 2.6596 | 1584.3 | 0.1010 | 344 36 | 222 25 | 7 39
102. Miriam | 2.6619 | 1586.3 | 0.3035 | 354 39 | 211 58 | 5 4
240. Vanadis | 2.6638 | 1588.0 | 0.2056 | 51 53 | 114 54 | 2 6
73. Clytie | 2.6652 | 1589.3 | 0.0419 | 57 55 | 7 51 | 2 24
218. Bianca | 2.6653 | 1589.3 | 0.1155 | 230 14 | 170 50 | 15 13
141. Lumen | 2.6666 | 1590.5 | 0.2115 | 13 43 | 319 7 | 11 57
77. Frigga | 2.6680 | 1591.8 | 0.1318 | 58 47 | 2 0 | 2 28
3. Juno | 2.6683 | 1592.0 | 0.2579 | 54 50 | 170 53 | 13 1
97. Clotho | 2.6708 | 1594.3 | 0.2550 | 65 32 | 160 37 | 11 46
75. Eurydice | 2.6720 | 1595.3 | 0.3060 | 335 33 | 359 56 | 5 1
145. Adeona | 2.6724 | 1595.4 | 0.1406 | 117 53 | 77 41 | 12 38
204. Callisto | 2.6732 | 1596.4 | 0.1752 | 257 45 | 205 40 | 8 19
114. Cassandra | 2.6758 | 1598.8 | 0.1401 | 153 6 | 164 24 | 4 55
201. Penelope | 2.6764 | 1599.3 | 0.1818 | 334 21 | 157 5 | 5 44
64. Angelina | 2.6816 | 1603.9 | 0.1271 | 125 36 | 311 4 | 1 19
98. Ianthe | 2.6847 | 1606.7 | 0.1920 | 148 52 | 354 7 | 15 32
34. Circe | 2.6864 | 1608.3 | 0.1073 | 148 41 | 184 46 | 5 27
123. Brunhilda | 2.6918 | 1613.2 | 0.1150 | 72 57 | 308 28 | 6 27
166. Rhodope | 2.6927 | 1613.9 | 0.2140 | 30 51 | 129 33 | 12 2
109. Felicitas | 2.6950 | 1616.0 | 0.3002 | 56 1 | 4 56 | 8 3
246. Asporina | 2.6994 | 1619.9 | 0.1065 | 255 54 | 162 35 | 15 39
58. Concordia | 2.7004 | 1620.8 | 0.0426 | 189 10 | 161 20 | 5 2
103. Hera | 2.7014 | 1621.8 | 0.0803 | 321 3 | 136 18 | 5 24
54. Alexandra | 2.7095 | 1629.1 | 0.2000 | 295 39 | 313 45 | 11 47
226. Weringia | 2.7118 | 1631.2 | 0.2048 | 284 46 | 135 18 | 15 50
59. Olympia | 2.7124 | 1631.7 | 0.1189 | 17 33 | 170 26 | 8 37
146. Lucina | 2.7189 | 1637.5 | 0.0655 | 227 34 | 84 16 | 13 6
45. Eugenia | 2.7205 | 1639.0 | 0.0811 | 232 5 | 147 57 | 6 35
210. Isabella | 2.7235 | 1641.7 | 0.1220 | 44 22 | 32 58 | 5 18
187. Lamberta | 2.7272 | 1645.0 | 0.2391 | 214 4 | 22 13 | 10 43
180. Garumna | 2.7286 | 1646.3 | 0.1722 | 125 56 | 314 42 | 0 54
160. Una | 2.7287 | 1646.4 | 0.0624 | 55 57 | 9 22 | 3 51
140. Siwa | 2.7316 | 1649.0 | 0.2160 | 300 33 | 107 2 | 3 12
110. Lydia | 2.7327 | 1650.0 | 0.0770 | 336 49 | 57 10 | 6 0
185. Eunice | 2.7372 | 1654.1 | 0.1292 | 16 32 | 153 50 | 23 17
203. Pompeia | 2.7376 | 1654.5 | 0.0588 | 42 51 | 348 37 | 3 13
200. Dynamene | 2.7378 | 1654.6 | 0.1335 | 46 38 | 325 26 | 6 56
197. Arete | 2.7390 | 1655.8 | 0.1621 | 324 51 | 82 6 | 8 48
206. Hersilia | 2.7399 | 1656.5 | 0.0389 | 95 44 | 145 16 | 3 46
255. Oppavia | 2.7402 | 1656.6 | 0.0728 | 169 15 | 14 6 | 9 33
247. Eukrate | 2.7412 | 1657.7 | 0.2387 | 53 44 | 0 20 | 25 7
38. Leda | 2.7432 | 1659.6 | 0.1531 | 101 20 | 296 27 | 6 57
125. Liberatrix | 2.7437 | 1660.0 | 0.0798 | 273 29 | 169 35 | 4 38
173. Ino | 2.7446 | 1660.8 | 0.2047 | 13 28 | 148 34 | 14 15
36. Atalanta | 2.7452 | 1661.3 | 0.3023 | 42 44 | 359 14 | 18 42
128. Nemesis | 2.7514 | 1666.9 | 0.1257 | 16 34 | 76 31 | 6 16
93. Minerva | 2.7537 | 1669.0 | 0.1405 | 274 44 | 5 4 | 8 37
127. Johanna | 2.7550 | 1670.3 | 0.0659 | 122 37 | 31 46 | 8 17
71. Niobe | 2.7558 | 1671.0 | 0.1732 | 221 17 | 316 30 | 23 19
213. Lilæa | 2.7563 | 1671.4 | 0.1437 | 281 4 | 122 17 | 6 47
55. Pandora | 2.7604 | 1675.1 | 0.1429 | 10 36 | 10 56 | 7 14
237. Coelestina | 2.7607 | 1675.5 | 0.0738 | 282 49 | 84 33 | 9 46
143. Adria | 2.7619 | 1676.6 | 0.0729 | 222 27 | 333 42 | 11 30
82. Alcmene | 2.7620 | 1676.6 | 0.2228 | 131 45 | 26 57 | 2 51
116. Sirona | 2.7669 | 1681.1 | 0.1433 | 152 47 | 64 26 | 3 35
1. Ceres | 2.7673 | 1681.4 | 0.0763 | 149 38 | 80 47 | 10 37
88. Thisbe | 2.7673 | 1681.5 | 0.1632 | 308 34 | 277 54 | 16 11
215. Oenone | 2.7679 | 1682.0 | 0.0390 | 346 24 | 25 25 | 1 44
2. Pallas | 2.7680 | 1682.1 | 0.2408 | 122 12 | 172 45 | 34 44
39. Lætitia | 2.7680 | 1682.1 | 0.1142 | 3 8 | 157 15 | 10 22
41. Daphne | 2.7688 | 1682.8 | 0.2674 | 220 33 | 179 8 | 15 58
177. Irma | 2.7695 | 1683.5 | 0.2370 | 22 6 | 349 17 | 1 27
148. Gallia | 2.7710 | 1684.8 | 0.1855 | 36 7 | 145 13 | 25 21
267. Tirza | 2.7742 | 1687.6 | 0.0986 | 264 5 | 73 59 | 6 2
74. Galatea | 2.7770 | 1690.3 | 0.2392 | 8 18 | 197 51 | 4 0
205. Martha | 2.7771 | 1690.4 | 0.1752 | 21 54 | 212 12 | 10 40
139. Juewa | 2.7793 | 1692.4 | 0.1773 | 164 34 | 2 21 | 10 57
28. Bellona | 2.7797 | 1692.7 | 0.1491 | 124 1 | 144 37 | 9 22
68. Leto |
|
thrown the queen
was so great that she fell ill, and could not accompany her husband to
Leinster. So that, as on a previous occasion, he had to travel without
her, the understanding being that she would take the road after him,
and, travelling more lightly, could perhaps catch on his company before
they reached Naas, the court and capital of the King of Leinster.
With his force, but unknown to it, there went a youth--a long-striding,
active, bull-like young man with a freckled face and red hair, and
than whom there was no more jovial person in all Ireland, for if a
man was striking at him with a spear he could make that man laugh
so much that he would not be able to hit straight. His name was mac
Roth. He was Maeve’s personal servant, her herald. But just as the
word “conversation-woman” cloaked another occupation for Lavarcham, so
the word “herald” hid the same usefulness in mac Roth. He was Maeve’s
personal spy, but he also was her herald, and in after days, because of
his knowledge, address, and courage, he was to be the chief herald of
all Ireland.
He accompanied Conachúr’s force, but he was not with it. He was a mile
in advance, or a perch behind, or he was to the right of it just at a
small distance, or he was looking from a hill on the left as the gay
cavalcade and silver-shining chariots went by in the valley.
He accompanied them in that manner unseen for two days, and then,
murmuring a blessing on them and on their encampment, he left them in
the night, taking from them the loan of an unwatched horse, and he rode
back by short cuts to Emain.
When he reached the palace he was able to report that the king had gone
so far he could not easily turn back; and at that news Maeve’s illness
departed from her as suddenly as it had come.
In the morning she called for twenty of the chief men of her bodyguard
and gave them careful, separate instruction. Then she informed the
domestics that her quarters must be thoroughly cleaned while the king
was away, and that everything she owned must be put out on the sunny
lawn for airing and counting.
The palace chamberlain came in great haste, but that suave man was
soothed by Maeve and sent away with his dignity unhurt, but his mind
exercised. He communicated his news to Lavarcham, who had retired to
the company of her “babe” outside Emania. Within the hour Lavarcham
despatched a flying messenger to Conachúr, but just outside the city
mac Roth, who was waiting for him in a hedge, buzzed a spear through
that man’s back as he went thundering past. But in the night Lavarcham,
who left little to chance, sent other messengers, so that if some
miscarried others would not.
But Maeve’s plan was at work, the men she had chosen for a particular
part were acting in that part, and inside of ten hours her company
was deployed behind her baggage, her march to Connacht had begun, and
Conachúr was a bachelor again.
CHAPTER VII
It was as well that the king was in Leinster at the time of Maeve’s
flight. Had he been nearer home he would have been obliged to
do something, and, in such a situation, to do anything is to be
ridiculous. He knew Maeve too well to imagine that she would return for
a threat, yet he made the threats which seemed politic, for that was a
matter of course.
But the messengers who bore these rigorous intimations to her father
bore others to Maeve, and in these the son of Ness was humble as no one
could imagine possible, and as his counsellors might not have deemed
advisable.
There was no arrangement which she might have suggested that he would
not have agreed to, but the difference between them was too radical to
be spanned by arrangements.
Maeve was proud; she was vain to boot, and could not consent to be
second to any one. Living with Conachúr she had to be second, whatever
he or she might desire. Indeed, living with him anywhere she would have
to take second place, for the first place came to him so naturally,
with such ease and finality, it could not be questioned or revoked, or
contrived in any way.
More, and worse, she detested him for he had always dared her and
succeeded. She, it is true, had dared him, and on this occasion had
succeeded. But she could not live with him and dare him competently,
which is just what he could do with her. Even if he abdicated the
throne to her he would keep the sceptre, and she could no more take it
from him than she could have abstracted the speed from the lightning.
If she came back to Emania she would come back dead, or, should it
happen that she did come back alive, the king would at last have to
kill her or she would kill the king. Conachúr knew it, and at last
renounced his vain embassies and hopes.
If we should wonder why he sent them, or why he should hope, the answer
lay in his character. That clever, energetic man could not exist with a
tame mate. A mere bodily satisfaction he, sated in such satisfactions,
would have exhausted in a week, and thereafter he would be without a
refreshment which is as much of the mind as of the body, and which, to
one of his temperament, has always most of the mind even when it seems
fleshy to beastliness. She satisfied cravings of his nature which he
himself but dimly understood; and if, with her, the mistress was more
apparent than the wife, therein lies the desire and doom of a clever
man.
For he was diabolically clever, and, so, not wise, and, so, not great.
Only the great escape slavery, and he was the slave to his ego and
would be whipped. A great man would not, because he could not, take
mean advantages. But the manner in which Conachúr ousted Fergus from
his throne will command the admiration of his peers only, and obtain
from them the justification which success requires. And yet he could
retain the love of his victim, the trust of his people. He was so
near to greatness; there were such sterling qualities running with
the egotism; he could be so mild in difficulties, so clear-sighted in
counsel; he could be so staunch a friend; he could forgive with such
royal liberality; he could spend himself so endlessly for his realm.
Cúchulain did not think of him as a bad man, nor did Fergus; and as to
the latter, he loved and honoured Conachúr above the men of Ireland.
Was that a defect or a merit in Fergus? Was he too great or too simple?
But it was not for clever tricks he admired Conachúr, nor was it for
tricks that his people referred to him as the “wide-eyed, majestic
king.”
However he bore the flight in public, he mourned for and craved for
Maeve in private, and the illness which comes to a baulked will fell on
him, corroding his mind and his temper, so that even Lavarcham left him
as much alone as her duties permitted.
Again and again by an effort of the will he would arouse from that sour
brooding to throw himself into work and into the grave joviality which
had once been his note; but, as instantly, he would relapse visibly
to any eye, and might stare so sardonically and uncomprehendingly on
a suppliant that the latter would be glad to go away with his tale
unlistened to.
Matters were thus when a new plan began to brood in Lavarcham’s mind,
so that when she looked on her babe again it began to seem that she
looked on a queen, for she intended to marry Deirdre to Conachúr.
All Ulster wished the king to marry again, for a celibate prince is a
scandal to the people.
It was the constant effort of those responsible in the State to marry
off a young prince almost as soon as he came to the age of puberty.
For such youngsters are great rovers, with appetites as gluttonous as
dogs, and so care-free that they are surprised and indignant if others
question the action which they do not themselves weigh. It is certainly
a hardship and a tyranny if a neighbour should constrain a neighbour’s
wife to his own domestic uses, but it is only a hardship because the
affair occurs between equals, among whom friendly observances are due,
and between whom equal respect is grounded. Among equals anything that
implies inequality is a punishable wrong: but there is no hardship
when the superior takes what he carelessly desires. It is community of
interests which makes equals, and the disturbance of this which makes
enemies; but there is no community of interests between the prince and
the subject, and no man is aggrieved by an action which can only affect
his honour by increasing it. Nevertheless, so illogical is the mind of
man, and so uncompromising is the sense of property, that men could
be found who would interrupt with a spear the careless pleasure of a
prince; and there were some, blacksmiths mostly and cobblers, who would
take a cudgel to the king’s majesty itself and beat it out of a warm
bed.
So, when Lavarcham thought that she might conduct her ward between the
lax arms of her sovereign, she but harboured an idea which every male
person in the realm who had a wife, a sister, or a daughter, hoped for
with fervour.
Nor did the idea occur only to her.
Within a month of Maeve’s disappearance more young ladies began to
appear in Emania than had been noticed there previously, so that
Conachúr, had he been in a condition to observe such things, might have
noticed that Ulster had begun to blossom like the rose.
But plottings such as these were of small use in the case of a man like
Conachúr, and it is likely that the first person to know what should
be done and what was expected from the head of the State was the king
himself. His duty as a king would point him the way: the necessity to
repair what had been damaged would claim his mind; and the desire to
forget by replacing would be even more insistent; for if a hair of the
dog that bit you is the specific against drunkenness, it is a medicine
against love also, and is, alas! the only one we know of.
Therefore the king did for a while take a fevered interest in the
ladies of his court, but he found, so jaundiced was his eye, that they
were neither worth looking at nor worth talking to, and he did not
grudge their companionship to any man.
* * * * *
To Lavarcham, at last, he opened his mind.
“I must marry, Lavarcham, my soul.”
“There is plenty of time for that, master,” said the wily woman.
“While I have no wife,” Conachúr replied, “the people will talk of the
wife I had, and the only way to stop that is to give them something
else to talk of.”
“It is true, indeed,” said Lavarcham.
“I foresee,” he continued, “that I shall be compelled to marry some one
I do not care for.”
“In that case, master, you will be saved the trouble of choosing, for
you may take the first that comes.”
“They seem to resemble one another like peas in a pod. Are women all
alike, my friend?”
“They are much of a pattern, master.”
“And yet----” said the king, brooding deeply on one that had fled.
“Our little ward,” Lavarcham continued thoughtfully, “is rather
unusual.”
“What age is she now?” said the dull king.
“Sixteen years and a few months.”
“So much. We must think of marrying her to some friend. Perhaps one of
our kinsmen of Scotland. I must be reminded again of it.”
“Come and see her, master, and then you will be able to decide how she
should be disposed of.”
“I shall go to see her some day.”
CHAPTER VIII
Deirdre’s education in the art of the king continued, but it proceeded
now somewhat obliquely to its former trend.
What woman in Lavarcham’s place could avoid treating her master’s later
affairs without something of sentimentality creeping into the terms?
And what young girl could regard Maeve otherwise than as a heroine for
having dared so shocking a scandal, and such a round of perils? As
Lavarcham detailed Maeve, Deirdre interpreted her, and at the close of
the statement the judgement of each was so different, so opposed, that
a third person might have marvelled at the tricks the understanding can
play; for what was black to the one was not only white to the other,
but it was crimson and purple and gold; and what was treachery to
Lavarcham gleamed on Deirdre like a candid sunrise.
We assimilate knowledge less through our intellects than through our
temperaments; and a young person can by no effort look through the
eyes of an older. There are other ways by which a mutual perception
can be so deflected that the same thing is not similarly viewed, and
so Lavarcham’s appreciation of Maeve’s conduct would differ from
Conachúr’s, as his would be unlike Cathfa’s or Bricriu’s or Fergus mac
Roy’s, and as these would be obscure to one another. The element of
self-interest in each would act as a prism, and each would understand
as much of the tale as he desired to understand, but no more, and would
forgive or condemn on these arrested findings.
To Lavarcham Maeve’s flight was treachery and deserved punishment; but
it was not, in her thought, a misfortune for which even Conachúr need
weep. She had thoroughly disliked Maeve, for though she could impose on
every one she could not impress that imperious lady, and she had never
dared tell one half of Maeve’s doings lest the violent queen should
suspect, and loose a slash that would cut her in two halves in the very
presence of the king.
The departure of Maeve meant also the departure of mac Roth, and to be
free from that jovial, crafty eye was so great a relief that Lavarcham
could have wept in thankfulness; for to be a spy is a simple thing,
an occupation like any other, but to be spied upon when one is a spy
is a monstrous inversion of what is proper, and might easily give one
palpitations of the heart.
Mac Roth had her frightened, and could have cowed her any time he
wished. In her own craft he was her master, for, after all, she was
only a household spy, but he was a--spy. She could glean from the
kitchen or the Sunny Chamber everything that was there; but she must
have walls about her and work behind those; while mac Roth did not mind
whether he was in a room or in a forest; he would spy in a beehive; he
would spy on the horned end of the moon; he would spy in the middle of
the sea, and would know which wave it was that drowned him, and which
was the wave that urged it on.
Lavarcham was not only glad that Maeve was gone, she was jubilant;
and, moreover, it gave her an opportunity that she could scarcely have
hoped for to advance her babe in life without parting from her, and to
strengthen all her own grips on fortune.
Hitherto, when she had spoken of Conachúr to Deirdre she spoke of the
king’s majesty, but now, insensibly, she began to talk of a great man
bowed under misfortune and a proper subject for female pity. But she
could not wipe out the king’s majesty with that sponge nor alter one
lineament of the portrait she had taken ten years to limn.
The king persisted for Deirdre, stern and aloof and almost incredibly
ancient, looming out from and overshadowing her infancy like a fairy
tale; and was he not contemporary with Lavarcham, herself old enough to
be remembered but not thought of? Deirdre was interested in the king as
she was interested in the people of the Shí,[6] without expectation,
and with a little fear.
But to her reasonings and objections Lavarcham had one answer:
“My soul and dear treasure, you cannot speak about men, for you have
not seen any.”
And at last one day Deirdre replied:
“Indeed, mother, I have seen them, these men you tell me of.”
Lavarcham stared at her.
“And,” the gleeful child continued, “I have spoken to them.”
Her foster-mother became smoother than silk, and soft as the lap of
kindness.
“Tell me about that, my one love, and tell me how men seem to you now
that you have seen them.”
“It is not hard to tell,” replied Deirdre; “men are as ugly as donkeys,
and,” she continued, “they are just as nice.”
“As ugly and as nice as donkeys!” Lavarcham quoted in a daze.
“Yes, mother, and I love them because they are so nice and ugly and
good.”
“But what men are you talking of, my star?”
“I am talking of the men outside the walls.”
“The guards?”
“Of course.”
“And when did you see them?”
Deirdre laughed.
“Why, I have seen them ever since I was that height,” and she poised
her hand two feet above the ground.
Lavarcham laughed at her and waggled a reproving finger.
“You have not seen them very often, all the same.”
“I have indeed,” the girl replied triumphantly. “I have seen them every
day of my life for the last ten years.”
“And you spoke to them?”
“Of course I did. I know every one of them as well as I know you.”
“You do not, Deirdre!”
“I do so: I know their names, and who they are married to, and how many
children they have. O, I know everything about them.”
“Sly little fairy of the hills,” cried her perplexed guardian, “you are
poking fun at Lavarcham.”
“I surely am not,” Deirdre replied positively.
“Well, tell me about these men that are ugly and nice like donkeys.”
“Very well,” cried Deirdre, “I shall prove to you that I know them.
“You must know,” she narrated, “that each of these men is always at
the same place outside the wall, but some of them are on guard during
the daytime and others are on guard during the night. Every second
week they change this order and the ones that have been on duty in
the night take up day duty, and the day men replace them; and so they
change and change about, year in and year out, under the charge of
two captains and eight ancients. There are an hundred of these men
altogether; twenty-five of them march from point to point all around
the walls during the day, but in the night seventy-five men march to
and from smaller points. In the day also, one captain and two ancients
march around and overlook the twenty-five guards, but a captain and six
ancients march about the men who are on duty at night.”
“Ah-ha,” cried Lavarcham, “you have been told all this by the women
servants.”
“They only tell me tales of the men of Dana and of the Shí, and of how
their children were born, and of the proper way to cure pimples.”
“Well, tell me more,” sighed Lavarcham, “until I see what it is that
you do know.”
“The captain of the troop is named Daol, but the men call him Fat-face.
He has fourteen children and is unhappily married, for he has told me
many times that if he had a better wife he would be a better man. One
day when his wife was baking him a cake she baked a spell into it, so
that, although he had never felt ache or pain before, he was racked all
that day with torments; and ever since, when the moon changes and the
wind goes round, he gets pains in his bones, and he beats his wife when
he gets home on the head of it.”
“You are certainly acquainted with this Fat-face.”
“I love him. He wears a great leathern belt with a sword hung from it,
and, when he orders the men, he thrusts his two hands down through the
belt, stretches his legs very wide apart, and roars at them--but how
he roars! ‘Troop!’ he roars: ‘turn by the right hand: trot’; and all
the dear old men trot with their heads down very thoughtfully, until
he roars at them to stop trotting, and then they all sneeze, and talk
about their feet.
“Sometimes he lets me drill the men.”
“He should not,” said Lavarcham.
“He had to,” the girl replied, “for I threw stones at him from the top
of the wall until he agreed to let me do it. But that was a long time
ago.”
“He should have reported all this.”
“Do you mean he should have told on me,” cried Deirdre indignantly.
“Indeed I should like to see Fat-face daring to tell anything about me.
Why, the men would beat him if he told. I would get down off the wall
and beat him myself.”
[6] The Shí = Fairyland.
CHAPTER IX
This conversation greatly exercised Lavarcham, and she cast about
for some means whereby she might restrain her ward. It was waste of
time, as she quickly saw, for who that has been charged with a young
person aged sixteen has not been forced at last to renounce all real
guardianship?
At that age the time has passed for prohibitions, and the time has not
yet come when advice can be listened to except in the form of flattery.
The young body is eager for experience, and will be satisfied with
nothing less actual, so the older person must grant freedom of movement
or be run to death by that untiring energy. For a while the youngster
will drink deeply, secretly, of her own will, and will then disengage
for herself that which is serious and enduring from that which is
merely pleasant and unprofitable. For all people who are not mentally
lacking are sober-minded by instinct, and when the eager limbs have had
their way the being looks inwardly, pining to exercise the mind and to
equip itself for true existence.
At fourteen years of age Deirdre was not the untameable little savage
she had been at twelve, and at the age of sixteen she had begun to long
for some one to whom she might submit her will and from whom she could
receive the guidance and wisdom and refreshment which she divined to be
in herself, but which she could not reach.
Her fury of activity would be broken by equal periods of languor,
wherein she would sit as in a daze, staring at the sky and not seeing
it, or looking at the grass with a vague wonder as to what this was
upon which her eyes were resting. Wild creatures or tame would trot or
amble before her, but she was only conscious of a movement without a
form. A bird might light and flirt and hop and fly, and her forsaken
mind would touch those facts without gaining information from them,
and would lose itself behind the movement vaguely, blindly, dizzily,
until the bird mixed into the sky and the sky rounded and receded and
disappeared, leaving her eyes nothing to rest on and her errant mind
without any support.
She would look on her arms, as they hung helplessly in the grass, and
wonder that they were so unoccupied, and wonder that they were so
empty. And an oppression came to her heart, gentle enough, but without
end, as though something stirred there that could not stir, as though
something sought to weep and could not weep; so that she must weep for
it, and grieve for it, and be of a tenderness to that unknown beyond
all the tenderness that she had sensed about her. And these idle tears
would arouse, or assuage her, so that she wondered why she wept, and
she would leap from such nonsense and speed away like one distraught
with excess of life and energy.
She would become affectionate then. She mothered the cow and its lanky
calf; the peeping rabbit and her popping brood. The shaggy mare and her
dear, shy foaleen, an arm about each neck, listened to a conversation
they loved and seemed to understand. When she tried to leave them they
trotted behind with gentle, persistent feet and eyes of such pleading
that she must run passionately back, crying that she would come again,
that she would surely come back to them on the morrow. There was not a
nest she did not know of, and the young grey mother, snuggling among
the leaves, would look gravely out at the grey eye that peeped within,
and would hearken to a cooing so delicious, so burthened with love,
that her broody hour would pass uncounted, and she would forget her
mate abroad, and the wide airs of the tree-tops.
At night the moon could woo her so passionately she must forsake
her bed and go tiptoe among dark corridors until she came into the
presence. What wild counsel did she receive from the glowing queen! Or
was it the unmoving quietude that whispered without words; intimations
of--what? Shy touches at the heart, so that she, who feared nothing,
would look about her, startled as a young roe, who senses something on
the wind, and flies without more query.
How lovely to her was that suspense and fear, when her every nerve
thrilled to a life more poignant than she had surmised; when something
that did not happen was perpetually occurring; when, as it were in a
moment, she might be told--what secrets! or be cautioned of something
imminent and advised!
She lost herself in the moon, wooing it, wooed by it, until she seemed
to move in the moon, and the moon to move in her; a sole whiteness,
a sole chillness, one equal potency--For what? for that, for it, for
something, for nothing, for everything. She submitted her destiny
to the delicate sweet lady of the sky, and one night, beckoned to,
drawn at, surrounded, a small moon shining in the moon, she went on
and on, passing the grass to the turf; leaving the turf for the stony
places; from there to the wall, and over the wall also; so lightly, so
imperceptibly, so moonily, the drowsy guard did not see; or if he saw
’twas but a moonbeam that rose and fell, that fluttered and faded, that
lapsed over a piece of hollow ground and glimmered away on the slope,
merging in the silver flood and the shades of ebony, and gone while he
rubbed his eyes.
So she marched towards destiny.
She went among the darkness of trees, and farther, where the wood grew
thin, into a dappled dancing of jet and silver; and, beyond, to where
young voices called and called and called.
Such fresh young voices she had never heard before, used as she was to
the dry, clipped utterance of Lavarcham, the toothless mumble of the
servants, the rusty bawling of Fat-face as of an obstinate door that
told of aches and reluctances, and the wheezing and grunting of his
stiff companions. She stayed listening to those voices, young as her
own, and as sweet; rattling like the waters that tumble and ride in the
river; chattering like a nestful of young birds in spring; soaring up
and falling down with an infinite eagerness and joy; until it seemed
that a lark’s song and the flight of a swallow had come together and
fused into one streaming of sound.
Standing behind a vast black tree her astonished heart released itself
in tears, and she wept for her cloistered youth, and for all that she
did not know she had missed.
Then boldly she trod forward and sat herself resolutely at the
camp-fire of the sons of Uisneac.
CHAPTER X
They received her with the scant show of surprise which youth, so proud
of appearances, so jealous of its own dignity, extends to the unknown,
and, after the brief word of welcome, and swift surmising glance,
the conversation which she had interrupted renewed itself, perhaps
a shade more boisterously because they had been surprised, a little
more hardily because they knew one was listening who was not of their
company and might be critical.
Soon, in their own despite, something ceremonious crept on them,
overpowering their boisterousness and making each self-conscious,
until, by the inevitable degrees, silence hovered and threatened about
the fire, and for moments nothing moved but the eye that flickered and
wandered into woodland vistas, where delicate dark trees stood rimmed
in silver, and everything on the ground crept and fled as the boughs
swayed and the moon spilled through them.
But the silence only endured long enough for the look to become frank
and the mutual examination a judgement. Then the eldest of the three
boys seized the conversation to himself and upheld it, for he saw that
their guest was so afflicted with shyness that she could not move hand
or foot, and could not have replied if one had addressed her.
He spoke for occupation also, because, having looked at her, he feared
or was too shy to look again; feared, too, that the others might
observe his embarrassment; and, being one to whom action was a first
habit, he did what he could do when he found that there was something
which he could not do.
He did it well.
Listening to him Deirdre knew what was the mid surge of the stream
she had listened to, the top singing of the song she had heard. This
was the lark sustained at the top of flight, and the others the mazy
pattern of the swallows’ wings. Listening she could collect herself;
and, in a while, daring to hear, she dared to see, and then she heard
no more; for when the eye is filled the ear is no more attended, and
all that may be of beauty is there englobed, radiant, sufficient,
excessive.
How should I paint Naoise[7] as Deirdre saw him, or show Deirdre as
she appeared to the son of Uisneac? For than Deirdre there was no girl
so beautiful unless it might be Emer the daughter of Forgall, soon to
be wooed by Cúchulinn; and Naoise himself could not be bettered by
any among the men of his land unless it was by the “small, dark man,
comeliest of the men of Eirè,” Cúchulinn himself.
When we endeavour to tell of these things words cannot stand the trial.
It may be done by music, or by allusion, as the poets have always
done, saying that this girl is like the moon, or like the Sky-Woman
of the Dawn, when they would indicate a beauty beyond what we know;
and that she is like a rose when they would tell of a gentle and proud
sweetness; that her wrist is crisp and delicate like the delicate foam
that mantles on a sunny tide; that the wise bee nestled in her bosom,
finding more of delight there than the hive gives; that she walks as a
cloud, or as a queen-woman of the sky, seen only in vision, so that all
other sights are but half seen thereafter and are scarcely remembered.
In these grave ways we may approach perfection, indicating distantly
that which cannot be unveiled in speech; or we may tell of the
abasement which comes on the heart when beauty is seen; the sadness
which is sharper than every other sadness; the despair that overshadows
us when the abashed will concedes that though it would overbear
everything it cannot master this, and that here we renounce all claim;
for beauty is beyond the beast, and like all else of quality it can
only be apprehended by its equal and enjoyed where it gives itself.
Still, they were young, and with young people impressions that come
quickly go as fast. They have so much in common; their interest in
the present is so quick; their faith in the future so fearless; their
memory of tenderness is so recent, and their experience of treachery
so small, that friendship comes easier to them than enmity does, and
trust grows where suspicion withers; so in a little time they were
again at ease, and when the food they had been preparing was eaten they
knew one another and were friends.
Naoise was then almost nineteen years of age, his brother Ainnle,
seventeen, and Ardan more than fourteen, while Deirdre herself was
almost a full sixteen years.
If she had listened before as it were to the chattering of a brook or
the outburst of a flight of birds, she now listened to a talk that was
like a mill-race for exuberance, and the cawing of a colony of rooks
for abundance; and yet, when she remembered it afterwards, she could
not remember much, or she recollected that they laughed more than they
spoke. For the talk consisted more of questions than anything else,
and the answer to each query was in nearly all cases an outbreak of
laughter and another question.
Do you remember the day Cúchulinn came playing hurley into Emain?
And the way he took the troop under his protection?
And the night he went out a boy and came back a hound?
Jokes, hinted at, that had been played on foster-fathers; grisly jokes
of the first combat of a comrade who had left his head where his feet
should be; questions that hinted at outrageous parties in the night,
when the boys chased a wild boar and their fathers and foster-fathers
hunted them; of punishments that had been evaded as a fox dodges a
dog, and behold, when safety had been found, there was the punishment
awaiting them.
They were young, but they had killed; and they rocked with glee as
they told by what marvellous strategy they had got in the lucky blow,
and how the champion had gone down never to rise again, and they had
trotted home squealing and squawking with joy, with a head surveying
the world from the top of a spear, and it grinning down on them as
joyously as they chattered up at it.
Names that Deirdre was unfamiliar with, and some that she knew from
the servants’ talk, flew from mouth to mouth. Conall the Victorious,
Bricriu the Prank-player, Laerí called the Triumphant, Fergus mac Roy,
these youngsters spoke of as familiarly as she might have told of the
birds in her garden, and criticized them with all the unsparing freedom
of youth.
They did not consider that these great men were in any way superior to
themselves: the contrary was certainly in their minds. It was evident
that Ardan and Ainnle thought their brother Naoise could whip any other
champion rather easily: but Naoise was modest and would say nothing for
or against this theory.
Deirdre was as convinced as the boys were that Naoise could beat any
combination of champions that might have the ill-luck to move against
him. She knew it from his complexion, from his curling hair. Oh! she
knew it from a variety of proofs, and she was inclined to be angry when
he argued with the younger boys that Cúchulinn[8] was the greatest man
alive. But on that subject the agreement was so unanimous, so hearty,
that she might doubt but could not question it.
“What I should like,” said Ainnle, “would be to see a fight and a
combat between our Cúchulinn and Fergus mac Roy.”
“That would be a fight indeed,” said Naoise, “but we shall never see
it. They love each other.”
“It would be a queer thing,” said Ainnle, “if a boy were to fight with
his own foster-father.”
“I heard that a boy once did, and killed him too,” said Ardan.
“Who did? Who did?”
“I forget his name.”
“Because you never heard it.”
“Our young Ardan makes things up in his head,” said Naoise, in a
fatherly voice, while Ardan hid his blushes by attending to the fire.
“Do you think,” Ainnle inquired, “that Cúchulinn could beat Fergus if
they fought?”
Naoise regarded that query judicially.
“I don’t know indeed,” he replied.
“I think Cúchulinn
|
Brazil.
No sooner had the latter appeared in print than the indefatigable
Prince started on a second scientific journey to America. This time
the United States and North America were his object, but he extended
his journey to the Rocky Mountains and the Upper Missouri. Amidst the
wilds of the primeval forests he made the minutest researches into the
conditions of nature in that country and the native tribes of Indians.
Surrounded by great dangers, he lived amongst the Mandam Indians, the
Monnitaris, the Arrihares, and other tribes. On his return home Prince
Max wrote an account of his journey through North America, which was
published by Hölzer in Coblentz between 1838 and 1841. It was in twelve
volumes, and included an atlas which contained thirty-one copperplates.
The drawings were made by the landscape-painter Bodmer, who had
accompanied the Prince on his journey. It is a magnificent work, of
great ethnographic importance. A museum was arranged for the rich
collections, which remained for a long time an ornament to the town of
Neuwied and a centre for the study of natural history. After the death
of Prince Herman they were sold to America, where they are still kept
together and bear the name of “The Prince Herman of Wied Collection.”
Until his death, in 1867, Prince Maximilian was an active member of
the Leopoldine Academy. His merit has been fully acknowledged. Many
learned societies elected him a member, and a beautiful creeper from
the primeval forests of Brazil is called _Neowedia Spezzoa_ after him.
He was always the centre of life and cheerfulness in the family, and,
in spite of his great intellectual powers, he was modest and retiring
in the social circle and good and kind to all until the last.
But we must also particularly mention the PRINCESS LOUISE here. She
lived only for ideal interests, and is one of the most beautiful
recollections of the childhood of the Princess Elizabeth. Her talents
for music and painting were extraordinary. She painted many pictures
which still adorn the Palace of Neuwied. Prince Augustus was also
very musical, and as music was cultivated seriously and with artistic
knowledge at the princely Court, its good influence was sure to be felt
by the inhabitants of Neuwied. Princess Louise had started a class for
singing, which performed admirably. She was also a poetess, and had
not forgotten how to make “rhymes” even in her ninety-third year. The
“Songs of Solitude” reveal a deeply religious and poetical mind.
Prince Augustus of Wied had married the Princess Sophia Augusta of
Solms-Braun-Fels on the 11th July 1812. Her eldest son was PRINCE
HERMAN, the father of the Queen of Roumania.
[Illustration]
II.
The Parents of Princess Elizabeth.
We have caused a long series of pictures from life to pass before
us, and yet we have learnt to know but a small proportion of the
distinguished men and women who belonged to the House of Wied. PRINCE
HERMAN, who was born in 1814, was also one of the most distinguished
men of his time. After he had finished his studies in Göttingen,
travelled in Germany and France, and served for some time in a regiment
of Guards in Berlin, he undertook the management of his numerous
estates. Of noble and aristocratic appearance, he was endowed with the
finest qualities of the heart and was distinguished by his modesty,
which virtue was ever to be found in the House of Wied. He was a man of
deep learning and culture, and of great intellectual power. Being of a
philosophic turn of mind which was of a speculative cast, the highest
object of his life was a ceaseless endeavour to attain to a knowledge
of the important questions which concern the physical and spiritual
condition of man. His mind was constantly fixed on the mysterious
problems of human nature. The results of his reflections are enshrined
in a work which was anonymously published in 1859 and bore the title
“The Unconscious Life of the Soul and the Manifestations of God.” Many
experiences which took place in his own house or with which he had come
in contact had convinced him of the reality and the efficiency of the
superhuman elements in man. He did not doubt the fact of the magnetic
powers of feeling, somnambulism, electric affinities, clairvoyance, &c.
In order to elucidate these facts, the Prince sought to establish a
theory which he himself only termed an hypothesis; that the essential
conditions of human nature should be a body, soul, and spirit; the soul
a personal and conscious principle, whilst the creative spirit is of
God, ever present and working within man--an unconscious principle. The
Prince named these “the three conditions of human nature,” and this
theory was the foundation of his views of life. His work, therefore,
has to do with the unconscious life of the soul. The spirit manifests
itself, the soul is acted upon by the spirit. What the spirit creates
awakes the consciousness in the soul. The unconscious life of the soul
is, therefore, a revelation of godly power. What Mesmer denominated
magnetic power is, according to the Prince, the power of God. It is
a creative and life-giving power, which can heal the infirmities of
the human body, restore organic life, and elevate spiritual life.
Consequently the Prince regarded the so-called magnetic power as
sacred, and magnetic healing as a religious work. We gather from this
that the Prince acknowledges that these revelations are of God, but
does not understand the idea in a dogmatic light. He does not regard
the workings of this power as a miracle in the ordinary sense of the
word, but as natural occurrences; still, he believes with Hamlet that
nature possesses more and higher powers “than are dreamt of in our
philosophy.”
As, according to the fundamental idea of his philosophy with regard to
the threefold nature of man, soul and spirit may indeed act together,
but at the same time they exist separate from one another, and, being
by no means identical, the Prince could not assent to the dicta of
the so-called Philosophers of Identity (_Identitats Philosophen_).
The latter assert the identity of nature and spirit; they look upon
the human mind as being evolved from the divine, and upon the soul as
being evolved from the mind; he therefore rejected the Pantheistic as
well as the philosophical systems of Schelling and Hegel, and classed
himself with those philosophers whom Schelling called _Reflections
menschen_, _i.e._, thinkers who, according to the ordinary view, retain
the contrast between the inner and the outer worlds, between internal
and external phenomena, between perceptions and things, thinking
and being, but who consider any knowledge going beyond this, and
endeavouring to overcome this contrast by comprehending the unity of
all things, to be impossible. His views were similar to those of Kant.
Prince Herman therefore felt himself specially attracted towards the
Königsberg philosopher, who in his critical works had so accurately and
carefully distinguished the intellectual or spiritual world from the
sensuous, the essence of things or the things-in-themselves from the
phenomena. Only with respect to the free will of man he felt unable
to follow the teaching of Kant, who, while declaring the essence
of man as well as of things in general to lie beyond the range of
knowledge, asserted the same with regard to that moral freedom which
(as the Prince thought) should reveal itself to us by means of moral
self-examination and become practically intelligible. Here Prince
Herman thought he perceived a contradiction which he set himself to
remove. With that object he wrote and published an essay entitled
“The Results of an Examination of Kant’s Doctrine of Free Will.” To
refute the objections he encountered, he defended his point of view in
a pamphlet published shortly before his death under the title “_Replik
und Duplik_.” It had been his endeavour to give an explanation of
human free will, and the objection had been made that his doctrine was
“Determinism.” That doctrine, briefly expressed, was as follows. Free
will, properly understood, consists in the liberty of will or choice,
that is, in the power of choosing one among several possibilities
or motives of action, which presupposes the power of reflection, of
consideration, or of doubt. If man were omniscient, he would not
have to reflect or to consider. Divine omniscience excludes free
will, whereas human ignorance includes free will. Because the greater
part of the conditions under which we act remains hidden to us, we
act without knowing our dependence, and imagine a limited number of
possibilities from among which we may choose. Consequently we cannot
help imagining ourselves to be free, and this necessary imagination,
the Prince thinks, is really freedom itself. The choice only is free,
not the effect. According to the Prince’s view, therefore, there are
no free causes. The notion of a free cause appears to him as an empty
phantom--“a cloud, which Polonius at one time takes for a camel, at
another for a weasel, and which yet remains nothing but vapour.”
With his usual modesty, Prince Herman never represents his views as
infallible, but regards them as material for the solution of the
difficult problems of the connection of man to the spiritual world. He
regarded opinions which differed from his own with the toleration of
a thoughtful man who honours all intellectual labour. In his personal
principles he was truly German. That the unity of Germany could only
be brought about by means of Prussia was his firm conviction. He hoped
that the German Princes would be brought to renounce their sovereignty
of their own free will, for the good of their country. He did not doubt
that sooner or later circumstances would induce them to do so. In the
Upper House Prince Herman represented Liberal opinions, but he soon
retired from public life in order to live entirely for his family and
his philosophic labours. He studied the historic works of Mommsen,
Häusser, and Ranke with peculiar interest. Besides which he had a
deep feeling for art, and was himself a painter of no mean merit. In
consequence of a bath which he had imprudently taken at the camp of
Kilish in 1835 the Prince contracted an illness which was a hindrance
to him for the rest of his life, and was the cause of his early death.
In 1842 Prince Herman married the youthful Princess Marie of Nassau.
She was eminently fitted to fulfil the duties which devolved upon her
in her position of princess, wife, and mother. Of dignified appearance,
she is distinguished by her personal beauty and her truly noble mind.
She is a woman of great power of will, of clear judgment, wonderful
devotion, and untiring energy; very severe in what she demands of
herself, whilst her kindness and indulgence towards all with whom
she comes in contact are unbounded. Having been much tried herself
by sorrow and suffering, the Princess feels a true sympathy for the
sufferings of others. To minister to the wants of the sick and poor,
and to comfort them with her personal sympathy, is her greatest
happiness. In the homes of the poor at Neuwied she is regarded as a
beneficent angel, and a blessing enters with her. She possesses the
happy gift of winning the love and sympathy of all classes of people.
The Princess is beloved and honoured by all, and her wonderful charm
delights all who approach her.
[Illustration]
III.
Childhood.
On Friday, the 9th of December 1843, as the bells of Neuwied were,
according to an ancient custom, ringing for prayer at twelve o’clock,
whilst the chimes of the neighbouring villages joined in, the first
child--a daughter--was born to the princely pair. After her godmothers,
Queen Elizabeth of Prussia, wife of Frederick William IV., and the
Grand Duchess Elizabeth of Prussia, then a bride of the Duke of Nassau,
she received in baptism the name of
ELIZABETH.
The bells welcomed a life which was to be like them in fulness of
awakening power. Beyond the borders of the Rhine to the distant East
has the prophetic meaning of the sound been accomplished in word and in
deed.
A year and a half later, on the 22nd of August 1845, Prince William
was born. During the baptismal service little Elizabeth stood near her
mother’s chair, and followed the sacred proceedings with much interest,
asking suddenly, with a loud voice, “What is the black man doing with
the little brother?” The baptism over, she approached the assembled
group of town councillors on the tips of her toes. They were the only
people strange to her in the circle of relations and friends. She
looked up at them with a smile, and gave each of them her little hand
to kiss.
“It was my first drawing-room,” said the Queen, laughing, as this
incident was told her.
Princess Elizabeth soon developed into a very peculiar child. She was
of a passionate, unyielding, reserved character. Her education was
confided to her mother alone, who discussed everything with the Prince,
but, according to her arrangements, allowed no one to interfere. The
recollections of the Queen of Roumania reached back to her third year.
At that age the Princess of Wied took her to stay with her godmother,
Queen Elizabeth, at Berlin. There the imaginative little girl fondled
all the footstools, sofa-cushions, and bolsters with the greatest care,
pretending they were her children. One day she ran up quickly, took
hold of the feet of the Queen, which were resting on a footstool,
placed them roughly on the ground, and with the angry exclamation,
“You must not stand on my child!” she carried the footstool off. “Have
you children?” was her question to people she saw for the first time.
Those who answered in the negative ceased to interest her. From her
earliest childhood nothing seemed so sad to her as a house without
children. In order to quiet and control her a governess was appointed
for her in her fourth year, and she had regular lessons. She was so
lively that the necessity of sitting still was a trial to her. In her
fifth year she was to sit with her brother William to Professor Sohn
for her portrait. Severity and kindness were tried in vain to keep her
quiet. At last she made up her mind not to move again. Hardly, however,
had the little Princess sat motionless for two or three minutes when
she fell fainting from her chair. Only Fräulein Lavater, her mother’s
old governess, had a soothing influence over her. She told the young
Princess many beautiful fairy tales and stories, and so found the
right way of captivating the lively child. Fräulein Lavater[1] was a
lady of a very independent spirit, and possessed great patience with
clearness of perception. She was well versed in modern languages, and
could remember the contents of half a volume and criticise sharply.
During the life of the Prince of Wied she spent many months of the year
at Monrepos. After his death Fräulein Lavater went to live with the
Princess of Wied, where she ended her days as the beloved friend and
member of the household. The great peculiarities of character of the
Princess Elizabeth from earliest youth were pity, truthfulness, and
great independence. Already in her childish years at her mother’s side
she learnt to understand the troubles and misery of the poor people.
Her heart was so much touched by all the distress she saw that she
naturally gave everything away which she, in her childish mind, thought
she could spare. Her mother let her act thus, but gave her one day a
large piece of checked woollen stuff. The little Princess was beside
herself with joy. “Now I can give away all my dresses!” she exclaimed.
“Will you not rather carry the woollen stuff to the poor children?”
asked the Princess of Wied; “your white dresses would be of less use to
them than that coarse material.” “Yes,” said she, “that is true.” Then
she called her little brother, and the tiny couple went down from the
Castle to the town, carrying the beautiful gift to a house where many
children were the only riches of their parents.
[1] And grand-niece of the famous philosopher Lavater.
The first great sorrow came to Princess Elizabeth when her youngest
brother, Prince Otto, was born on the 22nd November 1850. For many
weeks she was not allowed to see her much-loved mother, who was hanging
between life and death. The little brother was a beautiful boy, but
their joy over his happy birth was soon to be turned into the deepest
anxiety. He was born with an organic disorder. No human art could
remedy or alleviate the evil. The Princess of Wied was paralysed
after his birth. In order to be near a clever doctor, the princely
family moved to Bonn in the spring of 1851. At this time Ernst Moritz
Arndt visited the Princess of Wied almost daily, and read to her his
patriotic verses. The little Elizabeth sat on his knee meanwhile
and listened, with flaming cheeks, to the inspired words, which
unconsciously found an echo in the warm childish heart. Sometimes the
venerable poet would place his hand in an attitude of blessing on her
head and explain to her the beautiful name she bore. Elizabeth means
“My God is rest;” and he may well have asked himself, “When will this
whirlwind ever find its rest?”
During their stay in Bonn an ever-extending circle of artists and
savants assembled at the house of the Prince of Wied, which increased
and remained intimate with them afterwards as well at Neuwied as at
Monrepos. Intellectual intercourse and exchange of thought was the
delight of the princely pair. They were so cultivated themselves
that they attracted men of art and science. We met, besides E. M.
Arndt, Bunsen, Neuhomm, Clemens Perthes, Jakob Berneys, and later
Lessing, Sohn, Anton Springe, &c. The present Crown Prince of
Germany, the Prince of Waldeck, and the Dukes Frederick and Christian
of Augustenburg, who were particular friends of the Crown Prince,
were then studying at Bonn. These young Princes came almost daily
to the Vinea Domini, the house inhabited by the Prince of Wied.
Notwithstanding her delicate state, the young Princess of Wied arranged
lectures and had evenings devoted to the study of Shakespeare and
acting. She and her friends gave lectures and translated and wrote
poetry. At Bonn, Princess Elizabeth saw the first Roumanians. They were
the brothers Sturdza, who visited the University there. From them she
learnt many a Roumanian word.
In the summer of this year came the departure of the Prince of Wied,
who made a journey to North America and Cuba in 1852-53 for the sake of
his health. His brother-in-law, Prince Nicolas of Nassau, accompanied
him. The interesting letters, full of ideal feelings, which he wrote
to his wife were published in Gelzer’s magazine. Dr. Gelzer says of
them:--“The Prince here describes the imposing impressions of the New
World with his brilliant wit, with the deep feeling of the historian
and philosopher, and with the independent thought of a great thinker.”
In May 1853 the Prince of Wied returned to Germany. Shortly before
his arrival he wrote to his wife:--“The advantages of this journey
are still of a doubtful nature, for one should be young and fresh
and well in order to find any satisfaction in travelling. But my
thoughts rest in the past; my future lies in the children and in the
happiness of those whom I love. The contentment that nature affords me
here is limited. The internal satisfaction that is impressed on the
surroundings of home is wanting. Whether my journey has been of any
definite use can only be judged with certainty hereafter. At any rate
it was a great change in the ordinary course of my life, and that is a
good effect.”
Meanwhile the health of the Princess of Wied had not improved.
Immediately on his return home the Prince decided to leave for Paris
with his whole family. He hoped that his wife would there find
relief from her sufferings by a particular manner of treatment. For
Princess Elizabeth this journey was a great event, and her happy
excitement increased when she was allowed to join in “les cours de
l’Abbé Gauthier” and learn with children. But the strange surroundings
and many people had quite distracted the child of ten. It seemed
impossible to surmount her timidity and shyness. She who was so ready
and quick at answering now stood aghast at the most simple question
which was addressed to her. As soon, however, as she felt herself once
more under the protection of her parents, the spell was broken, and she
became again the high-spirited girl whose thoughts never ceased to flow.
The princely children had received a doll’s theatre as a Christmas
present. One morning Baron Bibra, the Chamberlain and friend of the
Prince, found little Elizabeth busy with the dolls. With her brother
William and the dolls for an audience, she made the little marionettes
act a play. She had undertaken all the parts herself, and imitated the
different voices with so much talent, that her mother, in her fright at
these tastes in her little daughter, next day caused the theatre to be
taken away. She was afraid of awakening the demon of the stage in her.
In June 1854 the family of the Prince of Wied were able to return from
Paris to Monrepos. The Princess of Wied was quite restored to health,
and had returned with the gift of healing, as she had been healed. Many
of the sick and suffering came to her, to Neuwied and Monrepos. Her
gentle hand and her deep sympathy have, by this mysterious healing
power, always had a blessed influence over the sufferers.
The winter months were usually passed in Neuwied, and the summers at
Monrepos. Here it had been for many years the most ardent wish of
Princess Elizabeth to go to school with the village children. One
morning she rushed excitedly into the room of her much-occupied mother
and asked if she might accompany the children of the bailiff to school.
The Princess of Wied did not hear the question, and nodded pleasantly
to the child. She took this sign for an acquiescence, and rushed to the
next farm, called the Hahnhof. Here she hears that the little girls of
Frau Schanz are already gone to school. She darts after them, manages
to catch them up, and enters the schoolroom with them whilst a singing
lesson was going on. The schoolmaster felt much flattered when he saw
the little Princess take her place before him on the bench and join in
the singing with all her might. But the little daughter of the bailiff,
already rather impressed with Court etiquette, did not think it proper
that a daughter of a Prince should sing so loud with the village
children. As soon as her voice sounded above those of the others her
little neighbour laid her hand over her mouth, endeavouring thus to
impress the Princess with the impropriety of her behaviour.
At the Castle, meanwhile, the disappearance of Princess Elizabeth
caused a great commotion. Footmen were sent out in all directions. They
searched the neighbouring birch forests and outlying villages in vain.
At last they found the little Princess at the summit of happiness in
the village school of Rodenbach. The lost madcap was brought back to
the Castle and shut up in her room as a punishment for the rest of the
day. A sad ending to a day begun with such rapture. “It was the only
stroke of genius of my childhood!” she remarked later when Queen. “I
was thoroughly ashamed of myself, and never ventured to speak of it.”
Princess Elizabeth had to be brought up with great perseverance and
earnestness. The danger was great that the extraordinary and powerful
disposition of the talented child might influence her in the wrong
direction. She took up everything passionately and impetuously, and
when at play with children of her own age was always overexcited.
Children that were strange to her, whether they were villagers or of
good family, felt her authority immediately and obeyed her without a
murmur. These little people were led by her into the wildest romps.
But Princess Elizabeth did not merely play for fun. She was quite
overpowered by the world of her imagination, and carried out the vivid
thoughts of her fancy--a strong impulse to command and a craving for
activity belonged to her natural disposition.
On Sunday, after breakfast, the three children of the Prince recited
poems of their own choosing to their parents. When nine years old
Princess Elizabeth declaimed Schiller’s “Battle with the Dragon.”
Although her powers of memory were so good that she could immediately
repeat a poem of four verses which the Prince had just read to her,
she could never learn Alexandrines; they had for her neither rhyme nor
chime, and were “a horror” to her. Later on she developed a taste for
Béranger and Molière. When nine and ten years old she wrote verses. At
twelve she tried to write a novel. As a girl of fourteen she arranged
dramas and tragedies, and the more horrors were enacted in them the
better was she pleased. Late of an evening and early in the morning
she made up the most beautiful stories; her fancy only painted tragic
horrors, and she lived in an atmosphere of powerful mental contrasts.
From the highest spirits she fell into the lowest, and felt an entire
want of self-confidence. Undue hilarity followed great depression
and melancholy. Then she became possessed with the idea that she was
disagreeable and unbearable to every one. “I could not help myself,”
she confesses; “I could not be gentle, and was so passionately
impulsive that I was heartily thankful to those who were patient with
me. It became better, however, when a safety-valve opened for me,--that
was writing poetry.”
Princess Elizabeth was often so overcome by her imagination that she
could not distinguish reality from the fictions of her fancy. Thus it
happened in her twelfth year that the sight of a wild cat that her
great-uncle Max brought home as a booty from the chase quite upset
her. On going to sleep she was vividly impressed with the description
of this terrible race of animals, which, bloodthirsty and cunning as
they are, spring upon their unsuspecting prey. Full of the terrible
impression of the day before, she wrapped herself in her little grey
cloak next morning in order to go to the schoolroom. Whilst going
upstairs she considered what she would do if she were now attacked by a
beast of prey. In a moment she seemed to see the wild beast before her,
tore off and threw away her cloak, and rushed up the stairs again. Her
maid was watching her and laughed. This restored her to consciousness,
and she resumed her walk to the schoolroom. To calm this unboundedly
impetuous nature, her mother took her with her wherever the sorrows
of this life could touch her nearly. She often stood at the side of
sick and dying beds. The trials of her tenderly-loved little brother
formed her character early, and made her acquainted with all the
sad sufferings which an afflicted body entails. The first death-bed
to which her mother led her was that of her grandmother, the Duchess
of Nassau. Her death made a lasting impression on the child, but the
sight of the corpse did not frighten her. Her thoughts carried her
beyond death, and only peaceful visions arose in the mind of the highly
imaginative child.
It was the most beautiful time of roses. She hurried away to the
garden, and returned laden with them into the chamber of death. She
changed her grandmother’s death-bed into a flower-garden, she adorned
the room and covered the corpse with sweet-scented flowers, thus taking
from the lifeless form and its surroundings that dread appearance
which impresses us so strangely when we enter the chamber of death.
She regarded death in a poetical light, for her mother had always
represented leaving this world as the greatest happiness to her. A
consciousness of death runs through her life, for she has been called
upon to go from one death-bed to another.
Brought up by her mother in the fear of God and in piety, it was a
great event to her when she was, in her twelfth year, first allowed
to go to church. From that time Sundays and holy days became bright
spots in her young life. With a mind full of religious enthusiasm she
followed the services, and the explanations of Holy Writ touched her
deeply. She thought over what she had heard for many days, and often
wrote down the sermon.
For six years Fräulein Jossé had been the governess of Princess
Elizabeth. She had fulfilled the duties of her difficult profession
with great faithfulness and unselfishness. When she left Neuwied no
governess came again into the Prince’s household. From this time
(1858-1860) a tutor supervised the studies of the Princess. When Herr
Sauerwein came to the Castle for the first time, the Princess of
Wied received him with the words, “You will have a little _esprit de
contradiction_ as a scholar; she does not believe in any authority. Her
first words are ‘Why?’ and ‘Is it true?’” But master and scholar soon
understood one another. Herr Sauerwein was a man of great learning,
and a second Mezzofanti in languages. Princess Elizabeth was quite
delighted at this, for she was passionately fond of learning foreign
languages, and mastered them easily. Her tutor had lived for a long
time in England, and was an enthusiastic admirer of that country, its
history and laws. He gave all his lessons in English, and English
history was the favourite study. Even Latin and Italian were translated
into English. The Princess read Ovid with Herr Sauerwein, Horace, and
a part of Cicero both in English and Italian, and diligently learnt
arithmetic and geometry. Princess Elizabeth studied physical science
in the house of Baron Bibra with his daughter Marie. She was her
only playfellow and dearest friend, and her gentle manner had a good
influence over the passionate nature of the Princess.
A Parisian lady taught the Princess French. Of an evening after tea
she read with her; mostly the old chronicles and memoirs, Froissart,
Joinville, Philippe de Comines, St. Simon, &c., and also the dramas
of Molière, Racine, and Corneille. The Princess of Wied now began to
read the most beautiful of the dramas of the German classical authors
to her daughter, also Schiller’s “Thirty Years’ War,” and they read
and re-read “Nathan the Wise” of Lessing. Princess Elizabeth studied
Decker’s “Universal History” by herself in one summer, as also the
historical works of Gibbon. Her wonderful memory helped her, too, in
this, and she understood the reality of what she read. When fifteen
years old she studied three newspapers daily and displayed a great
interest in politics. Her greatest joy was to write essays, and she
ever delighted in fairy tales and national songs. “For a little fairy
tale,” she says, “I was capable of throwing aside the finest historical
work, and even the comparisons of grammar which I studied with such
passionate interest.” Once the “Wide Wide World,” by Mrs. Wetherall,
fell into her hands. She read it over and over again, hiding it
meanwhile under her translations of Ovid, that no one might know what
so absorbed and excited her. She was not allowed to look into a novel
till her nineteenth year. Then she was permitted to read out “Ivanhoe”
and “Soll und haben” of Freitag after tea. Everything was avoided which
could further excite the workings of her restless imagination. The
spirit of duty and labour, of love and piety, which reigned in this
princely house had, unknown to herself, exercised its strong spell over
her. Much that is so beautifully and harmoniously developed in the
character of the Princess Elizabeth is owing to the noble example of
her parents and the refined atmosphere of her home.
[Illustration]
IV.
Youth.
The sojourn of the family in Monrepos was constantly lengthened because
of the increasing illness of the Prince of Wied. The surroundings
seemed eminently fitted for the residence of a man who was happiest in
the immediate circle of his own family, and who gladly gave himself up
to the study of theology and philosophy.
The Castle of Monrepos is built on the ridge of a hill amongst
mountains which belong to the Westerwald. The magnificent valley
of Neuwied lies at one’s feet, and the Rhine winds itself in great
circles through the historic ground where Romans, Teutons, Alemans,
and Franks fought for power and sovereignty. On the right bank of the
river extends the little town of Neuwied, with its beautiful Palace and
park opposite the houses of Weissenthurm. The shining Rhine increases
in width as it flows before our eyes. The slate-rocks and lines of
the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein are visible in a good light, as also
the houses and towers of Coblentz. Little villages are dotted about
the valley as though they were embedded in green woodland shade. First
comes Segendorf, then Niederbibra with its old church in Romanic style
on Roman foundations, farther on Oberbibra, on the height the ruins of
Braunsberg, &c. The little river Wied winds itself between these on its
way to the Rhine.
The horizon is bounded on all sides by many chains of mountains.
Towards the east are seen the heights of the Westerwald, to the south
those of the Taunus, then the Hunderücken. Where the mountain chains
seem to sink into one another they suggest the valley of the Moselle.
To the left tower the volcanic peaks of the Maifeld and Eifel. Historic
recollections are everywhere awakened. It is a landscape teeming with
life, beauty, and variety.
The most magnificent beech-woods adjoin the Castle. Their mighty
trees form halls of verdure with their crowns of foliage. They offer
refreshing shade on hot summer days, for the sunshine is caught up by
each leaf and sheds only a subdued light on the ground. Well-kept paths
lead you for miles through splendid woods and shady valleys. Near
the Castle, and easy of access, are beautiful views into the romantic
Friedrichsthal, with its green meadows, upon which the deer roam at
liberty, towards Altwied, which lies embedded in the Wiedbach valley,
with its picturesque ruins of the ancient castle, or to the distant
shooting-lodge now called the Maienhof.
The lower storey of Schloss Monrepos is like a vast hall, for the large
saloon takes up the whole width. From its many windows one looks from
one side into the wide valley of the Rhine surrounded by mountains;
from the others into the deep shades of the forests. It is about a
German mile from Neuwied, and can be reached by an easy carriage-road
by Irlich and Rodenbach, or by Heddesdorf and Segendorf. The long
light-coloured buildings of Schloss Monrepos are to be seen for a great
distance.
Here Princess Elizabeth was in her element. Here was the forest and
liberty! The greater the raging of the storm, the happier the young
enthusiast felt herself. Amid the wildest gusts of wind and rain
she hurried into the forests, and neither snow nor thunder growling
overhead could stop her. In the house the world seemed too narrow for
her, and she longed for the freedom of nature. Three magnificent St.
Bernard dogs sprang romping and bounding after her; foremost of all
Mentor, the favourite. When the storm broke mighty branches from the
trees and drove the dry leaves whirling before her the young Princess
was joyous, roaming through the pathless forests and listening to the
howling and whistling of the wind and the creaking of the branches.
STORM IN THE FOREST.
There roars from the forest
A symphony wild;
The wind drives before it
The tempest-clouds piled.
With a crash the stems sunder,
The tossing trees moan;
The wind and the thunder
Hold revel alone;
’Tis a joust which they play at,
A contest of might
Shall adjudge which is stronger
To lash the waves white,
To ravage the woodland:--
But, ’midst their mad noises,
I go with firm footstep
And soul that rejoices.
A ray beams upon me
From
|
Low sandy places," says Patterson, as if
throughout the state.
ISOETACEAE.
Isoetes melanopoda (J. Gay.) "Muddy borders of a pond near Hyde Park
water-works, 1885. Wet prairies near Grand Crossing, 1886-87."
_Higley_ and _Raddin_. These stations in Cook county are doubtless
destroyed now. Stark county, _V. H. Chase_. "Menard, _Hall_;
Fulton, _Wolff_; McHenry, _Vasey_." (P.)
Isoetes Butleri (Engelm.) "Moist hillsides and shallow depressions,
Illinois and Kansas to Tennessee and Oklahoma." Gray's New Manual
of Botany.
A PROBLEMATICAL FERN.
(_Gymnogramma lanceolata._)
By Willard N. Clute.
In the identification of fern species one occasionally comes upon two
forms so nearly alike that it requires very careful study to decide
whether they are two different species or merely two forms of a single
variable species, but it is rare that one finds a fern that can as well
be placed in one genus as another, and still more rare when the species
possesses characters so like those of ferns in other groups that it may
be moved from one tribe to another without violating any of the
botanical properties. The fern chosen for illustration here is one of
this latter character. It has been passed back and forth between various
genera in different tribes, seldom resting long in one place, until it
is a very problematical species indeed.
In outline and manner of growth it possesses no especial peculiarities.
The lanceolate leaves might fit any of a dozen or more species that
might be mistaken for it if the fruit dots or sori were absent.
_Vittaria_, _Taemitis_, _Antrophyum_, _Polypodium_, _Asplenium_,
_Acrostichum_ and many other genera have species with leaf outlines that
almost exactly match it, but a glance at the fruiting fronds, at once
excludes many of these genera as possible harbors for the species and at
the same time increases the difficulties of finally placing it. The sori
are apparently linear and _Scolopendrium_ or _Asplenium_ comes to mind,
but there is no indusium and so the relationship is thrown into that
group of ferns clustering about such forms as _Gymnogramma_.
In fact, our fern was for a long time known as _Gymnogramma lanceolata_
and owing to this fact I have selected this to stand as the name of the
plant. A glance at the illustration, however, will disclose a frond not
at all like the conventional _Gymnogramma_ frond, but it is as much like
a _Gymnogramma_ as it is like the family to which the plant is now
assigned. Curious as it may seem this plant with elongated sori oblique
to the midrib is now regarded as a _Polypodium_! Before its settling
down in this genus, it had been placed in _Antrophyum_, _Grammitis_,
_Loxogramme_ and _Selliguea_ as well as _Gymnogramma_. This is by no
means due to the variable nature of the fern. Through all these
vicissitudes it has remained unchanged. The fluctuations from one genus
to another even from one tribe to a different one, have been due to the
varying opinions of mere man and his efforts to fit the fern to a set of
descriptions of his own making. Circumstances such as these are quite
sufficient to justify the refusal to accept off-hand the results of
every "revision" which ambitious systematists see fit to inflict upon
us.
While reposing in the genus _Gymnogramma_, the fern was well-known to be
somewhat unorthodox. In every large assemblage of species there are, in
addition to those which are typical, certain others that diverge
somewhat, but not enough to form a separate genus. Thus our plant was
placed in the section _Selliguea_. Sometimes, indeed, _Selliguea_ was
isolated as a separate genus, but usually accompanied by the statement
that if it were not for the shape of the sorus it would make a good
addition to the section _Phymatodes_ of _Polypodium_. Here, at least, is
where it has landed, the elongated sori being winked at, possibly, or
perhaps the species makers are willing to assume each so-called sorus to
be a series of _Polypodium_ sori. In this age, however, there are those
who deny to the species in the group _Phymatodes_ the right to be
included in _Polypodium_ and in certain books our species appears as
_Phymatodes loxogramma_. Just how this _loxogramme_ came to supplant
_lanceolata_ is another story, not to be detailed here. Suffice to say
that the new name was picked up during one of the fern's numerous
transfers.
As to _Phymatodes_, it is likely that the species in this group are
distinct enough to form a genus by themselves but it would be a rash
student to encourage such a departure, for once started we should soon
see all the large genera cut up into lesser groups and then what
delightful times the name-tinker would have!
By what ever name called, the species manages to thrive over a wide
stretch of country in the Eastern Hemisphere, being found from Japan and
China to the Himalayas, Ceylon and the Guinea Coast and represented in
many of the islands of the Pacific including Fiji and Samoa. The
specimen from which the illustration was made was collected by K. Miyake
near Kyoto, Japan where it is reported "not so common."
THE TALL SPLEENWORTS.
By Adella Prescott.
Some years ago when for me there were but two species of ferns, those
that were finely cut and those that were not--and maidenhair--I supposed
of course that the narrow leaved spleenwort (_Asplenium angustifolium_)
was simply a hardy sword fern and that both were varieties of the
Christmas fern! But when I began to read the fascinating pages of Clute
and Parsons and Waters I found, even in the early summer, that there
were differences and by the time the sori appeared I was wise enough to
recognize the characteristic mark of the spleenworts. Even then I
thought it but a common fern for in the woods with which I was most
familiar it grew plentifully and it was not till sometime later that I
learned that it is at least rare enough to insure for itself a welcome
whenever found.
It is an extremely local plant and may be looked for perhaps for years
before being found though it has a wide distribution and is apt to be
plentiful where it grows at all. It prefers rather moist soil and seems
to like Goldie's fern for a neighbor as I have often found them in close
proximity.
The fronds grow in tufts from a creeping rootstock and are said to reach
a height of four feet but all that I have seen were shorter by at least
a foot. The blades are simply pinnate with many long, narrow pinnules
tapering to slender tips. The fertile fronds are taller with the
pinnules much narrower and the linear sori borne in two rows along the
midrib of each pinnule. The fronds are delicate in texture and are
easily destroyed by summer storms, yet the plant is able to adapt itself
in some degree to its environment for a plant that I have in a border
where it is exposed to cold winds has become much more rugged both in
appearance and in fact. It is a charming addition to the fern garden
making a pleasing foil to _Nephrodium spinulosum_, _Dicksonia_ and other
finely cut varieties.
I think it is a pity that the silvery spleenwort has no common name but
one that is suggestive of a varied assortment of "blues," and that does
not certainly belong to it at that. But when we consider the discomforts
suggested by the word "spleeny" we may think after all that this plain
unassuming plant would prefer to be classed among the spleenworts with
their fabled powers of healing rather than among the gentle folk of the
_Athyriums_ where perhaps it rightly belongs.
The silvery spleenwort, _Asplenium thelypteroides_, or _Athyrium
thelypteroides_ as some prefer to call it, has few characteristics that
would make it noticeable among other species. It is of an ordinary size,
from two to three feet in height, and the fronds are produced singly
from a stout creeping rootstock but they grow so close together as to
suggest a circular crown. They are once pinnate with deeply lobed
pinnules and have rather a soft velvety texture though quite thin and
delicate. The blade is oblong, tapering both ways from the middle and
there is little difference between the fertile and sterile fronds.
The sori are borne in regular double rows on the pinnules and while in
general they are like those of the spleenwort yet they are frequently
curved after the fashion of the lady fern, making a puzzling question on
which the botanical doctors fail to agree.
This species is fairly common over a wide area and while not possessing
any striking beauty is interesting and attractive to the true lover of
ferns.
_New Hartford, N. Y._
FURTHER NOTES ON VARIATION IN BOTRYCHIUM RAMOSUM.
By Raynal Dodge.
On June 2nd of the present year I again visited the Botrychium stations
at Horse Hill, Kensington, N. H., and at Newfound Hill in Hampton Falls.
A description of these was given in _The Fern Bulletin_ April 1910. I
found that a great change had taken place since my last visit in 1907.
The young trees had grown wonderfully and shaded the station, the farm
house had been abandoned, the hens had disappeared, and _Botrychium
ramosum_ had again taken its place at the foot of the hill. But instead
of the many thousands which formerly grew there, I only succeeded in
finding about forty plants, some of them however, quite robust and well
grown. On the same day, in company with a friend, I made a thorough
search for _Botrychium simplex_ at Newfound Hill but failed to find a
single plant.
It appears that all the forms in the genus _Botrychium_ increase in
numbers very slowly and that the individual plants require many years to
attain their full development, but if the station for _Botrychium
ramosum_ on Horse Hill escapes damage by fire or marauding hens I think
that within twenty years someone perhaps now younger than I, may find a
large colony of _Botrychium simplex_ at the old station on Newfound
Hill. Several of my young friends have undertaken if possible to make a
search.
Perhaps some of the readers of _The Fern Bulletin_ know of localities
where _Botrychium ramosum_ and _B. simplex_ are to be found growing near
each other. If any such are known it seems that further investigations
relating to this subject might be made. Or perhaps it would be
enlightening if spores of _B. ramosum_ in sufficient quantity were to be
sown on some dry hillside that was easily accessible to the
experimenter. Immediate results however should not be expected as these
_Botrychiums_ move very slowly, according to some experimenters
requiring several years before germination of the spores. Moreover in
the present case the continued growth of the young plants would be very
much dependent on the amount of moisture they might receive as is
evidenced by the total destruction of the plants at Newfound Hill by a
very severe drouth.
Since speaking on this subject before the members of the American Fern
Society I have been informed of two other instances besides those at
that time mentioned where plants of _B. simplex_ once found had
disappeared which seems further evidence that the form _simplex_ in
_Botrychium_ described by Hitchcock as growing in dry hills is not
self-perpetuating.
_Newburyport, Mass._
[To the instances of the disappearance of _B. simplex_, may now be added
the disappearance of the colony found at Glen Park, Indiana in 1910. In
that year there was perhaps a hundred plants found. Every year since,
members of the Joliet Botanical Club and others have searched for them
but not a single specimen has been discovered. Some _Botrychiums_ have
the habit of resting for a year or more, but it hardly seems likely that
they would rest for three summers in succession.--_Ed._]
RARE FORMS OF FERNWORTS--XXII.
Still Another Christmas Fern.
In 1893, the late James A. Graves found a curious form of Christmas fern
(_Polystichum acrostichoides_) in the vicinity of Susquehanna, Pa., and
removed it to his garden where it continued to put forth its abnormal
fronds for many years and may still be alive for anything the writer
knows to the contrary. During the period in which Mr. Graves gave his
principal attention to the study of ferns he was often advised to
describe his abnormal specimen, but he was always so much engrossed in
the study and cultivation of the living ferns that he never found time
to write a formal scientific description of the plant, though he had
settled on a name for it. The form undoubtedly deserves a distinctive
name and since the discoverer is no longer with us, it seems very
fitting that the form be named for him. I therefore offer the following
description of
Polystichum acrostichoides f. Gravesii.
Plant similar to the type but with the pinnae ending in truncate tips
from which the midveins project as spinelike bristles. Type in the
herbarium of Willard N. Clute. Cotype in the herbarium of Alfred
Twining, Scranton, Pa.
Although the description is drawn from a single plant it is likely that
a search in the regions where the Christmas fern is abundant would
reveal other specimens with the same peculiarity. Indeed, H. G. Rugg in
a paper before the Vermont Botanical Club, last winter, described a
plant that, to judge from his remarks must be essentially the same
thing. He says: "For several years I have had a peculiar form of this
fern growing in my garden. It is interesting because of the truncate
form of the pinnae and the multifid form of the tip of the frond. The
sterile fronds are usually like those of the type plant. This fern I
transplanted into my garden several years ago and ever since then it has
continued to bear these peculiar fronds. The late Mr. B. D. Gilbert was
interested in the plant and asked permission to describe it in the _Fern
Bulletin_ but illness and finally death prevented." Apparently the only
difference between the Vermont and Pennsylvania plants is the cristate
apex, but as forking tips are to be expected in any species this feature
is not extraordinary.
Mr. Graves usually spoke of his specimen as the variety _truncatum_.
This is the name it bears in some herbaria and is the one it undoubtedly
would have borne in literature had he lived to describe it. Those who
were fortunate enough to have known Mr. Graves personally, however, will
be pleased to see his name associated with one of the forms of that
division of the plant world which he studied so long and so assiduously.
It need hardly be said for the readers of this magazine that Mr. Graves
was one of the founders of the Linnaean Fern Chapter the name by which
the American Fern Society was originally known, was elected the first
treasurer and held that office through half the lifetime of the society,
was one time president of the same society and for a long time one of
the most resourceful of its Advisory Council members.
[Illustration: Outline of frond]
The drawing herewith was made from the middle pinnae of a frond kindly
supplied by Mr. Alfred Twining, of Scranton, Pa. It is a fair average of
the form and though without much beauty of outline is still of interest
for the form in which nature has cast it.
NOTES ON VARIOUS FERNS.
By S. Fred Prince.
I was very much interested in Mr. Hill's article on the cliff brakes in
the January Bulletin. I lived at Madison, Wisconsin, from 1874 to 1878,
and have gathered _Pellaea atropurpurea_ many times from the sandstone
cliffs, not only on Lake Mendota, but also Lake Monona and outcrops in
other parts of the "Four-lake County."
I found it growing on both the Potsdam and the Madison sandstones. On
the former it was only in small clumps, or isolated plants, much more
sparse in growth than when on the latter, though I never found it
anywhere in such dense, tangled masses as it forms in the clefts of the
limestone rocks of the southwest Ozarks.
I have also found _Pellaea atropurpurea_ growing thinly, on a dark red
sandstone, at Paris Springs, Missouri, not far from Springfield.
I would like to add to the localities of _Polypodium vulgare_ in
Michigan. I found it, in the summer of 1910, growing in dense mats on
sand dunes, south of Macatawa, Michigan. The plants were in a woodland
composed principally of hemlock, with oak and a general mixture of elm,
maple, hickory, etc. When you lifted a mat of the fern, the bare sand
was left exposed. I thought the conditions rather peculiar.
I found many ferns growing on these wooded sand hills where, at the
most, there was but half an inch of soil on top of the white sand. The
list includes:
_Adiantum pedatum_; _Pteris aquilina_; _Asplenium filix-foemina_, in
marshy places between the dunes; _Polystichum acrostichoides_, very
sparingly; _Nephrodium thelypteris_, very luxuriant, like the lady fern,
in marshy ground; _Nephrodium marginale_, the most common fern;
_Nephrodium cristatum_; _Nephrodium spinulosum_, wherever there was a
rotting chunk of wood; _Onoclea sensibilis_, and _Onoclea
struthiopteris_, both very rank; _Osmunda regalis_ and _Osmunda
cinnamomea_, these last four in marshy spots; and _Botrychium
virginianum_, on the sides of the dunes.
I have been observing the habits of _Onoclea sensibilis_ for many years,
even raising plants from the spores to five years old; caring for other
plants for years, changing conditions, and varying my experiments, until
I have come to the following conclusions:
When the soil is constantly and evenly moist and unusually rich, and the
plant is constantly shaded, it tends to produce its fertile fronds
flattened out like the sterile, with all stages to those only partly
rolled up. These _unrolled_ fertile fronds do not differ from the
_rolled up_ ones, on the same plant, except in this one particular.
When a heavy screen was changed so that the plants would be in the full
light and sun, the fertile fronds produced the rest of the season were
as tightly rolled as usual, and it took two years of shading before
these plants produced open or unrolled fertile fronds again. Varying the
other conditions--moisture and nutriment, had similar results, but less
marked.
_Champaign, Ill._
SCHIZAEA PUSILLA AT HOME.
Anyone who has seen this odd fern growing in its native haunts will
probably concur in the opinion held by some, that while it is looked
upon as one of the rarest of ferns its small size and its habit of
growing in the midst of other low plants have no doubt caused it to be
passed over by collectors in many regions where it really exists. This
should be an encouragement to collectors to keep the fern in mind in
their field excursions with a view to adding new stations for it to
those now known. The finding of a rare plant in a new locality is always
a source of especial pleasure to the discoverer, aside from being an
item of value to the botanist in general.
_Schizaea pusilla_ was first collected early in this century at Quaker
Bridge, N. J. about thirty-five miles east of Philadelphia. The spot is
a desolate looking place in the wildest of the "pine barrens" where a
branch of the Atsion river flows through marshy lowlands and cedar
swamps. Here amid sedge grasses, mosses, _Lycopodiums_, _Droseras_ and
wild cranberry vines the little treasure has been collected. But though
I have hunted for it more than once my eyes have never been sharp enough
to detect its fronds in this locality.
In October of last year, however, a good friend guided me to another
place in New Jersey where he knew it to be growing and there we found
it. It was a small open spot in the pine barrens, low and damp. In the
white sand grew patches of low grasses, mosses, _Lycopodium
Carolinianum_, _L. inundatum_ and _Pyxidanthera barbata_, besides
several small ericaceous plants and some larger shrubs, such as scrub
oaks, sumacs etc. Close by was a little stream and just beyond that a
bog. Although we knew that _Schizaea_ grew within a few feet of the path
in which we stood, it required the closest kind of a search, with eyes
at the level of our knees before a specimen was detected. The sterile
fronds, curled like corkscrews, grew in little tufts and were more
readily visible than the fertile spikes which were less numerous and
together with the slender stipes were of a brown color hardly
distinguishable from the capsules of the mosses and the maturing stems
of the grasses which grew all about. Lying flat upon the earth with face
within a few inches of the ground was found the most satisfactory plan
of search. Down there all the individual plants looked bigger and a
sidelong glance brought the fertile clusters more prominently into view.
When the sight got accustomed to the miniature jungle, quite a number of
specimens were found but the fern could hardly be said to be plentiful
and all that we gathered were within a radius of a couple of yards.
This seems, indeed to be one of the plants whose whereabouts are
oftenest revealed by what we are wont to term a "happy accident" as for
instance, when we are lying stretched on the ground, resting, or as we
stoop, at lunch, to crack an egg on the toe of our shoe. I know of one
excellent collector who spent a whole day looking for it diligently in
what he thought to be a likely spot but without success when finally,
just before the time for return came, as he was half crouching on the
ground, scarcely thinking now of _Schizaea_, its fronds suddenly flashed
upon his sight, right at his feet.
The sterile fronds of _Schizaea pusilla_ are evergreen so the collector
may perhaps best detect it in winter selecting days for his search when
the ground is pretty clear of snow. The surrounding vegetation being at
that time dead the little corkscrew-like fronds stand out more
prominently. The fertile fronds die before winter sets in but their
brown stalks frequently nevertheless remain standing long after.--_C. F.
Saunders in Linnaean Fern Bulletin, Vol. 4._
PTERIDOGRAPHIA.
A New Fern Pest.--According to the _British Fern Gazette_ a new pest
threatens the specimens of those who collect living plants. This is the
larva of a small weevil which gets into the stipes of the ferns and
burrowing downward into the heart of the rhizomes soon cause the death
of the plant. The weevil is of Australian origin, probably introduced
into Britain with imported plants. Its scientific cognomen is _Syagrius
intrudens_. At first its depredations were confined to ferns under
glass, but more recently it has taken to the ferns in the wild state.
This, however, is not the only enemy of the ferns that British growers
have to contend with. Another small beetle known as the vine weevil
(_Otiorhyncus sulcatus_) is fond of the plants both in the adult and
larval stages, but the newcomer has already developed a reputation for
destructiveness that places it first as a fern pest.
Walking Fern and Lime.--Nearly everybody who cultivates the walking fern
(_Camptosorus rhizophyllus_), thinks it necessary to supply it with a
quantity of old mortar, quick-lime or pieces of limestone under the
impression that the fern cannot live, or at least cannot thrive without
a considerable amount of calcium in the soil. As a matter of fact it has
been reported on sandstone, shale, gneiss and granite and may possibly
grow on others. Its noticed preference for limestone is apparently not
due to its dependence on calcium but rather to the fact that it is more
nearly adjusted to the plant covering of limestone rocks than it is to
others. It will grow in any good garden soil, but in such situations it
must be protected from its enemies, the ordinary weeds of cultivation,
which otherwise would soon run it out. The same thing is true of many
plants besides ferns. The cactus plant that cheerfully endures the
intense insolation and frequent drouth of the sand barrens, succumbs
very soon to the grass and weeds when planted in rich soil.
Stipe or Stipes.--When it comes to the designation of the stalk of a
fern leaf, there is a wide difference in the way British and Americans
regard it. Americans invariably speak of a single stalk as a stipe and
they may be somewhat astonished, upon referring to a dictionary, to find
that while stipe is given as a legitimate word, it comes direct from the
latin _Stipes_ which the Britons, with perhaps a more classical
education, are accustomed to use. In America the plural of stipes is
stipes or, rather, the plural of stipe is stipes; but in England the
plural of both stipe and stipes is _stipites_. In certain uncultivated
parts of our own country the singular form of the word species is given
as specie; but when we smile at some countryman's description of a
specie of fern, our merriment may be somewhat tempered by the thought
that we still say stipe instead of stipes. If we could only believe that
we use stipe with full knowledge of its derivation, it would not seem so
bad, but it is very evidently a case of plain ignorance.
Apogamy in Pellaea.--Apogamy, or the production of a new sporophyte from
the gametophyte without the union of egg and sperm, used to be
considered a rather rare phenomenon, but as more study is given the
matter, it begins to seem fairly common. Several years ago Woronin
reported apogamy in _Pellaea flavens_, _P. niveus_ and _P. tenera_ and
still more recently W. N. Steil of the University of Wisconsin reported
the same condition in our native _Pellaea atropurpurea_. In Steil's
specimens the young sporophytes were borne on the prothallus lobes near
the notch. The same investigator is now working on apogamy in other
species. A note in a recent number of this magazine asked for spores of
_Pellaea gracilis_ (_Cryptogramma Stelleri_) for this purpose.
Lycopodium lucidulum porophylum.--In the _Ohio Naturalist_ for April
Prof. J. H. Schaffner devotes several pages to a discussion of the
specific distinctness of forms allied to _Lycopodium lucidulum_ and
comes to the conclusion that _Lycopodium porophylum_ is a good species.
If one is to judge by appearances alone, there can be no question as to
_L. lucidulum_ being different from _L. porophylum_ but if the different
appearances that plants put on under different conditions of warmth,
light and moisture are to be considered then there are a number of fern
species in this country in need of a name. Compare _Woodsia obtusa_
grown on a sunny cliff with the same species grown on a moist one, or
_Equisetum arvense_ in woods and on railway banks. Nobody at present can
say positively whether the form called _porophyllum_ is a species or
not. If it can be grown in moisture and shade while still retaining its
characters, or if its spores will produce plants like the parent when
sown in moist shades, then the case should be considered closed.
Meanwhile, if one were to imagine a dry ground form of _L. lucidulum_
what kind of a plant would he construct? Perhaps prostrate stem shorter;
branches in a denser tuft, shorter; leaves less notched, smaller; whole
plant yellower. Well, that is the description of _L. porophylum_!
Affinities of Taenitis.--The genus _Taenitis_ is one that has always
puzzled botanists. It was once placed in the tribe Grammitideae along
with such genera as _Notholaena_, _Brainera_, _Meniscum_, _Vittaria_,
_Hemionitis_ and _Drymoglossum_, and it has also been considered
sufficiently distinct to stand as the type of a tribe named for it,
while recently it has been considered as a member of the tribe
_Polypodicae_. Now comes E. B. Copeland in the _Philippine Journal of
Science_ and gives the genus another turn and this time places it in the
Davallieae largely upon the relationship shown by the internal structure
of the stem and the character of the scaly covering. It is likely that
the new manipulator of the genus is as near right as anybody. The main
thing is to discover what are the real indications of relationships.
With some students it is venation, with others the shape and position of
the indusium, with others the character of the vestiture and still
others may have other rules by which to judge. When we agree upon the
proper earmarks, anybody ought to be able to put the ferns in their
proper groups.
Sporophyll Zones.--The fact is well known that some of the club-mosses,
notably the shining club moss (_Lycopodium lucidulum_) and the fir
club-moss (_L. Selago_), bear their sporangia in bands or zones that
alternate with regions on the stem in which there are no sporophylls,
but it does not seem to be equally well recognized that the same
phenomena are found pretty generally among the ferns. If one will
examine the crowns of the cinnamon fern, it will be readily seen that
sporophylls and vegetative leaves form alternating circles. Curiously
enough, the fertile fronds, which appear at maturity within the circle
of sterile leaves, really belong to the outer circle, as befits the
group that is to develop first. The sensitive and ostrich ferns are
other species in which the zones of fronds are very distinct. So
pronounced is this, and so far has each kind developed before unfolding,
that each is usually incapable of taking up the functions of the other
in cases where the destruction of one kind makes such exchange necessary
or desirable. From efforts on the part of the plant to supply vegetative
tissue to leaves designed originally for spore-bearing, only, we owe the
various "obtusilobata" forms occasionally reported. The differences in
zonation here mentioned are most pronounced in ferns with dimorphic
fronds, but evidences of the same thing, more or less distinct may be
found even in those ferns that have the fertile and sterile fronds
essentially alike in outline. As a usual thing, the spore-bearing leaves
are produced after the vegetative leaves have unfolded and when we find
a plant in full fruit in late summer, that lacked spores in spring, it
is due to the developing of the fertile leaves later. This is especially
true and most noticeable in ferns that produce their fronds in crowns,
but even in those species with running rootstocks, we commonly find
evidences of zonation. Following out the idea of zonation we find among
many of the fern allies that not only are the sporophylls assembled in
zones but the zones terminate the central axis or branch. Under such
circumstances the shoot begins to take on many of the characteristics of
the flower and if we allow the definition of a flower as a shoot beset
with sporophylls, it really is a flower. In the plants in which the
flower comes to its highest development this structure is essentially a
group of two kinds of sporophylls set round with sterile leaves called
petals and sepals. Did ferns, instead of selaginellas, produce two kinds
of sporophylls, the whole fern plant with its crown of fronds, would be
very like a flower.
INDEX TO RECENT LITERATURE.
Readers are requested to call our attention to any errors in, or
omissions from, this list.
Clute, W. N. _Nephrodium deltoideun._ illust. Fern Bulletin, Ja. 1912.
Clute, W. N. _Rare Forms of Fernworts.--XXI. Another Form of the
Christmas Fern._ illust. Fern Bulletin, Ja. 1912.--_Polystichum
acrostichoides_ f. _lanceolatum_ described and illustrated.
Darling, N. _Observations on some Lycopodiums of Hartland Vt._ illust.
American Fern Journal, Ap. 1912.
Dodge, C. K. _The Fern-flora of Michigan._ Fern Bulletin, Ja.
1912.--Fifty-eight ferns and thirty-one fern allies listed with
notes.
Cockayne, L. _Some Noteworthy New Zealand Ferns._ illust. Plant World,
Mr. 1912.
Hill, E. J. _Additions to the Fern-flora of Indiana._ Fern Bulletin, Jl.
1912.--New stations for several species.
Hill, E. J. _The Rock Relations of the Cliff Brakes._ Fern Bulletin Ja.
1912.
Hopkins, L. S. _Lycopodium Selago from Ohio._ illust. American Fern
Journal, Ap. 1912.--A form of _L. lucidulum_ mistaken for the
rarer species.
Prescott, A. _The Osmundas._ Fern Bulletin, Ja. 1912.
Safford, W. E. _Notes of a Naturalist Afloat.--III_: illust. American
Fern Journal, Ap. 1912.--Occasional mention of common Ferns.
Schaffner, J. H. _The North American Lycopods without Terminal Cones._
illust. Ohio Naturalist, Ap. 1912.--_Lycopodium porophylum_
regarded as of specific rank.
Winslow, E. J. _Some Hybrid Ferns in Connecticut._ American Fern
Journal, Ap. 1912.
EDITORIAL.
The last number of this magazine--that for October 1912--will be a
comprehensive index of the publication for the past ten years. This,
with the index to the first ten volumes, will form an exceedingly
valuable index to the fern literature of America, covering, as it does,
the whole period of popular fern study. It begins some years before the
appearance of any popular fern book and has either published entire all
important articles issued since or given a summary of them. Mr. S. Fred
Prince, long a member of the Fern Society is already at work on the
index and we hope to issue it not later than the end of the year.
* * * * * * * *
Further information received from the purchaser of the complete set of
this magazine recently sent to Germany, apprises us of the fact that the
set is not to remain in Europe. It was purchased for a customer in South
America (Argentine), therefore the set owned by M. C. Belhatte at Paris
is the only one in Europe. The recent set is also the only complete set
in South America, and there are not, so far as we are aware, complete
sets in other parts of the Old World though the set at the Tokyo
Botanical Garden ought to be nearly
|
soul
within!
_The Day after the Battle of Waterloo._--June 19.
British bayonets are victorious!--Napoleon's army a wreck,
panic-stricken, flies before Wellington and Blucher! I will not forget
your anxieties even in this moment of fatigue and agitation. The
combined forces are covered with immortal fame; they have vanquished the
_élite_ of Napoleon's empire, and those veteran generals most attached
to his person and dynasty. They are in full flight, and we in glorious
pursuit!--Ere this reaches you, the Allies will probably have entered
Paris a second time within the year. We learnt that Napoleon had left
the capital of France on the 12th: on the day of the 15th the frequent
arrival of couriers excited extreme anxiety; and towards evening General
Mufflin presented himself at the Duke's with dispatches from Blucher. We
were all aware that the enemy was in movement, and the ignorant could
not resolve the enigma of the Duke going tranquilly to the ball at the
Duke of Richmond's:--his coolness was above their comprehension; had he
remained at his own hotel, a panic would have probably ensued amongst
the inhabitants, which would have embarrassed the intended movement of
our division of the army.
I returned home late, and we were still talking over our uneasiness,
when our domestic distinctly heard the trumpet's shrill appeal to battle
within the city walls, and the drum beat to arms. Ere the sun had risen
in full splendour, I distinguished martial music approaching, and I soon
beheld from my windows the 5th reserve of our army passing: the Highland
brigade, in destructive warlike bearing, were the first in advance, led
by their noble thanes, the bagpipes playing their several pibrochs; they
were succeeded by the 28th, their bugles' note falling more blithely
upon the ear. Each regiment passed in succession with its band playing,
impatient for the affray and fearless of death, meeting the peaceful
peasant's carts bringing sustenance for the living. Those of my
acquaintance looked gaily up at the window--alas! how many of them were
before sunset numbered with the dead;--Scotland's thanes, ere they had
traversed the Bois de Soignies, and the Duc de Brunswick-Oels that
evening at Quatre Bras, stimulating onward his valiant hussars, and too
carelessly exposing his person.
On the 17th the Duke of Wellington displayed his whole force to the
enemy, and seemed to defy them to the combat--but in the evening retired
upon Waterloo, and there reposed with some of his officers in the
village, which lies embosomed in the Forêt de Soignies. Picton had
fallen; each herald brought us tidings of a hero less, where all were
heroes.
That night was dreadful for the soldier and his horse. No sooner had
darkness covered the earth, than a fearful tempest arose; it was awful
for man and beast--for the houseless peasant and his children, who had
been driven from their late peaceful habitations, and stood exposed to
the pitiless storm, viewing in wild dismay their fields devastated, the
spring produce of their gardens laid low in human gore! At early dawn,
on the Sabbath,--that hallowed day, enjoined to be held sacred for the
worship of God, and for rest to toil-worn animals--the British army
beheld the _chevaleresque_ legions of the enemy, in all its superior
numbers, ranged in order of battle on the rising ground. The sun at
mid-day flashed its brilliant radiance over their military casques and
arms. The cannonade then became general; the Duke of Wellington exposed
himself like a subaltern; his personal venture in the strife excited
anxiety; it was in vain that the officers of his staff urged him to be
less conspicuous, that the fate of the battle hung upon his life: it
was evident that he had determined to conquer or die: we knew it in
Bruxelles, and we knew also that the Prince of Orange would succeed to
the command in such a dread emergency; and although we did not doubt his
Royal Highness's personal valour, we questioned much his experience in
military tactics. In the streets every one demanded, "Will Blucher be
able to advance?" and we were fully aware if that veteran General could
not effect a junction with Wellington before eight o'clock that evening,
all would be lost. At nine o'clock the two heroes mutually felicitated
each other at the small _auberge_ of Genappe. But it was not till three
o'clock in the morning that the word "Victory!" was proclaimed by an
_affiche_ on the walls to the terrified population of Bruxelles!
The Prince of Orange had been wounded early in that evening, after
having in the morning disputed every inch of ground against the superior
force of the enemy, and continued to fight like a valourous chevalier
each succeeding day for his kingdom: he has fairly won it. May his
future subjects record the fact in ineffaceable characters on their
memory! The British army had faught thirteen successive hours; they
halted, and to the fresh troops of the Prussians the task of pursuing
the fugitive enemy was assigned: they gladly forgot all fatigue, in
vengeful feeling and relentless retaliation against their former
merciless and insulting invaders. The British moved forward this day,
and will enter France to-morrow. Eight hundred lion-mettled and noble
sons of Britain have fallen by the side of _thirty thousand_ of their
own brave soldiers! It has been a dear-earned victory to England; a
dread tragedy, in the small circumference of three miles! The veterans
of the Peninsular campaign assert that those scenes of carnage were less
cruel. This city, where pleasure so lately reigned, now presents only
the images of death. _Vraiment nous respirons la mort dans les rues!_
L'Hôtel-de-Ville, the hospitals, and some of the churches, are already
occupied by the wounded; wagons full remaining in the streets, and many
sitting on _the steps of the houses_, looking round in vain for
immediate succour!
Our escape has been mavellous, for Napoleon's plan was to penetrate to
Bruxelles, and to surprise the Duke and his staff at the ball, when
surrounded by the British _belles_; for he had his spies to report even
the hour of our pastimes, and he reckoned upon a rise of the Belgians in
his favour. For three days and nights we expected the enemy to enter;
treachery reigned around us, and false reports augmented our alarms, as
we knew the terrible numbers of the French forces. It was Bulow and his
corps that protected us from that calamity. On the Saturday we took
refuge within the city, from the scenes of horror before our villa.
Baggage-wagons of the different regiments advancing--the rough chariots
of agriculture, with the dead and the dying, disputing for the
road--officers on horseback wounded! I spoke to one: 'twas Colonel
C----, of the Scotch brigade; he replied with his wonted urbanity to my
inquiries--gave me his hand--"I am shot through the body--adieu for
ever!" He left me petrified with horror, and I saw him no more! One hour
afterwards I sent to his apartment--the gallant veteran had expired as
they lifted him from his horse!
I could not abandon the Baroness and her children in such an hour; but I
must ever gratefully recollect the kind offers of asylum made to me by
my Belgian acquaintance, and for months, they said, had the battle been
lost. It is truly pitiable to see the wounded arriving on foot; a musket
reversed, or the ramrod, serving for a staff of support to the mutilated
frame, the unhappy soldier trailing along his wearied limbs, and perhaps
leading a more severely-wounded comrade, whose discoloured visages
declare their extreme suffering;--their uniforms either hanging in
shreds, or totally despoiled of them by those marauders who ravage a
field of battle in merciless avidity of plunder and murder. These brave
fellows, these steady warriors, so redoubtable a few hours since, are
now sunk into the helplessness of infancy, the feebleness of woman, over
whom man arrogates a power that may not be disputed, but whose solacing
influence in the hour of tribulation and sickness they are willing to
claim.
The Belgian females are in full activity, acting with noble benevolence.
They are running from door to door begging linen, and entreating that it
may be scraped for lint; others beg matrasses.
* * * * *
TRIBUTES TO GENIUS.
The Cuts represent unostentatious yet affectionate tributes to three of
the most illustrious names in literature and art: DANTE, and PETRARCH,
the celebrated Italian poets; and CANOVA, whose labours have all the
freshness and finish of yesterday's chisel. Lord Byron, whose enthusiasm
breathes and lives in words that "can never die," has enshrined these
memorials in the masterpiece of his genius. Associating Dante and
Petrarch with Boccaccio, he asks:
But where repose the all Etruscan three--
Dante and Petrarch, and scarce less than they,
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he
Of the Hundred Tales of Love--where did they lay
Their tones, distinguish'd from our common clay
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust,
And have their country's marbles naught to say?
Could not their quarries furnish forth one bust?
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?[10]
[Illustration: (Dante's Tomb.)]
Dante was born at Florence in the year 1261. He fought in two battles,
and was fourteen times ambassador, and once prior of the republic.
Through one fatal error, he fell a victim to party persecution, which
ended in irrevocable banishment. His last resting-place was Ravenna,
where the persecution of his only patron is said to have caused the
poet's death. What an affecting record of gratitude! His last days at
Ravenna are thus referred to by an accomplished tourist:[11]
"Under the kind protection of Guido Novello da Polenta, here Dante found
an asylum from the malevolence of his enemies, and here he ended a life
embittered with many sorrows, as he has pathetically told to posterity,
'after having gone about like a mendicant; wandering over almost every
part to which our language extends; showing against my will the wound
with which fortune has smitten me, and which is so often imputed to his
ill-deserving, on whom it is inflicted.' The precise time of his death
is not accurately ascertained; but, it was either in July or September
of the year 1321. His friend in adversity, Guido da Polenta, mourned his
loss, and testified his sorrow and respect by a sumptuous funeral, and,
it is said, intended to have erected a monument to his memory; but, the
following year, contending factions deprived him of the sovereignty
which he had held for more than half a century; and he, in his turn,
like the great poet whom he had protected, died in exile. I believe,
however, that the tomb, with an inscription purporting to have been
written by Dante himself, of which I have here given an outline, was
erected at the time of his decease: and, that his portrait, in
bas-relief, was afterwards added by Bernardo Bembo, in the year 1483,
who, at that time was a Senator and Podestà of the Venetian republic."
Byron truly sings:
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore
Their children's children would in vain adore
With the remorse of ages.
There is a tomb in Arquà; rear'd in air,
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover.
* * * * *
They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride--
An honest pride--and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre, both plain
And simply venerable, such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fame.[12]
[Illustration: (Petrarch's Tomb.)]
"The tomb is in the churchyard at Arquà. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot
be said to be buried, in a sarchophagus of red marble, raised on four
pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an association with
meaner tombs. The revolutions of centuries have spared these sequestered
valleys, and the only violence that has been offered to the ashes of
Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made
to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen
by a Florentine through a rent which is still visible."[13]
The third Memorial is a red porphyry Vase containing the heart of
Canova. It is placed in the great hall of the Academy of Arts at Venice,
beneath the magnificent picture of the Assumption of the Virgin, by
Titian. The vase is ornamented with ormoulu, and bears the inscription
_Cor magni Canovae_, in raised gold letters. M. Duppa describes it
as "a vase fit for a drawing-room, not grand, nor lugubrious: it is
surmounted with a capsule of a poppy, which is a great improvement on a
skull and cross bones."
Canova was not only the greatest sculptor of his own but of any age.
Byron says--
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.
[Illustration: COR MAGNI CANOVAE.]
He was, in great part, self-taught. In one of his early letters, he
says, "I laboured for a mere pittance, but it was sufficient. It was
the fruit of my own resolution; and, as I then flattered myself, the
foretaste of more honourable rewards--for I never thought of wealth."
He wrought for four years in a small ground cell in a monastery. From
his great mind originated the founding of the study of art upon the
study of nature. His enthusiasm was perfectly delightful: he made it a
rule never to pass a day without making some progress, or to retire to
rest till he had produced some design. His brother sculptors, hackneyed
in the trammels of assumed principles, for a time ridiculed his works,
till, at length, in the year 1800, his merits hecame fully recognised;
from which time till his death, in 1822, he stood unrivalled amidst the
honours of an admiring world.
[10] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. lvi.
[11] Duppa--Observations on the Continent.
[12] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. xxxi, xxxii.
[13] Notes to Childe Harold, ibid.--See Engraving of Petrach's
House at Arquà, _Mirror_, vol. xvii, p. 1.
* * * * *
THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
* * * * *
THE HOME OF LOVE.
"They sin who tell us Love can die.
With Life all other Passions fly,
All others are but Vanity;--
* * * * *
"But Love is indestructible.
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in Heaven its perfect rest."--SOUTHEY.
Thou movest in visions, Love!--Around thy way,
E'en through this World's rough path and changeful day,
For ever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn,
But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born--
The colouring of a dream!
Love, shall I read thy dream?--Oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot--
A Bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lonely is that Home; yet there
Something of Heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.
Something that mellows and that glorifies
Bends o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some Blessed Isle;
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.
The very whispers of the Wind have there
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear
Greeting from some bright shore,
Where none have said _Farewell!_--where no decay
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day;
Where the Storm's might is o'er.
And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest,
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast
Hidden from earthly ill:
There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound
Wakening all Nature to sweet echoes round,
Thine inmost soul can thrill.
There by the hearth should many a glorious page,
From mind to mind th' immortal heritage,
For thee its treasures pour;
Or Music's voice at vesper hours be heard,
Or dearer interchange of playful word,
Affection's household lore.
And the rich unison of mingled prayer,
The melody of hearts in heavenly air,
Thence duly should arise;
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath,
Of Spirits, not to be disjoined by Death,
Up to the starry skies.
There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come
To mar the stillness of that Angel-Home;--
There should thy slumbers be
Weighed down with honey-dew, serenely blessed,
Like theirs who first in Eden's Grove took rest
Under some balmy tree.
Love, Love! thou passionate in Joy and Woe!
And canst _thou_ hope for cloudless peace below--
_Here_, where bright things must die?
Oh, thou! that wildly worshipping, dost shed
On the frail altar of a mortal head
Gifts of infinity!
Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love!
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above,
Still round thy precious things;--
Thy stately Pine-tree, or thy gracious Rose,
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose,
Here, where the blight hath wings.
And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude,
So in thy prescient breast
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill
To the low footstep of each coming ill;--
Oh! canst _Thou_ dream of rest?
Bear up thy dream! thou Mighty and thou Weak
Heart, strong as Death, yet as a reed to break,
As a flame, tempest swayed!
He that sits calm on High is yet the source
Whence thy Soul's current hath its troubled course,
He that great Deep hath made!
Will He not pity?--He, whose searching eye
Reads all the secrets of thine agony?--
Oh! pray to be forgiven
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess,
And seek with _Him_ that Bower of Blessedness--
Love! _thy_ sole Home is Heaven!
_New Monthly Magazine_.
* * * * *
ORIENTAL SMOKING.
In India a hookah, in Persia a nargilly, in Egypt a sheesha, in Turkey
a chibouque, in Germany a meerschaum, in Holland a pipe, in Spain a
cigar--I have tried them all. The art of smoking is carried by the
Orientals to perfection. Considering the contemptuous suspicion with
which the Ottomans ever regard novelty, I have sometimes been tempted to
believe that the eastern nations must have been acquainted with tobacco
before the discovery of Raleigh introduced it to the occident; but a
passage I fell upon in old Sandys intimates the reverse. That famous
traveller complains of the badness of the tobacco in the Levant, which,
he says, is occasioned by Turkey being supplied only with the dregs of
the European markets. Yet the choicest tobacco in the world now grows
upon the coasts of Syria.
What did they do in the East before they smoked? From the many-robed
Pacha, with his amber-mouthed and jewelled chibouque, longer than a
lancer's spear, to the Arab clothed only in a blue rag, and puffing
through a short piece of hollowed date-wood, there is, from Stamboul
to Grand Cairo, only one source of physical solace. If you pay a visit
in the East, a pipe is brought to you with the same regularity that a
servant in England places you a seat. The procession of the pipe, in
great houses, is striking: slaves in showy dresses advancing in order,
with the lighted chibouques to their mouths waving them to and fro;
others bearing vases of many-coloured sherbets, and surrounding a
superior domestic, who carries the strong and burning coffee in small
cups of porcelain supported in frames of silver fillagree, all placed
upon a gorgeous waiter covered with a mantle of white satin, stiff and
shining with golden embroidery.
In public audiences all this is an affair of form. "The honour of the
pipe" proves the consideration awarded to you. You touch it with your
lips, return it, sip a half-filled cup of coffee, rise, and retire. The
next day a swarm of household functionaries call upon you for their
fees. But in private visits, the luxury of the pipe is more appreciated.
A host prides himself upon the number and beauty of his chibouques, the
size and clearness of the amber mouth-piece, rich and spotless as a ripe
Syrian lemon, the rare flavour of his tobaccos, the frequency of his
coffee offerings, and the delicate dexterity with which the rose water
is blended with the fruity sherbets. In summer, too, the chibouque of
cherry-wood, brought from the Balkan, is exchanged for the lighter
jessamine tube of Damascus or Aleppo, covered with fawn-coloured silk
and fringed with silver.
The hills of Laodicea celebrated by Strabo for their wines, now
produce, under the name of Latakia, the choicest tobacco in the world.
Unfortunately this delicious product will not bear a voyage, and loses
its flavour even in the markets of Alexandria. Latakia may be compared
to Chateau Margaux; Gibel, the product of a neighbouring range of
hills, similar, although stronger in flavour, is a rich Port, and will
occasionally reach England without injury. This is the favourite tobacco
of Mehemet Ali, the Pacha of Egypt. No one understands the art of
smoking better than his Highness. His richly carved silver sheesha borne
by a glossy Nubian eunuch, in a scarlet and golden dress, was a picture
for Stephanoff. The Chibouquejee of the Viceroy never took less than
five minutes in filling the Viceregal pipe. The skilful votary is well
aware how much the pleasure of the practice depends upon the skill with
which the bowl is filled. For myself, notwithstanding the high authority
of the Pacha, I give the preference to Beirout, a tobacco from the
ancient Berytus, lower down on the coast, and which reminded me always
of Burgundy. It sparkles when it burns, emitting a bright blue flame.
All these tobaccos are of a very dark colour.
In Turkey there is one very fine tobacco, which comes from Salonichi,
in ancient Thrace. It is of a light yellow colour, and may be compared
to very good Madeira. These are the choicest tobaccos in the world.
The finest Kanaster has a poor, flat taste after them.
The sheesha nearly resembles the hookah. In both a composition is
inhaled, instead of the genuine weed. The nargilly is also used with
the serpent, but the tube is of glass. In all three, you inhale through
rose-water.
The scientific votary after due experience, will prefer the Turkish
chibouque. He should possess many, never use the same for two days
running, change his bowl with each pipe-full, and let the chibouque be
cleaned every day, and thoroughly washed with orange flower water. All
this requires great attention, and the paucity and cost of service in
Europe will ever prevent any one but a man of large fortune from smoking
in the Oriental fashion with perfect satisfaction to himself.--_New
Monthly Magazine._
* * * * *
NOTES OF A READER.
* * * * *
BUILDING A SCHOOL IN THE HIGH ALPS.
[We find the following "labour of love" recorded by the Rev. W.S. Gilly,
in his Life of Felix Neff, Pastor of the French Protestants in these
cheerless regions. Its philanthropy has few parallels in the proud folio
of history, and will not be lessened in comparison with any record of
human excellence within our memory.]
It was among the grandest and sternest features of mountain scenery,
that Neff not only found food for his own religious contemplations, and
felt that his whole soul was filled with the majesty of the ever present
God, but here also he discovered, that religious impressions were more
readily received and retained more deeply than elsewhere by others. In
this rugged field of rock and ice, the Alpine summit, and its glittering
pinnacles, the eternal snows and glaciers, the appalling clefts and
abysses, the mighty cataract, the rushing waters, the frequent perils
of avalanches and of tumbling rocks, the total absence of every soft
feature of nature, were always reading an impressive lesson, and
illustrating the littleness of man, and the greatness of the Almighty.
The happy result of his experiments, made the pastor feel anxious to
have a more convenient place for his scholastic exertions than a dark
and dirty stable; and here again the characteristic and never-failing
energies of his mind were fully displayed. The same hand which had
been employed in regulating the interior arrangements of a church, in
constructing aqueducts and canals of irrigation, and in the husbandman's
work of sowing and planting, was now turned to the labour of building a
school-room. He persuaded each family in Dormilleuse to furnish a man,
who should consent to work under his directions, and having first marked
out the spot with line and plummet, and levelled the ground, he marched
at the head of his company to the torrent, and selected stones fit
for the building. The pastor placed one of the heaviest upon his own
shoulders--the others did the same, and away they went with their
burthens, toiling up the steep acclivity, till they reached the site of
the proposed building. This labour was continued until the materials
were all ready at hand; the walls then began to rise, and in one week
from the first commencement, the exterior masonry work was completed,
and the roof was put upon the room. The windows, chimney, door, tables,
and seats, were not long before they also were finished. A convenient
stove added its accommodation to the apartment, and Dormeilleuse, for
the first time probably in its history, saw a public school-room
erected, and the process of instruction conducted with all possible
regularity and comfort.
I had the satisfaction of visiting and inspecting this monument of
Neff's judicious exertions for his dear Dormilleusians--but it was a
melancholy pleasure. The shape, the dimensions, the materials of the
room, the chair on which he sat, the floor which had been laid in part
by his own hands, the window-frame and desks, at which he had worked
with cheerful alacrity, were all objects of intense interest, and I
gazed on these relics of "the Apostle of the Alps," with feelings little
short of veneration. It was here that he sacrificed his life. The severe
winters of 1826-7, and the unremitted attention which he paid to his
duties, more especially to those of his school-room, were his
death-blow.
[Neff then relates some preliminary arrangements.]
Dormilleuse was the spot which I chose for my scene of action,
on account of its seclusion, and because its whole population is
Protestant, and a local habitation was already provided here for the
purpose. I reckoned at first that I should have about a dozen élèves;
but finding that they were rapidly offering themselves, and would
probably amount to double that number, at the least, I thought it right
to engage an assistant, not only that I might be at liberty to go and
look after my other churches and villages, but that I might not be
exposed to any molestation, for in France nobody can lawfully exercise
the office of a schoolmaster without a license, and this cannot be
granted either to a foreigner or a pastor. For these reasons I applied
to Ferdinand Martin, who was then pursuing his studies at Mens, to
qualify himself for the institution of M. Olivier, in Paris. It was a
great sacrifice on his part to interrupt his studies, and to lose the
opportunity of an early admission to the institution; nor was it a small
matter to ask him to come and take up his residence at the worst season
of the year, in the midst of the ice and frightful rocks of Dormilleuse.
But he was sensible of the importance of the work, and, without any
hesitation, he joined our party at the beginning of November. The short
space of time which we had before us, rendered every moment precious. We
divided the day into three parts. The first was from sunrise to eleven
o'clock, when we breakfasted. The second from noon to sunset, when we
supped. The third from supper till ten or eleven o'clock at night,
making in all fourteen or fifteen hours of study in the twenty-four.
We devoted much of this time to lessons in reading, which the wretched
manner in which they had been taught, their detestable accent, and
strange tone of voice, rendered a most necessary, but tiresome duty.
The grammar, too, of which not one of them had the least idea, occupied
much of our time. People who have been brought up in towns, can have no
conception of the difficulty which mountaineers and rustics, whose ideas
are confined to those objects only to which they have been familiarized,
find in learning this branch of science. There is scarcely any way
of conveying the meaning of it to them. All the usual terms and
definitions, and the means which are commonly employed in schools, are
utterly unintelligible here. But the curious and novel devices which
must be employed, have this advantage,--that they exercise their
understanding, and help to form their judgment. Dictation was one of
the methods to which I had recourse: without it they would have made no
progress in grammar and orthography; but they wrote so miserably and
slowly, that this consumed a great portion of valuable time. Observing
that they were ignorant of the signification of a great number of French
words, of constant use and recurrence, I made a selection from the
vocabulary, and I set them to write down in little copy-books,[14] words
which were in most frequent use; but the explanations contained in the
dictionary were not enough, and I was obliged to rack my brain for new
and brief definitions which they could understand, and to make them
transcribe these. Arithmetic was another branch of knowledge which
required many a weary hour. Geography was considered a matter of
recreation after dinner: and they pored over the maps with a feeling of
delight and amusement, which was quite new to them. I also busied myself
in giving them some notions of the sphere, and of the form and motion of
the earth; of the seasons and the climates, and of the heavenly bodies.
Every thing of this sort was as perfectly novel to them, as it would
have been to the islanders of Otaheite; and even the elementary books,
which are usually put into the hands of children, were at first as
unintelligible as the most abstruse treatises on mathematics. I was
consequently forced to use the simplest, and plainest modes of
demonstration; but these amused and instructed them at the same time.
A ball made of the box tree, with a hole through it, and moving on
an axle, and on which I had traced the principal circles; some large
potatoes hollowed out; a candle, and sometimes the skulls of my
scholars, served for the instruments, by which I illustrated the
movement of the heavenly bodies, and of the earth itself. Proceeding
from one step to another, I pointed out the situation of different
countries on the chart of the world, and in seperate maps, and took
pains to give some slight idea, as we went on, of the characteristics,
religion, customs, and history of each nation. These details fixed
topics of moment in their recollection. Up to this time I had been
astonished by the little interest they took, Christian-minded as they
were, in the subject of Christian missions, but, when they began to have
some idea of geography, I discovered, that their former ignorance of
this science, and of the very existence of many foreign nations in
distant quarters of the globe, was the cause of such indifference. But
as soon as they began to learn who the people are, who require to have
the Gospel preached to them, and in what part of the globe they dwell,
they felt the same concern for the circulation of the Gospel that other
Christians entertained. These new acquirements, in fact, enlarged their
spirit, made new creatures of them, and seemed to triple their very
existence.
In the end, I advanced so far as to give some lectures in geometry, and
this too produced a happy moral developement.
Lessons in music formed part of our evening employment, and those being,
like geography, a sort of amusement, they were regularly succeeded by
grave and edifying reading, and by such reflections as I took care to
suggest for their improvement.
Most of the young adults of the village were present at such lessons, as
were within the reach of their comprehension, and as the children had a
separate instructor, the young women and girls of Dormilleuse, who were
growing up to womanhood, were now the only persons for whom a system of
instruction was unprovided. But these stood in as great need of it as
the others, and more particularly as most of them were now manifesting
Christian dispositions. I therefore proposed that they should assemble
of an evening in the room, which the children occupied during the day,
and I engaged some of my students to give them lessons in reading and
writing. We soon had twenty young women from fifteen to twenty-five
years of age in attendance, of whom two or three only had any notion of
writing, and not half of them could read a book of any difficulty. While
Ferdinand Martin was practising the rest of my students in music, I
myself and two of the most advanced, by turns, were employed in teaching
these young women, so that the whole routine of instruction went on
regularly, and I was thus able to exercise the future schoolmasters in
their destined profession, and both to observe their method of teaching,
and to improve it. I thus superintended teachers and scholars at the
same time.
It is quite impossible for those who have not seen the country, to
appreciate the devotedness to the Christian cause, which could induce
Neff to entertain even the thought of making the dreary and savage
Dormilleuse his own head quarters from November to April, and of
persuading others to be the companions of his dismal sojournment there.
I learn from a memorandum in his Journal, that the severity of that
|
a deep chest
that might have belonged to a youth of eighteen instead of seventeen.
Compared with Tim Otis, who was of the same age, Don Gilbert suffered on
only two counts--quickness and vivacity. Tim, well-muscled, possessed a
litheness that Don could never attain to, and moved, thought and spoke
far more quickly. In height Don topped his friend by almost a full inch
and was broader and bigger-boned. They were both, in spite of
dissimilarity, fine, manly fellows.
Tim, wiping his hands after ablutions, turned to survey Don with a
quizzical smile on his good-looking face. And, after a moment's
reflective regard of his chum's broad back, he broke the silence.
"Say, Don," he asked, "glad to get back?"
Don turned, while a slow smile crept over his countenance.
"_Su-u-re_," he drawled.
CHAPTER III
AMY HOLDS FORTH
BRIMFIELD ACADEMY is at Brimfield, and Brimfield is a scant thirty miles
out of New York City and some two or three miles from the Sound. It is
more than possible that these facts are already known to you; if you
live in the vicinity of New York they certainly are. But at the risk of
being tiresome I must explain a little about the school for the benefit
of those readers who are unacquainted with it. Brimfield was this Fall
entering on its twenty-fifth year, a fact destined to be appropriately
celebrated later on. The enrollment was one hundred and eighty students
and the faculty consisted of twenty members inclusive of the principal,
Mr. Joshua L. Fernald, A.M., more familiarly known as "Josh." The course
covers six years, and boys may enter the First Form at the age of
twelve. Being an endowed institution and well supplied with money under
the terms of the will of its founder, Brimfield boasts of its fine
buildings. There are four dormitories, Wendell, Torrence, Hensey and
Billings, all modern, and, between Torrence and Hensey, the original
Academy Building now known as Main Hall and containing the class rooms,
school offices, assembly room and library. The dining hall is in
Wendell, the last building on the right. Behind Wendell is the
gymnasium. Occupying almost if not quite as retiring a situation at the
other end of the Row, is the Cottage, Mr. Fernald's residence. Each
dormitory is ruled over by a master. In Billings Mr. Daley, the
instructor in modern languages, was in charge at the period of this
story, and since it was necessary to receive permission before leaving
the school grounds after supper, Don and Tim paused at Mr. Daley's study
on the way out. Don's knock on the portal of Number 8 elicited an
instant invitation to enter and a moment later he was shaking hands with
the hall master, a youngish man with a pleasant countenance and a manner
at once eager and embarrassed. Mr. Daley was usually referred to as
Horace, which was his first name, and, as he shook hands, Don very
nearly committed the awful mistake of calling him that! After greetings
had been exchanged Don explained somewhat vaguely the reason for his
tardy arrival and then requested permission to visit Coach Robey in the
village after supper.
"Yes, Gilbert, but--er--be back by eight, please. I'm not sure that Mr.
Robey isn't about school, however. Have you inquired?"
"No, sir, but Tim says he isn't eating in hall yet, and so----"
"Ah, in that case perhaps not. Well, be back for study hour. If you're
going to supper I'll walk along with you, fellows." Mr. Daley closed his
study door and they went out together and, as they trod the flags of the
long walk that passed the fronts of the buildings, Mr. Daley discoursed
on football with Tim while Don replied to the greetings of friends. They
parted from the instructor at the dining hall door and sought their
places at table, Don's arrival being greeted with acclaim by the other
half-dozen occupants of the board. Once more he was obliged to give an
account of himself, but this time his narrative was considered to be
sadly lacking in detail and it was not until Tim had come to his
assistance with a highly coloured if not exactly authentic history of
the train-wreck that the audience was satisfied. Don told him he was an
idiot. Tim, declining to argue the point, revenged himself by stealing a
slice of Don's bread when the latter's attention was challenged by Harry
Westcott at the farther end of the table.
Westcott, who was one of the editors of the school monthly, _The
Review_, had developed the journalistic instinct to a high degree of
late and had visions of a thrilling story in the November issue. But Don
utterly refused to pose as a hero of any sort. The best Harry could get
out of him was the acknowledgment that he had seen several persons
removed from the wreck and had helped carry one to the relief train
later. That wasn't much to go on, and, subsequently, Harry regretfully
abandoned his plan.
After supper Don and Tim walked down to the village and Don had a few
minutes of talk with the coach. Mr. Robey was sympathetic but annoyed.
Although he didn't say so in so many words he gave Don to understand
that he had failed in his duty to the school and the team in allowing
himself to become concerned in a train-wreck. He didn't explain just how
Don could have avoided it, and Don didn't think it worth while to
inquire.
"You have that hand looked after properly and regularly, Gilbert," he
said, "and watch practice until you can put on togs. Losing a week or so
is going to handicap you. No doubt about that. And I'm not making any
promises. But you keep your eyes open and maybe there'll be a place for
you when you're ready to work. It's awfully hard luck, old chap. See you
tomorrow."
Don went back to school through the warm dusk slightly cast down,
although he had previously realised that football would be beyond him
for at least a week. It is sometimes one thing to acknowledge a fact
oneself and another to hear the same fact stated by a second person.
There's a certain finality about the latter that is convincing. But if
Don was downcast he didn't show it to his companion. Don had a way of
concealing his emotions that Tim at once admired and resented. When Tim
felt blue--which was mighty seldom--he let it be known to the whole
world, and when he felt gay he was just as confiding. But Don--well, as
Tim often said, he was "worse than an Indian!"
After study they sallied forth again, arm in arm, and went down the Row
to Torrence and climbed the stairs to Number 14. As the door was half
open knocking was a needless formality--especially as the noise within
would have prevented its being heard--and so Tim pushed the portal
further ajar and entered, followed by Don, on a most animated scene.
Eight boys were sprawled or seated around the room, while another, a
thin, tall, unkempt youth with a shock of very black hair which was
always falling over his eyes and being brushed aside, was standing in a
small clearing between table and windows balancing a baseball bat,
surmounted by two books and a glass of water, on his chin. So interested
was the audience in this startling feat that the presence of the new
arrivals passed unnoted until the juggler, suddenly stepping back,
allowed the law of gravity to have its way for an instant. Then his
right hand caught the falling bat, the two books crashed unheeded to the
floor and his left hand seized the descending tumbler. Simultaneously
there was a disgruntled yelp from Jim Morton and a howl of laughter from
the rest of the audience. For the juggler, while he had miraculously
caught the tumbler in mid-air, had not been deft enough to keep the
contents intact and about half of it had gone into the football
manager's face. However, everyone there except Morton applauded
enthusiastically and hilariously, and Larry Jones, sweeping his
offending locks aside with the careless and impatient grace of a violin
virtuoso, bowed repeatedly.
"Great stuff," approved Amory Byrd, rescuing his books from the floor.
"Do it again and stand nearer Jim."
"If he does it again I'm going into the hall," said Morton disgustedly,
wiping his damp countenance on the edge of Clint Thayer's bedspread.
"You're a punk juggler, Larry."
"All right, you do it," was the reply. Larry proffered the bat and
tumbler, but Morton waved them indignantly aside.
"I don't do monkey-tricks, thanks. Gee, my collar's sopping wet!"
"Oh, that's all right," called someone. "You'll be going to bed soon.
Say, Larry, do that one with the three tennis balls."
"Isn't room enough. I know a good trick with coins, though. Any fellow
got two halves?"
Groans of derision were heard and at that moment someone discovered the
presence of Don and Tim and Larry's audience deserted him. When the
new-comers had found accommodations, such as they were, conversation
switched to the all-absorbing subject of football. Most of the fellows
assembled were members of the first or second teams: Larry Jones was a
substitute half; Clint Thayer was first-choice left tackle; Steve
Edwards, sprawled on Clint's bed, was left end and this year's captain;
the short, sturdy youth in the Morris chair was Thursby, the centre; Tom
Hall, broad of shoulders, was right guard; Harry Walton, slimmer and
rangier, with a rather saturnine countenance, was a substitute for that
position. Jim Morton was, as we know, manager, and only Amory--or
"Amy"--Byrd and Leroy Draper, the tow-headed, tip-nosed youth sharing
the Morris chair with Thursby, were, in a manner of speaking,
non-combatants.
But being a non-combatant didn't prevent Amy Byrd from airing his views
and opinions on the subject of football, and that he was now doing.
"Every year," he protested, "I have to hear the same line of talk from
you chaps. It's wearying, woesomely wearying. Now, as a matter of fact,
every one of you knows that we've got the average material and that
we'll go ahead and turn out an average team and beat Claflin as per
usual. The only chance for argument is what the score will be. You
fellows like to grouse and pretend every fall that the team's shot full
of holes and that the world is a dark, dreary, dismal place and that
winning from Claflin is only a hectic dream. For the love of lemons,
fellows, chuck the undertaker stuff and cheer up. Talk about something
interesting, or, if you must talk your everlasting football, cut out the
sobs!"
"Oh, dry up, Amy," said Tom Hall. "You oughtn't to be allowed to talk.
Someone stuff a pillow in his mouth. No one has said we were shot full
of holes, but you can't get around the fact that we've lost a lot of
good players and----"
"Oh, gee, he's at it again!" wailed Amy. "Yes, Thomas darling, you've
lost two fellows out of the line and two out of the backfield and
there's nothing to live for and we'd better poison ourselves off before
defeat and disgrace come upon us. All is lost save honour! Ah, woe is
me!"
"Cut it out, Amy," begged Edwards. "You don't know anything about
football, you idiot."
"Two in the line and two in the backfield is good," jeered Tim. "We've
lost Blaisdell and Innes and Tyler----"
"Never was any good," interpolated Amy.
"And Roberts and Marvin----"
"Carmine's better!"
"And Kendall and Harris!" concluded Tim triumphantly.
"Never mind, Timmy, you've still got me!" replied Amy sweetly. "Gee, to
hear you rave you'd think the whole team had graduated!"
"So it has, practically!"
"Ah, yes, and I heard the same dope this time last year. We'd lost
Miller and Sawyer and Williams and--and Milton and a dozen or two more
and there wasn't any hope for us! And all we did was to go ahead and
dodder along and beat Claflin seven to nothing! Not so bad for a
lifeless corpse, what?"
Steve Edwards laughed. "Well, maybe we do talk trouble a good deal about
this time of year. It's natural, I guess. You lose fellows who played
fine ball last year and you can't see just at first how anyone can fill
their places. Someone always does, though. That's the bully part of it.
I dare say we'll manage to dodder along, as Amy calls it, and rub it
into old Claflin as we've been doing."
"First sensible word I've heard tonight," said Amy approvingly. "I
wouldn't kick so much if I only had to hear this sort of stuff
occasionally, but I'm rooming with the original crêpe-hanger! Clint sobs
himself to sleep at night thinking how terribly the dear old team's shot
to pieces. If I remark in my optimistic, gladsome way, 'Clint, list how
sweetly the birdies sing, and observe, I prithee, the sunlight gilding
yon mountain peak,' Clint turns his mournful countenance on me and
chokes out something about a weak backfield! Say, I'm gladder every day
of my life that I stayed sane and----"
"Stayed _what_?" exclaimed Jim Morton incredulously.
"And didn't become obsessed with football mania!"
"Where do you get the words, Amy?" sighed Clint Thayer admiringly.
"Amy's the original phonograph," commented Tim. "Only he's an
improvement on anything Edison ever invented. You don't have to wind Amy
up!"
"No, he's got a self-starting attachment," chuckled Draper.
"Returning to the--the original contention," continued Amy in superb
disdain of the low jests, "I'll bet any one of you or the whole kit and
caboodle of you that we beat Claflin again this year. Now make a noise
like some money!"
"Amy, we don't bet," remarked Tom Hall. "At least, not with money.
Betting money is very wrong. (Amy sniffed sarcastically.) But I'll wager
a good feed for the crowd that we have a harder time beating Claflin
this year than we had last. And I'll----"
"Oh, piffle! I don't care whether you have to work harder to do it or
not. I say you'll do it! Hard work wouldn't hurt you, anyway. You're a
lot of loafers. All any of you do is go out to the field and strike an
attitude like a hero. Why----"
Cries of expostulation and threats of physical violence failed to
disturb the irrepressible Amy.
"Tell you what I'll do, you piffling Greeks, I'll blow you all off to a
top-hole dinner at the Inn if Claflin beats us. There's a sporting
proposition for you, you undertakers' assistants!"
"Yah! What do we do if she doesn't?" exclaimed Walton.
Amy surveyed him coldly. He didn't like Harry Walton and never attempted
to disguise the fact. "Why, Harry, old dear, you'll just keep right on
squandering your money as usual, I suppose. But I don't want you to
waste any on me. This is a one-man wager."
"No, it isn't," said Leroy Draper, "I'm in on it, Amy. I'll take half of
it."
"All right, Roy. But our money's safe as safe! This bunch of grousers
won't get fat off us, old chap!"
"Say," said Walton, who had been trying to get Amy's attention for a
minute, "what's the story about my squandering my money? Anybody seen
you being careless with yours, Amy?"
"Not that I know of. I'm not careless with it; I'm careful. But being
careful with money is different from having it glued to your skin so you
have to have a surgical operation before----"
"Oh, cut it, Amy," said Tim.
"I spend my money just as freely as you do," returned Walton hotly.
"You talk so much with your face----"
"Let it go at that, Harry," advised Tom Hall soothingly. "Amy's just
talking."
"That's all," agreed Amy sweetly. "Just talking. You're the original
little spendthrift, Harry. I'm going to write home to your folks some
time and warn 'em. Hold on, you chaps, don't hurry off. The night is
still in its infancy. Wait and watch it grow up. Steve! _Sit down!_"
"Thanks, I've got to be moseying along," replied Captain Edwards. "It's
pretty near ten. I think it would be a rather good idea if we had a rule
that football men were to be in their rooms at a quarter to ten all
during the season."
"I can see that you're going to be one of these here martinets you read
about," said Tim with a sigh. "Steve, remember you were young once
yourself."
"He never was!" declared Amy with decision. "Steve was grown-up when he
was quite young and he's never got over it. Thank the Fates _I_ don't
have to be bossed by him! Are you all leaving? Clint, count the spoons
and forks! Come again, everyone. I've got lots more to say. Good-night,
Don. Glad to see you back again, old sober-sides. Sorry about that fin
of yours. Be careful with him, Tim. You know how it is with the dear
old team. We need every man we can get. Hold on, Harry! Did you drop
that quarter? Oh, I beg pardon, it's only a button. That's right, Thurs,
kick the chair over if it's in your way. We don't care a bit about our
furniture. For the love of lemons, Larry, don't grin like that! Think of
the team, man! Remember your sorrows! Good-_night_!"
Half-way to Billings Don broke the silence.
"Fellows are funny, aren't they?" he murmured.
"Funny? How do you mean?" asked Tim.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Don after a thoughtful moment.
"They're--they're so different, I guess."
"Who's different from who?"
"Everyone," answered Don, smothering a yawn.
Tim viewed him in the radiance of the light over the doorway with
profound admiration. "Don, you're a brilliant chap! Honest, sometimes I
wonder how you do it! Doesn't it hurt?"
Don only smiled.
CHAPTER IV
THE FIRST GAME
DON sat on the bench and watched the game with Thacher School. With him
were nearly a dozen other substitutes, but they, unlike Don, were in
football togs and might, in fact probably would, get into the game
sooner or later. There was no such luck for Don so long as his hand
remained swathed in bandages, and he was silently bewailing his luck. At
his right sat Danny Moore, chin in hand and elbow in palm, viewing the
contest from half-closed eyes. The trainer was small and red of hair and
very freckled, and he was thoroughly Irish and, in the manner of his
race, mightily proud of it. Also, he was a clever little man and a good
trainer.
An attempted forward pass by the visitors grounded and the horn squawked
the end of the first period. Danny turned his beady green eyes on Don.
"Likely you're wishin' yourself out there with the rest of 'em, boy," he
said questioningly.
Don nodded, smiled his slow smile and shook his head. "I guess I won't
get into it for a week yet. Doc says this hand has got to do a lot of
healing first. He has a fine time every day pulling and cutting the old
skin off it. Guess he enjoys it so much he will hate to have it heal. I
should think, Danny, that if I had a heavy glove, sort of padded in the
palm, I might play a little."
"Sure, I'll fix you up something real nate," replied Danny readily.
"Nate an' scientific, d'ye see? An' so soon as the Doc says the word you
come to me an' I'll be having it ready for you."
"Will you? Thanks, Danny. That's great! I would like to get back to
practice again. I'm afraid I'll be as stiff and stale as anything if I
stay out much longer."
"Go easy on your eating, lad, and it'll take you no time at all to catch
up with the rest of 'em. Spread this hand for me while I see the shape
of it. What happened to your finger there?"
"I broke it when I was a little kid, playing baseball."
"Sure, whoever set it for you must have been cross-eyed," said the
trainer, drily. "'Tis a bum job he did."
"Yes, it's a little crooked, but it works all right."
"You'd have hard work gettin' your engagement ring over that lump, I'm
thinking. It's a fortunate thing you're not a girl, d'ye mind."
Don laughed. "Engagement rings go on the other hand, don't they, Danny?"
"Faith, I don't know. Bad luck to him, he's done it again!"
"Who? What?" asked Don startledly.
"Jim Morton. That's twice today he's spilled most of the water from the
pail. Well, I'll have to go an' fill it, I suppose."
Danny went off to get the water bucket and the teams lined up again near
the visitors' twenty-five yard line. Coach Robey had put in a somewhat
patched-up team today. Captain Edwards was at left end, Clint Thayer at
left tackle, Gafferty at left guard, Peters at centre, Pryme at right
guard, Crewe at right tackle, Lee at right end, Carmine at quarter, St.
Clair and Gordon at half and Martin at full. It was not the best line-up
possible, but it was so far handling the situation fairly
satisfactorily. The practice of the last two days had developed one or
two strains and proved more than one of the first-choice fellows far
below condition. Tim Otis was out for a day or two with a twisted knee
and Tom Hall with a lame shoulder. Thursby had developed an erratic
streak the day before and was nursing his chagrin further along the
bench. Holt, the best right end, was in trouble with the faculty, and
Rollins, full-back, had pulled a tendon in his ankle. A full team of
second- and third-string players were having signal work on the practice
gridiron.
In the stands a fairly good-sized gathering of onlookers was applauding
listlessly at such infrequent times as the maroon-and-grey team gave it
any excuse. Thus far, however, exciting episodes had been scarce. The
weather, which was enervatingly warm, affected both elevens and the
playing was sluggish and far from brilliant. The Brimfield backs, with
the exception of Carmine, who was always on edge, conducted themselves
as if they were at a rehearsal, accepting the ball in an indifferent
manner and half-heartedly plunging at the opposing line or jogging
around the ends. As the first half drew to a close both goal lines were
still unthreatened and from all indications would remain so for the rest
of the contest. A slight thrill was developed, though, just before the
second period came to an end when a Thacher half-back managed to get
away outside Crewe and romped half the length of the field before he was
laid low by Carmine. After that there was an exchange of punts and the
teams trotted off to the gymnasium.
Don left the bench with the others, but did not follow them to the
dressing room. Instead, he strolled down the running track and across to
the practice field, where Tim was superintending the signal practice.
Don joined him and followed the panting, perspiring players down the
field. Tim's conversation was rather difficult to follow, since he
continually interrupted himself to instruct or admonish the toilers.
"I feel like a slave-driver, pushing these poor chaps around in this
heat. How's the game going? No score? We must be playing pretty punk, I
guess. What sort of a team has--Jones, you missed your starting signal
again. For the love of mud, keep your ears open!--Thacher must be as bad
as we are. Who's playing in my place? Gordon? Is he doing anything?--Try
them on that again, McPhee, will you? Robbins, you're supposed to block
hard on that and not let your man through until the runner's got into
the line.--I could have played today all right, but that idiot, Danny,
wouldn't let me. My knee's perfectly all right."
"Then why do you limp?" asked Don innocently.
"Force of habit," said Tim. "What time is it?"
Don consulted his silver watch and announced a quarter to four.
"Thank goodness! That'll do, fellows. You'd better get your showers
before you try to see that game. If Danny catches you over there the way
you are he will just about scalp you! By the way, McPhee, you saw what I
meant about that end-around play, didn't you? You can't afford to slow
up the play by waiting for your end to get to you. He's got to be in
position to take the pass at the right second. Otherwise they'll come
through on you and stop him behind the line. There ought to be
absolutely no pause between Smith's pass to you and your pass to
Compton, or whoever the end is. You get the ball, turn quick, toss it to
the end and fall in behind him. It ought to be almost one motion. Of
course, I know you fellows were pretty well fagged today, but you don't
want to let your ends think they can take their time on that play, old
man, for it's got to be fast or it's no earthly good. Thus endeth the
lesson. Come on, Don, and we'll go over and add the dignity of our
presence to that little affair."
They reached the bench just as the two teams trotted back and
Brimfield's supporters raised a faint cheer. Don imagined that there was
a little more vim in the way the maroon-and-grey warriors went into the
field for the second half and the results proved him right.
It was the home team's kick-off, and after Captain Edwards, in the
absence of Hall, had sped the ball down to Thacher's twenty yards and a
Thacher player had sped it back to the thirty, Brimfield settled down to
business. Probably Coach Robey's remarks in the interim had been
sufficiently caustic to get under the skin. At all events Brimfield
forced Thacher to punt on third down and then almost blocked the kick.
As it was, the ball hurtled out of bounds near the middle of the field
and became Brimfield's on her forty-eight. Two plunges netted five
yards, and then St. Clair, returning to form, ripped his way past tackle
on the left and fought over two white lines before he was halted. Gordon
and Martin made it first down in three tries and Carmine worked the left
end for four more. Thacher stiffened then, however, and after two
ineffectual plunges St. Clair punted and Brimfield caught on her goal
line and ran back a dozen yards, Lee, right end, missing his tackle
badly and Steve Edwards being neatly blocked off. But Thacher found the
going even harder than her opponent had and in a moment she, too, was
forced to punt.
This time it was St. Clair who caught and who, eluding both Thacher
ends, ran straight along the side line until he was upset near the
enemy's thirty-five yards. As he went down he managed to get one foot
over the line and the referee paced in fifteen yards, set the ball to
earth and waved toward the Thacher goal.
Martin faked a forward pass and the ball went to Gordon for a try at
right tackle. Thayer and Gafferty opened a fine hole there and Gordon
romped through and made eight before the Thacher secondary defence
brought him down. Martin completed the distance through centre. From the
twenty-four yards to the ten the ball went, progress, however, becoming
slower as the attack neared the goal. On a shift that brought Thayer to
the right side of the line, St. Clair got around the short end for three
and Martin added two more, leaving the pigskin on the five-yard line. It
was third down and Martin went back to kick. But after a moment's
hesitation Carmine changed his signals and the ends stole out toward the
side lines. Thacher proceeded to arrange her forces to intercept a
forward pass and again Carmine switched. The ends crept back and Martin
retired to the fifteen-yard line and patted the turf. Carmine knelt in
front of him and eyed the goal. Then the signals came again, and with
them the ball, and it was Martin who caught it and not Carmine. Two
steps to the right, a quick heave, a frenzied shouting from the
defenders of the goal, a confused jostling, and Captain Edwards, one
foot over the line, reached his arms into the air, pulled down the
hurtling pigskin, tore away from one of the enemy, lunged forward and
went down under a mass of bodies, but well over the goal line.
Brimfield found her enthusiasm then, and her voice, and cheered loudly
and long, only ceasing when Carmine walked out with the ball under his
arm and flung himself to the turf opposite the right hand goal post.
Thursby, hustled in by Coach Robey, measured distance and direction,
stepped forward and, as the line of Thacher warriors swept forward with
upstretched hands, swung his toe against the ball and sent it neatly
across the bar.
With the score seven to nothing against her, Thacher returned to the
fray with a fine determination, but, when the teams had changed places
after the kick-off and the last period had begun, she speedily found
that victory was not to be her portion. Mr. Robey sent in nearly a new
team during that last ten minutes and the substitutes, fresh and eager,
went at it hammer-and-tongs. Thacher enlisted fresh material, too, but
it couldn't stop the onslaught that soon took the ball down the field to
within close scoring distance of her goal. That Brimfield did not add
another touchdown was only because her line, overanxious, was twice
found off-side and penalised. Even then the ball went at last to within
six inches of the goal line and it was only after the nimble referee had
dug into the pile-up like a terrier scratching for a bone in an ash-heap
that the fact was determined that Thacher had saved her bacon by the
width of the ball. She kicked out of danger from behind her goal and
after two plays the final whistle blew.
It was a very hot and very weary crowd of fellows who thronged the
dressing room in the gymnasium five minutes later and, above the swish
of water in the showers, shouted back and forth and discussed the game
from as many angles as there had been participants. Possibly Brimfield
had no very good reason for feeling proud of her afternoon's work, for
last year she had defeated Thacher 26 to 3. That game, however, had
taken place two weeks later in the season, when the Maroon-and-Grey was
better off in the matter of experience, and so perhaps was not a fair
comparison. At all events, Brimfield liked the way she had "come back"
in that third period and liked the way in which the substitutes had
behaved, and displayed a very evident inclination to pat herself on the
back.
Tim, who had haled Don into the gymnasium on the way back to hall, tried
his best to convince all those who would listen to him that they had
played a perfectly punk game and that nothing but the veriest fluke had
accounted for that score. But they called him a "sore-head" and laughed
at him, and even drove him away with flicking towels, and he finally
gave it up and consented to accompany Don back to Billings, limping a
trifle whenever he thought no one was looking.
Don missed Tim at supper, for the training tables started that evening
and Tim went off to one of them with his napkin ring and his own
particular bottle of tomato catsup, leaving his chum feeling forlornly
"out of it."
CHAPTER V
DON GOES TO THE SECOND
LIFE at Brimfield Academy settled down for Don into the accustomed
routine. The loss of one day made no difference in the matter of
lessons, for with Tim's assistance--they were both in the Fifth Form--he
easily made up what had been missed. They were taking up German that
year for the first time and Don found it hard going, but he managed to
satisfy Mr. Daley after a fashion. Don was a fellow who studied hard
because he had to. Tim could skim his lessons, make a good showing in
class and remember enough of what he had gone over to appear quite
erudite. Don had to get right down and grapple with things. He once said
enviously, and with as near an approach to an epigram as he was capable
of, that whereas Tim got his lessons by inhaling them, he, Don, had to
chew them up and swallow them! But when examination time came Don's
method of assimilation showed better results.
The injured hand healed with incredible slowness, but heal it did, and
at last the day came when the doctor consented to let his impatient
pupil put on the padded arrangement that the ingenious Danny Moore had
fashioned of a discarded fielder's glove and some curled hair, and Don
triumphantly reported for practice. His triumph was, however,
short-lived, for Coach Robey viewed him dubiously and relegated him to
the second squad, from which Mr. Boutelle was then forming his second
team. "Boots" was a graduate who turned up every Fall and took charge of
the second or scrub team. It was an open secret that he received no
remuneration. Patriotism and sheer love of the game were the inducements
that caused Mr. Boutelle to donate some two months of time and labour to
the cause of turning out a second team strong enough to give the first
the practice it needed. And he always succeeded. "Boutelle's Babies," as
someone had facetiously termed them, could invariably be depended on to
give the school eleven as hard a tussle as it wanted--and sometimes a
deal harder. Boots was a bit of a driver and believed in strenuous work,
but his charges liked him immensely and performed miracles of labour at
his command. His greeting of Don was almost as dubious as had been Coach
Robey's.
"Of course I'm glad to have you, Gilbert, but the trouble is that as
soon as we've got you nicely working Mr. Robey will take you away.
That's a great trick of his. He seems to think the purpose of the second
team is to train players for the first. It isn't, though. He gives me
what he doesn't want every year and I do my best to make a team from it,
and I ought to be allowed to keep what I make. Well, never mind. You do
the best you can while you're with us, Gilbert."
"Maybe he won't have me this year," said Don dejectedly. "He seems to
think that being out for a couple of weeks has queered me."
"Well, you don't feel that way about it, do you?"
"No, sir, I'm perfectly all right. I've watched practice every afternoon
and I've been doing a quarter to a half on the track."
"Hm. Well, you've got a little flesh that will have to come off, but it
won't take long to lose it this weather. Sit down a minute." They were
in front of the stand and Mr. Boutelle seated himself on the lower tier
and Don followed his example. "Let me see, Gilbert. Last year you played
left
|
the money I submit that I got
my money back.”
I paid my bill and took a hansom for the ferry,—
Larry with me, chaffing away drolly with his old zest.
He crossed with me, and as the boat drew out into the
river a silence fell upon us,—the silence that is possible
only between old friends. As I looked back at the lights
of the city, something beyond the sorrow at parting
from a comrade touched me. A sense of foreboding, of
coming danger, crept into my heart. But I was going
upon the tamest possible excursion; for the first time
in my life I was submitting to the direction of another,
—albeit one who lay in the grave. How like my grandfather
it was, to die leaving this compulsion upon me!
My mood changed suddenly, and as the boat bumped at
the pier I laughed.
“Bah! these men!” ejaculated Larry.
“What men?” I demanded, giving my bags to a
porter.
“These men who are in love,” he said. “I know the
signs,—mooning, silence, sudden inexplicable laughter!
I hope I’ll not be in jail when you’re married.”
“You’ll be in a long time if they hold you for that.
Here’s my train.”
We talked of old times, and of future meetings, during
the few minutes that remained.
“You can write me at my place of rustication,” I
said, scribbling “Annandale, Wabana County, Indiana,”
on a card. “Now if you need me at any time I’ll come
to you wherever you are. You understand that, old man.
Good-by.”
“Write me, care of my father—he’ll have my address,
though this last row of mine made him pretty hot.”
I passed through the gate and down the long train
to my sleeper. Turning, with my foot on the step, I
waved a farewell to Larry, who stood outside watching
me.
In a moment the heavy train was moving slowly out
into the night upon its westward journey.
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES
Annandale derives its chief importance from the fact
that two railway lines intersect there. The Chicago
Express paused only for a moment while the porter deposited
my things beside me on the platform. Light
streamed from the open door of the station; a few
idlers paced the platform, staring into the windows of
the cars; the village hackman languidly solicited my
business. Suddenly out of the shadows came a tall,
curious figure of a man clad in a long ulster. As I
write, it is with a quickening of the sensation I received
on the occasion of my first meeting with Bates. His
lank gloomy figure rises before me now, and I hear his
deep melancholy voice, as, touching his hat respectfully,
be said:
“Beg pardon, sir; is this Mr. Glenarm? I am Bates
from Glenarm House. Mr. Pickering wired me to meet
you, sir.”
“Yes; to be sure,” I said.
The hackman was already gathering up my traps,
and I gave him my trunk-checks.
“How far is it?” I asked, my eyes resting, a little regretfully,
I must confess, on the rear lights of the vanishing
train.
“Two miles, sir,” Bates replied. “There’s no way
over but the hack in winter. In summer the steamer
comes right into our dock.”
“My legs need stretching; I’ll walk,” I suggested,
drawing the cool air into my lungs. It was a still, starry
October night, and its freshness was grateful after the
hot sleeper. Bates accepted the suggestion without
comment. We walked to the end of the platform, where
the hackman was already tumbling my trunks about,
and after we had seen them piled upon his nondescript
wagon, I followed Bates down through the broad quiet
street of the village. There was more of Annandale
than I had imagined, and several tall smoke-stacks
loomed here and there in the thin starlight.
“Brick-yards, sir,” said Bates, waving his hand at
the stacks. “It’s a considerable center for that kind of
business.”
“Bricks without straw?” I asked, as we passed a
radiant saloon that blazed upon the board walk.
“Beg pardon, sir, but such places are the ruin of
men,”—on which remark I based a mental note that
Bates wished to impress me with his own rectitude.
He swung along beside me, answering questions with
dogged brevity. Clearly, here was a man who had reduced
human intercourse to a basis of necessity. I was
to be shut up with him for a year, and he was not likely
to prove a cheerful jailer. My feet struck upon a graveled
highway at the end of the village street, and I
heard suddenly the lapping of water.
“It’s the lake, sir. This road leads right out to the
house,” Bates explained.
I was doomed to meditate pretty steadily, I imagined,
on the beauty of the landscape in these parts, and I
was rejoiced to know that it was not all cheerless prairie
or gloomy woodland. The wind freshened cud blew
sharply upon us off the water.
“The fishing’s quite good in season. Mr. Glenarm
used to take great pleasure in it. Bass,—yes, sir. Mr.
Glenarm held there was nothing quite equal to a black
bass.”
I liked the way the fellow spoke of my grandfather.
He was evidently a loyal retainer. No doubt he could
summon from the past many pictures of my grandfather,
and I determined to encourage his confidence.
Any resentment I felt on first hearing the terms of
my grandfather’s will had passed. He had treated me
as well as I deserved, and the least I could do was to
accept the penalty he had laid upon me in a sane and
amiable spirit. This train of thought occupied me as
we tramped along the highway. The road now led away
from the lake and through a heavy wood. Presently, on
the right loomed a dark barrier, and I put out my hand
and touched a wall of rough stone that rose to a height
of about eight feet.
“What is this, Bates?” I asked.
“This is Glenarm land, sir. The wall was one of
your grandfather’s ideas. It’s a quarter of a mile long
and cost him a pretty penny, I warrant you. The road
turns off from the lake now, but the Glenarm property
is all lake front.”
So there was a wall about my prison house! I grinned
cheerfully to myself. When, a few moments later, my
guide paused at an arched gateway in the long wall,
drew from his overcoat a bunch of keys and fumbled at
the lock of an iron gate, I felt the spirit of adventure
quicken within me.
The gate clicked behind us and Bates found a lantern
and lighted it with the ease of custom.
“I use this gate because it’s nearer. The regular entrance
is farther down the road. Keep close, sir, as the
timber isn’t much cleared.”
The undergrowth was indeed heavy, and I followed
the lantern of my guide with difficulty. In the darkness
the place seemed as wild and rough as a tropical wilderness.
“Only a little farther,” rose Bates’ voice ahead of
me; and then: “There’s the light, sir,”—and, lifting
my eyes, as I stumbled over the roots of a great tree, I
saw for the first time the dark outlines of Glenarm
House.
“Here we are, sir!” exclaimed Bates, stamping his
feet upon a walk. I followed him to what I assumed to
be the front door of the house, where a lamp shone
brightly at either side of a massive entrance. Bates
flung it open without ado, and I stepped quickly into
a great hall that was lighted dimly by candles fastened
into brackets on the walls.
“I hope you’ve not expected too much, Mr. Glenarm,”
said Bates, with a tone of mild apology. “It’s very incomplete
for living purposes.”
“Well, we’ve got to make the best of it,” I answered,
though without much cheer. The sound of our steps
reverberated and echoed in the well of a great staircase.
There was not, as far as I could see, a single article of
furniture in the place.
“Here’s something you’ll like better, sir,”—and Bates
paused far down the hall and opened a door.
A single candle made a little pool of light in what I
felt to be a large room. I was prepared for a disclosure
of barren ugliness, and waited, in heartsick foreboding,
for the silent guide to reveal a dreary prison.
“Please sit here, sir,” said Bates, “while I make a
better light.”
He moved through the dark room with perfect ease,
struck a match, lighted a taper and went swiftly and
softly about. He touched the taper to one candle after
another,—they seemed to be everywhere,—and won
from the dark a faint twilight, that yielded slowly to a
growing mellow splendor of light. I have often watched
the acolytes in dim cathedrals of the Old World set
countless candles ablaze on magnificent altars,—always
with awe for the beauty of the spectacle; but in this
unknown house the austere serving-man summoned
from the shadows a lovelier and more bewildering enchantment.
Youth alone, of beautiful things, is lovelier
than light.
The lines of the walls receded as the light increased,
and the raftered ceiling drew away, luring the eyes upward.
I rose with a smothered exclamation on my lips
and stared about, snatching off my hat in reverence as
the spirit of the place wove its spell about me. Everywhere
there were books; they covered the walls to the
ceiling, with only long French windows and an enormous
fireplace breaking the line. Above the fireplace a
massive dark oak chimney-breast further emphasized
the grand scale of the room. From every conceivable
place—from shelves built for the purpose, from brackets
that thrust out long arms among the books, from a
great crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, and
from the breast of the chimney—innumerable candles
blazed with dazzling brilliancy. I exclaimed in wonder
and pleasure as Bates paused, his sorcerer’s wand in
hand.
“Mr. Glenarm was very fond of candle-light; he
liked to gather up candlesticks, and his collection is
very fine. He called his place ‘The House of a Thousand
Candles.’ There’s only about a hundred here;
but it was one of his conceits that when the house was
finished there would be a thousand lights, he had quite
a joking way, your grandfather. It suited his humor
to call it a thousand. He enjoyed his own pleasantries,
sir.”
“I fancy he did,” I replied, staring in bewilderment.
“Oil lamps might be more suited to your own taste,
sir. But your grandfather would not have them. Old
brass and copper were specialties with him, and he had
a particular taste, Mr. Glenarm had, in glass candlesticks.
He held that the crystal was most effective of
all. I’ll go and let in the baggageman and then serve
you some supper.”
He went somberly out and I examined the room with
amazed and delighted eyes. It was fifty feet long and
half as wide. The hard-wood floor was covered with
handsome rugs; every piece of furniture was quaint or
interesting. Carved in the heavy oak paneling above
the fireplace, in large Old English letters, was the inscription:
The Spirit of Man is the Candle of the Lord
and on either side great candelabra sent long arms
across the hearth. All the books seemed related to architecture;
German and French works stood side by side
among those by English and American authorities. I
found archaeology represented in a division where all
the titles were Latin or Italian. I opened several cabinets
that contained sketches and drawings, all in careful
order; and in another I found an elaborate card
catalogue, evidently the work of a practised hand. The
minute examination was too much for me; I threw
myself into a great chair that might have been spoil
from a cathedral, satisfied to enjoy the general effect.
To find an apartment so handsome and so marked by
good taste in the midst of an Indiana wood, staggered
me. To be sure, in approaching the house I had seen
only a dark bulk that conveyed no sense of its character
or proportions; and certainly the entrance hall
had not prepared me for the beauty of this room. I was
so lost in contemplation that I did not hear a door open
behind me. The respectful, mournful voice of Bates
announced:
“There’s a bite ready for you, sir.”
I followed him through the hall to a small high-wainscoted
room where a table was simply set.
“This is what Mr. Glenarm called the refectory. The
dining-room, on the other side of the house, is unfinished.
He took his own meals here. The library was the
main thing with him. He never lived to finish the house,
—more’s the pity, sir. He would have made something
very handsome of it if he’d had a few years more. But
he hoped, sir, that you’d see it completed. It was his
wish, sir.”
“Yes, to be sure,” I replied.
He brought cold fowl and a salad, and produced a
bit of Stilton of unmistakable authenticity.
“I trust the ale is cooled to your liking. It’s your
grandfather’s favorite, if I may say it, sir.”
I liked the fellow’s humility. He served me with a
grave deference and an accustomed hand. Candles in
crystal holders shed an agreeable light upon the table;
the room was snug and comfortable, and hickory logs
in a small fireplace crackled cheerily. If my grandfather
had designed to punish me, with loneliness as
his weapon, his shade, if it lurked near, must have
been grievously disappointed. I had long been inured
to my own society. I had often eaten my bread alone,
and I found a pleasure in the quiet of the strange unknown
house. There stole over me, too, the satisfaction
that I was at last obeying a wish of my grandfather’s,
that I was doing something he would have me do. I
was touched by the traces everywhere of his interest
in what was to him the art of arts; there was something
quite fine in his devotion to it. The little refectory
had its air of distinction, though it was without
decoration. There had been, we always said in the
family, something whimsical or even morbid in my
grandsire’s devotion to architecture; but I felt that it
had really appealed to something dignified and noble
in his own mind and character, and a gentler mood
than I had known in years possessed my heart. He had
asked little of me, and I determined that in that little
I would not fail.
Bates gave me my coffee, put matches within reach
and left the room. I drew out my cigarette case and
was holding it half-opened, when the glass in the window
back of me cracked sharply, a bullet whistled over
my head, struck the opposite wall and fell, flattened
and marred, on the table under my hand.
CHAPTER IV
A VOICE FROM THE LAKE
I ran to the window and peered out into the night.
The wood through which we had approached the house
seemed to encompass it. The branches of a great tree
brushed the panes. I was tugging at the fastening of
the window when I became aware of Bates at my elbow.
“Did something happen, sir?”
His unbroken calm angered me. Some one had fired
at me through a window and I had narrowly escaped
being shot. I resented the unconcern with which this
servant accepted the situation.
“Nothing worth mentioning. Somebody tried to assassinate
me, that’s all,” I said, in a voice that failed
to be calmly ironical. I was still fumbling at the catch
of the window.
“Allow me, sir,”—and he threw up the sash with an
ease that increased my irritation.
I leaned out and tried to find some clue to my assailant.
Bates opened another window and surveyed the
dark landscape with me.
“It was a shot from without, was it, sir?”
“Of course it was; you didn’t suppose I shot at myself,
did you?”
He examined the broken pane and picked up the bullet
from the table.
“It’s a rifle-ball, I should say.”
The bullet was half-flattened by its contact with the
wall. It was a cartridge ball of large caliber and might
have been fired from either rifle or pistol.
“It’s very unusual, sir!” I wheeled upon him angrily
and found him fumbling with the bit of metal, a
troubled look in his face. He at once continued, as
though anxious to allay my fears. “Quite accidental,
most likely. Probably boys on the lake are shooting at
ducks.”
I laughed out so suddenly that Bates started back in
alarm.
“You idiot!” I roared, seizing him by the collar with
both hands and shaking him fiercely. “You fool! Do the
people around here shoot ducks at night? Do they
shoot water-fowl with elephant guns and fire at people
through windows just for fun?”
I threw him back against the table so that it leaped
away from him, and he fell prone on the floor.
“Get up!” I commanded, “and fetch a lantern.”
He said nothing, but did as I bade him. We traversed
the long cheerless hall to the front door, and I sent him
before me into the woodland. My notions of the geography
of the region were the vaguest, but I wished to
examine for myself the premises that evidently contained
a dangerous prowler. I was very angry and my
rage increased as I followed Bates, who had suddenly
retired within himself. We stood soon beneath the
lights of the refectory window.
The ground was covered with leaves which broke
crisply under our feet.
“What lies beyond here?” I demanded.
“About a quarter of mile of woods, sir, and then the
lake.”
“Go ahead,” I ordered, “straight to the lake.”
I was soon stumbling through rough underbrush similar
to that through which we had approached the house.
Bates swung along confidently enough ahead of me,
pausing occasionally to hold back the branches. I began
to feel, as my rage abated, that I had set out on a foolish
undertaking. I was utterly at sea as to the character of
the grounds; I was following a man whom I had not
seen until two hours before, and whom I began to suspect
of all manner of designs upon me. It was wholly
unlikely that the person who had fired into the windows
would lurk about, and, moreover, the light of the lantern,
the crack of the leaves and the breaking of the
boughs advertised our approach loudly. I am, however,
a person given to steadfastness in error, if nothing else,
and I plunged along behind my guide with a grim determination
to reach the margin of the lake, if for no
other reason than to exercise my authority over the
custodian of this strange estate.
A bush slapped me sharply and I stopped to rub the
sting from my face.
“Are you hurt, sir?” asked Bates solicitously, turning
with the lantern.
“Of course not,” I snapped. “I’m having the time
of my life. Are there no paths in this jungle?”
“Not through here, sir. It was Mr. Glenarm’s idea
not to disturb the wood at all. He was very fond of
walking through the timber.”
“Not at night, I hope! Where are we now?”
“Quite near the lake, sir.”
“Then go on.”
I was out of patience with Bates, with the pathless
woodland, and, I must confess, with the spirit of John
Marshall Glenarm, my grandfather.
We came out presently upon a gravelly beach, and
Bates stamped suddenly on planking.
“This is the Glenarm dock, sir; and that’s the boat-house.”
He waved his lantern toward a low structure that rose
dark beside us. As we stood silent, peering out into the
starlight, I heard distinctly the dip of a paddle and the
soft gliding motion of a canoe.
“It’s a boat, sir,” whispered Bates, hiding the lantern
under his coat.
I brushed past him and crept to the end of the dock.
The paddle dipped on silently and evenly in the still
water, but the sound grew fainter. A canoe is the most
graceful, the most sensitive, the most inexplicable contrivance
of man. With its paddle you may dip up stars
along quiet shores or steal into the very harbor of
dreams. I knew that furtive splash instantly, and knew
that a trained hand wielded the paddle. My boyhood
summers in the Maine woods were not, I frequently
find, wholly wasted.
The owner of the canoe had evidently stolen close to
the Glenarm dock, and had made off when alarmed by
the noise of our approach through the wood.
“Have you a boat here?”
“The boat-house is locked and I haven’t the key with
me, sir,” he replied without excitement.
“Of course you haven’t it,” I snapped, full of anger
at his tone of irreproachable respect, and at my own
helplessness. I had not even seen the place by daylight,
and the woodland behind me and the lake at my feet
were things of shadow and mystery. In my rage I
stamped my foot.
“Lead the way back,” I roared.
I had turned toward the woodland when suddenly
there stole across the water a voice,—a woman’s voice,
deep, musical and deliberate.
“Really, I shouldn’t be so angry if I were you!” it
said, with a lingering note on the word angry.
“Who are you? What are you doing there?” I bawled.
“Just enjoying a little tranquil thought!” was the
drawling, mocking reply.
Far out upon the water I heard the dip and glide of
the canoe, and saw faintly its outline for a moment;
then it was gone. The lake, the surrounding wood, were
an unknown world,—the canoe, a boat of dreams. Then
again came the voice:
“Good night, merry gentlemen!”
“It was a lady, sir,” remarked Bates, after we had
waited silently for a full minute.
“How clever you are!” I sneered. “I suppose ladies
prowl about here at night, shooting ducks or into people’s
houses.”
“It would seem quite likely, sir.”
I should have liked to cast him into the lake, but be
was already moving away, the lantern swinging at his
side. I followed him, back through the woodland to the
house.
My spirits quickly responded to the cheering influence
of the great library. I stirred the fire on the
hearth into life and sat down before it, tired from my
tramp. I was mystified and perplexed by the incident
that had already marked my coming. It was possible,
to be sure, that the bullet which narrowly missed my
head in the little dining-room had been a wild shot that
carried no evil intent. I dismissed at once the idea that
it might have been fired from the lake; it had crashed
through the glass with too much force to have come so
far; and, moreover, I could hardly imagine even a rifle-ball’s
finding an unimpeded right of way through so
dense a strip of wood. I found it difficult to get rid of
the idea that some one had taken a pot-shot at me.
The woman’s mocking voice from the lake added to
my perplexity. It was not, I reflected, such a voice as
one might expect to hear from a country girl; nor could
I imagine any errand that would excuse a woman’s
presence abroad on an October night whose cool air inspired
first confidences with fire and lamp. There was
something haunting in that last cry across the water;
it kept repeating itself over and over in my ears. It
was a voice of quality, of breeding and charm.
“Good night, merry gentlemen!”
In Indiana, I reflected, rustics, young or old, men or
women, were probably not greatly given to salutations
of just this temper.
Bates now appeared.
“Beg pardon, sir; but your room’s ready whenever
you wish to retire.”
I looked about in search of a clock.
“There are no timepieces in the house, Mr. Glenarm.
Your grandfather was quite opposed to them. He had
a theory, sir, that they were conducive, as he said, to
idleness. He considered that a man should work by his
conscience, sir, and not by the clock,—the one being
more exacting than the other.”
I smiled as I drew out my watch,—as much at Bates’
solemn tones and grim lean visage as at his quotation
from my grandsire. But the fellow puzzled and annoyed
me. His unobtrusive black clothes, his smoothly-brushed
hair, his shaven face, awakened an antagonism
in me.
“Bates, if you didn’t fire that shot through the window,
who did—will you answer me that?”
“Yes, sir; if I didn’t do it, it’s quite a large question
who did. I’ll grant you that, sir.”
I stared at him. He met my gaze directly without
flinching; nor was there anything insolent in his tone
or attitude. He continued:
“I didn’t do it, sir. I was in the pantry when I heard
the crash in the refectory window. The bullet came
from out of doors, as I should judge, sir.”
The facts and conclusions were undoubtedly with
Bates, and I felt that I had not acquitted myself creditably
in my effort to fix the crime on him. My abuse of
him had been tactless, to say the least, and I now tried
another line of attack.
“Of course, Bates, I was merely joking. What’s your
own theory of the matter?”
“I have no theory, sir. Mr. Glenarm always warned
me against theories. He said—if you will pardon me—
there was great danger in the speculative mind.”
The man spoke with a slight Irish accent, which in
itself puzzled me. I have always been attentive to the
peculiarities of speech, and his was not the brogue of
the Irish servant class. Larry Donovan, who was English-born,
used on occasions an exaggerated Irish dialect
that was wholly different from the smooth liquid tones of
Bates. But more things than his speech were to puzzle
me in this man.
“The person in the canoe? How do you account for
her?” I asked.
“I haven’t accounted for her, sir. There’s no women
on these grounds, or any sort of person except ourselves.”
“But there are neighbors,—farmers, people of some
kind must live along the lake.”
“A few, sir; and then there’s the school quite a bit
beyond your own west wall.”
His slight reference to my proprietorship, my own
wall, as he put it, pleased me.
“Oh, yes; there is a school—girls?—yes; Mr. Pickering
mentioned it. But the girls hardly paddle on the
lake at night, at this season—hunting ducks—should
you say, Bates?”
“I don’t believe they do any shooting, Mr. Glenarm.
It’s a pretty strict school, I judge, sir, from all accounts.”
“And the teachers—they are all women?”
“They’re the Sisters of St. Agatha, I believe they call
them. I sometimes see them walking abroad. They’re
very quiet neighbors, and they go away in the summer
usually, except Sister Theresa. The school’s her regular
home, sir. And there’s the little chapel quite near the
wall; the young minister lives there; and the gardener’s
the only other man on the grounds.”
So my immediate neighbors were Protestant nuns
and school-girls, with a chaplain and gardener thrown
in for variety. Still, the chaplain might be a social resource.
There was nothing in the terms of my grandfather’s
will to prevent my cultivating the acquaintance
of a clergyman. It even occurred to me that this might
be a part of the game: my soul was to be watched over
by a rural priest, while, there being nothing else to do,
I was to give my attention to the study of architecture.
Bates, my guard and housekeeper, was brushing the
hearth with deliberate care.
“Show me my cell,” I said, rising, “and I’ll go to
bed.”
He brought from somewhere a great brass candelabrum
that held a dozen lights, and explained:
“This was Mr. Glenarm’s habit. He always used this
one to go to bed with. I’m sure he’d wish you to have
it, sir.”
I thought I detected something like a quaver in the
man’s voice. My grandfather’s memory was dear to him.
I reflected, and I was moved to compassion for him.
“How long were you with Mr. Glenarm, Bates?” I
inquired, as I followed him into the hall.
“Five years, sir. He employed me the year you went
abroad. I remember very well his speaking of it. He
greatly admired you, sir.”
He led the way, holding the cluster of lights high for
my guidance up the broad stairway.
The hall above shared the generous lines of the whole
house, but the walls were white and hard to the eye.
Rough planks had been laid down for a floor, and beyond
the light of the candles lay a dark region that gave
out ghostly echoes as the loose boards rattled under our
feet.
“I hope you’ll not be too much disappointed, sir,”
said Bates, pausing a moment before opening a door.
“It’s all quite unfinished, but comfortable, I should say,
quite comfortable.”
“Open the door!”
He was not my host and I did not relish his apology.
I walked past him into a small sitting-room that was,
in a way, a miniature of the great library below. Open
shelves filled with books lined the apartment to the
ceiling on every hand, save where a small fireplace, a
cabinet and table were built into the walls. In the
center of the room was a long table with writing materials
set in nice order. I opened a handsome case and
found that it contained a set of draftsman’s instruments.
I groaned aloud.
“Mr. Glenarm preferred this room for working. The
tools were his very own, sir.”
“The devil they were!” I exclaimed irascibly. I
snatched a book from the nearest shelf and threw it
open on the table. It was The Tower: Its Early Use
for Purposes of Defense. London: 1816.
I closed it with a slam.
“The sleeping-room is beyond, sir. I hope—”
“Don’t you hope any more!” I growled; “and it
doesn’t make any difference whether I’m disappointed
or not.”
“Certainly not, sir!” he replied in a tone that made
me ashamed of myself.
The adjoining bedroom was small and meagerly furnished.
The walls were untinted and were relieved only
by prints of English cathedrals, French chateaux, and
like suggestions of the best things known to architecture.
The bed was the commonest iron type; and the
other articles of furniture were chosen with a strict regard
for utility. My trunks and bags had been carried
in, and Bates asked from the door for my commands.
“Mr. Glenarm always breakfasted at seven-thirty, sir,
as near as he could hit it without a timepiece, and he
was quite punctual. His ways were a little odd, sir. He
used to prowl about at night a good deal, and there was
no following him.”
“I fancy I shan’t do much prowling,” I declared.
“And my grandfather’s breakfast hour will suit me exactly,
Bates.”
“If there’s nothing further, sir—”
“That’s all;—and Bates—”
“Yes, Mr. Glenarm.”
“Of course you understand that I didn’t really mean
to imply that you had fired that shot at me?”
“I beg you not to mention it, Mr. Glenarm.”
“But it was a little queer. If you should gain any
light on the subject, let me know.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But I believe, Bates, that we’d better keep the shades
down at night. These duck hunters hereabouts are apparently
reckless. And you might attend to these now,
—and every evening hereafter.”
I wound my watch as he obeyed. I admit that in my
heart I still half-suspected the fellow of complicity with
the person who had fired at me through the dining-room
window. It was rather odd, I reflected, that the shades
should have been open, though I might account for this
by the fact that this curious unfinished establishment
was not subject to the usual laws governing orderly
housekeeping. Bates was evidently aware of my suspicions,
and he remarked, drawing down the last of the
plain green shades:
“Mr. Glenarm never drew them, sir. It was a saying
of his, if I may repeat his words, that he liked the open.
These are eastern windows, and he took a quiet pleasure
in letting the light waken him. It was one of his oddities,
sir.”
“To be sure. That’s all, Bates.”
He gravely bade me good night, and I followed him
to the outer door and watched his departing figure,
lighted by a single candle that he had produced from
his pocket.
I stood for several minutes listening to his step, tracing
it through the hall below—as far as my knowledge
of the house would permit. Then, in unknown regions,
I could hear the closing of doors and drawing of bolts.
Verily, my jailer was a person of painstaking habits.
I opened my traveling-case and distributed its contents
on the dressing-table. I had carried through all
my adventures a folding leather photograph-holder, containing
portraits of my father and mother and of John
Marshall Glenarm, my grandfather, and this I set up
on the mantel in the little sitting-room. I felt to-night
as never before how alone I was in the world, and a
need for companionship and sympathy stirred in me.
It was with a new and curious interest that I peered
into my grandfather’s shrewd old eyes. He used to come
and go fitfully at my father’s house; but my father had
displeased him in various ways that I need not recite,
and my father’s death had left me with an estrangement
which I had widened by my own acts.
Now that I had reached Glenarm, my mind reverted
to Pickering’s estimate of the value of my grandfather’s
estate. Although John Marshall Glenarm was an eccentric
man, he had been able to accumulate a large fortune;
and yet I had allowed the executor to tell me that
he had died comparatively poor. In so readily accepting
the terms of the will and burying myself in a region of
which I knew nothing, I had cut myself off from the
usual channels of counsel. If I left the place to return
to New York I should simply disinherit myself. At
Glenarm I was, and there I must remain to the end of
the year; I grew bitter against Pickering as I reflected
upon the ease with which he had got rid of me. I had
always satisfied myself that my wits were as keen as his,
but I wondered now whether I had not stupidly put myself
in his power.
CHAPTER V
A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER
I looked out on the bright October morning with a
renewed sense of isolation. Trees crowded about my
windows, many of them still wearing their festal colors,
scarlet and brown and gold, with the bright green of
some sulking companion standing out here and there
with startling vividness. I put on an old corduroy outing
suit and heavy shoes, ready for a tramp abroad, and
went below.
The great library seemed larger than ever when I beheld
it in the morning light. I opened one of the
French windows and stepped out on a stone terrace,
where I gained a fair view of the exterior of the house,
which proved to be a modified Tudor, with battlements
and two towers. One of the latter was only half-finished,
and to it and to other parts of the house the workmen’s
scaffolding still clung. Heaps of stone and piles of lumber
were scattered about in great disorder. The house
extended partly along the edge of a ravine, through
which a slender creek ran toward the lake. The terrace
became a broad balcony immediately outside the library,
and beneath it the water bubbled pleasantly around
heavy stone pillars. Two pretty rustic bridges spanned
the ravine, one near the front entrance, the other at the
rear. My grandfather had begun his house on a generous
plan, but, buried as it was among the trees, it suffered
from lack of perspective. However, on one side toward
the lake was a fair meadow, broken by a water-tower,
and just beyond the west dividing wall I saw a little
ch
|
of the Double Cross
from your Fellow Creatures, and if you had worked as hard at some
Honest Calling as you have in trying to Rob Others you would be
a Millionaire instead of a Tramp. It is my observation that the
Beater always gets Beaten in the end. Farewell!”
* * * * *
Moral: This Fable teaches that Most of the Short Cuts to Success
end on the Dump.
A Song
_by Philip Verrill Mighels._
_Illustration by F. Luis Mora._
_Somewhere I have heard that the “Pleiades all sang together,” and
I therefore submit these all-star verses as a song._
In the Northern seas I loved a maid
As cold as a polar bear,
But of taking a cold I was not afraid—
Sing too rel le roo
And the wine is red—
For a kiss is a kiss most anywhere,
When a man’s heart goes to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man is an onion, boys,
An onion, boys, with a shedding skin;
And never it breaks, for you off with its hide
When the old love’s gone—and it’s fresh within!
In the Southern seas I loved a lass
As warm as a day in June,
And oh, that a summer should ever pass—
Sing too rel le roo
And the wine is red—
For my summer, my lads, was gone too soon,
With a man’s heart gone to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man, etc.
[Illustration:
“_In the Southern seas I loved a lass_
_As warm as a day in June._”]
In the Western seas I loved a miss
As shy as the sharks that swim,
And it’s duties we owe to the art of a kiss—
Sing too rel le roo
And the wine is red—
If a maiden so shy should be took with a whim
And a man’s heart gone to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man, etc.
P. S.—There are said to be seven seas. It ought to be seventy.
WHERE BOHEMIA IS
_by John William Sargent._
Bohemia’s not a corner hid in Paris or New York,
Not a corner in a cellar where we eat and drink and talk,
Nor a corner that is set aside to poverty and art:
No, Bohemia’s just a corner in the right man’s heart!
Autumn
_by Arthur Stahlschmidt._
_Decoration by H. K. Cranmer._
The long sweep of the wind across the moor,
The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,
The faded grass and bracken near the shore
Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing.
No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,
Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughs
And rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
[Illustration]
At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote
_by Helen Rowland._
_Illustration by E. M. Ashe._
Smoke, and spaghetti, and crimson wine,
And the laughing notes of a violin!
From the Seine, from the Loire, from the Thames, the Rhine,
Hail the guests of the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
What if your hat be a battered one?
What if your coat be a trifle thin?
There’s a chant of cheer for Bohemia’s son
At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
Feel not your pocket, for here’s a feast,
And your fill of wine for a few mean pence—
Fish and fowl and a loaf, at least—
And all for a matter of fifty cents!
Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there
In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din,
For Genius is child of the very air
One breathes at the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
[Illustration:
“_Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there
In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din._”]
Out of the smoke there are statues carved,
And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin;
For never a poet’s soul has starved
On the notes of a table d’hote violin.
At that table yonder, perchance, was born
A sonnet that brought the singer fame—
And there, in a jacket frayed and worn,
Nightly, a world-known painter came.
Here, once reveled a popular wit,
There, a composer, now rich and fat,
Here, a diva—just think of that!—
Flirted and laughed, ’neath a home-made hat!
Where are they now? Who knows? Alas!
Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat,
Sipping champagne from a rich man’s glass—
For Success sits not at the table d’hote.
But what does it matter to us, I say!
This is “Going-to-be” and not “Has-been”—
The Land of “To-morrow,” not “Yesterday,”
Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
“Hello!”
_by John Edward Hazzard._
“Hello, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
Thus with hand-clasp was our greeting,
Seems as though at our first meeting.
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what gladness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Hello, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
This, and then a moment’s kissing,
Gave us what in life was missing;
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what madness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Good-by, girl!”
“Good-by, boy!”
Thus we spoke it at our parting,
Just a little tear was smarting;
“Good-by, girl!” and oh, what sadness
In her echo, “Good-by, boy!”
The Wild Rose
_by John Jerome Rooney._
_Illustration by Louis Rhead._
I saw a wild rose in the wilderness;
It was so sweet, so sweet
It seemed the one thing in the world
That God had made complete.
It grew beside a mossy road
In the deep northern woods,
And oh, its simple beauty lit
Those savage solitudes.
And, as I plucked it where it blew
All trembling in the wind,
It seemed a meet gift unto her—
The flower of womankind!
[Illustration: “_The flower of womankind!_”]
The Old, Old Prayer
_by John W. Postgate._
Our Father, which art in Heaven,
We glorify Thy name,
And pray our sins be all forgiven,
Our hearts all cleansed from shame;
Our vain desires we beg Thee check,
Our footsteps lead aright,
And from our eyes remove each speck
That blinds us to the light.
Hallowed be Thy name, O Lord;
Let Thy sweet mercy reign;
Within our hearts sink deep the Word
That heals all grief and pain;
Our wand’ring thoughts restrain and cheer,
Our cares and doubts dispel;
From timid hearts cast out each fear,
And teach us, All is well!
Give us this day our daily bread;
And fervent be our creed,
To suffer none to go unfed
While we may end his need;
Let love and pity fill our hearts,
And charity for all;
Sustain the strength that hope imparts,
To bless both great and small.
Thy Kingdom come, in Thy good time,
Oh, comfort us till then!
Thy will be done in ev’ry clime
There toil the sons of men;
And let Thy grace descend and glow
Within each weary breast,
So we may all Thy goodness know,
Thy love and peace attest.
Our faults forgive, as we forgive
The faults by others shown;
Teach us the way to rightly live
Our follies to atone;
From evil aims our minds set free,
And from temptation save;
And let the Cross of Calvary
Redeem us from the grave.
For Thine the Kingdom must prevail
’Gainst all the hosts of ill,
Thy power and Thy glory quell
The arts that sting and kill;
And forever and forever
Hosannas let us raise,
That lures of earth may never
Divert us from Thy ways.
The Bashful Girl
_by Fred S. Blossom._
_Illustration by E. Fuhr._
She threw around my soul a charm—
I threw around her waist my arm.
She was so bashful and seemed so shy—
Just made to kiss—ah! I wished to try.
We strolled along in the cooling shade;
I mustered courage and kissed the maid.
Her look! Her eyes! I’ll never forget
The touch of her lips! It lingers yet.
We kissed again! My heart stood still—
A joy came o’er me, a quiet thrill;
As the red blood pulsed, all seemed awhirl—
Wondrous change in my bashful girl!
Did her brown eyes flash, or a cry of wrath
Re-echo along that shady path?
Nay! But clinging close, as ivies climb,
She lifted her head to me each time.
[Illustration:
“_But clinging close, as ivies climb,
She lifted her head to me each time._”]
Invitation
_by Walter Gregory Muirheid._
_Illustration by R. A. Lüders._
Pray, maiden of ye ancient time,
Fair stranger of a foreign clime,
Tell me, as gaze ye o’er the sea,
What thoughts arise to comfort thee?
Hast lover there in ship of state,
Or waitest thou beside the gate
To welcome him from war’s alarms
To the fond shelter of thine arms?
Perchance that through the ages vast
In prophecy thy gaze is cast
And to Manhattan’s glad and gay
Hotels, cafés and Great White Way
Thy fancies take their wing, and show
The Pleiades with lights aglow,
Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes
Bright visions of our feasts arise.
[Illustration: “_Fair stranger of a foreign clime._”]
Canst bridge the span of ages vast,
O maiden of a fabled past?
Then come! We’ll do our best to please;
We’ll make thee guest at Pleiades!
And ne’er in palmy days of Rome
Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home
More than at Pleiads’ tables round
Where fellowship and faith abound.
For ne’er in Rome were men like these
Good fellows of the Pleiades,
And ne’er were maidens half so fair
As they who seek diversion there;
Yet ne’er was time these fellows gay
Would deem another in the way,
And so make haste, fly o’er the sea,
The Pleiades will welcome thee!
[Illustration: _Drawn by Wm. J. Steinigans._
See the lady? Does the lady want the soap? The lady certainly does.
Will the pup bring the soap to the lady? It will not—the pup is a
gentleman pup and the lady is a suffragette. The pup wants her to
get it herself.]
All You Need in New York
_by Lee Fairchild._
_Illustration by Wm. Van Benthuysen._
A shave and a dollar,
A shine and a collar,
Is all that you need in New York;
That is, if you’re clever
And never, oh, never
Are seen at the thing we call work.
When seated at dinner
Just for a beginner
Change waiters—a move for a bluff;
Talk “stocks” of the morrow
And then you may borrow
A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff.
Remember a story—
Quite new or quite hoary—
To quote to your host when you dine;
Be never a piker
But e’er a bold striker—
Aim high or the venture decline.
[Illustration: “_Talk ‘stocks’ of the morrow._”]
Waiting!
_by Mabel Herbert Urner._
_Illustration by Luther S. White._
“You—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it
hesitatingly, timidly almost.
“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.
“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”
“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”
“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver
in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”
“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in
advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”
She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone.
His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to
the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the
street.
If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but
he did not.
She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in
her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight
she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?
[Illustration: “_There she sat, with her head bending low,
thinking, thinking, thinking._”]
And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because
she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could
it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of
pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest
had died?
Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was
bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely
cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was
some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which
she was unconscious.
She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find
where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might
have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was
her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself
what he wanted—just by the sheer strength of _willing_ it!
If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have the
_chance_ to make him care for her again! He used to come almost
every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.
She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to
name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only
she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long,
silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for
two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two
weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to
make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty
of the days to come.
Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on
him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was
placing between them!
She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat,
with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.
* * * * *
Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of
peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional
strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes
came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the
thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she
gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to
understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love
of him!
If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the
love she so wanted might be hers!
The Blind Messenger
_by Annabel Lee._
_Illustration by Walter Meyner._
If I could feel the song of faith still singing
In my heart, once filled with melody
Of all you seemed when love was bringing
Me to the shrine of your adolatry.
Ah! If the years and gods were but content
To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand
And give instead, the meed which heaven meant
Should crown each woman’s life in every land.
If the dead past would but one hour deign
A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough,
An hour when love and peace would ever reign—
That hour indeed were happiness enough.
[Illustration:
“. . . . . . .
_To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand._”]
The Pleiades
_by Hector McPherson_.
All hail! my brothers of palette and pen;
Of science and buskin, too;
You daughters of beauty and tuneful mien—
The joy-ship’s merriest crew.
Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth,
Where the grave and gay unite?
Where genius now finds its nobler birth
And shines with a lustre bright?
Men here tell stories, their pictures paint,
As they burn life’s flick’ring lamp;
They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint,
Yet with care they refuse to camp.
When hand grips hand in friendly grasp,
Just jot this down in your book:
It is Nature’s heart that you fondly clasp,
Not an empty, outward look.
The flower of friendship sweeter blooms
Where all hearts are good and true,
Each nobler art richer form assumes
And shines with a fairer hue.
Ye Pleiades of the heavenly throng,
Down here you do bravely shine.
May your hearts be light and your way be long,
Lit by genius most divine!
Then forward from conquering field to field,
Nor heeding life’s battle-scars;
Nor malice, nor envy’s tongue shall make yield,
Who brothers are to the stars!
Table d’ Hote Bohemia
Here’s to “Table d’Hote Bohemia”
Where all may dare,
But only the brave
Can stand the fare!
Lovers
_by Howard S. Neiman_.
In her leafy, shady bowers
Grew a rose among the flowers;
Queen was she among the bloom,
Dainty with her sweet perfume.
And the flowers did homage pay,
Love by night and love by day,
Daisies fair and tulips sweet,
Bashful violets at her feet,
Thistles strong and lilies white
Told their love by day and night.
But she spurned their love so true,
She had lover no one knew.
And each morn when faintest light
Told the passing of the night,
She would lift her blushing face
For her lover’s fond embrace.
And when other flowers did sleep,
Softly to her he would creep.
In the dawning thus alone
He would call her all his own;
On her lips a kiss would press,
Leave them moist with happiness.
Love so tender, Love so true,
Fairest Rose and Morning Dew!
* * * * *
All my life-time would be sweet—
All my happiness complete—
If I were the Morning Dew,
And the Rose, Sweetheart, were you.
Fame
_by Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister_.
_Decoration by D. S._
There have been men whose souls were filled
With dew of knowledge thrice distilled,
Who bored holes in Time’s masonry
Thru which the stupid world could see;
Yet Envy with the pen of rage,
Wrote “Failure” on the title page!
Fame stood aloof, with scornful head,
And crowned them—after they were dead!
[Illustration]
The Tale of the Store Girl
_by O Hana San_.
_Illustration by Adrian Machefert._
Yes, ma’am, to the right. No, ma’am, not this store.”
“Say, Sade, ain’t those dames a terrible bore
With their questions all day?
Perhaps now I can say
What I want to you, of me friend Johnny Ray.
Was the party real swell? Well,
I’m dying to tell
You of the dandy fine floor, and just what I wore――
The price of that, ma’am? Well, ain’t she a ham
To get off her ear just because it’s too dear?
As I was just sayin’, there was dancin’ and playin’,
And cute Johnny Ray, say! was with me all day――
Two yards of that lace? (My, Sade, what a face!)
Sure, ma’am, I’ll attend;
I don’t mean to offend
Either you or any other old lady.
Fresh? Can you beat that now, Sadie?
She’s gone to complain to the floorwalker chap—
It’s all up with me, maybe, but I don’t give a rap.
[Illustration: “_As I was just sayin’._”]
’Cos Johnny wants me for his own little pet,
And maybe I ain’t lookin’ for marriage just yet!
I can beat it—and quick—to a store on Broadway.
Hear me hand that to him,
With a merry ‘Good day?’”
* * * * *
And she did, and what happened is easy to write;
She married young Ray; that’s her end, so good night.
* * * * *
MORAL.
And the moral is simple for girls high and low:
You’ll never get left with two strings to your bow.
A good business one to pull at your will,
Or, a true lover’s knot may be better still
In case you get “fired,” like the girl in the store,
Who had two strings to her bow
And who knows?—some more!
[Illustration]
A TOAST
_Illustration by Krieghoff._
I drink to the Pipe, which, at eventide,
Is dearer to me than a blushing bride.
As its perfumed clouds float on the air,
They curl into myriad visions rare:
Pictures of comrades of long ago
I see in the shadows that come and go;
And the long-lost love of my boyhood seems
To be kissed into life by my Pipe-o’-dreams.
A Song
_by Eugene Geary_.
_Illustration by G. Michelson._
Young Love forsook the highways,
All decked in their robes of Spring,
And, far into silent by-ways,
He fluttered on golden wing.
Blithe youths and maidens chased him,
“He is only tired,” they said.
To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,
Then sighed that Love was dead.
On, on through the shining meadows,
As the rays of the evening fell,
He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows
Till he came to a lonely dell.
The flowers, with teardrops laden,
Bent their heads as he flew along,
To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—
His sigh was a poet’s song.
[Illustration: “_Then sighed that Love was dead._”]
The Caverns of the Soul
_by Charles Louis Sicard_.
_Illustration by H. B. Eddy._
Within the mystic caverns of our souls
There is a labyrinth unexplored;
Where dim aisles, winding far beyond the poles,
Have secrets of the ages stored.
Unheard far in the twilight mists of time,
Are weirdly haunting strains that sleep,
To be resounded through your soul or mine,
For those we summon from the deep.
Oft times I wandered in those ancient caves,
Seeking to pierce the crowded past;
’Midst endless hosts submerged ’neath lethal waves,
The all in one, sans first, sans last.
For Truth alone thus strangely did I grope,
Daring, despairing, yet in vain;
Until one wondrous hour, while stirred with hope,
My search revealed a slumb’ring strain.
One blast of barb’rous melody flung clear,
Swept back the veil, removed the ban,
And demon-ridden, and accursed with fear,
I stalked, once more primeval man.
Ah me, this thing, cast from the pit of night,
Knew naught but savagery and lust;
I searched in vain for truth, for love, for light,
Then bid him vanish back to dust.
[Illustration: “_Within the mystic caverns of our souls._”]
Undaunted through my soul again I sped,
A strain unheard, for cycles flown;
Adown the shadowed deeps this message fled,
Come ye, who first, love’s thrill hast known.
From distant ages dim, at last, I came,
With shining eyes of glim’ring dawn,
And throbbing heart aglow, destined to flame,
In love, through those as yet unborn.
I saw this self ancestral slowly fade,
To voiceless chambers of the gloom;
Where rest those throngs, who have so fully paid,
That Life’s dank weeds, might flowers bloom.
’Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay,
And Life must quaff the poison’d wine;
But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way,
Can purify the living vine.
O Soul, the tallied years of men count not,
For life eternal sweepeth back;
As life unending is predestined lot,
And I am I, from love, from rack!
This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay,
Divine spark from the æons blown,
Through loins of countless forbears to this day
Shall ever reap as all have sown.
[Illustration: _Drawn by Albert Sterner._]
Love’s Flower
_by Frank L. Norris_.
_Illustration by M. Torre Hood._
Throughout this life a moral runs,
And ye who read may learn
That God has placed in every heart
A sacred fire, to burn
And flash so long as life may last—
A priceless treasure trove,
A garden fair, beyond compare,
Where blooms the flower called love.
A flower that’s warmed by passion’s flame,
And fed by pleasure’s dew,
Its curling petals reaching out
Like beckoning hands to you.
But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,
It hangs its drooping head,
Nor passion stay from day to day
Until that flower is dead.
[Illustration:
“_But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,
It hangs its drooping head._”]
The Revolt of the Stars
_by Maud G. Pride_.
_Illustration by R. S. Ament._
A very long time ago, when the Heavens were quite new and the Earth
was still in the Golden Age, a strange event occurred—quite unheard
of even in those early times.
The Sun, vigorous and lusty, had rubbed his blinking eyes and
hurried away to the west. The boy-child, Twilight, his chubby
hands still clutching after the last red rays left behind by the
Sun, winked his sleepy eyes, as, protestingly, he was pushed along
in his crimson cart by Old Sandman. Close behind came his three
sisters, the Evening Shadows, in their long, trailing, gray robes.
A hush fell upon the Heavens. From far below came the hum of the
Crickets and the low murmur of the Katydids, having their final
good-night gossip, but in the Sky all was still until the Moonlady
came softly creeping along, her silver mantle enfolding her slight
form, her long silken hair caught by the Evening Breeze, who
followed close in her wake. At her appearance there arose from the
Earth songs of gladness and hymns of praise. Lovers looked up at
her enraptured, poets sang of her, and even the brute creation sent
Heavenward their low murmur of joy at her being. Silently she
smiled down upon them all as she passed on her way.
[Illustration: “_The Moonlady stole softly across the sky._”]
Then a strange thing happened. Black clouds skurried here and there
across the Heavens, and low mutterings were heard. The Stars had
revolted!
Venus, her cold beauty marred by a frown of discontent, was the
center of a murmuring group, to whom she spoke in words of passion:
“Let us take a firm stand. Why should we go on shining, shining
through countless ages? We are not appreciated. We never receive
any praise. There are so many of us and our light is so feeble, who
cares whether we shine or not? The Moon comes along and takes away
our glory; let her do all the work then. Why should we waste our
light trying to outshine the Moon and the Sun? Unless we can be as
brilliant as they and receive as much praise, let us not shine at
all.”
Each Star blinked a sullen assent, and gradually each little light
flickered and went out. The Dog Star barked and the Great Bears
growled—the low mutterings became a loud rumble, and the Heavens
for once were dark, save for a faint light that still gleamed away
off in the north. Seeing the feeble light still shining, all the
Stars rushed to it, surrounding the feeble Star that persisted in
shining, and jeered at her folly.
“Put out your light, you foolish one. Do you hope to vie with the
Sun or the Moon with that feeble flame of yours? What use can you
be in this great space of darkness?”
“I do not know,” replied the Star, faintly, “but I can go on
shining and do my best, though my light is small and goes but a
little way. I do not envy the Moonlady her glory. Is it not a great
thing that she can shine so radiantly upon the Earth and make so
many happy? And if there were no Sun, what would the poor little
Flowers do, and the Birds and the Beasts? My little light cannot
do much good, but I can do my best to keep it bright, and if it
reaches to Earth but faintly I shall be grateful. I had rather
light one soul onward and upward than to have a choir of Angels
sing my praises; I had rather one person should be glad he had
seen my rays, than to be crowned with a crown of brilliant jewels
and never have made anyone glad; I had rather one tearful soul
should look to me and find comfort in my steady light than to have
a million people bow down to me in worship of my beauty; I had
rather one soul should be truly sorry when my light goes out than
that a thousand should praise me for my brilliancy and not know
when I ceased to shine; I had rather a baby’s face looked up at me
and smiled and called my name than to be praised in a poet’s song
and know he was paid so much a line for it; I had rather send
one faint ray of hope into some troubled heart than to light the
World’s Great White Way; I had rather shine on for ages unnoticed
than to shine with borrowed light and be afraid of being blown out;
I had rather――” But the little Star found herself all alone, and as
she looked about her she saw that each Star was in its accustomed
place, and that each light was more brilliant than it had ever
been before. Even the dark clouds had vanished, and a little child
looked up at the Sky from her bedroom window and said, “O, mother
dear, see how beautiful are the stars to-night! They are God’s
jewels, set in His Crown of Glory, aren’t they? If we are very good
shall we be beautiful stars some day and shine for Him?”
And the Stars looked down and smiled Good-night. And the brightest
of all the Stars were the Pleiades.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Drawn by Hy. S. Watson._
_Eavesdropping._]
The Joy of Living
_by Carrie Van Deusen King_.
_Illustration by Eleanor Schorer._
“_This precious stone set in a silver sea,
This blessed plot, this realm, this earth._”
—SHAKESPEARE.
Would heaven be sweet, if you and I were there,
And would the angels bear us globes of wine,
Grown rich with many a hundred golden years?
I fear me not, for one might deem you fair
And take away what I had known as mine,
To make my paradise a vale of tears.
Give me, then, earth with its humanity,
Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees,
While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose.
Give me the earth, I crave not what may be
Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas;
I only ask the love that mortal knows.
If heaven be heaven to steal away the soul
Of all my rapturous hours, then give me life—
Its fog and dew, its sunlight and its shade,
Its day and night—but ever let me fold
Thee to my heart, to keep from thee all strife,
Whatever woe, whatever ill betide.
[Illustration:
“. . . . _For one might deem you fair_
_And take away what I had known as mine,_
_To make my paradise a vale of tears._”]
The Called Hand
_by Laura Fitzhugh Lance_.
_Illustration by George Kerr._
No matter what the game you play,
Play it well;
No matter what the price you pay,
Never tell.
This life is but a game, of cards
Of mostly losses, few rewards,
The signs of Destiny’s regards,
Or Friendship fell.
The Ace of Spades, King Edward’s card,
Or William’s crest,
Each representing different games,
Each played with zest;
One stands for mystic power unknown;
Two play an act upon a throne,
Both wanting this fair earth to own
And all the rest!
[Illustration:
“. . . . .
_Each representing different games._”]
What counts the cards when all is done
If king, or clown—
If Cæsar, Hohenzollern’s
Written down!
What—in those palaces on high,
In astral cities in the sky
Where we shall all meet by and by—
If hod, or crown?
For when we reach Infinity
The dwellers there
Won’t know the vassals from the kings,
Nor will they care;
King, crown and sceptered royalty,
The Here, the There—I, You and Me
Out there, out there!
Passing Through
_by John P. Wade_.
Hello, Central! give me Heaven! (This club of ours, I trow,
Is near enough to ‘Heaven’ for a mortal here below.)
Just tell me, is the President all ready for his cue
To start the talent flowing—while I am passing through?
“I just reached town this morning and now I’m outward bound;
I’m waiting at the grating like a ‘purp’ that’s in the pound.
Yes, I’m waiting with a heart-ache—I don’t mind telling you—
Sick with longing to be with you—instead of passing through.
“I know just what they’re doing. I can hear the old gong ring.
The toastmaster is asking now some angel fair to sing.
I wonder who the Guests of Honor are, and what they’ll do
While gathered ’round the festive board—as I am passing through?
“Hello! are these the Pleiads? Well, before I take my leave,
I wish to say I envy you this pleasant Sunday eve!
Here’s hoping that I’ll see you all before you say adieu
To the season on the circle. So long! I’m passing through.”
Springtime Again!
_by S. Frances Herschel_.
_Illustration by W. D. Stevens._
Up from the Southland the sweet Spring is stealing;
Up by the brooksides and over the fields!
Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before her;
Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields.
Where is Spring’s pathway? ’Tis everywhere round us!
Over the hillsides and over the plains.
Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until
Never a vestige of Winter remains.
Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten,
Far to the eastward or far to the west?
Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow,
Some quiet woodland away from the rest?
Never a hillside or valley forgotten;
No little corner unkist by the Spring;
Each little bush has been touched and awakened,
Each little robin is trying to sing.
In through the depths of the woodland she’s stealing,
Seeking and finding each little live thing,
Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming—
Joy universal—the Coming of Spring!
[Illustration: “_Springtime Again!_”]
From the Fulness of the Heart
_by William J. Lampton_.
Good God,
What is our living?
What is our thought and deed?
Have we, professed believers,
No substance for our creed?
Belief is ours, and mighty,
They tell us, faith
|
she had
never even heard of Ravello, which proved to be a really degrading piece
of ignorance, for every human being they met for the next three months
knew all about the place—or said they did. Further experience taught
them to know that Italy is crowded with little crumbling towns one has
never heard of before, which when examined prove to be the very
particular spots in which took place about a half of all the history
that ever happened. History being a thing one must be pretty skilful if
one means to evade it in Italy, for the truth is that whenever history
took a notion to _be_, it promptly went on a trip to Italy and _was_.
They hooted slowly again through narrow streets, pushed more goats and
children out their way, and then Berliet swung round on one wheel and
began to mount. Began to climb like the foreseen goat, to soar like the
imagined hawk, up sharp zigzags that lifted them by almost exact
parallels. Everything that puts on power and speed, and makes noises
like bomb explosions in a saw-factory, was pushed forward or pulled
back. They rushed noisily round and round the peak at locomotive speed,
and finally half way up into the very top of the sky they pulled up
sharply in a cobble-paved square. Berliet leaped nimbly out, unscrewed a
hot lid—with the tail of his linen duster—from which lid liquids and
steam and smells boiled as from an angry geyser, and they found
themselves in the wild eyrie of Ravello. That ubiquituosity—(with the
name of a hotel on his cap)—who springs out from every stone in Italy
like a spider upon the foolish swarming tourist fly, was waiting for
them in the square as if by appointment, and before they could draw the
first gasp of relief he had their possessions loaded upon the backs of
the floating population, and they were climbing in the dusk a stone
stairway that called itself a street—meekly and weakly unwitting of
their possible destination. The destination proved to be a vaulted
courtyard, opening behind a doorway which was built of a choice
assortment of loot from four periods of architecture and sculpture;
proved to be a reckless jumble of winding steps, of crooked passages, of
terraces, balconies, and loggias, and the whole of this destination went
by the name of the Hotel Bellevue. And once there, then suddenly, after
all the noise and odours, the confusion and human clatter of the last
three weeks, they stepped quietly out upon a revetment of Paradise.
Below—a thousand feet below—in the blue darkness little sparks of light
were Amalfi. In the blue darkness above, hardly farther away it seemed,
were the larger sparks of the rolling planets. The cool, lonely darkness
bathed their spirits as with a blessed chrism. The place was, for the
night, theirs alone, and for one holy moment the swarming tourist failed
to swarm.
* * * * *
“In the Highlands! In the country places!”—
murmured Jane, gratefully declining upon a broad balustrade, and
Peripatetica echoed softly—declining in her turn—
... “Oh, to dream; oh, to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render
Through the trance of silence
Quiet breath.”...
And Jane took it up again—
... “Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And forever in the hill recesses
Her more lovely music broods and dies.”
Just then essential silence was broken by the last protesting squawk of
a virtuous hen, who seemed to be about to die that they might live.
Peripatetica recognized that plaintive cry. Hens were kept handy in
fattening-coops on the Plantation, against the sudden inroads of
unexpected guests.
“When the big-gate slams chickens begin to squawk,” was a
well-remembered Plantation proverb.
“How tough she will be, though,” Jane gently moaned, “and we shan’t be
able to eat her, and she will have died in vain.”
Little did she reck of Signor Pantaleone Caruso’s beautiful art, for
when they had dressed by the dim, soothing flicker of candles in big
clean bed-rooms that were warmed by smouldering olive-wood fires, they
were sweetly fed on a dozen lovely dishes; dishes foamy and yellow, with
hot brown crusts, made seemingly of varied combinings of meal and
cheese, and called by strange Italian cognomens. And the late—so very
late—pullet appeared in her due course amid maiden strewments of crisp
salads; proving, by some Pantaleonic magic, to be all that a hen could
or should be. And they drank gratefully to her manes in Signor Caruso’s
own wine, as mellow and as golden as his famous cousin’s voice. After
which they ate small, scented yellow apples which might well have grown
in Hesperidian gardens, and drowsed contentedly by the musky olive-wood
blaze, among bowls of freesias and violets, until the almost weird hour
of half past eight, when inward blessedness and a day of mountain air
would no longer be denied their toll.
Yet all through the hours of sleep “old forgotten, far-off things, and
battles long ago” stirred like an undertone of dreams within dreams. The
clank of armed feet moved in the street. Ghostly bells rang whispered
tocsins of alarm, and shadowy life swept back and forth in the broken,
deserted town. The “Brass Hats” glimmered in the darkness. Goths set
alight long extinguished fires. Curved Saracen swords glittered faintly,
and Normans grasped the heights with mailed hands. The Rufolis, the
d’Affliti, the Confalones, and della Maras married, feasted, and warred
again in dumb show, and up and down the stairs of this very house
rustled the silk robes and soft shod feet of sleek prelates.
Even the sea below—where the new moon floated at the western rim like a
golden canoe—was astir with the myriad sails of _revenants_. First the
white wings of that—
“Grave Syrian trader...
Who snatched his rudder and shook out his sail...
Between the Syrtes and soft Sicily.”
After him followed hard the small ghostly sails of the Greeks.
“They were very perfect men, and could do all and bear all that could be
done and borne by human flesh and blood. Taking them all together they
were the most faultlessly constructed human beings that ever lived, and
they knew it, for they worshipped bodily health and strength, and spent
the lives of generations in the cultivation of both. They were fighting
men, trained to use every weapon they knew, they were boxers and
wrestlers, athletes, runners and jumpers, and drivers of chariots; but
above all they were seamen, skilled at the helm, quick at handling the
sails, masters of the oar, and fearless navigators when half of all
navigation led sooner or later to certain death. For though they loved
life, as only the strong and the beautiful can love it, and though they
looked forward to no condition of perpetual bliss beyond, but only to
the shadowy place where regretful phantoms flitted in the gloom as in
the twilight of the Hebrew Sheol, yet they faced dying as fighters
always have and always will, with desperate hands and a quiet heart.”
The golden canoe of the young moon filled and sank behind the sea’s rim,
but through the darkness came the many-oared beat of ponderous Roman
galleys carrying the dominion of the earth within their great sides, and
as they vanished like a fog-wreath along the horizon, followed fast the
hawk-winged craft of the keen-bladed, keen-faced Saracen, whose
sickle-like crescent would never here on this coast round to the full.
For, far away on the grey French coast of Coutance was a Norman
gentleman named Tancred, very strong of heart, and very stout of his
hands. There was no rumour of him here, as he rode to the hunt and
spitted the wild boar upon his terrible length of steel. What should the
Moslems know of a simple Norman gentleman, or care?—and yet in those
lion loins lay the seeds of a dozen mighty whelps who were to rend their
Christian prey from the Moslem and rule this warm coloured South as
kings and dukes and counts, and whose blood was to be claimed by every
crown in Europe for a thousand years. Very few among the shadowy sails
were those of the de Hautevilles, but quality, not quantity, counts most
among men, and those ships carried a strange, potent race. Anna Comnena
thus describes one of them:
“This Robert de Hauteville was of Norman origin—he united a marvellous
astuteness with immense ambition, and his bodily strength was
prodigious. His whole desire was to attain to the wealth and power of
the greatest living men; he was extremely tenacious of his designs and
most wise in finding means to attain his ends. In stature he was taller
than the tallest; of a ruddy hue and fair-haired, he was
broad-shouldered, and his eyes sparkled with fire; the perfect
proportion of all his limbs made him a model of beauty from head to
heel, as I have often heard people tell. Homer says of Achilles that
those who heard his voice seemed to hear the thundering shout of a great
multitude, but it used to be said of the de Hautevilles that their
battle cry would turn back tens of thousands. Such a man, one in such a
position, of such a nature, and of such spirit, naturally hated the idea
of service, and would not be subject to any man; for such are those
natures which are born too great for their surrounding.”
* * * * *
When morning dawned all spirits of the past had vanished, and only the
noisy play of the young hopes of the Caruso family disturbed the peace
of the echoing court. Jane insisted upon calling these innocent infants
Knickerbockers, because, she said, they were only short
Pantaleones—which is the sort of mild pleasantry Jane affects.
Peripatetica doesn’t lend herself to these gentler forms of jest. It was
she who put in all that history and poetry. (See above.)
Ravello used to be famous for her dye stuffs, and for the complete
thorough-goingness of her attacks of plague, but her principal
industries to-day are pulpits, and fondness for the Prophet Jonah. Her
population in the day of dyes and plague was 36,000, and is now, by
generous computation, about thirty-six—which does not include the
Knickers. Just opposite the Hotel Bellevue is one of these pulpits, in
the church of St. John of the Bull; a church which about a thousand
years ago was a very superior place indeed; but worse than Goths or
Vandals, or Saracens, or plague, was the pernicious activity of the
Eighteenth Century. Hardly a church in Italy has escaped unscathed from
its busy rage. No sanctuary was too reverend or too beautiful to be
ravaged in the name of Palladio, or of “the classic style.” Marbles were
broken, mosaics torn out, dim aisles despoiled, brass and bronze melted,
carvings chopped and burned, rich glass shattered, old tapestries flung
on the dust heap. All the treasures of centuries—sweet with incense,
softened and tinted by time, sanctified by a thousand prayers, and
beautified by the tenderest emotions—were bundled out of the way of
those benighted savages, and tons of lime were had into the poor gaunt
and ruined fanes to transform them into whited sepulchres of beauty.
Blank plaster walls hid the sweetest of frescoes; clustered grey columns
were limed into ghastly imitations of the Doric; soaring arches—flowered
like forest boughs—vanished in stodgy vaultings; Corinthian pilasters
shoved lacelike rood-screens out of the way, and fat sprawling cherubs
shouldered bleeding, shadowy Christs from the altars.
The spirit which inspired this stupid ruthlessness was perfectly
expressed by Addison, who, commenting upon the great Cathedral of Siena,
said pragmatically:
“When a man sees the prodigious pains that our forefathers have been at
in these barbarous buildings, one cannot but fancy what miracles of
architecture they would have left us had they only been instructed in
the right way; for when the devotion of those ages was much warmer than
it is at present, and the riches of the people much more at the disposal
of the priests, there was so much money consumed on these Gothic
churches as would have finished a greater variety of noble buildings
than have been raised before or since that time. Than these Gothic
churches nothing can make a prettier show to those who prefer false
beauties and affected ornaments to a noble and majestic simplicity”—of
dull plaster!
Much has been said of the irreverence of the Nineteenth Century. The
Eighteenth respected nothing their forefathers had wrought; not even in
this little far-away mountain town, and St. John of the Bull is now—poor
Saint!—housed drearily in a dull, dusty, echoing white cavern, with not
one point of beauty to hold the protesting eye save the splendid marble
pulpit—escaped by some miracle of ruth to stand out in that dull waste
upon delicate twisted alabaster columns, which stand in their turn upon
crawling marble lions. Its four sides, and its baldachino, show
beautiful patterns of precious mosaics, wrought with lapis lazuli, with
verd antique, and with sanguine Egyptian marbles. The carefullest and
richest of these mosaics, of course—along the side of the pulpit’s
stair—is devoted to picturing that extremely qualmish archaic whale who
in all Ravello’s churches _unswallows_ the Prophet Jonah with every
evidence of emotion and relief.
Recently, in the process of removing some of the acres of Eighteenth
Century plaster, there was brought to light in a little chapel in the
crypt a life-sized relief of St. Catherine and her wheel.
Such a lovely lady!—so fair, so pure, so saint-like; with faint memories
of old tinting on her small lips, on her close-folded hair, and her
downcast eyes—that even the most frivolous of tourists might be moved to
tears by the thought that she alone is the one sweet ghost escaped from
all that brutal destruction of mediæval beauty; resurrected by the
merest chance from her plaster tomb.
Jane at the thought of it became quite dangerously violent. She insisted
upon digging up the Eighteenth Century and beating it to death again
with its own dusty old wig, and was soothed and calmed only by being
taken outside to look once more by daylight at the delicious marble
mince of fragments which the Hotel Bellevue has built into its
portals—Greek and Roman capitals upside down; marble lambs and crosses,
gargoyles, and corbels adorning the sides and lintels in a charming
confusion of styles, periods, and purposes.
Ravello, as are all these arid ancient towns from which the tides of
life have drained away, is as dry and empty as an old last year’s nut; a
mere hollow shell, ridged and parched, out of which the kernel of
existence has vanished.
A tattered, rosy-cheeked child runs up the uncertain footway—the
stair-streets—with feet as light and sure as a goat’s. An old, old man,
with head and jaws bound in a dirty red kerchief, and with the keen
hawk-like profile of some far-off Saracen ancestry, crouches in a
doorway with an outstretched hand. He makes no appeal, but his apparent
confidence that his age and helplessness will touch them, does touch
them, and they search their pockets hastily for coppers, with a faint
anguished sense of the thin shadow of a dial-finger which for them too
creeps round and round, as for this old derelict man, for this old
skeleton city....
A donkey heaped with brushwood patters up the steep narrow way; so
narrow that they must flatten themselves against the wall to admit of
his stolidly sorrowful passage. They may come and go, as all the others
have come and gone, but our brother, the ass, is always there, recking
not of Greek or Roman, of American or Tedeschi; for all of them he bears
burdens with the same sorrowful stolidity, and from none does he receive
any gratitude....
These are the only inhabitants of Ravello they see until they reach the
Piazza and the Cathedral of Saint Pantaleone. They know beforehand that
the Cathedral too has been spoiled and desecrated, but there still
remain the fine bronze doors by the same Barisanus who made the famous
ones in the church at Monreale in Sicily, and here they find the most
beautiful of the pulpits, and the very biggest Jonah and the very
biggest whale in all Ravello.
Before that accursed Bishop Tafuri turned it into a white-washed cavern
the old chroniclers exhausted their adjectives in describing the glories
of Saint Pantaleone’s Cathedral. The richness of its sixteen enormous
columns of verd antique; its raised choir with fifty-two stalls of
walnut-wood, carved with incredible richness; its high altar of
alabaster under a marble baldachino glowing with mosaics and supported
upon huge red Egyptian Syenite columns—its purple and gold Episcopal
throne; its frescoed walls, its silver lamps and rich tombs, its
pictures and shrines and hangings—all pitched into the scrap heap by
that abominable prelate, save only this fine pulpit, and the Ambo. The
Ambo gives itself wholly to the chronicles of the prophet Jonah. On one
stairside he leaps nimbly and eagerly down the wide throat which looks
so reluctant to receive him, as if suspecting already the discomfort to
be caused by the uneasy guest. But Jonah’s aspect is all of a careless
gaiety; he is not taking this lodging for more than a day or two, and is
aware that after his brief occultation his reappearance will be dramatic
and a portent. On the opposite stair it happens as he had prophetically
foreseen, the mosaic monster disgorging him with an air of mingled
violence and exhausted relief.
No one can tell us why Jonah is so favourite a topic in Ravello. “_Chi
lo sara_” everyone says, with that air of weary patience Italy so
persistently assumes before the eccentric curiosity of Forestieri.
Rosina Vokes once travelled about with a funny little playlet called
“The Pantomime Rehearsal,” which concerned itself with the sufferings of
the author and stage manager of an English house-party’s efforts at
amateur theatricals. The enthusiastic conductor used to say
dramatically:
“Now, Lord Arthur, you enter as the Chief of the fairies!”
To which the blond guardsman replies with puzzled heaviness: “Yes; but
_why_ fairies?”
Producing in the wretched author a sort of paralysis of bafflement. The
same look comes so often into these big Italian eyes. The thing just
_is_. Why clamour for reasons? It is as if these curious wandering folk,
always staring and chattering and rushing about, and paying good money
that would buy bread and wine, merely to look at old stones, should ask
_why_ the sun, or why the moon, or why anything at all?...
So they abandon Jonah and take on the pulpit instead, the most famous of
all the mosaic pulpits in a region celebrated for mosaic pulpits. It is
done after the same pattern as that of St. John of the Bull, but the
pattern raised to the _n_th power. More and bigger lions; more and
taller columns; richer scrolls of mosaics; the bits of stone more deeply
coloured; the marble warmed by time to a sweeter and creamier blond. The
whole being crowned, moreover, by an adorable bust of Sigelgaita Rufolo,
wife of the founder of the Cathedral and giver of the pulpit. A pompous
Latin inscription under the bust records the virtues of this magnificent
patron of religion. The inscription including the names of all the long
string of stalwart sons Sigelgaita brought forth, and it calls in
dignified Latinity the attention of the heavenly powers to the eminent
deserts of this generous Rufolo, this mediæval Carnegie.
Sigelgaita’s bust is an almost unique example of the marble portraiture
of the Thirteenth Century—if indeed it truly be a work of that time, for
so noble, so lifelike is this head with its rolled hair, its princely
coronet and long earrings, so like is it to the head of the Capuan Juno,
that one half suspects it of being from a Roman hand—those masters of
marmoral records of character—and that it was seized upon by Sigelgaita
to serve as a memorial of herself.
Bernardo Battinelli, a notary of Ravello, writing in 1540 relates an
anecdote which shows what esteem was inspired by this marble portrait
long after its original was dust:
“I remember in the aforesaid month and year, the Spanish Viceroy Don
Pietro di Toledo sent for the marble bust, which is placed in the
Cathedral and much honest resistance was made, so that the first time he
that came returned empty-handed, but shortly after he came back, and it
was necessary to send it to Naples in his keeping, and having sent the
magnifico Giovanni Frezza, who was in Naples, and Ambrose Flomano from
this place to his Excellency, after much ado, by the favour of the
glorious Virgin Mary, and by virtue of these messengers from thence
after a few days the head was returned.”
In the year 1851 the palace of these splendid Rufoli, which in the time
of Roger of Sicily had housed ninety knights with their men at arms, had
fallen to tragical decay. A great landslide in the Fifteenth Century
destroyed the harbour of Amalfi; hid its great quays and warehouses, its
broad streets and roaring markets beneath the sea, and reduced it from a
powerful Republic, the rival of Venice and Genoa, to a mere fishing
village. A little later the plague followed, and decimated the now
poverty-stricken inhabitants of Ravello, and then the great nobles began
to drift away to Naples, came more and more rarely to visit their
Calabrian seats, and these gradually sank in the course of time into
ruin and decay. Fortunately in the year before mentioned a rich English
traveller, making the still fashionable “grand tour,” happened into
Ravello, saw the possibilities of this crumbling castle set upon one of
the most beautiful sites in the world, and promptly purchased it from
its indifferent Neapolitan owner. He, much absorbed in the opera dancers
and the small intrigues of the city, was secretly and scornfully amused
that a mad Englishman should be willing to part with so much good hard
money in exchange for ivied towers and gaping arches in a remote country
town.
The Englishman mended the arches, strengthened the towers, gathered up
from among the weeds the delicate sculptures and twisted columns,
destroyed nothing, preserved and restored with a reverent hand, and made
for himself one of the loveliest homes in all Italy. It was in that
charming garden, swung high upon a spur of the glorious coast, that Jane
and Peripatetica contracted that passion for Ravello which haunted them
with a homesickness for it all through Sicily. For never again did they
find anywhere such views, such shadowed green ways of ilex and cypress,
such ivy-mantled towers, such roses, such sheets of daffodils and blue
hyacinths. They dreamed there through the long day, regretting that
their luggage had been sent on to Sicily by water, and—forgetting quite
their quest of Persephone—that they were therefore unable to linger in
the sweet precincts of the Pantaleone wines and cooking, devoting weeks
to exploring the neighbouring hills, and to unearthing more pulpits and
more Jonahs in the nearby churches.
In the dusk they lingered by the Fountain of Strange Beasts, in the dusk
they wandered afoot down the cork-screwed paths up which they had so
furiously and smellily mounted. Berliet hooted contemptuously behind
them as he crawled after, jeering as at “scare-cats,” who dared mount,
but shrank from descending these abrupt curves and tiptilted inclines
except in the safety of their own low-heeled shoes.
At Amalfi they plunged once again into the noisy tourist belt—the _va et
vient_, the chatter, the screaming flutter of the passenger pigeons of
the Italian spring. And yet there was peace in the tiny white cells in
which they hung over the sheer steep, while the light died nacreously
along the West. There was quiet in certain tiny hidden courts and
terraces under the icy moonlight, and Jane said in one of these—her
utterance somewhat interrupted by the chattering of her teeth, for
Italian spring nights are as cold as Italian spring days are warm—Jane
said:
“What idiotic assertions are made in our time about ancient Europe
having no love for, no eye for, Nature’s beauty! Did you ever come
across a mediæval monastery, a Greek or Roman temple that was not placed
with an unerring perception of just the one point at which it would look
best, just at the one point at which everything would look best from
it?”
“Of course I never did,” Peripatetica admitted with sympathetic
conviction. “We get that absurd impression of their indifference from
the fact that our forebears were not nearly so fond of talking about
their emotions as we. They had a trust in their fellow man’s
comprehension that we have lost. We always imagine that no one can know
things unless we tell them, and tell them with all our t’s carefully
crossed and our i’s elaborately dotted. The old literatures are always
illustrating that same confidence in other people’s imaginations,
stating facts with what to our modern diffuseness appears the baldest
simplicity, and yet somehow conveying all their subtlest meanings. Our
ancestors happily were not ‘inebriated with the exuberance of their own
verbosity.’... And now, Jane, bring that congealed nose of yours in out
of the open air. The moon isn’t going on a vacation. She will be doing
her old romance and beauty business at the same old stand long after we
are dead and buried, not to mention to-morrow night.”
Berliet was all his old self the next day, and they swooped and soared,
slid and climbed toward Pæstum, every turn around every spur showing
some new beauty, some new effect. Gradually the coast sank and sank
toward the sea; the snow-caps moved further back into the horizon; grew
more and more mere white clouds above, more and more mere vapoury
amethyst below, and at last they shot at a right angle into a wide level
plain, and commenced to experience thrills. For the guide-books were
full, one and all, of weird tales of Pæstum which lay, so they said, far
back in a country as cursed and horrible as the dreadful land of the
Dark Tower. About it, they declared, stretched leprous marshes of
stagnant ooze choked with fat reeds, where fierce buffalo wallowed in
the slime. The contadini passed through its deadly miasma in shuddering
haste, gazing large-eyed upon a dare-devil Englishman who had once had
the courage to pass a night there in order to gratify a bold, fantastic
desire to see the temples by moonlight. It was such a strange,
tremendous story, that of the Greek Poseidonia, later the Roman Pæstum.
Long ago those adventuring mariners from Greece had seized the fertile
plain which at that time was covered with forests of great oak and
watered by two clear and shining rivers. They drove the Italian natives
back into the distant hills, for the white man’s burden even then
included the taking of all the desirable things that were being wasted
by incompetent natives, and they brought over colonists—whom the
philosophers and moralists at home maligned, no doubt, in the same
pleasant fashion of our own day. And the colonists cut down the oaks,
and ploughed the land, and built cities, and made harbours, and finally
dusted their busy hands and busy souls of the grime of labour and
wrought splendid temples in honour of the benign gods who had given them
the possessions of the Italians and filled them with power and fatness.
Every once in so often the natives looked lustfully down from the hills
upon this fatness, made an armed snatch at it, were driven back with
bloody contumely, and the heaping of riches upon riches went on. And
more and more the oaks were cut down—mark that! for the stories of
nations are so inextricably bound up with the stories of trees—until all
the plain was cleared and tilled; and then the foothills were denuded,
and the wave of destruction crept up the mountain sides and they too
were left naked to the sun and the rains.
At first these rains, sweeping down torrentially, unhindered by the lost
forests, only enriched the plain with the long hoarded sweetness of the
trees, but by and by the living rivers grew heavy and thick, vomiting
mud into the ever-shallowing harbours, and the lands soured with the
undrained stagnant water. Commerce turned more and more to deeper ports,
and mosquitoes began to breed in the brackish soil that was making fast
between the city and the sea. Who of all those powerful land-owners and
rich merchants could ever have dreamed that little buzzing insects could
sting a great city to death? But they did. Fevers grew more and more
prevalent. The malaria-haunted population went more and more languidly
about their business. The natives, hardy and vigorous in the hills, were
but feebly repulsed. Carthage demanded tribute, and Rome took it, and
changed the city’s name from Poseidonia to Pæstum. After Rome grew weak
Saracen corsairs came in by sea and grasped the slackly defended riches,
and the little winged poisoners of the night struck again and again,
until grass grew in the streets, and the wharves crumbled where they
stood. Finally the wretched remnant of a great people wandered away into
the more wholesome hills, the marshes rotted in the heat and grew up in
coarse reeds where corn and vine had flourished, and the city melted
back into the wasted earth. So wicked a name had the miasmatic,
fever-haunted plain that age after age rolled away and only birds and
serpents and wild beasts dared dwell there, or some outlaw chose to face
its sickly terrors rather than the revenge of the law.
“Think,” said Jane, “of the sensations of the man who came first upon
those huge temples standing lonely in the naked plain! So lonely that
their very existence had been long forgotten. Imagine the awe and
surprise of such a discovery——”
They were spinning—had been spinning for half an hour—along a rather bad
highway, and Peripatetica found it hard to call up the proper emotions
in answer to Jane’s suggestion, so occupied was she in looking for the
relishing grimness insisted upon by the guide-books. There were reeds;
there were a very few innocuous-looking buffalo, but for the most part
there were nice cultivated fields of grain and vines on either hand, and
occasionally half a mile or so of neglected shrubby heath.
“Why, half of Long Island is wilder than this!” grumbled Peripatetica.
“Where’s the Dark Tower country? Childe Roland would think this a formal
garden. I _insist_ upon Berliet taking us somewhere that will thick our
blood with horror.”
As it turned out, a wise government had drained the accursed land,
planted eucalyptus trees, and was slowly reclaiming the plain to its old
fertility, but the guide-books feel that the story is too good to be
spoiled by modern facts, and cling to the old version of 1860.
Just then—by way of compensation, Berliet having fortunately slowed down
over a bad bit—an old altar-piece of a Holy Family stepped down out its
frame and came wandering toward them in the broad light of day. On the
large mild gray ass—a real altar-piece ass—sat St. Anna wrapped in a
faded blue mantle, carrying on her arm a sleeping child. At her right
walked the child’s mother, whose thin olive cheek and wide, timid eyes
seemed half ghostly under the white linen held together with one hand
under her chin. Young St. John led the ass. A wreath of golden-brown
curls blew about his golden-red cheeks, and he wore goat-hide shoes, and
had cross-gartered legs.
Jane now says they never saw them at all. That it was just a mirage, or
a bit of glamourie, and that there is nothing remaining in new Italy
which could look so like the typical old Italy—but if Jane is right then
how did the two happen to have exactly the same glamour at exactly the
same moment? How could they both imagine the benign smile of that
strayed altar picture? Is it likely that a motor car would lend itself
to sacred visions? I ask you that!
There was certainly some illusion—not sacred—about the dare-devilishness
of that Englishman who once spent a moonlit night at the temples, for a
little farming village lies close to the enclosure that shuts off the
temples from the highway, the inhabitants of which village seemed as
meek as sheep and anything but foolhardy, and there was reason to
believe that they spend every night there, whether the moon shines or
not.
But the Temples were no illusion, standing in stately splendour in the
midst of that wide shining green plain, by a sea of milky chalcedony,
and in a semicircle behind them a garland of purple mountains crowned
with snow. Great-pillared Neptune was all of dull, burned gold, its
serried columns marching before the blue background with a curious
effect of perfect vigour in repose, of power pausing in solid ease. No
picture or replica gives the sense of this energy and power. Doric
temples tend to look lumpish and heavy in reproductions, but the real
thing at its very best (and this shrine of Neptune is the perfectest of
Greek temples outside of Athens) has a mighty grace, a prodigious
suggestion of latent force, of contained, available strength that wakes
an awed delight, as by the visible, material expression of an ineffable,
glorious, all-powerful god.
“Well, certainly those Greeks——!” gasped Jane when the full meaning of
it all began to dawn upon her, and Peripatetica, who usually suffers
from chronic palpitation of the tongue, simply sat still staring with
shining eyes. Greeks to her are as was King Charles’ head to Mr. Dick.
She is convinced the Greeks knew everything worth knowing, and did
everything worth doing, and any further proof of their ability only
fills her with a gratified sense of “I-told-you-so-ness.” So she lent a
benign ear to a young American architect there, who pointed out many
constructive details, which, under an appearance of great simplicity,
proved consummate grasp of the art, and of the subtlest secrets of
architectural harmonics.
Before the land made out into the harbour Poseidon’s temple stood almost
on the sea’s edge. The old pavement of the street before its portals
being disinterred shows the ruts made by the chariot wheels still
deep-scored upon it, and it was here
“The merry Grecian coaster came
Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine—”
anchoring almost under the shadow of the great fane of the Lord of the
Waters; and here, when his cargo was discharged, he went up to offer
sacrifices
|
in,” muttered Tim in broken half-finished sentences;
“but--I’ll--give--yez--one--as--good----;” and a long, a loud
reverberating _snore_ at the instant made good his promise of music
almost as harmonious as the sounds elicited from his bagpipe!!
Imagine to yourselves, ye who can, the scene that followed. The
salts-bottle and perfumed handkerchief of the _exquisites_ were in
instant requisition, as if they felt sensations of fainting! the nervous
started as if a pistol went off at their heads, and those who bore the
explosion with fortitude joined in a chorus of laughter, increased to
pain when it was perceived that the Inimitable, noways disturbed or
alarmed, prolonged his repose, and agreeably to the laws of music, and in
excellent taste, bringing in his _nasal_ performance as a grand _finale_
to each resounding peal!
“Now,” observed the friend who had answered for me at a critical crisis,
“has not Tim Callaghan made his own panegyric? Has not his merit spoken
for itself? What a figure our inimitable piper would have cut, had we
ushered him in with a flourish of trumpets!”
When the cachinnatory storm had subsided, and when all considered that
their unrivalled musician had had enough of slumber, he was once more
aroused, to receive his well-earned guerdon, when the following colloquy
commenced:--
“Pray, piper, what is your name?” demanded the master of the house, with
all the gravity of a magistrate on the bench, and drawing forth his
tablets.
“E--ah? Why, Tim Callaghan.”
“Ha! Tim Callaghan (writing), I shall certainly remember Tim Callaghan! I
suppose, Tim, you are quite celebrated?”
“E--ah?”
“I suppose you are very well known?”
“Why, those that knowed me _wanst_, knows me agin,” quoth Tim Callaghan.
“I do believe so! I think I shall know you at all events. Who taught you
to play the pipes?”
“One Tim Hartigan, of the county Clare.”
“Had he much trouble in teaching you?”
“_He_ thrubble! I knows nothin’ ov _his_ thrubble, but faix I well
remimber me own! There is lumps in my head to this very day, from the
onmarciful cracks he used to give it when I wint asthray.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Oh, poor fellow! Well, farewell, Tim Callaghan!--pleasant be
your path through life; and may your fame spread through the thirty-two
counties of green Erin, till you die surfeited with glory!”
“Faix, I’d rather be _surfeited_ wid a good dinner!” quoth Tim Callaghan,
and made his exit.
For a couple of years I quite lost sight of Tim, and I began to fear that
he had evanished from the earth altogether “without leaving a copy;”
but, lo! this very summer, that “bright particular star” appeared unto
us again, with a strapping wife, and a young Timotheus at his heels--a
perfect facsimile of its father, nose, sleepy eyes, shovel feet and
all; and all subsisting, nay _flourishing_, on _three_ tunes and their
unrivalled “_varry-a-shins_!”
M. G. R--.
[1] Fact! He composed and spoke the verses as I give them.
* * * * *
THE DEAD ALIVE.--In my youth I often saw Glover on the stage: he was
a surgeon, and a good writer in the London periodical papers. When he
was in Cork, a man was hanged for sheep-stealing, whom Glover smuggled
into a field, and by surgical skill restored to life, though the culprit
had hung the full time prescribed by law. A few nights after, Glover
being on the stage, acting Polonius, the revived sheep-stealer, full of
whisky, broke into the pit, and in a loud voice called out to Glover,
“Mr Glover, you know you are my second father; you brought me to life,
and sure you have to support me now, for I have no money of my own: you
have been the means of bringing me back into the world, sir; so, by the
piper of Blessington, you are bound to maintain me.” Ophelia never could
suppose she had such a brother as this. The sheriff was in the house
at the time, but appeared not to hear this appeal; and on the fellow
persisting in his outcries, he, through a principle of clemency, slipped
out of the theatre. The crowd at length forced the man away, telling him
that if the sheriff found him alive, it was his duty to hang him over
again!--_Recollections of O’Keefe._
[Illustration: LARUS MINUTUS, THE LITTLE GULL.]
This bird, hitherto known in Great Britain only as an occasional and rare
visitant, has now been added to the Fauna of Ireland--one of a pair seen
between Shannon Harbour and Shannon Bridge having been shot in the month
of May of the present year, by Walter Boyd, Esq. of the 97th regiment,
and presented by him to the Natural History Society of Dublin. It has
been stuffed by Mr Glennon of Suffolk Street, who continues to gratify
the lovers of natural history by a free inspection of it.
The Little Gull was first noticed with certainty as a British bird by
Montague, who, in the Supplement to his Ornithological Dictionary,
published in 1813, described an immature specimen, the plumage being that
of the yearling in transition to its winter garb. The Irish specimen, on
the contrary, is invested with its full summer plumage, as described by
Temminck. The head and upper portion of the neck are black; the lower
portion of the neck and under parts of the body are white, and at first
exhibited a rosy tint, which as is usual quickly faded after death; rump
and tail white; upper parts pearl grey, the secondaries and quills being
tipped with white; legs and toes bright red; bill of a reddish brown,
rather than of the deep lake of Temminck, or arterial blood-red of Selby;
its length ten inches, or somewhat more than one-half of that of the
blackheaded gull (_Larus ridibundus_), its nearest congener.
Little has been added to the history of this bird as briefly given by
Temminck as follows:--“It inhabits the rivers, lakes, and seas of the
eastern countries of Europe; is an occasional visitant of Holland and
Germany; is common in Russia, Livonia, and Finland; and very rarely
wanders to the lakes of Switzerland. It feeds on insects and worms, and
breeds in the eastern and southern countries.”
In America the Little Gull was noticed on the northern journey of
Sir John Franklin, and it is numbered by Bonaparte amongst the rarer
birds of the United States--rendering it probable that the American
continent includes also its breeding habitats. To this we may reasonably
add--considering the state of plumage of the Irish specimens, the season
of their discovery, the inland locality in which they were seen, and the
analogy in habits between them and the other blackheaded gulls with which
they were associated--a belief and hope that the Little Gull will yet be
found to breed on some of the wide expanses of the Shannon, or on the
lakes of Roscommon, Leitrim, and Sligo.
To understand the relation of this gull to the other species of the same
genus, it is necessary that we should take a rapid survey of the whole
family; and happy are we to indulge ourselves in such mental rambling, as
many a gladsome reminiscence will be awakened both in our own and in our
readers’ minds by the mention of these well-known birds. Few indeed are
there who at some period of their lives have not wandered to the sea-side
to enjoy the exhilarating influence of the sea breeze, and to revel,
perchance, on the rich feast of knowledge which the many strange but
admirably formed creatures of the deep must ever present to the inquiring
and contemplative mind. To them the sea-mew or gull must be familiar,
both in those of the larger species, which are seen heavily winging
their way over the waters, or poised in air, wheeling round to approach
their surface, and in those of lighter and more aërial form, which, in
the words of Wilson, “enliven the prospect by their airy movements--now
skimming closely over the watery element, watching the motions of the
surges, and now rising into the higher regions, sporting with the winds;”
and we may surely add, still in the words of that enthusiastic worshipper
of Nature, that “such zealous inquirers must have found themselves amply
compensated for all their toil, by observing these neat and clean birds
coursing along the rivers and coasts, and by inhaling the invigorating
breezes of the ocean, and listening to the soothing murmurs of its
billows.” Nor could they fail to notice how admirably the white and grey
tints which prevail in the plumage of these birds harmonize with those
of air and ocean--a species of adaptation which is manifest in all the
works of nature, no colours, however varied, presenting to the eye an
incongruous or disagreeable picture, and no sounds, however modified by
the throats of a thousand feathered warblers, jarring as discord on the
ear. Well may we judge from this that our senses were framed in unison
with all created objects, and that the right test of excellence in music,
painting, or poetry, is, “that it is natural.”
The genus _Larus_ (Gull) of the early writers included many birds now
separated from it--the Skuas, or parasitic gulls; Lestris; the Terns,
or sea-swallows; Sterna; and some others--the consequence of increasing
knowledge in natural science being the gradual limitation of genera by
the use of more precise and restricted characters. All these genera
now form part of the family of Laridæ, or gull-like birds--the system
of grouping together those genera which exhibit striking analogies in
plumage or habits securing the advantages of a natural arrangement,
without the danger of that confusion which so often results from loosely
defined genera. The tendency is indeed to still further subdivision--the
kittiwake (_Larus rissa_) having been made the type of a new genus, Rissa
(Stephens), and the blackheaded gulls classed together as the genus
_Xema_ (Boië)--the periodic change of the colour of their heads from the
white of winter to the black of summer, their more rapid and tern or
swallow-like flight, and their inland habits, forming so many striking
and apparently natural marks of distinction. To this genus, if finally
admitted, will belong the Little Gull (_Xema minuta_).
The term _Larus_ is adopted from the Greek, the ancient Latin name as
used by Pliny being _Gavia_. Brisson (1763) applies _Larus_ to some of
the larger species, and _Gavia_ to a multitude of others; but there
is much confusion in his identifications of species, and the line of
separation was not well considered. Modern writers also subdivide the
gulls, for the sake of convenience, into two sections--the larger, or
those varying from nineteen to twenty-six or more inches in length, the
“Goelands” of Temminck; and the smaller, or “Mouettes” of Temminck. But
this system of division is imperfect, as it veils the remarkable relation
existing between many of the larger and smaller gulls, which should not
therefore be separated from each other. This relation was noticed by
some of the earlier writers. Willoughby designates under the name _Larus
cinereus maximus_ both the herring and the lesser blackbacked gulls; and
under that of _Larus cinereus minor_, the common sea-gull. This kind of
relation is indeed strikingly displayed amongst British gulls--as in the
greater and lesser blackbacked gulls, the Glaucous and Iceland gulls, the
herring and common gulls, and, we may add, the blackheaded and little
gulls; and it is very probable that further research will show that it
exists still more widely.
From Aristotle or Pliny little can be gleaned of the history of these
birds. Aristotle states that the Gaviæ and Mergi lay two or three
eggs on the rock--the Gaviæ in summer, the Mergi in the beginning of
spring--hatching the eggs, but not building in the manner of other birds.
Pliny says that the Gaviæ build on rocks, the Mergi sometimes on trees;
from which remark it appears probable that the genus _Mergus_ then
included not merely the various divers, but also the cormorants, as was
formerly conjectured by Turner. Whilst, therefore, the ancient Latin name
of gull, _Gavia_, has been entirely removed from modern nomenclature,
the word Mergus has obtained a signification very limited in comparison
to that which it enjoyed among the ancients, being now applied to the
Mergansers alone, although for a time restored by Brisson to the Colymbi,
which, as possessing the property of diving in its highest perfection,
seem most entitled to retain it, whilst the term _Merganser_ might be
judiciously applied to the genus now called by some, _Mergus_, as was
done by Aldrovandus, Willoughby, Brisson, and Stephens.
The remarkable differences in the habits of gulls, which form in part the
basis of separation, as suggested by Boië in the case of the blackheaded
gulls, were early noticed. Old Gesner (1587) says that some gulls dwell
about fresh waters, others about the sea; and from Aristotle, that the
grey gull seeks lakes and rivers, whilst the white gull inhabits the sea.
Every one indeed must have noticed the flocks of gulls which occasionally
appear inland, and share with the rooks and other corvidæ the rich
repast of grubs which is afforded by the fresh-ploughed land. The common
gull (_Larus canus_) is one of those which indulge in these terrestrial
excursions; but the blackheaded gulls (_Xema_) select even the inland
marshes as their breeding-places. The more truly maritime gulls select
islands or rocks, on the surface of which they deposit their eggs, as the
kittiwake the narrow ledges of precipitous cliffs, the young being reared
with safety, where it would seem that the least movement must plunge them
from the giddy height into the abyss below. This beautiful illustration
of the power of instinct to preserve even the nestling from danger, is
admirably displayed on the northern coast of Mayo, where at Downpatrick
Head the whole face of the perpendicular limestone cliff is peopled by
line above line of gulls, flying, when disturbed by a stone thrown either
from mischievous or curious hand, in screaming flocks from their eggs
or young, and as quickly settling upon them again, without, as it were,
disturbing the equilibrium of either in a place where to move would be
to tumble into destruction. The clamour of the kittiwake is indeed so
great on such occasions that it has given rise in the Feroe Islands to a
proverb, “noisy as the Rita in the rocks.” The eggs of several species of
gulls are used as food, being regularly sought for as such on the coast
of Devonshire and other maritime places, but those of the blackheaded
gulls are considered the best, and often substituted for plover eggs.
The flesh of gulls was considered by the ancients unfit for the food of
man; not so by the moderns, who, though probably no great admirers of
it, have not entirely rejected it. Hence Willoughby tells us (1678) that
“the sea-crows (blackheaded gulls) yearly build and breed at Norbury in
Staffordshire, in an island in the middle of a great pool, in the grounds
of Mr Skrimshew, distant at least 30 miles from the sea. About the
beginning of March hither they come; about the end of April they build.
They lay three, four, or five eggs of a dirty green colour, spotted with
dark brown, two inches long, of an ounce and half weight, blunter at one
end. The first down of the young is ash-coloured, and spotted with black.
The first feathers on the back, after they are fledged, are black. When
the young are almost come to their full growth, those entrusted by the
lord of the soil drive them from off the island through the pool, into
nets set in the banks to take them. When they have taken them, they feed
them with the entrails of beasts; and when they are fat, sell them for
fourpence or fivepence a-piece. They take yearly about one thousand two
hundred young ones; whence may be computed what profit the lord makes of
them. About the end of July they all fly away and leave the island.” And
in Feroe, according to Landt (1798), the flesh of the kittiwake is not
only eaten, but considered “well-tasted.” As pets, gulls have always on
the sea-coast been favourites, Gesner quotes from Oppian, “That gulls
are much attached to man--familiarly attend upon him; and, when watching
the fishermen, as they draw their nets and divide the spoil, clamorously
demand their share.” In our own boyish experience we knew one, poor
Tom, which grew up under our care to maturity, and, unrestrained by any
artificial means, flew away and returned again as inclination impelled
it--recognising and answering our voice even when flying high in air
above. But, alas! like too many pets, he fell a sacrifice to the loss of
that instinct which would have led him to shun danger. He joined a crowd
of water-fowl on a small lake on the Start Bay Sands. His companions,
alarmed at the approach of the fowler, flew unharmed away; but poor
Tom, with ill-judged confidence, left the water and walked fearlessly
toward the enemy of all winged creatures, who could not allow even a
gull to escape, and, alas! he was the next moment stretched lifeless on
the sand. Here we shall arrest our pen. Perhaps we have dwelt too long
on this interesting genus of birds, and yet we would hope that some
of our readers may profit by our remarks, and be led to watch with an
inquisitive eye the many animated beings which surround them, and thus
to read in Nature’s never-tiring, never-exhausted volume, new lessons of
wisdom--new proofs of the exalted intelligence which has created every
thing perfect and good of its kind.
J. E. P.
THE CHASE, A POEM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH.
OISIN.
O son of Calphruin! thou whose ear
Sweet chant of psalms delights to hear,
Hast thou ere heard the tale,
How Fionn urged the lonely chase,
Apart from all the Fenian race,
Brave sons of Innisfail?
PATRICK.
O royal born! whom none exceeds
In moving song, or hardy deeds,
That tale, to me as yet untold,
Though far renown’d, do thou unfold
In truth severely wise,
From fancy’s wanderings far apart:
For what is fancy’s glozing art
But falsehood in disguise?
OISIN.
O! ne’er on gallant Fenian race
Fell falsehood’s accusation base:
By faith of deeds, by strength of hand,
By trusty might of battle-brand,
We spread afar our glorious fame,
And safely from each conflict came.
Ne’er sat a monk in holy chair,
Devote to chanting hymn and prayer,
More true than the Fenians bold:
No chief like Fionn, world around,
Was e’er to bards so gen’rous found,
With gifts of ruddy gold.
If lived the son of Morné fleet,
Who ne’er for treasure burned;
Or Duiné’s son to woman sweet,
Who ne’er from battle turned,
But fearless with his single glaive
A hundred foemen dared to brave:
If lived Macgaree stern and wild,
That hero of the trenchant brand;
Or Caoilte, Ronan’s witty child,
Of liberal heart and open hand;
Or Oscar, once my darling boy,
Thy psalms would bring me little joy.
If lived, the Fenian deeds to sing,
Sweet Fergus with his voice of glee;
Or Daire, who trilled a faultless string,
Small pleasure were thy bells to me.
If lived the dauntless little Hugh,
Or Fillan, courteous, kind and meek,
Or Conan bald, for whom the dew
Of sorrow yet is on my cheek,
Or that small dwarf whose power could steep
The Fenian host in death-like sleep--
More sweet one breath of theirs would be
Than all thy clerks’ sad psalmody.
PATRICK.
Thy chiefs renowned extol no more,
O son of kings--nor number o’er;
But low, on bended knee, record
The power and glory of the Lord;
And beat the breast, and shed the tear,
And still his holy name revere,
Almighty, by whose potent breath
Thy vanquished Fenians sleep in death.
OISIN.
Alas! for Oisin--dire the tale!
No music in thy voice I hear;
Not for thy wrathful God I wail,
But for my Fenians dear.
Thy God! a rueful God I trow,
Whose love is earned by want and woe!
Since came thy dull psalm-singing crew,
How rapid away our pastimes flew,
And all that charmed the soul!
Where now are the royal gifts of gold,
The flowing robe with its satin fold,
And the heart-delighting bowl?
Where now the feast, and the revel high,
And the jocund dance and sweet minstrelsy,
And the steed loud-neighing in the morn,
With the music sweet of hound and horn,
And well-armed guards of coast and bay?
All, all like a dream have passed away;
And now we have clerks with their holy qualms,
And books, and bells, and eternal psalms,
And fasting--that waster gaunt and grim,
That strips of all beauty both body and limb.
PATRICK.
Oh! cease this strain, nor longer dare
Thy Fionn, or his chiefs, compare
With him who reigns in matchless might,
The King of kings enthroned in light.
’Tis he who frames the heavens and earth;
’Tis he who nerves the hero’s hand;
’Tis he who calls fair fields to birth,
And bids each blooming branch expand:
He gives the fishy streams to run,
And lights the moon and radiant sun.
What deeds like these, though great his fame,
Canst thou ascribe to Fionn’s name?
OISIN.
To weeds and grass his princely eye
My sire ne’er fondly turned;
But he raised his country’s glory high,
When the strife of warriors burned.
To shine in games of strength and skill,
To breast the torrent from the hill,
To lead the van of the bannered host--
These were his deeds and these his boast.
Where was thy God, when o’er the tide
Two heroes hither bore
Of Lochlin, king of ships, the bride,
And carnage heaped the shore?
When Tailk on Fenians hacked his brand,
’Twas not thy God’s, but Oscar’s hand
That hero prostrate laid;
When rough-voiced Manus swept the coast,
If lived thy God, the Fenian host
Had triumphed by his aid.
When Aluin, Anver’s son of fame,
Round Tara rolled the bickering flame,
Not by thy King’s, but Oscar’s glaive
The warrior sank in a bloody grave.
When haughty Dearg advanced in pride
With his shields of gold o’er Lochlin’s tide,
Why lingered then thy cloud-borne Lord
To save our host from his slaughtering sword?
Oh! glorious deeds arise in crowds,
Of the gallant Fenian band;
But what is achieved by thy King of the clouds--
Where reddened he his hand?[2]
PATRICK.
Here let this vain contention rest,
For frenzy, Bard, inspires thy breast.
Supreme in bliss God ever reigns:
Thy Fionn groans in hell’s domains--
In penal fire--in lasting chains.
OISIN.
Small glory to thy potent King
His chains and fires on our host to bring!
Oh! how unlike our generous chief,
Who, if thy King felt wrong or grief,
Would soon in arms, with valour strong,
Avenge the grief, redress the wrong.
Whom did the Fenian king e’er see
In thraldom, pain, or fear,
But his ready gold would set him free,
Or the might of his victor spear?
This arm, did frenzy touch my brain,
Their heads from thy clerks would sever,
Nor thy crozier here, nor white book remain,
Nor thy bells be heard for ever.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[2]
----_rubente_
_Dextera_ sacras jaculatus arces
Terruit urbem.--HOR.
----Heaven’s eternal Sire,
With _red right-arm_, at his own temples hurl’d
His thunders, and alarm’d a guilty world.--FRANCIS.
Some of Oisin’s expressions might justly shock the piety of St Patrick.
But let it be remembered that Oisin is no convert to Christianity; on the
contrary, he is opposed to it, principally because it had put an end to
his favourite pastimes.
EGYPT AND SYRIA--MEHEMET ALI.
The boasted civilization which Mehemet Ali has introduced into the
countries under his sway is entirely superficial, and has no origin
whatever in any real improvement or amelioration in the condition or
for the benefit of their respective populations; and the reason why a
contrary impression has so generally prevailed amongst late travellers is
as follows:--When travellers arrive at Alexandria, and more particularly
those of name or rank, they immediately fall into the hands of a set
of clever persons, some of them consuls, who having either made their
fortunes by the Pacha, or having them to make, leave no effort unemployed
to impress them with favourable opinions of his government. They are then
presented at the Divan, where, instead of a reserved austere-looking
Turk, they find a lively animated old man, who converses freely and gaily
with them, talks openly of his projects to come, and of his past life,
tells them that he is glad to see them, and that the more travellers
that pass through Egypt, the better he is pleased; that he wishes every
act of his government and institutions to be known and seen, and that
the more they are so, the better will he be appreciated. He then turns
the conversation to some subject personal to them, for he is always
well informed of who and what they are, and what they know, and at last
dismisses them with an injunction to visit his establishments with care,
and to let him know their opinion of them on their return; and if they
happen to be persons of distinction, he offers them a cavass to accompany
them on their journey. All this is done in a simple pleasing manner,
which can hardly fail to captivate when coming from so remarkable a man.
Instructed by the clique, and won by the Pacha, they proceed on their
journey to Cairo, where the delusion begun at Alexandria is completed;
for travelling through the country is now easy, and comparatively safe
to what it was, and establishments of various kinds, such as polytechnic
schools, schools of medicine and general instruction, and manufactories,
have been formed in Cairo and those parts of the country which are
most frequently visited. These are under the direction of foreigners,
chiefly Frenchmen, and are open to those who choose to visit them;
consequently, as the greater proportion of travellers seek for sights
more than instruction, these gentlemen, won at Alexandria, and delighted
at the facility of their journey from that place, neither turn to the
right nor the left from the beaten track, but, judging of what they do
not see by that which is purposely prepared to be shown them, return
to Europe, and on grounds such as I have above described, and without
looking an inch beneath the surface, proclaim the Pacha the civilizer
and regenerator of Egypt. How far such is the case, you will be able to
judge from what follows, in which there is no exaggeration. The journey
I made extended up to the second cataract on the Nile, throughout Egypt
and Nubia, and then through Palestine, the whole of Syria, and the
Libanus. I consequently visited very nearly all the countries under the
domination of Mehemet Ali, and as I did not allow myself to be influenced
at Alexandria, and missed no occasion of informing myself of the state
of things whilst on my journey, I may fairly say that I can give an
unbiassed opinion as to what is going on in that unhappy part of the
world.
In Egypt the whole of the land belongs to the Pacha; besides himself
there is no land-proprietor, and he has the absolute monopoly of every
thing that is grown in the country. The following is the manner in which
it is cultivated:--Portions of land are divided out between the fellahs
of a village, according to their numbers; seed, corn, cotton, or other
produce, is given to them; this they sow and reap, and of the produce
seventy-five per cent. is immediately taken to the Pacha’s depots. The
remaining twenty-five per cent. is left them, with, however, the power to
take it at a price fixed by the Pacha himself, and then resold to them at
a higher rate. This is generally done, and reduces the pittance left them
about five per cent. more; from this they are to pay the capitation tax,
which is not levied according to the real number of the inhabitants of a
village, but according to numbers at which it is rated in the government
books; so that in one instance with which I was acquainted, a village
originally rated at 200, but reduced by the conscription to 100, and by
death or flight to 40, was still obliged to pay the full capitation; and
when I went there, 26 of the 40 had been just bastinadoed to extort from
them their proportion of the sum claimed. After the capitation comes the
tax on the date-trees, raised from 30 to 60 paras by the Pacha, and that
of 200 piasters a-year for permission to use their own water-wheels,
without which the lands situated beyond the overflow of the Nile, or too
high for it to reach, would be barren. Then comes an infinity of taxes on
every article of life, even to the cakes of camels’ dung which the women
and children collect and dry for fuel, and which pay 25 per cent. in kind
at the gate of Cairo and the other towns. Next to the taxes comes the
_corvee_ in the worst form, and in continual action; at any moment the
fellahs are liable to be seized for public works, for the transport of
the baggage of the troops, or to track the boats of the government or its
officers, and this without pay or reference to the state of their crops.
When Mehemet Ali made his famous canal from Alexandria to the Nile,
he did it by forcibly marching down 150,000 men from all parts of the
country, and obliging them to excavate with their hands, as tools they
had not, or perhaps could not be provided. The excavation was completed
in three months, but 30,000 men died in the operation. Then comes the
curse of the conscription, which is exercised in a most cruel and
arbitrary manner, without any sort of rule or law to regulate it. An
order is given to the chief of a district to furnish a certain number
of men; these he seizes like wild beasts wherever he can find them,
without distinction or exemption, the weak as well as the strong, the
sick as well as those in health; and as there is no better road to the
Pacha’s favour than showing great zeal in this branch of the service, he
if possible collects more even than were demanded. These are chained,
marched down to the river, and embarked amidst the tears and lamentations
of their families, who know that they shall probably never see them
again: for change of climate, bad treatment, and above all, despair,
cause a mortality in the Pacha’s army beyond belief; mutilation is not
now considered an exemption, and the consequence of the system is, that
from Assouan, at the first cataract, to Aleppo, you literally speaking
never see a young man in a village; and such is the depopulation, that
if things continue as they now are for two years more, and the Pacha
insists on keeping up his army to its present force, it will be utterly
impossible for the crops to be got in, or for any of the operations of
agriculture to be carried on.
The whole of this atrocious system is carried into action by the cruelest
means--no justice of any sort for the weak, no security for those who are
better off: the bastinado and other tortures applied on every occasion,
and at the arbitrary will of every servant of the government. In addition
to this, the natives of the country are rarely employed--never in offices
of trust--and the whole government is entrusted to Turks. In short, the
worst features of the Mameluke and Turkish rules are still in active
operation; but the method of applying them is much more ingenious, and
the boasted civilization of Mehemet Ali amounts to this: that being
beyond doubt a man of extraordinary talents, he knows how to bring
into play the resources of the country better than his predecessors
did, but like them entirely for his own interest, and without any
reference to the well-being of the people; and that with the aid of his
European instruments he has, if I may say so, applied the screw with a
master-hand, and squeezed from the wretches under his sway the very last
drop of their blood.
Such is the state of these two countries. Syria is perhaps the worst
off of the two: for the Egyptians used to oppression bear it without a
struggle: whilst the Syrians, who had been less harshly treated in old
times, writhe under and gnaw their chain.--_From the Sun newspaper._
* * * * *
ROTATION RAILWAY.--This invention aims at effecting a complete revolution
in the present mode of railway construction and locomotion. In place of
having the ordinary rails and wheeled carriages, two series of wheels are
fixed along the whole length of the road at about two yards apart, and
at an equal distance from centre to centre of each wheel. These wheels
are connected throughout the whole length of the line by bands working in
grooved pullies keyed on to the same axle as the wheels, but the axles of
one side of the line are not connected with those of the opposite line.
The axles of the wheels are raised about one foot from the ground; the
top of the wheel, which is proposed to be of 3 feet diameter, will be
therefore elevated 2½ feet above the surface. On these wheels is placed a
strong framing of timber, having an iron plate fastened on each side in
the line of the two series of wheels. A little within this bearing frame,
so as just to clear the wheels, is a luggage-box or hold, descending to
within a few inches of the ground, in which it is proposed to stow all
heavy commodities, for which purpose it is well adapted, opening as it
does at either end
|
for his fall the Christmas season of all times
was reprehensible, a fact which Mary and Humpy impressed upon him in the
strongest terms. The Hopper was fully aware of the inopportuneness of his
transgressions, but not to the point of encouraging his wife to abuse
him.
As he clumsily tried to unfasten Shaver's hood, Mary pushed him aside and
with shaking fingers removed the child's wraps. Shaver's cheeks were rosy
from his drive through the cold; he was a plump, healthy little shaver and
The Hopper viewed him with intense pride. Mary held the hood and coat to
the light and inspected them with a sophisticated eye. They were of
excellent quality and workmanship, and she shook her head and sighed
deeply as she placed them carefully on a chair.
"It ain't on the square, Hop," protested Humpy, whose lone eye expressed
the most poignant sorrow at The Hopper's derelictions. Humpy was tall and
lean, with a thin, many-lined face. He was an ill-favored person at best,
and his habit of turning his head constantly as though to compel his
single eye to perform double service gave one an impression of restless
watchfulness.
"Cute little Shaver, ain't 'e? Give Shaver somethin' to eat, Mary. I guess
milk'll be the right ticket considerin' th' size of 'im. How ole you make
'im? Not more'n three, I reckon?"
"Two. He ain't more'n two, that kid."
"A nice little feller; you're a cute un, ain't ye, Shaver?"
Shaver nodded his head solemnly. Having wearied of playing with the plate
he gravely inspected the trio; found something amusing in Humpy's bizarre
countenance and laughed merrily. Finding no response to his friendly
overtures he appealed to Mary.
"Me wants me's paw-widge," he announced.
"Porridge," interpreted Humpy with the air of one whose superior breeding
makes him the proper arbiter of the speech of children of high social
station. Whereupon Shaver appreciatively poked his forefinger into Humpy's
surviving optic.
"I'll see what I got," muttered Mary. "What ye used t' eatin' for supper,
honey?"
The "honey" was a concession, and The Hopper, who was giving Shaver his
watch to play with, bent a commendatory glance upon his spouse.
"Go on an' tell us what ye done," said Mary, doggedly busying herself
about the stove.
The Hopper drew a chair to the table to be within reach of Shaver and
related succinctly his day's adventures.
"A dip!" moaned Mary as he described the seizure of the purse in the
subway.
"You hadn't no right to do ut, Hop!" bleated Humpy, who had tipped his
chair against the wall and was sucking a cold pipe. And then, professional
curiosity overmastering his shocked conscience, he added: "What'd she
measure, Hop?"
The Hopper grinned.
"Flubbed! Nothin' but papers," he confessed ruefully.
Mary and Humpy expressed their indignation and contempt in unequivocal
terms, which they repeated after he told of the suspected "bull" whose
presence on the local had so alarmed him. A frank description of his
flight and of his seizure of the roadster only added to their bitterness.
Humpy rose and paced the floor with the quick, short stride of men
habituated to narrow spaces. The Hopper watched the telltale step so
disagreeably reminiscent of evil times and shrugged his shoulders
impatiently.
"Set down, Hump; ye make me nervous. I got thinkin' to do."
"Ye'd better be quick about doin' ut!" Humpy snorted with an oath.
"Cut the cussin'!" The Hopper admonished sharply. Since his retirement to
private life he had sought diligently to free his speech of profanity and
thieves' slang, as not only unbecoming in a respectable chicken farmer,
but likely to arouse suspicions as to his origin and previous condition of
servitude. "Can't ye see Shaver ain't use to ut? Shaver's a little gent;
he's a reg'ler little juke; that's wot Shaver is."
"The more 'way up he is the worse fer us," whimpered Humpy. "It's
kidnapin', that's wot ut is!"
"That's wot it _ain't_," declared The Hopper, averting a calamity to his
watch, which Shaver was swinging by its chain. "He was took by accident I
tell ye! I'm goin' to take Shaver back to his ma--ain't I, Shaver?"
"Take 'im back!" echoed Mary.
Humpy crumpled up in his chair at this new evidence of The Hopper's
insanity.
"I'm goin' to make a Chris'mas present o' Shaver to his ma," reaffirmed
The Hopper, pinching the nearer ruddy cheek of the merry, contented
guest.
Shaver kicked The Hopper in the stomach and emitted a chortle expressive
of unshakable confidence in The Hopper's ability to restore him to his
lawful owners. This confidence was not, however, manifested toward Mary,
who had prepared with care the only cereal her pantry afforded, and now
approached Shaver, bowl and spoon in hand. Shaver, taken by surprise,
inspected his supper with disdain and spurned it with a vigor that sent
the spoon rattling across the floor.
"Me wants me's paw-widge bowl! Me wants me's _own_ paw-widge bowl!" he
screamed.
Mary expostulated; Humpy offered advice as to the best manner of dealing
with the refractory Shaver, who gave further expression to his resentment
by throwing The Hopper's watch with violence against the wall. That the
table-service of The Hopper's establishment was not to Shaver's liking was
manifested in repeated rejections of the plain white bowl in which Mary
offered the porridge. He demanded his very own porridge bowl with the
increasing vehemence of one who is willing to starve rather than accept so
palpable a substitute. He threw himself back on the table and lay there
kicking and crying. Other needs now occurred to Shaver: he wanted his
papa; he wanted his mamma; he wanted to go to his gwan'pa's. He clamored
for Santa Claus and numerous Christmas trees which, it seemed, had been
promised him at the houses of his kinsfolk. It was amazing and bewildering
that the heart of one so young could desire so many things that were not
immediately attainable. He had begun to suspect that he was among
strangers who were not of his way of life, and this was fraught with the
gravest danger.
"They'll hear 'im hollerin' in China," wailed the pessimistic Humpy,
running about the room and examining the fastenings of doors and windows.
"Folks goin' along the road'll hear 'im, an' it's terms fer the whole
bunch!"
The Hopper began pacing the floor with Shaver, while Humpy and Mary
denounced the child for unreasonableness and lack of discipline, not
overlooking the stupidity and criminal carelessness of The Hopper in
projecting so lawless a youngster into their domestic circle.
"Twenty years, that's wot ut is!" mourned Humpy.
"Ye kin get the chair fer kidnapin'," Mary added dolefully. "Ye gotta get
'im out o' here, Bill."
Pleasant predictions of a long prison term with capital punishment as the
happy alternative failed to disturb The Hopper. To their surprise and
somewhat to their shame he won the Shaver to a tractable humor. There was
nothing in The Hopper's known past to justify any expectation that he
could quiet a crying baby, and yet Shaver with a child's unerring instinct
realized that The Hopper meant to be kind. He patted The Hopper's face
with one fat little paw, chokingly declaring that he was hungry.
'"Course Shaver's hungry; an' Shaver's goin' to eat nice porridge Aunt
Mary made fer 'im. Shaver's goin' to have 'is own porridge bowl
to-morry--yes, sir-ee, oo is, little Shaver!"
Restored to the table, Shaver opened his mouth in obedience to The
Hopper's patient pleading and swallowed a spoonful of the mush, Humpy
holding the bowl out of sight in tactful deference to the child's delicate
æsthetic sensibilities. A tumbler of milk was sipped with grateful gasps.
[Illustration: THE HOPPER GRINNED, PROUD OF HIS SUCCESS, WHICH MARY AND
HUMPY VIEWED WITH GRUDGING ADMIRATION]
The Hopper grinned, proud of his success, while Mary and Humpy viewed his
efforts with somewhat grudging admiration, and waited patiently until The
Hopper took the wholly surfeited Shaver in his arms and began pacing the
floor, humming softly. In normal circumstances The Hopper was not musical,
and Humpy and Mary exchanged looks which, when interpreted, pointed to
nothing less than a belief that the owner of Happy Hill Farm was bereft of
his senses. There was some question as to whether Shaver should be
undressed. Mary discouraged the idea and Humpy took a like view.
"Ye gotta chuck 'im quick; that's what ye gotta do," said Mary hoarsely.
"We don't want 'im sleepin' here."
Whereupon The Hopper demonstrated his entire independence by carrying the
Shaver to Humpy's bed and partially undressing him. While this was in
progress, Shaver suddenly opened his eyes wide and raising one foot until
it approximated the perpendicular, reached for it with his chubby hands.
"Sant' Claus comin'; m'y Kwismus!"
"Jes' listen to Shaver!" chuckled The Hopper. "'Course Santy is comin,'
an' we're goin' to hang up Shaver's stockin', ain't we, Shaver?"
He pinned both stockings to the foot-board of Humpy's bed. By the time
this was accomplished under the hostile eyes of Mary and Humpy, Shaver
slept the sleep of the innocent.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV
They watched the child in silence for a few minutes and then Mary detached
a gold locket from his neck and bore it to the kitchen for examination.
"Ye gotta move quick, Hop," Humpy urged. "The white card's what we wuz all
goin' to play. We wuz fixed nice here, an' things goin' easy; an' the yard
full o' br'ilers. I don't want to do no more time. I'm an ole man, Hop."
"Cut ut!" ordered The Hopper, taking the locket from Mary and weighing it
critically in his hand. They bent over him as he scrutinized the face on
which was inscribed:--
_Roger Livingston Talbot_
_June 13, 1913_
"Lemme see; he's two an' a harf. Ye purty nigh guessed 'im right, Mary."
The sight of the gold trinket, the probability that the Shaver belonged to
a family of wealth, proved disturbing to Humpy's late protestations of
virtue.
"They'd be a heap o' kale in ut, Hop. His folks is rich, I reckon. Ef we
wuzn't playin' the white card--"
Ignoring this shocking evidence of Humpy's moral instability, The Hopper
became lost in reverie, meditatively drawing at his pipe.
"We ain't never goin' to quit playin' ut square," he announced, to Mary's
manifest relief. "I hadn't ought t' 'a' done th' dippin'. It were a
mistake. My ole head wuzn't workin' right er I wouldn't 'a' slipped. But
ye needn't jump on me no more."
"Wot ye goin' to do with that kid? Ye tell me that!" demanded Mary,
unwilling too readily to accept The Hopper's repentance at face value.
"I'm goin' to take 'im to 'is folks, that's wot I'm goin' to do with 'im,"
announced The Hopper.
"Yer crazy--yer plum' crazy!" cried Humpy, slapping his knees excitedly.
"Ye kin take 'im to an orphant asylum an' tell um ye found 'im in that
machine ye lifted. And mebbe ye'll git by with ut an' mebbe ye won't, but
ye gotta keep me out of ut!"
"I found the machine in th' road, right here by th' house; an' th' kid
was in ut all by hisself. An' bein' humin an' respectible I brought 'im in
to keep 'im from freezin' t' death," said The Hopper, as though repeating
lines he was committing to memory. "They ain't nobody can say as I didn't.
Ef I git pinched, that's my spiel to th' cops. It ain't kidnapin'; it's
life-savin', that's wot ut is! I'm a-goin' back an' have a look at that
place where I got 'im. Kind o' queer they left the kid out there in the
buzz-wagon; _mighty_ queer, now's I think of ut. Little house back from
the road; lots o' trees an' bushes in front. Didn't seem to be no lights.
He keeps talkin' about Chris'mas at his grandpa's. Folks must 'a' been
goin' to take th' kid somewheres fer Chris'mas. I guess it'll throw a
skeer into 'em to find him up an' gone."
"They's rich, an' all the big bulls'll be lookin' fer 'im; ye'd better
'phone the New Haven cops ye've picked 'im up. Then they'll come out, an'
yer spiel about findin' 'im'll sound easy an' sensible like."
The Hopper, puffing his pipe philosophically, paid no heed to Humpy's
suggestion even when supported warmly by Mary.
"I gotta find some way o' puttin' th' kid back without seein' no cops.
I'll jes' take a sneak back an' have a look at th' place," said The
Hopper. "I ain't goin' to turn Shaver over to no cops. Ye can't take no
chances with 'em. They don't know nothin' about us bein' here, but they
ain't fools, an' I ain't goin' to give none o' 'em a squint at me!"
He defended his plan against a joint attack by Mary and Humpy, who saw in
it only further proof of his tottering reason. He was obliged to tell
them in harsh terms to be quiet, and he added to their rage by the
deliberation with which he made his preparations to leave.
He opened the door of a clock and drew out a revolver which he examined
carefully and thrust into his pocket. Mary groaned; Humpy beat the air in
impotent despair. The Hopper possessed himself also of a jimmy and an
electric lamp. The latter he flashed upon the face of the sleeping Shaver,
who turned restlessly for a moment and then lay still again. He smoothed
the coverlet over the tiny form, while Mary and Humpy huddled in the
doorway. Mary wept; Humpy was awed into silence by his old friend's
perversity. For years he had admired The Hopper's cleverness, his genius
for extricating himself from difficulties; he was deeply shaken to think
that one who had stood so high in one of the most exacting of professions
should have fallen so low. As The Hopper imperturbably buttoned his coat
and walked toward the door, Humpy set his back against it in a last
attempt to save his friend from his own foolhardiness.
"Ef anybody turns up here an' asks for th' kid, ye kin tell 'em wot I
said. We finds 'im in th' road right here by the farm when we're doin' th'
night chores an' takes 'im in t' keep 'im from freezin'. Ye'll have th'
machine an' kid here to show 'em. An' as fer me, I'm off lookin' fer his
folks."
Mary buried her face in her apron and wept despairingly. The Hopper,
noting for the first time that Humpy was guarding the door, roughly pushed
him aside and stood for a moment with his hand on the knob.
"They's things wot is," he remarked with a last attempt to justify his
course, "an' things wot ain't. I reckon I'll take a peek at that place an'
see wot's th' best way t' shake th' kid. Ye can't jes' run up to a house
in a machine with his folks all settin' round cryin' an' cops askin'
questions. Ye got to do some plannin' an' thinkin'. I'm goin' t' clean ut
all up before daylight, an' ye needn't worry none about ut. Hop ain't
worryin'; jes' leave ut t' Hop!"
There was no alternative but to leave it to Hop, and they stood mute as he
went out and softly closed the door.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V
The snow had ceased and the stars shone brightly on a white world as The
Hopper made his way by various trolley lines to the house from which he
had snatched Shaver. On a New Haven car he debated the prospects of more
snow with a policeman who seemed oblivious to the fact that a child had
been stolen--shamelessly carried off by a man with a long police record.
Merry Christmas passed from lip to lip as if all creation were attuned to
the note of love and peace, and crime were an undreamed of thing.
For two years The Hopper had led an exemplary life and he was keenly alive
now to the joy of adventure. His lapses of the day were unfortunate; he
thought of them with regret and misgivings, but he was zestful for
whatever the unknown held in store for him. Abroad again with a pistol in
his pocket, he was a lawless being, but with the difference that he was
intent now upon making restitution, though in such manner as would give
him something akin to the old thrill that he experienced when he enjoyed
the reputation of being one of the most skillful yeggs in the country. The
successful thief is of necessity an imaginative person; he must be able to
visualize the unseen and to deal with a thousand hidden contingencies. At
best the chances are against him; with all his ingenuity the broad, heavy
hand of the law is likely at any moment to close upon him from some
unexpected quarter. The Hopper knew this, and knew, too, that in yielding
to the exhilaration of the hour he was likely to come to grief. Justice
has a long memory, and if he again made himself the object of police
scrutiny that little forty-thousand dollar affair in Maine might still be
fixed upon him.
When he reached the house from whose gate he had removed the roadster with
Shaver attached, he studied it with the eye of an experienced strategist.
No gleam anywhere published the presence of frantic parents bewailing the
loss of a baby. The cottage lay snugly behind its barrier of elms and
shrubbery as though its young heir had not vanished into the void. The
Hopper was a deliberating being and he gave careful weight to these
circumstances as he crept round the walk, in which the snow lay
undisturbed, and investigated the rear of the premises. The lattice door
of the summer kitchen opened readily, and, after satisfying himself that
no one was stirring in the lower part of the house, he pried up the sash
of a window and stepped in. The larder was well stocked, as though in
preparation for a Christmas feast, and he passed on to the dining-room,
whose appointments spoke for good taste and a degree of prosperity in the
householder.
Cautious flashes of his lamp disclosed on the table a hamper, in which
were packed a silver cup, plate, and bowl which at once awoke the Hopper's
interest. Here indubitably was proof that this was the home of Shaver, now
sleeping sweetly in Humpy's bed, and this was the porridge bowl for which
Shaver's soul had yearned. If Shaver did not belong to the house, he had
at least been a visitor there, and it struck The Hopper as a reasonable
assumption that Shaver had been deposited in the roadster while his lawful
guardians returned to the cottage for the hamper preparatory to an
excursion of some sort. But The Hopper groped in the dark for an
explanation of the calmness with which the householders accepted the loss
of the child. It was not in human nature for the parents of a youngster so
handsome and in every way so delightful as Shaver to permit him to be
stolen from under their very noses without making an outcry. The Hopper
examined the silver pieces and found them engraved with the name borne by
the locket. He crept through a living-room and came to a Christmas
tree--the smallest of Christmas trees. Beside it lay a number of packages
designed clearly for none other than young Roger Livingston Talbot.
Housebreaking is a very different business from the forcible entry of
country post-offices, and The Hopper was nervous. This particular house
seemed utterly deserted. He stole upstairs and found doors open and a
disorder indicative of the occupants' hasty departure. His attention was
arrested by a small room finished in white, with a white enameled bed, and
other furniture to match. A generous litter of toys was the last proof
needed to establish the house as Shaver's true domicile. Indeed, there was
every indication that Shaver was the central figure of this home of whose
charm and atmosphere The Hopper was vaguely sensible. A frieze of dancing
children and watercolor sketches of Shaver's head, dabbed here and there
in the most unlooked-for places, hinted at an artistic household. This
impression was strengthened when The Hopper, bewildered and baffled,
returned to the lower floor and found a studio opening off the living
room. The Hopper had never visited a studio before, and satisfied now that
he was the sole occupant of the house, he passed passed about shooting his
light upon unfinished canvases, pausing finally before an easel supporting
a portrait of Shaver--newly finished, he discovered, by poking his finger
into the wet paint. Something fell to the floor and he picked up a large
sheet of drawing paper on which this message was written in charcoal:--
_Six-thirty._
_Dear Sweetheart:_--
This is a fine trick you have played on me, you dear girl! I've
been expecting you back all afternoon. At six I decided that you
were going to spend the night with your infuriated parent and
thought I'd try my luck with mine! I put Billie into the
roadster and, leaving him there, ran over to the Flemings's to
say Merry Christmas and tell 'em we were off for the night. They
kept me just a minute to look at those new Jap prints Jim's so
crazy about, and while I was gone you came along and skipped
with Billie and the car! I suppose this means that you've been
making headway with your dad and want to try the effect of
Billie's blandishments. Good luck! But you might have stopped
long enough to tell me about it! How fine it would be if
everything could be straightened out for Christmas! Do you
remember the first time I kissed you--it was on Christmas Eve
four years ago at the Billings's dance! I'm just trolleying out
to father's to see what an evening session will do. I'll be back
early in the morning.
Love always,
ROGER.
Billie was undoubtedly Shaver's nickname. This delighted The Hopper. That
they should possess the same name appeared to create a strong bond of
comradeship. The writer of the note was presumably the child's father and
the "Dear Sweetheart" the youngster's mother. The Hopper was not reassured
by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his parents was far from
being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure he had imagined. He had
only the lowest opinion of a father who would, on a winter evening,
carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he looked at pictures, and
who, finding both motor and baby gone, would take it for granted that the
baby's mother had run off with them. But these people were artists, and
artists, The Hopper had heard, were a queer breed, sadly lacking in
common sense. He tore the note into strips which he stuffed into his
pocket.
Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was groping,
he returned to the living-room, raised one of the windows and unbolted the
front door to make sure of an exit in case these strange, foolish Talbots
should unexpectedly return. The shades were up and he shielded his light
carefully with his cap as he passed rapidly about the room. It began to
look very much as though Shaver would spend Christmas at Happy Hill
Farm--a possibility that had not figured in The Hopper's calculations.
Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on the
table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner
where he turned his light upon the note and read, not without difficulty,
the following:--
_Seven o'clock._
_Dear Roger:--_
I've just got back from father's where I spent the last three
hours talking over our troubles. I didn't tell you I was going,
knowing you would think it foolish, but it seemed best, dear,
and I hope you'll forgive me. And now I find that you've gone
off with Billie, and I'm guessing that you've gone to _your_
father's to see what you can do. I'm taking the trolley into New
Haven to ask Mamie Palmer about that cook she thought we might
get, and if possible I'll bring the girl home with me. Don't
trouble about me, as I'll be perfectly safe, and, as you know, I
rather enjoy prowling around at night. You'll certainly get back
before I do, but if I'm not here don't be alarmed.
We are so happy in each other, dear, and if only we could get
our foolish fathers to stop hating each other, how beautiful
everything would be! And we could all have such a merry, merry
Christmas!
MURIEL.
The Hopper's acquaintance with the epistolary art was the slightest, but
even to a mind unfamiliar with this branch of literature it was plain that
Shaver's parents were involved in some difficulty that was attributable,
not to any lessening of affection between them, but to a row of some sort
between their respective fathers. Muriel, running into the house to write
her note, had failed to see Roger's letter in the studio, and this was
very fortunate for The Hopper; but Muriel might return at any moment, and
it would add nothing to the plausibility of the story he meant to tell if
he were found in the house.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI
Anxious and dejected at the increasing difficulties that confronted him,
he was moving toward the door when a light, buoyant step sounded on the
veranda. In a moment the living-room lights were switched on from the
entry and a woman called out sharply:--
"Stop right where you are or I'll shoot!"
The authoritative voice of the speaker, the quickness with which she had
grasped the situation and leveled her revolver, brought The Hopper to an
abrupt halt in the middle of the room, where he fell with a discordant
crash across the keyboard of a grand piano. He turned, cowering, to
confront a tall, young woman in a long ulster who advanced toward him
slowly, but with every mark of determination upon her face. The Hopper
stared beyond the gun, held in a very steady hand, into a pair of fearless
dark eyes. In all his experiences he had never been cornered by a woman,
and he stood gaping at his captor in astonishment. She was a very pretty
young woman, with cheeks that still had the curve of youth, but with a
chin that spoke for much firmness of character. A fur toque perched a
little to one side gave her a boyish air.
This undoubtedly was Shaver's mother who had caught him prowling in her
house, and all The Hopper's plans for explaining her son's disappearance
and returning him in a manner to win praise and gratitude went glimmering.
There was nothing in the appearance of this Muriel to encourage a hope
that she was either embarrassed or alarmed by his presence. He had been
captured many times, but the trick had never been turned by any one so
cool as this young woman. She seemed to be pondering with the greatest
calmness what disposition she should make of him. In the intentness of her
thought the revolver wavered for an instant, and The Hopper, without
taking his eyes from her, made a cat-like spring that brought him to the
window he had raised against just such an emergency.
"None of that!" she cried, walking slowly toward him without lowering the
pistol. "If you attempt to jump from that window I'll shoot! But it's
cold in here and you may lower it."
The Hopper, weighing the chances, decided that the odds were heavily
against escape, and lowered the window.
"Now," said Muriel, "step into that corner and keep your hands up where I
can watch them."
The Hopper obeyed her instructions strictly. There was a telephone on the
table near her and he expected her to summon help; but to his surprise she
calmly seated herself, resting her right elbow on the arm of the chair,
her head slightly tilted to one side, as she inspected him with greater
attention along the blueblack barrel of her automatic. Unless he made a
dash for liberty this extraordinary woman would, at her leisure, turn him
over to the police as a housebreaker and his peaceful life as a chicken
farmer would be at an end. Her prolonged silence troubled The Hopper. He
had not been more nervous when waiting for the report of the juries which
at times had passed upon his conduct, or for judges to fix his term of
imprisonment.
"Yes'm," he muttered, with a view to ending a silence that had become
intolerable.
Her eyes danced to the accompaniment of her thoughts, but in no way did
she betray the slightest perturbation.
"I ain't done nothin'; hones' to God, I ain't!" he protested brokenly.
"I saw you through the window when you entered this room and I was
watching while you read that note," said his captor. "I thought it funny
that you should do that instead of packing up the silver. Do you mind
telling me just why you read that note?"
"Well, miss, I jes' thought it kind o' funny there wuzn't nobody round an'
the letter was layin' there all open, an' I didn't see no harm in
lookin'."
"It was awfully clever of you to crawl into the corner so nobody could see
your light from the windows," she said with a tinge of admiration. "I
suppose you thought you might find out how long the people of the house
were likely to be gone and how much time you could spend here. Was that
it?"
"I reckon ut wuz some thin' like that," he agreed.
This was received with the noncommittal "Um" of a person whose thoughts
are elsewhere. Then, as though she were eliciting from an artist or man of
letters a frank opinion as to his own ideas of his attainments and
professional standing, she asked, with a meditative air that puzzled him
as much as her question:--
"Just how good a burglar are you? Can you do a job neatly and safely?"
The Hopper, staggered by her inquiry and overcome by modesty, shrugged his
shoulders and twisted about uncomfortably.
"I reckon as how you've pinched me I ain't much good," he replied, and was
rewarded with a smile followed by a light little laugh. He was beginning
to feel pleased that she manifested no fear of him. In fact, he had
decided that Shaver's mother was the most remarkable woman he had ever
encountered, and by all odds the handsomest. He began to take heart.
Perhaps after all he might hit upon some way of restoring Shaver to his
proper place in the house of Talbot without making himself liable to a
long term for kidnaping.
"If you're really a successful burglar--one who doesn't just poke abound
in empty houses as you were doing here, but clever and brave enough to
break into houses where people are living and steal things without making
a mess of it; and if you can play fair about it--then I think--I
think--maybe--we can come to terms!"
"Yes'm!" faltered The Hopper, beginning to wonder if Mary and Humpy had
been right in saying that he had lost his mind. He was so astonished that
his arms wavered, but she was instantly on her feet and the little
automatic was again on a level with his eyes.
"Excuse me, miss, I didn't mean to drop 'em. I weren't goin' to do
nothin'. Hones' I wuzn't!" he pleaded with real contrition. "It jes'
seemed kind o' funny what ye said."
He grinned sheepishly. If she knew that her Billie, _alias_ Shaver, was
not with her husband at his father's house, she would not be dallying in
this fashion. And if the young father, who painted pictures, and left
notes in his studio in a blind faith that his wife would find them,--if
that trusting soul knew that Billie was asleep in a house all of whose
inmates had done penance behind prison bars, he would very quickly become
a man of action. The Hopper had never heard of such careless parenthood!
These people were children! His heart warmed to them in pity and
admiration, as it had to little Billie.
"I forgot to ask you whether you are armed," she remarked, with just as
much composure as though she were asking him whether he took two lumps of
sugar in his tea; and then she added, "I suppose I ought to have asked you
that in the first place."
"I gotta gun in my coat--right side," he confessed. "An' that's all I
got," he added, batting his eyes under the spell of her bewildering smile.
With her left hand she cautiously extracted his revolver and backed away
with it to the table.
"If you'd lied to me I should have killed you; do you understand?"
"Yes'm," murmured The Hopper meekly.
She had spoken as though homicide were a common incident of her life, but
a gleam of humor in the eyes she was watching vigilantly abated her
severity.
"You may sit down--there, please!"
She pointed to a much bepillowed davenport and The Hopper sank down on it,
still with his hands up. To his deepening mystification she backed to the
windows and lowered the shades, and this done she sat down with the table
between them, remarking,--
"You may put your hands down now, Mr. ----?"
He hesitated, decided that it was unwise to give any of his names; and
respecting his scruples she said with great magnanimity:--
"Of course you wouldn't want to tell me your name, so don't trouble about
that."
She sat, wholly tranquil, her arms upon the table, both hands caressing
the small automatic, while his own revolver, of different pattern and
larger caliber, lay close by. His status was now established as that of a
gentleman making a social call upon a lady who, in the pleasantest manner
imaginable and yet with undeniable resoluteness, kept a deadly weapon
pointed in the general direction of his person.
A clock on the mantel struck eleven with a low, silvery note. Muriel
waited for the last stroke and then spoke crisply and directly.
"We were speaking of that letter I left lying here on the table. You
didn't understand it, of course; you couldn't--not really. So I will
explain it to you. My husband and I married against our fathers'
|
“Yes, it is a great satisfaction to have you back in your old home,
under our wing. I have a great deal to tell you about the arrangements.”
“Oh yes; thank you--”
“Mamma!” roared two or three voices.
“I wanted to explain to you--” But Fanny’s eye was roaming, and just
then in burst two boys. “Mamma, nurse won’t undo the tin box, and my
ship is in it that the Major gave me.”
“Yes, and my stuffed duck-bill, and I want it, mamma.”
“My dear Con, the Major would not let you shout so loud about it, and
you have not spoken to Aunt Rachel.”
The boys did present their hands, and then returned to the charge.
“Please order nurse to unpack it, mamma, and then Coombe will help us to
sail it.”
“Excuse me, dear Rachel,” said Fanny, “I will first see about this.”
And a very long seeing it was, probably meaning that she unpacked the
box herself, whilst Rachel was deciding on the terrible spoiling of the
children, and preparing a remonstrance.
“Dear Rachel, you have been left a long time.”
“Oh, never mind that, but, Fanny, you must not give way to those
children too much; they will be always--Hark! was that the door-bell?”
It was, and the visitor was announced as “Mr. Touchett;” a small, dark,
thin young clergyman he was, of a nervous manner, which, growing more
nervous as he shook hands with Rachel, became abrupt and hesitating.
“My call is--is early, Lady Temple; but I always pay my respects at
once to any new parishioner--resident, I mean--in case I can be of any
service.”
“Thank you, I am very much obliged,” said Fanny, with a sweet, gracious
smile and manner that would have made him more at ease at once, if
Rachel had not added, “My cousin is quite at home here, Mr. Touchett.”
“Oh yes,” he said, “so--so I understood.”
“I know no place in England so well; it is quite a home to me, so
beautiful it is,” continued Fanny.
“And you see great changes here.”
“Changes so much for the better,” said Fanny, smiling her winning smile
again.
“One always expects more from improvements than they effect,” put in
Rachel, severely.
“You have a large young party,” said Mr. Touchett, looking uneasily
towards Lady Temple.
“Yes, I have half a dozen boys and one little girl.”
“Seven!” Mr. Touchett looked up half incredulous at the girlish contour
of the gentle face, then cast down his eyes as if afraid he had been
rude. “Seven! It is--it is a great charge.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” she said earnestly; “and I am sure you will be kind
enough to give your influence to help me with them--poor boys.”
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “anything I can do--” in such a transport of
eager helpfulness that Rachel coldly said, “We are all anxious to assist
in the care of the children.” He coloured up, and with a sort of effort
at self-assertion, blurted out, “As the clergyman of the parish--,” and
there halted, and was beginning to look foolish, when Lady Temple took
him up in her soft, persuasive way. “Of course we shall look to you so
much, and you will be so kind as to let me know if there is any one I
can send any broth to at anytime.”
“Thank you; you are very good;” and he was quite himself again. “I shall
have the pleasure of sending you down a few names.”
“I never did approve the broken victual system,” began Rachel, “it
creates dependence.”
“Come here, Hubert,” said Fanny, beckoning a boy she saw at a distance,
“come and shake hands with Mr. Touchett.” It was from instinct rather
than reason; there was a fencing between Rachel and the curate that
made her uncomfortable, and led her to break it off by any means in her
power; and though Mr. Touchett was not much at his ease with the little
boy, this discussion was staged off. But again Mr. Touchett made bold to
say that in case Lady Temple wished for a daily governess, he knew of a
very desirable young person, a most admirable pair of sisters, who had
met with great reverses, but Rachel snapped him off shorter than ever.
“We can decide nothing yet; I have made up my mind to teach the little
boys at present.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“It is very kind,” said the perplexed Lady Temple.
“I beg your pardon, I only thought, in case you were wishing for some
one, that Miss Williams will be at liberty shortly.”
“I do not imagine Miss Williams is the person to deal with little boys,”
said Rachel. “In fact, I think that home teaching is always better than
hired.”
“I am so much obliged,” said Fanny, as Mr. Touchett, after this defeat,
rose up to take leave, and she held out her hand, smiled, thanked, and
sent him away so much sweetened and gratified, that Rachel would have
instantly begun dissecting him, but that a whole rush of boys broke in,
and again engrossed their mother, and in the next lull, the uppermost
necessity was of explaining about the servants who had been hired for
the time, one of whom was a young woman whose health had given way over
her lace pillow, and Rachel was eloquent over the crying evils of the
system (everything was a system with Rachel) that chained girls to an
unhealthy occupation in their early childhood, and made an overstocked
market and underpaid workers--holding Fanny fast to listen by a sort
of fascination in her overpowering earnestness, and great fixed eyes,
which, when once their grasp was taken, would not release the victim;
and this was a matter of daily occurrence on which Rachel felt keenly
and spoke strongly.
“It is very sad. If you want to help the poor things, I will give
anything I can.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, but it is doleful merely to help them to linger out
the remnant of a life consumed upon these cobwebs of vanity. It is the
fountainhead that must be reached--the root of the system!”
Fanny saw, or rather felt, a boy making signs at the window, but durst
not withdraw her eyes from the fascination of those eager ones. “Lace
and lacemakers are facts,” continued Rachel; “but if the middle men
were exploded, and the excess of workers drafted off by some wholesome
outlet, the price would rise, so that the remainder would be at leisure
to fulfil the domestic offices of womanhood.”
There was a great uproar above.
“I beg your pardon, dear Rachel,” and away went Fanny.
“I do declare,” cried Rachel, when Grace, having despatched her
home-cares, entered the room a quarter of an hour after; “poor Fanny’s a
perfect slave. One can’t get in a word edgeways.”
Fanny at last returned, but with her baby; and there was no chance for
even Rachel to assert herself while this small queen was in presence.
Grace was devoted to infants, and there was a whole court of brothers
vying with one another in picking up her constantly dropped toys, and in
performing antics for her amusement. Rachel, desirous to be gracious and
resigned, attempted conversation with one of the eldest pair, but the
baby had but to look towards him, and he was at her feet.
On her departure, Rachel resumed the needful details of the arrangements
respecting the house and servants, and found Lady Temple as grateful and
submissive as ever, except that, when advised to take Myrtlewood for a
term of seven years, she replied, that the Major had advised her not to
bind herself down at once.
“Did you let him think we should quarrel?”
“Oh, no, my dear; but it might not agree with the children.”
“Avonmouth! Grace, do you hear what heresy Fanny has been learning? Why,
the proportion of ozone in the air here has been calculated to be five
times that of even Aveton!”
“Yes, dearest,” said poor Fanny, very humbly, and rather scared, “there
is no place like Avonmouth, and I am sure the Major will think so when
he has seen it.”
“But what has he to do with your movements?”
“Sir Stephen wished--” murmured Fanny.
“The Major is military secretary, and always settles our head-quarters,
and no one interferes with him,” shouted Conrade.
Rachel, suspicious and jealous of her rival, was obliged to let Fanny
pass on to the next item, where her eager acceptance of all that
was prescribed to her was evidently meant as compensation for her
refractoriness about the house.
Grace had meanwhile applied herself to keeping off the boys, and was
making some progress in their good graces, and in distinguishing between
their sallow faces, dark eyes, and crisp, black heads. Conrade was
individualized, not only by superior height, but by soldierly bearing,
bright pride glancing in his eyes, his quick gestures, bold, decided
words, and imperious tone towards all, save his mother--and whatever he
was doing, his keen, black eye was always turning in search of her, he
was ever ready to spring to her side to wait on her, to maintain her
cause in rough championship, or to claim her attention to himself.
Francis was thick-set, round-shouldered, bullet-headed and dull-eyed,
in comparison, not aggressive, but holding his own, and not
very approachable; Leoline, thin, white-cheeked, large-eyed and
fretful-lipped, was ready to whine at Conrade’s tyranny and Francis’s
appropriations, but was grateful for Grace’s protection, and more easy
of access than his elders; and Hubert was a handsome, placid child, the
good boy, as well as the beauty of the family. The pair in the nursery
hardly came on the stage, and the two elders would be quite sufficient
for Mrs. Curtis, with whom the afternoon was to be spent.
The mother, evidently, considered it a very long absence, but she was
anxious to see both her aunt and her own home, and set out, leaning
on Rachel’s arm, and smiling pleased though sad recognition of the
esplanade, the pebbly beach, bathing machines and fishing boats, and
pointing them out to her sons, who, on their side, would only talk of
the much greater extent of Melbourne.
Within the gates of the Homestead, there was a steep, sharp bit of road,
cut out in the red sandstone rock, and after a few paces she paused to
rest with a sigh that brought Conrade to her side, when she put her arm
round his neck, and leant on his shoulder; but even her two supporters
could not prevent her from looking pale and exhausted.
“Never mind,” she said, “this salt wind is delightful. How like old
times it is!” and she stood gazing across the little steep lawn at
the grey sea, the line of houses following the curve of the bay,
and straggling up the valley in the rear, and the purple headlands
projecting point beyond point, showing them to her boys, and telling
their names.
“It is all ugly and cold,” said Francis, with an ungracious shiver. “I
shall go home to Melbourne when I’m a man.”
“And you will come, mamma?” added Conrade.
He had no answer, for Fanny was in her aunt’s arms; and, like mother and
daughter, they clung to each other--more able to sympathize, more truly
one together, than the young widow could be with either of the girls.
As soon as Fanny had rested and enjoyed the home atmosphere downstairs,
she begged to visit the dear old rooms, and carried Conrade through a
course of recognitions through the scarcely altered apartments. Only one
had been much changed, namely, the schoolroom, which had been stripped
of the kindly old shabby furniture that Fanny tenderly recollected, and
was decidedly bare; but a mahogany box stood on a stand on one side;
there was a great accession of books, and writing implements occupied
the plain deal table in the centre.
“What have you done to the dear old room--do you not use it still?”
asked Fanny.
“Yes, I work here,” said Rachel.
Vainly did Lady Temple look for that which women call work.
“I have hitherto ground on at after-education and self-improvement,”
said Rachel; “now I trust to make my preparation available for others. I
will undertake any of your boys if you wish it.”
“Thank you; but what is that box?”--in obedience to a curious push and
pull from Conrade.
“It is her dispensary,” said Grace.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “you are weak and nervous, and I have just the thing
for you.”
“Is it homoeopathy?”
“Yes, here is my book. I have done great things in my district, and
should do more but for prejudice. There, this globule is the very thing
for your case; I made it out last night in my book. That is right, and I
wanted to ask you some questions about little Wilfred.”
Fanny had obediently swallowed her own globule, but little Wilfred was
a different matter, and she retreated from the large eyes and open book,
saying that he was better, and that Mr. Frampton should look at him; but
Rachel was not to be eluded, and was in full career of elucidation to
the meanest capacity, when a sharp skirmish between the boys ended
the conversation, and it appeared that Conrade had caught Francis
just commencing an onslaught on the globules, taking them for English
sweetmeats of a minute description.
The afternoon passed with the strange heaviness well known to those who
find it hard to resume broken threads after long parting. There was much
affection, but not full certainty what to talk about, and the
presence of the boys would have hindered confidence, even had they not
incessantly occupied their mother. Conrade, indeed, betook himself to
a book, but Francis was only kept out of mischief by his constantly
turning over pictures with him; however, at dark, Coombe came to convey
them home, and the ladies of the Homestead experienced a sense of
relief. Rachel immediately began to talk of an excellent preparatory
school.
“I was thinking of asking you,” said Fanny, “if there is any one here
who would come as a daily governess.”
“Oh!” cried Rachel, “these two would be much better at school, and I
would form the little ones, who are still manageable.”
“Conrade is not eight years old yet,” said his mother in an imploring
tone, “and the Major said I need not part with him till he has grown a
little more used to English ways.”
“He can read, I see,” said Grace, “and he told me he had done some Latin
with the Major.”
“Yes, he has picked up a vast deal of information, and on the voyage the
Major used to teach him out of a little pocket Virgil. The Major said it
would not be of much use at school, as there was no dictionary; but
that the discipline and occupation would be useful, and so they were.
Conrade, will do anything for the Major, and indeed so will they all.”
Three Majors in one speech, thought Rachel; and by way of counteraction
she enunciated, “I could undertake the next pair of boys easily, but
these two are evidently wanting school discipline.”
Lady Temple feathered up like a mother dove over her nest.
“You do not know Conrade. He is so trustworthy and affectionate, dear
boy, and they are both always good with me. The Major said it often
hurts boys to send them too young.”
“They are very young, poor little fellows,” said Mrs. Curtis.
“And if they are forward in some things they are backward in others,”
said Fanny. “What Major Keith recommended was a governess, who would
know what is generally expected of little boys.”
“I don’t like half measures,” muttered Rachel. “I do not approve
of encouraging young women to crowd the overstocked profession of
governesses.”
Fanny opened her brown eyes, and awaited the words of wisdom.
“Is it not a flagrant abuse,” continued Rachel, “that whether she have
a vocation or not, every woman of a certain rank, who wishes to gain her
own livelihood, must needs become a governess? A nursery maid must have
a vocation, but an educated or half-educated woman has no choice;
and educator she must become, to her own detriment, and that of her
victims.”
“I always did think governesses often much to be pitied,” said Fanny,
finding something was expected of her.
“What’s the use of pity if one runs on in the old groove? We must
prevent the market from being drugged, by diverting the supply into new
lines.”
“Are there any new lines?” asked Fanny, surprised at the progress of
society in her absence.
“Homoeopathic doctresses,” whispered Grace; who, dutiful as she was,
sometimes indulged in a little fun, which Rachel would affably receive
unless she took it in earnest, as in the present instance.
“Why not--I ask why not? Some women have broken through prejudice, and
why should not others? Do you not agree with me, Fanny, that female
medical men--I mean medical women--would be an infinite boon?”
“It would be very nice if they would never be nervous.”
“Nerves are merely a matter of training. Think of the numbers that might
be removed from the responsibility of incompetently educating! I declare
that to tempt a person into the office of governess, instead of opening
a new field to her, is the most short-sighted indolence.”
“I don’t want to tempt any one,” said Fanny. “She ought to have been
out before and be experienced, only she most be kind to the poor boys. I
wanted the Major to inquire in London, but he said perhaps I might hear
of some one here.”
“That was right, my dear,” returned her aunt. “A gentleman, an officer,
could not do much in such a matter.”
“He always does manage whatever one wants.”
At which speech Rachel cast a glance towards her mother, and saw her
look questioning and perplexed.
“I was thinking,” said Grace, “that I believe the people at the Cliff
Cottages are going away, and that Miss Williams might be at liberty.”
“Didn’t I know that Grace would come out with Miss Williams?” exclaimed
Rachel. “A regular eruption of the Touchettomania. We have had him
already advertising her.”
“Miss Williams!” said Mrs. Curtis. “Yes, she might suit you very well.
I believe they are very respectable young women, poor things! I have
always wished that we could do more for them.”
“Who?” asked Fanny.
“Certain pets of Mr. Touchett’s,” said Rachel; “some of the numerous
ladies whose mission is that curatolatry into which Grace would lapse
but for my strenuous efforts.”
“I don’t quite know why you call them his pets,” said Grace, “except
that he knew their antecedents, and told us about them.”
“Exactly, that was enough, for me. I perfectly understand the meaning of
Mr. Touchett’s recommendations, and if what Fanny wants is a commonplace
sort of upper nursemaid, I dare say it would do.” And Rachel leant back,
applied herself to her wood carving, and virtually retired from the
discussion.
“One sister is a great invalid,” said Grace, “quite a cripple, and the
other goes out as a daily governess. They are a clergyman’s daughters,
and once were very well off, but they lost everything through some
speculation of their brother. I believe he fled the country under some
terrible suspicion of dishonesty; and though no one thought they had
anything to do with it, their friends dropped them because they would
not give him up, nor believe him guilty, and a little girl of his lives
with them.”
“Poor things!” exclaimed Lady Temple. “I should very much like to employ
this one. How very sad.”
“Mrs. Grey told me that her children had never done so well with any
one,” said Mrs. Curtis. “She wanted to engage Miss Williams permanently,
but could not induce her to leave her sister, or even to remove her to
London, on account of her health.”
“Do you know her, Grace?” asked Fanny.
“I have called once or twice, and have been very much pleased with the
sick sister; but Rachel does not fancy that set, you see. I meet the
other at the Sunday school, I like her looks and manner very much, and
she is always at the early service before her work.”
“Just like a little mauve book!” muttered Rachel.
Fanny absolutely stared. “You go, don’t you, Rachel? How we used to wish
for it!”
“You have wished and we have tried,” said Rachel, with a sigh.
“Yes, Rachel,” said Grace; “but with all drawbacks, all disappointments
in ourselves, it is a great blessing. We would not be without it.”
“I could not be satisfied in relinquishing it voluntarily,” said Rachel,
“but I am necessarily one of the idle. Were I one of the occupied,
laborare est orare would satisfy me, and that poor governess ought to
feel the same. Think of the physical reaction of body on mind, and tell
me if you could have the barbarity of depriving that poor jaded thing
of an hour’s sleep, giving her an additional walk, fasting, in all
weathers, and preparing her to be savage with the children.”
“Perhaps it refreshes her, and hinders her from being cross.”
“Maybe she thinks so; but if she have either sense or ear, nothing
would so predispose her to be cross as the squeaking of Mr. Touchett’s
penny-whistle choir.”
“Poor Mr. Touchett,” sighed Mrs. Curtis; “I wish he would not make such
ambitious attempts.”
“But you like the choral service,” said Fanny, feeling as if everything
had turned round. “When all the men of a regiment chant together you
cannot think how grand it is, almost finer than the cathedral.”
“Yes, where you can do it,” said Rachel, “but not where you can’t.”
“I wish you would not talk about it,” said Grace.
“I must, or Fanny will not understand the state of parties at
Avonmouth.”
“Parties! Oh, I hope not.”
“My dear child, party spirit is another word for vitality. So you
thought the church we sighed for had made the place all we sighed to see
it, and ourselves too. Oh! Fanny is this what you have been across the
world for?”
“What is wrong?” asked Fanny, alarmed.
“Do you remember our axiom? Build your church, and the rest will take
care of itself. You remember our scraping and begging, and how that good
Mr. Davison helped us out and brought the endowment up to the needful
point for consecration, on condition the incumbency was given to him.
He held it just a year, and was rich, and could help out his bad health
with a curate. But first he went to Madeira, and then he died, and
there we are, a perpetual curacy of £70 a year, no resident gentry but
ourselves, a fluctuating population mostly sick, our poor demoralized
by them, and either crazed by dissent, or heathenized by their former
distance from church. Who would take us? No more Mr. Davisons! There was
no more novelty, and too much smartness to invite self-devotion. So
we were driven from pillar to post till we settled down into this Mr.
Touchett, as good a being as ever lived, working as hard as any two, and
sparing neither himself nor any one else.”
Fanny looked up prepared to admire.
“But he has two misfortunes. He was not born a gentleman, and his mind
does not measure an inch across.”
“Rachel, my dear, it is not fair to prejudice Fanny; I am sure the poor
man is very well-behaved.”
“Mother! would you be calling the ideal Anglican priest, poor man?”
“I thought he was quite gentlemanlike,” added Fanny.
“Gentlemanlike! ay, that’s it,” said Rachel, “just so like as to delight
the born curatolatress, like Grace and Miss Williams.”
“Would it hurt the children?” asked Fanny, hardly comprehending the
tremendous term.
“Yes, if it infected you,” said Rachel, intending some playfullness. “A
mother of contracted mind forfeits the allegiance of her sons.”
“Oh, Rachel, I know I am weak and silly,” said the gentle young widow,
terrified, “but the Major said if I only tried to do my duty by them I
should be helped.”
“And I will help you, Fanny,” said Rachel. “All that is requisite is
good sense and firmness, and a thorough sense of responsibility.”
“That is what is so dreadful. The responsibility of all those dear
fatherless boys, and if--if I should do wrong by them.”
Poor Fanny fell into an uncontrollable fit of weeping at the sense of
her own desolation and helplessness, and Mrs. Curtis came to comfort
her, and tell her affectionately of having gone through the like
feelings, and of the repeated but most comfortable words of promise to
the fatherless and the widow--words that had constantly come before the
sufferer, but which had by no means lost their virtue by repetition, and
Fanny was soothed with hearing instances of the special Providence over
orphaned sons, and their love and deference for their mother. Rachel,
shocked and distressed at the effect of her sense, retired out of the
conversation, till at the announcement of the carriage for Lady Temple,
her gentle cousin cheered up, and feeling herself to blame for having
grieved one who only meant aid and kindness, came to her and fondly
kissed her forehead, saying, “I am not vexed, dear Rachel, I know you
are right. I am not clever enough to bring them up properly, but if I
try hard, and pray for them, it may be made up to them. And you will
help me, Rachel dear,” she added, as her readiest woe-offering for her
tears, and it was the most effectual, for Rachel was perfectly contented
as long as Fanny was dependent on her, and allowed her to assume her
mission, provided only that the counter influence could be averted,
and this Major, this universal referee, be eradicated from her foolish
clinging habits of reliance before her spirits were enough recovered to
lay her heart open to danger.
But the more Rachel saw of her cousin, the more she realized this peril.
When she went down on Monday morning to complete the matters of business
that had been slurred over on the Saturday, she found that Fanny had
not the slightest notion what her own income was to be. All she knew
was that her General had left everything unreservedly to herself, except
£100 and one of his swords to Major Keith, who was executor to the
will, and had gone to London to “see about it,” by which word poor Fanny
expressed all the business that her maintenance depended on. If an
old general wished to put a major in temptation, could he have found a
better means of doing so? Rachel even thought that Fanny’s incapacity to
understand business had made her mistake the terms of the bequest, and
that Sir Stephen must have secured his property to his children; but
Fanny was absolutely certain that this was not the case, for she said
the Major had made her at once sign a will dividing the property among
them, and appointing himself and her Aunt Curtis their guardians. “I did
not like putting such a charge on my dear aunt,” said Fanny, “but the
Major said I ought to appoint a relation, and I had no one else! And I
knew you would all be good to them, if they had lost me too, when baby
was born.”
“We would have tried,” said Rachel, a little humbly, “but oh! I am glad
you are here, Fanny!”
Nothing could of course be fixed till the Major had “seen about it.”
After which he was to come to let Lady Temple know the result; but she
believed he would first go to Scotland to see his brother. He and his
brother were the only survivors of a large family, and he had been on
foreign service for twelve years, so that it would be very selfish to
wish him not to take full time at home. “Selfish,” thought Rachel; “if
he will only stay away long enough, you shall learn, my dear, how well
you can do without him!”
The boys had interrupted the conversation less than the previous one,
because the lesser ones were asleep, or walking out, and the elder ones
having learnt that a new week was to be begun steadily with lessons,
thought it advisable to bring themselves as little into notice as
possible; but fate was sure to pursue them sooner or later, for Rachel
had come down resolved on testing their acquirements, and deciding
on the method to be pursued with them; and though their mamma, with a
curtain instinctive shrinking both for them and for herself, had put
off the ordeal to the utmost by listening to all the counsel about her
affairs, it was not to be averted.
“Now, Fanny, since it seems that more cannot be done at present, let us
see about the children’s education. Where are their books?”
“We have very few books,” said Fanny, hesitating; “we had not much
choice where we were.”
“You should have written to me for a selection.”
“Why--so we would, but there was always a talk of sending Conrade
and Francis home. I am afraid you will think them very backward, dear
Rachel, especially Francie; but it is not their fault, dear children,
and they are not used to strangers,” added Fanny, nervously.
“I do not mean to be a stranger,” said Rachel.
And while Fanny, in confusion, made loving protestations about not
meaning that, Rachel stepped out upon the lawn, and in her clear voice
called “Conrade, Francis!” No answer. She called “Conrade” again, and
louder, then turned round with “where can they be--not gone down on the
beach?”
“Oh, dear no, I trust not,” said the mother, flurried, and coming to
the window with a call that seemed to Rachel’s ears like the roar of a
sucking dove.
But from behind the bushes forth came the two young gentlemen, their
black garments considerably streaked with the green marks of laurel
climbing.
“Oh, my dears, what figures you are! Go to Coombe and get yourselves
brushed, and wash your hands, and then come down, and bring your lesson
books.”
Rachel prognosticated that these preparations would be made the
occasion, of much waste of time; but she was answered, and with rather
surprised eyes, that they had never been allowed to come into the
drawing-room without looking like little gentlemen.
“But you are not living in state here,” said Rachel; “I never could
enter into the cult some people, mamma especially, pay to their
drawing-room.”
“The Major used to be very particular about their not coming to sit down
untidy,” said Fanny. “He said it was not good for anybody.”
Martinet! thought Rachel, nearly ready to advocate the boys making no
toilette at any time; and the present was made to consume so much time
that, urged by her, Fanny once more was obliged to summon her boys and
their books.
It was not an extensive school library--a Latin grammar an extremely
dilapidated spelling-book, and the fourth volume of Mrs. Marcet’s
“Little Willie.” The other three--one was unaccounted for, but Cyril
had torn up the second, and Francis had thrown the first overboard in
a passion. Rachel looked in dismay. “I don’t know what can be done with
these!” she said.
“Oh, then we’ll have holidays till we have got books, mamma,” said
Conrade, putting his hands on the sofa, and imitating a kicking horse.
“It is very necessary to see what kind of books you ought to have,”
returned Rachel. “How far have you gone in this?”
“I say, mamma,” reiterated Conrade, “we can’t do lessons without books.”
“Attend to what your Aunt Rachel says, my dear; she wants to find out
what books you should have.”
“Yes, let me examine you.”
Conrade came most inconveniently close to her; she pushed her chair
back; he came after her. His mother uttered a remonstrating, “My dear!”
“I thought she wanted to examine me,” quoth Conrade. “When Dr. M’Vicar
examines a thing, he puts it under a microscope.”
It was said gravely, and whether it were malice or simplicity, Rachel
was perfectly unable to divine, but she thought anyway that Fanny had
no business to laugh, and explaining the species of examination that she
intended, she went to work. In her younger days she had worked much
at schools, and was really an able and spirited teacher, liking the
occupation; and laying hold of the first book in her way, she requested
Conrade to read. He obeyed, but in such a detestable gabble that she
looked up appealingly to Fanny, who suggested, “My dear, you can read
better than that.” He read four lines, not badly, but then broke off,
“Mamma, are not we to have ponies? Coombe heard of a pony this morning;
it is to be seen at the ‘Jolly Mariner,’ and he will take us to look at
it.”
“The ‘Jolly Mariner!’ It is a dreadful place, Fanny, you never will let
them go there?”
“My dear, the Major will see about your ponies when he comes.”
“We will send the coachman down to inquire,” added Rachel.
“He is only a civilian, and the Major always chooses our horses,” said
Conrade.
“And I am to have one too, mamma,” added Francis. “You know I have been
out four times with the staff, and the Major said I could ride as well
as Con!”
“Reading is what is wanted now, my dear, go on.”
Five lines more; but Francis and his mother were whispering together,
and of course Conrade stopped to listen. Rachel saw there was no hope
but in getting him alone, and at his mother’s reluctant desire,
he followed her to the dining-room; but there he turned dogged and
indifferent, made a sort of feint of doing what he was told, but whether
she tried him in arithmetic, Latin, or dictation, he made such ludicrous
blunders as to leave her in perplexity whether they arose from ignorance
or impertinence. His spelling was phonetic to the highest degree, and
though he owned to having done sums, he would not, or did not answer the
simplest question in mental arithmetic. “Five apples and eight apples,
come, Conrade, what will they make?”
“A pie.”
That was the hopeful way in which the examination proceeded, and when
Rachel attempted to say that his mother would be much displeased, he
proceeded to tumble head over heels all round the room, as if he knew
better; which performance broke up the seance, with a resolve on her
part that when she had the books she would not be so beaten. She tried
Francis, but he really did know next to nothing, and whenever he came to
a word above five letters long stopped short, and when told to spell
it, said, “Mamma never made him spell;” also muttering something
depreciating about civilians.
Rachel was a woman of perseverance. She went to the bookseller’s, and
obtained a fair amount of books, which she ordered to be sent to Lady
Temple’s. But when she came down the next morning, the parcel was
nowhere to be found. There was a grand interrogation, and at last it
turned out to have been safely deposited in an empty dog-kennel in
the back yard. It was very hard on Rachel that Fanny giggled like a
school-girl, and even though ashamed of herself and her sons, could
not find voice to scold them respectably. No wonder, after such
encouragement, that Rachel found her mission no sinecure, and felt at
the end of her morning’s work much as if she had been driving pigs to
market, though the repetition was imposing on the boys a sort of sense
of fate and obedience, and there was less active resistance, though
learning it was not, only letting teaching be thrown at them. All the
rest of the day, except those two hours, they ran wild about the house,
garden, and beach--the latter place under the inspection of Coombe,
whom, since
|
for an instant. The nervous motion with
which he immediately turned aside had been marked by Nancy on previous
occasions, and she had understood it as a sign of his lack of affection
for her.
‘I am twenty-three years old, father,’ she replied, without
aggressiveness.
‘That would be something of an answer if you were a man,’ observed the
father, his eyes cast down.
‘Because I am a woman, you despise me?’
Stephen was startled at this unfamiliar mode of address. He moved
uneasily.
‘If I despised you, Nancy, I shouldn’t care very much what you did. I
suppose you must do as you like, but you won’t go with my permission.’
There was a silence, then the girl said:
‘I meant to ask Horace to go with us.’
‘Horace--pooh!’
Again a silence. Mr. Lord laid down his cup, moved a few steps away, and
turned back.
‘I didn’t think this kind of thing was in your way,’ he said gruffly. ‘I
thought you were above it.’
Nancy defended herself as she had done to Jessica, but without the
playfulness. In listening, her father seemed to weigh the merits of the
case conscientiously with wrinkled brows. At length he spoke.
‘Horace is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no
objection.’
A movement of annoyance was Nancy’s first reply. She drummed with her
fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her.
‘I certainly can’t ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,’ she said, with an
effort at self-control.
‘Well, you needn’t. I’ll speak about it myself.’
He waited, and again it chanced that their eyes met. Nancy, on the point
of speaking, checked herself. A full minute passed, and Stephen stood
waiting patiently.
‘If you insist upon it,’ said Nancy, rising from her chair, ‘we will
take Mr. Barmby with us.’
Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather
loudly behind him.
Not long afterwards Nancy heard a new foot in the passage, and her
brother made his appearance. Horace had good looks, but his face showed
already some of the unpleasant characteristics which time had developed
on that of Stephen Lord, and from which the daughter was entirely free;
one judged him slow of intellect and weakly self-willed. His hair was
of pale chestnut, the silky pencillings of his moustache considerably
darker. His cheek, delicately pink and easily changing to a warmer hue,
his bright-coloured lips, and the limpid glistening of his eyes, showed
him of frail constitution; he was very slim, and narrow across
the shoulders. The fashion of his attire tended to a dandiacal
extreme,--modish silk hat, lavender necktie, white waistcoat, gaiters
over his patent-leather shoes, gloves crushed together in one hand,
and in the other a bamboo cane. For the last year or two he had been
progressing in this direction, despite his father’s scornful remarks and
his sister’s good-natured mockery.
‘Father in yet?’ he asked at the door of the dining-room, in subdued
voice.
Nancy nodded, and the young man withdrew to lay aside his outdoor
equipments.
‘What sort of temper?’ was his question when he returned.
‘Pretty good--until I spoilt it.’
Horace exhibited a pettish annoyance.
‘What on earth did you do that for? I want to have a talk with him
to-night.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, never mind; I’ll tell you after.’
Both kept their voices low, as if afraid of being overheard in the next
room. Horace began to nibble at a biscuit; the hour of his return made
it unnecessary for him, as a rule, to take anything before dinner, but
at present he seemed in a nervous condition, and acted mechanically.
‘Come out into the garden, will you?’ he said, after receiving a brief
explanation of what had passed between Nancy and her father. ‘I’ve
something to tell you.’
His sister carelessly assented, and with heads uncovered they went
through the house into the open air. The garden was but a strip of
ground, bounded by walls of four feet high; in the midst stood a
laburnum, now heavy with golden bloom, and at the end grew a holly-bush,
flanked with laurels; a border flower-bed displayed Stephen Lord’s taste
and industry. Nancy seated herself on a rustic bench in the shadow of
the laburnum, and Horace stood before her, one of the branches in his
hand.
‘I promised Fanny to take her to-morrow night,’ he began awkwardly.
‘Oh, you have?’
‘And we’re going together in the morning, you know.’
‘I know now. I didn’t before,’ Nancy replied.
‘Of course we can make a party in the evening.’
‘Of course.’
Horace looked up at the ugly house-backs, and hesitated before
proceeding.
‘That isn’t what I wanted to talk about,’ he said at length. ‘A very
queer thing has happened, a thing I can’t make out at all.’
The listener looked her curiosity.
‘I promised to say nothing about it, but there’s no harm in telling you,
you know. You remember I was away last Saturday afternoon? Well, just
when it was time to leave the office, that day, the porter came to say
that a lady wished to see me--a lady in a carriage outside. Of course I
couldn’t make it out at all, but I went down as quickly as possible,
and saw the carriage waiting there,--a brougham,--and marched up to the
door. Inside there was a lady--a great swell, smiling at me as if we
were friends. I took off my hat, and said that I was Mr. Lord. “Yes,”
she said, “I see you are;” and she asked if I could spare her an hour
or two, as she wished to speak to me of something important. Well, of
course I could only say that I had nothing particular to do,--that I was
just going home. “Then will you do me the pleasure,” she said, “to come
and have lunch with me? I live in Weymouth Street, Portland Place.”
The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of
the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment.
‘What sort of lady was it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society--you could see that at
once.’
‘But how old?’
‘Well, I couldn’t tell exactly; about forty, I should think.’
‘Oh!--Go on.’
‘One couldn’t refuse, you know; I was only too glad to go to a house in
the West End. She opened the carriage-door from the inside, and I got
in, and off we drove. I felt awkward, of course, but after all I
was decently dressed, and I suppose I can behave like a gentleman,
and--well, she sat looking at me and smiling, and I could only smile
back. Then she said she must apologise for behaving so strangely, but I
was very young, and she was an old woman,--one couldn’t call her that,
though,--and she had taken this way of renewing her acquaintance with
me. Renewing? But I didn’t remember to have ever met her before, I said.
“Oh, yes, we have met before, but you were a little child, a baby in
fact, and there’s no wonder you don’t remember me?” And then she said,
“I knew your mother very well.”
Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart.
‘Queer, wasn’t it? Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs.
Damerel; had I ever heard it? No, I couldn’t remember the name at all.
She was a widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many
years; now she was come back to settle in England. She hadn’t a house of
her own yet, but lived at a boarding-house; she didn’t know whether to
take a house in London, or somewhere just out in the country. Then she
began to ask about father, and about you; and it seemed to amuse her
when I looked puzzled. She’s a jolly sort of person, always laughing.’
‘Did she say anything more about our mother?’
‘I’ll tell you about that presently. We got to the house, and went in,
and she took me upstairs to her own private sitting-room, where the
table was laid for two. She said that she usually had her meals with
the other people, but it would be better for us to be alone, so that we
could talk.’
‘How did she know where to find you?’ Nancy inquired.
‘Of course I wondered about that, but I didn’t like to ask. Well, she
went away for a few minutes, and then we had lunch. Everything was A-1
of course; first-rate wines to choose from, and a rattling good cigar
afterwards--for me, I mean. She brought out a box; said they were her
husband’s, and had a laugh about it.’
‘How long has she been a widow?’ asked Nancy.
‘I don’t know. She didn’t wear colours, I noticed; perhaps it was a
fashionable sort of mourning. We talked about all sorts of things; I
soon made myself quite at home. And at last she began to explain. She
was a friend of mother’s, years and years ago, and father was the cause
of their parting, a quarrel about something, she didn’t say exactly
what. And it had suddenly struck her that she would like to know how we
were getting on. Then she asked me to promise that I would tell no one.’
‘She knew about mother’s death, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes, she knew about that. It happened not very long after the affair
that parted them. She asked a good many questions about you. And she
wanted to know how father had got on in his business.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, I told her I really didn’t know much about it, and she laughed at
that.’
‘How long did you stay there?’
‘Till about four. But there’s something else. Before I went away she
gave me an invitation for next Saturday. She wants me to meet her at
Portland Road Station, and go out to Richmond, and have dinner there.’
‘Shall you go?’
‘Well, it’s very awkward. I want to go somewhere else on Saturday, with
Fanny. But I didn’t see how to refuse.’
Nancy wore a look of grave reflection, and kept silence.
‘It isn’t a bad thing, you know,’ pursued her brother, ‘to have a friend
of that sort. There’s no knowing what use she might be, especially just
now.’
His tone caused Nancy to look up.
‘Why just now?’
‘I’ll tell you after I’ve had a talk with father to-night,’ Horace
replied, setting his countenance to a show of energetic resolve.
‘Shall I guess what you’re going to talk about?’
‘If you like.’
She gazed at him.
‘You’re surely not so silly as to tell father about all that nonsense?’
‘What nonsense?’ exclaimed the other indignantly.
‘Why, with Fanny French.’
‘You’ll find that it’s anything but nonsense,’ Horace replied, raising
his brows, and gazing straight before him, with expanded nostrils.
‘All right. Let me know the result. It’s time to go in.’
Horace sat alone for a minute or two, his legs at full length, his
feet crossed, and the upper part of his body bent forward. He smiled to
himself, a smile of singular fatuity, and began to hum a popular tune.
CHAPTER 5
When they assembled at table, Mr. Lord had recovered his moderate
cheerfulness. Essentially, he was anything but ill-tempered; Horace and
Nancy were far from regarding him with that resentful bitterness which
is produced in the victims of a really harsh parent. Ten years ago, as
they well remembered, anger was a rare thing in his behaviour to them,
and kindness the rule. Affectionate he had never shown himself; reserve
and austerity had always distinguished him. Even now-a-days, it was
generally safe to anticipate mildness from him at the evening meal. In
the matter of eating and drinking his prudence notably contradicted his
precepts. He loved strong meats, dishes highly flavoured, and partook of
them without moderation. At table his beverage was ale; for wine--unless
it were very sweet port--he cared little; but in the privacy of his
own room, whilst smoking numberless pipes of rank tobacco, he indulged
freely in spirits. The habit was unknown to his children, but for some
years he had seldom gone to bed in a condition that merited the name of
sobriety.
When the repast was nearly over, Mr. Lord glanced at his son and said
unconcernedly:
‘You have heard that Nancy wants to mix with the rag-tag and bobtail
to-morrow night?’
‘I shall take care of her,’ Horace replied, starting from his reverie.
‘Doesn’t it seem to you rather a come-down for an educated young lady?’
‘Oh, there’ll be lots of them about.’
‘Will there? Then I can’t see much difference between them and the
servant girls.’
Nancy put in a word.
‘That shows you don’t in the least understand me, father.’
‘We won’t argue about it. But bear in mind, Horace, that you bring
your sister back not later than half-past eleven. You are to be here by
half-past eleven.’
‘That’s rather early,’ replied the young man, though in a submissive
tone.
‘It’s the hour I appoint. Samuel Barmby will be with you, and he will
know the arrangement; but I tell you now, so that there may be no
misunderstanding.’
Nancy sat in a very upright position, displeasure plain upon her
countenance. But she made no remark. Horace, who had his reasons for
desiring to preserve a genial tone, affected acquiescence. Presently he
and his sister went upstairs to the drawing-room, where they sat down at
a distance apart--Nancy by the window, gazing at the warm clouds above
the roofs opposite, the young man in a corner which the dusk already
shadowed. Some time passed before either spoke, and it was Horace’s
voice which first made itself heard.
‘Nancy, don’t you think it’s about time we began to behave firmly?’
‘It depends what you mean by firmness,’ she answered in an absent tone.
‘We’re old enough to judge for ourselves.’
‘I am, no doubt. But I’m not so sure about you.’
‘Oh, all right. Then we won’t talk about it.’
Another quarter of an hour went by. The room was in twilight. There came
a knock at the door, and Mary Woodruff, a wax-taper in her hand, entered
to light the gas. Having drawn the blind, and given a glance round
to see that everything was in order, she addressed Nancy, her tone
perfectly respectful, though she used no formality.
‘Martha has been asking me whether she can go out to-morrow night for an
hour or two.’
‘You don’t wish to go yourself?’ Miss. Lord returned, her voice
significant of life-long familiarity.
‘Oh no!’
And Mary showed one of her infrequent smiles.
‘She may go immediately after dinner, and be away till half-past ten.’
The servant bent her head, and withdrew. As soon as she was gone, Horace
laughed.
‘There you are! What did father say?’
Nancy was silent.
‘Well, I’m going to have a word with him,’ continued the young man,
sauntering towards the door with his hands in his pockets. He looked
exceedingly nervous. ‘When I come back, I may have something to tell
you.’
‘Very likely,’ remarked his sister in a dry tone, and seated herself
under the chandelier with a book.
Horace slowly descended the stairs. At the foot he stood for a moment,
then moved towards his father’s door. Another hesitancy, though briefer,
and he knocked for admission, which was at once granted. Mr. Lord sat in
his round-backed chair, smoking a pipe, on his knees an evening paper.
He looked at Horace from under his eyebrows, but with good humour.
‘Coming to report progress?’
‘Yes, father,--and to talk over things in general.’
The slim youth--he could hardly be deemed more than a lad tried
to assume an easy position, with his elbow on the corner of the
mantelpiece; but his feet shuffled, and his eyes strayed vacantly. It
cost him an effort to begin his customary account of how things were
going with him at the shipping-office. In truth, there was nothing
particular to report; there never was anything particular; but Horace
always endeavoured to show that he had made headway, and to-night he
spoke with a very pronounced optimism.
‘Very well, my boy,’ said his father. ‘If you are satisfied, I shall try
to be the same. Have you your pipe with you?--At your age I hadn’t begun
to smoke, and I should advise you to be moderate; but we’ll have a whiff
together, if you like.’
‘I’ll go and fetch it,’ Horace replied impulsively.
He came back with a rather expensive meerschaum, recently purchased.
‘Hollo! luxuries!’ exclaimed his father.
‘It kept catching my eye in a window,--and at last I couldn’t resist.
Tobacco’s quite a different thing out of a pipe like this, you know.’
No one, seeing them thus together, could have doubted of the
affectionate feeling which Stephen Lord entertained for his son. It
appeared in his frequent glances, in the relaxation of his features,
in a certain abandonment of his whole frame, as though he had only just
begun to enjoy the evening’s repose.
‘I’ve something rather important to speak about, father,’ Horace began,
when he had puffed for a few minutes in silence.
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘You remember telling me, when I was one and twenty, that you wished me
to work my way up, and win an income of my own, but that I could look to
you for help, if ever there was need of it--?’
Yes, Stephen remembered. He had frequently called it to mind, and
wondered whether it was wisely said, the youth’s character considered.
‘What of that?’ he returned, still genially. ‘Do you think of starting a
new line of ocean steamships?’
‘Well, not just yet,’ Horace answered, with an uncertain laugh. ‘I have
something more moderate in view. I may start a competition with the P.
and O. presently.’
‘Let’s hear about it.’
‘I dare say it will surprise you a little. The fact is, I--I am thinking
of getting married.’
The father did not move, but smoke ceased to issue from his lips, and
his eyes, fixed upon Horace, widened a little in puzzled amusement.
‘Thinking of it, are you?’ he said, in an undertone, as one speaks
of some trifle. ‘No harm in thinking. Too many people do it without
thinking at all.’
‘I’m not one of that kind,’ said Horace, with an air of maturity which
was meant to rebuke his father’s jest. ‘I know what I’m about. I’ve
thought it over thoroughly. You don’t think it too soon, I hope?’
Horace’s pipe was going out; he held it against his knee and regarded it
with unconscious eyes.
‘I dare say it won’t be,’ said Mr. Lord, ‘when you have found a suitable
wife.’
‘Oh, but you misunderstand me. I mean that I have decided to marry a
particular person.’
‘And who may that be?’
‘The younger Miss. French--Fanny.’
His voice quivered over the name; at the end he gave a gasp and a
gulp. Of a sudden his lips and tongue were very dry, and he felt a
disagreeable chill running down his back. For the listener’s face had
altered noticeably; it was dark, stern, and something worse. But Mr.
Lord could still speak with self-control.
‘You have asked her to marry you?’
‘Yes, I have; and she has consented.’
Horace felt his courage returning, like the so-called ‘second wind’ of
a runner. It seemed to him that he had gone through the worst. The
disclosure was made, and had resulted in no outbreak of fury; now he
could begin to plead his cause. Imagination, excited by nervous stress,
brought before him a clear picture of the beloved Fanny, with fluffy
hair upon her forehead and a laugh on her never-closed lips. He spoke
without effort.
‘I thought that there would be no harm in asking you to help us. We
should be quite content to start on a couple of hundred a year--quite.
That is only about fifty pounds more than we have.’
Calf-love inspires many an audacity. To Horace there seemed nothing
outrageous in this suggestion. He had talked it over with Fanny French
several times, and they had agreed that his father could not in decency
offer them _less_ than a hundred a year. He began to shake out the ashes
from his pipe, with a vague intention of relighting it.
‘You really imagine,’ said his father, ‘that I should give you money to
enable you to marry that idiot?’
Evidently he put a severe restraint upon himself. The veins of his
temples were congested; his nostrils grew wide; and he spoke rather
hoarsely. Horace straightened his back, and, though in great fear,
strung himself for conflict.
‘I don’t see--what right--to insult the young lady.’
His father took him up sternly.
‘Young lady? What do you mean by “young lady”? After all your education,
haven’t you learnt to distinguish a lady from a dressed-up kitchen
wench? _I_ had none of your advantages. There was--there would have been
some excuse for _me_, if I had made such a fool of myself. What were you
doing all those years at school, if it wasn’t learning the difference
between real and sham, getting to understand things better than poor
folks’ children? You disappointed me, and a good deal more than I ever
told you. I had hoped you would come from school better able to make a
place in the world than your father was. I made up my mind long ago that
you should never go into my business; you were to be something a good
deal better. But after all you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do what I wanted.
Never mind--I said to myself--never mind; at all events, he has learnt
to _think_ in a better way than if I had sent him to common schools,
and after all that’s the main thing. But here you come to me and talk
of marrying a low-bred, low-minded creature, who wouldn’t be good enough
for the meanest clerk!’
‘How do you know that, father? What--what right have you to say such
things, without knowing more of her than you do?’
There was a brief silence before Mr. Lord spoke again.
‘You are very young,’ he said, with less vehement contempt. ‘I must
remember that. At your age, a lad has a sort of devil in him, that’s
always driving him out of the path of common sense, whether he will or
no. I’ll try my best to talk quietly with you. Does your sister know
what has been going on?’
‘I daresay she does. I haven’t told her in so many words.’
‘I never thought of it,’ pursued Mr. Lord gloomily. ‘I took it for
granted that everybody must see those people as I myself did. I have
wondered now and then why Nancy kept up any kind of acquaintance with
them, but she spoke of them in the rational way, and that seemed enough.
I may have thought that they might get some sort of good out of _her_,
and I felt sure she had too much sense to get harm from _them_. If it
hadn’t been so, I should have forbidden her to know them at all. What
have you to say for yourself? I don’t want to think worse of you than I
need. I can make allowance for your age, as I said. What do you see in
that girl? Just talk to me freely and plainly.’
‘After all you have said,’ replied Horace, his voice still shaky,
‘what’s the use? You seem to be convinced that there isn’t a single good
quality in her.’
‘So I am. What I want to know is, what good _you_ have found.’
‘A great deal, else I shouldn’t have asked her to marry me.’
A vein of stubbornness, unmistakable inheritance from Stephen Lord,
had begun to appear in the youth’s speech and bearing. He kept his head
bent, and moved it a little from side to side.
‘Do you think her an exception in the family, then?’
‘She’s a great deal better in every way than her sisters. But I don’t
think as badly of them as you do.’
Mr. Lord stepped to the door, and out into the passage, where he shouted
in his deep voice ‘Nancy!’ The girl quickly appeared.
‘Shut the door, please,’ said her father. All three were now standing
about the room. ‘Your brother has brought me a piece of news. It ought
to interest you, I should think. He wants to marry, and out of all the
world, he has chosen Miss. French--the youngest.’ Horace’s position was
trying. He did not know what to do with his hands, and he kept balancing
now on one foot, now on the other. Nancy had her eyes averted from him,
but she met her father’s look gravely.
‘Now, I want to ask you,’ Mr. Lord proceeded, ‘whether you consider
Miss. French a suitable wife for your brother? Just give me a plain yes
or no.’
‘I certainly don’t,’ replied the girl, barely subduing the tremor of her
voice.
‘Both my children are not fools, thank Heaven! Now tell me, if you can,
what fault you have to find with the “young lady,” as your brother calls
her?’
‘For one thing, I don’t think her Horace’s equal. She can’t really be
called a lady.’
‘You are listening?’
Horace bit his lip in mortification, and again his head swung doggedly
from side to side.
‘We might pass over that,’ added Mr. Lord. ‘What about her character? Is
there any good point in her?’
‘I don’t think she means any harm. But she’s silly, and I’ve often
thought her selfish.’
‘You are listening?’
Horace lost patience.
‘Then why do you pretend to be friends with her?’ he demanded almost
fiercely.
‘I don’t,’ replied his sister, with a note of disdain. ‘We knew each
other at school, and we haven’t altogether broken off, that’s all.’
‘It isn’t all!’ shouted the young man on a high key. ‘If you’re not
friendly with her and her sisters, you’ve been a great hypocrite. It’s
only just lately you have begun to think yourself too good for them.
They used to come here, and you went to them; and you talked just like
friends would do. It’s abominable to turn round like this, for the sake
of taking father’s side against me!’
Mr. Lord regarded his son contemptuously. There was a rather long
silence; he spoke at length with severe deliberation.
‘When you are ten years older, you’ll know a good deal more about young
women as they’re turned out in these times. You’ll have heard the talk
of men who have been fools enough to marry choice specimens. When common
sense has a chance of getting in a word with you, you’ll understand
what I now tell you. Wherever you look now-a-days there’s sham and
rottenness; but the most worthless creature living is one of these
trashy, flashy girls,--the kind of girl you see everywhere, high and
low,--calling themselves “ladies,”--thinking themselves too good for
any honest, womanly work. Town and country, it’s all the same. They’re
educated; oh yes, they’re educated! What sort of wives do they make,
with their education? What sort of mothers are they? Before long,
there’ll be no such thing as a home. They don’t know what the word
means. They’d like to live in hotels, and trollop about the streets day
and night. There won’t be any servants much longer; you’re lucky if you
find one of the old sort, who knows how to light a fire or wash a dish.
Go into the houses of men with small incomes; what do you find but filth
and disorder, quarrelling and misery? Young men are bad enough, I know
that; they want to begin where their fathers left off, and if they can’t
do it honestly, they’ll embezzle or forge. But you’ll often find there’s
a worthless wife at the bottom of it,--worrying and nagging because she
has a smaller house than some other woman, because she can’t get silks
and furs, and wants to ride in a cab instead of an omnibus. It is
astounding to me that they don’t get their necks wrung. Only wait a bit;
we shall come to that presently!’
It was a rare thing for Stephen Lord to talk at such length. He ceased
with a bitter laugh, and sat down again in his chair. Horace and his
sister waited.
‘I’ve no more to say,’ fell from their father at length. ‘Go and talk
about it together, if you like.’
Horace moved sullenly towards the door, and with a glance at his sister
went out. Nancy, after lingering for a moment, spoke.
‘I don’t think you need have any fear of it, father.’
‘Perhaps not. But if it isn’t that one, it’ll be another like her.
There’s not much choice for a lad like Horace.’
Nancy changed her purpose of leaving the room, and drew a step nearer.
‘Don’t you think there _might_ have been?’
Mr. Lord turned to look at her.
‘How? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to make you angry with me--’
‘Say what you’ve got to say,’ broke in her father impatiently.
‘It isn’t easy, when you so soon lose your temper.’
‘My girl,’--for once he gazed at her directly,--‘if you knew all I
have gone through in life, you wouldn’t wonder at my temper being
spoilt.--What do you mean? What could I have done?’
She stood before him, and spoke with diffidence.
‘Don’t you think that if we had lived in a different way, Horace and I
might have had friends of a better kind?’
‘A different way?--I understand. You mean I ought to have had a big
house, and made a show. Isn’t that it?’
‘You gave us a good education,’ replied Nancy, still in the same tone,
‘and we might have associated with very different people from those you
have been speaking of; but education alone isn’t enough. One must live
as the better people do.’
‘Exactly. That’s your way of thinking. And how do you know that I could
afford it, to begin with?’
‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have taken that for granted.’
‘Perhaps not. Young women take a good deal for granted now a-days. But
supposing you were right, are you silly enough to think that richer
people are better people, as a matter of course?’
‘Not as a matter of course,’ said Nancy. ‘But I’m quite sure--I know
from what I’ve seen--that there’s more chance of meeting nice people
among them.’
‘What do you mean by “nice”?’ Mr. Lord was lying back in his chair, and
spoke thickly, as if wearied. ‘People who can talk so that you forget
they’re only using words they’ve learnt like parrots?’
‘No. Just the contrary. People who have something to say worth listening
to.’
‘If you take my advice, you’ll pay less attention to what people say,
and more to what they do. What’s the good of a friend who won’t come to
see you because you live in a small house? That’s the plain English of
it. If I had done as I thought right, I should never have sent you to
school at all. I should have had you taught at home all that’s necessary
to make a good girl and an honest woman, and have done my best to keep
you away from the kind of life that I hate. But I hadn’t the courage to
act as I believed. I knew how the times were changing, and I was weak
enough to be afraid I might do you an injustice. I did give you the
chance of making friends among better people than your father. Didn’t
I use to talk to you about your school friends, and encourage you when
they seemed of the right kind? And now you tell me that they don’t
care for your society because you live in a decent, unpretending way. I
should think you’re better without such friends.’
Nancy reflected, seemed about to prolong the argument, but spoke at
length in another voice.
‘Well, I will say good-night, father.’
It was not usual for them to see each other after dinner, so that a
good-night could seldom be exchanged. The girl, drawing away, expected a
response; she saw her father nod, but he said nothing.
‘Good-night, father,’ she repeated from a distance.
‘Good-night, Nancy, good-night,’ came in impatient reply.
CHAPTER 6
On Tuesday afternoon, when, beneath a cloudless sky, the great London
highways reeked and roared in celebration of Jubilee, Nancy and her
friend Miss. Morgan walked up Grove Lane to Champion Hill. Here and
there a house had decked itself with colours of loyalty; otherwise the
Lane was as quiet as usual.
Champion Hill is a gravel byway, overhung with trees; large houses and
spacious gardens on either hand. Here the heat of the sun was tempered.
A carriage rolled softly along; a nurse with well-dressed children
loitered in the shade. One might have imagined it a country road, so
profound the stillness and so leafy the prospect.
A year ago, Jessica Morgan had obtained a three months’ engagement as
governess to two little girls, who were sent under her care to the house
of their grandmother at Teignmouth. Their father, Mr Vawdrey of Champion
Hill, had recently lost his wife through an illness contracted at a
horse-race, where the lady sat in wind and rain for some hours. The
children knew little of what is learnt from books, but were surprisingly
well informed on matters of which they ought to have known nothing; they
talked of theatres and race-courses, of ‘the new murderer’ at Tussaud’s,
of police-news, of notorious spendthrifts and demi-reps; discussed
their grown-up acquaintances with precocious understanding, and repeated
scandalous insinuations which could have no meaning for them. Jessica
was supposed to teach them for two hours daily; she found it an
impossibility. Nevertheless a liking grew up between her and her
charges, and, save by their refusal to study, the children gave her no
trouble; they were abundantly good-natured, they laughed and sported
all day long, and did their best to put life into the pale, overworked
governess.
Whilst living thus at the seaside, Jessica was delighted by the arrival
of Nancy Lord, who came to Teignmouth for a summer holiday. With her
came Mary Woodruff. The faithful servant had been ill; Mr Lord sent
her down into Devon to make a complete recovery, and to act as Nancy’s
humble chaperon. Nancy’s stay was for three weeks. The friends saw
a great deal of each other, and Miss. Lord had the honour of being
presented to Mrs. Tarrant, the old lady with whom Jessica lived, Mr.
Vawdrey’s mother-in-law. At the age of three score and ten, Mrs. Tarrant
still led an active life, and talked with great volubility, chiefly of
herself; Nancy learnt from her that she had been married at seventeen,
and had had two children, a son and a daughter, both deceased; of
relatives there remained to her only Mr Vawdrey and his family, and a
grandson,
|
clear, I'll move for the fort without delay," said
Artie. "One man can hold that place, if the doors and the portholes are
properly secured."
"That's so, but don't do anything rash, Artie," said Deck, gravely.
"Remember what Ripley said--those guerillas of Morgan's are the worst
cut-throats Kentucky has ever seen."
"Artie might wait until I can help him," suggested Levi. "If the fort
isn't occupied now, it won't take long to get the boys over to it in the
canoe and with a small raft in tow."
And so it was arranged that the young captain should wait on the
movements of the overseer, and this decided, the three set off on their
various missions.
CHAPTER III
THE ENCOUNTERS AT THE BRIDGE AND ON THE RAFT
At the time of which I write the name of Morgan's Cavalry was already
known throughout the length and breadth of Kentucky, and those of the
inhabitants who were on the side of the Union heard of his coming to one
neighborhood or another with dread.
When the boys in blue were refitting at Nashville, late in the year
1862, Morgan, having made several raids in Kentucky, though hardly, as
yet, any of consequence, determined to visit the State once more, taking
with him the pick of the Confederate cavalry of this section of our
country. His first engagement was with a few companies of Michigan
troops, on the 24th of December, where he suffered a loss of seventeen
men. On Christmas Day came an engagement near Munfordsville, and then
the notorious leader attacked the stockade at Bacon Creek. A vigorous
resistance was made, but the explosion of a number of shells within the
enclosure made a surrender necessary, and this was followed by the
burning of the bridge across Bacon Creek, after which Morgan advanced to
Nolan, where another bridge was destroyed.
The march of the cavalry was now turned toward Elizabethtown, and here a
fierce fight occurred between the Confederates and a body of six hundred
infantry under Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, which lasted six hours. The
infantry could do but little against the superior numbers of the
cavalry, although fighting valorously, and in the end Morgan gained his
point and began a march along the railroad, destroying everything in
sight as he advanced.
It had been hoped by Bragg that Morgan's raid would help the cause of
the South a great deal; but the sudden movement of Rosecrans from
Nashville to Murfreesboro dimmed the glory considerably. On the 29th of
December Morgan was attacked at Rolling Fork on Salt River and driven to
Bardstown, from which point he began to make his slow but certain
retreat from the State.
Captain Ripley, Deck's friend of the sharpshooters, had called Morgan's
cavalry cut-throats. This was an appellation common in those days, but
it is hardly justifiable. But there is no doubt that a portion of the
raiders were men of low moral character, and these fellows, when
foraging, thought it no more than right to confiscate everything in
sight. In the neighborhoods strong in Union sentiment whole plantations
were laid waste, and the women and children made to suffer untold
indignities.
It has been said that Morgan himself had left the State. This was true,
but numerous detachments of the cavalrymen remained, some under captains
and lieutenants who held no commissions in the Confederate army, and
these were mixed up with guerillas,--lawless bodies,--who, while
pretending to fight for the Southern cause, thought only of murder and
plunder. For these latter bodies Morgan was not responsible, yet they
were spoken of everywhere as Morgan's Raiders.
From the very start of hostilities there had been a strong sentiment in
Barcreek and vicinity against the dwellers at Riverlawn. Here the first
Union cavalry companies had been formed, and from this house a father
and two sons (Artie was always called the colonel's son) had gone forth.
More than this, Colonel Lyon had declared that all he possessed should
go to uphold the Union cause were it needed. Those of Confederate
tendencies had muttered against this, and ever since the first attack on
Riverlawn had been repulsed, numerous "fire-eaters" had longed for a
chance to "get square."
Deck thought of all these things as he moved from the shelter of the
clearing along the creek in the direction of the bridge. From one source
and another he had learned of a score of men of the vicinity joining
Morgan's Raiders, and he felt certain now that these fellows would be
found among those bent on the looting of his father's estate.
The young major could not get his mind away from a certain rowdy of
Barcreek who rejoiced in the name of Gaffy Denny. At a Union meeting
held at the schoolhouse when the war began, Deck had refused this man
admittance to the building, even when the ruffian drew a bowie-knife,
and had caused the fellow to decamp by showing his pistol. Since this
time he had heard twice from Denny--first that he had joined the
guerillas operating throughout the county, and again that he was trying
to pay his addresses to Dorcas, who, it may readily be imagined, would
have nothing to do with him. Denny was a man of thirty-five, a "hoss"
trader when he worked, which was but seldom, and as sly and nervy as he
was unprincipled.
"If Gaffy Denny is in this, he shall hear from me," murmured the major,
as he worked his way along the creek's shore. There was a low fringe of
brush overhanging the water, and he skulked behind this, passing the few
breaks encountered by crawling on his chest through the grass. His
progress was necessarily slow, and it took five minutes to reach the
bridge, although the distance from the clearing was not more than an
eighth of a mile.
From behind the brush he had more than once looked over in the direction
of the mansion. Not a soul had appeared in sight, and had he not known
otherwise, he would have said that the homestead was deserted.
When within half a rod of the bridge the major halted, for a slight
movement behind the tree overshadowing the bridge seat--that seat where
his father and Uncle Titus had once so bitterly quarrelled--had
attracted his attention.
"Was that a squirrel or a man's hat?" was the question he asked himself,
when the view of something else answered the question. The new object to
come into view was the elbow of a man, and the shining barrel of a gun
followed.
"A guard, I'll wager my commission," was Deck's thought. "I wonder if he
is alone and if I can capture him single-handed."
The major, having led the way into many a hot fight, was not the one to
hang back in such an emergency as this. Even while wondering if the man
on the bridge was alone, he hurried forward, keeping the tree between
himself and the individual. The bridge was gained and the tree was but
three yards off when a partly loose plank tipped up, making enough noise
to attract the attention of the man, who leaped forward, pointing his
gun as he came.
"Halt!" he spluttered, but the word was still on his lips when Deck
ducked, caught the gun barrel with his left hand, and with his right
levelled his pistol full into the sentinel's face.
"Surrender, or you are a dead man!" commanded Major Deck, sternly. "Let
go of the gun."
The fellow, taken completely by surprise, hesitated, as if inclined to
argue the point. "Wha--what?" he stammered. "See yere, this ain't fair,
nohow!"
"Let go, or I'll fire," was Deck's only answer, and he fingered the
trigger of his revolver nervously.
In a second more he had the gun in his possession, and then he compelled
the man to throw up both hands. "Now march up the road away from the
bridge," he continued. "And no treachery, or I'll put a ball through you
on the spot."
"I reckon I have fell in with Deck Lyon," said the sentinel, with a
sickly grin, as he moved on as the major had commanded.
"I am Deck Lyon; but I don't know you, although I've seen you at Bowling
Green. What do they call you?"
"They call me Sergeant Hank Scudder in our company."
[Illustration: "SURRENDER, OR YOU ARE A DEAD MAN!"
_Page 32._]
"And what company is that?"
"Cap'n Casswell's command--unattached."
"Casswell's guerillas, eh?"
"We ain't guerillas--we belong to the boys in gray."
"Does your captain hold a commission from headquarters?"
"'Tain't fer me to answer thet question, Major."
"From the fact that you refuse to answer it, I infer that he does not;
consequently he is nothing but a guerilla, and worse, and you are--"
"Hold on, Major, don't be too hard on a poor fellow who has his living
to make."
"This isn't making a living--it's stealing one. Tell me truthfully, is
Gaffy Denny with your company?"
"Gaffy Denny is first leftenant, Major."
"Where are the others?"
"Somewhere around the house and barns."
"How long since you arrived here?"
"'Bout an hour and a half ago."
"How many are there here? Answer me truthfully, or, my word for it, I
and my friends will hang you to one of yonder trees."
"Got many friends with yer, Major?"
"Enough. Now answer my question," and again Deck's weapon came up on a
level with the guerilla's head.
"There air twenty-five on us, I reckon."
"Were you the only man left on guard?"
"I dunno."
"Who put you on guard?"
"Leftenant Denny."
"Isn't Captain Casswell in command?"
"No, the cap'n was shot down in a skirmish three days ago--back of
Edmonton, and he's laying at the house of a friend ten miles from yere."
While talking the pair had moved across the road, and now Deck turned
his prisoner in the direction of the clearing. Soon they came in sight
of General, Clinker, and one other of the slaves.
"The first prisoner, General," said the young officer. "Have you
anything with which to bind him?"
"Look yere, Major, this ain't handsome!" cried Sergeant Hank Scudder, in
alarm.
"Handsome or not, you can thank your stars that I didn't shoot you dead
on the bridge," rejoined Deck. "How about a cord, General?"
"We dun got one, Mars'r Deck," answered the slave, and producing it he
and Clinker soon bound the guerilla's hands behind him, after which the
rope at his wrists was passed around a stout tree.
Deck's next movement was in the direction of the raft, for nothing was
to be seen of Artie, and he was anxious to know how the young captain
was faring. He had hardly reached the pile of logs to which the raft was
moored, when a sharp cry rang out on the frosty air.
"Help! General, Woolly, Clinker! Help!" There followed another cry, and
leaping through the brush and onto the logs Deck saw his cousin battling
manfully in a hand-to-hand conflict with two rough men in gray, one of
whom was trying to possess himself of the captain's sabre.
In such an emergency Major Deck did not hesitate as to a proper course
of action. Had the men been regular Confederates he would have been
justified in shooting at them; being guerillas he felt himself even more
justified. He took careful aim and fired, and the rascal who had just
wrenched the sabre from Artie's grasp fell, shot through the thigh, an
ugly wound though not a fatal one.
Surprised at the counter-demonstration thus made, the second guerilla
turned to see from what direction the shot had come. Giving him no
chance in which to take in the situation, Deck fired a second time, the
bullet whistling past the man in gray's shoulder. With a yell the fellow
started to retreat from the logs, slipped on the wet and frost-covered
surface beneath him, and rolled over and over until he went with a loud
splash into the creek, not to reappear upon the surface of the icy
current until fifty feet away.
"Artie, are you hurt?" demanded Deck, as he watched the man who had gone
overboard.
"N--no, but th--that man nearly choked the life out of me," was the
answer, with a cough. "Don't let him get away," and the young captain
nodded toward the guerilla who was making for the plantation side of the
creek.
"He shan't get away." Deck elevated his voice and his shooter at the
same time. "Come back here, unless you want a hole put through your
head!" he called out.
To this the guerilla did not reply. But he kept on swimming, and seeing
this both Deck and Artie fired. A yell of pain was the answer to the
shots, and the man turned around.
"Are you coming back?" demanded Deck.
"Yes! yes! don't shoot ag'in!" came with something like a groan.
The wounded man on the logs was writhing in pain, but nothing could be
done for him just now, and Deck and Artie watched the man in the water.
"I'm a goner!" came from the individual of a sudden, and throwing up
both arms he disappeared from view.
For the instant Deck stared blankly and Artie looked at him. "Was that a
genuine move, or is he shamming?" questioned the captain.
"I take it he is shamming," answered the major. "I don't believe he was
badly wounded at all. Wait," and he continued to watch.
In half a minute the body of the guerilla appeared, a hundred feet below
the logs. "Turn back here, or I'll put a bullet through your body for
luck!" sang out Deck, and raised his pistol again.
"Don't! don't!" came the quick reply. "I'll come--don't hit me ag'in,
Cap'n!"
In less than five minutes after this the guerilla was on the raft once
more. Deck was on the point of marching him up into the grove by the
creek road when Levi Bedford came up in the canoe, demanding to know
what the several shots meant. He was highly pleased to think that three
men had already been put out of the contest.
"I've discovered the guerillas moving around at the back of the mansion
and around the largest of the barns," he said. "Now that you have used
your pistols the best thing to do, in my opinion, is to get over to the
fort and take possession of it."
"You are right," returned Deck. "Let us go over on the raft, as first
proposed; but General can come around by the bridge and bring all of the
horses, or keep them where they will be handy in case they are wanted.
We ought not to give these guerillas the least chance to escape."
The General was called from his hiding-place and matters were explained.
While he went off with the horses, Levi Bedford led the way to the raft
and unmoored her, fastening the painter to the stern of the canoe,
which, though so called, was, as old readers already know, really a
round-bottom rowboat. The overseer, Deck, and Artie entered the canoe,
the first two at the oars, while the slaves deposited themselves on the
raft, doing what they could to aid their progress over the stream by
means of several sweeps which had been picked up.
CHAPTER IV
A FIRST VICTORY OVER THE ENEMY
It may be asked why a rush was not made upon the mansion and barns,
instead of the stealthy advance now under way. The answer to this is,
Deck and the others knew that the force to be encountered was larger
than their own, and probably just as well, if not better, armed.
Moreover, the young major felt that some of the guerillas must be on the
lookout from the mansion, and an advance across the lawn in front and to
one side, or the meadow to the rear and the other side, could only have
been accomplished after a serious loss of life. The guerillas of
Kentucky were for the most part "dead-shots," and the youthful commander
was not inclined to risk his men in the open against their superior
numbers.
The creek at the point where the raft had been moored was between sixty
and seventy feet wide, consequently the journey to the other side did
not occupy over five minutes, even though the raft was an unwieldy thing
to handle. As soon as they were near enough to do so, all hands leaped
into the meadow grass, and started on a rush for Fort Bedford.
Bang! bang! bang! The three shots in rapid succession came from the rear
of the largest barn, and Deck felt something rush through his cap and
his hair beneath. A groan came from Clinker, who was struck in the side.
The negro staggered but kept on, his eyes rolling and staring from a
pain that was new to him.
"'Tain't much, I reckon," he panted, in reply to Levi Bedford's
question. "Anybuddy else hit?"
Nobody was, and without halting to return the fire they pressed on. Soon
they were under the shelter of the ice-house, as dark and silent as the
rest of the plantation had previously appeared.
"I left it locked up," explained Levi Bedford, when Artie gave a cry as
he caught sight of the door. The heavy slabs of wood had been smashed in
with a stout log used as a battering-ram, and a hasty search revealed
the fact that the arms and ammunition, the overseer had mentioned, had
been carried away.
As the party passed into the building several more shots were fired at
them, but the bullets merely found resting-places in the woodwork or
flattened themselves on the stone walls. Levi Bedford now saw one of the
shooters near the edge of the barn and fired his rifle, but whether or
not the shot took effect he could not ascertain.
"Well, we are here," said Artie, after Clinker's wound had been examined
and dressed. "The question is, what's next?"
Deck silently counted their forces again. As General was absent, they
numbered but eight including himself. He shook his head seriously.
"We are but eight, and if that captured rascal is to be believed they
have three times that number," he said.
"But our other negroes must be around somewhere," said Artie, "and
they'll need some men to guard the women folks,--unless they have locked
them up,--or--or--"
"Or done away with them," finished Deck, bitterly. "For myself, I am
ready to make a dash forward, be the consequence what it may. But I
can't ask it of you and the slaves," and he turned to the overseer.
"I'll do whatever you think best, Major," responded Levi, warmly. "But
supposing I go out with a flag of truce and learn what they have to
say?"
"Hadn't I better go along?" asked Deck, eagerly.
"If you wish--yes."
A handkerchief was soon tied to a stick, and, leaving Artie in command
of the armed slaves, the young major and the overseer sallied forth,
waving the flag of truce over their heads. They started toward the
mansion, but before half the distance was covered a loud and rough voice
from the barn called upon them to halt, and they halted.
"Come this way with thet rag!" was the next order. "If ye go to the
house we'll open fire on ye!"
As there seemed no help for it, Deck and Levi turned toward the barn.
While still a hundred feet from the building they were ordered to halt
again, and then a man in gray, wearing a tangled beard of black, with
matted hair to match, came forth to greet them.
"Well?" he demanded laconically, as the major and the overseer paused.
"Dan Wolfall, what does this mean?" demanded Levi, recognizing the
individual as a former citizen of Barcreek, and one who had left
"between two days" because of a horse stealing which had been laid at
his door.
Wolfall grinned, thereby showing a set of uneven yellow teeth, much the
worse for constant tobacco chewing. "I reckon as how it means we-uns is
in persession o' this yere plantation," he answered slowly, shifting his
quid from one jaw to the other.
"Whom do you mean by we-uns?" asked Deck.
"Me an' the rest o' Captain Casswell's company o' Confederates, sonny.
Say, you feel big in them sodger clothes, don't ye?" Wolfall asked, with
another grin.
"Do you know that you are liable to be shot down or hung as outlaws?"
went on Deck.
"Reckon we air jest as liable ter be shot down as Confed'rates, ain't
we?"
"Such men as you would be a disgrace even to the Confederacy, Wolfall,"
interposed Levi Bedford, his honest eyes flashing fire. "Years ago
Duncan Lyon saved you from a long term in prison, and this is how you
reward his brother and his nephews."
"Don't preach, Bedford, I ain't ust to hearin' on it. Times is changed,
an' if the Lyonses is gwine to take a stand ag'in the best interests o'
this State, why they hev got to take the consequences, thet's all."
"Kentucky has declared for the Union and we are on the right side," said
Deck. "Let us come to an understanding of the situation. What have you
done with my mother and my two sisters?"
"I reckon Leftenant Denny has 'em safe, sonny. Them's nice clothes,
sonny, but a gray suit would look a heap sight better."
"Are they still at the mansion?"
"They air onless the leftenant has took 'em away."
"What do you propose to do here?"
"Enjoy ourselves, sonny."
"Which means that you are going to confiscate all our stores and steal
our valuables."
"As you please, sonny. If yer come only to abuse such gents as we air,
better be gittin' back, sonny," and now the Kentucky guerilla tapped
his horse pistol significantly.
"How many are there of you?" went on Deck, hardly able to resist keeping
his hands from the ruffian.
"Twict as many as half, sonny. Is that all ye want ter know?"
"I see you are not inclined to meet me fairly," continued Deck, sternly.
"I order you to leave this place at once."
"Ain't obeyin' orders jest now, sonny."
"Very well; then you and your comrades in this raid must take the
consequences if you are captured. Moreover, my men and I will shoot you
down like dogs if we get the chance," and Deck turned back, followed by
Levi.
"Thet shootin' won't be all one-sided!" called the guerilla after the
pair, and disappeared into the barn.
When the major and the overseer returned to Fort Bedford, Artie wished
to know immediately what had been accomplished.
"Nothing," answered Deck, his face clouded in perplexing thoughts. He
was almost "stumped," although he did not care to admit it.
A shout was now heard along the creek, and looking from the fort those
within saw five colored men standing at the clearing. They were the
slaves that had followed the first detachment to Lyndhall. With the
colored men were three whites, farmers living in the vicinity who had
called at Lyndhall on business and who had been persuaded by Margie and
Kate to join in the defence of Riverlawn.
"Eight more guns," said Artie. "That gives us sixteen all told. Hang me,
if I'm not in for making a rush!"
Deck's face began to brighten. "Levi, how many men do you think are at
the barn?"
"I saw four looking from behind the doors," answered the overseer.
"Those with Wolfall made five. I don't believe there were any more."
"Then I'll tell you what I'll do," went on the young commander. "As
secretly as I can, I'll recross the creek and join the men in the
clearing. I'll bring them around to the meadow by the road, and along
the berry bushes at the other side of the lawn. There will be nine of
us, and as soon as we are in a position to attack the barn, I'll fire
two shots in quick succession. Then you must make a demonstration
against the house. But be careful that it doesn't cost you any lives."
Both Levi and Artie were quick-witted enough to see the advantage of
Deck's plan and readily agreed to it. Without the loss of a moment the
major left the fort, crawling on his hands and knees through the grass
to the creek.
Here the canoe and the raft were found as they had been left. Detaching
the boat from the logs, he leaped in, and crouching low, sculled for the
opposite shore with all speed. He was taking a big risk and knew it, and
expected every instant to receive a shot from the enemy.
But none came, thanks to Levi, who, calculating the time he would be
thus exposed, ran to the opening of the fort and called on several to do
the same. As no good chance for an aim was given, the guerillas did not
open with their guns, but they kept their eyes on the fort, and the
creek was for the time being neglected.
On reaching the edge of the clearing, Deck did not lose a moment, but
hurried the slaves and the white men back to the road and to the bushes
lining the upper side. As they marched along on the double quick he
explained the situation to Ralph Bowman, Sandran Dowleigh, and Carson
Lee, the three farmers, all natives of the county, and all Union men to
the core.
"They ought to be wiped out," said Bowman, with a vigorous nod of his
head. "I know Wolfall and Denny well, and a rope over a tree is the
medicine they need."
"I've got my Long Sam with me," put in Carson Lee, tapping his long
rifle affectionately. "Just let me get one peep at Denny or Wolfall,
thet's all." Lee was a crack shot, and on more than one occasion had
taken the first prize at target-shooting.
It took the best part of a quarter of an hour to reach the meadow Deck
had mentioned. Here there was a slight rise of ground, beyond which
stood the barn. From their position only the top of the structure could
be seen. Crawling Indian fashion to the top of the rise, the major
inspected the situation again. As before, not a soul was in sight.
Before moving forward he had stationed one of the slaves some distance
closer to the mansion. The man was armed with a double-barrelled gun,
and as Deck waved his handkerchief two reports rang out, the signal
agreed upon. Hardly had the echo of the gun died away than Levi, Artie,
and the others emerged from the fort, and began moving around the meadow
toward the front of the house.
The demonstration did just what was expected. Several men appeared at
the mansion windows, to fire in vain at the detachment from the fort,
they keeping pretty well out of range. From the barn poured the five
guerillas counted by Levi, anxious to learn if their services were
needed elsewhere.
By this time Deck's command was at the top of the rise, and the major
called on his men to take careful aim and fire, discharging his pistol
at the same moment. Carson Lee picked out Wolfall and the ruffian
dropped like a log, shot through the head. Two of the others went down,
one hit in the arm and the other in the side. The two remaining stopped
in perplexity, not knowing whether to return to their original shelter
or run for the mansion.
"Charge!" cried Major Deck, rushing for the barn with all the swiftness
of his youthful legs. "Come on, boys; don't let one of them get away!"
And he continued to fire as he advanced, finally succeeding in hitting
one of the remaining pair of guerillas in the calf of the leg, a painful
though not a serious wound. Seeing the turn of affairs, the last
ruffian, also wounded, sped for the mansion as though a legion of demons
were after him. Those who had reloaded gave the fellow half a dozen
shots, but he was not hit again, and tumbled pell-mell up the veranda
steps and through a doorway opened hastily to afford him entrance.
"A first victory and without a single loss," said Deck, as sheltered by
the big barn he began to reload his pistol, while the others also looked
after their weapons.
"Don't kill us!" came in a groan from one of the wounded--the man the
major had hit.
For reply Deck pointed his pistol at the ruffian's head. "You deserve to
die, but I'll let up on you on one condition--tell me exactly how many
men there are in the mansion."
"I don't know, Major. There were twenty-two of us at the start,
including the five we had here. I think three men were posted on the
road and along the creek."
"One man has returned to the house; the others are out of the fight,"
said Deck, turning to Lee. "That leaves exactly fifteen guerillas in the
mansion. We number sixteen."
"That's so; but they are well fortified," interposed Sandran Dowleigh,
who had not gone to war because he was subject to fits, but who,
nevertheless, took a lively interest in military matters. "They will mow
us down like wheat if we dare to make a rush."
"I will consult with Levi Bedford and Artie before we make another move.
Keep your eyes open while I am gone," said the major, and moved off in a
roundabout way for Fort Bedford.
CHAPTER V
TWO FLAGS OF TRUCE
The first battle, if such it might be called, had been fought and won.
Four of the guerillas had been put out of the contest, one forever, and
one had escaped to the mansion. The contest had been entirely one-sided,
for the ruffians had not had time left to them in which to fire so much
as a single charge.
But though the present victory had been gained quickly and with ease,
Deck knew that the work still cut out for himself and his command would
prove much more difficult and dangerous. The guerillas in the mansion
would be on a close watch, and it would go hard with any one imprudent
enough to advance within reasonable shooting distance.
By the time the major had gained the fort those intrusted with the work
of making a demonstration had returned to the shelter of the stone
walls. No injury had been done, and Artie and the overseer had had
their hands full in keeping the slaves from rushing directly for the
mansion regardless of consequences, especially when it was noted that
four men had gone down in the vicinity of the barn.
"Fifteen still left," mused Levi, when Deck had spoken. "We can go them
one better, but--"
"It makes a big difference where the fifteen men are located," said
Artie. "Five might hold the mansion against us--if they were good shots
and wide-awake."
"If only I knew mother and the girls were safe, I would play them a
waiting game," said Deck, taking a long breath. "They'll think we have
sent for reënforcements and will want to make terms, sooner or later."
"We can send off for reënforcements!" cried Artie. "Clinker can rouse
out every Unionist within two miles of here."
"He would not find many," answered Levi. "The majority are off to the
war."
"One thing, it will be dark soon," went on Deck. "We can move up pretty
close then, for there won't be much moonlight."
"But what of mother and the girls in the meantime?" questioned the young
captain.
"I don't believe they will dare harm them," said the overseer. "They
know that if they did, and were caught, every one of 'em would swing for
it. Denny may try to get a bit sweet on Miss Dorcas, but I reckon she
can hold her own. Those guerillas--"
"Hark!" interrupted Deck. "Somebody is screaming for help! It is
Dorcas!"
He rushed to the door of the fort, followed by Levi and Artie. It was
Dorcas, true enough. The girl had just come out on the mansion porch and
was trying to get away from a guerilla who held her.
"That is Gaffy Denny!" ejaculated the major, drawing his pistol once
more. "Hi, you rascal, leave her alone!" and regardless of consequences
he started across the meadow for the lawn fronting the porch.
"Deck, save me!" came in faint tones from Dorcas. "Oh, save me!"
"I will!" was the reply. And Deck increased his speed, bounding over the
meadow trenches with an agility that would have done credit to a
trained athlete. He had barely gained the lawn when Dorcas broke from
Gaffy Denny's grasp and fled down the porch steps toward him. At the
same time Hope appeared, followed by Mrs. Lyon and several guerillas who
had been in the act of transferring the lady prisoners from one room of
the mansion to the other.
The sight of his mother pursued by these ruffians excited Deck to the
highest degree, and without a thought of the danger he continued on his
course until within a hundred feet of the porch. Then he fired at Gaffy
Denny and saw the guerilla clap his left hand over his right shoulder,
showing that he had been struck. Denny had scarcely made the movement
when Levi Bedford fired and the temporary leader of the guerillas
pitched headlong on the grass, not to rise again.
The fall of Denny caused the men behind him to pause, and as they stood
on the porch Artie opened on them and another fellow was slightly
wounded. Then came half a dozen gun and pistol reports, and Deck felt
himself hit across the left side of the neck. The bullet left nothing
more than an ugly scratch, from which the blood flowed freely.
But now the prisoners from the mansion had come up to their would-be
rescuers, and catching sight of the blood, Hope fainted in Artie's arms.
Mrs. Lyon staggered toward Deck, while Levi caught Dorcas by the hand.
"My son, you are wounded," gasped the mother. "Oh, what shall we do?"
"It's not much, mother," answered Deck. "Come, give me your arm and
we'll get back to the fort," and catching hold of his parent he urged
her in the direction of the meadow. At the same time Artie caught up
Hope and followed, with Levi and Dorcas by his side.
The overseer was the only man of the party who was not handicapped, for
the major did not dare let go of his mother for fear she would sink
down. Levi turned quickly, and as the men on the porch prepared to fire,
pulled trigger twice, wounding one additional guerilla.
But now came a volley from the mansion windows, and the overseer was
struck in the arm. A second volley was about to follow, when a yell
arose from the meadow and the slaves under Clinker came on, shooting as
well as they could on the run. The windows of the mansion, now wide
open, received considerable attention, and two guerillas were noted to
fall back with yells of either fright or pain.
Deck got one more chance to fire, and then had to turn all of his
attention to his mother, who was so out of breath she could no longer
move. "My brave boy, save yourself!" she gasped. "Save yourself! And
save Hope and Dorcas!"
"I won't leave you, mother dear," he returned tenderly, and picked her
up despite her protests. He was soon following Artie to the fort, with
Dorcas running by his side, while Levi remained behind to take command
of the slaves and cover the retreat. From around the back of the meadow
came those left by the major at the barn, thinking a regular attack on
the mansion had been made.
Mrs. Noah Lyon was no light load, and when Deck gained the shelter of
the fort he was ready to drop with his burden. Finding the most
comfortable seat the place afforded, he deposited his precious load upon
it and fanned her with his soldier cap. Hope was just reviving and was
soon able to take care of herself.
"Oh, how thankful I am we
|
the abdomen and they receive pollen that has been collected by
the second pair. Nearly all of this pollen is collected by the pollen
combs of the hind legs, and is transferred from the combs to the
pollen baskets or corbiculæ in a manner to be described later.
It will thus be seen that the manipulation of pollen is a successive
process, and that most of the pollen at least passes backward from the
point where it happens to touch the bee until it finally reaches the
corbiculæ or is accidentally dislodged and falls from the rapidly
moving limbs.
ACTION OF THE FORELEGS AND MOUTHPARTS.
Although the pollen of some plants appears to be somewhat sticky, it
may be stated that as a general rule pollen can not be successfully
manipulated and packed in the baskets without the addition of some
fluid substance, preferably a fluid which will cause the grains to
cohere. This fluid, the nature of which will be considered later,
comes from the mouth of the bee, and is added to the pollen which is
collected by the mouthparts and to that which is brought into contact
with the protruding tongue and maxillæ, and, as will appear, this
fluid also becomes more generally distributed upon the legs and upon
the ventral surface of the collecting bee.
When a bee is collecting from the flowers of corn the mandibles are
actively engaged in seizing, biting, and scraping the anthers as the
bee crawls over the pendent stamens. Usually, but not always, the
tongue is protruded and wipes over the stamens, collecting pollen and
moistening the grains thus secured. Some of the pollen may possibly be
taken into the mouth. All of the pollen which comes in contact with
the mouthparts is thoroughly moistened, receiving more fluid than is
necessary for rendering the grains cohesive. This exceedingly wet
pollen is removed from the mouthparts by the forelegs (fig. 5), and
probably the middle legs also secure a little of it directly, since
they sometimes brush over the lower surface of the face and the mouth.
In addition to removing the very moist pollen from the mouth the
forelegs also execute cleansing movements over the sides of the head
and neck and the anterior region of the thorax, thereby collecting
upon their brushes a considerable amount of pollen which has fallen
directly upon these regions, and this is added to the pollen moistened
from the mouth, thereby becoming moist by contact. The brushes of the
forelegs also come in contact with the anterior breast region, and the
hairs which cover this area become moist with the sticky exudation
which the forelegs have acquired in the process of wiping pollen from
the tongue, maxillæ, and mandibles.
ACTION OF THE MIDDLE LEGS.
The middle legs are used to collect the pollen gathered by the
forelegs and mouthparts, to remove free pollen from the thoracic
region, and to transport their load of pollen to the hind legs,
placing most of it upon the pollen combs of these legs, although a
slight amount is directly added to the pollen masses in the corbiculæ.
Most of the pollen of the middle legs is gathered upon the conspicuous
brushes of the first tarsal segments or plantæ of these legs.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--A flying bee, showing the manner in which the
forelegs and middle legs manipulate pollen. The forelegs are removing
wet pollen from the mouthparts and face. The middle leg of the right
side is transferring the pollen upon its brush to the pollen combs of
the left hind planta. A small amount of pollen has already been placed
in the baskets. (Original.)]
In taking pollen from a foreleg the middle leg of the same side is
extended in a forward direction and is either grasped by the flexed
foreleg or rubbed over the foreleg as it is bent downward and
backward. In the former movement the foreleg flexes sharply upon
itself until the tarsal brush and coxa nearly meet. The collecting
brush of the middle leg is now thrust in between the tarsus and coxa
of the foreleg and wipes off some of the pollen from the foreleg
brush. The middle leg brush is then raised and combs down over the
flexed foreleg, thus removing additional pollen from the outer surface
of this leg. The middle leg also at times reaches far forward,
stroking down over the foreleg before it is entirely flexed and
apparently combing over with its tarsal brush the face and mouthparts
themselves. When the middle leg reaches forward to execute any of the
above movements the direction of the stroke is outward, forward, and
then back toward the body, the action ending with the brush of the leg
in contact with the long hairs of the breast and with those which
spring from the proximal segments of the forelegs (coxa, trochanter,
femur). As a result of the oft-repeated contact of the brushes of the
middle and forelegs with the breast, the long, branched hairs which
cover this region become quite moist and sticky, since the brushes of
these two pair of legs are wet and the pollen which they bear
possesses a superabundance of the moistening fluid. Any dry pollen
which passes over this region and touches these hairs receives
moisture by contact with them. This is particularly true of the free
dry pollen which the middle pair of legs collect by combing over the
sides of the thorax.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.--A bee upon the wing, showing the position of
the middle legs when they touch and pat down the pollen masses. A very
slight amount of pollen reaches the corbiculæ through this movement.
(Original.)]
The pollen upon the middle legs is transferred to the hind legs in at
least two ways. By far the larger amount is deposited upon the pollen
combs which lie on the inner surfaces of the plantæ of the hind legs.
To accomplish this a middle leg is placed between the plantæ of the
two hind legs, which are brought together so as to grasp the brush of
the middle leg, pressing it closely between them, but allowing it to
be drawn toward the body between the pollen combs of the two hind
legs. (See fig. 5.) This action results in the transference of the
pollen from the middle-leg brush to the pollen combs of the hind leg
of the opposite side, since the combs of that leg scrape over the
pollen-laden brush of the middle leg. This action may take place while
the bee is on the wing or before it leaves the flower.
The middle legs place a relatively small amount of pollen directly
upon the pollen masses in the corbiculæ. This is accomplished when the
brushes of the middle legs are used to pat down the pollen masses and
to render them more compact. (See fig. 6.) The legs are used for this
purpose quite often during the process of Loading the baskets, and a
small amount of pollen is incidentally added to the masses when the
brushes come into contact with them. A misinterpretation of this
action has led some observers into the erroneous belief that all or
nearly all of the corbicular pollen is scraped from the middle-leg
brushes by the hairs which fringe the sides of the baskets. The middle
legs do not scrape across the baskets, but merely pat downward upon
the pollen which is there accumulating.
It is also possible that, in transferring pollen from the middle leg
of one side to the planta of the opposite hind leg, the middle-leg
brush may touch and rub over the pecten of the hind leg and thus
directly place some of its pollen behind the pecten spines. Such a
result is, however, very doubtful.
ACTION OF THE HIND LEGS.
The middle legs contribute the major portion of the pollen which
reaches the hind legs, and all of it in cases where all of the pollen
first reaches the bee in the region of the mouth. However, when much
pollen falls upon the body of the bee the hind legs collect a little
of it directly, for it falls upon their brushes and is collected upon
them when these legs execute cleansing movements to remove it from the
ventral surface and sides of the abdomen. All of the pollen which
reaches the corbiculæ, with the exception of the small amount placed
there by the middle legs when they pat down the pollen masses, passes
first to the pollen combs of the plantæ.
When in the act of loading pollen from the plantar brushes to the
corbiculæ the two hind legs hang beneath the abdomen with the
tibio-femoral joints well drawn up toward the body. (See fig. 7.) The
two plantæ lie close together with their inner surfaces nearly
parallel to each other, but not quite, since they diverge slightly at
their distal ends. The pollen combs of one leg are in contact with the
pecten comb of the opposite leg. If pollen is to be transferred from
the right planta to the left basket, the right planta is drawn upward
in such a manner that the pollen combs of the right leg scrape over
the pecten spines of the left. By this action some of the pollen is
removed from the right plantar combs and is caught upon the outer
surfaces of the pecten spines of the left leg.
This pollen now lies against the pecten and upon the flattened distal
end of the left tibia. At this moment the planta of the left leg is
flexed slightly, thus elevating the auricle and bringing the auricular
surface into contact with the pollen which the pecten has just
received. By this action the pollen is squeezed between the end of the
tibia and the surface of the auricle and is forced upward against the
distal end of the tibia and on outward into contact with the pollen
mass accumulating in the corbicula. As this act, by which the left
basket receives a small contribution of pollen, is being completed,
the right leg is lowered and the pecten of this leg is brought into
contact with the pollen combs of the left planta, over which they
scrape as the left leg is raised, thus depositing pollen upon the
lateral surfaces of the pecten spines of the right leg. (See fig. 7.)
Right and left baskets thus receive alternately successive
contributions of pollen from the planta of the opposite leg. These
loading movements are executed with great rapidity, the legs rising
and falling with a pump-like motion. A very small amount of pollen is
loaded at each stroke and many strokes are required to load the
baskets completely.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.--A bee upon the wing, showing the manner in
which the hind legs are held during the basket-loading process. Pollen
is being scraped by the pecten spines of the right leg from the pollen
combs of the left hind planta. (Original.)]
If one attempts to obtain, from the literature of apiculture and
zoology, a knowledge of the method by which the pollen baskets
themselves are loaded, he is immediately confused by the diversity of
the accounts available. The average textbook of zoology follows
closely Cheshire's (1886) description in which he says that "the legs
are crossed, and the metatarsus naturally scrapes its comb face on the
upper edge of the opposite tibia in the direction from the base of the
combs toward their tips. These upper hairs * * * are nearly straight,
and pass between the comb teeth. The pollen, as removed, is caught by
the bent-over hairs, and secured. Each scrape adds to the mass, until
the face of the joint is more than covered, and the hairs just embrace
the pellet." Franz (1906) states that (translated) "the final loading
of the baskets is accomplished by the crossing over of the hind-tarsal
segments, which rub and press upon each other." Many other observers
and textbook writers evidently believed that the hind legs were
crossed in the loading process.
On the other hand, it is believed by some that the middle legs are
directly instrumental in filling the baskets. This method is indicated
in the following quotation from Fleischmann and Zander (1910)
(translated):
The second pair of legs transfer the pollen to the hind legs, where
it is heaped up in the pollen masses. The tibia of each hind leg is
depressed on its outer side, and upon the edges of this depression
stand two rows of stiff hairs which are bent over the groove. The
brushes of the middle pair of legs rub over these hairs, liberating
the pollen, which drops into the baskets.
A suggestion of the true method is given by Hommell (1906), though his
statements are somewhat indefinite. After describing the method by
which pollen is collected, moistened, and passed to the middle legs he
states that (translated) "the middle legs place their loads upon the
pollen combs of the hind legs. There the sticky pollen is kneaded and
is pushed across the pincher (_à traverse la pince_), is broken up
into little masses and accumulates within the corbicula. In
accomplishing this, the legs cross and it is the tarsus of the right
leg which pushes the pollen across the pincher of the left, and
reciprocally. The middle legs never function directly in loading the
baskets, though from time to time their sensitive extremities touch
the accumulated mass, for the sake of giving assurance of its position
and size."
The recent valuable papers of Sladen (1911, 1912, _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_,
and _e_), who was the first to present a true explanation of the
function of the abdominal scent gland of the bee, give accounts of the
process by which the pollen baskets are charged, which are in close
accord with the writer's ideas on this subject. It is a pleasure to be
able to confirm most of Sladen's observations and conclusions, and
weight is added to the probable correctness of the two descriptions
and interpretations of this process by the fact that the writer's
studies and the conclusion based upon them were made prior to the
appearance of Sladen's papers and quite independent of them. His
description of the basket-loading process itself is so similar to the
writer's own that a complete quotation from him is unnecessary. A few
differences of opinion will, however, be noted while discussing some
of the movements which the process involves. As will later be noted,
our ideas regarding the question of pollen moistening, collecting, and
transference are somewhat different.
ADDITIONAL DETAILS OF THE BASKET-LOADING PROCESS.
The point at which pollen enters the basket can best be determined by
examining the corbiculæ of a bee shortly after it has reached a flower
and before much pollen has been collected. Within each pollen basket
of such a bee is found a small mass of pollen, which lies along the
lower or distal margin of the basket. (See fig 8, _a_.) It is in this
position because it has been scraped from the planta of the opposite
leg by the pecten comb and has been pushed upward past the entrance of
the basket by the continued addition of more from below, propelled by
the successive strokes of the auricle. Closer examination of the
region between the pecten and the floor of the basket itself shows
more pollen, which is on its way to join that already squeezed into
the basket.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.--Camera drawings of the left hind legs of
worker bees to show the manner in which pollen enters the basket. _a_,
Shows a leg taken from a bee which is just beginning to collect. It
had crawled over a few flowers and had flown in the air about five
seconds at the time of capture. The pollen mass lies at the entrance
of the basket, covering over the fine hairs which lie along this
margin and the seven or eight short stiff spines which spring from the
floor of the corbicula immediately above its lower edge. As yet the
pollen has not come in contact with the one long hair which rises from
the floor and arches over the entrance. The planta is extended, thus
lowering the auricle; _b_, represents a slightly later stage, showing
the increase of pollen. The planta is flexed, raising the auricle. The
hairs which extend outward and upward from the lateral edge of the
auricle press upon the lower and outer surface of the small pollen
mass, retaining it and guiding it upward into the basket; _c_, _d_,
represent slightly later stages in the successive processes by which
additional pollen enters the basket. (Original.)]
If the collecting bee is watched for a few moments the increase will
readily be noted and the fact will be established that the
accumulating mass is gradually working upward or proximally from the
lower or distal edge of the corbicula and is slowly covering the
floor of this receptacle. (See figs. 8, _b_, _c_, and _d_.) In many
instances the successive contributions remain for a time fairly
separate, the whole mass being marked by furrows transverse to the
long axis of the tibia.
Sladen (1912, _b_) notes the interesting fact that in those rather
exceptional cases when a bee gathers pollen from more than one species
of flowers the resulting mass within the corbicula will show a
stratification parallel to the distal end, a condition which could
result only from the method of loading here indicated.
As the pollen within the basket increases in amount it bulges outward,
and projects downward below the lower edge of the basket. It is held
in position by the long hairs which fringe the lateral sides of the
basket, and its shape is largely determined by the form of these hairs
and the direction in which they extend. When the basket is fully
loaded the mass of pollen extends laterally on both sides of the
tibia, but projects much farther on the posterior side, for on this
side the bounding row of hairs extends outward, while on the anterior
edge the hairs are more curved, folding upward and over the basket. As
the mass increases in thickness by additions from below it is held in
position by these long hairs which edge the basket. They are pushed
outward and many of them become partly embedded in the pollen as it is
pushed up from below. When the pollen grains are small and the whole
mass is well moistened the marks made by some of the hairs will be
seen on the sides of the load. (See fig. 9, _a_.) These scratches are
also transverse in direction and they show that the mass has been
increased by additions of pollen pushed up from below.
Even a superficial examination of a heavily laden basket shows the
fallacy of the supposition that the long lateral fringing hairs are
used to comb out the pollen from the brushes of either the hind or
middle legs by the crossing of these legs over the lateral edges of
the baskets. They are far from sufficiently stiff to serve this
purpose, and their position with relation to the completed load shows
conclusively that they could not be used in the final stages of the
loading process, for the pollen mass has completely covered many of
them and its outer surface extends far beyond their ends. They serve
merely to hold the pollen in place and to allow the load to project
beyond the margins of the tibia.
The auricle plays a very essential part in the process of loading the
basket. This structure comprises the whole of the flattened proximal
surface of the planta, except the joint of articulation itself, and it
extends outward in a posterior direction a little beyond the remaining
plantar edge. The surface of the auricle is covered over with many
blunt, short spines and its lateral margin is bounded by a row of
short rather pliable hairs, branched at their ends. When the planta
is flexed the auricle is raised and its surface approaches the distal
end of the tibia, its inner edge slipping up along the pecten spines
and its outer hairy edge projecting into the opening which leads to
the pollen basket. (See fig. 8, _b_.) With each upward stroke of the
auricle small masses of pollen which have been scraped from the
plantar combs by the pecten are caught and compressed between the
spiny surface of the auricle and the surface of the tibia above it.
The pressure thus exerted forces the pasty pollen outward and upward,
since it can not escape past the base of the pecten, and directs it
into the entrance to the corbicula. The outward and upward slant of
the auricular surface and the projecting hairs with which the outer
edge of the auricle is supplied also aid in directing the pollen
toward the basket. Sladen (1911) states that in this movement the weak
wing of the auricle is forced backward, and thus allows the escape of
pollen toward the basket entrance, but this appears both doubtful and
unnecessary, since the angle of inclination of the auricular surface
gives the pollen a natural outlet in the proper direction.
If the corbicula already contains a considerable amount of pollen the
contributions which are added to it at each stroke of the auricle come
in contact with that already deposited and form a part of this mass,
which increases in amount by continued additions from below. If,
however, the corbicula is empty and the process of loading is just
beginning, the first small bits of pollen which enter the basket must
be retained upon the floor of the chamber until a sufficient amount
has accumulated to allow the long overcurving hairs to offer it
effective support. The sticky consistency of the pollen renders it
likely to retain contact with the basket, and certain structures near
the entrance give additional support. Several small sharp spines,
seven or eight in number, spring from the floor of the basket
immediately within the entrance, and the entire lower edge of the
corbicula is fringed with very small hairs which are branched at their
ends. (See fig. 3.) One large hair also springs from the floor of the
basket, somewhat back from the entrance, which may aid in holding the
pollen, but it can not function in this manner until a considerable
amount has been collected.
As the pollen mass increases in size and hangs downward and backward
over the pecten and auricle it shows upon its inner and lower surface
a deep groove which runs outward from the entrance to the basket. (See
fig. 9, _b_.) This groove results from the continued impact of the
outer end of the auricle upon the pollen mass. At each upward stroke
of the auricle its outer point comes in contact with the stored pollen
as soon as the mass begins to bulge backward from the basket.
Although the process is a rather delicate one, it is entirely possible
so to manipulate the hind legs of a recently killed bee that the
corbiculæ of the two legs receive loads of pollen in a manner similar
to that above described. To accomplish this successfully the operator
must keep the combs of the plantæ well supplied with moistened pollen.
If the foot of first one leg and then the other is grasped with
forceps and so guided that the pollen combs of one leg rasp over the
pecten spines of the other, the pollen from the combs will be
transferred to the corbiculæ. To continue the loading process in a
proper manner, it is also necessary to flex the planta of each leg
just after the pollen combs of the opposite leg have deposited pollen
behind the pecten. By this action the auricle is raised, compressing
the pollen which the pecten has secured, and forcing some upward into
the corbicula. Bees' legs which have been loaded in this artificial
manner show pollen masses in their corbiculæ which are entirely
similar in appearance to those formed by the labors of the living bee.
Moreover, by the above method of manipulation the pollen appears first
at the bottom of the basket, along its lower margin, gradually extends
upward along the floor of the chamber, comes in contact with the
overhanging hairs, and is shaped by them in a natural manner. All
attempts to load the baskets by other movements, such as crossing the
hind legs and scraping the plantar combs over the lateral edges of the
baskets, give results which are entirely different from those achieved
by the living bee.
[Illustration: Fig. 9.--Inner surface of the right hind leg of a
worker bee which bears a complete load of pollen, _a_, Scratches in
the pollen mass caused by the pressure of the long projecting hairs of
the basket upon the pollen mass as it has been pushed up from below;
_b_, groove in the pollen mass made by the strokes of the auricle as
the mass projects outward and backward from the basket. (Original.)]
POLLEN MOISTENING.
Many descriptions have been written by others of the method by which
pollen is gathered and moistened. Some of these are indefinite, some
are incorrect, while others are, in part, at least, similar to my own
interpretation of this process. A few citations will here be given:
The bee first strokes the head and the proboscis with the brushes
of the forelegs and moistens these brushes with a little honey from
the proboscis, so that with later strokes all of the pollen from
the head is collected upon these brushes. Then the middle-leg
brushes remove this honey-moistened pollen from the forelegs and
they also collect pollen from the breast and the sides of the
thorax.--[Translation from Alefeld, 1861.]
In his account of the basket-loading process Alefeld assigns to the
middle-leg brushes the function of assembling all of the pollen, even
that from the plantar combs, and of placing it on the corbiculæ, this
latter act being accomplished by combing over the hairy edge of each
basket with the middle-leg brush of the same side.
It appears probable that the bee removes the pollen from the head,
breast, and abdomen by means of the hairy brushes which are located
upon the medial sides of the tarsal segments of all of the legs,
being most pronounced upon the hind legs. The pollen is thus
brought together and is carried forward to the mouth, where it is
moistened with saliva and a little honey.--[Translation from Franz,
1906.]
Franz then says that this moistened pollen is passed backward and
loaded.
Since the pollen of many plants is sticky and moist it adheres to
the surface of the basket. Dry pollen is moistened by saliva, so
that it also sticks,--[Translation from Fleischmann and Zander.
1910.]
Pollen is taken from flowers principally by means of the tongue,
but at times, also, by the mandibles, by the forelegs, and middle
legs. The brushes of the hind legs also load themselves, collecting
from the hairs of the body. The pollen dust thus gathered is always
transmitted to the mouth, where it is mixed with
saliva.--[Translation from Hommell, 1906.]
Sladen considers the question of how pollen is moistened by the honey
bee, humblebee (bumblebee), and some other bees, but does not appear
to reach definite conclusions. In one of his papers (1912, _c_) he
states that the pollen of some plants may be found in the mouth cavity
and in the region of the mouth, but he reaches the conclusion that
this pollen is comparatively "dry," using the word in a "relative
sense." He asserts that "nowhere but on the corbicula and hind
metatarsal brushes did I find the sticky pollen, except sometimes on
the tips of the long, branched hairs on the back (upper) edges of the
tibiæ and femora of the middle legs, and then only in heavily laden
bees, where it is reasonable to suppose it had collected accidentally
as the result of contact with the hind metatarsal brushes."
These and other considerations lead Sladen to think that, in the case
of the bumblebee at least, the pollen "may be moistened on the hind
metatarsus with the tongue." He states that the tongue of the
bumblebee is of sufficient length to reach the hind metatarsus
(planta) and that it might rub over the brushes of the metatarsi or be
caught between them when they are approximated and thus moisten the
two brushes simultaneously. However, he has never seen the tongue of
the collecting honey bee brought near to the hind legs, and it appears
probable to him that it can not easily reach them. "Possibly the
middle or front legs are used as agents for conveying the honey" (in
the case of the honey bee). "In the humblebee the tongue is longer,
and it could more easily moisten the hind legs in the way suggested."
In an earlier paper Sladen (1912, _a_) gives the following as his
opinion of the "way in which pollen dust is moistened with nectar,"
although he states that this is one of the points "which still remains
obscure":
The only satisfactory manner in which, it seems to me, this can be
done is for the tongue to lick the tarsi or metatarsi of the
forelegs, which are covered with stiff bristles, well suited for
holding the nectar, the nectar being then transferred to the
metatarsal brushes on the middle legs, and from these, again, to
the metatarsal brushes on the hind legs. The latter being thus
rendered sticky, the pollen dust would cling to them. The different
pairs of legs were certainly brought together occasionally, but not
after every scrape of the hind metatarsi, and their movements were
so quick that it was impossible to see what was done. Still,
several pollen-collecting bees that I killed had the tarsi and
metatarsi of the forelegs and the metatarsal brushes of the middle
and hind legs moistened with nectar, and I think it probable that
the moistening process, as outlined, is performed, as a rule,
during the flight from flower to flower.
Sladen (1912, _c_) also considers the possibility that the fluid which
moistens the pollen might be secreted through the comb at the end of
the tibia, through the tibio-tarsal joint, or from the surface of the
auricle, but finds no evidence of glandular openings in these regions.
A suggestion of a similar nature, apparently unknown to Sladen, was
made by Wolff (1873), who describes "sweat-glands" which, he claims,
are located within the hind tibia and the planta, and which pour a
secretion upon the surface of the corbicula and upon the upper end of
the planta through many minute openings located at the bases of hairs,
particularly those which arise from the lateral margins of the
corbicula. Wolff is convinced that the fluid thus secreted is the
essential cohesive material by which the grains of pollen are bound
together to form the solid mass which fills each fully loaded basket.
He noticed that the mouthparts are used to collect pollen, and that
some of it is moistened with "honey" or "nectar," but he does not
consider that the fluid thus supplied is sufficient to explain
adequately the facility with which the collecting bee brings together
the scattered grains of pollen and packs them away securely in the
baskets. Wolff's description of the basket-loading process itself is
strikingly similar to that advocated later by Cheshire.
The writer is not prepared to deny the possibility that the surface of
the chitin of the hind legs of worker bees may be moistened by the
secretion of glands which lie beneath it, but he is convinced that any
fluid thus secreted bears little or no relation to the cohesion of the
pollen grains within the baskets. Sections and dissected preparations
of the hind legs of worker bees show certain large cells which lie
within the cavity of the leg and which may function as secreting gland
cells; but similar structures occur in even greater numbers within the
hind legs of the drone and they are found within the hind legs of the
queen.
As has been noted, the extreme moisture of the plantar combs and of
the tibio-tarsal articulation of the hind leg is readily understood
when one recalls the manner in which moist pollen is compressed
between the auricle and the tibial surface above it.
From the account already given it is evident that, in the opinion of
the writer, the mouth is the source from which the pollen-moistening
fluid is obtained. It is extremely difficult to determine with
absolute accuracy the essential steps involved in the process of
adding moisture to the pollen. In an endeavor to solve this problem
the observer must of necessity consider a number of factors, among
which may be noted (1) the location upon the body of the collecting
bee of "moist" and of comparatively "dry" pollen, (2) the movements
concerned in the pollen-gathering and pollen-transferring processes,
(3) the relative moisture of those parts which handle pollen, (4) the
chemical differences between the natural pollen of the flower and that
of the corbiculæ and of the cells of the hive, and (5) the observer
must endeavor to distinguish between essential phenomena and those
which are merely incidental or accidental.
In the first place it should be noted that the relative dampness of
pollen within the corbiculæ depends very largely upon the character of
the flower from which the pollen grains are gathered. When little
pollen is obtained it is much more thoroughly moistened, and this is
particularly true in cases when the pollen is all, or nearly all,
collected in the region of the mouth, the forelegs, and head. When a
bee takes pollen from white or sweet clover practically all of it
first touches the bee in these regions. It immediately becomes moist,
and in this condition is passed backward until it rests within the
baskets. There is here no question of "dry" and "wet" pollen, or of
collecting movements to secure dry pollen from other regions of the
body, or of the ultimate method by which such free, dry pollen becomes
moist.
The sticky fluid which causes pollen grains to cohere is found upon
all of the legs, in the region of their brushes, although the pollen
combs and auricles of the hind legs are likely to show it in greatest
abundance, since nearly all of the pollen within each basket has
passed over the auricle, has been pressed upward and squeezed between
the auricle and the end of the tibia and the pollen mass above, and by
this compression has lost some of its fluid, which runs down over the
auricle and onto the combs of the planta. It is not necessary to
invoke any special method by which these areas receive their moisture.
The compressing action of the auricle squeezing heavily moistened
pollen upward into the basket is entirely sufficient to account for
the abundance of sticky fluid found in the neighborhood of each hind
tibio-tarsal joint. As has been noted, the brushes of the forelegs
acquire moisture directly by stroking over the proboscis and by
handling extremely moist pollen taken from the mouthparts. The
middle-leg brushes become moist by contact with the foreleg and
hind-leg brushes, probably also by touching the mouthparts themselves,
and by passing moist pollen backward. The hairy surface of the breast
is moistened by contact with the fore and mid leg brushes and with the
moist pollen which they bear.
The problem of the method of pollen moistening is somewhat more
complicated in the case of flowers which furnish an excessive supply.
Under such conditions the entire ventral surface of the collecting bee
becomes liberally sprinkled with pollen grains which either will be
removed and dropped or will be combed from the bristles and branching
hairs, kneaded into masses, transferred, and loaded. The question
naturally arises whether the movements here are the same as when the
plant yields but a small amount of pollen which is collected by the
mouthparts and anterior legs. In the opinion of the writer they are
essentially the same, except for the addition of cleansing movements,
executed chiefly by the middle and hind legs for the collection of
pollen which has fallen upon the thorax, upon the abdomen, and upon
the legs themselves. Indeed it is questionable as to just how much of
this plentiful supply of free pollen is really used in forming the
corbicular masses. Without doubt much of it falls from the bee and is
lost, and in cases where it is extremely abundant and the grains are
very small in size an appreciable amount still remains entangled among
the body-hairs when the bee returns to the hive. Yet it is also
evident that some of the dry pollen is mingled with the moistened
material which the mouthparts and forelegs acquire and together with
this is transferred to the baskets.
In all cases the pollen-gathering process starts with moist pollen
from the mouth region. This pollen is passed backward, and in its
passage it imparts additional moisture to those body regions which it
touches, the brushes of the fore and middle legs, the plantæ of the
hind legs, and the hairs of the breast which are scraped over by the
fore and middle leg brushes. This moist pollen, in its passage
backward, may also pick up and add to itself grains of dry pollen with
which it accidentally comes in contact. Some of the free, dry pollen
which falls upon the moist brushes or
|
train he could get for home. Dick's story interested the
gentleman, whose name was Mason. They said they would go and arrest the
thieves, while Dick was to stay at Mason's house until they came back.
This plan was carried out.
CHAPTER III.--Dick Meets the Mason Family.
The gentleman took Dick into the house by a side door and up a back
stairs to his own room. Here he provided the boy with a pair of long
stockings and his own slippers. Then he showed him where he could
wash his hands and face and brush his hair. While Dick was thus
employed, his host took his shoes and stockings down to the kitchen,
and instructed the cook to start up the fire and dry them as soon as
possible. He returned to his room and found that Dick had made a great
improvement in his personal appearance.
"Now we will go into the sitting room, and I will make you acquainted
with my family," he said. "They are greatly exercised over the robbery,
for the thieves made a clean sweep of this floor, and took all the
jewelry and other personal belongings of value, including a much-prized
set of silverware which my wife inherited from her mother. The loss
of the latter has made her quite ill, but when I tell her that we are
likely to recover all our property through the information furnished
by you, it will make her feel much better, and you will receive her
thanks."
Mrs. Mason, her unmarried sister, and Miss Madge were seated in a bunch
in the sitting room, looking very much dejected.
"Let me make you acquainted with Richard Darling, of New York," said
Mr. Mason.
Dick bowed and the ladies acknowledged the introduction in a solemn
way, expressive of the state of their feelings.
"You will be glad to learn that this young man has brought us a clue
to the rascals who robbed the house, and the constables have gone off
quite confident of capturing them and recovering our property," said
the gentleman.
His words produced a considerable change in the ladies.
"Do you really think, John, that they will be caught, and that we shall
get our things back?" asked his wife.
"I have strong hopes for it, for this lad's story confirms William's
statement that Samuel Parker is one of the men. According to his
account, the two rascals went over to Parker's house, where they
proposed to hide the plunder in a dry well on his grounds until it
could be safely taken away and disposed of."
Mr. Mason asked Dick to tell his story to the ladies, and he did so.
They expressed their astonishment that circumstances should have
brought him into the business, and declared that he was a fine, plucky
boy. They said they were sorry that his mother and sisters would
necessarily be worried about him, but he was sure to get home early in
the morning, probably about half-past two, and then their anxiety would
be allayed.
"In the meanwhile we will try and make your short stay with us as
pleasant as possible," said Mr. Mason, "and I assure you that you are
entitled to our grateful appreciation. We won't forget what we owe
you for the clue you have furnished us, even if those rascals are not
caught as soon as we expect. And now as you have missed your dinner, I
will see that a meal is prepared for you at once."
The gentleman left the room and the ladies continued conversing with
Dick. He was such a nice, polite boy, and gentle in his ways, as
lads brought up in a family of girls usually are, that they took a
great fancy to him. After a while Mr. Mason returned and told him to
accompany him downstairs. Dick found a nice meal waiting for him, and
as he was very hungry, he did full justice to it. While he was eating,
the constables returned, bringing their prisoners with them and also
the stolen goods. The ladies were pleased to death to learn that their
property had been recovered and, of course, gave all the credit for
it to Dick. After the office boy had finished eating he was taken
outside to identify the rascals, which he did. The servant William also
recognized them as the thieves. Bulger favored Dick with an unpleasant
look and told him he hoped to get even with him some day.
The rascals were then put in a wagon and carried to the lock-up of the
near-by village to be removed next morning to Carlin. Mr. Mason had his
auto brought out of the garage.
"I am ready to take you to the station at Carlin," he said.
Dick was quite ready to go with him. He bade the ladies and Miss Madge,
who had taken a decided liking to him, good-night, and he and his host
were presently en route for that town, which they reached in ample time
for Dick to connect with the midnight express. Thirty minutes later
he reached Jersey City, crossed the river and took an elevated train
for Harlem. He reached the flat where the family lived a few minutes
before two and found his mother and sisters all up and in a great stew
about him. He explained everything to them, and then the family retired
to make the most of the few hours before morning called them to arise
as usual, for the girls all worked in offices downtown and had to get
away about eight o'clock. Dick reached the store on time next morning,
in spite of the fact that his usual hours of sleep had been curtailed,
and he turned the change of the $5 bill over to the cashier; also
the receipt Mr. Goodrich had signed for the package. The office boy
attended to his duties until Mr. Bacon appeared about ten o'clock, when
he followed him into his office.
"You delivered the package to Mr. Goodrich all right, I suppose?" said
his employer.
"Yes, sir. I handed the receipt to the cashier."
Then Dick surprised Mr. Bacon with the story of his adventures with the
two thieves in New Jersey.
"You didn't have much sleep," said Mr. Bacon. "If you feel tired this
afternoon you can go home at four o'clock."
"Thank you, sir, but I don't think that will be necessary. I'll have
plenty of time to make up my lost rest by going to bed directly after
supper. Mr. Mason told me that I will be required to appear in court
at Carlin this afternoon when the men are brought up before the
magistrate. He told me I should take the half-past twelve train down,
and that he would meet me at the station. Can I go?"
"Certainly. I have no right to prevent you giving your testimony in
court."
That ended the interview. Dick went to Carlin that afternoon, was taken
to the court by Mason, and identified the men as the two thieves,
telling his story in a straightforward way. The rascals were held for
trial. Dick returned to New York by an express, reaching Jersey City at
half-past five, and within an hour got home, just in time to sit down
to supper.
CHAPTER IV.--The Missing Diamond.
Although Mr. Bacon was a wholesale dealer, he also did a considerable
retail trade as well. On the following morning a well-dressed man came
into the store and asked to see some fine diamonds. The clerk who
waited on him showed him a tray full of choice gems from two carats
up to five. The customer looked them over carefully, made several
selections, but the price was always too high for him to pay. He
tried to get the clerk to reduce the figure, but that was out of the
question, as Mr. Bacon had but one price for his goods. Finally the man
said that he would have to go elsewhere. As he started to leave the
sharp-eyed clerk noticed that a five-carat stone was missing from the
tray.
"One minute, sir," said the clerk. "You forgot to return one of the
diamonds you were looking at."
"I did? Nonsense! Do you take me for a thief? I only handled one of
them at a time and after looking it over laid it down on the showcase,
or on that mat."
"Nevertheless, one of the diamonds is missing," said the clerk, pushing
a button under the counter which summoned the manager of the store.
The customer waxed indignant and protested that he had no knowledge
whatever of the diamond. The clerk insisted that he must have it.
"Well, then, you can search me, but I think it's an outrage," said the
man.
The manager took him into his office and went through all his pockets,
and looked him over for a secret pocket, but there was none and the
diamond was not found on him.
"You see, I haven't got it," said the man. "Your clerk's eyesight is
defective. I don't believe there is a diamond missing at all from the
tray. He only thought there was."
Under the circumstances the customer was permitted to leave the store,
though the manager was pretty well satisfied that the clerk had made
no mistake. Dick had seen the man examining the diamonds, but had
noticed no suspicious movement on his part to get away with a gem. In
his opinion the man had been wrongfully accused. Once he had seen the
man put his left hand under the outside ledge of the showcase at the
bottom and hold it there for a moment, but he thought nothing of that.
At any rate, he knew there was no place there where a diamond could be
lodged even temporarily. The clerk looked over the floor on the outside
of the counter, but without result, so he felt sure that the customer
had managed to get away with it somehow. In about half an hour a lady
entered the store and went to the same counter. She wanted to look at
some new style rings. While the clerk was producing a couple of trays,
Dick, who was close by, saw her place her hand under the bottom ledge
of the showcase and run it along there about a foot, an action the
office boy thought strange. When she removed her hand she fumbled for
her pocket. A moment or two later she was looking at the rings the
clerk placed before her. At that juncture the manager called Dick and
sent him down the block with a message. As he was coming back he saw
the man who had been suspected of taking the diamond standing near the
curb about a hundred yards from the store. He seemed to be waiting for
some one.
Down the street came the lady whom Dick had left examining the rings.
She went directly up to the man and handed him something. Dick saw
him hold the article up and pick at it. In another moment he tossed
something away and put his finger and thumb into his vest pocket, then
the couple walked away. The meeting of these two persons struck Dick as
having a suspicious bearing on the missing diamond, though just what
the connection was he could not say. He looked at the place where he
had seen the man toss what the woman had handed him and saw a small,
dark object. He went and picked it up. It proved to be a wad of chewing
gum. Dick was disappointed with his discovery and was about to drop it
when he noticed a deep impression in it that looked like the imprint of
a diamond.
Then the truth came to his bright mind like a flash of inspiration. The
missing diamond had been stuck in the gum. Still that didn't explain
to his mind how the diamond had got there, or how the lady who had
been in the store half an hour after the man had come in possession
of the diamond. The matter puzzled him greatly, but of one thing he
was confident, and that was that the missing diamond was now in the
man's pocket. Under such circumstances he believed that it was his duty
to follow the pair. The couple turned into Nassau street and walked
leisurely northward. Dick kept on behind them in a rather doubtful
frame of mind. They kept straight on, passing the Tribune Building and
the other newspaper offices of the Row, and so on under the Brooklyn
Bridge entrance to the corner of North William, a narrow and short
street that cuts into Park Row at that point. They crossed the head of
this street and walked into a well-known pawnshop that stood there.
"I'll bet the man is going to pawn that diamond," thought Dick. "Well,
I'm going to see if he is."
He immediately followed them into the public room. He found them
standing before the long counter. A clerk came up to them.
"How much will you advance me for a month on that diamond?" asked the
man, taking the unset stone out of his pocket and laying it down on the
counter.
The size of the diamond corresponded with the missing one, and on the
spur of the moment Dick glided to the counter and grabbed it before the
clerk's fingers touched it.
"I don't think this shop will advance you a dollar on a stolen
diamond," he said, stepping back defiantly, ready to maintain his
employer's claim to the stone.
The woman gave a stifled exclamation and looked frightened.
"Give me that diamond!" cried the man.
"No, sir. Will you send for a policeman to settle this matter?" said
Dick to the clerk.
"Do you want me to send for an officer?" the clerk asked the man.
"No; I can settle my own business without a cop butting into it,"
replied the man savagely.
"Call an officer for me, then," said Dick. "I accuse this man of
stealing the diamond he asked you to fix a price on."
"How dare you call me a thief!" roared the man.
"Because that's what you are," answered Dick defiantly.
Customers coming into the pawnshop stopped to see what was going on. As
the case stood, all the advantage lay with Dick, for he had the article
in dispute, and possession is nine points of the law. As the racket was
highly undesirable in the pawnshop, the clerk decided to telephone for
a policeman to come and straighten things out, since neither Dick nor
the man showed any signs of giving in. The man himself realized that
things were growing desperate. The lady said something to him in a low
tone, but he shook his head impatiently. Evidently somebody had told a
policeman of the case, for just at this time an officer appeared.
CHAPTER V.--Dick Carries His Point.
"Well, what's the trouble here?" asked the officer.
"The trouble is that man stole a five-carat unset diamond from our
store and came here to pawn it. I followed him and got it away from
him. I expect the manager of the store here any moment so I want that
man detained till he comes," said Dick.
"It's a lie. The diamond is my property," said the accused wrathfully.
"He brought a lady with him and she has just run away," said Dick.
"That looks suspicious."
"She was frightened by the trouble that you raised, you young imp."
The policeman turned to the head clerk and asked for the facts as far
as he knew them. The chief clerk told the officer all that had happened
from the moment the parties to the dispute made their appearance.
"This boy has the diamond, then?" said the policeman.
"He has," answered the pawn clerk.
"Hand it to me, young man."
Dick took it out of his pocket and turned it over to the officer.
"You charge this man with the theft of the stone from your store?"
"I do."
"Did you see him take it?"
"I did not."
"Then how do you know he stole it?"
"Because circumstances point towards him."
"What do you mean by circumstances?"
Dick explained that the accused had called at the store and asked to
be shown some diamonds. A tray of the stones had been submitted to
his inspection under the eyes of the salesman. He looked over quite
a number, and finally said the prices were too high for him to pay.
Then he started to leave, but the salesman called him back because he
noticed that one of the diamonds was missing. The man finally submitted
to a search in the manager's office, and the diamond not being found on
him, he was allowed to go.
"You see," said the accused, brightening up, "there is no evidence
against me."
"You admit, then, you were in our store?" said Dick quickly.
"Yes, I never denied the fact."
"Is that so?" returned the boy. "A few minutes ago you said before this
clerk that you had not been in any store this morning. Isn't that a
fact?" added Dick, turning to the head clerk.
"Yes, he did say that," admitted the clerk.
"There you are," said Dick triumphantly.
"I couldn't have said such a thing," protested the man. "At any rate,
you have shown that I didn't steal the diamond from your store."
"I have merely admitted that I did not see you take the stone. You'll
have to explain how you came to have the missing stone in your
possession when you came here to pawn it."
"That stone belongs to the lady who was with me. It never came out of
your store."
"All right. When the manager arrives he will know the stone."
"I don't care what he will have to say about it. The stone belongs to
the lady."
"You have been claiming it as your own right along."
"Well, what's hers is mine, in a way."
"Is she your wife?"
"It's none of your business whether she is or not."
"She did not claim the stone from the time I grabbed it till she ran
away. If it was her property, I should think she would have put up a
big kick."
"Where is the store you claim to be connected with?" asked the
policeman.
"It's at No. -- John street. Mr. Roger Bacon is the proprietor."
At that moment the manager of the store entered with the diamond
salesman. Both of them immediately identified the accused as the man
who had visited the store an hour or more since, and the manager
corroborated all that Dick had already told about the circumstances of
the case.
"But you have no evidence against the man," said the policeman.
"I understand that he brought a diamond here to pawn. I'd like to see
it," said the manager.
The officer handed the five-carat stone to him. He looked it over and
handed it to the salesman.
"Is that the stone that you missed?" he said.
"Yes, that appears to be the stone," said the clerk.
"How do you recognize it?" asked the officer, who believed that all
unset diamonds of a size looked as much alike as all peas of a size.
The salesman explained that it was a part of his business to make
himself familiar with the looks and quality of all diamonds he had
charge of.
"Well, this may or may not be the stone you assert is missing from
your stock," said the policeman; "but as long as you can't show that
this man took it, I don't see how I can run him in without a regular
warrant."
"I think I can throw some light on the matter," said Dick at this point.
All hands looked at him.
"Here's a piece of gum which I saw that man throw into the street after
picking something out of it," he said, handing the gum to the manager.
"It evidently held the diamond, for it bears a clear impression of a
five-carat stone."
"It does, indeed!" said the manager.
"The lady who was in the store looking at rings when you sent me on the
errand came up to that man and handed him that piece of gum. It was
the singularity of their meeting that aroused my suspicions and caused
me to watch and then follow them to this place, particularly after I
picked the gum up and saw the impression of a diamond in it. I judged
at once that the man must have hidden the stone in the gum and left
it somewhere about the counter where the lady found it afterward and
brought it to him."
Dick's words seemed to make the matter quite clear to the manager, who
was familiar with many of the tricks adopted by diamond thieves to ply
their vocation without detection.
"The gum business is an old trick," said the manager. "It's a wonder it
did not occur to you," he added, looking at the salesman. "When a thief
comes into a store he sometimes carries a piece of adhesive gum like
that," he explained to the policeman. "The first thing he does is to
attach it to the bottom of the showcase, out of sight. Then he watches
his chance, and if he is a sufficiently expert sleight-of-hand artist,
he manages at some time during his inspection of the stones to convey a
diamond to the gum and force it into it. When the diamond is afterward
missed he cheerfully submits to a search, for the stolen stone is not
on his person. Later he sends a confederate into the store to get the
gum, under cover of an intention to make some kind of a purchase, other
than diamonds, at that counter. In this case, it is quite clear to me
that the lady was the man's confederate. I think I am fully justified
in demanding that fellow's arrest at our risk. It is too bad that the
woman got away, but I guess we'll be able to find her. You have her
description, Dick," he said to the office boy.
"Yes, sir. I'd recognize her on sight."
"Now, officer, you may arrest that man and take him to the police
station. We will go with you and make the charge," said the manager.
"All right," said the policeman. "Come on, my man, you'll have to go
with me."
That settled the case as far as the pawnshop was concerned, and the
party directly interested started with the officer and the prisoner for
the Brooklyn Bridge station. The charge was made against the man, who
gave his name as Jack Hurley, and he was locked up pending his removal
to the Tombs prison. The manager, salesman and Dick then returned to
the store. The former complimented the office boy on his smartness
in bringing the thief to justice, which would result in the ultimate
return of the valuable diamond to the store. Mr. Bacon, who had been
informed of the theft of the stone, was duly put in possession of
Dick's clever work toward its recovery and the punishment of the thief
and, it was hoped, his accomplice. He sent for his office boy and
added his compliments to those of the manager.
"You're a clever boy, Dick," he concluded, "and I'll see that you lose
nothing through your devotion to my interests. That's all."
Dick got up and returned to his duty.
CHAPTER VI.--Knocked Out.
Of course, the robbery of the diamond and Dick's brilliant rounding
up of the thief got into the afternoon papers. All the merchants and
clerks of the jewelry district downtown were talking about it before
closing-up time. Dick Darling, the boy in the knickerbockers, was voted
an uncommonly smart lad, and people who knew Mr. Bacon told him so.
One of Bacon's clerks after reading the story in the paper called Dick
over and showed it to him. Dick bought a couple of papers on his way
home and read both accounts. When he got to the house he handed one of
the papers to his mother and called her attention to the story. She
read it and was, of course, much surprised. Dick supplied her with many
additional particulars not in the paper.
"Mr. Bacon must be greatly pleased with you," said Mrs. Darling.
"Yes, mother, I dare say he thinks I'm all to the good."
His sisters nearly always read the evening paper on their way home. The
diamond theft having been given an important position on the first page
of the papers they bought that afternoon, it attracted their attention
right away. When they saw that the theft had taken place at the store
where their brother was employed, they read on with added interest.
Then when they saw Dick's name in cold type they became still more
interested. As he proved to be the chief figure in the story, next
to the thief, they grew quite excited over the story. Had they been
together, their exclamations and talk would have attracted attention in
the car, but they seldom came together on the same car or train, and so
they waited till they reached home to loosen up their tongues. And what
a jabbering there was in the little flat when they arrived within a few
minutes of each other. They surrounded their brother and plied him with
questions, till he broke away, declaring that they made his head ring.
Their excitement lasted all through supper. The sum total of their
opinion was that Dick was a regular hero, and they were awfully proud
of him. The morning papers repeated the story with a few additional
details, and Dick read it over again. Then he turned his attention to
the other news.
He generally saw everything that was in the papers, though he didn't
read everything, because he hadn't time to do so. A paragraph, however,
caught his attention this morning which interested him. It told of the
escape of Bulger and Parker from the Carlin jail. The jail was an old
one, and they had been lodged in a cell the window bars of which proved
to have become defective. At any rate, during the short time they were
locked up there, they managed to loosen two of the bars so they could
be removed during the night. From the window they reached the jail
yard, scaled the tall wall with its rusty spikes, and got away. Their
escape was not discovered until morning, when officers were at once
sent out to look for them.
Dick wondered if they would succeed in getting clear off. About eleven
that morning Dick, the manager and the diamond salesman, went to the
Tombs police court to appear against Jack Hurley, the diamond thief. He
was represented by a cheap lawyer, who employed browbeating tactics in
his client's behalf, but did not succeed in shaking the testimony of
the witnesses. Dick being the chief witness, the lawyer spared no pains
in his efforts to tangle the boy up. Finally he moved that his client
be discharged on the ground that there was no real evidence connecting
him with the theft of the diamond. The magistrate, however, refused to
accept his view of the matter, and remanded Hurley to the consideration
of the Grand Jury. During that month the store was closed at three on
Saturday afternoon. On the Saturday following the events narrated the
clerks were getting ready to leave, after having been paid off, when a
consignment of cases containing silverware arrived from the pier of one
of the Sound steamboats. The goods had been shipped by the factory in
Rhode Island the previous day, and had reached the city that morning,
but the truckman had not been able to fetch them to the store until
that hour.
As the manager had gone home, Mr. Bacon decided to stay himself and see
the cases taken in, and detained two clerks to attend to the work along
with the porter. An hour before, Dick had been sent up to the second
floor, which was used in part as a sample room, to arrange some of the
samples and move others out of the upright cases standing against the
walls. There was no clock on that floor, and Dick, forgetting it was
Saturday and that the house closed early, gave no attention to the
flight of time. The cashier, thinking he was out on an errand, left his
pay envelope on Mr. Bacon's desk, and the proprietor seeing it there,
also concluded that the manager had sent Dick out before he left. When
the truck came up, two rough-looking men were lounging on the opposite
side of the street. They were not there by accident, and since they
came there they had been watching the Bacon store in a furtive way. The
cases of goods were taken off the truck and sent down into the cellar.
While this work was under way one of the men strolled across the
street, and, watching his chance, sneaked into the store. He made his
way to the back and looked around. Seeing no one there, he walked
upstairs and found himself in the sample room. The sight of numerous
pieces of choice silverware of all kinds and sizes made him anxious,
and he made up his mind to get away with several of the least bulky
ones, which he could successfully conceal in his clothes. He approached
a case with the view of helping himself when he suddenly came upon
Dick, who was kneeling on the floor behind a table. The boy looked up
and uttered an exclamation, for he recognized the intruder as Bulger,
whose escape from the Carlin jail he had read about. Bulger recognized
him at the same moment, and, with an imprecation, seized him.
"So I've got hold of you again," he said. "Me and my pal have been
waitin' an hour to get a sight of you. We want to settle accounts with
you."
"More likely you'll be settled yourselves," said Dick pluckily. "I've
only to call out and some of the clerks will come up and take charge of
you."
"You won't do any callin' out if I can help it," said the rascal,
seizing the boy by the throat and choking him hard. Dick struggled in
vain to free himself from the burly man's grasp, but he was taken at a
disadvantage, and found himself quite powerless. He gasped for breath,
and was turning black in the face, when Bulger, not intending to kill
him, eased up a bit. The sight of the silverware within his reach had
put different thoughts into the fellow's head, and seeing the door of a
closet standing ajar, he dragged Dick to it, tied his wrists together
with a piece of cord, in a rough way, shoved him into the closet, and
shut the door tight.
Dick, though not wholly unconscious, was fast becoming so from the
effect of the choking, added to the lack of air in the closet. Bulger
quickly opened a case, abstracted several small pieces of silverware,
concealed them about his person, and hurriedly left the sample room,
sneaking downstairs and making for the front door. Mr. Bacon and the
clerks were so busily engaged with the cases of goods that they did not
notice the rascal slip out of the door and walk down the street, after
signaling to Parker, on the other side, to follow.
As soon as the goods had all been placed in the cellar, Mr. Bacon and
the two clerks re-entered the store. The merchant went into his office
to get a small package he was going to take home. Then the sight of
Dick's pay envelope on his desk made him remember the boy.
"I wonder where he was sent?" he asked himself.
It occurred to him to ask the clerks if they had any idea where he was.
He stepped outside where the young men were washing their hands and
putting on their coats.
"Does either of you know where Dick is?" he inquired.
"He's gone home," replied one of the clerks.
"That can't be, for his pay envelope is here waiting for him to claim
it."
"Is that so?" said the clerk.
"Yes; the cashier handed it to me and said he believed Mr. Dale had
sent him out on an errand."
"He might have done so, but he would have got back long before this,
for he knows that the store closes at three on Saturday."
"When did you see him last?"
"Something over an hour ago. He was then up on the next floor making
some changes in the sample cases."
"He might be up there yet."
"It isn't likely, for he would come down after his money when he saw it
was getting close to closing-up time."
"There's no clock up there, and, besides, he isn't a boy who watches
the clock, like some employees do for fear they will work a minute more
than they're paid for it. Dick is always interested in his work. I've
noticed that, and it is just possible he might have overlooked the fact
that it is Saturday. I am going up to see if he is there," said Mr.
Bacon.
The clerks followed him, curious to see if the boy was really still at
work. They found no sign of the office boy on the floor.
"He is not here," said Mr. Bacon. "Mr. Dale must have sent him on an
errand and he has been delayed."
The three were standing near the closet as the merchant spoke. It was
at that very moment that the subject of their thoughts finally became
senseless. Dick's head, falling forward when he lost consciousness, hit
the door, and the sound attracted the attention of the proprietor and
his two clerks.
"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Bacon.
He pulled the door open and the office boy fell out.
CHAPTER VII.--Dick and His Eldest Sister.
To say that Mr. Bacon and his clerks were both astonished and startled
would be stating the case quite mildly.
"My gracious!" cried the merchant. "What does this mean?"
One of the clerks stepped forward and raised Dick up.
"Why, his hands are bound!" he ejaculated, in surprise.
That fact was apparent to the others.
"Great heavens! How came he to be in this state?" cried Mr. Bacon. "Cut
him loose as quick as you can. Jones, run down to my office and fetch
a glass of the cognac you'll find on a shelf in the closet. This is
certainly a most singular occurrence. Somebody bound the boy and shut
him up in the closet. Nobody connected with the store would do such a
thing as that. And yet how could a stranger have got up here unnoticed?
A thief would not attempt to carry anything away before the clerks in
the store. I don't understand it at all."
Clerk Jones returned with a glass partly filled with cognac. When
Dick's head was lifted the clerk noticed the marks of Bulger's fingers
on the boy's throat. He pointed to them and said:
"Look there; he's been choked."
"My goodness! so he was," said the merchant. "This is a very strange
affair. But we'll be able to learn all about it as soon as he recovers
his senses."
The brandy was poured little by little into Dick's mouth, and as it
trickled down his throat it revived him and brought on a coughing
spell which ended in his opening his eyes. As soon as he was somewhat
recovered, Mr. Bacon said:
"Now tell us what happened to you, my boy. We found you in the closet
with your wrists tied together. It was by the merest accident that we
discovered you there. Your body fell against the door and made a noise.
But for that we should not have known you were there, and you would
have been locked up in the building until Monday morning."
Dick instinctively put his hand to his throat, for he felt the after
effects of the impress of Bulger's fingers. With some difficulty at
first, which wore off as he proceeded, Dick told his story.
He explained that the man who attacked him and put him out was one
of the two rascals he encountered down in New Jersey, and whom his
testimony had materially helped to fasten the crime of the burglary of
Mr. Mason's house upon. The men, he said, had escaped from the Carlin
jail within a day or two of being locked up, and it was now clear that
they had not been recaptured, but had made their escape to New York. It
seemed strange, he thought, that Bulger should have the nerve to enter
the store in quest of him, as his few words had indicated he had. It
showed what a vindictive and desperate scoundrel he was. Dick wound up
by asking if he had stolen anything, for it seemed likely that he would
not go away without helping himself to some of the valuable articles
that were within his easy reach.
That caused the clerks to examine the showcases, and they reported
that some of the small samples in the case nearest the closet
were missing from their place. Dick got up and confirmed their
statement, for he knew exactly what was in showcase at the time he
was attacked. An inventory of the loss showed that it was not very
considerable--probably not over $100. Mr. Bacon went downstairs to
notify the police department over the telephone about the affair,
acquaint them with the amount of the loss, and the fact that the
rascal who was implicated in the job had escaped, with his pal, from
the Carlin jail a few days before, and furnish Bulger's name and
description. Dick got his pay envelope, and by that time felt all
right again. The store was then locked up by the porter and all hands
separated for their homes. Bulger and Parker were caught that night
at a low resort frequented by men of their stamp, and Mr. Bacon was
notified by a policeman who called at the store on Monday morning.
Dick was sent up to headquarters to identify the men, which he had no
trouble in doing. The Carlin authorities were notified of their arrest,
and of the charge made against Bulger of assault and grand larceny, on
which the New York authorities proposed to hold him until the grand
jury returned an indictment against him. The Carlin authorities at once
started extradition proceedings in order to get the two men back to
stand trial for the robbery of Mr. Mason's house. In the end when the
papers were served on the New York police department, the indictment
against Bulger was pigeonholed for future use, and the men were
delivered to representatives of the Carlin police. They were tried for
the burglary almost immediately, and Dick appeared as a witness against
them. They were convicted, Bulger, on account of his record,
|
gy had been trying to culturate Epping, he'd worn
considerable horsehair off the sofa in Farmer Boggs' parlor, sitting
up nights with his daughter Ruby. Ruby was a nice cow-like girl, who
hadn't much to say and proved it when she talked, and as Algy was never
so happy as when he was doing all the talking, he got along with her
fine. Then, too, Pa Boggs owned free and clear the best farm in the
township, and had $15,000 salted away in Boston and Maine stock, and
Algy, for all his culture, wasn't overlooking any bets like those.
Where Algy went wrong, was in patronizing people he thought didn't know
as much as he. Whenever old man Boggs juggled beans with his knife,
Algy would smile upon him so condescendingly the old man would almost
bust with rage; and when Mrs. Boggs said "hain't" he would raise his
eyes as though calling upon heaven to forgive her; but what blew the
lid off came at a Browning Club meeting that Carrie had insisted upon
having at our house.
Algy imported a noted Professor to give a talk on Prehistoric Fish, and
when the great man had finished, we all stood around, the girls telling
him how much they enjoyed it, and the men wishing he would go, so they
could retire to the kitchen and shirt sleeves. Poor Ruby, during a lull
in the general conversation, started the old chestnut about Ben Perkins
the light keeper at Kittery falling down the light house stairs, ending
with, "and you know he had a basket of eggs in one hand, a pitcher of
milk in the other, and when he reached the bottom they had turned into
an omelette. Ain't spinal stairs awful?"
At the word "spinal" the Professor snickered, and Algy who was always
nasty when Ruby made a break, said, "I'm surprised at your ignorance
Ruby: you mean spiral."
Ruby began to cry, and everyone looked uncomfortable. I was hopping
mad. I guess maybe it was the tight patent leather shoes I had on.
Anyway I'd seen about enough of Algy.
"Shut up, you Goat," I snapped at him. "Haven't you brains enough to
know she meant the back stairs!"
Algy claimed he was insulted.
I allowed it wasn't possible.
Then he said he was a fool to have tried to culturize Epping.
I said I reckoned his allowing he was a fool, made it unanimous, and
invited him out in the yard to settle things, although I never could
have hit him, if he had accepted my invitation.
In two weeks Algy left town, and the next fall Ruby married Will Hayes
over at George's Mills, and has been happy ever since.
Ted, I wouldn't think too much about those clubs. There's no use
worrying about what people think of you; probably they don't. You've
only been at Exeter a few weeks, so if I were you I wouldn't jump into
the river yet. Now I'll admit it will please me if you are elected to a
club, but if you aren't, I'm not going to go around with my head bowed
in shame, and neither are you, for ten years from now, no one will be
greatly interested whether you belonged to the Belta Pelts or the Plata
Dates, and above all things don't toady. Eating dirt never got anyone
anything. Look at Russia.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_November 6, 19--_
DEAR TED:
I'm glad you've been elected to the Plata Dates, if for no other reason
than because now that you have stopped worrying whether you would be,
you will have time to worry about your studies. Don't you fool yourself
that because E stood for excellent at the high school, I don't know
that it stands for Execrable at Exeter. Now you are on the football
team, it's better to have an E on your sweater, than on your report.
I thought when you were elected to the Plata Dates, you would be
bubbling over with joy, but your letters are about as cheerful as a
hearse. The teachers are picking on you, the football coach doesn't
recognize your ability, and even the seniors so far ignore your
presence, by failing to remove their hats and step into the gutter when
you come along.
Whatever you do, don't get sorry for yourself. There's nothing in the
world more silly than a person who is sorry for himself, and the ones
who are, are always the ones who have no cause to be. Now I don't
believe for a minute that the teachers at Exeter have picked you alone,
out of five hundred boys, to jump on; they're too busy, and I guess
your coach's main idea is to get a team together that can lick Andover,
so it might be well, if you are finding people hard to please, to ask
yourself if it's their fault.
If you go into your classrooms with only part of your lessons learned,
you aren't going to fool your teachers very long, and if you go on to
the football field with an air that the coach can't show you anything
he's not likely to try. Half knowledge, is the most dangerous thing in
the world. I never saw a successful shoe manufacturer who only had half
knowledge of making shoes, and I guess Walter Camp isn't putting anyone
on his All American, who only knows how to play his position half way.
You might as well make up your mind, Ted, to learn Virgil, from the
"Arma virumque cano" thing to Finis. And it's just as well to let the
coach think he can show you something about football: he only played
three years on the Harvard 'Varsity, and even if you do know more than
he, it will make him feel good.
Being sorry for yourself is a bad habit. I had it once for a whole
year, and believe me it was the worst year I ever put in, and I'm
counting the panic of 1907 too.
I'd been super. over at Clough & Spinney's in Georgetown for three
years, and had the little shop running like a high-grade watch, when
Henry Larney of Larney Bros. in Salem died and left the whole show to
his son Claude. "But in trust" nevertheless, as the wills say, and it's
a mighty good thing he did for Claude spent most of his time and all
his money at Sheepshead Bay and Saratoga Springs, and couldn't tell a
last from a foxing.
Old Josiah Lane was trustee, and having about as much respect for
Claude's ability as a shoemaker as I have for the Bolsheviki as
business men, he looked around for someone to run the factory and
lighted on me.
When I got over being dizzy at the thought of running a five thousand
pair factory, I grabbed the job, because I was afraid I'd refuse it if
I stopped to consider the responsibility. That's a pretty good plan for
you to follow, Ted. Don't let a big job scare you, just lay right into
it, and if you keep both feet on the floor and don't rely too much on
the bridge to make fancy shots, pretty soon the job begins to shrink,
and you begin to grow, and before long you fit.
I had every possible kind of trouble with the factory: a strike that
tied us up flat for eight weeks in the middle of the summer, to a fire
in the storehouse that destroyed five thousand cases of shoes and every
blamed time I was in the midst of a mess, old Josiah Lane would blow
in, and blow up. It seemed like the old cuss was always hovering around
like a buzzard over a herd of sick cattle, and when he lighted on me
I felt as though he went away with chunks of my hide in his skinny
fingers.
I was the worst shoemaker in the world, couldn't handle help, was
a rotten financial man, had no head for details, and was so poor a
buyer, it was a wonder some of the leather companies didn't run me for
governor. As for production, he could make more shoes with a kit of
cobbler's tools, than I could turn out with the help of the S. M. Co.
That old bird used to sit in the office chewing fine cut, and drawling
out sarcastic remarks, until I could have knocked him cold; but even
then I realized that a man who made shoes from pegs to welts, knew
something, and I needed all the knowledge I could get.
After every bawling out, old Josiah used to creak to his feet,
remarking, "I'll give ye another trial though I'm foolish to do it,"
while I stood by trembling with rage, wishing I wasn't married so I
could bust his ugly old head open with a die.
Gosh! I used to get mad for the things that happened weren't my fault.
First, I thought how foolish I'd been to leave my soft job at Clough &
Spinney's, then, I began to get mad at the factory, myself, and all the
daily troubles that were forever piling in on me, and I determined I'd
lick that job if it killed me.
I gave more time to listening to old Josiah at my periodical dressing
downs, and less time to hating him, and I lived in that old ark of a
factory, until I knew every nail in every beam in its dirty ceiling,
and could run any machine in it in the dark.
Along in the late fall, the monthly balance sheets began to look less
like the treasury statements of the Dominican Republic, but they
weren't so promising that there was any danger of J. P. Morgan coming
to me for advice on how to make money, and on the 15th of December I
wrote out my resignation, and handed it to old Josiah. The old man
never even read it. Just tore it up, threw it under the desk, and sat
chewing his fine cut, until I thought I'd jump out the window if he
didn't say something.
"Want to git through do ye?" he drawled at last.
"I don't want to, I am," I snapped back.
Old Josiah reached in his pocket and handed me a paper. I opened it
and nearly fainted. It was a three year contract calling for an annual
$1000 increase in salary.
When I hit the earth again, I looked at the old man sitting there
wagging his jaws and grinning, but somehow his smile had lost its
sarcasm, and he seemed less like one of these gargoyle things that
the foreigners hang on the outside of their churches, and more like a
shrewd kindly old Yankee shoemaker.
Ted, I learned something that year besides how to run a big shoe
factory. I learned that a rip snorting bawling out doesn't necessarily
mean your superior thinks you a lightweight: if he couldn't see
ability, he wouldn't take the trouble to cuss you. So when your
teachers, or the coach, land on you don't think of "Harry Carey", (that
isn't right but it's the nearest I can come to Jap for suicide) but if
they land on you twice for the same mistake, pick out a nice deep spot
in the jungle. If you don't the ivory hunters will get you.
Cheer up Ted crepe is expensive, and when you get blue be glad of the
things you haven't got. I will be in Exeter Saturday afternoon. Look
for me on the 1:30.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_November 20, 19--_
DEAR TED:
I didn't say anything about it when you were home last Sunday, for you
were so happy basking in the glory of that thirty-five yard drop-kick
that won the Andover game I hadn't the heart to cast any gloom, but
honestly Ted, as a deacon in the First Church I don't enjoy walking to
service with a son who looks like a combination of an Italian sunset
and a rummage sale of Batik draperies.
It's perfectly true that clothes don't make the man, but they help to,
and because Joseph wore a coat of many colors and was chosen to rule a
nation, is no reason for a young fellow to get himself up like an Irish
Comedian at Keith's and expect to do likewise.
Customs have changed a little in the last few thousand years, and
although it may still be true that a South Sea Islander may rule the
tribe by virtue of being the proud possessor of a plug hat and a red
flannel petticoat, it doesn't follow that a passionate pink tie with
purple dots, and pea green silk socks with bright yellow clocks, will
help you to sell a bill of goods to a hard-headed buyer in Kenosha,
Wisconsin.
I don't want to rub it in too hard, for I realize that in boys there's
an age for loud clothes, the same as there is in puppies for distemper,
and that if given the right treatment they usually survive and are none
the worse for their experience.
I won't hire a salesman who wears sporty clothes and carts around a lot
of jewelry, for when one of my men is calling on the trade he is not
exhibiting the latest styles in haberdashery, but the latest samples
of the "Heart of the Hide" line, for I've learned that a buyer whose
attention is distracted from the goods in question is a buyer lost.
All this reminds me of an experience I had when I was in my first and
only year at Epping Academy. The Academy was really a high school
although I believe my father did pay $10 a year for my tuition, and the
teachers were called professors.
Well anyhow, at that time my one ambition in life was to own a real
tailor-made suit, vivid color and design preferred.
Now buying my clothes had always been a simple matter, for when I
needed a new suit which in my father's estimation was about once in two
years, my mother and I drove over to the "Golden Bee Emporium: Boots
& Shoes, Fancy Goods & Notions" at Bristol Centre, where, after much
testing for wool between thumb and finger, and with the aid of lighted
matches, and in direct opposition to my earnest request for brighter
colors, I was always fitted out in a dark gray, or blue, or brown,
ready made, and three sizes too large so I could grow into it.
One afternoon on my way home from school, I stopped in at the Mansion
House, to see if I could persuade Cy Clark, the clerk, to go fishing
on the following Saturday. As I entered the door an array of tailors'
samples, on a table by a front window, caught my eye. All thoughts of
Cy promptly left my mind as I let my eyes feast longingly upon their
checks and plaids and stripes.
The salesman, seeing that his wares had me running in a circle, assured
me that the Prince of Wales had a morning suit exactly like one of his
particularly violent black and white checks and that Governor Harrison
had just ordered three green and red plaids.
The salesman informed me that $25 was the regular price but as a
special favor I could buy at $20. Now I had $18 at home which I had
earned that summer picking berries and doing chores, and finally
protesting so violently I was sure he was going to weep, the drummer
gave in and I raced home, broke open my china orange bank, and was back
at the hotel having my measurements taken inside of ten minutes, for I
was mortally afraid some one else would snap up the prize in my absence.
For the next three weeks I hung around the express office so much that
old Hi Monroe threatened to lick me if I didn't keep away and not
pester him.
Finally my suit came.
To tell the truth, I was somewhat startled, when I opened the box, for
although the sample was pretty noticeable, the effect of the cloth made
up in a suit was wonderful. From a background of stripes and checks of
different colors, little knobs of brilliant purple, yellow, red, blue,
and green broke out like measles on a boy's face, and I felt that maybe
after all I had been a little hasty in my choice.
But when I tried the suit on, and gazed at myself in the mirror, my
confidence returned, and I felt I had the one suit in town that would
make people sit up and take notice. I was right.
I entered the dining room that evening just as my father was raising
his saucer of tea to his lips.
"Good heavens!" he cried, spilling the tea in seven different
directions.
"Why William, what have you got on?" my mother asked.
My brother Ted answered for her, "A rug."
Do you know Ted, blamed if that suit didn't look like a rug, an
oriental one made in Connecticut, and your Uncle called the turn,
although I never forgave him for it. That's why I named you after him.
At first, my father vowed no son of his was going to wear play actor's
clothes around the village, but when he heard I had paid $18 for the
suit, he changed his mind and said he wouldn't buy me another until it
was worn out.
Your Uncle Ted made a lot of cheap remarks about rugs, which I put down
to jealousy, and general soreheadedness, because I had made him pay
me the day before, a dollar he owed me for six months. Even Grandma
Haskins vowed it looked more like a crazy quilt than a suit of clothes,
and I was feeling pretty blue until my mother made them lay off.
[Illustration]
Next morning, I started for school, full of pride in my new clothes for
I was sure my folks didn't know a nobby suit when they saw it, although
there were knobs enough on that one for a blind man to see.
Ted had sneaked out ahead of me though, and when I reached the school
yard I was greeted with cries of "Rug," and "Good morning, your Royal
Highness," and "How's Governor Harrison this morning?" Ted had told
them all.
On the way home, I met old Jed Bigelow in the square driving a green
horse. Just as the horse got along side of me he shied, and then ran
away throwing Jed into the ditch and ripping a wheel off his buggy.
I always thought it was a piece of paper that did the trick, but Jed
swore it was the suit and threatened to send the constable after me.
How I hated that suit. At the end of two days I would never have worn
it again but my father hid my other clothes and would only let me wear
them to church on Sundays. Then I did my best to spoil it by wrestling
and playing football in it, but the cloth was about an inch thick, it
wouldn't tear and mud came off it like cheap blacking comes off a pair
of shoes.
Finally, at the end of the month, my mother came to my rescue and sent
it to the poor in Boston and I want to state right here that it's
probably still being worn somewhere in the slums of that city, for it
never would wear out. It was the only indestructible suit ever made.
Of course I know that as end on the football team you have a certain
position to uphold, and I want you always to look well dressed; but I
do wish you would try to choose clothes that I can't hear before you
turn the corner, and by the way Ted, everything's going up except your
marks. Now the football season's over perhaps you'll have more time to
study. I'd try if I were you, it can't hurt you any.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_December 1, 19--_
DEAR TED:
I can't say I was totally unprepared for the news, when your report
came yesterday, for I met Professor Todd at the club a week ago and
much against his will he had to admit, that when he asked you in your
oral English exam., who wrote "The Merchant of Venice," you weren't sure
whether it was Irvin Cobb or Robert W. Chambers.
Naturally, I expected a disaster when the fall marks came, but I was
not prepared for a massacre. I had hoped for a sprinkling of C's with
maybe a couple of B's thrown in careless like for extra poundage; but
that flock of D's and E's got under my hide. It's all very well, for
you to say that you can't see how it's going to help you make shoes
to know how many steps A must take to walk around three sides of a
square field two hundred feet to a side, if he wears number eight shoes
and stops two minutes when half way round to watch a dog fight; but
let me tell you one thing, son, any training that will teach you to
think quickly, and get the right answer before the other fellow stops
scratching his head, is valuable. And to-day, in the shoe business, the
man who can trim all the corners and figure his product to fractions,
is the man who buys the limousines, while the fellow who runs on the
good old hit or miss plan is settling with the leather companies for
about fifteen cents on the dollar, and his wife is wondering whether
she can make money by giving music lessons.
Probation is a good deal like the "flu": easy to get, and liable to be
pretty serious if you don't treat it with the respect it deserves.
It isn't as if you were a fool. No son of your Ma's let alone mine
could be, and your Grandfather Soule could have made a living selling
snowballs to the Eskimos. It's pure kid laziness, and shiftlessness,
mixed in with a little too much football, and not enough curiosity to
see what's printed on the pages of your school books.
Now you're on probation, there's only one thing to do, and that's
what the fellow did who sat down by mistake on the red hot stove, and
the quicker you do it the more comfortable it's going to be for all
concerned including yourself.
So far as I've been able to see, there's no real conspiracy among the
teachers at Exeter to prevent your filling your pockets with all the
education you can carry away, and if I were you I'd be real liberal
in helping myself. Education is a pretty handy thing to have around,
and it stays by you all your life. Just because I've succeeded without
much, is no sign you can, and anyway you'll feel a lot more comfortable
later on when the conversation turns to history, and you know the
Dauphin was the French Prince of Wales, and not a fish, as I always
thought, until I looked the word up in the Encyclopedia.
Now I want you to sail into that Math., just as you hit the Andover
quarter when he tried your end, and drop old J. Cæsar with a thud
before he can get started. I know J. C. was a pretty tough bird, and
how he ever found time to write all those books between scraps, I never
could quite understand, unless he only fought an eight hour day, but
it's your job to get him and get him hard.
One thing, Ted, that's going to save you heaps of trouble if you can
only get it firmly fixed in that head of yours, is that you can't get
anywhere or anything without WORK.
Just because you're the old man's son, isn't going to land you in a
private office when you start in with William Soule. There's only one
place in this factory a young fellow can start, whether he's a member
of the Soule family or the son of a laborer, and that's bucking a truck
in the shipping room at twelve per, where he'll get his hands full of
splinters from the cases, and a dressing down from Mike that'll curl
his hair whenever he makes a fool mistake.
There's no short cut to achievement, and work is what'll land you on
the top of the heap quicker than anything else, although I've seen a
lot of lightweights who spent enough time working hard to avoid work,
to succeed with half their energy if spent in the right direction.
That reminds me of a fellow named Clarence I hired some years ago to
make himself generally useful around the office. He said he was looking
for work and he told the truth all right. He wanted to find out where
it was, so he could keep away from it.
I let him stay a couple of months because I rather enjoyed watching
his methods. In the morning, he would spend the first two hours
scheming how to get the other clerks to do his work for him, and in the
afternoon he was so blame busy seeing they had done it, he had little
time to do anything else. I had seen people who hated work, but I had
never seen anyone before who avoided it as though it were the plague.
The last straw came one afternoon when old Cyrus White of Black &
White, the big St. Louis jobbers, walked out of my private office just
after giving me an order for three thousand cases and tripped in a cord
that fool work avoider Clarence had rigged up, so he could raise or
lower the window shade without leaving his desk.
Now old Cy weighs about two twenty and Clarence who had looped one end
of the string around his wrist weighed about ninety-eight pounds with
a straw hat on, so when Cy went down with a crash that shook the whole
factory, he just naturally yanked Clarence right out of his chair,
and the two of them became so tangled up in the cord, they lay like a
couple of trussed fowls while the water cooler which had also capsized
gurgled spring water down old Cy's neck.
[Illustration]
You're right, I lost that three thousand case order, and it was ten
years before I could sell old Cy another bill of goods, and to make
matters worse, I had to pay Clarence $200 damages, for in his rage Cy
nearly bit off one of his ears. Ever since, when I find anyone on my
pay roll who is working to avoid work, he gets a swift trip to the
sidewalk.
Now I'm not going to stop your allowance because you're on probation,
I've more heart for the suffering Exeter shopkeepers than to do that.
Neither am I going to forbid your going to the Christmas house party:
those would be kid punishments and you're no longer a kid, although
you've been acting like one for some time.
I'm simply putting it up to you as a man to get off probation by New
Year's, and I want you to remember that as a 'varsity' end you've got
to set a good example to the "preps." Think it over.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_December 10, 19--_
DEAR TED:
I always thought J. Cæsar, Esq., and one Virgil wrote Latin, but when I
was in your room last Saturday afternoon I saw you had copies of their
books in English.
Now I'll admit that an English translation is the only way I could ever
read those old timers. Latin is as much a mystery to me as the income
tax; but one reason I am sending you to Exeter, is so you can play
those fellows on their home grounds with a fair chance of winning.
I always thought you were a pretty good sport Ted, and I have always
tried to teach you the game, and to play it square. I still think
you're a good sport, and the only reason you are using those "trots" is
because you haven't stopped to consider how unfair it is to J. Cæsar &
Co.
I have a sneaking sort of liking for those old birds. J. Cæsar was the
world's first heavyweight champion, and in his palmy days could have
made Jack Dempsey step around some, and as for Virgil he could make
words do tricks even better than I. W. W. meaning I. Woodrow Wilson. So
it was a sort of shock to me to see you giving them a raw deal.
When you get right down to cases, son, your lessons are one of the
few things that can't beat you if you study 'em, so it's pretty small
punkins to try to rig the game against 'em. A shoemaker can buy his
leather right, and figure his costs correctly on an order, but the
buyer may get cold feet and refuse them, or the unions may call a
strike, or one of about a hundred other things may happen to knock the
profits higher than one of Babe Ruth's home runs.
With lessons it's different. Study them and they can't beat you. You
wouldn't expect much glory if the Andover team you beat had been
made up of one legged men. What about the handicap you're making the
All-Romans play under when you tackle them with a couple of "trots" in
your fists.
There's another reason I don't want you using "trots", and it's because
it's liable to get you into the habit of doing things the easiest
way. Now anyone is a boob if he doesn't do a thing the easiest way
provided it's the right way; but he's more of a boob if he does a thing
the easiest way only because it's the easiest way. And using English
translations on your Latin is like paying number one prices for a block
of poor damaged leather: it may be easier to get the leather, but when
it's made into shoes and you begin to hunt for the profit you find it's
gone A. W. O. L.
I don't remember ever having told you about Freddy Bean, but speaking
of doing things the easiest way reminds me of him, so while I have the
time I'll tell you.
Freddy's Pa ran a little store in Epping just across from the railroad
station, where according to its sign he sold Books, Magazines,
Newspapers & Stationery, and as he owned his own house and had a
thrifty wife he managed to make a living although Epping was not a
literary community. Pa Bean was an inoffensive little fellow who always
wore a white tie with his everyday clothes, and loved to work out the
piano rebuses in the newspapers in the evenings. He had advanced ideas
on politics, was a single taxer, and to-day would be classed as a
radical. Then we used to call him Half-Baked.
Freddy was a good average boy and likeable enough except for his one
bad habit of wanting to do everything the easiest way, and believe me
he carried it to extremes.
He used to sleep in his clothes because it was easier than dressing
in the morning, but his Ma walloped that out of him. Then he had the
bright idea of putting a sign with the price marked on it on most of
the articles in his Pa's shop and going to the ball game, when the old
gentleman went over to Bristol Centre Saturday afternoons on business.
This worked all right at first for the Epping folks were honest, but
one Saturday some strangers carried off about $100 worth of goods and
Freddy got his from his father and got it good.
I could tell you a lot about the messes Freddy got into trying to do
things the easiest way, but the super. is hanging around with a lot of
inventory sheets so I'll have to cut this short with Freddy's prize
performance. One summer morning Freddy's Pa and Ma went away for the
day, but before they started Half Baked led Freddy out into the yard,
shoved an axe into his unwilling hands and ordered him to cut down an
oak that stood close to one side of the house, and was growing so big
it was shutting out a lot of sunlight.
Now there wasn't a boy in Epping at that time who hadn't had
considerable experience in chopping wood, unless it was Sammy Smead and
he never counted anyway except on the afternoon we initiated him into
the Brothers of Mystery, and there wasn't one of us who didn't hate it;
but Freddy loathed it more than anything else, principally I guess,
because there wasn't any easy way out. If you had to cut wood you had
to cut it, and that's all there was to it.
Along about two that afternoon, a crowd of us boys bound for the
swimming hole happened by Freddy's house, and found him pretty limp and
blistery. He'd only hacked about half through the tree, but I think his
mental anguish was worse than his physical exhaustion, because scheme
as he might he had hit on no easy way to fell that oak, and the job
looked as though it would last till sundown.
Freddy was a good diplomat, and he tried all the Tom Sawyer stuff on us
he carried, but not a chance. There was not one of us who would chop
wood when he didn't positively have to, and it looked as though Freddy
was going to chop until the job was finished, when Dick Harris said
something about blowing it up with some gunpowder his father had stored
in a keg in his corn crib.
There was not one of us who would have helped Freddy cut down the tree,
neither was there one of us who would refuse to help him blow it up,
and Freddy, because he saw an easy way out, was the most enthusiastic
of all.
We did it. First we dug a hole about four feet deep at the foot of
the tree and buried the keg of powder after boring a hole in the top
for a fuse. We packed the dirt down tight all around the keg leaving
just enough loose to run the fuse through. Then Freddy as master of
ceremonies lighted the fuse and we stepped back to wait results.
We didn't wait long. There was a roar and we found ourselves on the
grass in the midst of what resembled a volcano on the war path. Dirt,
stones, grass, sticks, and heaven knows what else were milling around
us in clouds, and out of the corner of one eye I saw Ma Bean's geranium
bed sail gaily across the street and drape itself over Mrs. Harry
Brown's front gate. Glass was falling around us like shrapnel, for
every window in the Bean's house shivered itself out onto the lawn.
The tree--well, Sir, it fell on the house, knocked off a chimney and
broke down the piazza roof, and the next day Half Baked had to hire
Jed Snow's team of oxen to pull it clear before they could even start
cutting it up.
[Illustration]
I've a very vivid recollection of what my father gave me, and I rather
think Freddy's was the same only more so, in fact none of the crowd
slid bases for some time, and Half Baked made Freddy cut six cords of
wood during the next month.
I don't know what has become of Freddy, but I have never seen his name
in the headlines, so I guess he's still hunting for easy ways to do
things, but you can bet he's left gunpowder out of his schemes for the
last forty years.
Now Ted you just mail me those "trots." I'll enjoy them, and you give
those old timers a fair show from now on. It's not sporting Ted to pull
a "pony" on them, for they can't win any way if you don't want them to.
Play the game.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_January 27, 19--_
DEAR TED:
That notice from Professor Todd stating that you had been taken off
probation was the most welcome bit of news I've had in a long time, and
the enclosed check is my way of saying thank you.
I knew if you once stopped fooling and got right down to cases, that
none of those old best sellers like J. C. or Virgil could hold you for
downs, and as for Quadratic Equations, your instructor writes me that
if you'll take 'em seriously you can make 'em eat out of your hand.
Now you're again on speaking terms with your lessons, you can keep
their friendship by visiting with them a couple of hours a day, and
when they once learn you mean business they'll follow you around like a
hungry cat follows the milk man.
There's nothing succeeds like success, whether it's getting respectable
marks in your studies, or selling shoes, and if you don't believe it
ask Charlie Dean.
Probably you've always thought of Charlie as my star salesman and
you're right, but it wasn't many years ago Charlie couldn't have sold
five dollar gold pieces for a quarter, even if he gave a patent corn
cutter away with each as a premium.
Charlie came to work for me right out of the high school, and as he was
always willing to do a little more than his share around the office, I
decided to give him a try on the road, where he'd have a chance to make
real money. So when a younger salesman left me one New Year's, I put
Charlie through a course of sprouts in the factory to be sure he knew
how the "Heart of
|
thought it would ever be like that with Piero and me. I worship his
very shadow, and he does--or he did--worship mine. Why should that
change? Why should it not go on for ever, as it does in poems? If it
can't, why doesn't one die?'
_From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg, to the
Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset._
'What a goose you are, you dearest Gladys! You were always like that.
To all you have said I can only reply, _connu_. When girls are romantic
(and you always were, though it was quite gone out ages before our
time), they always expect husbands to remain lovers. Now, my pet, you
might just as well expect hay to remain grass. Papa was quite right.
When there is such a lot of steam on, it must go off by degrees. I am
afraid, too, you have begun with the passion, and the rapture, and the
mutual adoration, and all the rest of it, which is _quite, quite gone
out_. People don't feel in that sort of way nowadays. Nobody cares
much; a sort of good-humoured liking is the utmost one sees. But you
were always such a goose! And now you must marry an Italian, and expect
it all to be balconies and guitars and moonlight for ever and ever.
I think it quite natural he should want to get to Paris. You should
never have taken him to Coombe. I do remember the rose gardens, and
the lime avenues, and the ruins; and I remember being sent down there
when I had too strong a flirtation with Philip Rous, who was in F. O.,
and had nothing a year. You were a baby then, and I remember that I was
bored to the very brink of suicide; that I have detested the smell of a
lime tree ever since. I can sympathise with the Prince, if he longs to
get away. There can't be anything for him to do, all day long, except
smoke. The photo of him is wonderfully handsome, but can you live all
your life, my dear, on a profile?'
_From the Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady
Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg._
'Because almost all Englishmen have snub noses, Englishwomen always
think there is something immoral and delusive about a good profile.
At all events, you will admit that the latter is the more agreeable
object of contemplation. It still rains, rains dreadfully. The meadows
are soaked, and they can't get the hay in, and we can't get out of the
house. Piero does smoke, and he does yawn. He has been looking in the
library for a French novel, but there is nothing except Mrs Craven's
goody-goody books, and a boy's tale by Jules Verne. I am afraid you and
Mamma are right. Coombe, in a wet June, is not the place for a Roman
who knows his Paris by heart, and doesn't like the country anywhere.
We seem to do nothing but eat. I put on an ulster and high boots,
and I don't mind the rain a bit; but he screams when he sees me in
an ulster. "You have no more figure in that thing than if you were a
Bologna sausage," he says to me; and certainly ulsters are very ugly.
But I had a delicious fortnight with the Duchess in a driving tour in
Westmeath. We only took our ulsters with us, and it poured all the
time, and we stayed in bed in the little inns while our things dried,
and it was immense fun; the Duke drove us. But Piero would not like
that sort of thing. He is like a cat about rain. He likes to shut the
house up early, and have the electric light lit, and forget that it
is all slop and mist outside. He declares that we have made a mistake
in the calendar, and that it is November, not June. I change my gowns
three times a day, just as if there were a large house party, but I
feel I look awfully monotonous to him. I am afraid I never was amusing.
I always envy those women who are all _chic_ and "go," who can make
men laugh so at rubbish. They seem to carry about with them a sort of
exhilarating ether. I don't think they are the best sort of women, but
they do so amuse the men. I would give twenty years of my life if I
could amuse Piero. He adores me, but that is another thing. That does
not prevent him shaking the barometer and yawning. He seems happiest
when he is talking Italian with his servant, Toniello. Toniello is
allowed to play billiards with him sometimes. He is a very gay, merry,
saucy, brown-eyed Roman. He has made all the maids in the house, and
all the farmers' daughters round Coombe, in love with him, and I told
you how he had scandalised one of the best tenants, Mr John Best.
The Bedford rustics all vow vengeance against him, but he twangs his
mandoline, and sings away at the top of his voice, and doesn't care
a straw that the butler loathes him, the house steward abhors him,
the grooms would horsewhip him if they dare, and the young farmers
audibly threaten to duck him in the pond. Toniello is very fond of his
master, but he does not extend his allegiance to me. Do you remember
Mrs Stevens, Aunt Caroline's model housekeeper? You should see her face
when she chances to hear Piero laughing and talking with Toniello. I
think she believes that the end of the world has come. Piero calls
Toniello "_figliolo mio_" and "_caro mio_," just as if they were
cousins or brothers. It appears this is the Italian way. They are very
proud in their own fashion, but it isn't our fashion. However, I am
glad the man is there when I hear the click of the billiard balls, and
the splash of the raindrops on the window panes. "We have been here
just three weeks. _Dio!_ It seems three years," Piero said, when I
reminded him of it this morning. For me, I don't know whether it is
like a single day's dream or a whole eternity. You know what I mean.
But I wish--I wish--it seemed either the day's dream or the eternity
of Paradise to him! I daresay it is all my fault in coming to these
quiet, bay-windowed, Queen Anne rooms, and the old-fashioned servants,
and the dreary look-out over the drenched hay-fields. But the sun does
come out sometimes, and then the wet roses smell so sweet, and the wet
lime blossoms glisten in the light, and the larks sing overhead, and
the woods are so green and so fresh. Still, I don't think he likes it
even then, it is all too moist, too windy, too dim for him. When I
put a rose in his button-hole this morning, it shook the drops over
him, and he said, "_Mais quel pays!--même une fleur c'est une douche
d'eau froide!_" Last month, if I had put a dandelion in his coat, he
would have sworn it had the odour of the magnolia and the beauty of
the orchid! It is just twenty-two days ago since we came here, and
for the first four or five days, he never cared whether it rained or
not; he only cared to lie at my feet, really, literally. We were all in
all to each other, just like Cupid and Psyche. And now--he will play
billiards with Toniello to pass the time, and he is longing for his
_petits théâtres_! Is it my fault? I torment myself with a thousand
self-accusations. Is it possible I can have been tiresome, dull,
over-exacting? Is it possible he can be disappointed in me?'
_From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg, to the
Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset._
'No, it isn't your fault, you dear little donkey; it is only the
natural sequence of things. Men are always like that when the woman
loves them; when she don't, they behave much better. My dear, this is
just what is so annoying about love; the man's is always going slower
and slower towards a dead stop, as the woman's is "coaling" and getting
steam up. I borrow Papa's admirably accurate metaphor, nothing can be
truer. It is a great pity, but I suppose the fault is Nature's. _Entre
nous_, I don't think Nature ever contemplated marriage, any more than
she did crinolettes, pearl powder, or the electric light. There is
no doubt that Nature intended to adjust the thing on the butterfly
and buttercup system; on the _je reste, tu t'en vas_, principle. And
nothing would be easier or nicer, only there are children and poverty.
So the butterfly has to be pinned down by the buttercup. That is why
the Communists and Anarchists always abolish Property and Marriage
together. The one is evolved out of the other, just as the dear
scientists say the horse was evolved out of a bird, which I never can
see makes the matter any easier of comprehension; but, still--what
was I saying? Oh, I meant to say this: you are only lamenting, as a
special defalcation and disloyalty in San Zenone, what is merely his
unconscious and involuntary and perfectly natural alteration from a
lover into a husband. The butterfly is beginning to feel the pin, which
has been run through him to stick him down. It is not your fault, my
sweet little girl; it is the fault, if at all, of the world, which has
decreed that the butterfly, to flirt legitimately with the buttercup,
must suffer the corking pin. Now, take my advice: the pin is in, don't
worry if he writhe on it a little bit! It is only what the beloved
scientists again call automatic action. And do try and beat into your
little head the fact that a man may love you very dearly, and yet yearn
a little for the _petits théâtres_ in the silent recesses of his manly
breast. Of course, I know this sort of rough awakening from delightful
dreams is harder for you than it is for most, because you began at
such tremendous altitudes. You had your Ruy Blas and Petrarca, and
the mandoline and the moonlight, and the love-philtres, all mixed
up in an intoxicating draught. You have naturally a great deal more
disillusion to go through than if you had married a country squire, or
a Scotch laird, who would never have suggested any romantic delights.
One cannot go near Heaven without coming down with a crash, like the
poor men in the balloons. You have been up in your balloon, and you
are now coming down. Ah, my dear, everything depends on _how_ you come
down. You will think me a monster for saying so, but it will rest so
much in your own hands. You won't believe it, but it will. If you come
down with tact and good-humour, it will all be right afterwards; but
if you show temper, as men say of their horses, why, then, the balloon
will lie prone, a torn, empty, useless bag, that will never again
get off the ground. To speak plainly, dear, if you will receive with
resignation and sweetness the unpleasant discovery that San Zenone is
mortal, you won't be unhappy, and you will soon get used to it; but if
you perpetually fret about it, you won't alter him, and you will both
be miserable; or, if not miserable, you will do something worse; you
will each find your amusement in somebody else. I know you so well,
my poor, pretty Gladys; you want such an immense quantity of sympathy
and affection, but you won't get it, my dear child. I quite understand
that the Prince looks like a picture, and he has made life an erotic
poem for you for a month, and the inevitable reaction which follows
seems dull as ditch water, you would even say as cruel as the grave.
But it is _nothing new_. Do try and get that well in your mind. Try,
too, and be as light-hearted as you can. Men hate an unamusable woman.
Make believe to laugh at the French novels, if you can't really do it;
if you don't, dear, he will go to somebody else who will. Why do those
_demi-monde_ women get such preference over us? Only because they don't
bore their men. A man would sooner we flung a champagne glass at his
head than cried for five minutes. We can't fling champagne glasses;
the prejudices of our education are against it. It is an immense loss
to us; we must make up for it as much as we can by being as agreeable
as we know how to be. We shall always be a dozen lengths behind those
others who _do_ fling the glasses. By the way, you said in one of
your earliest notes that you wondered why our mother ever married. I
am not sufficiently _au courant_ with pre-historic times to be able
to tell you why, but I can see what she has done since she did marry.
She has always effaced herself in the very wisest and most prudent
manner. She has never begrudged Papa his Norway fishing, or his August
yachting, though she knew he could ill afford them. She has never bored
him _with_ herself, or _about_ us. She has constantly urged him to go
away and enjoy himself, and when he is down with her in the country
she always takes care that all the women he admires, and all the men
who best amuse him, shall be invited in relays, to prevent his being
dull or feeling teased for a moment. I am quite sure she has never
cared the least about her own wishes, but has only studied his. This
is what I call being a clever woman and a good woman. But I fear such
women are as rare as blue roses. Try and be like her, my dear. She was
quite as young as you are now when she married. But unfortunately,
in truth, you are a terrible little egotist. You want to shut up this
beautiful Roman all alone with you in a kind of attitude of perpetual
adoration--of yourself. That is what women call affection; you are
not alone in your ideas. Some men submit to this sort of demand, and
go about for ever held tight in a leash, like unslipped pointers. The
majority--well, the majority bolt. And I am sure I should if I were one
of them. I do not think you could complain if your beautiful Romeo did.
I can see you so exactly, with your pretty, little, grave face, and
your eyes that have such a fatal aptitude for tears, and your solemn
little views about matrimony and its responsibilities, making yourself
quite odious to this mirthful Apollo of yours, and innocently believing
all the while that you are pleasing Heaven and saving your own dignity
by being so remarkably unpleasant! Are you _very_ angry with me? I am
afraid so. Myself, I would much sooner have an unfaithful man than a
dull one; the one may be bored _by_ you, but the other bores _you_,
which is immeasurably worse.'
_From the Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady
Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg._
"DEAR GWEN,--How can you _possibly_ tell what Mamma did when she was
young? I daresay she fretted dreadfully. Now, of course, she has got
used to it--like all other miserable women. If people marry only to
long to be with other people, what is the use of being married at all?
I said so to Piero, and he answered, very insolently, "_Il n'y a point!
Si on le savait!_" He sent for some more dreadful French books, Gyp's
and Richepin's and Gui de Maupassant's, and he lies about reading them
all day long when he isn't asleep. He is very often asleep in the
daytime. He apologises when he is found out, but he yawns as he does
so. You say I should amuse him, but I _can't_ amuse him. He doesn't
care for any English news, and he is beginning to get irritable because
I cannot talk to him in Italian, and he declares my French detestable,
and there is always something dreadful happening. There has been such
a terrible scene in the village. Four of the Coombe Bysset men, two
blacksmiths, a carpenter, and a labourer, have ducked Toniello in
the village pond on account of his attention to their womenkind; and
Toniello, when he staggered out of the weeds and the slime, drew his
knife on them and stabbed two very badly. Of course, he has been taken
up by the constables, and the men he hurt moved to the county hospital.
The magistrates are furious and scandalised; and Piero!--Piero has
nobody to play billiards with him. When the magistrates interrogated
him about Toniello, as, of course, they were obliged to do, he got into
a dreadful passion because one of them said that it was just like a
cowardly Italian to carry a knife and make use of it. Piero absolutely
_hissed_ at the solemn old gentleman who mumbled this. "And your
people," he cried, "are they so very courageous? Is it better to beat
a man into a jelly, or kick a woman with nailed boots, as your English
mob does? Where is there anything cowardly? He was one against four.
In my country there is not a night that goes by without a _rissa_ of
that sort, but nobody takes any notice. The jealous persons are left to
fight it out as best they may; after all, it is the women's fault."
And then he said some things that really I cannot repeat, and it was
a mercy that, as he spoke in the most rapid and furious French, the
old gentleman did not, I think, understand a syllable. But they saw
he was in a passion, and that scandalised them, because, you know,
English people always think that you should keep your bad temper for
your own people at home. Meantime, of course, Toniello is in prison,
and I am afraid they won't let us take him out on bail, because he has
hurt one of the blacksmiths dreadfully. Aunt Carrie's solicitors are
doing what they can for him, to please me, but I can see they consider
it all _peines perdues_ for a rogue who ought to be hanged. "And to
think," cries Toniello, "that in my own country I should have all the
populace with me. The very carabineers themselves would have been
with me! _Accidente a tutti quei grulli_," which means, "may apoplexy
seize these fools." "They were only the women's husbands," he adds,
with scorn; "they are well worth making a fuss about, certainly!" Then
Piero consoles him, and gives him cigarettes, and is obliged to leave
him sobbing and tearing his hair, and lying face downward on his bed
of sacking. I thought Piero would not leave the poor fellow alone in
prison, and so I supposed he would give up all idea of going from here,
and so I began to say to myself, "_A quelque chose malheur est bon._"
But to-day, at luncheon, Piero said "_Sai carina!_ It was bad enough
with Toniello, but without him, I tell you frankly, I cannot stand
any more of it. With Toniello one could laugh and forget a little.
But now--_anima mia_, if you do not wish me to kill somebody, and be
lodged beside Toniello by your worthy law-givers, you must really let
me go to Trouville." "Alone!" I said; and I believe it is what he did
mean, only the horror in my voice frightened him from confessing it.
He sighed and got up. "I suppose I shall never be alone any more," he
said impatiently. "If only men knew what they do when they marry--_on
ne nous prendrait jamais_. No--no. Of course, I meant that you will, I
hope, consent to come away with me somewhere out of this intolerable
place, which is made up of fog and green leaves. Let us go to Paris
to begin with; there is not a soul there, and the theatres are _en
rélache_, but it is always delightful, and then in a week or so we will
go down to Trouville, all the world is there." I couldn't answer him
for crying. Perhaps that was best, for I am sure I should have said
something wicked, which might have divided us for ever. And then what
would people have thought?'
_From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg, to the
Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset._
'MY POOR LITTLE DEAR,--Are you already beginning to be miserable about
what people will think? Then, indeed, your days of joy are numbered.
If I were to write to you fifty times I could only repeat what I have
always written. You are not wise, and you are doing everything you
ought not to do. _Of two people who are married, there is always one
who has the delusion that he or she is necessary and delightful to
the life of the other. The other generally thinks just the contrary._
The result is not peace. This gay, charming, handsome son of Rome has
become your entire world, but don't suppose for a moment, my child,
that you will ever be his. It is not in reason, not in Nature, that
you should be. _If_ you have the intelligence, the tact, and the
forbearance required, you _may_ become his friend and counsellor,
but I fear you never will have these. You fret, you weep, and you
understand nothing of the masculine temperament. "I see snakes," as
the Americans observe; and you will not have either the coolness or the
wisdom required to scotch a snake, much less to kill it. Once for all,
my poor pet, go cheerfully to Paris, Trouville, and all the pleasure
places in the world. Affect enjoyment if you feel it not, and try to
remember, beyond everything, that affection is not to be retained or
revived by either coercion or lamentation. Once dead, it is not to be
awakened by all the "crooning" of its mourner. It is a corpse, for ever
and aye. Myself, I fail to see how you could expect a young Italian,
who has all the habits of the great world, and the memories of his _vie
de garçon_, to be cheerful or contented in a wet June in an isolated
English country house, with nobody to look at but yourself. Believe
me, my dear child, it is the inordinate vanity of a woman which makes
her imagine that she can be sufficient for her husband. Nothing but
vanity. The cleverer a woman is, the more fully she recognises her own
insufficiency for the amusement of a man, and the more carefully (if
she be wise) does she take care that this deficiency in her shall never
be forced upon his observation. Now, if you shut a man up with you in
a country house, with the rain raining every day, as in Longfellow's
poem, you do force it upon him most conspicuously. If you were not his
wife, I daresay he would not tire of you, and he might even prefer a
grey sky to a blue one. But as his wife!--oh, my dear, why, why don't
you try and understand what a terrible penalty-weight you carry in
the race? Write and tell me all about it. I shall be anxious. I am so
afraid, my sweet little sister, that you think love is all moonlight
and kisses, and forget that there are clouds in the sky and quarrels
on earth. May Heaven save you from both. _P.S._--Do remember that this
same love requires just as delicate handling as a cobweb does. If a
rough touch break the cobweb, all the artists in the world can't mend
it. There is a wholesome truth for you. If you prevent his going to
Paris now, he will go in six months' time, and perhaps, then, he will
go without you. You are not wise, my poor pet; you should make him feel
that you sympathise with his pleasures, not that you and his pleasures
are enemies. But it is no use to instil wisdom into you; you are very
young, and very much in love. You look on all the natural distractions
which he inclines to, as on so many rivals. So they may be, but _we
don't beat our rivals by abusing them_. The really wise way is to
tacitly show that we can be more attractive than they; if we cannot be
so, we may sulk or sigh as we will, we shall be vanquished by them. You
will think me very preachy-preachy, and, perhaps, you will throw me in
the fire unread; but I must say just one word more. Dear, you are in
love with Love, but underneath Love there is a real man, and real men
are far from ideal creatures. Now, it is the real man that you want to
consider, to humour, to study. If the real man be pleased, Love will
take care of himself; whereas if you bore the real man, Love will fly
away. If you had been wise, my poor pet, I repeat, you would have found
nothing so delightful as Gyp and Octave de Mirbeau, and you would have
declared that the Paris asphalte excelled all the English lawns in the
world. He does not love you the less because he wants to be _dans le
mouvement_, to hear what other men are saying, and to smoke his cigar
amongst his fellow-creatures.'
_From the Duchessa dell'Aquila Fulva, Hotel des Roches Noires,
Trouville, France, to the Principe di San Zenone, Coombe
Bysset, Luton, Beds., England._
'Poor flower, in your box of wet moss, what has become of you? Are you
dead, and dried in your wife's _hortus siccus_? She would be quite
sure of you _then_, and I daresay much happier than if you were set
forth in anybody else's bouquet. I try in vain to imagine you in that
"perfectly proper" atmosphere (is not that correct English, "perfectly
proper"?) Will you be dreadfully changed when one sees you again? There
is a French proverb which says that "the years of joy count double."
The days of _ennui_ certainly count for years, and give us grey hairs
before we are five-and-twenty. But you know I cannot pity you. You
_would_ marry an English girl because she looked pretty sipping her
tea. I told you beforehand that you would be miserable with her, once
shut up in the country. The episode of Toniello is enchanting. What
people!--to put him in prison for a little bit of _chiasso_ like that!
You should never have taken his bright eyes and his mandoline to that
doleful and damp land of precisians. What will they do with him? And
what can you do without him? The weather here is admirable. There are
numbers of people one knows. It is really very amusing. I go and dance
every night, and then we play--usually "bac" or roulette. Everybody is
very merry. We all talk often of you, and say the _De Profundis_ over
you, my poor Piero. Why did your cruel destiny make you see a _Sainte
Nitouche_ drinking tea under a lime tree? I suppose _Sainte Nitouche_
would not permit it, else, why not exchange the humid greenness of your
matrimonial prison for the Rue des Planches and the Casino?'
_From the Principe di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the
Duchessa dell'Aquila Fulva, Trouville._
'CARISSIMA MIA,--I have set light to the fuse! I have frankly declared
that if I do not get out of this damp and verdant Bastile, I shall
perish of sheer inanition and exhaustion. The effect of the declaration
was for the moment such, that I hoped, actually hoped, that she was
going to get into a passion! It would have been so refreshing! After
twenty-six days of dumb acquiescence and silent tears, it would have
been positively delightful to have had a storm. But, no! For an instant
she looked at me with unspeakable reproach; the next her dove's eyes
filled, she sighed, she left the room! Do they not say that feather
beds offer an admirable defence against bullets? I feel like the
bullet which has been fired into the feather bed. The feather bed is
victorious. I see the Rue des Planches through the perspective of the
watery atmosphere; the Casino seems to smile at me from the end of the
interminable lime tree avenue, which is one of the chief beauties of
this house; but, alas! they are both as far off as if Trouville were in
the moon. What could they do to me if I came alone? Do you know what
they could do? I have not the remotest idea, but I imagine something
frightful. They shut up their public-houses by force, and their
dancing places. Perhaps they would shut up me. In England, they have a
great belief in creating virtue by Act of Parliament. In myself, this
enforced virtue creates such a revolt that I shall _tirer sur le mors_,
and fly before very long. The admired excellence of this beautiful
estate is that it lies in a ring-fence. I feel that I shall take a leap
over that ring-fence. Do not mistake me, _cara mia Teresina_, I am
exceedingly fond of my wife. I think her quite lovely, simple, saintly,
and truly womanlike. She is exquisitely pretty, and entirely without
vanity, and I am certain she is immeasurably my superior morally, and
possibly mentally too. But--there is always such a long and melancholy
"but" attached to marriage--she does not amuse me in the least. She is
always the same. She is shocked at nearly everything that is natural
or diverting. She thinks me unmanly because I dislike rain. She buttons
about her a hideous, straight, waterproof garment, and walks out in a
deluge. She blushes if I try to make her laugh at _Figaro_, and she
goes out of the room when I mention Trouville. What am I to do with a
woman like this? It is an admirable type, no doubt. Possibly if she had
not shut me up in a country-house in a wet June, with the thermometer
at 10 R., and the barometer fixedly at the word _Rainy_, I might have
been always charmed with this S. Dorothea-like attitude, and never have
found out the monotony of it. But, as it is--I yawn till I dislocate my
neck. She thinks me a heathen already. I am convinced that very soon
she will think me a brute. And I am neither. I only want to get out,
like the bird in the cage. It is a worn simile, but it is such a true
one!'
_From the Duchessa dell'Aquila Fulva, Roches Noires, Trouville,
to the Principe di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset._
'PIERO MIO,--In marriage, the male bird is always wanting to get out
when the female bird does not want him to get out; also, she is for
ever tightening the wires over his head, and declaring that nothing
can be more delightful than the perch which she sits on herself. Come
to us here. There are any quantities of birds here who ought to be
in their cages, but are not, and manage to enjoy themselves _quand
même_. If only you had married Nicoletta! She might have torn your
hair occasionally, but she would never have bored you. There is only
one supreme art necessary for a woman: it is to thoroughly understand
that she must never be a _seccatura_. A woman may be beautiful,
admirable, a paragon of virtue, a marvel of intellect, but if she be
a _seccatura--addio_! Whereas, she may be plain, small, nothing to
look at in any way, and a very monster of sins, big and little, but if
she know how to amuse your dull sex, she is mistress of you all. It is
evident that this great art is not studied at Coombe Bysset.'
_From the Principessa di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady
Gwendolen Chichester, S. Petersburg._
'OH, MY DEAR GWEN,--It is too dreadful, and I am so utterly wretched. I
cannot tell you what I feel. He is quite determined to go to Trouville
by Paris at once, and just now it is such exquisite weather. It has
only rained three times this week, and the whole place is literally
a bower of roses of every kind. He has been very restless the last
few days, and at last, yesterday, after dinner, he said straight out,
that he had had enough of Coombe, and he thought we might be seen at
Homburg or Trouville next week. And he pretended to want every kind of
thing that is to be bought at Paris and nowhere else. Paris--when we
have been together just twenty-nine days to-day! Paris--I don't know
why, but I feel as if it would be the end of everything! Paris--we
shall dine at restaurants; we shall stay at the Bristol; we shall go
to theatres; he will be at his club, he belongs to the Petit Cercle
and the Mirliton; we shall be just like anybody else; just like all
the million and one married people who are always in a crowd! To take
one's new-born happiness to an hotel! It is as profane as it would be
to say your prayers on the top of a drag. To me, it is quite horrible.
And it will be put in _Galignani_ directly, of course, that the "Prince
and Princess San Zenone have arrived at the Hotel Bristol." And then,
all the pretty women who tried to flirt with him before will laugh, and
say: "There, you see, she has bored him already." Everybody will say
so, for they all know I wished to spend the whole summer at Coombe.
If he would only go to his own country I would not say a word. I am
really longing to see his people, and his palaces, and the wonderful
gardens with their statues and their ilex woods, and the temples
that are as old as the days of Augustus, and the fire-flies and the
magnolia groves, and the peasants who are always singing. But he won't
go there. He says it is a _seccatura_. Everything is a _seccatura_. He
only likes places where he can meet all the world. "Paris will be a
solitude, too, never fear," he said, very petulantly; "but there will
be all the _petits théâtres_ and the open-air concerts, and we can
dine in the Bois and down the river, and we can run to Trouville. It
will be better than rain, rain, rain, and nothing to look at except
your amiable aunt's big horses and big trees. I adore horses, and
trees are not bad if they are planted away from the house, but, viewed
as eternal companions, one may have too much of them."
|
ken eyes, wearing
a tragically mean garb. And soon after I learned that he had vanished
unwept into eternal oblivion.
An Arabian Nights touch was imparted to the dissolving panorama by
strange visitants from Tartary and Kurdistan, Korea and Aderbeijan,
Armenia, Persia, and the Hedjaz--men with patriarchal beards and
scimitar-shaped noses, and others from desert and oasis, from Samarkand
and Bokhara. Turbans and fezzes, sugar-loaf hats and headgear resembling
episcopal miters, old military uniforms devised for the embryonic armies
of new states on the eve of perpetual peace, snowy-white burnooses,
flowing mantles, and graceful garments like the Roman toga, contributed
to create an atmosphere of dreamy unreality in the city where the
grimmest of realities were being faced and coped with.
Then came the men of wealth, of intellect, of industrial enterprise, and
the seed-bearers of the ethical new ordering, members of economic
committees from the United States, Britain, Italy, Poland, Russia,
India, and Japan, representatives of naphtha industries and far-off coal
mines, pilgrims, fanatics, and charlatans from all climes, priests of
all religions, preachers of every doctrine, who mingled with princes,
field-marshals, statesmen, anarchists, builders-up, and pullers-down.
All of them burned with desire to be near to the crucible in which the
political and social systems of the world were to be melted and recast.
Every day, in my walks, in my apartment, or at restaurants, I met
emissaries from lands and peoples whose very names had seldom been heard
of before in the West. A delegation from the Pont-Euxine Greeks called
on me, and discoursed of their ancient cities of Trebizond, Samsoun,
Tripoli, Kerassund, in which I resided many years ago, and informed me
that they, too, desired to become welded into an independent Greek
republic, and had come to have their claims allowed. The Albanians were
represented by my old friend Turkhan Pasha, on the one hand, and by my
friend Essad Pasha, on the other--the former desirous of Italy's
protection, the latter demanding complete independence. Chinamen,
Japanese, Koreans, Hindus, Kirghizes, Lesghiens, Circassians,
Mingrelians, Buryats, Malays, and Negroes and Negroids from Africa and
America were among the tribes and tongues forgathered in Paris to watch
the rebuilding of the political world system and to see where they "came
in."
One day I received a visit from an Armenian deputation; its chief was
described on his visiting-card as President of the Armenian Republic of
the Caucasus. When he was shown into my apartment in the Hôtel Vendôme,
I recognized two of its members as old acquaintances with whom I had
occasional intercourse in Erzerum, Kipri Keui, and other places during
the Armenian massacres of the year 1895. We had not met since then. They
revived old memories, completed for me the life-stories of several of
our common friends and acquaintances, and narrated interesting episodes
of local history. And having requested my co-operation, the President
and his colleagues left me and once more passed out of my life.
Another actor on the world-stage whom I had encountered more than once
before was the "heroic" King of Montenegro. He often crossed my path
during the Conference, and set me musing on the marvelous ups and downs
of human existence. This potentate's life offers a rich field of
research to the psychologist. I had watched it myself at various times
and with curious results. For I had met him in various European capitals
during the past thirty years, and before the time when Tsar Alexander
III publicly spoke of him as Russia's only friend. King Nikita owes such
success in life as he can look back on with satisfaction to his
adaptation of St. Paul's maxim of being all things to all men. Thus in
St. Petersburg he was a good Russian, in Vienna a patriotic Austrian, in
Rome a sentimental Italian. He was also a warrior, a poet after his own
fashion, a money-getter, and a speculator on 'Change. His alleged
martial feats and his wily, diplomatic moves ever since the first Balkan
war abound in surprises, and would repay close investigation. The ease
with which the Austrians captured Mount Lovtchen and his capital made a
lasting impression on those of his allies who were acquainted with the
story, the consequences of which he could not foresee. What everybody
seemed to know was that if the Teutons had defeated the Entente, King
Nikita's son Mirko, who had settled down for the purpose in Vienna,
would have been set on the throne in place of his father by the
Austrians; whereas if the Allies should win, the worldly-wise monarch
would have retained his crown as their champion. But these well-laid
plans went all agley. Prince Mirko died and King Nikita was deposed. For
a time he resided at a hotel, a few houses from me, and I passed him now
and again as he was on his way to plead his lost cause before the
distinguished wreckers of thrones and régimes.
It seemed as though, in order to provide Paris with a cosmopolitan
population, the world was drained of its rulers, of its prosperous and
luckless financiers, of its high and low adventurers, of its tribe of
fortune-seekers, and its pushing men and women of every description. And
the result was an odd blend of classes and individuals worthy, it may
be, of the new democratic era, but unprecedented. It was welcomed as of
good augury, for instance, that in the stately Hôtel Majestic, where the
spokesmen of the British Empire had their residence, monocled
diplomatists mingled with spry typewriters, smart amanuenses, and even
with bright-eyed chambermaids at the evening dances.[1] The British
Premier himself occasionally witnessed the cheering spectacle with
manifest pleasure. Self-made statesmen, scions of fallen dynasties,
ex-premiers, and ministers, who formerly swayed the fortunes of the
world, whom one might have imagined _capaces imperii nisi imperassent_,
were now the unnoticed inmates of unpretending hotels. Ambassadors whose
most trivial utterances had once been listened to with concentrated
attention, sued days and weeks for an audience of the greater
plenipotentiaries, and some of them sued in vain. Russian diplomatists
were refused permission to travel in France or were compelled to
undergo more than average discomfort and delay there. More than once I
sat down to lunch or dinner with brilliant commensals, one of whom was
understood to have made away with a well-known personage in order to rid
the state of a bad administrator, and another had, at a secret
_Vehmgericht_ in Turkey, condemned a friend of mine, now a friend of
his, to be assassinated.
In Paris, this temporary capital of the world, one felt the repercussion
of every event, every incident of moment wheresoever it might have
occurred. To reside there while the Conference was sitting was to occupy
a comfortable box in the vastest theater the mind of men has ever
conceived. From this rare coign of vantage one could witness
soul-gripping dramas of human history, the happenings of years being
compressed within the limits of days. The revolution in Portugal, the
massacre of Armenians, Bulgaria's atrocities, the slaughter of the
inhabitants of Saratoff and Odessa, the revolt of the Koreans--all
produced their effect in Paris, where official and unofficial exponents
of the aims and ambitions, religions and interests that unite or divide
mankind were continually coming or going, working aboveground or
burrowing beneath the surface.
It was within a few miles of the place where I sat at table with the
brilliant company alluded to above that a few individuals of two
different nationalities, one of them bearing, it was said, a well-known
name, hatched the plot that sent Portugal's strong man, President
Sidonio Paes, to his last account and plunged that ill-starred land into
chaotic confusion. The plan was discovered by the Portuguese military
attaché, who warned the President himself and the War Minister. But
Sidonio Paes, quixotic and foolhardy, refused to take or brook
precautions. A few weeks later the assassin, firing three shots, had no
difficulty in taking aim, but none of them took effect. The reason was
interesting: so determined were the conspirators to leave nothing to
chance, they had steeped the cartridges in a poisonous preparation,
whereby they injured the mechanism of the revolver, which, in
consequence, hung fire. But the adversaries of the reform movement which
the President had inaugurated again tried and planned another attempt,
and Sidonio Paes, who would not be taught prudence, was duly shot, and
his admirable work undone[2] by a band of semi-Bolshevists.
Less than six months later it was rumored that a number of specially
prepared bombs from a certain European town had been sent to Moscow for
the speedy removal of Lenin. The casual way in which these and kindred
matters were talked of gave one the measure of the change that had come
over the world since the outbreak of the war. There was nobody left in
Europe whose death, violent or peaceful, would have made much of an
impression on the dulled sensibilities of the reading public. All values
had changed, and that of human life had fallen low.
To follow these swiftly passing episodes, occasionally glancing behind
the scenes, during the pauses of the acts, and watch the unfolding of
the world-drama, was thrillingly interesting. To note the dubious
source, the chance occasion of a grandiose project of world policy, and
to see it started on its shuffling course, was a revelation in politics
and psychology, and reminded one of the saying mistakenly attributed to
the Swedish Chancellor Oxenstjern, "_Quam parva sapientia regitur
mundus_."[3]
The wire-pullers were not always the plenipotentiaries. Among those were
also outsiders of various conditions, sometimes of singular ambitions,
who were generally free from conventional prejudices and conscientious
scruples. As traveling to Paris was greatly restricted by the
governments of the world, many of these unofficial delegates had come in
capacities widely differing from those in which they intended to act. I
confess I was myself taken in by more than one of these secret
emissaries, whom I was innocently instrumental in bringing into close
touch with the human levers they had come to press. I actually went to
the trouble of obtaining for one of them valuable data on a subject
which did not interest him in the least, but which he pretended he had
traveled several thousand miles to study. A zealous prelate, whose
business was believed to have something to do with the future of a
certain branch of the Christian Church in the East, in reality held a
brief for a wholly different set of interests in the West. Some of these
envoys hoped to influence decisions of the Conference, and they
considered they had succeeded when they got their points of view brought
to the favorable notice of certain of its delegates. What surprised me
was the ease with which several of these interlopers moved about,
although few of them spoke any language but their own.
Collectivities and religious and political associations, including that
of the Bolshevists, were represented in Paris during the Conference. I
met one of the Bolshevists, a bright youth, who was a veritable apostle.
He occupied a post which, despite its apparent insignificance, put him
occasionally in possession of useful information withheld from the
public, which he was wont to communicate to his political friends. His
knowledge of languages and his remarkable intelligence had probably
attracted the notice of his superiors, who can have had no suspicion of
his leanings, much less of his proselytizing activity. However this may
have been, he knew a good deal of what was going on at the Conference,
and he occasionally had insight into documents of a certain interest. He
was a seemingly honest and enthusiastic Bolshevik, who spread the
doctrine with apostolic zeal guided by the wisdom of the serpent. He was
ever ready to comment on events, but before opening his mind fully to a
stranger on the subject next to his heart, he usually felt his way, and
only when he had grounds for believing that the fortress was not
impregnable did he open his batteries. Even among the initiated, few
would suspect the rôle played by this young proselytizer within one of
the strongholds of the Conference, so naturally and unobtrusively was
the work done. I may add that luckily he had no direct intercourse with
the delegates.
Of all the collectivities whose interests were furthered at the
Conference, the Jews had perhaps the most resourceful and certainly the
most influential exponents. There were Jews from Palestine, from Poland,
Russia, the Ukraine, Rumania, Greece, Britain, Holland, and Belgium; but
the largest and most brilliant contingent was sent by the United States.
Their principal mission, with which every fair-minded man sympathized
heartily, was to secure for their kindred in eastern Europe rights equal
to those of the populations in whose midst they reside.[4] And to the
credit of the Poles, Rumanians, and Russians, who were to be constrained
to remove all the existing disabilities, they enfranchised the Hebrew
elements spontaneously. But the Western Jews, who championed their
Eastern brothers, proceeded to demand a further concession which many of
their own co-religionists hastened to disclaim as dangerous--a kind of
autonomy which Rumanian, Polish, and Russian statesmen, as well as many
of their Jewish fellow-subjects, regarded as tantamount to the creation
of a state within the state. Whether this estimate is true or erroneous,
the concessions asked for were given, but the supplementary treaties
insuring the protection of minorities are believed to have little chance
of being executed, and may, it is feared, provoke manifestations of
elemental passions in the countries in which they are to be applied.
Twice every day, before and after lunch, one met the "autocrats," the
world's statesmen whose names were in every mouth--the wise men who
would have been much wiser than they were if only they had credited
their friends and opponents with a reasonable measure of political
wisdom. These individuals, in bowler hats, sweeping past in sumptuous
motors, as rarely seen on foot as Roman cardinals, were the destroyers
of thrones, the carvers of continents, the arbiters of empires, the
fashioners of the new heaven and the new earth--or were they only the
flies on the wheel of circumstance, to whom the world was unaccountably
becoming a riddle?
This commingling of civilizations and types brought together in Paris by
a set of unprecedented conditions was full of interest and instruction
to the observer privileged to meet them at close quarters. The average
observer, however, had little chance of conversing with them, for, as
these foreigners had no common meeting-place, they kept mostly among
their own folk. Only now and again did three or four members of
different races, when they chanced to speak some common language, get
an opportunity of enjoying their leisure together. A friend of mine, a
highly gifted Frenchman of the fine old type, a descendant of
Talleyrand, who was born a hundred and fifty years too late, opened his
hospitable house once a week to the élite of the world, and partially
met the pressing demand.
To the gaping tourist the Ville Lumière resembled nothing so much as a
huge world fair, with enormous caravanserais, gigantic booths, gaudy
merry-go-rounds, squalid taverns, and huge inns. Every place of
entertainment was crowded, and congregations patiently awaited their
turn in the street, undeterred by rain or wind or snow, offering
absurdly high prices for scant accommodation and disheartened at having
their offers refused. Extortion was rampant and profiteering went
unpunished. Foreigners, mainly American and British, could be seen
wandering, portmanteau in hand, from post to pillar, anxiously seeking
where to lay their heads, and made desperate by failure, fatigue, and
nightfall. The cost of living which harassed the bulk of the people was
fast becoming the stumbling-block of governments and the most powerful
lever of revolutionaries. The chief of the peace armies resided in
sumptuous hotels, furnished luxuriously in dubious taste, flooded after
sundown with dazzling light, and filled by day with the buzz of idle
chatter, the shuffling of feet, the banging of doors, and the ringing of
bells. Music and dancing enlivened the inmates when their day's toil was
over and time had to be killed. Thus, within, one could find anxious
deliberation and warm debate; without, noisy revel and vulgar brawl.
"Fate's a fiddler; life's a dance."
To few of those visitors did Paris seem what it really was--a nest of
golden dreams, a mist of memories, a seed-plot of hopes, a storehouse of
time's menaces.
THE PARIS CONFERENCE AND THE CONGRESS OF VIENNA
There were no solemn pageants, no impressive ceremonies, such as those
that rejoiced the hearts of the Viennese in 1814-15 until the triumphal
march of the Allied troops.
The Vienna of Congress days was transformed into a paradise of delights
by a brilliant court which pushed hospitality to the point of
lavishness. In the burg alone were two emperors, two empresses, four
kings, one queen, two crown-princes, two archduchesses, and three
princes. Every day the Emperor's table cost fifty thousand gulden--every
Congress day cost him ten times that sum. Galaxies of Europe's eminent
personages flocked to the Austrian capital, taking with them their
ministers, secretaries, favorites, and "confidential agents." So eager
were these world-reformers to enjoy themselves that the court did not go
into mourning for Queen Marie Caroline of Naples, the last of Marie
Theresa's daughters. Her death was not even announced officially lest it
should trouble the festivities of the jovial peace-makers!
The Paris of the Conference, on the other hand, was democratic, with a
strong infusion of plutocracy. It attempted no such brilliant display as
that which flattered the senses or fired the imagination of the
Viennese. In 1919 mankind was simpler in its tastes and perhaps less
esthetic. It is certain that the froth of contemporary frivolity had
lost its sparkling whiteness and was grown turbid. In Vienna, balls,
banquets, theatricals, military reviews, followed one another in dizzy
succession and enabled politicians and adventurers to carry on their
intrigues and machinations unnoticed by all except the secret police.
And, as the Congress marked the close of one bloody campaign and ushered
in another, one might aptly term it the interval between two tragedies.
For a time it seemed as though this part of the likeness might become
applicable to the Conference of Paris.
Moving from pleasure to politics, one found strong contrasts as well as
surprising resemblances between the two peace-making assemblies, and, it
was assumed, to the advantage of the Paris Conference. Thus, at the
Austrian Congress, the members, while seemingly united, were pulling
hard against one another, each individual or group tugging in a
different direction. The Powers had been compelled by necessity to unite
against a common enemy and, having worsted him on the battlefield, fell
to squabbling among themselves in the Council Chamber as soon as they
set about dividing the booty. In this respect the Paris Conference--the
world was assured in the beginning--towered aloft above its historic
predecessor. Men who knew the facts declared repeatedly that the
delegates to the Quai d'Orsay were just as unanimous, disinterested, and
single-minded during the armistice as they were through the war.
Probably they were.
Another interesting point of comparison was supplied by the _dramatis
personæ_? of both illustrious companies. They were nearly all
representatives of old states, but there was one exception.
THE CONGRESS CHIEF
_Mistrusted, Feared, Humored, and Obeyed_
A relatively new Power took part in the deliberations of the Vienna
Congress, and, perhaps, because of its loftier intentions, introduced a
jarring note into the concert of nations. Russia was then a newcomer
into the European councils; indeed she was hardly yet recognized as
European. Her gifted Tsar, Alexander I, was an idealist who wanted, not
so much peace with the vanquished enemy as a complete reform of the
ordering of the whole world, so that wars should thenceforward be
abolished and the welfare of mankind be set developing like a sort of
pacific _perpetuum mobile_. This blessed change, however, was to be
compassed, not by the peoples or their representatives, but by the
governments, led by himself and deliberating in secret. At the Paris
Conference it was even so.
This curious type of public worker--a mixture of the mystical and the
practical--was the terror of the Vienna delegates. He put spokes in
everybody's wheel, behaved as the autocrat of the Congress and felt as
self-complacent as a saint. Countess von Thurheim wrote of him: "He
mistrusted his environment and let himself be led by others. But he was
thoroughly good and high-minded and sought after the weal, not merely of
his own country, but of the whole world. _Son coeur eût embrassé le
bonheur du monde_." He realized in himself the dreams of the
philosophers about love for mankind, but their Utopias of human
happiness were based upon the perfection both of subjects and of
princes, and, as Alexander could fulfil only one-half of these
conditions, his work remained unfinished and the poor Emperor died, a
victim of his high-minded illusions.[5]
The other personages, Metternich in particular, were greatly put out by
Alexander's presence. They labeled him a marplot who could not and would
not enter into the spirit of their game, but they dared not offend him.
Without his brave troops they could not have been victorious and they
did not know how soon they might need him again, for he represented a
numerous and powerful people whose economic and military resources
promised it in time the hegemony of the world. So, while they heartily
disliked the chief of this new great country, they also feared and,
therefore, humored him. They all felt that the enemy, although defeated
and humbled, was not, perhaps, permanently disabled, and might, at any
moment, rise, phoenix-like and soar aloft again. The great visionary was
therefore fêted and lauded and raised to a dizzy pedestal by men who, in
their hearts, set him down as a crank. His words were reverently
repeated and his smiles recorded and remembered. Hardly any one had the
bad taste to remark that even this millennial philosopher in the
statesman's armchair left unsightly flaws in his system for the welfare
of man. Thus, while favoring equality generally, he obstinately refused
to concede it to one race, in fact, he would not hear of common fairness
being meted out to that race. It was the Polish people which was treated
thus at the Vienna Congress, and, owing to him, Poland's just claims
were ignored, her indefeasible rights were violated, and the work of the
peace-makers was botched....
Happily, optimists said, the Paris Conference was organized on a wholly
different basis. Its members considered themselves mere servants of the
public--stewards, who had to render an account of their stewardship and
who therefore went in salutary fear of the electorate at home. This
check was not felt by the plenipotentiaries in Vienna. Again, everything
the Paris delegates did was for the benefit of the masses, although most
of it was done by stealth and unappreciated by them.
The remarkable document which will forever be associated with the name
of President Wilson was the _clou_ of the Conference. The League of
Nations scheme seemed destined to change fundamentally the relations of
peoples toward one another, and the change was expected to begin
immediately after the Covenant had been voted, signed, and ratified. But
it was not relished by any government except that of the United States,
and it was in order to enable the delegates to devise such a wording of
the Covenant as would not bind them to an obnoxious principle or commit
their electorates to any irksome sacrifice, that the peace treaty with
Germany and the liquidation of the war were postponed. This delay caused
profound dissatisfaction in continental Europe, but it had the
incidental advantage of bringing home to the victorious nations the
marvelous recuperative powers of the German race. It also gave time for
the drafting of a compact so admirably tempered to the human weaknesses
of the rival signatory nations, whose passions were curbed only by sheer
exhaustion, that all their spokesmen saw their way to sign it. There was
something almost genial in the simplicity of the means by which the
eminent promoter of the Covenant intended to reform the peoples of the
world. He gave them credit for virtues which would have rendered the
League unnecessary and displayed indulgence for passions which made its
speedy realization hopeless, thus affording a _superfluous_ illustration
of the truth that the one deadly evil to be shunned by those who would
remain philanthropists is a practical knowledge of men, and of the
truism that the statesman's bane is an inordinate fondness for abstract
ideas.
One of the decided triumphs of the Paris Peace Conference over the
Vienna Congress lay in the amazing speed with which it got through the
difficult task of solving offhandedly some of the most formidable
problems that ever exercised the wit of man. One of the Paris journals
contained the following remarkable announcement: "The actual time
consumed in constituting the League of Nations, which it is hoped will
be the means of keeping peace in the world, was thirty hours. This
doesn't seem possible, but it is true."[6]
How provokingly slowly the dawdlers of Vienna moved in comparison may
be read in the chronicles of that time. The peoples hoped and believed
that the Congress would perform its tasks in a short period, but it was
only after nine months' gestation and sore travail that it finally
brought forth its offspring--a mountain of Acts which have been
moldering in dust ever since.
The Wilsonian Covenant, which bound together thirty-two states--a league
intended to be incomparably more powerful than was the Holy
Alliance--will take rank as the most rapid improvisation of its kind in
diplomatic history.
A comparison between the features common to the two international
legislatures struck many observers as even more reassuring than the
contrast between their differences. Both were placed in like
circumstances, faced with bewildering and fateful problems to which an
exhausting war, just ended, had imparted sharp actuality. One of the
delegates to the Vienna Congress wrote:
"Everything had to be recast and made new, the destinies of Germany,
Italy, and Poland settled, a solid groundwork laid for the future, and a
commercial system to be outlined."[7] Might not those very words have
been penned at any moment during the Paris Conference with equal
relevance to its undertakings?
Or these: "However easily and gracefully the fine old French wit might
turn the topics of the day, people felt vaguely beneath it all that
these latter times were very far removed from the departed era and, in
many respects, differed from it to an incomprehensible degree."[8] And
the veteran Prince de Ligne remarked to the Comte de la Garde: "From
every side come cries of Peace, Justice, Equilibrium, Indemnity.... Who
will evolve order from this chaos and set a dam to the stream of
claims?" How often have the same cries and queries been uttered in
Paris?
When the first confidential talks began at the Vienna Congress, the same
difficulties arose as were encountered over a century later in Paris
about the number of states that were entitled to have representatives
there. At the outset, the four Cabinet Ministers of Austria, Russia,
England, and Prussia kept things to themselves, excluding vanquished
France and the lesser Powers. Some time afterward, however, Talleyrand,
the spokesman of the worsted nation, accompanied by the Portuguese
Minister, Labrador, protested vehemently against the form and results of
the deliberations. At one sitting passion rose to white heat and
Talleyrand spoke of quitting the Congress altogether, whereupon a
compromise was struck and eight nations received the right to be
represented. In this way the Committee of Eight was formed.[9] In Paris
discussion became to the full as lively, and on the first Saturday, when
the representatives of Belgium, Greece, Poland, and the other small
states delivered impassioned speeches against the attitude of the Big
Five they were maladroitly answered by M. Clemenceau, who relied, as the
source from which emanated the superior right of the Great Powers, upon
the twelve million soldiers they had placed in the field. It was
unfortunate that force should thus confer privileges at a Peace
Conference which was convoked to end the reign of force and privilege.
In Vienna it was different, but so were the times.
Many of the entries and comments of the chroniclers of 1815 read like
extracts from newspapers of the first three months of 1919. "About
Poland, they are fighting fiercely and, down to the present, with no
decisive result," writes Count Carl von Nostitz, a Russian military
observer.... "Concerning Germany and her future federative constitution,
nothing has yet been done, absolutely nothing."[10] Here is a gloss
written by Countess Elise von Bernstorff, wife of the Danish Minister:
"Most comical was the mixture of the very different individuals who all
fancied they had work to do at the Congress... One noticed noblemen and
scholars who had never transacted any business before, but now looked
extremely consequential and took on an imposing bearing, and professors
who mentally set down their university chairs in the center of a
listening Congress, but soon turned peevish and wandered hither and
thither, complaining that they could not, for the life of them, make out
what was going on." Again: "It would have been to the interest of all
Europe--rightly understood--to restore Poland. This matter may be
regarded as the most important of all. None other could touch so nearly
the policy of all the Powers represented,"[11] wrote the Bavarian
Premier, Graf von Montgelas, just as the Entente press was writing in
the year 1919.
The plenipotentiaries of the Paris Conference had for a short period
what is termed a good press, and a rigorous censorship which never erred
on the side of laxity, whereas those of the Vienna Congress were
criticized without truth. For example, the population of Vienna, we are
told by Bavaria's chief delegate, was disappointed when it discerned in
those whom it was wont to worship as demigods, only mortals. "The
condition of state affairs," writes Von Gentz, one of the clearest heads
at the Congress, "is weird, but it is not, as formerly, in consequence
of the crushing weight that is hung around our necks, but by reason of
the mediocrity and clumsiness of nearly all the workers."[12] One
consequence of this state of things was the constant upspringing of new
and unforeseen problems, until, as time went on, the bewildered
delegates were literally overwhelmed. "So many interests cross each
other here," comments Count Carl von Nostitz, "which the peoples want to
have mooted at the long-wished-for League of Nations, that they fall
into the oddest shapes.... Look wheresoever you will, you are faced with
incongruity and confusion.... Daily the claims increase as though more
and more evil spirits were issuing forth from hell at the invocation of
a sorcerer who has forgotten the spell by which to lay them."[13] It was
of the Vienna Congress that those words were written.
In certain trivial details, too, the likeness between the two great
peace assemblies is remarkable. For example, Lord Castlereagh, who
represented England at Vienna, had to return to London to meet
Parliament, thus inconveniencing the august assembly, as Mr. Wilson and
Mr. George were obliged to quit Paris, with a like effect. Before
Castlereagh left the scene of his labors, uncharitable judgments were
passed on him for allowing home interests to predominate over his
international activities.
The destinies of Poland and of Germany, which were then about to become
a confederation, occupied the forefront of interest at the Congress as
they did at the Conference. A similarity is noticeable also in the state
of Europe generally, then and now. "The uncertain condition of all
Europe," writes a close observer in 1815, "is appalling for the peoples:
every country has mobilized... and the luckless inhabitants are crushed
by taxation. On every side people complain that this state of peace is
worse than war... individuals who despised Napoleon say that under him
the suffering was not greater... every country is sapping its own
prosperity, so that financial conditions, in lieu of improving since
Napoleon's collapse, are deteriorating every where."[14]
In 1815, as in 1919, the world pacifiers had their court painters, and
Isabey, the French portraitist, was as much run after as was Sir William
Orpen in 1919. In some respects, however, there was a difference.
"Isabey," said the Prince de Ligne, "is the Congress become painter.
Come! His talk is as clever as his brush." But Sir William Orpen was so
absorbed by his work that he never uttered a word during a sitting. The
contemporaries of the Paris Conference were luckier than their forebears
of the Vienna Congress--for they could behold the lifelike features of
their benefactors in a cinema. "It is understood," wrote a Paris
journal, "that the necessity of preserving a permanent record of the
personalities and proceedings at the Peace Conference has not been lost
sight of. Very shortly a series of cinematographic films of the
principal delegates and of the commissions is to be made on behalf of
the British government, so that, side by side with the Treaty of Paris,
posterity will be able to study the physiognomy of the men who made
it."[15] In no case is it likely to forget them.
So the great heart of Paris, even to a greater degree than that of
Vienna over a hundred years ago, beat and throbbed to cosmic measures
while its brain worked busily at national, provincial, and economic
questions.
Side by side with the good cheer prevalent that kept the eminent
lawgivers of the Vienna Congress in buoyant spirits went the cost of
living, prohibitive outside the charmed circle in consequence of the
high and rising prices.
"Every article," writes the Comte de la Garde, one of the chroniclers
of the Vienna Congress, "but more especially fuel, soared to incredible
heights. The Austrian government found it necessary, in consequence, to
allow all its officials supplements to their salaries and
indemnities."[16] In Paris things were worse. Greed and disorganization
combined to make of the French capital a vast fleecing-machine. The sums
of money expended by foreigners in France during all that time and a
much longer period is said to have exceeded the revenue from foreign
trade. There was hardly any coal, and even the wood fuel gave out now
and again. Butter was unknown. Wine was bad and terribly dear. A public
conveyance could not be obtained unless one paid "double, treble, and
quintuple fares and a gratuity." The demand was great and the supply
sometimes abundant, but the authorities contrived to keep the two apart
systematically.
THE COST OF LIVING
In no European country did the cost of living attain the height it
reached in France in the year 1919. Not only luxuries and comforts, but
some of life's necessaries, were beyond the reach of home-coming
soldiers, and this was currently ascribed to the greed of merchants, the
disorganization of transports, the strikes of workmen, and the
supineness of the authorities, whose main care was to keep the nation
tranquil by suppressing one kind of
|
anything to help the family; and I’ll be rich and famous and
happy before I die, see if I won’t!"
Startled by this audacious outburst, the crow flew away; but the old
wheel creaked as if it began to turn at that moment, stirred by the
intense desire of an ambitious girl to work for those she loved and find
some reward when the duty was done.
I did not mind the omen then, and returned to the house cold but
resolute. I think I began to shoulder my burden then and there, for
when the free country life ended, the wild colt soon learned to tug in
harness, only breaking loose now and then for a taste of beloved
liberty.
My sisters and I had cherished fine dreams of a home in the city; but
when we found ourselves in a small house at the South End with not a
tree in sight, only a back yard to play in, and no money to buy any of
the splendors before us, we all rebelled and longed for the country
again.
Anna soon found little pupils, and trudged away each morning to her
daily task, pausing at the corner to wave her hand to me in answer to my
salute with the duster. My father went to his classes at his room down
town, mother to her all-absorbing poor, the little girls to school, and
I was left to keep house, feeling like a caged sea-gull as I washed
dishes and cooked in the basement kitchen, where my prospect was limited
to a procession of muddy boots.
Good drill, but very hard; and my only consolation was the evening
reunion when all met with such varied reports of the day’s adventures,
we could not fail to find both amusement and instruction.
Father brought news from the upper world, and the wise, good people who
adorned it; mother, usually much dilapidated because she _would_ give
away her clothes, with sad tales of suffering and sin from the darker
side of life; gentle Anna a modest account of her success as teacher,
for even at seventeen her sweet nature won all who knew her, and her
patience quelled the most rebellious pupil.
My reports were usually a mixture of the tragic and the comic; and the
children poured their small joys and woes into the family bosom, where
comfort and sympathy were always to be found.
Then we youngsters adjourned to the kitchen for our fun, which usually
consisted of writing, dressing, and acting a series of remarkable plays.
In one I remember I took five parts and Anna four, with lightning
changes of costume, and characters varying from a Greek prince in silver
armor to a murderer in chains.
It was good training for memory and fingers, for we recited pages
without a fault, and made every sort of property from a harp to a
fairy’s spangled wings. Later we acted Shakespeare; and Hamlet was my
favorite hero, played with a gloomy glare and a tragic stalk which I
have never seen surpassed.
But we were now beginning to play our parts on a real stage, and to know
something of the pathetic side of life, with its hard facts, irksome
duties, many temptations, and the daily sacrifice of self. Fortunately
we had the truest, tenderest of guides and guards, and so learned the
sweet uses of adversity, the value of honest work, the beautiful law of
compensation which gives more than it takes, and the real significance
of life.
At sixteen I began to teach twenty pupils, and for ten years learned to
know and love children. The story-writing went on all the while with
the usual trials of beginners. Fairy tales told the Emersons made the
first printed book, and "Hospital Sketches" the first successful one.
Every experience went into the caldron to come out as froth, or
evaporate in smoke, till time and suffering strengthened and clarified
the mixture of truth and fancy, and a wholesome draught for children
began to flow pleasantly and profitably.
So the omen proved a true one, and the wheel of fortune turned slowly,
till the girl of fifteen found herself a woman of fifty, with her
prophetic dream beautifully realized, her duty done, her reward far
greater than she deserved.
[Illustration: Chapter I tailpiece]
[Illustration: Kitty gives the bunch of holly to the little girl.--PAGE
36.]
II.
A CHRISTMAS TURKEY, AND HOW IT CAME.
"I know we could n’t do it."
"I say we could, if we all helped."
"How can we?"
"I’ve planned lots of ways; only you mustn’t laugh at them, and you must
n’t say a word to mother. I want it to be all a surprise."
"She ’ll find us out."
"No, she won’t, if we tell her we won’t get into mischief."
"Fire away, then, and let’s hear your fine plans."
"We must talk softly, or we shall wake father. He’s got a headache."
A curious change came over the faces of the two boys as their sister
lowered her voice, with a nod toward a half-opened door. They looked
sad and ashamed, and Kitty sighed as she spoke, for all knew that
father’s headaches always began by his coming home stupid or cross, with
only a part of his wages; and mother always cried when she thought they
did not see her, and after the long sleep father looked as if he did n’t
like to meet their eyes, but went off early.
They knew what it meant, but never spoke of it,--only pondered over it,
and mourned with mother at the change which was slowly altering their
kind industrious father into a moody man, and mother into an anxious
over-worked woman.
Kitty was thirteen, and a very capable girl, who helped with the
housekeeping, took care of the two little ones, and went to school.
Tommy and Sammy looked up to her and thought her a remarkably good
sister. Now, as they sat round the stove having "a go-to-bed warm," the
three heads were close together; and the boys listened eagerly to
Kitty’s plans, while the rattle of the sewing-machine in another room
went on as tirelessly as it had done all day, for mother’s work was more
and more needed every month.
"Well!" began Kitty, in an impressive tone, "we all know that there
won’t be a bit of Christmas in this family if we don’t make it.
Mother’s too busy, and father don’t care, so we must see what we can do;
for I should be mortified to death to go to school and say I had n’t had
any turkey or plum-pudding. Don’t expect presents; but we _must_ have
some kind of a decent dinner."
"So I say; I’m tired of fish and potatoes," said Sammy, the younger.
"But where’s the dinner coming from?" asked Tommy, who had already taken
some of the cares of life on his young shoulders, and knew that
Christmas dinners did not walk into people’s houses without money.
"We ’ll earn it;" and Kitty looked like a small Napoleon planning the
passage of the Alps. "You, Tom, must go early to-morrow to Mr. Brisket
and offer to carry baskets. He will be dreadfully busy, and want you, I
know; and you are so strong you can lug as much as some of the big
fellows. He pays well, and if he won’t give much money, you can take
your wages in things to eat. We want everything."
"What shall I do?" cried Sammy, while Tom sat turning this plan over in
his mind.
"Take the old shovel and clear sidewalks. The snow came on purpose to
help you."
"It’s awful hard work, and the shovel’s half gone," began Sammy, who
preferred to spend his holiday coasting on an old tea-tray.
"Don’t growl, or you won’t get any dinner," said Tom, making up his mind
to lug baskets for the good of the family, like a manly lad as he was.
"I," continued Kitty, "have taken the hardest part of all; for after my
work is done, and the babies safely settled, I ’m going to beg for the
leavings of the holly and pine swept out of the church down below, and
make some wreaths and sell them."
"If you can," put in Tommy, who had tried pencils, and failed to make a
fortune.
"Not in the street?" cried Sam, looking alarmed.
"Yes, at the corner of the Park. I ’m bound to make some money, and
don’t see any other way. I shall put on an old hood and shawl, and no
one will know me. Don’t care if they do." And Kitty tried to mean what
she said, but in her heart she felt that it would be a trial to her
pride if any of her schoolmates should happen to recognize her.
"Don’t believe you ’ll do it."
"See if I don’t; for I _will_ have a good dinner one day in the year."
"Well, it does n’t seem right for us to do it. Father ought to take care
of us, and we only buy some presents with the little bit we earn. He
never gives us anything now." And Tommy scowled at the bedroom door,
with a strong sense of injury struggling with affection in his boyish
heart.
"Hush!" cried Kitty. "Don’t blame him. Mother says we never must forget
he’s our father. I try not to; but when she cries, it’s hard to feel as
I ought." And a sob made the little girl stop short as she poked the
fire to hide the trouble in the face that should have been all smiles.
For a moment the room was very still, as the snow beat on the window,
and the fire-light flickered over the six shabby little boots put up on
the stove hearth to dry.
Tommy’s cheerful voice broke the silence, saying stoutly, "Well, if I
’ve got to work all day, I guess I ’ll go to bed early. Don’t fret,
Kit. We ’ll help all we can, and have a good time; see if we don’t."
"I ’ll go out real early, and shovel like fury. Maybe I ’ll get a
dollar. Would that buy a turkey?" asked Sammy, with the air of a
millionnaire.
"No, dear; one big enough for us would cost two, I ’m afraid. Perhaps
we ’ll have one sent us. We belong to the church, though folks don’t
know how poor we are now, and we can’t beg." And Kitty bustled about,
clearing up, rather exercised in her mind about going and asking for the
much-desired fowl.
Soon all three were fast asleep, and nothing but the whir of the machine
broke the quiet that fell upon the house. Then from the inner room a
man came and sat over the fire with his head in his hands and his eyes
fixed on the ragged little boots left to dry. He had heard the
children’s talk; and his heart was very heavy as he looked about the
shabby room that used to be so neat and pleasant. What he thought no
one knows, what he did we shall see by-and-by; but the sorrow and shame
and tender silence of his children worked a miracle that night more
lasting and lovely than the white beauty which the snow wrought upon the
sleeping city.
Bright and early the boys were away to their work; while Kitty sang as
she dressed the little sisters, put the house in order, and made her
mother smile at the mysterious hints she gave of something splendid
which was going to happen. Father was gone, and though all rather
dreaded evening, nothing was said; but each worked with a will, feeling
that Christmas should be merry in spite of poverty and care.
All day Tommy lugged fat turkeys, roasts of beef, and every sort of
vegetable for other people’s good dinners on the morrow, wondering
meanwhile where his own was coming from. Mr. Brisket had an army of boys
trudging here and there, and was too busy to notice any particular lad
till the hurry was over, and only a few belated buyers remained to be
served. It was late; but the stores kept open, and though so tired he
could hardly stand, brave Tommy held on when the other boys left, hoping
to earn a trifle more by extra work. He sat down on a barrel to rest
during a leisure moment, and presently his weary head nodded sideways
into a basket of cranberries, where he slept quietly till the sound of
gruff voices roused him.
It was Mr. Brisket scolding because one dinner had been forgotten.
"I told that rascal Beals to be sure and carry it, for the old gentleman
will be in a rage if it does n’t come, and take away his custom. Every
boy gone, and I can’t leave the store, nor you either, Pat, with all the
clearing up to do."
"Here’s a by, sir, slapin illigant forninst the cranberries, bad luck to
him!" answered Pat, with a shake that set poor Tom on his legs, wide
awake at once.
"_Good_ luck to him, you mean. Here, What’s-your-name, you take this
basket to that number, and I ’ll make it worth your while," said Mr.
Brisket, much relieved by this unexpected help.
"All right, sir;" and Tommy trudged off as briskly as his tired legs
would let him, cheering the long cold walk with visions of the turkey
with which his employer might reward him, for there were piles of them,
and Pat was to have one for his family.
His brilliant dreams were disappointed, however, for Mr. Brisket
naturally supposed Tom’s father would attend to that part of the dinner,
and generously heaped a basket with vegetables, rosy apples, and a quart
of cranberries.
"There, if you ain’t too tired, you can take one more load to that
number, and a merry Christmas to you!" said the stout man, handing over
his gift with the promised dollar.
"Thank you, sir; good-night," answered Tom, shouldering his last load
with a grateful smile, and trying not to look longingly at the poultry;
for he had set his heart on at least a skinny bird as a surprise to Kit.
Sammy’s adventures that day had been more varied and his efforts more
successful, as we shall see, in the end, for Sammy was a most engaging
little fellow, and no one could look into his blue eyes without wanting
to pat his curly yellow head with one hand while the other gave him
something. The cares of life had not lessened his confidence in people;
and only the most abandoned ruffians had the heart to deceive or
disappoint him. His very tribulations usually led to something
pleasant, and whatever happened, sunshiny Sam came right side up, lucky
and laughing.
Undaunted by the drifts or the cold wind, he marched off with the
remains of the old shovel to seek his fortune, and found it at the third
house where he called. The first two sidewalks were easy jobs; and he
pocketed his ninepences with a growing conviction that this was his
chosen work. The third sidewalk was a fine long one, for the house
stood on the corner, and two pavements must be cleared.
"It ought to be fifty cents; but perhaps they won’t give me so much, I’m
such a young one. I’ll show ’em I can work, though, like a man;" and
Sammy rang the bell with the energy of a telegraph boy.
Before the bell could be answered, a big boy rushed up, exclaiming
roughly, "Get out of this! I’m going to have the job. You can’t do it.
Start, now, or I’ll chuck you into a snow-bank."
"I won’t!" answered Sammy, indignant at the brutal tone and unjust
claim. "I got here first, and it’s my job. You let me alone. I ain’t
afraid of you or your snow-banks either."
The big boy wasted no time in words, for steps were heard inside, but
after a brief scuffle hauled Sammy, fighting bravely all the way, down
the steps, and tumbled him into a deep drift. Then he ran up the steps,
and respectfully asked for the job when a neat maid opened the door. He
would have got it if Sam had not roared out, as he floundered in the
drift, "I came first. He knocked me down ’cause I ’m the smallest.
Please let me do it; please!"
Before another word could be said, a little old lady appeared in the
hall, trying to look stern, and failing entirely, because she was the
picture of a dear fat, cosey grandma.
"Send that _bad_ big boy away, Maria, and call in the poor little
fellow. I saw the whole thing, and _he_ shall have the job if he can do
it."
The bully slunk away, and Sammy came panting up the steps, white with
snow, a great bruise on his forehead, and a beaming smile on his face,
looking so like a jolly little Santa Claus who had taken a "header" out
of his sleigh that the maid laughed, and the old lady exclaimed, "Bless
the boy! he’s dreadfully hurt, and does n’t know it. Come in and be
brushed and get your breath, child, and tell me how that scamp came to
treat you so."
Nothing loath to be comforted, Sammy told his little tale while Maria
dusted him off on the mat, and the old lady hovered in the doorway of
the dining-room, where a nice breakfast smoked and smelled so
deliciously that the boy sniffed the odor of coffee and buckwheats like
a hungry hound.
"He ’ll get his death if he goes to work till he’s dried a bit. Put him
over the register, Maria, and I ’ll give him a hot drink, for it’s
bitter cold, poor dear!"
Away trotted the kind old lady, and in a minute came back with coffee
and cakes, on which Sammy feasted as he warmed his toes and told Kitty’s
plans for Christmas, led on by the old lady’s questions, and quite
unconscious that he was letting all sorts of cats out of the bag.
Mrs. Bryant understood the little story, and made her plans also, for
the rosy-faced boy was very like a little grandson who died last year,
and her sad old heart was very tender to all other small boys. So she
found out where Sammy lived, and nodded and smiled at him most cheerily
as he tugged stoutly away at the snow on the long pavements till all was
done, and the little workman came for his wages.
A bright silver dollar and a pocketful of gingerbread sent him off a
rich and happy boy to shovel and sweep till noon, when he proudly showed
his earnings at home, and feasted the babies on the carefully hoarded
cake, for Dilly and Dot were the idols of the household.
"Now, Sammy dear, I want you to take my place here this afternoon, for
mother will have to take her work home by-and-by, and I must sell my
wreaths. I only got enough green for six, and two bunches of holly; but
if I can sell them for ten or twelve cents apiece, I shall be glad.
Girls never _can_ earn as much money as boys somehow," sighed Kitty,
surveying the thin wreaths tied up with carpet ravellings, and vainly
puzzling her young wits over a sad problem.
"I ’ll give you some of my money if you don’t get a dollar; then we’ll
be even. Men always take care of women, you know, and ought to," cried
Sammy, setting a fine example to his father, if he had only been there
to profit by it.
With thanks Kitty left him to rest on the old sofa, while the happy
babies swarmed over him; and putting on the shabby hood and shawl, she
slipped away to stand at the Park gate, modestly offering her little
wares to the passers-by. A nice old gentleman bought two, and his wife
scolded him for getting such bad ones; but the money gave more happiness
than any other he spent that day. A child took a ten-cent bunch of
holly with its red berries, and there Kitty’s market ended. It was very
cold, people were in a hurry, bolder hucksters pressed before the timid
little girl, and the balloon man told her to "clear out."
Hoping for better luck, she tried several other places; but the short
afternoon was soon over, the streets began to thin, the keen wind
chilled her to the bone, and her heart was very heavy to think that in
all the rich, merry city, where Christmas gifts passed her in every
hand, there were none for the dear babies and boys at home, and the
Christmas dinner was a failure.
"I must go and get supper anyway; and I ’ll hang these up in our own
rooms, as I can’t sell them," said Kitty, wiping a very big tear from
her cold cheek, and turning to go away.
A smaller, shabbier girl than herself stood near, looking at the bunch
of holly with wistful eyes; and glad to do to others as she wished some
one would do to her, Kitty offered the only thing she had to give,
saying kindly, "You may have it; merry Christmas!" and ran away before
the delighted child could thank her.
I am very sure that one of the spirits who fly about at this season of
the year saw the little act, made a note of it, and in about fifteen
minutes rewarded Kitty for her sweet remembrance of the golden rule.
As she went sadly homeward she looked up at some of the big houses where
every window shone with the festivities of Christmas Eve, and more than
one tear fell, for the little girl found life pretty hard just then.
"There don’t seem to be any wreaths at these windows; perhaps they ’d
buy mine. I can’t bear to go home with so little for my share," she
said, stopping before one of the biggest and brightest of these fairy
palaces, where the sound of music was heard, and many little heads
peeped from behind the curtains as if watching for some one.
Kitty was just going up the steps to make another trial, when two small
boys came racing round the corner, slipped on the icy pavement, and both
went down with a crash that would have broken older bones. One was up
in a minute, laughing; the other lay squirming and howling, "Oh, my
knee! my knee!" till Kitty ran and picked him up with the motherly
consolations she had learned to give.
"It’s broken; I know it is," wailed the small sufferer as Kitty carried
him up the steps, while his friend wildly rang the doorbell.
It was like going into fairy-land, for the house was all astir with a
children’s Christmas party. Servants flew about with smiling faces; open
doors gave ravishing glimpses of a feast in one room and a splendid tree
in another; while a crowd of little faces peered over the balusters in
the hall above, eager to come down and enjoy the glories prepared for
them.
A pretty young girl came to meet Kitty, and listened to her story of the
accident, which proved to be less severe than it at first appeared; for
Bertie, the injured party, forgot his anguish at sight of the tree, and
hopped upstairs so nimbly that every one laughed.
"He said his leg was broken, but I guess he’s all right," said Kitty,
reluctantly turning from this happy scene to go out into the night
again.
"Would you like to see our tree before the children come down?" asked
the pretty girl, seeing the wistful look in the child’s eyes, and the
shine of half-dried tears on her cheek.
"Oh, yes; I never saw anything so lovely. I ’d like to tell the babies
all about it;" and Kitty’s face beamed at the prospect, as if the kind
words had melted all the frost away.
"How many babies are there?" asked the pretty girl, as she led the way
into the brilliant room. Kitty told her, adding several other facts,
for the friendly atmosphere seemed to make them friends at once.
"I will buy the wreaths, for we have n’t any," said the girl in silk, as
Kitty told how she was just coming to offer them when the boys fell.
It was pretty to see how carefully the little hostess laid away the
shabby garlands and slipped a half-dollar into Kitty’s hand; prettier
still, to watch the sly way in which she tucked some bonbons, a red
ball, a blue whip, two china dolls, two pairs of little mittens, and
some gilded nuts into an empty box for "the babies;" and prettiest of
all, to see the smiles and tears make April in Kitty’s face as she tried
to tell her thanks for this beautiful surprise.
The world was all right when she got into the street again and ran home
with the precious box hugged close, feeling that at last she had
something to make a merry Christmas of.
Shrieks of joy greeted her, for Sammy’s nice old lady had sent a basket
full of pies, nuts and raisins, oranges and cake, and--oh, happy
Sammy!--a sled, all for love of the blue eyes that twinkled so merrily
when he told her about the tea-tray. Piled upon this red car of
triumph, Dilly and Dot were being dragged about, while the other
treasures were set forth on the table.
"I must show mine," cried Kitty; "we ’ll look at them to-night, and have
them to-morrow;" and amid more cries of rapture _her_ box was unpacked,
_her_ money added to the pile in the middle of the table, where Sammy
had laid his handsome contribution toward the turkey.
Before the story of the splendid tree was over, in came Tommy with his
substantial offering and his hard-earned dollar.
"I ’m afraid I ought to keep my money for shoes. I ’ve walked the soles
off these to-day, and can’t go to school barefooted," he said, bravely
trying to put the temptation of skates behind him.
"We ’ve got a good dinner without a turkey, and perhaps we ’d better not
get it," added Kitty, with a sigh, as she surveyed the table, and
remembered the blue knit hood marked seventy-five cents that she saw in
a shop-window.
"Oh, we _must_ have a turkey! we worked so hard for it, and it’s so
Christmasy," cried Sam, who always felt that pleasant things ought to
happen.
"Must have turty," echoed the babies, as they eyed the dolls tenderly.
"You _shall_ have a turkey, and there he is," said an unexpected voice,
as a noble bird fell upon the table, and lay there kicking up his legs
as if enjoying the surprise immensely.
It was father’s voice, and there stood father, neither cross nor stupid,
but looking as he used to look, kind and happy, and beside him was
mother, smiling as they had not seen her smile for months. It was not
because the work was well paid for, and more promised, but because she
had received a gift that made the world bright, a home happy
again,--father’s promise to drink no more.
"I ’ve been working to-day as well as you, and you may keep your money
for yourselves. There are shoes for all; and never again, please God,
shall my children be ashamed of me, or want a dinner Christmas Day."
As father said this with a choke in his voice, and mother’s head went
down on his shoulder to hide the happy tears that wet her cheeks, the
children did n’t know whether to laugh or cry, till Kitty, with the
instinct of a loving heart, settled the question by saying, as she held
out her hands, "We have n’t any tree, so let’s dance around our goodies
and be merry."
Then the tired feet in the old shoes forgot their weariness, and five
happy little souls skipped gayly round the table, where, in the midst of
all the treasures earned and given, father’s Christmas turkey proudly
lay in state.
[Illustration: Chapter II tailpiece]
[Illustration: "Grandpapa Ladle cheered them on, like a fine old
gentleman as he was."--PAGE 55.]
III.
THE SILVER PARTY.
"Such a long morning! Seems as if dinner-time would never come!" sighed
Tony, as he wandered into the dining-room for a third pick at the nuts
and raisins to beguile his weariness with a little mischief.
It was Thanksgiving Day. All the family were at church, all the
servants busy preparing for the great dinner; and so poor Tony, who had
a cold, had not only to stay at home, but to amuse himself while the
rest said their prayers, made calls, or took a brisk walk to get an
appetite. If he had been allowed in the kitchen, he would have been
quite happy; but cook was busy and cross, and rapped him on the head
with a poker when he ventured near the door. Peeping through the slide
was also forbidden, and John, the man, bribed him with an orange to keep
out of the way till the table was set.
That was now done. The dining-room was empty and quiet, and poor Tony
lay down on the sofa to eat his nuts and admire the fine sight before
him. All the best damask, china, glass, and silver was set forth with
great care. A basket of flowers hung from the chandelier, and the
sideboard was beautiful to behold with piled-up fruit, dishes of cake,
and many-colored finger-bowls and glasses.
"That’s all very nice, but the eating part is what _I_ care for. Don’t
believe I ’ll get my share to-day, because mamma found out about this
horrid cold. A fellow can’t help sneezing, though he can hide a sore
throat. Oh, hum! nearly two more hours to wait;" and with a long sigh
Tony closed his eyes for a luxurious yawn.
When he opened them, the strange sight he beheld kept him staring
without a thought of sleep. The big soup-ladle stood straight up at the
head of the table with a face plainly to be seen in the bright bowl. It
was a very heavy, handsome old ladle, so the face was old, but round and
jolly; and the long handle stood very erect, like a tall thin gentleman
with a big head.
"Well, upon my word that’s queer!" said Tony, sitting up also, and
wondering what would happen next.
To his great amazement the ladle began to address the assembled forks
and spoons in a silvery tone very pleasant to hear:--
"Ladies and gentlemen, at this festive season it is proper that we
should enjoy ourselves. As we shall be tired after dinner, we will at
once begin our sports by a grand promenade. Take partners and fall in!"
At these words a general uprising took place; and before Tony could get
his breath a long procession of forks and spoons stood ready. The
finger-bowls struck up an airy tune as if invisible wet fingers were
making music on their rims, and led by the stately ladle like a
drum-major, the grand march began. The forks were the gentlemen, tall,
slender, and with a fine curve to their backs; the spoons were the
ladies, with full skirts, and the scallops on the handles stood up like
silver combs; the large ones were the mammas, the teaspoons were the
young ladies, and the little salts the children. It was sweet to see the
small things walk at the end of the procession, with the two silver
rests for the carving knife and fork trotting behind like pet dogs. The
mustard-spoon and pickle-fork went together, and quarrelled all the way,
both being hot-tempered and sharp-tongued. The steel knives looked on,
for this was a very aristocratic party, and only the silver people could
join in it.
"Here ’s fun!" thought Tony, staring with all his might, and so much
interested in this remarkable state of things that he forgot hunger and
time altogether.
Round and round went the glittering train, to the soft music of the
many-toned finger-bowls, till three turns about the long oval table had
been made; then all fell into line for a contradance, as in the good old
times before every one took to spinning like tops. Grandpa Ladle led
off with his oldest daughter, Madam Gravy Ladle, and the little salts
stood at the bottom prancing like real children impatient for their
turn. When it came, they went down the middle in fine style, with a
cling! clang! that made Tony’s legs quiver with a longing to join in.
It was beautiful to see the older ones twirl round in a stately way,
with bows and courtesies at the end, while the teaspoons and small forks
romped a good deal, and Mr. Pickle and Miss Mustard kept every one
laughing at their smart speeches. The silver butter-knife, who was an
invalid, having broken her back and been mended, lay in the rack and
smiled sweetly down upon her friends, while the little Cupid on the lid
of the butter-dish pirouetted on one toe in the most delightful manner.
When every one had gone through the dance, the napkins were arranged as
sofas and the spoons rested, while the polite forks brought sprigs of
celery to fan them with. The little salts got into grandpa’s lap; and
the silver dogs lay down panting, for they had frisked with the
children. They all talked; and Tony could not help wondering if real
ladies said such things when they put _their_ heads together and nodded
and whispered, for some of the remarks were so personal that he was much
confused. Fortunately they took no notice of him, so he listened and
learned something in this queer way.
"I have been in this family a hundred years," began the soup-ladle; "and
it seems to me that each generation is worst than the last. My first
master was punctual to a minute, and madam was always down beforehand to
see that all was ready. Now master comes at all hours; mistress lets
the servants do as they like; and the manners of the children are very
bad. Sad state of things, very sad!"
"Dear me, yes!" sighed one of the large spoons; "we don’t see such nice
housekeeping now as we did when we were young. Girls were taught all
about it then; but now it is all books or parties, and few of them know
a skimmer from a gridiron."
"Well, I ’m sure the poor things are much happier than if they were
messing about in kitchens as girls used to do in your day. It is much
better for them to be dancing, skating, and studying than wasting their
young lives darning and preserving, and sitting by their mammas as prim
as dishes. _I_ prefer the present way of doing things, though the girls
in this family _do_ sit up too late, and wear too high heels to their
boots."
The mustard-spoon spoke in a pert tone, and the pickle-fork answered
sharply,--
"I agree with you, cousin. The boys also sit up too late. I ’m tired
of being waked to fish out olives or pickles for those fellows when they
come in from the theatre or some dance; and as for that Tony, he is a
real pig,--eats everything he can lay hands on, and is the torment of
the maid’s life."
"Yes," cried one little salt-spoon, "we saw him steal cake out of the
sideboard, and he never told when his mother scolded Norah."
"So mean!" added the other; and both the round faces were so full of
disgust that Tony fell flat and shut his eyes as if asleep to hide his
confusion. Some one laughed; but he dared not look, and lay blushing
and listening to remarks which plainly proved how careful we should be
of our acts and words even when alone, for who knows what apparently
dumb thing may be watching us.
"I have observed that Mr. Murry reads the paper at table instead of
talking to his family; that Mrs. Murry worries about the servants; the
girls gossip and giggle; the boys eat, and plague one another; and that
small child Nelly teases for all she
|
ic
Electricity 188
CHAPTER VI.
The History of Galvanism divided into six grand Epochs.--Davy
extends the experiment of Nicholson and Carlisle.--His Pile of one
metal and two fluids.--Dr. Wollaston advocates the doctrine of
oxidation being the primary cause of Voltaic Phenomena.--Davy's
modification of that theory.--His Bakerian Lecture of 1806.--He
discovers the sources of the acid and alkaline matter eliminated
from water by Voltaic action.--On the nature of Electrical
decomposition and transfer.--On the relations between the Electrical
energies of bodies, and their Chemical affinities.--General
developement of the Electro-chemical Laws.--Illustrations,
Applications, and Conclusions 216
CHAPTER VII.
The unfair rivalry of Philosophers.--Bonaparte the Patron of
Science--He liberates Dolomieu.--He founds a Prize for the
encouragement of Electric researches.--His letter to the Minister of
the Interior.--Proceedings of the Institute.--The Prize is conferred
on Davy.--The Bakerian Lecture of 1807.--The Decomposition of
the Fixed Alkalies--Potassium--Sodium.--The Questions to which
the discovery gave rise.--Interesting Extracts from the Manuscript
notes of the Laboratory.--Potash decomposed by a chemical
process.--Letters to Children, and Pepys.--The true nature
of Potash discovered.--Whether Ammonia contains oxygen.--Davy's
severe Illness.--He recovers and resumes his labours.--His
Fishing Costume.--He decomposes the Earths.--Important views
to which the discovery has led 253
CHAPTER VIII.
Davy's Bakerian Lecture of 1808.--Results obtained from the
mutual action of Potassium and Ammonia upon each other.--His
belief that he had decomposed Nitrogen.--He discovers Telluretted
Hydrogen.--Whether Sulphur, Phosphorus, and Carbon may not
contain Hydrogen.--He decomposes Boracic acid.--Boron.--His
fallacies with regard to the composition of Muriatic acid.--A
splendid Voltaic battery is constructed at the Institution by
subscription.--Davy ascertains the true nature of the Muriatic and
Oxymuriatic Acids.--Important chemical analogies to which the
discovery gave origin.--Euchlorine.--Chlorides.--He delivers
Lectures before the Dublin Society.--He receives the Honorary Degree
of LL.D. from the Provost and Fellows of Trinity College.--He
undertakes to ventilate the House of Lords.--The Regent confers upon
him the honour of Knighthood.--He delivers his farewell
Lecture.--Engages in a Gunpowder manufactory.--His marriage 307
CHAPTER IX.
Davy's "Elements of Chemical Philosophy" examined.--His
Memoir on some combinations of Phosphorus and Sulphur, &c.--He
discovers Hydro-phosphoric gas.--Important Illustrations of
the Theory of Definite Proportionals.--Bodies precipitated from
water are Hydrats.--His letter to Sir Joseph Banks on a new
detonating compound.--He is injured in the eye by its explosion.--His
second letter on the subject.--His paper on the Substances
produced in different Chemical processes on Fluor Spar.--His
work on Agricultural Chemistry 358
Octr. 19{th}
When Potash was introduced into a tube having a platina wire
attached to it so & fixed into the tube so as to be a conductor
ie. so as to contain just water enough though solid--& inserted
over mercury, when the Platina was made neg--No gas was formed
& the mercury became oxydated--& a small quantity of the
athalyer was produced around the plat: wire as was evident from
its gassy alteration by the action of water
--When the mercury was made the neg: gas was developed in great
quantities from the pos: wire, & some from the neg mercury & this
gas proved to be pure? _oxygene_ Capil Expr.--
proving the decompr of _Potash_
London, Published by Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley 1831
[Illustration]
THE LIFE
OF
SIR HUMPHRY DAVY,
BART. &c. &c.
CHAPTER I.
Birth and family of Sir H. Davy.--Davy placed at a preparatory
school.--His peculiarities when a boy.--Anecdotes.--He is
admitted into the grammar-school at Penzance.--Finishes his
education under Dr. Cardew at Truro.--Death of his father.--He
is apprenticed by his mother to Mr. John Bingham Borlase, a
surgeon and apothecary.--He enters upon the study of Chemistry,
and devotes more time to Philosophy than to Physic.--The
influence of early impressions illustrated.--His poetical
talent.--Specimens of his versification.--An Epic Poem composed
by him at the age of twelve years.--His first original
experiment in chemistry.--He conceives a new theory of heat and
light.--His ingenious experiment to demonstrate its truth.--He
becomes known to Mr. Davies Gilbert, the founder of his future
fortunes.--Mr. Gregory Watt arrives at Penzance, and lodges in
the house of Mrs. Davy.--The visit of Dr. Beddoes and Professor
Hailstone to Cornwall.--The correspondence between Dr. Beddoes
and Mr. Davies Gilbert, relative to the Pneumatic Institution
at Bristol, and the proposed appointment of Davy.--His final
departure from his native town.
Humphry Davy was born at Penzance, in Cornwall, on the 17th of
December 1778.[1] His ancestors had long possessed a small estate
at Varfell, in the parish of Ludgvan, in the Mount's Bay, on which
they resided: this appears from tablets in the church, one of
which bears a date as far back as 1635. We are, however, unable to
ascend higher in the pedigree than to his paternal grandfather, who
seems to have been a builder of considerable repute in the west of
Cornwall, and is said to have planned and erected the mansion of
_Trelissick_, near Truro, at present the property and residence of
Thomas Daniel, Esq.
[1] I have been favoured by the Rev. C. Val. Le Grice, of
Trereiffe, with the following extract from the Parish Register,
kept at Madron:--"Humphry Davy, son of Robert Davy, baptized at
Penzance, January 22, 1779." The house in which he was born has
been pulled down and lately rebuilt.
His son, the parent of the illustrious subject of our history,
was sent to London, and apprenticed to a carver in wood, but, on
the death of his father, who, although originally a younger son,
had latterly become the representative of the family, he found
himself in the possession of a patrimony amply competent for the
supply of his limited desires, and therefore pursued his art rather
as an object of amusement than one of necessity: in the town and
neighbourhood of Penzance, however, there remain many specimens of
his skill; and I have myself seen several chimney-pieces curiously
embellished by his chisel.[2]
[2] Soon after the days of Gibbons, the art of ornamental carving
in wood began to decay, and it may now be considered as nearly
lost. Its decline may be attributed to two causes. In the first
place, to the change of taste in fitting up the interior of our
mansions; and in the next, to the introduction of composition for
the enrichment of picture-frames and other objects of ornament.
"Robert Davy," says a correspondent, "has been considered in this
neighbourhood as the LAST OF THE CARVERS, and from his small
size, was generally called _The little Carver_."
I am not able to discover that he was remarkable for any
peculiarity of intellect; he passed through life without bustle,
and quitted it with the usual regrets of friends and relatives. The
habits, however, generally imputed to him were certainly not such
as would have induced us to anticipate a high degree of steadiness
in the son.
His wife, whose maiden name was Grace Millett, was remarkable for
the placidity of her temper, and for the amiable and benevolent
tendency of her disposition: she had been adopted and brought up,
together with her two sisters, under circumstances of affecting
interest, by Mr. John Tonkin, an eminent surgeon and apothecary in
Penzance; a person of very considerable natural endowments, and
whose Socratic sayings are, to this day, proverbial with many of
the older inhabitants.
To withhold a narrative of the circumstances that led Mr. Tonkin
to the adoption of these orphan children, would be a species
of historical fraud and literary injustice, by which the world
would not only lose one of those bright examples of pure and
disinterested benevolence, which cheer the heart and ornament
our nature, but the medical profession would be deprived of an
additional claim to that public veneration and regard, to which the
kind sympathy of its professors has so universally entitled it.
The parents of these children, having been attacked by a fatal
fever, expired within a few hours of each other: the dying
agonies of the surviving mother were sharpened by her reflecting
on the forlorn condition in which her children would be left;
for, although the Milletts were originally aristocratic
and wealthy, the property had undergone so many subdivisions,
as to have left but a very slender provision for the member of the
family to whom she had united herself.
The affecting appeal which Mrs. Millett is said to have addressed
to her sympathising friend, and medical attendant, was not made
in vain: on her decease, Mr. Tonkin immediately removed the
three children to his own house, and they continued under the
guardianship of their kind benefactor, until each, in succession,
found a home by marriage.
The eldest sister, Jane, was married to Henry Sampson, a
respectable watchmaker at Penzance; the youngest, Elizabeth, to
her cousin, Leonard Millett of Marazion; neither of whom had any
family. The second sister, Grace, was married to Robert Davy, from
which union sprang five children, two boys and three girls, the
eldest being Humphry, the subject of our memoir, and the second
son, John, now Dr. Davy, a Surgeon to the Forces, and a gentleman
distinguished by several papers in the Philosophical Transactions.
Humphry Davy was nursed by his mother, and passed his infancy
with his parents;[3] but his childhood, after they had removed
from Penzance to reside on their estate at Varfell, was spent
partly with them and partly with Mr. John Tonkin, who extended his
disinterested kindness from the mother to all her children, but
more especially to Humphry, who is said, when a child, to have
exhibited powers of mind superior to his years. I have spared no
pains in collecting materials for the illustration of the earlier
periods of his history; as, to estimate the magnitude of an object,
we must measure the base with accuracy, in order to comprehend the
elevation of its summit.
[3] For these materials I acknowledge myself indebted to Dr.
Penneck of Penzance, and to Mrs. Millett, Sir H. Davy's sister.
The facts were communicated in letters to Lady Davy, by whom they
were kindly placed at my disposal.
He was first placed at a preparatory seminary kept by a Mr.
Bushell, who was so struck with the progress he made, that he urged
his father to remove him to a superior school.
It is a fact worthy, perhaps, of being recorded, that he would
at the age of about five years turn over the pages of a book as
rapidly as if he were merely engaged in counting the number of
leaves, or in hunting after pictures; and yet, on being questioned,
he could generally give a very satisfactory account of the
contents. I have been informed by Lady Davy that the same faculty
was retained by him through life, and that she has often been
astonished, beyond the power of expression, at the rapidity with
which he read a work, and the accuracy with which he remembered it.
Mr. Children has also communicated to me an anecdote, which may
be related in illustration of the same quality. Shortly after Dr.
Murray had published his system of chemistry, Davy accompanied Mr.
Children in an excursion to Tonbridge, and the new work was placed
in the carriage. During the occasional intervals in which their
conversation was suspended, Davy was seen turning over the leaves
of the book, but his companion did not believe it possible that he
could have made himself acquainted with any part of its contents,
until at the close of the journey he surprised him with a critical
opinion of its merits.
The book that engaged his earliest attention was "The Pilgrim's
Progress," a production well calculated, from the exuberance of its
invention, and the rich colouring of its fancy, for seizing upon
the ardent imagination of youth. This pleasing work, it will be
remembered, was the early and especial favourite of Dr. Franklin,
who never alluded to it but with feelings of the most lively
delight.
Shortly afterwards, he commenced reading history, particularly that
of England; and at the age of eight years he would, as if impressed
with the powers of oratory, collect together a number of boys in
a circle, and mounting a cart or carriage that might be standing
before the inn near Mr. Tonkin's house, harangue them on different
subjects, and offer such comments as his own ideas might suggest.
He was, moreover, at this age, a great lover of the marvellous,
and amused himself and his schoolfellows by composing stories of
romance and tales of chivalry, with all the fluency of an Italian
improvisatore; and joyfully would he have issued forth, armed
_cap-à-pié_, in search of adventures, and to free the world of
dragons and giants.
In this early fondness for fiction, and in the habit of exercising
his ingenuity in creating imagery for the gratification of his
fancy, Davy and Sir Walter Scott greatly resembled each other.
The Author of Waverley, in his general preface to the late
edition of his novels, has given us the following account of this
talent. "I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I
to point out my first achievement as a tale-teller; but I believe
most of my old schoolfellows can still bear witness that I had
a distinguished character for that talent, at a time when the
applause of my companions was my recompense for the disgraces and
punishments which the future romance-writer incurred for being idle
himself, and keeping others idle, during hours that should have
been employed on our tasks." Had not Davy's talents been diverted
into other channels, who can say that we might not have received
from his inventive pen a series of romantic tales, as beautifully
illustrative of the early history of his native country as are the
Waverley Novels of that of Scotland? for Cornwall is by no means
deficient in elfin sprites and busy "_piskeys_;" the invocation is
alone required to summon them from their dark recesses and mystic
abodes.
Davy was also in the frequent habit of writing verses and ballads;
of making fireworks, and of preparing a particular detonating
composition, to which he gave the name of "Thunder-powder," and
which he would explode on a stone to the great wonder and delight
of his young playfellows.
Another of his favourite amusements may also be recorded in this
place; for, however trifling in itself the incident may appear,
to the biographer it is full of interest, as tending to show the
early existence of that passion for experiment, which afterwards
rose so nobly in its aims and objects, as the mind expanded with
the advancement of his years. It consisted in scooping out the
inside of a turnip, placing a lighted candle in the cavity, and
then exhibiting it as a lamp; by the aid of which he would melt
fragments of tin, obtained from the metallic blocks which commonly
lie about the streets of a coinage town, and demand from his
companions a certain number of pins for the privilege of witnessing
the operation.
At an early age, but I am unable to ascertain the exact period, he
was placed at the Grammar-School in Penzance, under the Rev. J. C.
Coryton; and whilst his father resided at Varfell, he lived with
Mr. Tonkin, except during the holidays, which he always spent with
his parents.
He was extremely fond of fishing; and I have been lately informed
by one of his earliest companions, that when very young he greatly
excelled in that art. "I have known him," says my correspondent,
"catch grey-mullet at Penzance Pier, when none of us could succeed.
The mullet is a very difficult fish to hook, on account of the
diminutive size of its mouth; but Davy adopted a plan of his own
contrivance. Observing that they always swam in shoals, he attached
a succession of pilchards to a string, reaching from the surface to
the bottom of the sea, and while his prey were swimming around the
bait, he would by a sudden movement of the string entangle several
of them on the hooks, and thus dexterously capture them."
As soon as he became old enough to carry a gun, a portion of his
leisure hours was passed in the recreation of shooting; a pursuit
which also enabled him to form a collection of the rare birds which
occasionally frequented the neighbourhood, and which he is said to
have stuffed with more than ordinary skill.
When at home, he frequently amused himself with reading and
sketching, and sometimes with caricaturing any thing which struck
his fancy; on some occasions he would shut himself up in his room,
arrange the chairs, and lecture to them by the hour together.
I have been informed by one of his schoolfellows, a gentleman
now highly distinguished for his literary attainments, that, in
addition to the amusements already noticed, he was very fond
of playing at "Tournament," fabricating shields and visors of
pasteboard, and lances of wood, to which he gave the appearance
of steel by means of black-lead. Thus equipped, the juvenile
combatants, like Ascanius and the Trojan youths of classic
recollection, would tilt at each other, and perform a variety of
warlike evolutions.
By this anecdote we are forcibly reminded of the early taste of
Sir William Jones, who, when a boy at Harrow School, invented a
political play, in which William Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, and the
celebrated Dr. Parr, were his principal associates. They divided
the fields in the neighbourhood of Harrow, according to a map
of Greece, into states and kingdoms; each fixed upon one as his
dominion, and assumed an ancient name. Some of their schoolfellows
consented to be styled Barbarians, who were to invade their
territories and attack their hillocks, which they denominated
fortresses.[4]
[4] Life of Sir William Jones, by Lord Teignmouth.
On one occasion, Davy got up a Pantomime; and I have very
unexpectedly obtained a fly-leaf, torn out of a Schrevelius'
Lexicon, on which the _Dramatis Personæ_, as well as the names
of the young actors, were registered, as originally cast. This
document appears so interesting, that I have thought it right to
place it on record.
_Father_ Cunnack.
_Harlequin_ Davy.
_Clown_ ....[5]
_Columbine_ Hichens.
_Cupid_ Veale.
_Fortuna_ Scobell.
_Ben_ Billy Giddy.
_Nurse_ Robyns.
_Maccaroni_ Dennis.
[5] Here, as Mrs. Ratcliffe would say, the Legend is so effaced
by damp and time, as to be wholly illegible.
The performers, who, I believe, with one exception, are all living,
will perhaps find some amusement in examining how far their future
characters were shadowed forth on this occasion. At all events, I
feel confident that they will receive no small gratification at
having their recollections thus carried back to the joyous scenes
of boyhood, connected as they always are, and must ever be, with
the most delightful associations of our lives.
From Penzance school he went to Truro, in the year 1793, and
finished his education under the Rev. Dr. Cardew, a gentleman who
is distinguished by the number of eminent scholars with which he
has graced his country.
That he was quick and industrious in his school exercises, may
be inferred from an anecdote related by his sister, that "on
being removed to Truro, Dr. Cardew found him very deficient in
the qualifications for the Class of his age, but on observing
the quickness of his talents, and his aptitude for learning, he
did not place him in a lower form, telling him that by industry
and attention he trusted he might be entitled to keep the place
assigned to him; which," his sister says, "he did, to the entire
satisfaction of his master."
It is very natural that an anecdote so gratifying to the family
should have been deeply imprinted on their memory; but we must not
be surprised on finding that it did not make a similar impression
upon Dr. Cardew. From a letter lately addressed by that gentleman
to Mr. Davies Gilbert, the following is an extract:--"With respect
to our illustrious countryman, Sir H. Davy, I fear I can claim but
little merit from the share I had in his education. He was not long
with me; and while he remained I could not discern the faculties
by which he was afterwards so much distinguished; I discovered,
indeed, his taste for poetry, which I did not omit to encourage."
Dr. Cardew adds, "While engaged in teaching the classics, I was
anxious to discharge faithfully the duties of my profession to the
best of my ability; but I was certainly fortunate in having so many
good materials to work upon, and thus having only '_fungi vice
cotis_,' though '_exsors ipse secandi_.'"--To the truth of this
latter part of the Doctor's quotation, will his scholars willingly
subscribe? It may be fairly doubted how far Dr. Cardew was able
to descend into the shadowy regions of Maro, without the "_donum
fatalis virgæ_."
Mrs. Millett thinks that the deficiency just alluded to may be
attributed to Mr. Coryton, rather than to the inattention of her
brother; the former having, from his neglect as a master, given
very general dissatisfaction. From what I can learn, at this
distant period, of the character of Mr. Coryton, it appears at all
events, that the "_exsors ipse secandi_" could not have been justly
applied to him; and that, owing to an unfortunate aptness in the
name to a doggrel verse, poor Davy had frequently to smart under
his tyranny.
"Now, Master Dàvy,
Now, Sir, I hàve 'e,
No one shall sàve 'e,
Good Master Dàvy;"
when the master, suiting the action to the rhythm, inflicted upon
the hand of the unlucky scholar the verberations of that type and
instrument of pedagoguish authority--the flat ruler. Here we have
another example of the seduction of sound, argued by our great
jurist Mr. Bentham,[6] to have determined the maxims of that law,
which has been pronounced by its sages the perfection of reason.
[6] "Were the enquiry diligently made," he says, "it would be
found that the Goddess of Harmony has exercised more influence,
however latent, over the dispensations of Themis, than her
most diligent historiographers, or even her most passionate
panegyrists, seem to be aware of. Every one knows how, by the
ministry of Orpheus, it was she who first collected the sons
of men beneath the shadow of the sceptre: yet in the midst of
continual experience, men seem yet to learn with what successful
diligence she laboured to guide it in its course."
From a letter, however, written by Davy a few years afterwards,
respecting the education of a member of his family, he would appear
to have entertained an opinion not very unlike that of John Locke;
for, although he testifies the highest respect for Dr. Cardew, he
seems to consider the comparative idleness of his earlier school
career, by allowing him to follow the bent of his own mind, to have
favoured the developement of his peculiar genius. "After all," he
says, "the way in which we are taught Latin and Greek, does not
much influence the important structure of our minds. I consider
it fortunate that I was left much to myself as a child, and put
upon no particular plan of study, and that I enjoyed much idleness
at Mr. Coryton's school. I perhaps owe to these circumstances the
little talents I have, and their peculiar application:--what I am I
have made myself--I say this without vanity, and in pure simplicity
of heart."
His temper during youth is represented as mild and amiable. He
never suppressed his feelings, but every action was marked by
ingenuousness and candour, qualities which endeared him to his
youthful associates, and gained him the love of all who knew him.
"Nor can I find," says his sister, "beloved as he must have been by
my mother, that she showed him any particular preference;--all her
children appeared to be alike her care, and all alike shared her
affection."
In 1794, Mr. Davy died. We cannot but regret that he did not live
long enough to witness his son's eminence; for life, as Johnson
says, has few better things to give than a talented son; but from
his widow, who has but lately descended to the tomb, full of years
and respectability, this boon was not withheld, she witnessed his
whole career of usefulness and honour, and happily closed her eyes
before her maternal fears could have been awakened by those signs
of premature decay, which for some time had excited in his friends,
and in the friends of science, an alarm which the recent deplorable
event has too fatally justified.
In the year following the decease of her husband, Mrs. Davy, who
had again taken up her residence in Penzance, apprenticed her
son,[7] by the advice of her long-valued friend, Mr. Tonkin, to Mr.
John Bingham Borlase, at that time a surgeon and apothecary, but
who afterwards obtained a diploma, and became an eminent physician
at Penzance. Davy, however, for the most part, continued to pursue
his own plans of study; for although his friend Mr. Tonkin, without
doubt, intended him for a general practitioner in his native town,
yet he himself always looked forward to graduation at Edinburgh, as
a preliminary measure to his practising in the higher walk of his
profession.
[7] The original indenture, now in the possession of Mr. R.
Edmonds, solicitor, of Penzance, is dated February 10th, 1795.
His mind had, for some time, been engrossed with philosophical
pursuits; but until after he had been placed with Mr. Borlase, it
does not appear that he indicated any decided turn for chemistry,
the study of which he then commenced with all the ardour of his
temperament; and his eldest sister, who acted as his assistant,
well remembers the ravages committed on her dress by corrosive
substances.
It has been said that his mind was first directed to chemistry by
a desire to discover various mixtures as pigments: a suggestion
to which, I confess, I am not disposed to pay much attention;
for although he might have sought by new combinations to impart
a novel and vivid richness of colouring to his drawings, it was
the character of his mind to pursue with ardour every subject of
novelty, and to get at results by his own native powers, rather
than by the recorded experience of others.
I must here relate an anecdote, in illustration of this statement,
which has been lately communicated to me by the Reverend Dr.
Batten, the principal of the East India College at Hayleybury.
This gentleman was one of the earliest of Davy's schoolfellows,
but as he advanced in age, different views, and a different plan
of education, carried him to a distant part of the kingdom; the
discipline and duties of a cloistered school necessarily estranged
him from his native town; and it was not until after his admission
at Cambridge, and the arrival of the long vacation, which afforded
a temporary oblivion of academic cares, that Mr. Batten returned
to Cornwall, to revisit the scenes, and to renew the friendships
of his boyish days. Davy, who was at that period an apprentice to
Mr. Borlase, received him with transport and affection; but he
was no longer the boy that his friend had left him; he had become
more serious and contemplative, fond of solitary rambles, and
averse to enter into society, or to join the festive parties of the
inhabitants. In fact, his mind was now in the act of being moulded
by the spirit of Nature; and, without the constraint of study, he
was insensibly inhaling knowledge with the wild breezes of his
native hills.
In the course of conversation, Mr. Batten spoke of his academic
studies; and in alluding to the principles of Mechanics, to which
he had lately paid much attention, he expressed himself more
particularly pleased with that part which treats of "the Collision
of Bodies." What was his surprise, on finding Davy as well, if not
better acquainted with its several propositions! It was true that
he had never systematically studied the subject--had never perhaps
seen any standard work upon it, but he had instituted experiments
with elastic and inelastic balls, and had worked out the results by
the unassisted energies of his own mind. It is clear that, had this
branch of science not existed, Davy would have created it.
During this period of his apprenticeship, he twice a week attended
a French school in Penzance, kept by a M. Dugast, a priest from La
Vendée; and it was remarked that, although he acquired a knowledge
of the grammatical construction of the language with greater
facility than any of the other scholars, he could not succeed
in obtaining the pronunciation; and, in fact, notwithstanding
his extensive intercourse with foreigners, and his residence in
France, he never, even in after life, could pronounce French with
correctness or speak it with fluency.
While with Mr. Borlase, it was his constant custom to walk in the
evening to Marazion, to drink tea with an aunt to whom he was
greatly attached. Upon such occasions, his usual companion was a
hammer, with which he procured specimens from the rocks on the
beach. In short, it would appear that, at this period, he paid much
more attention to Philosophy than to Physic; that he thought more
of the bowels of the earth, than of the stomachs of his patients;
and that, when he should have been bleeding the sick, he was
opening veins in the granite. Instead of preparing medicines in the
surgery, he was experimenting in Mr. Tonkin's garret, which had
now become the scene of his chemical operations; and, upon more
than one occasion, it is said that he produced an explosion, which
put the Doctor, and all his glass bottles, in jeopardy. "This boy
Humphry is incorrigible!"--"Was there ever so idle a dog!"--"He
will blow us all into the air!" Such were the constant exclamations
of Mr. Tonkin; and then, in a jocose strain, he would speak of him
as the "Philosopher," and sometimes call him "Sir Humphry," as if
prophetic of his future renown.[8]
[8] Davy appears to have been more fortunate than his prototype
Scheele; for on one occasion, as the latter was employed in
making pyrophorus, a fellow apprentice, without his knowledge,
put some fulminating powder into the mixture; the consequence was
a violent explosion; the whole family was thrown into confusion,
and the young chemist was severely chastised.
His sister has remarked that, as he advanced in life, he always
preferred the society of persons older than himself; and one of his
contemporaries informs me that he never heard him allude to any
subject of science, although he remembers that while one of his
pockets was filled with fishing-tackle, the other was as commonly
loaded with specimens of rocks. With those, however, who were
superior to him in years, he delighted to enter into discussion.
At Penzance, there still resides a member of the Society of
Friends, whose ingenuity entitles him to greater rewards than a
provincial town can afford, with whom Davy, as a boy, was in the
constant habit of discussing questions of practical mechanics. "I
tell thee what, Humphry," exclaimed the Quaker upon one of these
occasions--"thou art the most quibbling hand at a dispute I ever
met with in my life."
For the surgical department of the profession, he always
entertained a decided distaste, although the following extract
from a letter of my correspondent Mr. Le Grice will show that,
for once at least, he had the merit of mending a broken head.
"The first time I ever saw Davy was on the Battery rocks; we were
alone bathing, and he pointed out to me a good place for diving;
at the same time he talked about the tides, and Sir Isaac Newton,
in a manner that greatly amazed me. I perhaps should not have so
distinctly remembered him, but on the following day, by not exactly
marking the spot he had pointed out, I was nearly killed by diving
on a rock, and he came as Mr. Borlase's assistant to dress the
wound."
It was his great delight to ramble along the sea-shore, and often,
like the orator of Athens, would he on such occasions declaim
against the howling of the wind and waves, with a view to overcome
a defect in his voice, which, although only slightly perceptible
in his maturer age, was in the days of his boyhood exceedingly
discordant. I may be allowed to observe, that the peculiar
intonation he employed in his public addresses, and which rendered
him obnoxious to the charge of affectation, was to be referred
to a laborious effort to conceal this natural infirmity. It was
also clear that he was deficient in that quality which is commonly
called "a good ear," and with which the modulation of the voice is
generally acknowledged to have an obvious connexion. Those who knew
him intimately will readily bear testimony to this fact. Whenever
he was deeply absorbed in a chemical research, it was his habit to
hum some tune, if such it could be called, for it was impossible
for any one to discover the air he intended to sing: indeed, Davy's
music became a subject of raillery amongst his friends; and Mr.
Children informs me, that, during an excursion, they attempted to
teach him the air of 'God save the King,' but their efforts were
unavailing.
It may be a question how far the following fact, with which I
have just been made acquainted, admits of explanation upon this
principle. On entering a volunteer infantry corps, commanded by
a Captain Oxnam, Davy could never emerge from the awkward squad;
no pains could make him keep the step; and those who were so
unfortunate as to stand before him in the ranks, ought to have been
heroes invulnerable in the heel. This incapacity, as may be readily
supposed, occasioned him considerable annoyance, and he engaged a
serjeant to give him private lessons, but it was all to no purpose.
In the platoon exercise he was not more expert; and he whose
electric battery was destined to triumph over
|
flame of future greatness and the sun
warmed the ambitious blood of the early inhabitants. She became the golden
gate to the unexplored West. She became the cosmopolitan and central point
of a world power. Chicago was talked of, considered, bargained with from
East to West, and North to South.
With vastness came power; with power, abuse; with abuse, vice; with vice,
crime; with crime, graft.
It is of CHICAGO, TODAY, we write.
Truth sears, eats, destroys that which is but veneer and golden covering.
Chicago has blinded herself to the hideous truth. She has hidden her head,
closed her eyes and cried out:
"I will not see!"
Vice, like some slimy, hideous, mephitic, green-eyed monster from the
deepest abyss of Hell has crept, sinuous and noiseless, on an unsuspecting
people.
It has battened upon red, pure life-blood. It has fattened on white flesh.
It has destroyed virginal purity, public morals and political honesty.
The monster has been insatiable. Satan, king of the damned dead since the
Beginning, urged on the monster Vice.
His political minions kneeled and offered sacrifice to the incarnate Evil
of the World. To save themselves they fed him of the rich and sacred
stores of the city. They took their portion.
They are still taking their share.
They still feed the monster. They are its slaves; they, appointed by the
people to safeguard them and to make their laws.
The monster Vice is fed by the police and politicians, who, under cover of
night and darkness, plunder, steal, cheat and murder to satisfy its greed.
We speak not in metaphor; this is the literal truth. We shall prove it.
If Satan came out of the depths of his Inferno, away from the shrieks of
the lost millions, he would wander from city to city until he reached
Chicago.
Then, in this twentieth century of culture, refinement and progress, he
would stand outside the gates, smile in triumph and speak this,--the
living, shameful, naked truth:
This is the CITY ACCURSED! This is the CITY OF THE LIVING DAMNED! This is
the CITY OF MY DESIRE! This is the CITY AFTER MY OWN HEART! VICE, CRIME,
CORRUPTION RULE:--MY TRIUMVIRATE!
This is THE MOST WICKED CITY IN THE WORLD!
Satan would tell the truth.
Chicago today is the most wicked city in the world.
Babylon had its vices; so, too, Alexandria. Greece and Rome struggled and
died in a national moral degeneracy they had created.
Chicago has surpassed them in wickedness.
Nay, Sodom and Gomorrah, destroyed by the wrath of Heaven, were pure when
compared to Chicago.
Paris and its lure of vice is tame by the side of Chicago.
There is no parallel in history. There is no adequate comparison.
Chicago leads the world in evil today. She stalks at the head of the Army
of Sin:--a beautiful, sensuous mistress and paramour to a personalized god
of named and unnamed Crime. The army is composed of bodies and souls that
Hell has claimed but not called. Their destinies are still unfinished on
earth.
And why is Chicago the Hell-hole of the world?
Because she has taken the failings, sins, defects, crimes, miseries and
vices of humanity, hurled them into a seething caldron of infamy, melted
them, amalgamated them and commercialized them.
A Vice-Graft system has been created. It has been formed along the lines
of modern commerce and finance.
Today the institution is stronger, more powerful, more impregnable than
the biggest financial or industrial combine in the United States!
In fact, it has absorbed many and invaded mysteriously and secretly every
other enterprise founded on decency and honesty. It is living off every
legitimate trade, business and industry in Chicago.
That is the limitless scope of the Vice Trust of Chicago, unincorporated,
but possessing a capital running high into the millions of dollars and
souls.
There are three stockholders, speaking in a collective sense, in Chicago's
Vice Trust, namely:--
The inhabitants of the highways and byways and gilded houses of infamy.
The police department of the city.
A coterie of politicians.
These form the board of directors of the ruthless, merciless, parasitic,
powerful corporation of Vice, Graft, Crime & Co.
Scarcely an individual, scarcely an industry fails to yield its life-blood
to that infamous trust! It feeds like a great octopus on the entire city.
Many of us are its unconscious victims!
CHICAGO--THE LIVING, BREATHING HELL.
"Leave behind all hope, all ye who enter here."
Dante dreamed he saw that line above the fiery gates of Hell.
To those who know and understand, that line flames as if written by the
fiery finger of Fate, in the heavens above Chicago.
You, all of you, dwelling without its polluted precincts, cannot enter it
without being trapped into the meshes of the Vice-Graft combine!
Spider-like, it has woven its web over and about the city. Enter and you
are entangled, consciously or unconsciously.
There is no escape. We shall prove this broad, sweeping statement.
From the depot to the cab, from the cab to the hotel, from the hotel to
the dining room, barber shop, manicure room or other places, the monster
trails you. The Vice Trust's agents are forever lurking in your shadow.
To the store, place of business, halls of amusement, the silent form
sneaks behind you, exacting from you a toll for the privilege of walking
the streets of Chicago and breathing God's free air.
When you leave for your quiet, peaceful hometown, the minions of the trust
follow you almost to the sacred entrance of an undefiled home. Only the
sanctity, purity and goodness, stops them there.
Such is the system!
THE SYSTEM AND ITS CAUSES.
Vice is co-existent with reason. Vice is a form of the abuse of reason.
As the city grew like a mushroom, so vice grew. All elements were
attracted.
Vice crept in, grew and flourished. Its resources were human souls and
bodies,--men and women.
It became a great, eating, nauseating, foul-smelling ulcer on the body
municipal.
It needed control.
Control--police regulation--was given it. Flagrant, unblushing vice was
hidden away in the corners of the city, to fester and die unseen.
But vice never dies. It lives on the body it has destroyed. Its existence
is parasitic.
It grew, grew, grew. Then like a many-armed octopus it stretched out and
out about it.
Craven souls, dealing with it, sworn by law to slay it, felt the terror of
death upon them. Also, with Satanic insight they saw the--
POSSIBILITIES!
Gold! Gold! Luxury! Power! Wealth!
Ever since the beginning we have cried for them, sinned for them.
Here was the chance.
THE COMPACT WRITTEN IN FLESH AND BLOOD.
"Let the creature Vice live and thrive, but give us part of the red blood
and white flesh of its victims"--was the thought.
The politician saw the opportunity. He could not evolve the scheme without
the aid of the police, so he confessed his conceived crime. The police
consented. Then the leaders of the cohorts of vice were told of the
combine and its ultimatum. They, too, consented.
"Give us part of the blood and flesh money and you may live and we will
protect you."--said the politicians and the police officials.
Out of the cavernous depths of Chicago's Hell, where thousands yearned to
be free to sow death without hindrance, came the fiendish answer:--
"WE WILL!"
The compact was written in letters of blood. Thousands gave up health,
happiness and life to launch the Vice Trust.
Today it is in its zenith!
Competition has been a factor in making and completing its triumph.
We have spoken collectively of the Vice Trust organization.
THE DIRECTORATE OF GRAFT, CRIME AND CORRUPTION.
Individually, today, ten powerful politicians lay down the law, exact the
toll, distribute it, after taking their major share, pass sentence of
life and death on good and bad, direct the huge and intricate machinery,
pay off the hundreds of employes,--principally members of the police
department,--high and low, and plan to enlarge and strengthen the
greatest, strangest and most complex organization in the world.
It is the Directorate of Ten!
They have divided the city between them and their vassals. They are the
rulers of the mysterious underworld, living like princes and rulers in the
white palaces of the overworld, surfeited with the heavy luxuries of life.
POLITICS, POLICE AND VICE.
Political power is the greatest of all power. It can subjugate with iron
hand all other powers.
The Directorate of Ten found willing agents in the police department of
Chicago. It has them today, and if needs be, can find more. Human souls
are easily purchased.
Today the system is intricate. So intricate that the combine has received
the appellation,--the Vice System.
To exist, vice, in any one of its thousand forms, must pay tribute. The
tribute is shared with the police for protection.
Many police inspectors, captains, lieutenants, sergeants and patrolmen
receive portions.
Segregation, flaunted to the world as the best remedy yet found for the
social evil, is but a lie on the part of the Vice Trust.
Only a portion of the unit Vice is kept within the limits of four
"redlight" districts. The rest stalks the streets, free, robbing its
victims in the glare of the noon-day sun.
The lost women-souls of the levees are but a pitiful and small part of the
army of Vice. They simply dwell in the rendezvous of the thousands who
live by infamy.
FOR EACH CRIME A PRICE!
From all vice-sources tribute is exacted monthly by the police themselves
or by the low, inhuman collectors of the Vice Trust.
Every vice has its price of toleration for existence!
Every possible violation of the law, the powers that be will wink at at so
much per wink!
All this infamy,--this protection of crime and reeking corruption, exists
today in Chicago.
THE ATTACK UPON THE TRUST.
The Civil Service Commission of Chicago attacked the bulwarks of the Trust
of Crime.
The police department was the point of assault. Several officials were
discharged for incompetency and inefficiency. Had they destroyed that
Satanic allegiance the backbone of the Combine might have been broken.
Chicago stood paralyzed at the revelations. The truth was murderous in
its hideous nakedness. No one had ever dreamed of the scope of its
business--the vice business.
The unholy alliance struggled to outlive the attack. Back on to the weak,
narrow shoulders of unsystematized infamy the politicians and the police
threw the blame.
The network of vice, the spiderweb of crime, the intricate working of the
System, the collusion of vice-parasites and political and police magnates
have become known. The story has more interest than a novel born of the
imagination of genius; more lure than the best detective story ever
penned; more fascination than any page in ancient or modern literature;
because it is palpitating, aching present day truth. Because it is a
living fact. Because it is an "elbow to elbow" condition. Because it is
the story of a great city, lost to goodness, and won to wickedness.
It is the story of Chicago!
The hideous ulcer is no longer concealed. It festers no longer in the
dark. Its poison seeths in the searing light of inquiry.
THE VICE-GRAFT CIRCLE:--WITHOUT BEGINNING, WITHOUT END.
Political power to become absolutism without danger of extinction needs
strong, imperishable foundations.
To hold vice-control meant to rule a vice territory with iron hand.
It was accomplished.
THE BALLOT:--THE SECRET OF VICE POWER.
This is the way it was done and still is being done. Take those political
precincts within whose boundaries the "redlight" districts exact their
toll from the thousands of unfortunate souls, who live in the iniquitous
Hell-holes or haunt them in search of pleasure.
Political powers were busy systematizing. Elections threatened to defeat
them and kill their plans.
The ballot box was the salvation.
The prostitution of the ballot came into existence and lives and
flourishes today, the primal blot on Chicago's once honorable escutcheon!
To gain an election, to hold political and vice-power the ballot box was
and is stuffed by a subtle and almost unpunishable method.
A district, by way of example, is populated by a floating and transient
element, brought into Chicago by the agents of the corrupt or drawn here
by promises of lucrative gain.
These men are used to stuff the ballot boxes and secure a victory of
crime, sin and iniquity.
On the South Side there are scores of hotels, whose standard and character
are written in unmistaken language on their very exteriors. These also
exist on the West and North sides of the city.
The assignation houses and the cheap lodging houses are the media for
slaying the honest ballot.
Men, brought to the city to corrupt elections, register in these places
under the names of prostitutes and absent inmates and under this guise,
cast polluted votes.
THE BALLOT-CONTROL OF VICE.
One man on election day can easily cast ten votes under ten names of ten
dissolute women, who live in the hotels under cognomens, giving initials
for their first names.
One hundred men can cast 1,000 illicit votes. That is sufficient to carry
an aldermanic election.
One thousand men can cast 10,000 ballots!
That, in a pinch, could sweep honesty from the highest office in the city,
and crown a Vice Trust vassal,--mayor!
This is how the Vice Trust wields the balance of power in Chicago, a power
that can crush any business, any man, can remove to the "woods" any
policeman or police official who refuses to obey its decrees, and so on
without limit.
Destroy this and Chicago might once more rear her head in pride. It is the
clutch that sets in motion all the machinery of evil.
Wreck that clutch and the delicate, subtle mechanism of concerted crime
would disintegrate.
Chicago is blind to the terrible evil of the plethoric ballot box, but the
eyes of thousands are being slowly opened.
The "prostitute-repeating" system is but one of the means employed to gain
and sustain political control. Hundreds of other methods are in vogue
today and working their evil effects.
"Stamp out Vice and Evil. Eliminate the red-lighted, tinsel Houses of
Shame; give our city to God."
This is the cry of the churches, led by their praiseworthy pastors.
Oh, ye with eyes that see not, and ears that are deaf to the voices of
hell, strike now and strike hard.
But strike not at the thousands of fallen women, nor at the brothel
keepers, nor at the dive owners, nor at the panderers, not yet, at least.
STRIKE, FIRST, AT THE POLITICAL SYSTEM THAT CONTROLS ALL AND REIGNS OVER
ALL.
Destroy the foundation and the superstructure will topple over of itself.
Break the power that begins and ends at the ballot box. Break the power
that sucks at the veins of the myriad army of the lost, and lives on the
white ways of decency.
That is the evil! Kill it!
In showing the Unbroken Circle of Iniquity we have shown where the control
of crime is begotten.
And now the parts, interlocked so finely that the connecting points are
lost, are to be revealed.
Once political power is assured, all else is inevitable by the nature of
things.
THE POLICE COLLECTORS.
The political power finds its agents. They are of necessity, the police.
Willing spirits are found.
The guardians of the law and public safety are hired out by the political
kings to collect their tolls from their sycophants and vassals.
Chicago policemen, high and low,--we venture to say eighty per cent of
them,--are today by virtue of the collection and tribute system the
confederates of every species of criminal, of every exploiter of every
known kind of vice.
They aid, abet and allow these law violators to thrive.
Vice and crime must pay its tribute to the police. The police must turn
over the bulk of the proceeds to their political masters. No criminal can
continue in his nefarious business without paying the price. It is called
Police Protection.
That is the blind. In reality it is Political Protection. The police are
but the body guard, the secret service of the corrupt--
Directorate of Ten.
Under Police Protection, for so many dollars per day, according to the
nature of the crime-business being carried on, every form of vice flaunts
itself in the face of Chicago's 2,000,000 inhabitants and its thousands of
country visitors.
It is no secret. Chicago knows. But she has failed to observe the reason,
and to open her eyes is the mission of this book.
THE PRICE OF CRIME:--$15,000,000 A YEAR!
From the army of vice the yearly tribute to the Directorate of Ten--the
controlling power--is almost unbelievable.
The figures stagger one.
With reserve, not exaggeration, we make this statement:--
Chicago's vice legion yields for existence and for protection the sum of--
$15,000,000 annually.
Think of it! Crime pays that fortune to exist and rob the public of more
money.
We are not dealing with the thieving contractors who rob the citizens
through fixed contracts. We treat only of the crime that the police are
sworn to slay.
$15,000,000 put into the coffers of men supposed to be representing the
people that the donors may go on destroying the souls and bodies of women,
the souls and bodies of men!
That astounding offering to appease the human Juggernauts and to sow in
the youths and maidens of our nation the seeds of incurable diseases!
That sum in the blood-stained hands of demagogues to blast a city's
decency and prosperity and to eat into the very vitals of our Republic!
In small envelopes, dirty and diseased, bacteria-bearing paper money and
grimy silver are handed in the dark or the light to policemen or outside
collectors to be turned over to the Directorate of Ten.
Let the figure $15,000,000 in tribute burn into the recesses of your
brain if you would realize the gigantic and almost indescribable character
of crime in Chicago.
It is estimated that the $15,000,000 annual vice tribute is less than half
a year's aggregate earnings.
Do you realize that $15,000,000 is five per cent of $300,000,000?
A VICE CAPITAL OF FLESH AND BLOOD.
Think of it!
Almost half a billion dollars!
But the capital in this business is not so many dollars. It is human
flesh, human souls, human blood! Can they be measured in dollars?
There is no capital in this hideous trust that stands in banks. The real
capital must be turned over and over. The exhausted bodies of men and
women fill the incurable disease wards of the hospital, the crippled and
broken down inhabit the shacks of the tenements, and thousands are buried
in paupers' graves.
This is the price of the slaves!
There is nothing but the world of infamy. Nothing but the aching, diseased
bodies of women. Nothing but the outraged purity of childhood. Nothing but
the toiling, unrestrained passions of fiends. Nothing but the lust that is
insatiable, the desire that fattens on the poisons it eats.
After years of investigation, acquiring information from politicians,
police officials and their subordinates, gamblers, habitues of the levees,
and nearly five hundred more vassals of the vice trust, we have placed
the protection figure at $15,000,000.
Attorney W. W. Wheelock, counsel for the Civil Service Commission and the
man who attempted to break up the Vice-Police-Political graft combine, in
speaking of this subject, said:
"I have as yet only scratched the veneer and the surface of this
terrifying evil, but the results have made me reel in horror and
amazement. At this time I estimate that the yearly graft is $15,000,000.
"The true figure, when all things are considered, must run far above that.
It is evident that at least eighty per cent of the police, at some time or
other, are grafters. The system of tribute and graft burrows into every
legitimate pursuit and finds some undreamed of channel of graft."
And Ellis Geiger, an alderman, made an astounding statement in full
council session, when the subject of appropriation to aid in the police
graft investigation was before that body. He said:--
"From the reports of investigators and men who have knowledge of
conditions in our city, vice pays tribute of $15,000,000 annually to the
police for its liberty of existence."
Both these men are citizens of high repute, men of intelligence and
understanding. Both have placed the vice-graft at a tremendous figure, but
they have not carefully studied all the sources of collection. These when
considered, make $15,000,000 a very conservative estimate.
What must be the murderous heart and the demon's soul of a monster that is
willing to pay such a price to wallow in the trough of moral filth and
physical bestiality!
THE EVILS OF A WORLD IN A MELTING POT.
"Name a vice, a crime, a sin, that was known from the Beginning to the
present day, and I'll show it to you in Chicago today."
Several years ago when the agents of the system were bolder in their
depravity, a "guide" stood outside the Polk street depot, waited for the
"gentlemen of the long green" and excited curiosity by the above
pronouncement.
He could truthfully shout it from the housetops today.
To it he would add, if he were to tell the entire truth:--
"I will show you not only every crime, but I will tell you the price of
its existence paid to members of Chicago's police department, and other
collectors of the Vice Trust."
Search and you can find:--
Salient shows, obscene amusement houses, houses of prostitution,
segregated and otherwise, fashionable "flats" in choice neighborhoods,
dens of reeking infamy for the congregation of humanity's lowest dregs,
rendezvous for degenerate white women and negro men, clubs and resorts
where degeneracy in its most revolting forms are practiced, professional
beggars, rich pickpockets, pretty shoplifters, leering street-walkers,
cocaine, morphine and opium dens, fake palmists and fortune tellers, and
gambling in its hundreds of luring, deceptive forms.
That is Chicago's generic crime list. If we omit, name the sin and it can
be found. That is the army that pays the graft to the police and other
creatures of the Vice Trust.
Then, there are walking the streets of Chicago, known to the police, a
score of bomb throwers, men under pay of the gamblers, who have the police
as partners, who threw over half a hundred bombs that destroyed nearly
$1,000,000 worth of property.
THE UNDERWORLD CONTRIBUTORS.
Two thousand gamblers pay their blood money.
Five thousand women, offered as slaves on the auction block of
prostitution, give their lives to make up the hellish tolls.
More than five hundred keepers of houses of ill fame contribute their
blood-dripping dollars.
Owners of five hundred "flats" or assignation houses pay their
"life-price."
We have said that every form of evil exists. We shall show in this book
the amounts of money paid by the minions and promoters of each vice for
police and political protection.
Our figures are accurate. They are founded on the statements of men who
once paid blood-money to live. They are the prices demanded by the Vice
Trust today.
The graft scale is so astonishing as to be almost unbelievable.
Cold figures are set down by the over lords; cold dollars are paid by the
lawless. Failure to pay means ruin. Grace is rarely given. The new man or
woman seeking to open a vice-business must pay a high entrance fee to the
political powers. Their protection price is always higher than that
exacted from the "old timers." The more hideous the crime-business the
higher the protective compensation for it. The greater the profits
accruing, the more the weight of the gold and silver poured into the
coffers of the corrupt politicians and their allies.
In the white palaces of hidden sin, where degeneracy boasts of its
infamous acts, and where men of wealth and women of fashion congregate to
turn loose their insane lusts without fear of detection or restraint, the
price of existence runs into the thousands of dollars.
In several vice emporiums, fitted as sumptuously as the homes of
millionaires on Lake Shore Drive, the protection for traffic in white,
delicate and beautiful bodies of young girls is $1,000 a month!
From the elegantly furnished roulette parlor to the den of quarreling,
cursing negroes in the "black belt,"--from the highest place of gaming to
the lowest--the price to go on filching thousands of men and women is
paid, and paid willingly.
THE WHITE SLAVE TRAFFIC ANDS ITS LIFE-PRICE.
The White Slave Traffic--the most infamous, foulest, lowest and
destructive feature of Chicago's wickedness,--pays a terrible price to the
lords of the underworld.
Police protection is granted it at terrible risk to the police and
politicians themselves. For this reason the price is high.
We all know what the White Slave Traffic signifies.
In a word it is:--
The buying, by insidious means, of thousands of pure, trusting and
innocent girls, the casting of them into the horrifying flesh markets and
the auctioning of them to infamous, polluted and brutal slave masters and
mistresses for a blood price.
It is the desecration of virginal sanctity. The bartering of women-souls
for dollars.
It is the tearing away of beautiful girls from their parents and the
fireside, and the thrusting of them into living hells.
IT IS SLOW, SURE MURDER!
AND THIS REEKING, DASTARDLY INFAMY HAS ITS PRICE? GOD! WHAT A SACRILEGE!
Of this evil and its relation to the Vice Trust we shall speak at length
in a separate chapter.
PROTECTION PRICES OF ALL VICES.
And now here are some startling figures. We will tabulate them, so they
will leave their proper impression.
THE LIST.
Tribute
per month
Houses of Prostitution--
Those known as "dollar" houses $20.00
"Two and three dollar" houses (for each inmate) $25.00
"Five dollar" houses (for each inmate) $35.00
"Ten dollar" houses (for each inmate) $40.00
Fashionable "flats" $25.00 to $500.00
Assignation hotels $25.00 to $500.00
High class houses where rich old men bring
young girls of virtue $500.00 to $1,000.00
Dives of vice where whites and blacks mix $200.00
Saloons with women "hustlers" $100.00
Cafes with "hustlers" (of prosperous trade) $100 to $300.00
Infamous dance halls $50.00
Infamous dance halls, extra for immoral dances $50.00
All-night saloons $50.00
Obscene acting in houses of ill fame $200.00 to $500.00
Handbooks and poolrooms 50 per cent
Faro games 50 per cent
Stuss ("Jewish poker") 50 per cent
Poker and other games 50 per cent
Crap games 50 per cent
Gambling houses with all games 50 per cent
Chinese gambling of all sorts 50 per cent
Opium dens $50.00
Cocaine and morphine selling $100.00
Manicure and massage parlors where the women
employes are really prostitutes $100.00
Pickpockets and confidence men not definite
Street walkers, or "hustlers" $20.00 to $50.00
Professional bondsmen 50 per cent
Burglars and dynamiters not obtainable
"Vampire" Trust, (members of which are women
preying on patrons of fashionable hotels) 50 per cent
Professional beggars not definite
Fake street hawkers per day, $5.00
Kimona Trust (to be explained later) 66 per cent
Laundry Trust 50 per cent
"Cadets," or "pimps" not definite
Chop Suey restaurants in certain districts $25.00
Such is the record of vice and crime and it is not complete. Such is the
record as it appears on the debtors' pages of the Vice Trust.
Hundreds of petty forms of infamy have a price. Other crime-trades pay,
but the prices cannot be learned or estimated, so intricate are the
workings of the vicious combine.
What do the agents of the White Slave Traffic pay to barter body and
blood?
The trust has the secret blood price. Investigation by the state, city and
particularly the federal government, has shown its existence. The monthly
figure must be upwards of $10,000.
SIDE ISSUES IN THE VICE GRAFT.
Nothing is consumed by the slaves of crime, nothing is used or even wasted
that does not hand over its pittance to the avaricious over lords.
We shall give specific instances of the far-reaching, grasping power of
the trust to collect.
In the South side "redlight" district but one brand of whiskey can be sold
today.
The Directorate of Ten has so ordered.
Why?
Because a politician has the controlling interest in the manufacture and
sale of a certain brand of whiskey. Therefore, that is the kind of whiskey
sold. It is as logical as all things in the harmonious and well-oiled
system. No keeper of a house of ill fame, no bloated, blear-eyed
saloonkeeper of the district would offer any other brand. Wisely, if not
honestly, another capitalist of the vice-corporation has bought up a
cigarette concern. He makes and sells a poisonous, brain and
moral-destroying cigarette. Ask for cigarettes in any den of infamy in the
levees of the city, and this brand will be forced on you. Perhaps if you
strongly protest, you can obtain some other brand, but your protest must
be loud and insistent.
Once more is evidenced the overwhelming, overreaching power of operative
and unified lawlessness.
Another member of the Trust has sunk his crime-tainted dollars into a
taxi-cab concern. The corporation must yield a profitable harvest.
Result: The man, who after satisfying his lust and passions, drunk with
the wine he has paid dearly for, and exhausted from a repulsive debauch,
is put into a taxi-cab and driven away from a "redlight" resort. That
taxi-cab belongs, through invested capital, to a member of the Crime
Directorate. Again the shadow of the monster.
If a business man engages in the manufacture of gambling paraphernalia he
looks for a market,--usually the saloon or dive. When he seeks contracts
he is told:
"Better see the boss."
He sees him. He pays him, and then he installs his machines at will, even
over the protest of resort keepers.
Again the hidden graft channel.
Hundreds of pounds of opium are smuggled into Chicago yearly. The opium
dens pay their protection price, but long before that the policeman has
held out his hand behind his back, accepted the graft from the "importer"
and sent him on to sow a slow death to thousands through the petals of the
poppy bud.
THE QUACK DOCTORS OF CHICAGO.
The city is overrun with quack doctors. Sensational and horrifying signs
adorn their windows, they advertise their "cures" in the columns of the
daily newspapers. They are the destroyers of health instead of the givers
of strong physiques and clear minds. Their prey is, in the most part,
out-of-town men and women and the illiterate of the city, who suffer, or
fear they are the victims of unmentionable diseases.
Do they fatten on the proceeds of this crime, free of trust-tribute?
Far from it. They pay a stipend from the fee wrung from the unfortunates
who enter their laboratories of crime.
The professional bondsmen, usually "lieutenants" or friends of the men
"higher up" are useful assets in times of emergency. When the outlook is
dull, when the collection days are far away, they do good service, aided
by members of the police department.
Suppose an unfortunate cesspool has failed to meet its obligations to the
vice lords. As a result the police are ordered by the "powers" to raid it.
They do so. At least a score of men are caught in the net. The
professional bondsman signs their bonds at a price ranging from $5 to $25
each. The bondsman retains a small percentage, as also the police. The
rest goes to the vice rulers.
THE KIMONA TRUST AND THE VAMPIRE TRUST.
The light, cheap and thin apparel worn by the lost women of the dens of
pollution contribute their small share to buy diamonds for the
vice-magnates.
There is a vice-asset called the "Kimona Trust." Every stitch of clothing
worn by the women denizens of the underworld is made and sold by its
agents.
For that trade it pays a regular and definite tribute.
We could go on enumerating indefinitely and never reach an end.
Graft, graft,--every kind from every dreamed-of source!
The Vampire Trust is one of the novelties of Chicago's crime-world. It is
of recent creation. It is a subsidiary corporation of the "big combine."
One hundred women, it is estimated, form its rank and file. They are women
of luring, attractive appearance, insidious "good-fellows," smartly
educated and vice's students of human nature.
Like vultures they prey on Chicago's wealthy visitors. They infest the
lobbies, restaurants and cafés of Chicago's most exclusive hotels. They
search out their victims, wile them away from business cares by sensuous
charms, take them "slumming," drug them and rob them.
Then they divide their ill-gotten gains with their protectors.
Then, too, there is the "hotel thieves combine." It is estimated that more
than $1,000 worth of valuables is stolen from the hotels in a month.
Bell boys are numbered among the hotel thieves. The police watch them and
follow them to the "fences"--the places where the stolen property is sold
for less than one half its value. Once more the trust does its work. The
"fence" manager must pay tribute or go to jail. He pays, of course.
That is the story of GRAFT, its origin, source and magnitude.
WHEN AND WHERE WILL IT END?
In the most defiled pages of the world's history, can you find a parallel?
It is not brutal, primitive, disorganized, heterogenous vice and crime,
such as inoculated nations that crumbled to decay; it is systematized,
organized, commercialized corruption.
It begins with the power created at a debauched ballot box!
It ends--? God alone can tell where it ends!
THE MEAGER PURCHASE-PRICE OF POLICEMEN'S SOULS.
The police department in a large majority is corrupted. But the evil hides
behind that body. It would be like paring a corn to destroy that body. The
root is still imbedded in the flesh.
POLITICS--prostituted and debauched--is the root of the evil.
The honest policeman is but a plaything. If he wanders into a vice king's
district he is tried out. If found wanting in rottenness his transfer is
effected. A more plastic man is found to fill his place.
The police department has sold its soul of honor for a mess of decaying
pottage.
Because:--
It is estimated that of the $15,000,000 in graft annually, the corrupt
members of the department receive but ten per cent.
They do the slave's work, the pander's work, etc., for a bagful of
blood-dripping dollars!
THE BATTLE OF GOODNESS WITH THE POWERS OF HELL.
A saint might sit in the seat of power,--the Mayor's chair--and be
powerless to stem the evil.
He is the creation of an election. Vice is the creation of satanic wisdom
and diabolical cunning.
|
With some exceptions, this policy
militated against the progress of their schools.[42] Among all the
different classes of societies the American Missionary Association
(New York City) was the best prepared for its work. This association
was organized in 1846 and prior to the war had already established
schools and missions.
The several groups of societies had elements in common. They were one
on the question of the treatment of the Negro, there being scarcely
any difference in their purposes as stated in their constitutions.
They felt that the National Government was too silent on the
principles of freedom and equality and that the State Governments,
North as well as South, had laws inimical to the Negro that should be
abolished. The two groups differed in personnel, the non-sectarian
consisting largely of business men, particularly the New York Society,
and the denominational of clergymen. In the selection of teachers the
former made no requirements as to church affiliation, whereas the
latter usually upheld this principle.
The ultimate aim of the church bodies was usually religious. They
endeavored to institute the true principles of Christianity among the
blacks, but in order to do this, in order to raise up ministers and
Christian leaders among them, schools were necessary.[43] The Baptists
in particular emphasized the training of ministers and the reports of
their agents in the field always included the number baptized along
with the number of schools and students.
ESTABLISHMENT AND WORK OF SCHOOLS
The schools established during this period may be roughly classified
as primary and higher, under the auspices of the non-sectarian and
denominational bodies respectively. They include day schools, night
schools, and Sabbath schools.
The term "higher" includes secondary and college instruction, although
within this decade only two or three schools were even doing secondary
work while another which reports "classical" students was really
of secondary rank. Some of the church schools were graced with the
name "college" and "university" which in reality merely represents
the expectation of the promoters. In later years at least two of the
institutions begun at this time reached college rank.[44]
The Freedmen's Bureau assumed general charge and supervision of
education for the State in the fall of 1865, under the direction of
Superintendent Reuben Tomlinson. Schools were in operation, however,
before this time--those at Port Royal and the Beaufort district, as
mentioned above, continued in operation and in increased numbers.
At Charleston schools were opened under the control of the military
government on the fourth of March, 1865, only a few weeks after the
surrender of the city. James Redpath was appointed as superintendent
of these schools. Outside of these two places no regularly organized
schools were begun until the Fall, when they were extended over all
the State.
The Charleston and Columbia schools are of chief interest. On March
31, 1865, after the schools had just opened, Redpath reported the
following in operation with the attendance of each:
Morris Street School 962
Ashley Street School 211
Saint Phillip Street School 850
Normal School 511
King Street School (boys) 148
Meeting Street School 211
Saint Michael's School 221
-----
Total 3,114
There were employed eighty-three teachers, seventy-five of whom,
white and colored, were natives of Charleston. The salaries of these
teachers were paid by the New York and New England societies and
cooperating with Redpath in organizing these schools were agents of
these societies, one of whom served as a principal of one school.
Within a month or two another school was added to this list, and
during the same time there sprang up five night schools for adults.
The students were made up of both white and Negro children and were
taught in separate rooms. The whites, however, represented a very
small proportion of the total number.[45]
In the fall of the year, with the reopening of the schools, the
general organization underwent considerable changes due to the
restoration of the regular civil government in charge of the
ex-Confederates. Most of the schools mentioned above were now
conducted for white children and taught by the native whites as of
old. The Morris Street School, however, was kept for Negro children
and taught by the native whites. The Normal School in time became the
Avery Institute. The New England Society, which in the Spring had
supported the Morris Street School, moved to the Military Hall and
subsequently built the Shaw Memorial School. This school was named in
the honor of Colonel Robert G. Shaw, who was killed during the war in
the assault on Fort Wagner (Morris Island) while leading his Negro
troops. The funds for the erection of the school were contributed
by the family of Colonel Shaw and they retained a permanent interest
in it. In 1874, when the New England Society dissolved, the school
was bought by the public school authorities and used for Negro
children.[46] During the course of four or five years other schools
were established here or in the vicinity of Charleston by the several
church organizations.
Charleston thus made a commendable start in education partly for the
reason that the city had a school system before the war and for a
while during the conflict. The free Negroes of this city likewise had
been instructed under certain restrictions during slavery time.[47]
The schools which were controlled or supported by the northern
agencies were by 1868 offering an elementary grade of instruction
corresponding to about the fourth or fifth grade with classes in
geography, English composition and arithmetic. Just here, however, it
must be said that the personnel of the student body was constantly
changing or at least during 1865 and 1866. Charleston was merely a
sort of way station for the blacks, who, returning from the up-country
where they had fled or had been led during the war, were on their way
to the sea islands to take up land as offered by Sherman's order.[48]
During April, 1865, Redpath reported that at least five hundred pupils
"passed through" the schools, remaining only long enough to be taught
a few patriotic songs, to keep quiet and to be decently clad. Others
in turn came and in turn were "shipped off."[49]
Columbia, though behind Charleston in point of time, made an equally
good beginning in spite of annoying handicaps. There was a fertile
field here for teaching, since the blacks were crowding in from all
the surrounding territory. Sherman having destroyed about all the
suitable buildings, T. G. Wright, representative of the New York
Society, in company with three northern ladies, started a school
on November 6, 1865, in the basement of a Negro church with 243
scholars. Soon thereafter, on November 7th, another was begun in the
small room of a confiscated building "very unsuitable for a school
room." On the same day two other schools were begun at similar places,
one of them at General Ely's headquarters and taught by his daughters.
On the ninth another school started on Arsenal Hill in an old building
rented for a church by the freedmen and on the thirteenth still
another was opened in one of the government buildings. These schools
were numerically designated as "No. 1," "No. 2," etc., being nine in
all. In addition to these there were two night schools begun about
the same time, one of them enrolling fifty adult males and the other
121.[50] The Columbia schools were taught wholly under the control
of the New York Society by northern ladies with the assistance of a
few Negro instructors who were competent to assist them. They had a
large attendance and consequently there were many changes made in the
location of schools in the course even of the first few months.
Fortunately these temporary congested quarters gave way in the
fall of 1867 when the Howard School was completed. This school was
erected by the New York Society and the Freedmen's Bureau at a cost
of about $10,000. It contained ten large class rooms. At the close
of the school year (1868) it had an attendance of 600. The closing
exercises of the year seemed to have attracted considerable attention
inasmuch as the officers of the city, Tomlinson, and newspaper men all
attended. The examinations at the close embraced reading, spelling,
arithmetic, geography, history and astronomy. _The Columbia Phoenix_
(a local paper) said of the exercises: "We were pleased with the
neat appearance and becoming bearing of the scholars... and the
proficiency exhibited in the elementary branches was respectable."[51]
The New York Society did its best work in Columbia. At Beaufort this
same organization had schools which occupied the large buildings
formerly used by the whites. The New England Society was best
represented at Charleston and Camden. The Philadelphia Society was
best represented at St. Helena. Some notion of the exact location of
the schools fostered by these societies (May, 1866) may be gained from
the following table:[52]
Number of
Town teachers Support
Ashdale 1 New York Branch
Combahee 1 New York Branch
Columbia 10 New York Branch
Edgerly 1 New York Branch
Greenville 6 New York Branch
Gadsden 2 New York Branch
Hopkins 1 New York Branch
James Island 5 New York Branch
Mitchellville 2 New York Branch
Lexington 2 New York Branch
Pineville 1 New York Branch
Perryclear 1 New York Branch
Pleasant Retreat 2 New York Branch
Red House 1 New York Branch
Rhett Place 2 New York Branch
River View 1 New York Branch
Woodlawn 2 Michigan Branch
Camden[53] 2 New England Branch
Darlington 2 New England Branch
Edisto Island 2 New England Branch
Hilton Head 6 New England Branch
Jehosse's Island 2 New England Branch
Johns Island 1 New England Branch
Marion 2 New England Branch
Orangeburg 3 New England Branch
Summerville 3 New England Branch
Port Royal Island 2 Pennsylvania Branch
Rockville 2 Pennsylvania Branch
St. Helena 5 Pennsylvania Branch
Beaufort 9 New York Branch 7
New England Branch 2
Charleston 36 New York Branch 13
New England Branch 23
Georgetown 4 New York Branch 1
New England Branch 3
With some exceptions the schools enumerated here and elsewhere
unfortunately had only a short existence for the reason that the
societies which supported them gradually became short of funds. The
New York Society, for example, in 1868, found itself hardly able to
bring its teachers home. The efficiency of other societies likewise
began to wane. By January 1, 1870, or within a few months afterwards,
the Freedmen's Bureau passed out of existence. Alvord and his whole
staff thereby were discharged from duty. The non-sectarian societies
ceased to exist because the aid societies of the several northern
churches claimed the allegiance of their members. A stronger reason,
as given by them, was that the freedmen were now (1868) in a position
to help themselves politically through the provision of Negro
Suffrage for the new State government, under the Congressional plan
of reconstruction. The Freedmen's Bureau was discontinued for similar
reasons.
A few of the schools so well begun either passed into the hands of
the State under regular State or municipal control of schools, as,
for example, the Shaw Memorial at Charleston, or they became private
institutions with other means of northern support. Before expiration,
however, during 1869, the Freedmen's Bureau used its remaining funds
to establish new schools and repair buildings throughout the State.
A graphic picture of the Bureau's activity during the latter part of
1869 is thus shown:[54]
SCHOOL HOUSES ERECTED
==============+========+============+==========+========+===========
| | | | Value | Ownership
Location | Cost | Size | Material | of lot | of lot
--------------+--------+------------+----------+--------+-----------
Bennettsville | $1,000 | 30 x 40 | Wood | $100 | Freedmen
Gadsden | 800 | 25 x 40 | " | 50 | "
Laurens | 1,000 | 30 x 40 | " | 100 | "
Newberry | 2,500 | 2 stories} | " | 300 | "
| | 26 x 50 } | | |
Walterboro | 1,000 | 30 x 40 | " | 100 | "
Manning | 500 | 25 x 40 | " | 50 | "
Lancaster | 500 | 25 x 30 | " | 50 | "
Graniteville | 700 | 25 x 40 | " | 100 | "
Blackville | 500 | 25 x 30 | " | 50 | "
+--------+ | | |
| $8,500 | | | |
--------------+--------+------------+----------+--------+-----------
SCHOOL HOUSES REPAIRED AND RENTED
Locality Ownership Amount
expended
Conkem Freedmen $ 500
Beaufort Freedmen 1,000
Columbia Bureau 100
Charleston (Orphan Asylum) Protestant Episcopal 2,400
Charleston (Shaw School) Bureau 100
Charleston (Meeting St. Post
Office) Rented 40
Charleston Protestant Episcopal 8,000
Chester Rented 30
Darlington Bureau 100
Eustis Place Bureau 800
Florence Freedmen 35.75
Marion Bureau 150
Mt. Pleasant Bureau 40
Sumter Freedmen 500
Shiloh Freedmen 100
Winnsboro Bureau 50
Orangeburg Methodist Episcopal Church 2,500
----------
Total $16,445.75
After all, the real significance of this educational movement was
the policy adopted by the denominational bodies that they should
establish permanent institutions--colleges and normal schools to
train teachers for the common schools and also in time that the
Negroes themselves should run these institutions.[55] South Carolina
under the Negro-Carpet-Bag rule in 1868, then, for the first time
ventured to establish a school system supported by public taxation.
For this object there were practically no competent teachers to serve
the Negroes. The only sources of supply were the persons trained in
the schools herein described and a few of the northern teachers who
remained behind.[56] Very small and crude it was in the beginning,
but the policy adopted here at least furnishes the idea upon which
ever since the public schools of the State have been mainly justified.
By 1870 the Perm School at St. Helena was sending out teachers in
response to calls from the State.[57] In the same year the principal
of the Avery Institute reported that he was asked by the State to
furnish fifty teachers.[58] This school was perhaps the best fitted to
perform this function.
The American Missionary Association supported, at Port Royal and
other points in the State, schools which, along with many others, had
only a temporary existence. The lasting and best contribution of this
association to this movement was the Avery Institute, its second best
was the Brewer Normal. Avery was established at Charleston on October
1, 1865, in the State Normal School building, which was offered by
General Saxton. The school commenced with twenty teachers and one
thousand scholars with every available space taken, one hundred being
crowded in the dome. The next year, having been turned out of this
building, the school was held for two years in the Military Hall in
Wentworth Street. On May 1, 1869, the school entered its present new
large building on Bull Street when it dropped the name of the Saxton
School for Avery in honor of the philanthropist from a portion of
whose bequest $10,000 was spent by the American Missionary Association
for the grounds and a mission home. The building proper was erected by
the Freedmen's Bureau at a cost of $17,000.[59]
Avery very soon dropped its primary department and concentrated its
efforts on the normal or secondary department where it had from the
beginning a comfortable number of students. These students came
largely from the free Negro class. Under the guidance of their
well-trained Negro principal the boys and girls here were reading
Milton's "L'Allegro," translating Caesar, and solving quadratic
equations.[60] From the standpoint of grade of instruction, Avery was
the banner school of the State. With a less pretentious beginning
Brewer was established by the American Missionary Association at
Greenwood in 1872 on school property valued at $4,000.
The Baptist Home Mission Society, following in the wake of the
American Missionary Association, made a beginning at Port Royal with
the labor of Rev. Solomon Peck, at Beaufort. This society in 1871
established Benedict at Columbia. The school property consisted
of eighty acres of land with one main building--"a spacious frame
residence," two stories, 65 x 65. This property cost $16,000 with
the funds given by Mrs. Benedict, a Baptist lady of New England.
During the first year the school had sixty-one students, most of whom
were preparing for the ministry.[61] In 1868, Mrs. Rachel C. Mather
established the Industrial School at Beaufort which now bears her
name. This school came under the auspices of the Women's American
Baptist Home Mission Society.
The Freedmen's Aid Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church conducted
primary schools at Charleston, Darlington, Sumter, John's Island,
Camden, St. Stephens, Gourdins' Station, Midway and Anderson;
but, like the Baptists, its substantial contribution was Claflin
University. This institution was established in 1869 in the building
formerly used by the Orangeburg Female Academy. The property was
purchased through the personal efforts of its first president, Dr. A.
Webster. The University was granted a charter by the State and named
in honor of Hon. Lee Claflin of Massachusetts, by whose liberality
it came into existence. The attendance the first year was 309 and by
1872 the institution had a college department, a normal department, a
theological department, and a preparatory department.[62] The Women's
Home Missionary Society of this same church had the excellent policy
of establishing homes for girls where, in addition to purely classroom
work, they would be taught the principles of home making and Christian
womanhood. In pursuance of this object in 1864 Mrs. Mather of Boston
established a school at Camden which in later years became known as
the Browning Industrial Home.
The Presbyterian Church, through its Committee of Missions for
Freedmen, in 1865 established the Wallingford Academy in Charleston
at a cost of $13,500, the Freedmen's Bureau paying about one-half of
this amount. In 1870 the number of pupils was 335. In later years this
school, like others planted by the churches, was doing creditable
secondary work and training teachers for the city and different parts
of the State.[63] At Chester in 1868 this Committee established the
Brainerd Institute and in the same year the Goodwill Parochial School
at Mayesville.
The Protestant Episcopal Freedmen's Commission in cooperation with its
South Carolina Board of Missions to Negroes established a school at
Charleston (1866) in the Marine Hospital through the effort of Rev. A.
Toomer Porter, a native white man of Charleston. Two years later this
institution had a corps of thirteen teachers and about six hundred
pupils.[64] Smaller efforts were likewise made by this commission at
Winnsboro and other parts of the State.
The Friends (Pennsylvania Quakers) made a most valuable contribution
to this general educational movement in 1868 through the efforts of
Martha Schofield in establishing at Aiken the Schofield Normal and
Industrial School. This institution in time became one of the most
influential, not only in South Carolina but in the entire South. The
Friends' Association of Philadelphia for the Aid and Elevation of
the Freedmen, established, in 1865, at Mt. Pleasant (Charleston) the
school which later became known as the Laing Normal and Industrial
School.[65] Miss Abbey D. Munro, in 1869, became its principal.
DIFFICULTIES AND COMPLICATIONS.
As a result of these efforts an observer said: "In South Carolina
where, thirty years ago, the first portentious rumblings of the
coming earthquake were heard and where more recently the volcanic
fires of rebellion burst forth... our missionaries and teachers
have entered to spread their peaceful and healing influence.... The
Sea Islands have been taken possession of in the name of God and
humanity.... King Cotton has been dethroned and is now made humbly
to serve for the enriching and elevating of the late children of
oppression."[66] Another said: "New England can furnish teachers
enough to make a New England out of the whole South, and, God helping,
we will not pause in our work until the free school system... has
been established from Maryland to Florida and all along the shores
of the Gulf."[67] They came to the South with the firm belief in the
capacity of the Negro for mental development and on a scale comparable
to the white man. The letters written by teachers to northern friends
abound in reports to this effect. Such was the spirit in which the
northern societies entered the South.
The northern societies, however, failed "to make a New England out of
the South"; but due credit must be given them for their earnestness
and enthusiasm. They entered the State while the war was in progress
and thus imperiled their lives. The planters at Port Royal who had
abandoned their property certainly looked forward to the restoration
of the same and to this end they struggled by force of arms. The
freedmen themselves, as well as their northern benefactors under
these conditions, lived in fear lest the restored planters should
successfully reestablish the old regime. One teacher at Mitchelville
on Hilton Head reported one week's work as "eventful." A battle only
twelve miles away at Byrd's Point was raging while her school was in
session. The cannonading could be heard and the smoke of the burning
fields was visible.[68]
There were other difficulties. In view of the fact that the
missionaries associated with the freedmen in a way totally unknown
to southern tradition, they were met with social ostracism. It was
impossible to obtain boarding accommodations in a native white family
and in line with the same attitude the lady teachers were frequently
greeted with sneers and insults and a general disregard for the
courtesies of polite society. One teacher said: "Gentlemen sometimes
lift their hats to us, but the ladies always lift their noses."[69]
Social contact with the Negroes, however, was a necessity.[70] The
letter of instruction to teachers from the Pennsylvania Branch
contained this rule: "All teachers, in addition to their regular work,
are encouraged to interest themselves in the moral, religious and
social improvement of the families of their pupils; to visit them in
their homes; to instruct the women and girls in sewing and domestic
economy; to encourage and take part in religious meetings and Sunday
schools."[71] Thus it was that a very large part of the activities
of the teachers were what we call "extracurricular." They were not
confined to the school room but went from house to house.[72]
The spirit of informality which seemed to pervade the whole work,
along with that of the Freedmen's Bureau, moreover, serves to explain
in part their misfortune resulting from poor business methods.
The reports which Howard and Alvord have left us reveal unusually
important facts. Their funds were limited and what monies they did
raise were not always judiciously expended. The salaries of the
teachers usually ranged from $25 to $50 a month. One society paid $35
a month without board and $20 with board. These salaries, the personal
danger, the social ostracism and unhealthy climate, all lead one to
feel, however, that the motive behind these pioneering efforts was
strictly missionary. Some of the teachers worked without a salary and
a few even contributed of their means to further the work.
The campaign of education for the elevation of the freedmen was a
product of war time and as such was conducted in the spirit engendered
by war conditions. In addition to the purely school exercises of the
three R's was the political tenor of the instruction. As staunch
Republicans no little allusion was made to "Old Jeff Davis" and the
"Rebels." Besides the native songs with which the scholars were so
gifted there was frequent singing of _John Brown_ and _Marching
through Georgia_. The Fourth of July and the first of January were
carefully observed as holidays. Several of the teachers in the
schools and officers of the Freedmen's Bureau--Tomlinson, Cardoza,
Jillson, Mansfield, French, and Scott--became office holders in the
Negro-carpetbagger government of 1868.
There was another handicap. The Civil War left South Carolina
"Shermanized." The story of this invader's wreck of the State is
a familiar one. Barnwell, Buford's Bridge, Blackville, Graham's
Station (Sato), Midway, Bamberg, and Orangeburg were all more or less
destroyed. Three-fifths of the capital was committed to the flames and
Charleston, although this city escaped the invader, had been partially
burned already in 1861.[73] With millions of dollars in slave property
lost, added to the above, the native whites were in no frame of
mind to approve this philanthropic effort of the northern teachers.
Furthermore, on the question of education the State had no substantial
background by which it could encourage any efforts at this time.
Free schools had been established prior to the war, but owing to the
eleemosynary stigma attached to them and the permissive character of
the legislative acts very little had been accomplished for the whites
even, in the sense that we understand public education today.[74]
There ran very high the feeling that the Yankees were fostering social
equality and that if they were allowed to educate the freedmen the
next thing would be to let them vote.[75] Some reasoned that since
the North had liberated the slaves, it was now its business to care
for them. It is safe to say that without the protection of the United
States military forces during the first year at least the efforts to
enlighten the ex-slaves would have been impossible. The native white
attitude, however, appears to have undergone a change from year to
year and from locality to locality.
At Orangeburg, the superintendent of education reported that a night
school was fired into on one or two occasions, and the attempt to
discover the perpetrators of this outrage was without success.[76] A.
M. Bigelow, a teacher of a colored school at Aiken, was compelled by
curses and threats to leave the town in order to save his life.[77] In
the town of Walhalla a school conducted by the Methodist church was
taught by a lady from Vermont. A number of white men tried to break
it up by hiring a drunken vagabond Negro to attend its sessions and
accompany the young lady through the village street. The attempted
outrage was frustrated only by the intercession of a northern
gentleman. At Newberry, about the same time, a man who was building
a school for the freedmen was driven by armed men from the hotel
where he was staying and his life threatened. These occurrences the
superintendent reported as "specimen" cases.[78]
In other sections of the State where the planters sustained amicable
relations to all the functions of the Freedmen's Bureau, there was
little opposition to the elevation of the freedmen. In the districts
of Darlington, Marion, and Williamsburg there was a fair spirit of
cordiality. At Darlington the Yankee editor of _The New Era_ in its
first edition probably thus expressed the feeling of the community:
"Let the excellent work be sustained wherever it shall be introduced
and the happiest results will be witnessed."[79]
Charleston and Columbia, despite the wreck of these cities, as already
shown, proved to be an open field for educational endeavor. In the
former city where it was no new thing to see the blacks striving for
education, the opposition expressed itself in the occupation of the
buildings formerly used for the whites.[80] A correspondent of _The
New York Times_ reported that in Columbia "the whites extend every
possible facility and encouragement in this matter of education."[81]
There is one instance of actual initiative in the education of the
freedmen in the case of Rev. A. Toomer Porter of the Episcopal
Church in Charleston as already mentioned. This gentleman went North
to solicit the necessary funds and while there visited Howard and
President Johnson. For his purpose the president himself contributed
one thousand dollars.[82] For this deed _The Charleston Courier_
remarked that it was "a much more substantial and lasting token of
friendship to the colored race than all the violent harangues of mad
fanatics." Finally in enumerating here and there cases of a favorable
attitude, Governor Orr's remarks cannot be overlooked. To the colored
people at Charleston he said: "I am prepared to stand by the colored
man who is able to read the Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution of the United States. I am prepared to give the colored
man the privilege of going to the ballot-box and vote."[83]
The length of service for most of the teachers was one year. In the
original Port Royal party of March 3, 1862, several of the party
returned home before summer. The American Missionary Association
which sent thirty-five teachers to Port Royal reported "eight for a
short time only." From these facts it is to be inferred, despite the
glowing reports of success, that the teachers met with discouragement
and disappointment. Some of them were unfit for their duties and
some no doubt committed acts of indiscretion with reference to the
relationship of the races.
The difficulties and complications of this movement were a part of
the war itself. Calmer moments of reflection which it is ours now to
enjoy, however, reveal the great value of the educational efforts of
the northern missionaries. Unfortunately, the efforts to uplift were
directed to only one race, but in a larger sense the work done has
been for the welfare of all. South Carolinians to-day will all pay
tribute to the work of Abbey D. Munro, Martha Schofield and Laura M.
Towne. These women, with others, gave their lives for the elevation of
the Negro race and what they did is merely a representation of that
common battle against ignorance and race prejudice. "She (Miss Towne)
came to a land of doubt and trouble and led the children to fresh
horizons and a clearer sky. The school she built is but the symbol
of a great influence; there it stands, making the desert blossom
and bidding coming generations look up and welcome ever-widening
opportunities. Through it she brought hope to a people and gave them
the one gift that is beyond all price to men."[84]
SELF-HELP AND LABOR AMONG THE FREEDMEN
Were the Negroes there in such numbers and condition as to help
themselves? South Carolina in 1860 had a white population of 291,300,
a slave population of 402,406 and a free colored population of
9,914.[85] Having this large number of slaves, the dominant race in
its efforts to maintain control passed its police laws by which the
evils of slavery existed there in their worst form. One of these laws
was that of 1834 which made it a punishable offense to teach any slave
to read and write.[86] This law, however, was often violated and free
Negroes and even slaves attended school long enough to develop unusual
power.
After generations of oppression the dawn of freedom brought with it
a social upheaval. The freedmen now proceeded to taste the forbidden
fruit and the people who brought learning to them they received with
open arms.[87] The Yankee school master was not only to the freedmen a
teacher but his deliverer from bondage. Happily in the enthusiasm of
the "late children of oppression" for learning they proved themselves
to be not objects of charity but actual supporters and promoters of
the educational movement.
It was a principle of some of the societies to open no new school
unless a fair proportion of its expenses could be met by the parents
of the pupils.[88] There were made various arrangements by which
the freedmen could help sustain the schools. In some instances they
boarded the teachers and met the incidental expenses of the school
while the societies paid the salaries and traveling expenses. In this
way nearly one-half of the cost was sustained by them and in some
instances nearly two-thirds of it.[89] As the foregoing tables have
helped to show in part, in some cases the freedmen met the entire
expenses, bought the lot, erected the school house, and paid the
salary of the teacher.
During 1866, Tomlinson reported five houses had been built by them and
others were under the course of erection. These were located at the
following places:
Kingstree size 20 x 37 ft.
Darlington size 30 x 72 ft.
Florence size 35 x 45 ft.
Timmonsville size 14 x 24 ft.
Marion size 20 x 50 ft.
During 1867 twenty-three school houses were reported to have been
built by the freedmen aided by the Freedmen's Bureau and northern
societies. For the support of school teachers this year they
contributed $12,200. This with $5,000 for school houses made an
aggregate of $17,200.[90] The school houses were placed in the
hands of trustees selected from among themselves and were to be held
permanently for school purposes.[91]
The means by which the freedmen offered their support was not always
in cash but in kind. During the early years following the war there
was a scarcity of money in circulation. The employers of the blacks,
the planters, were themselves unable always to pay in cash, and as
a substitute a system of barter grew up.[92] Directing attention to
this situation and the general question of self-help, Governor Andrews
of Massachusetts, president of the New England Society, sent out the
following circular to the freedmen of the South: "The North must
furnish money and teachers--the noblest of her sons and daughters
to teach your sons and daughters. We ask you to provide for them,
wherever possible, school houses and subsistence. Every dollar you
thus save us will help to send you another teacher... you can supply
the teachers' homes with corn, eggs, chickens, milk and many other
necessary articles.... Work an extra hour to sustain and promote
your schools."[93] The value of such labor averaged only about eight
dollars a month, but Governor Andrews' recommendation was carried out
in so many cases that much good was thereby accomplished.
The campaign of education for the freedmen was temporary in character
and was so regarded by the Freedmen's Bureau and the societies. It
was merely an effort to place the ex-slaves on their own feet and
afterwards it was their task. In line with this policy the Freedmen's
Bureau and the military authorities seized every opportunity of
instituting self-government among them, especially where they were
congregated in large numbers. Such a case was Mitchelville.
Sherman's field order 15 called for the laying aside of a vast
stretch of territory exclusively for the freedmen. In the same
manner in 1864 the military officers at Hilton Head laid out a
village for them near the officers' camps and introduced measures
of self-government. The village was called Mitchelville in honor of
General Ormsby Mitchell who had been like a father to the multitude of
fifteen hundred or more occupying the village. The place was regularly
organized with a Mayor and Common Council, Marshal, Recorder and
Treasurer, all black, and all elected by Negroes, except the Mayor and
Treas
|
ulla
_Rev_ Q. Pompeius Rufus, consul with Sulla in 88 B.C.
4. Denarius of Julius Cæsar
_Rev_ figure of Victory, with name of L Æmilius Buca, triumvir of
the mint
5. Coin of Tiberius, with head of Livia and inscription SALVS AVGVSTA
23 AUGUSTUS: THE BLACAS CAMEO 144
Collotype plate from a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the original in
the Gem Room, British Museum. Probably the work of Dioscorides,
who had the exclusive right of portraying Augustus
24 AUGUSTUS: THE “PRIMAPORTA” STATUE 148
From a photograph by Anderson of the statue in the Vatican, Rome.
The emperor is depicted as a triumphant general, haranguing his troops.
In the centre of the breastplate is a Parthian humbly surrendering the
standards to a Roman soldier
25 AUGUSTUS AS A YOUTH 150
From a photograph by Anderson of the bust in the Vatican, Rome. A
distinctly Greek portrait, possibly taken during his early days at
Apollonia; an authentic original bust
26 AUGUSTUS: BRONZE HEAD, FROM MEROË 152
From a photograph supplied by Prof. Garstang of the original bronze,
discovered by him in 1910, at Meroe in Egypt, and since presented to
the British Museum
27 M. VIPSANIUS AGRIPPA 154
From a photograph by Alinari of the bust in the Uffizi Gallery,
Florence. The design of the bust is inconsistent with the belief that
this is a contemporary portrait. But it resembles the portraits of the
general on the coins
28 (Fig. 1) ROMAN BRIDGE AT RIMINI 156
This fine marble bridge was begun by Augustus and completed by
Tiberius. Ariminum was the northern terminus of the great Flaminian
Road
(Fig. 2) ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE AT VERONA
From photographs by C. T. Carr. The amphitheatre was erected by
Diocletian about A.D. 290 and was restored by Napoleon. It would
contain about 20,000 spectators. Verona was the capital under
Theodoric the Ostrogoth
29 TWO VIEWS OF THE PONT DU GARD 158
This is part of the great aqueduct which supplied Nismes with water.
The bridge has a span of 880 feet across the valley of the Gardon. The
lower tiers are built of stone without mortar or cement of any
kind.
30 (Fig. 1) INTERIOR OF ROMAN TEMPLE, NISMES 160
(Fig. 2) LOWER CORRIDOR OF ARENA, NISMES
The amphitheatre at Nismes is larger than that of Verona. There are
sixty arches on the ground and first floors, with larger apertures at the
four cardinal points
31 THE ARENA, NISMES 162
Notice the consoles in the attic story. These are pierced with round
holes to contain the poles which once supported an awning for the
protection of the spectators from the heat
32 (Fig. 1) TRIUMPHAL ARCH, ST. REMY, ARLES 164
Arles (Arelate) was one of the chief towns of Gallia Narbonensis, and a
colony of Augustus. The upper part of the arch has perished. The
sculptures represent chained captives. There is no inscription and
the date of the monument is uncertain
(Fig. 2) MAUSOLEUM OF JULIUS, ST. REMY, ARLES
This mausoleum was erected by three brothers Julius to the memory
of their parents. Thousands of Gauls took the name of Julius in honour
of Cæsar and Augustus. The style, which is essentially Græco-Roman,
is appropriate to the period of Augustus. The reliefs again represent
captives.
Plates 29-32 are from photographs taken by Sir Alexander Binnie
33 (Fig. 1) ARCH OF MARIUS, ORANGE 166
From a photograph by Neurdein. Apparently erected to the memory
of C. Marius, who defeated the Teutons at Aquæ Sextiæ in 102 B.C.
The neighbourhood of Orange (Arausio) was the scene of a great Roman
defeat three years earlier. But the style of the monument points to a
date at least a century later. The style of the reliefs is dated by the
best authorities in the reign of Tiberius. The name of the sculptor,
Boudillus, appears to be Gallic
(Fig. 2) S. LORENZO, MILAN
From a photograph by Brogi. Remains of a handsome Corinthian
colonnade which formerly belonged to the palace of Maximian. In the
fourth century A.D., Mediolanum was frequently a place of imperial
residence. In this period Milan was larger than Rome
34 BARBARIAN WOMAN, KNOWN AS “THUSNELDA” 168
From a photograph by Almari. This famous statue, which stands in
the Loggia dei Lanzi, at Florence, is popularly called after the wife of
Arminius, who died in exile at Ravenna. It is probably a typical
Teutonic captive and very possibly occupied a place in the niche of a
triumphal arch. Mrs. Strong assigns it to the period of Trajan
35 (Fig. 1) ALTAR OF THE LARES OF AUGUSTUS 172
From a photograph by Alinari of the original in the Uffizi Gallery,
Florence. Augustus introduced Cæsar-worship into Rome by means of
these altars to the Lares (household gods) and the Genius of Augustus.
This altar dates from A.D. 2. Augustus is in the centre, Livia his wife to
the right, and Gaius or Lucius Cæsar to the left. Mrs Strong describes
these reliefs as “a series of singular charm”
(Fig. 2) SACRIFICIAL SCENE, FROM THE ARA PACIS
From a photograph by Anderson of the original in the Villa Medici,
Rome. An earlier example of the favourite sacrificial theme. The
artist has sacrificed, as usual, the hinder part of his victim to his desire
to introduce as many as possible of the portrait studies. The relief
has been much and badly restored
36 THE “TELLUS” GROUP, ARA PACIS 174
From a photograph by Brogi of the original in the Uffizi Gallery,
Florence. Discussed on pp. 244-245
37 RELIEF, ARA PACIS 176
From a photograph by Anderson of the original in the Museo delle
Terme, Rome. The scene is a sacrifice. The majestic bearded figure on
the right is perhaps emblematical of the senate--one of the finest conceptions
of Græco-Roman art and little inferior to the elders on the
Parthenon frieze. Above the attendants on the left is a small shrine
of the Penates
38 SILVER PLATE FROM BOSCOREALE 178
1. A silver mirror-case of exquisite design: the central medallion
represents Leda and the swan
2. One of the beautiful examples of Augustan art in which natural
forms are used with brilliant decorative effect
From photographs by Giraudon of the originals in the Louvre
39 (Fig. 1) GERMANICUS 180
Sardonyx cameo from the Carlisle collection. Photograph by
Mansell & Co.
(Fig. 2) GEM OF AUGUSTUS: CAMEO OF VIENNA
Photograph by Mansell & Co. Sardonyx cameo probably by Dioscorides,
A.D. 13
_Below_: German captives and Roman soldiers erecting a trophy
_Above_: Augustus and Roma enthroned. Behind them are Earth, Ocean,
and (?) the World, who is crowning him with the _corona civica_. Behind
his head is his lucky sign--the constellation of Capricornus. Tiberius
escorted by a Victory is stepping out of his triumphal chariot and
Germanicus stands between
40 AUGUSTUS AND FAMILY OF CÆSARS: CAMEO 182
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the original in the Bibliothèque
Nationale, Paris. The largest and finest sardonyx cameo in existence.
It is cut in five layers of the stone so that wonderful effects of tinting
are produced, sometimes at the expense of the modelling. Tiberius and
his mother Livia occupy the centre. Germanicus and his mother
Antonia stand before him. The figures to the left may be Gaius
(Caligula) and the wife of Germanicus. Behind the throne Drusus is
looking up to heaven, where the deified Augustus floats, surrounded by
allegorical figures. Below are barbarian captives
41 (Figs. 1 and 3) STUCCO RELIEFS 184
From photographs by Anderson of the originals in the National Museum,
Rome. Much of the ornamentation of Roman villas was in stucco or
terra-cotta taken from the mould and often tinted. Both the flying
Victory and the Bacchic relief showing a drunken Silenus are extremely
graceful specimens of the art, both essentially Greek
(Fig. 2) DECORATIVE ORNAMENT, ARA PACIS
From a photograph by Anderson of the fragment in the Museo delle
Terme, Rome. A fine example of the naturalistic ornament of the
Augustan period
42 (Fig. 1) FRAGMENT OF AUGUSTAN ALTAR 188
From a photograph by Anderson of the original in the Museo delle
Terme, Rome. Quoted by Wickhoff as “a triumph of the Augustan
illusionist style” a design of plane-leaves, admirable in fidelity to
nature. Observe the rich mouldings of the framework
(Fig. 2) ROMAN RELIEF
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the original in the British
Museum. From the tomb of a poet. The Muse stands before him
holding a tragic mask
43 ALTAR OF AMEMPTUS 190
From a photograph by Giraudon of the original in the Louvre. The
inscription shows that this altar was dedicated to the spirits of Amemptus,
a freedman of the Empress Livia. It belongs therefore to about A.D. 25.
From the types of ornament employed one may conjecture that
Amemptus was a Greek actor and musician. The decorative effect is
very charming and the detail most beautifully worked out
44 (Fig. 1) THE TEMPLE OF SATURN, FORUM, ROME 192
Eight Ionic unfluted columns with part of the entablature. The
columns stand upon a lofty base. The Temple of Saturn, which contained
the treasury of the senate, was rebuilt in 42 B.C.
(Fig. 2) THE TEMPLE OF MATER MATUTA, ROME
From photographs by R.C. Smith. The most complete example of the
round temple still existing, the Temple of Vesta in the Forum having
disappeared. This is probably a temple of “Mother Dawn.” The
five Corinthian columns of Pentelic marble were probably imported
from Greece. Most authorities assign it to the Augustan restoration,
but others place it among the earliest Republican works. The tiled
roof is of course modern, and somewhat spoils its effect. This little
temple stood in the Forum Boarium (cattle market)
45 PORCH AND INTERIOR OF THE PANTHEON, ROME 196
From photographs by Anderson and Brogi. See p. 251
46 MAISON CARREE, NISMES 198
From a photograph kindly supplied by Sir Alexander Binnie. Perhaps
the finest, certainly the most complete example of Græco-Roman
architecture. The style is Corinthian, but characteristic Roman
developments are the high _podium_ or base, and the fact that the surrounding
peristyle is “engaged” or attached to the wall except in
front (pseudo-peripteral). This temple was dedicated to M. Aurelius
and L. Verus. It was surrounded by an open space and then a
Corinthian colonnade. Nismes, once the centre of a flourishing trade in
cheese, is especially rich in Roman remains
47 THEATRE OF MARCELLUS, ROME 200
From a photograph by Anderson. The theatre, built by Augustus in
13 b.c. in memory of his ill-fated nephew, was constructed in three
tiers, Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. The upper story has disappeared,
and the elevation of the ground floor has been spoilt by the rise in the
level of the ground
48 INNER COURT, FARNESE PALACE, ROME 202
From a photograph by Anderson. The splendid cortile of the Farnese
Palace, designed by Michael Angelo, is copied from the Theatre of
Marcellus, exhibiting the same succession of orders. The juxtaposition
of these two plates should assist the reader’s imagination to re-create
the original splendours of Roman architecture from the existing
ruins
49 (Fig. 1) COLONNADE OF OCTAVIA 204
From a photograph by Anderson. Erected by Augustus in honour of
his beloved sister, who was married first to M. Marcellus then to
M. Antony. She was the mother of Marcellus, great-grandmother of
Nero and Caligula. She died in 11 B.C. The colonnade was probably
built some years before her death. It enclosed the temples of Jupiter
Stator and Juno, it also contained a public library and a senate-house
which was destroyed by fire in the reign of Titus
(Fig. 2) ROMAN BAS-RELIEF
From a photograph by Almari of the original in the Uffizi Gallery,
Florence. A sacrifice, probably a work of the time of Domitian.
The heads, most of them portraits, are of admirable execution, but the
overcrowded design is unpleasing. The architectural background is
typical of the Flavian period. This slab was used by Raphael in his
cartoon of Paul and Barnabas at Lystra
50 COIN PLATE (IN COLLOTYPE): ROMAN EMPERORS 206
1. Nero
2. Trajan
3. Vespasian
4. Hadrian
5. Marcus Aurelius
6. Domitian
7. Vitellius
8. Galba
From originals in the British Museum
51 HADRIAN’S WALL: NEAR HOUSESTEADS (BORCOVICIUM), NORTHUMBERLAND 210
From a photograph by Gibson & Son. See pp. 261-262
52 PORTA NIGRA, TRIER, GERMANY 214
From a photograph by Frith. An example of military architecture, truly
Roman in character. Probably dates from the time of Gallienus (A.D.
260)
53 RELIEF FROM TRAJAN’S COLUMN--I 216
On the left, the emperor surrounded by his staff is haranguing his
troops. Observe how the ranks of the army are portrayed in file. On the
right, fortifications are being constructed (Cichorius, plate xi)
54 RELIEF FROM TRAJAN’S COLUMN--II 218
On the left, horses are being transported across the Danube, Trajan is
seen steering his galley, sheltered by a canopy. On the right he is
landing at the gates of a Roman town on the river banks. The temples
are visible within the walls (Cichorius, plate xxvi)
55 RELIEF FROM TRAJAN’S COLUMN--III 220
A cavalry battle, in which the Romans are charging the mail-clad
Sarmatians. The reader will notice the resemblance between the latter
and the Norman knights of the Bayeux tapestry (Cichorius, plate xxviii)
56 RELIEF FROM TRAJAN’S COLUMN--IV 222
On the left the Romans, in _testudo_ formation, are attacking a Dacian
fortress. In the centre Trajan is receiving the heads of the defeated
enemy (Cichorius, plate li)
Four collotype plates, reproduced by special permission from Prof.
Cichorius’s “Die Reliefs der Traianssaule” (Berlin, Georg Reimer, 1896)
Photographs by Donald Macbeth
57 (Fig 1) RELIEF, FROM A SARCOPHAGUS 224
From a photograph by Alinari of the original in the Uffizi Gallery,
Florence. An example of “continuous narration” in relief-work. The
sarcophagus is ornamented with typical scenes in the life of a Roman
gentleman--the chase, the greeting by his slaves, sacrifice, marriage.
The design is described as “subtly interwoven” or “fatiguing and
confused” according to the taste of the onlooker
(Fig 2) ROMAN AND DACIAN
From a photograph by Graudon of the original relief in the Louvre. The
source of this slab is unknown; it evidently belongs to the beginning
of the second century A.D., and refers to the Dacian Wars of Trajan,
or possibly of Domitian. The contrast between the proud calm Roman and
the wild barbarian is very fine, and recalls similar contrasts in Greek
sculpture. In the background a Dacian hut and an oak-tree are seen
58 RELIEF FROM THE ARCH OF TITUS 226
From a photograph by Brogi. Shows the emblems captured in Jerusalem
(A.D. 70) being carried in triumph at Rome. We can distinguish the
seven-branched candlestick, the table for the show-bread and the Sacred
Trumpets. The tablets were inscribed with the names of captured cities
59 RUINS OF PALMYRA (VIEW OF GREAT ARCH FROM THE EAST) 230
From a photograph by Donald Macbeth of plate xxvi in Robert Wood’s
“Ruins of Palmyra,” 1753. The city of Palmyra, traditionally founded
by Solomon, at a meeting-point of the Syrian caravan routes, first
rose into prominence in the time of Gallienus, when Odenathus, its
Saracen prince, was acknowledged by the emperor as “Augustus,” _i.e._
a colleague in the imperial power. After his assassination his widow
Zenobia succeeded to his power and ruled magnificently as Queen of
the East until she was defeated and made captive by Aurelian. The
architectural remains are Corinthian in style, embellished with
meaningless oriental ornament
60 BA’ALBEK: THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS 232
Heliopolis or Ba’albek was the centre of a fertile region of Cœle-Syria
on the slopes of Anti-Lebanon. It was always a centre of Baal or Sun
worship, it was a city of priests and its oracle attracted great renown
in the second century A.D. when it was consulted by Trajan. Antoninus
Pius built the great Temple of Zeus (Jupiter), one of the wonders
of the world. The worship was rather that of Baal than of Zeus, and
oriental in character. It included the cult of conical stones such as
that brought to Rome by Elagabalus. The architecture is of the most
sumptuous Corinthian style, with some oriental modifications
61 BA’ALBEK: THE TEMPLE OF BACCHUS, INTERIOR 234
Here we observe the oriental round arch forming the lowest course. The
material of the buildings is white granite with decorations of rough
local marble
62 BA’ALBEK: THE TEMPLE OF BACCHUS, EAST PORTICO 236
Observe the rather effective juxtaposition of fluted and unfluted
columns
63 BA’ALBEK: THE CIRCULAR TEMPLE, FROM BACK 238
This small circular temple is of a style without parallel in antiquity.
The nature of the cult is unknown
The last four plates are reproduced by special permission of the
Director of the Royal Museum, Berlin, from photographs supplied by the
Königlichen Messbildanstalt. They are plates XVII, XXI, XXII, and XXX
respectively, in Puchstein and Von Lupke’s “Ba’albek,” published for
the German Government by G. Reimer, Berlin
64 (Fig. 1) TIMGAD: THE CAPITOL 240
Timgad (Thamugadi) was founded by Trajan as a Roman colony in A.D. 100.
It is on the edge of the Sahara in the ancient province of Numidia.
It has recently been explored by the French. The photograph shows the
Capitol raised on an artificial terrace. Two of the Corinthian columns
have been re-erected
(Fig. 2) TIMGAD: THE DECUMANUS MAXIMUS AND TRAJAN’S ARCH
A view of the main street, spanned by a triumphal arch in honour
of Trajan. The ruts of the carriage-wheels are still visible as at
Pompeii. From photographs by Miss K. P. Blair
65 POMPEII: THERMOPOLION, STREET OF ABUNDANCE 242
From a photograph by d’Agostino. The new street revealed by the most
recent excavations of Prof. Spinazzola. The photograph shows us a
“hot-wine shop” with the bar and the wine-jars
66 POMPEII: MURAL PAINTING, STREET OF ABUNDANCE 244
From a photograph by Abeniacar. Another of the most recent finds, a
fresco of the Twelve Gods
67 (Fig. 1) THE EMPEROR DECIUS 246
From a photograph by Anderson of the bust in the Capitoline Museum,
Rome. A splendid example of the realistic portraiture in the third
century A.D.
(Fig. 2) MARCUS AURELIUS
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the bust in the British Museum.
All the portraits of the virtuous philosopher agree in producing this
aspect of tonsorial prettiness which belies the character of a manly
and vigorous prince
68 (Fig. 1) THE EMPEROR CARACALLA 250
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the bust in the British Museum
(Fig. 2) THE EMPEROR COMMODUS
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the bust in the British Museum
69 RELIEFS FROM BASE OF THE ANTONINE COLUMN 252
From photographs by Anderson of the originals in the Vatican, Rome
(Fig. 1) WARRIORS
Represents a military review. The infantrymen with their standards
are grouped in the centre, while the emperor leads a procession of
the cavalry with their _vexilla_, who march past with what Mrs Strong
describes as a “fine and pleasing movement.” Discussed on p. 292
(Fig. 2) APOTHEOSIS OF ANTONINUS AND FAUSTINA
Antoninus and his less virtuous consort are being borne up to heaven
on the back of Fame or the Genius. The youth reclining below bears the
obelisk of Augustus to indicate that he personifies the Campus Martius.
The figure on the right is Rome. The composition of the scene displays
a ludicrous want of imagination
70 TWO VIEWS OF THE AQUEDUCT OF CLAUDIUS 254
From photographs by Anderson. See p. 293
71 (Fig. 1) THE ARCH OF TITUS, ROME 258
See p. 293
(Fig. 2) THE ARCH OF CONSTANTINE, ROME
The Arch of Constantine is adorned with borrowed reliefs, mainly from
the Forum of Trajan. It is the best preserved of the Roman arches. From
photographs by R. C. Smith
72 THE COLOSSEUM, ROME 260
From a photograph by Anderson. Described on p. 293. In the foreground
is the ruined apse of the Temple of Venus and Rome, built by Hadrian
73 THE COLUMN OF TRAJAN 262
From a photograph by Anderson. The great Forum of Trajan was
constructed by the Greek architect Apollodorus between A.D. 111 and
114. The base of the column formed a tomb destined to contain the
conqueror’s ashes. At the top was his statue, now replaced by an image
of St. Peter. The story of the Dacian war is told on the spiral relief
about 1 metre broad. See plates 53-56
74 DETAIL OF THE ANTONINE COLUMN 264
From photographs by Anderson. The Antonine Column was constructed on
the model of the Column of Trajan, seventy-five years later, and thus
affords an insight into the progress of relief sculpture at Rome. The
later work shows more attempt at individual expression, not always
successful, and the scenes are less crowded. They depict episodes from
the German and Sarmatian wars of A.D. 171-175, (_a_) represents the
decapitation of the rebels and (_b_) the capture of a German village:
the huts are being burned while M. Aurelius serenely superintends an
execution
75 ANTINOUS 266
(Fig. 1) from a photograph by Giraudon of the Mondragore bust in the
Louvre
(Fig. 2) from a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the bust in the British
Museum
The significance of the artistic cult of Antinous in the age of Hadrian
is discussed on p. 293. It is probably only the diffidence of our
native archæologists which has allowed the colossal Mondragore bust its
supremacy. The British Museum portrait represents him younger and in
the guise of a youthful Dionysius, the expression far more human, and
the treatment of the hair far less elaborate and effeminate
76 ANTINOUS: FROM THE BAS-RELIEF IN THE VILLA ALBANI, ROME 268
From a photograph by Anderson
77 RELIEFS OF MARCUS AURELIUS 270
(Fig. 1). Marcus Aurelius accompanied by Bassæus Rufus, prætorian
prefect, is riding through a wood and receiving the submission of two
barbarian chiefs. In my judgment this scene, and especially the figure
of the foot soldier at the emperor’s side, is the _chef-d’œuvre_ of
Roman historical relief-work
(Fig. 2). Marcus and Bassæus are sacrificing in front of the temple of
the Capitoline Jove. These panels probably belonged to a triumphal arch
erected in honour of the German and Sarmatian wars of A.D. 171-175.
From photographs by Anderson of the originals in the Conservatori
Palace, Rome
78 TWO VIEWS OF THE ARCH OF TRAJAN, BENEVENTUM 274
From photographs by Alinari. This splendid monument at Beneventum on
the Appian Way was erected in A.D. 114 in expectation of the emperor’s
triumphant return from the East, where, however, he died. It is
constructed of Greek marble and once carried a quadriga in bronze. The
reliefs on the inside (Fig. 1) depict the triumph of Trajan after his
Parthian campaign. Those on the outside (Fig. 2) represent the Dacian
campaigns
79 ALTAR DISCOVERED AT OSTIAv 276
From a photograph by Anderson of the original in the National Museum,
Rome. A fine example of decorative art. The motive of the garlanded
skull is a favourite one. This altar was, as the inscription shows, a
work of Hadrian’s time
80 TOMB OF THE HATERII 278
From a photograph by Alinari of the fragments in the Lateran Museum,
Rome. Monument to a physician, and his family of about a.d. 100. The
scheme is ugly and barbaric, but it includes some very fine decorative
work. The facades of five Roman buildings are shown--the Temple of
Isis, the Colosseum, two triumphal arches, and the Temple of Jupiter
Stator. The temples are open and the images visible
81 BRIDGE OF ALCANTARA, SPAIN 282
From a photograph by Lacoste, kindly supplied by Sr. D. Miguel Utrillo.
This superb bridge over the Tagus is 650 feet long. The design exhibits
a rare combination of grace with strength
82 TOMB OF HADRIAN, ROME 284
From a photograph by Anderson. The Castel S. Angelo, restored as
a fortress by Pope Alexander VI. (Borgia), consists mainly of the
Mausoleum of Hadrian; the bridge leading to it was also constructed
for the emperor’s funeral. The circular tower was formerly ornamented
with columns between which were statues. The famous Barberini Faun was
one of them. There was a pyramidal gilt roof, and a colossal quadriga
at the top. The whole building was formerly faced with white Parian
marble. Besides Hadrian, all the Antonines, and Septimius Severus and
Caracalla were buried here. The castle has had a stirring history in
mediæval times also. The building is modelled upon the Mausoleum of
Caria
83 TWO VIEWS OF HADRIAN’S VILLA, TIVOLI 286
From photographs by R. C. Smith. See p. 296
84 TWO MOSAICS (COLOUR-PLATE) 288
(Fig. 1) SACRIFICIAL RITES, PROBABLY AT A TOMB
(Fig. 2) PREPARING FOR A SACRIFICE
From the originals in the British Museum, after photographs by Donald
Macbeth
85 MURAL PAINTING: FLUTE-PLAYER (COLOUR-PLATE) 290
From the original in the British Museum, said to have been found in a
_columbarium_ on the Appian Way
86 POMPEII: TWO VIEWS OF THE RUINS 292
From photographs by R. C. Smith. The upper picture shows how the buried
city has been dug out of the ashes from Vesuvius which form the subsoil
of the surrounding country. The lower picture is a general view,
showing Corinthian columns which formed a colonnade round the open
_impluvium_
87 POMPEII: HOUSE OF THE VETTII CUPID FRESCOES 294
From photographs by Brogi. The upper picture shows the Cupids engaged
as goldsmiths; the lower shows them as charioteers, Apollo and Artemis
below. Two examples of the elegant mythological style of the Greek
decline, but extremely effective for the purpose. This art is held to
have originated in Alexandria
88 POMPEII: FRESCO OF THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENIA 296
Collotype plate from a photograph by Brogi. Probably a copy of one
of the great pictures of the old Greek masters, Timanthes, about 400
B.C. If so it is the most important example of early painting in
existence. The psychological motive of the composition is a study of
grief. Calchas the prophet is grieved with foreknowledge, Ajax and
Odysseus are sorrowfully obeying commands which they do not understand.
Iphigenia herself shows the fortitude of a martyr, but Agamemnon’s
grief, since he was her father, is too great for a Greek to exhibit.
Hence his face is hidden. Above appears the deer which Artemis allowed
to be substituted for the maiden
89 HOUSE OF LIVIA: INTERIOR DECORATION (COLOUR-PLATE) 300
Reproduced by permission of the German Institute of Archæology, from
Luckenbach’s “Kunst und Geschichte” (grosse Ausgabe, Teil I, Tafel IV),
by arrangement with R. Oldenbourg, Munich
90 THE ALDOBRANDINI MARRIAGE, VATICAN, ROME 302
From a photograph by Brogi of the fresco now in the Vatican. In the
centre is the veiled bride, Venus is encouraging her, Charis is
compounding sweet essences to add to her beauty, Hymen waits on the
bride’s left seated on the threshold stone, outside is a group of three
maidens, a musician, a crowned bridesmaid, and a tire-woman. At the
other side the bride’s family is seen. This is without question the
most charming example of ancient painting
91 BRONZE SACRIFICIAL TRIPOD 304
From a photograph by Brogi of the original, discovered at Pompeii, now
in the National Museum, Naples. An example of Hellenic metal-work of
the Augustan age
92 MITHRAS AND BULL 308
From a photograph by Mansell & Co. of the statue in the British
Museum. Represents the Mithraic sacrament of Taurobolium in which
the worshippers received new life by bathing in the blood of a bull.
Mithras wears a Phrygian cap, for the Mithraic religion, though it
arose in Persia, only began to form artistic expression when it passed
through the art region of Asia Minor. This motive constantly recurs in
the monuments of the second and third century all over Europe
93 MAUSOLEUM OF PLACIDIA, RAVENNA 312
From a photograph by Alinari. This little church which contains the
tombs of the Emperor Honorius, her brother, and of Constantius III.,
her husband, as well as a sarcophagus of the Empress in marble,
formerly adorned with plaques of silver, is eloquent of the shrunken
glory of the Western Empire in the fifth century. It was founded about
A.D. 440. It is built in the form of a Latin cross, and is only 49 ft.
long, 41 ft. broad. The interior contains beautiful mosaics. Ravenna
contains many other relics of this period when it was the seat of the
Roman government
94 THE BARBERINI IVORY 314
From a photograph by Giraudon of the original in the Louvre. In the
centre Constantine is represented on horseback with spear reversed
in token of victory. Round him are Victory, a suppliant barbarian,
and Earth with her fruits. To the left is a Roman soldier bearing
a statuette of Victory. Below the nations of the East bring their
tribute. Above two Victories, in process of transition, into angels,
support a medallion of Christ, still of the beardless type associated
with Apollo and Sol Invictus. The emblems of sun, moon, and stars show
that Christian Art is not yet severed from paganism
95 (Fig. 1) THE PALACE OF DIOCLETIAN, SPALATO 316
From a photograph by Miss Carr. Diocletian planned this great palace,
which is more like a city or fortress, at Spalato (Salonæ) on the
Dalmatian coast, for his place of retirement. Its external walls
measured 700 ft. by 580 ft. It was fortified on three sides and entered
by three gates. The arcading in which the oriental arch springs from
the Roman column is the most interesting architectural feature of the
extensive ruins now existing
(Fig. 2) RELIEF FROM THE ARCH OF CONSTANTINE; THE BATTLE OF THE MILVIAN
BRIDGE
From a photograph by Anderson. Shows the really degenerate art of the
fourth century A.D. In this battle (A.D. 312) Constantine defeated his
rival Maxentius, who was drowned with numbers of his men in the Tiber.
The relief shows the drowning
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT
ROMAN _As_: BRONZE (FULL-SIZE) WEIGHT 290 g. 18
The style of the design points to about 350 B.C., and we have no real
evidence of a coinage any earlier. The design is not primitive though
it is clumsily cast. The head of Janus is often found on Greek coins
and so is the galley prow. The weight of the _As_ sank from 12 to 1 oz.
in the course of republican history
ETRUSCAN FRESCO: HEAD OF HERCULES 21
An example of Etruscan painting which does not differ from Greek.
This is probably a head of Hercules, whose name is
|
level of any
woodland. Cove forest is not restricted literally to topographic flats
and hollows; it may also occur on steep slopes, where soil moisture
conditions are suitable.
In its best development, cove forest may sustain 20-25 tree species
tangling branches far overhead. Look for white ash, sugar maple,
magnolia, American beech, silverbell, and basswood. If most of these
are present, with or without buckeye, holly, yellow birch, and
hemlock, you are being treated to cove hardwood scenery.
Oaks, hickories, red maple and yellow-poplar (tulip tree) will also be
present, but these widespread species are not really useful in
settling the question. One often workable rule of thumb is the
presence of yellow-wood, but this small tree is absent from the cove
hardwood forest community in many parts of the park.
Many of today’s typical cove hardwood trees have also been found as
fossils in rocks of Cretaceous age in the eastern United States. This
match up—and the recognition that the southern mountains have been
continuously available for land plant growth since Dinosaur Days—has
given plant geographers much food for thought. Cove forest is now
plausibly regarded as a very ancient mixture of species. Probably, it
was the ancestor of several other widespread forest communities.
Perhaps it was the haven of refuge sought by many plants and animals
during the Pleistocene glacial period. Its significance today is its
wealth of species composition and its heritage—millions of years of
forest evolution. We are fortunate that significant stands of this
forest type survive uncut in the Great Smoky Mountains.
A great benefit of these rich, lush forests for hikers is the
refreshing coolness they afford on hot summer days. Many people have
described them as “green cathedrals” because of the coolness, rest,
and peace they seem to engender.
[Illustration: When the yellow-poplar seeds into an abandoned farm
field it means that the field could eventually become a cove forest.
But the yellow-poplar needs the company of a dozen other species to
form true cove forest.]
[Illustration: The yellow-poplar grows fast and straight. Its bark
has white-sided ridges.]
[Illustration: Cove forest has less moss cover than the spruce-fir
forest, but it boasts more kinds of mosses. The abundance of trees,
flowers, and lower plants is produced by ideal moisture and a
temperate climate.]
Forest Openings: The Balds
[Illustration: Bald]
Most mountains show mosaic patterns of vegetation noticeable at a
distance, or on scenic postcards. In the Smokies high country this
zoning is conspicuous. These mountains rival the Rockies for all such
contrasts, except for naked rock above timberline.
There is no climatic treeline—roughly an elevation above which trees
cannot survive—in the Smokies. But two important treeless communities,
called “balds” by the early settlers, give this above-timber effect
here.
The baldness is not that of bare rock, but rather a mountain-top
interruption to the forest cover. The two types, grass balds and heath
balds, are alike only in appearance from a distance, and in their
preference for mountain summits.
The Cherokees wove the balds into their religion and folklore.
Mountaineers grazed stock on the grass balds and cursed the heath
balds as “slicks” or “hells.” Botanists began to publish explanations
for these balds a century ago but you can still formulate your own
theory because there are no agreed-upon answers. The more careful the
study, the more puzzles arise. But the key in both cases seems to be
_disturbance_, the successive destruction of generations of tree
seedlings.
For heath balds the most obvious tree-killing agent is fire and so
fire was advanced as an explanation for their origin. Shrubs can burn
to the ground and grow back quickly, sprouting from their roots.
Mountain laurel, rhododendron, blueberry, huckleberry, and sand myrtle
all do this. It was theorized that where fire knocks out the tree
layer, there are the heath balds. But the rub is that some balds show
no signs of fire and yet are not nursing young trees.
Landslides eliminate trees, and winter winds may also discourage tree
growth. Heath balds persevere where slopes are steep, soil is peaty
and acidic, and the elevation tops 1,200 meters (4,000 feet).
Today the grass balds are a mosaic of shrubs, grasses, and young
trees. Open patches may be clearly dominated by grasses but the total
number of plant species present on grass balds is greater than the
number present on heath balds.
Explanations of the origin of grass balds have been much debated but
no theory has been accepted for them all. We do know that most grass
balds were used as high elevation pastures in the 1800s and early
1900s, and when the park was established the grass balds were more
open than today. Most Southern Appalachian grass balds are being
quickly invaded by trees and shrubs. The National Park Service is
developing plans to keep two Smokies balds open. Despite their
appearance, grassy balds have no floristic relation to true alpine or
arctic tundra vegetation.
[Illustration: The sundew, a bog plant common in the far North,
persists on one grass bald, near a spring. What look like dew
droplets are actually gluey traps for insects, which this
carnivorous plant kills and absorbs.]
[Illustration: Flame azalea thrives on grassy balds. At Gregory Bald
it hybridizes with other azaleas, producing an array of colored
flowers that botanists call a “hybrid swarm.”]
[Illustration: When settlers grazed stock on the grass balds, many
common weeds such as dandelions were introduced. Before settlement
deer and elk probably grazed here, and may have helped keep out
encroaching trees.]
[Illustration: _The presence of trout somehow symbolizes wild nature
and pristine beauty. Pools such as this one at the foot of Grotto
Falls on Roaring Fork, are quiet forest gems that cause the finger
of many an angler to twitch uncontrollably._]
The Trout’s World
The rays of the early morning sun bombard the tops of the trees spread
above the headwaters of Forney Creek. Some penetrate the canopy to make
light patches in the lower layers of the forest. But few break through
the rhododendron thickets along the stream to illuminate its mossy
rocks, its foam, and its clear pools. Down in the darkness beneath
overhanging shrubs, hanging in the current near the bottom of a pool, a
brook trout waits for the stream to bring it food. With dark mottling
along its back, red spots on its olive sides, and pale orange edging on
its lower fins, the fish is beautiful. It is also small, about 18
centimeters (7 inches) long, and lean, for it lives in a harsh
environment where food is scarce, the water is cold and acidic, and
floods and thick ice can scour. This is one of only a few trout in the
pool because there is not enough food for many.
The trout fed little during the night and now its hunger is acute.
Carefully it watches the rippling surface for insects, spiders,
crayfish, salamanders, and worms, or any animal life caught and carried
down by the current. But nothing appears. It noses up to a rock where
earlier in the summer it had found caddisfly larvae fastened in their
tubular little cases made of tiny pebbles. Now none are left on the
surface of the rock accessible to the trout. It searches other rocks and
eventually finds one caddisfly larva and a small mayfly nymph, flattened
against the under side. The trout dashes at a small salamander, which
escapes under another rock. Three crayfish also inhabit the pool but
they are too big for this particular trout to eat.
The trout’s hunger increases and still nothing edible washes over the
miniature waterfall at the head of the pool. But suddenly sand and
gravel begin dropping in and there is a pulsing in the flow of water.
Upstream a bear has crossed and in its crossing it has knocked a beetle
off an overhanging branch. The beetle floats down one little cataract
after another, its legs kicking wildly and its wet wings vainly buzzing.
There is a splash as the trout strikes. The beetle will sustain it
through one more day.
In contrast to the brook trout’s life in the headwaters, the rainbow
trout would appear to have an easier time in the lower reaches of park
streams. Here the pools are larger, the stream gradient is less, the
water is less acidic, and nutrients are more abundant. These conditions
allow more plant and animal life to exist, and therefore create more
food for trout. Also, at these lower elevations, where the water is
deeper, winter ice cannot form so solidly as higher up. These waters are
not exactly teeming with aquatic life, but they are adequate for rainbow
trout.
Trout do not generally remain active continuously. They tend to feed in
the late afternoon, at night, and early in the morning, resting at the
bottom of a pool during midday. Both brook and rainbow trout will have
resting sites, day and night, and feeding sites.
A favored feeding site is often the head of the pool, where a trout will
have the first chance to seize insects or other organisms carried into
the pool. It also has the option of hunting many of the forms of life
that live in the stream with it: insect larvae and nymphs of many kinds,
aquatic beetles and spiders, crayfish, leeches and worms, water-mites,
snails, salamanders, tadpoles, and the smaller fish.
Among the more common fishes that live in rainbow trout territory in low
elevation, low gradient streams are sculpins, dace, hogsuckers, river
chubs, shiners, and stonerollers. Hogsuckers, which reach 30 centimeters
(a foot) or more in length, can be seen in many large, quiet pools.
There they search for food on the bottom with their downward protruding
lips. Dace and shiners, members of the minnow family, are very small
fish and some species are brilliantly colored. The river chub and
stoneroller, also minnows, are larger; the stoneroller occasionally
reaches 28 centimeters (11 inches). Locally known as “hornyhead” and
enjoyed as a food fish, the abundant stoneroller may limit the numbers
of rainbow trout in some stretches of stream because of its own spawning
activities. Rainbows lay their eggs on gravelly areas in early spring. A
month or so later, before the trout eggs have hatched, stonerollers
frequently build their nests in the same places, covering or scattering
the trout eggs in the process. This sort of competition was probably not
expected or considered when rainbows were introduced to the Smokies;
nevertheless, the trout do manage to perpetuate themselves.
No doubt the most peculiar creature in the lower sections of park
streams is the hellbender, a huge, grayish salamander with a loose fold
of skin along each side. Commonly reaching 30 centimeters (a foot) and
occasionally more than 60 centimeters (2 feet) in length, hellbenders
hide under rocks and debris in swift water and feed on fish and other
animals up to the size of crayfish. Below elevations of about 500 meters
(1,600 feet) smallmouth bass, rock bass, and brightly colored little
darters appear in park waters. Brown trout, an introduced species that
has apparently entered the park from farther downstream, live in the
lower sections of some streams, and may be found in the headwaters of
some streams. Of the three species of trout in the Smokies, browns
generally prove most difficult to catch.
Since early in this century when rainbow trout were introduced, and
possibly even before, brook trout have been retreating upstream in these
mountains. In the late 19th century, brook trout occurred as low as 500
meters (1,600 feet); now they are found mostly above 915 meters (3,000
feet). The effects of logging and competition from rainbows are the most
frequently suggested reasons for this retreat. Logging, which began on a
large scale in the Smokies about 1900, brought with it many fires. The
resulting exposure to full sunlight caused the warming of low-elevation
sections of streams. Erosion of the denuded land added heavy loads of
sediment to the streams. These changed conditions, and possibly heavy
fishing pressure, apparently speeded the disappearance of brook trout
from the lower elevations. Rainbows were introduced and proved able to
survive. In the ’20s and ’30s it was noted that rainbows occurred in
streams up to about the upper limit of logging, and that brook trout
occupied streams above that point. Now, however, streams are once again
shaded by forests their full length; but brook trout, instead of moving
back down, seem to have retreated higher upstream. It appears that the
larger, more aggressive rainbows somehow prevent brook trout from
reoccupying their lost waters.
The National Park Service is concerned for the future of the Smokies’
one species of native trout, and especially for the few isolated
populations of brookies that may still remain unmixed with populations
of brook trout introduced from other parts of the country. On some
streams, waterfalls provide effective barriers to the advance of rainbow
trout, and use of artificial barriers for this purpose has been
considered. Stringent fishing regulations may help the easily caught
brook trout—and the gluttonous poaching that sometimes eliminates large
numbers of brook trout from long stretches of a stream must be stopped.
This type of management problem, how to preserve native species and
reduce the impact of exotic ones, is common in national parks. It is
only one aspect of a larger problem: How do we maintain natural
ecosystems in parks? This basic aspect of the national park idea is
difficult to implement in a country where human influence is so
ubiquitous.
Quite a few animals of the Smokies depend on streams and their organisms
without living entirely in them. They live with one foot in the water
and one foot on land, as it were. Raccoons out hunting at night patrol
streams, alert for frogs, crayfish, and mussels. Mink pursue fish,
crayfish, and other animals underwater, flowing downstream through the
foam as effortlessly as water itself. Kingfishers perch on overhanging
branches to plunge headfirst after small fish. Their loud, rattling
calls can be heard on the lower courses of many streams. The small
Louisiana waterthrush, a warbler, teeters on rocks in the torrent,
searching for aquatic insects. It nests on stream banks or behind
waterfalls. Its song, a lovely descending jumble of notes, cascades like
the water of its haunts. Harmless water snakes, mottled brown somewhat
like the water moccasin (which does not occur in the Smokies), like to
sun on limbs or debris near the water. Frogs, fish, salamanders, and
crayfish form most of their diet. Of the park’s few species of frogs,
the green frog is the one most likely to be found in streams. Aquatic
turtles are even less common; most numerous is the snapping turtle, a
wanderer that sometimes reaches the middle elevations in the park.
Ducks, herons, and other large aquatic birds, scarce in the park because
there are no large bodies of water, do appear occasionally. On the
section of Abrams Creek that flows through Cades Cove you may surprise a
wood duck or green heron. Though not very productive of plant food,
Fontana Lake on the south border of the park sometimes serves as a
resting place for migrating waterfowl.
Perhaps we humans could be considered semi-aquatic ourselves, so
strongly does water attract us. In the Smokies people love to visit
waterfalls, plunge into favorite swimming holes, play among the rocks
and white water, and fish up and down the streams. One of my favorite
activities is simple stream-watching. Just pick a sunny rock, sit down
with your lunch, and watch. That’s all there is to it. Trout will
eventually grow bold enough to come out of hiding. Birds fly out of the
dense forest to feed in the sunlit shrubs along the stream. Butterflies
wander down this open avenue, and dragonflies dart after winged prey.
Sometimes the unusual happens. One fine October day as I was just
finishing my sandwich, a little red squirrel appeared on the opposite
shore, edged down a rock to the water, and plunged in. It drifted with
the current and then scrambled out on a rock near me. A swimming
squirrel I had never expected to see.
In the Smokies you are seldom far from the sound of water. These
tumbling streams—the Little Pigeon, the Oconaluftee, Roaring Fork, Hazel
Creek, and all their many brothers—have voices as various as a hound
dog’s. They talk, murmur, shout, and sing, rising and falling in tone.
Porters Creek once actually convinced me that people were talking and
playing guitars on its bank. This is the soul music of the mountains.
Smokies Trout
[Illustration: Brook trout, or “spec,” are a glimpse of nature at
her best. Their colorful delicacy is a sharp contrast to the
mountains’ mass. The three-toned fins most easily distinguish it
from other species while it swims. A mountaineer here once paid the
local dentist 200 trout—caught in a morning—for some dental work, as
attested by account books. Park regulations now prohibit catching
the brook trout because it has lost so much of its original
territory that its numbers have been severely reduced.]
[Illustration: Brown trout, a European fish, has entered the park
recently. It inhabits the park’s lower waters, which provide the
warmer, slower conditions it prefers. It will eat its own young as
well as those of competing rainbow and brook trout.]
[Illustration: Rainbow trout were introduced from the West during
the logging era via milk cans to improve fishing. They are larger
and more aggressive than brookies.]
The streams and rivers of the Smokies are famous for their purity. All
who come to these mountains are impressed by the beauty of the waterways
that have carved their way into the lush wilderness. More than 300
streams flow throughout the park. To many of us these streams mean only
one thing, trout. Actually, more than 70 species of fish have been
collected in the park, such as chubs, shiners, minnows, dace, catfish,
suckers, sculpins, darters, and even lamprey.
Trout live in fast-flowing water where their streamlined bodies enable
them to maintain themselves in the current, often close to the stream
bottom. Brookies, especially, require such pure water that they are
often considered a clean water “index.”
[Illustration: This little creature is known as a mayfly, one of the
five insects most widely imitated by artificial fly patterns. The
imitations seek to simulate, as dry, wet, or nymph patterns, the
insects’ larval and adult stages and their aquatic habits.]
[Illustration: _Male Adams_]
[Illustration: _Dark Cahill_]
[Illustration: _Olive Caddis_]
[Illustration: _Leadwing Coachman_]
[Illustration: _Yellow Hammer (antique gold)_]
[Illustration: _Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear_]
[Illustration: _Adams Variant_]
[Illustration: _Royal Wulff_]
[Illustration: _Light Cahill_]
[Illustration: _Secret Weapon_]
[Illustration: _Yellow Hammer (peacock)_]
[Illustration: _Muskrat Nymph_]
[Illustration: _Yellow Forney Creek_]
[Illustration: _Humpy or Guffus Bug_]
[Illustration: _Grey Hackle Peacock_]
[Illustration: _Yellow Wooly Worm_]
[Illustration: _Light Cahill Nymph_]
[Illustration: _Tellico Nymph_]
To rile up trout anglers just assert that one fly pattern is the best.
But in fly fishing areas such as the Smokies, a few patterns inevitably
emerge as favorites. Here as elsewhere, most artificial flies imitate
five varieties of insects common to most waters: mayflies, caddisflies,
stoneflies, alderflies, and ants. There are, in all, about 5,000 sorts
of human-tied flies in existence. Does that sound overwhelming? Well,
there are probably hundreds of thousands of varieties of insects which
trout may feed upon at one time or another. The following advice will
help you narrow your choice.
Dry Flies _Mayfly imitations_: Light Cahill, Quill Gordon, Royal
Coachman, Dark Hendrickson. _Caddis imitations_: Henryville Special.
_Ant imitations_: Black Ant, Red Ant.
Wet Fly and Nymphs Black Woolly Worm, Hendrickson, Light Cahill, Hare’s
Ear, March Brown.
Streamers Olive Mateuka, Muddler Minnow (imitates grasshopper or
sculpin).
Watch out for low-hanging branches!
[Illustration: _Female Adams_]
① Head
② Wing
③ Body
④ Tail
⑤ Hackle
[Illustration: Choosing a pattern may challenge today’s trout angler
in the Smokies, but choosing your bait does not. Fishing is confined
to artificial lures only. No bait is allowed. Pictured here is Mrs.
Clem Enloe. She was 84 years old and lived on Tight Run Branch when
Joseph S. Hall took this photo. She was the last person—and the only
one in her own day, in fact—allowed to use worms as bait in the
park. She was also allowed to fish here any season of the year
because she flat refused to obey the new park’s newly-instituted
fishing regulations. Park rangers didn’t have the heart to throw the
book at her. “I was told that if I took her a box of snuff, she
would let me take her picture,” photographer Hall said. That’s the
snuff in her blouse. Someone later suggested that the rangers should
have tried snuff too.
We ask that you, however, please follow all fishing regulations!]
Logging
[Illustration: Loading logs onto a flatcar]
“These are the heaviest and most beautiful hard-wood forests of the
continent,” read a 1901 report from President Theodore Roosevelt to
Congress. Lumber entrepreneurs were impressed, and the Little River
watershed was sold that year for about $9.70 per hectare ($4.00 per
acre)—all 34,400 hectares (85,000 acres) of it! Throughout the
Smokies, entire watersheds were staked off like mining claims. Largest
of all was a timbered plot owned by the Champion Coated Paper Company.
It included Deep Creek, Greenbrier Cove, and the headwaters of the
Oconaluftee River.
[Illustration: Horse team hauling logs]
Logging came to the Smokies on a large scale about 1900. Settlers had
always cut trees here, but the lumber companies and their money and
methods injected a major new element. Instead of a few oxen dragging
heavy logs to mill, the lumber companies introduced railroads, steam
loaders, and steam skidders on the landscape. As you drive from Elkmont
toward Townsend along the park road, you are driving atop the old
railbed that was laid down by the Little River Logging Company.
New towns sprang up: Elkmont, Crestmont, Proctor, Ravensford, and
Smokemont. These provided something new to the Smokies, a cash market.
For a time, one egg would “buy” a child a week’s supply of candy. Local
families sold farm products to the loggers and sawmill men.
[Illustration: Steam-powered saw]
[Illustration: Cut lumber]
The Smokies yielded board feet of lumber by the millions. Cherry was the
most valuable wood, and most scarce. Tall, straight yellow-poplar turned
out to be the most profitable because of its large volume.
Fires and Flooding
[Illustration: The devastation seen in the photograph is the
aftermath of a fire that was set by sparks belched out of logging
equipment, an unfortunate source of several devastating fires in
logging’s heyday.]
The ravages of logging led to fires, and the fires led to flooding. Many
fires were set by the flaming sparks from locomotives or log skidders.
More than 20 disastrous fires took place in the 1920s alone. A two-month
series of fires burned over parts of Clingmans Dome, Silers Bald, and
Mt. Guyot. Intense destruction occurred in the Charlie’s Bunion area of
The Sawteeth in 1925. Hikers on the Appalachian Trail still see the
effects of this fire.
The fires created conditions for massive flooding. Parched soils were no
longer secured by living roots and the dense mat of plants that makes
the Smokies world famous today. Streams and rivers flooded, carrying
unusually heavy loads of sediment. These conditions were intolerable for
the native Southern Appalachian brook trout and apparently speeded their
disappearance from lower elevations.
Rainbow trout were introduced and proved able to survive. More recently
brown trout were successfully introduced. The brookies now occupy less
than half the territory they did in the 1930s.
[Illustration: Some flooding is still common today. This is natural.
The Smokies get their fair share of rainfall, making seasonal
flooding expected. And every few years prolonged or bad storms can
cause unusually heavy flooding of the streams and rivers. Here you
see the Little Pigeon River in flood near park headquarters in 1979.
Whenever Smokies streams or rivers are flooded it is very dangerous
to attempt crossing them. Don’t try it. Revise your itinerary
instead.]
What about fires today? Lightning-caused fire is as ancient as the
mountains themselves and has always been a part of the forest’s life
process. Some tree species actually depend on fire for regeneration,
such as the pin cherry. And the heath bald shrubs, such as blueberry and
mountain-laurel, prosper after a light burn. Fire is necessary as well
to dozens of flowering plants which quickly seed new forest openings the
fire creates.
We have long viewed fire on wildlands as a catastrophe, and indeed it is
often a piteous sight. But the urge to suppress fire completely
sometimes results in other unsatisfactory conditions. On many large
public land areas limited wildfires are now allowed to burn if they
don’t threaten private property or human lives.
[Illustration: Fire-fighting airplane]
[Illustration: Fire-fighters on the ground]
[Illustration: _The Smokies is an ancient land-mass. Its plantlife
may have evolved uninterruptedly for more than 200 million years.
Continental Ice Age glaciation did not reach this far south, and as
the Atlantic Ocean has repeatedly inundated most of North America,
the Smokies remained an island._]
The Evolution of Abundance
Diversity is the biological keynote of the Great Smoky Mountains. Within
the national park have been found about 1,500 species of flowering
plants, among which are some 100 trees. There are around 2,000 fungi, 50
mammals, 200 birds, and 70 fishes, or more than in the fresh waters of
any other national park on our continent. There are about 80 reptiles
and amphibians, among which are 22 salamanders, which is probably as
many as can be found in any similar-sized area in North America. Present
conditions, such as warmth, abundant moisture, and a diversity of
environments brought about by the height and dissection of the
mountains, are partly responsible for this biotic wealth. But time, the
many millions of years this land has been above the sea and south of the
ice, has also been an important factor. It has been a span long enough
for a great many species of plants and animals to get here and find a
niche and for other species to evolve in the region. The story of the
arrival and evolution of the present flora and fauna is intimately
linked with the dramatic history of our continent.
We can only guess what life existed here during the 130 million years of
the Mesozoic era, because no rocks from this period exist in the
Smokies. But we can imagine that dinosaurs and primitive birds and
mammals roamed the region, as they did other parts of the continent.
Toward the close of the Mesozoic, flowering plants evolved and rapidly
became the dominant type of vegetation. We can guess that some of these
first magnolias, elms, and oaks grew right here in the ancestral
Smokies. Newly evolved bees probably helped to pollinate some of the
flowering plants.
The story becomes clearer and the life forms become more and more
familiar to us during the 65 million years of the Cenozoic, the present
era. In the first half of the Cenozoic, subtropical vegetation grew in
the southern United States and temperate vegetation grew north to the
Arctic. As these plants would indicate by their ability to grow here,
this was a time of warm or mild climates throughout the Northern
Hemisphere. Land bridges between North America and Eurasia, by way of
the Bering Strait and perhaps Greenland, allowed the spread of a
remarkably homogeneous flora throughout the then-temperate parts of
these two continents. The Great Smokies, with their feet in the South
and, as it were, their head climatically in the North, must have had
both subtropical and temperate vegetation early in the Cenozoic era.
During the second half of the Cenozoic, a cooling trend set in. The
widespread “Arctotertiary” vegetation of the northern latitudes moved
southwards through North America and Eurasia. By the end of the
Tertiary, which includes all but the past two to three million years of
the Cenozoic, the vegetation zones of North America were probably very
similar to those of the present. In the Smokies the trees probably
ranged from southern types, such as sweetgum, at low elevations through
the great mixture of cove forests and possibly to spruce and fir at the
highest elevations. After a long period of gradual change in climate,
the stage was set for the drastic events of the Pleistocene.
It is hard for us to imagine what an ice age must have been like in our
country. Perhaps the only way to imagine it is to visit the Antarctic or
one of the great glaciers in Alaska, and to watch giant slabs of ice
fall from those towering walls. Then... mentally transport the scene to
the Hudson River valley or to the flatlands of Illinois, while
magnifying the thickness of those glaciers several times over. Then
imagine the surface of that great ice sheet stretching all the way to
northern Canada.
If you had stood near the front of that massive ice sheet, you would
have felt the cold air flowing off it. How far south that cold, dense
air flowed and to what extent it affected temperatures in the southern
states are unanswered questions. But undoubtedly temperatures were
lowered throughout North America and perhaps farther south. Some
scientists postulate a drop of 5.5 degrees Celsius (10 degrees
Fahrenheit) in mean annual temperatures in southern United States. The
high pressure that developed over the ice sheet would have pushed storm
tracks southward, increasing precipitation in the South.
Such continental ice sheets advanced at least four times as climates
cooled, and as many times they retreated during warmer intervals. With
each advance and the consequent cooler, wetter climate, there was
undoubtedly a southward shift of vegetation belts. In the mountains
there would also have been a downward shift of forest types,
particularly those of the higher elevations. That is, the higher
elevation species would begin to grow down the slope. In sheltered coves
temperatures probably did not drop as much as they did higher up or out
in the open lowlands, and soils in coves were deeper and more fertile.
The coves of the Southern Appalachians thus may have formed a refuge for
many temperate species of plants, including some forced southward by the
spreading ice. This is a factor in today’s biotic richness or abundance
in the Smokies.
On top of the Smokies and other high mountains of the Southern
Appalachians, tundra (treeless areas) may have developed as winter
climates became too cold and windy even for spruce and fir, which is the
situation today on high peaks of the Adirondacks and White Mountains in
New England. Accumulations of blocky boulders in higher parts of the
Smokies resemble block fields in the northern Appalachians that probably
were formed above timberline in late stages of glaciation. From the
location of block fields, geologists postulate a treeline in the Smokies
somewhere between 900 and 1,500 meters (3,000 and 5,000 feet) elevation
during the last glacial period, some 15,000 to 25,000 years ago. If
islands of tundra did exist in the Southern Appalachians, it is not
likely that tundra mammals would have migrated from the tundra bordering
the ice front through the intervening forest to reach such Arctic
pastures in the sky. But some birds might have. Water pipits, which
today nest in the Arctic and above timberline on our Western mountains,
might have bred on these patches of southern tundra. And the few snow
buntings which have been seen wintering on Southern Appalachian balds
may have been returning to ancestral nesting grounds of the species.
Although Pleistocene tundra in the Smokies is a rather speculative
notion, it seems certain that spruce-fir forest existed below today’s
1,400-meter (4,600-foot) limit. This supposition is supported by the
fact that fossil pollen and other fragments of spruce and fir have been
found in several lowland bog deposits of the South.
During the last Ice Age the Southern Appalachian spruce-fir forests and
their animals must have been a richer version of the plant-animal
community that exists in this zone today, for at the peak of the ice
advance northern plants and animals probably could migrate along a
continuous avenue of this boreal forest in the Appalachians. Bones from
cave deposits at Natural Chimneys in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley
indicate that such northern animals as porcupines, snowshoe hares, pine
martens, fishers, spruce grouse, and gray jays, as well as the now
extinct longnosed peccary and giant beaver, roamed that area 10,000 to
15,000 years ago. The still existing species mentioned above now live
farther north in the forests of New England and Canada. If such animals
could live during the late Pleistocene at 450 meters (1,500 feet) in
Virginia, many and perhaps all of them might well have lived at higher
elevations in the Smokies. In the case of porcupines, archeological
records from nearby regions in fact support this idea.
After the retreat of the last ice sheet a warm, dry period set in and
caused the development of grasslands as far east as Ohio. To what extent
this change in climate may have affected the Smokies is not known. But
it may have been responsible for the development of the beech gaps: as
the spruce-fir forests were forced ever higher, beeches and yellow
birches followed in their wake. The once continuous band of spruce-fir
forest through the Southern Appalachians would then have been broken
into patches as it migrated to higher elevations—and disappeared
entirely on the lower mountains. Today such forest is restricted in the
Southern Appalachians to the highest parts of eastern West Virginia,
southwestern Virginia, western North Carolina, and areas in and just
north of the Great Smokies. During the warmer, d
|
1838 there were 59 four-horse mails in England and Wales, 16 in
Scotland, and 29 in Ireland, in addition to a total number of 70
pair-horse: some 180 mails in all. It was in this year that--the
novelty of railways creating a desire for fast travelling--the
Post Office yielded to the cry for speed, and, abandoning the
usual conservative attitude, went too far in the other direction,
overstepping the bounds of common safety. For some time the mails
between Glasgow and Carlisle, and Carlisle and Edinburgh were run to
clear 11 miles an hour, which meant an average pace of 13 miles an
hour. These were popularly called the “calico mails,” because of their
lightness. The time allowed between Carlisle and Glasgow, 96 miles,
was 8 hours 32 minutes, and it was a sight to see it come down Stanwix
Brow on a summer evening. It met, however, with so many accidents that
cautious folk always avoided it, preferring the orthodox 10 miles an
hour--especially by lamplight in the rugged Cheviots. Even at that pace
there had been more than enough risk, as these incidents from Post
Office records of three years earlier clearly show:--
_1835._
February 5. Edinburgh and Aberdeen Mail overturned.
9. Devonport Mail overturned.
10. Scarborough and York Mail overturned.
16. Belfast and Enniskillen Mail overturned.
16. Dublin and Derry Mail overturned.
17. Scarborough and Hull Mail overturned.
17. York and Doncaster Mail overturned.
20. Thirty-five mail-horses burnt alive at Reading.
24. Louth Mail overturned.
25. Gloucester Mail overturned.
No place was better served by the Post Office than Exeter in the last
years of the road, and few so well. Before 1837 it had no fewer than
three mails, and in that year a fourth was added. All four started
simultaneously from the General Post Office, and reached the Queen City
of the West within a few hours of one another every day. On its own
merits, Exeter did not deserve or need all these travelling and postal
facilities, and it was only because it stood at the converging-point of
many routes that it obtained them. Only one mail, indeed, was dedicated
especially to Exeter, and that was the last-established, the “New
Exeter,” put on the road in 1837. The others continued to Devonport
or to Falmouth, then a port, a mail-packet and naval station of great
prominence, where the West Indian mails landed, and whence they were
shipped. To the mail-coaches making for Devonport and Falmouth, Exeter
was, therefore, only an incident.
[Illustration: THE “QUICKSILVER” DEVONPORT MAIL, PASSING KEW BRIDGE.
_After J. Pollard._
]
The “Old Exeter” Mail, continued on to Falmouth, kept consistently
to the main Exeter Road, through Salisbury, Dorchester and Bridport.
Before 1837 it had performed the journey to Exeter in 20 hours and to
Falmouth in 34¾ hours, but was then accelerated one hour as between
London and Exeter, and although slightly decelerated onwards, the gain
on the whole distance was 49 minutes.
Five minutes in advance of this ran the “Quicksilver” Devonport Mail,
as far as Salisbury, where, until 1837, it branched off, going by
Shaftesbury, Sherborne and Yeovil, a route 5¾ miles shorter than the
other. It was 1¾ hours quicker than the “Old Exeter” as far as that
city. Here is the time-table of the “Quicksilver” at that period, to
Exeter:--
LEAVING GENERAL POST OFFICE AT 8 P.M.
+--------+-------------+------------+
| Miles. | Places. | Due. |
+--------+-------------+------------+
| 12 | Hounslow | 9.12 p.m. |
| 19 | Staines | 9.56 ” |
| 29 | Bagshot | 11.0 ” |
| 67 | Andover | 2.42 a.m. |
| 84 | Salisbury | 4.27 ” |
| 105 | Shaftesbury | 6.41 ” |
| 126 | Yeovil | 8.56 ” |
| 135 | Crewkerne | 10.12 ” |
| 143 | Chard | 11.0 ” |
| 156 | Honiton | 12.31 p.m. |
| 173 | Exeter | 2.14 ” |
+--------+-------------+------------+
Thus 18 hours 14 minutes were allowed for the 173 miles. In 1837 the
“Quicksilver” was put on the “upper road” by Amesbury and Ilminster,
and her pace again accelerated; this time by 1 hour 38 minutes to
Exeter and 4 hours 39 minutes to Falmouth. This then became the fastest
long-distance mail in the kingdom, maintaining a speed, including
stops, of nearly 10¼ miles an hour between London and Devonport. It
should be remembered, when considering the subject of speed, that the
mails had not only to change horses and stay for supper and breakfast,
like the stage-coaches, but also had to call at the post offices to
deliver and collect the mailbags, and all time so expended had to be
made up. The “Quicksilver” must needs have gone some stages at 12 miles
an hour.
Time also had to be kept in all kinds of weather, and the guard--who
was the servant of the Post Office, and not, as the coachman was, of
the mail-contractors--was bound to see that time was kept, and had
power, whenever it was being lost, to order out post-horses at the
expense of the contractors. Six, and sometimes eight, horses were often
thus attached to the mails. The route of the “Quicksilver” from 1837
was according to the following time-bill:--
LEAVING GENERAL POST OFFICE AT 8 P.M.
+------+--------------+-----------+
|Miles.| Places. | Due. |
| +--------------+-----------+
| 12 | Hounslow | 9.8 p.m.|
| 19 | Staines | 9.48 ” |
| 29 | Bagshot | 10.47 ” |
| 67 | Andover | 2.20 a.m.|
| 80 | Amesbury | 3.39 ” |
| 90 | Deptford Inn | 4.34 ” |
| 97 | Chicklade | 5.15 a.m.|
| 125 | Ilchester | 7.50 ” |
| 137 | Ilminster | 8.58 ” |
| 154 | Honiton | 11.0 ” |
| 170 | Exeter | 12.34 p.m.|
+------+--------------+-----------+
| Time: 16 hours 34 minutes. |
+---------------------------------+
The complete official time-bill for the whole distance is appended:--
TIME-BILL, LONDON, EXETER AND DEVONPORT (“QUICKSILVER”) MAIL, 1837.
+---------+---------+-------+--------+-------------------------------+
|Contrac- |Number of| | | |
| tors’ | Passen- | | Time |Despatched from the General |
| Names. | gers. |Stages.|Allowed.| Post Office, the of , |
+---------+----+----+-------+--------+ 1837 at 8 p.m. |
| |In. |Out.| M. F. | H. M. |Coach No. {With timepiece |
| | | | | | sent out {safe, No. to .|
| | | | | |Arrived at the Gloucester |
| | | | | | Coffee-House at . |
| | | | | | |
| | | |{12 2 |} |Hounslow. |
| Chaplin | | |{ 7 1 |} 2 47 |Staines. |
| | | |{ 9 7 |} |Bagshot. Arrived 10.47 p.m. |
| | | | | | |
| | | |{ 9 1 |} |Hartford Bridge. |
| Company | | |{10 1 |} 2 54 |Basingstoke. |
| | | |{ 8 0 |} |Overton. |
| | | |{ 3 5 |} |Whitchurch. Arrived 1.41 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| Broad | | |{ 6 7 | 0 39 |Andover. Arrived 2.20 a.m. |
| | | |{13 7 | 1 19 |Amesbury. Arrived 3.39 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| Ward | | | 9 5 | 0 55 |Deptford Inn. Arrived 4.34 a.m.|
| Davis | | |{ 0 5 |} |Wiley. |
| | | |{ 6 5 |} 0 41 |Chicklade. Arrived 5.15 a.m. |
| | | | | |(Bags dropped for Hindon, 1 |
| | | | | | mile distant.) |
| | | |{ 6 6 |} |Mere. |
| Whitmash| | |{ 7 0 |} 2 59 |Wincanton. |
| | | |{13 4 |} |Ilchester. |
| | | |{ 4 1 |} |Cart Gate. Arrived 8.14 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| | | |{ 2 6 |} |Water Gore, 6 miles from South |
| | | |{ |} | Petherton. |
| Jeffery | | |{ |} 0 44 |Bags dropped for that place. |
| | | |{ 5 1 |} |Ilminster. Arrived 8.58 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| Soaring | | | 8 1 |} 0 25 |Breakfast 25 minutes. Dep. 9.23|
| | | | |} 0 46 |Yarcombe, Heathfield Arms. |
| | | | | | Arrived 10.9 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| Wheaton | | | 8 7 | 0 51 |Honiton. Arrived 11 a.m. |
| | | | | | |
| | | |{16 4 | 1 34 |Exeter. Arrived 12.34 p.m. |
| Cockram | | |{ | 0 10 |Ten minutes allowed. |
| | | |{10 3 |} |Chudleigh. |
| | | |{ 9 3 |} 1 57 |Ashburton. Arrived 2.41 p.m. |
| | | | | | |
| | | |{13 2 |} |Ivybridge. |
| | | |{ 6 6 |} |Bags dropped at Ridgway for |
| Elliott | | |{ |} 2 33 | Plympton, 3 furlongs distant.|
| | | |{ 4 0 |} |Plymouth. Arrived at the Post |
| | | |{ 1 7 |} | Office, Devonport, the of |
| | | | | | , 1837, at 5.14 p.m. by |
| | | | | | timepiece. At by clock. |
| | | +-------+--------+Coach No. { Delivered timepiece|
| | | |216 1 | 21 14 | arr. .{ safe, No. to .|
+---------+----+----+-------+--------+-------------------------------+
The time of working each stage is to be reckoned from the coach’s
arrival, and as any lost time is to be recovered in the course
of the stage, it is the coachman’s duty to be as expeditious as
possible, and to report the horsekeepers if they are not always
ready when the coach arrives, and active in getting it off. The
guard is to give his best assistance in changing, whenever his
official duties do not prevent it.
By command of the Postmaster-General.
GEORGE LOUIS, _Surveyor and Superintendent._
The “New Exeter” Mail went at the moderate inclusive speed of 9 miles
an hour, and reached Exeter, where it stopped altogether, 1 hour 38
minutes later than the “Quicksilver.” The fourth of this company went a
circuitous route down the Bath Road to Bath, Bridgewater, and Taunton,
and did not get into Exeter until 3.57 p.m. Halting ten minutes, it
went on to Devonport, and stopped there at 10.5 that night.
The tabulated form given on opposite page will clearly show how the
West of England mails went in 1837.
The starting of the “Quicksilver” and the other West-country mails was
a recognised London sight. That of the “Telegraph” would have been
also, only it left Piccadilly at 5.30 in the morning, when no one
was about besides the unhappy passengers, except the stable-helpers.
Chaplin, who horsed the “Quicksilver” and other Western mails from
town, did not start them from the General Post Office, but from the
Gloucester Coffee-House, Piccadilly. The mail-bags were brought from
St. Martin’s-le-Grand in a mail-cart, and the City passengers in an
omnibus. The mails set out from Piccadilly at 8.30 p.m.
THE WEST OF ENGLAND MAILS, 1837.
+-----+-----------------+-----------+----------+-----------+----------+
| | | |Devonport | | |
| | |Old Exeter | (“Quick- | |Devonport |
|Miles| Places. | Mail, | silver”) |New Exeter |Mail, by |
| | | continued |Mail, con-| Mail. |Bath and |
| | | to |tinued to | |Taunton. |
| | | Falmouth. | Falmouth.| | |
+-----+-----------------+-----------+----------+-----------+----------+
| |General Post | | | | |
| | Office, | | | | |
| |London dep.| 8.0 p.m. | 8.0 p.m.| 8.0 p.m. | 8.0 p.m.|
| 12 |Hounslow arr.| | | | 9.12 ” |
| 19 |Staines | | | 9.56 ” | |
| 23 | Slough | | | | |
| 29 | Maidenhead | | | |10.40 ” |
| 58 | Newbury | | | | 1.53 a.m.|
| 77 | Marlborough | | | | 3.43 ” |
| 91 | Devizes | | | | 5.6 ” |
| 109 | Bath | | | | 7.0 ” |
| 149 | Bridgewater | | | |11.30 ” |
| 160 | Taunton | | | |12.35 p.m.|
| 180 | Cullumpton | | | | 2.42 ” |
| 29 |Bagshot | |10.47 p.m.| | |
| 67 |Andover | | 2.20 a.m.| 2.42 a.m. | |
| 84 | Salisbury | 4.52 a.m. | | 4.27 ” | |
| 124½|Dorchester | 8.57 ” | | 8.53 ” | |
| 126 | Yeovil | | | | |
| 137 |Bridport |10.5 ” | |11.0 ” | |
| 143 | Chard | | | | |
| 80 |Amesbury | | 3.39 ” | | |
| 125 |Ilchester | | 7.50 ” | | |
| | Honiton | |11.0 ” |12.31 p.m. | |
| | EXETER {arr.| 2.59 p.m. |12.34 p.m.| 2.12 ” | 3.57 ” |
| | dep.| 3.9 ” |12.44 ” |===========| 4.7 ” |
| 210 |Newton Abbot arr.| | | | 6.33 ” |
| 218 |Totnes | | | | 7.25 ” |
| 190 | Ashburton | | 2.41 ” | | |
| 214 | Plymouth | | 5.5 ” | | |
| | DEVONPORT {arr.| | 5.14 ” | |10.5 ” |
| | {dep.| | 5.41 ” | |==========|
| 234 | Liskeard arr.| | 7.55 ” | | |
| 246 | Lostwithiel | | 9.12 ” | | |
| 252 | St. Austell | |10.20 ” | | |
| 266 | Truro | |11.55 ” | | |
| 271 | FALMOUTH | 3.55 a.m. | 1.5 a.m.| | |
+-----+-----------------+-----------+----------+-----------+----------+
| | |31 h. 55 m.|29 h. 5 m.|18 h. 12 m.|26 h. 5 m.|
+-----+-----------------+-----------+----------+-----------+----------+
It was at Andover that the “Quicksilver,” from 1837, leaving its
contemporary mails, climbed up past Abbot’s Ann to Park House and
the bleak Wiltshire downs, along a lonely road, and finally came, up
hill, out of Amesbury to the most exposed part of Salisbury Plain,
at Stonehenge, in the early hours of the morning. The “Quicksilver”
was a favourite subject with the artists of that day, who were never
weary of pictorially representing it. They have shown it passing
Kew Bridge, and the old “Star and Garter,” on the outward journey,
in daylight--presumably the longest day in the year, because it did
not reach that point until 9 p.m. Two of them have, separately and
individually, shown us the famous attack by the lioness in 1816; and
two others have pictured it on the up journey, passing Windsor Castle,
and entering the City at Temple Bar; but no one has ever represented
the “Quicksilver” passing beneath that gaunt and storm-beaten relic of
a prehistoric age, Stonehenge. One of them, however, did a somewhat
remarkable thing. The picture of the “Quicksilver” passing within
sight of Windsor was executed and published in 1840, two years after
the gallant old mail had been taken off that portion of the road,
to be conveyed by railway. Perhaps the print was, so to speak, a
post-mortem one, intended to keep the memory of the old days fresh in
the recollection of travellers by the mail.
The London and Southampton Railway was opened to Woking May 23rd,
1838, and to Winchfield September 24th following, and by so much the
travels of the “Quicksilver” and the other West-country coaches were
shortened. For some months they all resorted to that station, and then
to Basingstoke, when the line was opened so far. June 10th, 1839.
This shortening of the coach route was accompanied by the following
advertisement in the _Times_ during October 1838, the forerunner of
many others:--
[Illustration: THE “QUICKSILVER” DEVONPORT MAIL, ARRIVING AT TEMPLE
BAR, 1834.
_After C. B. Newhouse._
]
“Bagshot, Surrey--49 Horses and harness. To Coach Proprietors, Mail
Contractors, Post Masters, and Others.--To be Sold by Auction, by Mr.
Robinson, on the premises, ‘King’s Arms’ Inn, Bagshot, on Friday,
November 2, 1838, at twelve o’clock precisely, by order of Mr.
Scarborough, in consequence of the coaches going per Railway.
“About Forty superior, good-sized, strengthy, short-legged,
quick-actioned, fresh horses, and six sets of four-horse harness, which
have been working the Exeter ‘Telegraph,’ Southampton and Gosport
Fast Coaches, and one stage of the Devonport Mail. The above genuine
Stock merits the particular Attention of all Persons requiring known
good Horses, which are for unreserved sale, entirely on Account of the
Coaches being removed from the Road to the Railway.”
In Thomas Sopwith’s diary we find this significant passage: “On the
11th May, 1840, the coaches discontinued running between York and
London, although the railways were circuitous.” Thus the glories
of the Great North Road began to fade, but it was not until 1842
that the Edinburgh Mail was taken off the road between London,
York, and Newcastle. July 5th, 1847, witnessed the last journey of
the mail on that storied road, in the departure of the coach from
Newcastle-on-Tyne for Edinburgh. The next day the North British Railway
was opened.
The local Derby and Manchester Mail was one of the last to go. It
went off in October 1858. But away up in the far north of Scotland,
where Nature at her wildest, and civilisation and population at their
sparsest, placed physical and financial obstacles before the railway
engineers, it was not until August 1st, 1874, that the mail-coach era
closed, in the last journey of the mail-coach between Wick and Thurso.
That same day the Highland Railway was opened, and in the whole length
and breadth of England and Scotland mail-coaches had ceased to exist.
[Illustration: THE “QUICKSILVER” DEVONPORT MAIL, PASSING WINDSOR CASTLE.
_After Charles Hunt, 1840._
]
The mail-coaches in their prime were noble vehicles. Disdaining any
display of gilt lettering or varied colour commonly to be seen on the
competitive stage-coaches, they were yet remarkably striking. The
lower part of the body has been variously described as chocolate,
maroon, and scarlet. Maroon certainly was the colour of the later
mails, and “chocolate” is obviously an error on the part of some
writer whose colour-sense was not particularly exact; but we can only
reconcile the “scarlet” and “maroon” by supposing that the earlier
colouring was in fact the more vivid of the two. The fore and hind
boots were black, together with the upper quarters of the body, and
were saved from being too sombre by the Royal cipher in gold on the
fore boot, the number of the mail on the hind, and, emblazoned on
the upper quarters, four devices eloquent of the majesty of the
united kingdoms and their knightly orders. There shone the cross of
St. George, with its encircling garter and the proud motto, “_Honi
soit qui mal y pense_”; the Scotch thistle, with the warning “_Nemo me
impune lacessit_”; the shamrock and an attendant star, with the _Quis
separabit?_ query (not yet resolved); and three Royal crowns, with
the legend of the Bath, “_Tria juncta in uno_.” The Royal arms were
emblazoned on the door-panels, and old prints show that occasionally
the four under quarters had devices somewhat similar to those above.
The name of each particular mail appeared in unobtrusive gold letters.
The under-carriage and wheels were scarlet, or “Post Office red,” and
the harness, with the exception of the Royal cypher and the coach-bars
on the blinkers, was perfectly plain.
One at least of the mail-coaches still survives. This is a London and
York mail, built by Waude, of the Old Kent Road, in 1830, and now a
relic of the days of yore treasured by Messrs. Holland & Holland, of
Oxford Street. Since being run off the road as a mail, it has had a
curiously varied history. In 1875 and the following season, when the
coaching revival was in full vigour, it appeared on the Dorking Road,
and so won the affections of Captain “Billy” Cooper, whose hobby that
route then was, that he had an exact copy built. In the summer of 1877
it was running between Stratford-on-Avon and Leamington. In 1879 Mr.
Charles A. R. Hoare, the banker, had it at Tunbridge Wells, and also
ordered a copy. Since then the old mail-coach has been in retirement,
emerging now and again as the “Old Times” coach, to emphasise the
trophies of improvement and progress in the Lord Mayor’s Shows of
1896, 1899 and 1901, in the wake of electric and petrol motor-cars,
driven and occupied by coachmen and passengers dressed to resemble our
ancestors of a hundred years ago.
[Illustration: MAIL-COACH BUILT BY WAUDE, 1830.
_Now in possession of Messrs. Holland & Holland._
]
The coach is substantially and in general lines as built in 1830. The
wheels have been renewed, the hind boot has a door inserted at the
back, and the interior has been relined; but otherwise it is the coach
that ran when William IV. was king. It is a characteristic Waude coach,
low-hung, and built with straight sides, instead of the bowed-out type
common to the products of Vidler’s factory. It wears, in consequence,
a more elegant appearance than most coaches of that time; but it must
be confessed that what it gained in the eyes of passers-by it must
have lost in the estimation of the insides, for the interior is not
a little cramped by those straight sides. The guard’s seat on the
“dickey”--or what in earlier times was more generally known as the
“backgammon-board”--remains, but his sheepskin or tiger-skin covering,
to protect his legs from the cold, is gone. The trapdoor into the hind
boot can be seen. Through this the mails were thrust, and the guard sat
throughout the journey with his feet on it. Immediately in front
of him were the spare bars, while above, in the still-remaining case,
reposed the indispensable blunderbuss. The original lamps, in their
reversible cases, remain. There were four of them--one on either fore
quarter, and one on either side of the fore boot, while a smaller one
hung from beneath the footboard, just above the wheelers. The guard had
a small hand-lamp of his own to aid him in sorting his small parcels.
The door-panels have apparently been repainted since the old days,
for, although they still keep the maroon colour characteristic of the
mail-coaches, the Royal arms are gone, and in their stead appears the
script monogram, in gold, “V.R.”
CHAPTER II
DOWN THE ROAD IN DAYS OF YORE
I.--A JOURNEY FROM NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE TO LONDON IN 1772
In 1773, the Reverend James Murray, Minister of the High Bridge
Meeting House at Newcastle, published a little book which he was
pleased to call _The Travels of the Imagination; or, a True Journey
from Newcastle to London_, purporting to be an account of an actual
trip taken in 1772. I do not know how his congregation received this
performance, but the inspiration of it was very evidently drawn from
Sterne’s _Sentimental Journey_, then in the heyday of its success and
singularly provocative of imitations--all of them extraordinarily thin
and poor. Sentimental travellers, without a scintilla of the wit that
jewelled Sterne’s pages, gushed and reflected in a variety of travels,
and became a public nuisance. Surely no one then read their mawkish
products, any more than they do now.
Murray’s book was, then, obviously, to any one who now dips into it,
as trite and jejune as the rest of them; but it has now, unlike its
fellows, an interesting aspect, for the reason that he gives details
of road-travelling life which, once commonplace enough, afford to
ourselves not a little entertainment. Equally entertaining, too, and
full of unconscious humour, are those would-be eloquent rhapsodies
of his which could only then have rendered him an unmitigated bore.
It should be noted here that although his picture of road-life is in
general reliable enough, we must by no means take him at his word when
he says he journeyed all the way from Newcastle to London. We cannot
believe in a traveller making that claim who devotes many pages to
the first fifteen miles between Newcastle and Durham, and yet between
Durham and Grantham, a distance of a hundred and fifty miles, not
only finds nothing of interest, but fails to tell us whether he went
by the Boroughbridge or the York route, and mentions nothing of the
coach halting for the night between the beginning of the journey at
Newcastle, and the first specified night’s halt at Grantham, a hundred
and sixty-five miles away. Those were the times when the coaches inned
every night, and not until the “Wonder” London and Shrewsbury Coach was
started, in 1825, did any coach ever succeed in doing much more than
a hundred miles a day. So much in adverse criticism. But while a very
casual glance is sufficient to expose his pretensions of having made
the entire journey in this manner, it is equally evident that he knew
portions of the road, and that he was conversant with the manners and
customs that then obtained along it--as no one then could help being.
The fare between Newcastle and London, the lengthy halts on the way,
and the manner in which the passengers often passed the long evenings
at the towns where they rested for the night--witnessing any theatrical
performance that offered--are extremely interesting, as also is the
curious sidelight thrown upon the fact that actors--technically, in
the eyes of the law, “rogues and vagabonds”--were then actually so
regarded. How poorly considered the theatrical profession then was, is,
of course, well known; but it is curious thus to come upon a reference
to the fact that London theatres then had long summer vacations, in
which the actors and actresses must starve if they could not manage to
pick up a meagre livelihood by barnstorming in the country; as here we
see them doing.
So much by way of preface. Now let us see what our author has to say.
To begin with, he, like many another before and since, found it
disagreeable to be wakened in the morning. When a person is enjoying
sweet repose in his bed, to be suddenly awakened by the rude,
blustering voice of a vociferous ostler was distinctly annoying. More
annoying still, however, to lose the coach; and so there was no help
for it, provided the stage was to be caught. The morning was very fine
when the passengers, thus untimely roused, entered the coach. Nature
smiled around them, who only yawned in her face in return. Pity,
thought our author, that they were not to ride on horseback: they
could then enjoy the pleasures of the morning, snuff the perfumes of
the fields, hear the music of the grove and the concert of the wood.
These reflections were cut short by the crossing of the Tyne by ferry.
The bridge had fallen on November 17th, 1771, and the temporary ferry
established from the Swirl, Sandgate, to the south shore was the
source of much inconvenience and delay. The coach was put across on a
raft or barge, but in directing operations to that end, the ferryman
was not to be hurried. One had to wait the pleasure of that arbitrary
little Bashaw, who would not move beyond the rule of his own authority,
or mitigate the sentence of those who were condemned to travel in a
stage-coach within a ferry-boat.
Our author, as he hated every idea of slavery and oppression, was not a
little offended at the expressions of authority used on this occasion
by the august legislator of the ferry. The passengers were now in the
barge, and obliged to sit quiet until this tyrant gave orders for
departure. The vehicle for carrying coach and passengers across the
river was the most tiresome and heavy that ever was invented. Four
rowers in a small boat dragged the ponderous ferry across the river,
very slowly and with great exertions, and almost an hour was consumed
in thus breasting the yellow current of the broad
|
iasm--River Rasin--Indian Massacre--General Winchester--
Battle of the Thames--Death of Tecumseh--Monroe
_Monitor_--_Seventy-seventh Day_--Lecture at City Hall--Personal
Recollections of Custer--Incidents of His School Life--_Seventy-eighth
Day_--Leave Monroe--Huron River--Traces of the Mound
Builders--Rockwood--_Seventy-ninth Day_--Along the Detroit
River--Wyandotte--Ecorse--_Eightieth Day_--Letter from Judge
Wing--Indorsement of Custer Monument Association 243
CHAPTER XVII.
FOUR DAYS AT DETROIT.
Leave Ecorse--Met at Fort Wayne--Sad News--Reach Detroit--
Met by General Throop and Others--at Russell House--Lecture at
St. Andrew's Hall--General Trowbridge--Meet Captain Hampton
--Army and Prison Reminiscences--Pioneer History of Detroit--
La Motte Cadillac--Miamies and Pottawattomies--Fort Ponchartrain--
Plot of Pontiac--Major Gladwyn--Fort Shelby--War of
1812--General Brock and Tecumseh Advance on Detroit--Surrender
of General Hull--British Compelled to Evacuate 265
CHAPTER XVIII.
DETROIT TO CHICAGO.
_Eighty-fifth Day_--Leave Detroit Reluctantly--_Paul_ in Good Spirits
--Reach Inkster--_Eighty-sixth Day_--Lowering Clouds--Take
Shelter under Trees and in a Woodshed--Meet War Veterans--
Ypsilanti--_Eighty-seventh Day_--Lecture at Union Hall--Incidents
of the Late War--_Eighty-eighth Day_--An Early Start--Ann Arbor
--Michigan University--Dinner at Dexter--_Eighty-ninth Day_--Dinner
at Grass Lake--Reach Jackson--_Ninetieth Day_--Comment
of Jackson _Citizen_--Coal Fields--Grand River--_Ninety-first
Day_--A Circus in Town--Parma--_Ninety-second
Day_--"Wolverines"--_Ninety-third Day_--Ride to Battle Creek--Lecture
at Stuart's Hall--_Ninety-fourth Day_--Go to Church--Goguac Lake--
_Ninety-fifth Day_--Arrive at Kalamazoo--Sketch of the "Big Village"--
_Ninety-sixth Day_--Return to Albion and Lecture in Opera House--
_Ninety-seventh Day_--Lecture at Wayne Hall, Marshall--_Ninety-eighth
Day_--Calhoun County--_Ninety-ninth Day_--Letter to Custer
Monument Association--_One Hundredth Day_--Colonel Curtenius--_One
Hundred and First Day_--Paw Paw--_One Hundred and
Second Day_--South Bend, Indiana--Hon. Schuyler Colfax--_One
Hundred and Third Day_--Grand Rapids--Speak in Luce's Hall--_One
Hundred and Fourth Day_--Return to Decatur--_One Hundred
and Fifth Day_--Again in Paw Paw--_One Hundred and
Sixth Day_--Lecture at Niles--_One Hundred and Seventh_ Day--Go
to La Porte by Rail--_One Hundred and Eighth Day_--Return
to Michigan City--_One Hundred and Ninth Day_--Go Back to
Decatur, Michigan--_One Hundred and Tenth_ to _One Hundred
and Twenty-second Day_--Dowagiac--Buchanan--Rolling
Prairie 279
CHAPTER XIX.
THREE DAYS AT CHICAGO.
Register at the Grand Pacific Hotel--Lecture at Farwell Hall--Visit
McVicker's Theatre--See John T. Raymond in "Mulberry
Sellers"--The Chicago Exposition--Site of City--Origin of Name
--Father Marquette--First Dwelling--Death of Marquette--Lake
Michigan--Fort Dearborn--First Settlement Destroyed by Indians
--Chicago as a Commercial City--The Great Fire--An Unparalleled
Conflagration--Rises from her Ashes--Financial Reorganization--Greater
than Before--Schools and Colleges--Historical
Society--The Palmer House--Spirit of the People--_One Hundred
and Twenty-sixth Day_--Again at Michigan City--Attend a
Political Meeting--Hon. Daniel W. Voorhees--"Blue Jeans"
Williams--_One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Day_--Leave Michigan
City--Hobart--"Hoosierdum"--_One Hundred and Twenty-ninth
Day_--Weather Much Cooler 333
CHAPTER XX.
CHICAGO TO DAVENPORT.
_One Hundred and Thirtieth Day_--Followed by Prairie Wolves--Reach
Joliet, Illinois--Lecture at Werner Hall--_One Hundred
and Thirty-first Day_--Ride on Tow Path of Michigan Canal--Morris--_One
Hundred and Thirty-second Day_--Corn and Hogs--Arrive
at Ottawa--_One Hundred and Thirty-third Day_--Reach
La Salle--_One Hundred and Thirty-fourth Day_--Colonel Stephens--_One
Hundred and Thirty-fifth Day_--Visit Peru--_One Hundred
and Thirty-sixth Day_--Mistaken for a Highwayman--_One Hundred
and Thirty-seventh Day_--Fine Stock Farms--Wyanet--_One
Hundred and Thirty-eighth Day_--Annawan--Commendatory
Letter--_One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Day_--A Woman Farmer--_One
Hundred and Fortieth Day_--Reach Milan, Illinois 354
CHAPTER XXI.
FOUR DAYS AT DAVENPORT.
Cross the Mississippi--Lecture at Moore's Hall--Colonel Russell--General
Sanders--Early History of the City--Colonel George
Davenport--Antoine Le Claire--Griswold College--Rock Island--Fort
Armstrong--Rock Island Arsenal--General Rodman--Colonel
Flagler--Rock Island City--Sac and Fox Indians--Black
Hawk War--Jefferson Davis--Abraham Lincoln--Defeat of Black
Hawk--Rock River--Indian Legends 372
CHAPTER XXII.
DAVENPORT TO DES MOINES.
_One Hundred and Forty-fifth Day_--Leave Davenport--Stop over
Night at Farm House--_One Hundred and Forty-sixth Day_--Reach
Moscow, Iowa--Rolling Prairies--_One Hundred and Forty-seventh
Day_--Weather Cold and Stormy--Iowa City--_One Hundred and Forty-eighth
Day_--Description of City--_One Hundred and Forty-ninth
Day_--Lectured at Ham's Hall--Hon. G. B. Edmunds--_One
Hundred and Fiftieth Day_--Reach Tiffin--Guests of the Tiffin
House--_One Hundred and Fifty-first Day_--Marengo--_One Hundred
and Fifty-second Day_--Halt for the Night at Brooklyn--_One
Hundred and Fifty-third Day_--Ride to Kellogg--Stop at a School
House--Talk with Boys--_One Hundred and Fifty-fourth Day_--Reach
Colfax--_One Hundred and Fifty-fifth Day_--Arrive at Des
Moines--Capital of Iowa--Description of City--Professor Bowen--Meet
an Army Comrade 386
CHAPTER XXIII.
DES MOINES TO OMAHA.
_One Hundred and Fifty-seventh Day_--Leave Des Moines with Pleasant
Reflections--Reach Adel--Dallas County--Raccoon River--_One
Hundred and Fifty-eighth Day_--Ride through Redfield--Reach
Dale City--Talk Politics with Farmers--_One Hundred and
Fifty-ninth Day_--A Night with Coyotes--Re-enforced by a Friendly
Dog--_One Hundred and Sixtieth Day_--Cold Winds from the
Northwest--All Day on the Prairies--_One Hundred and Sixty-first
Day_--Halt at Avoca--_One Hundred and Sixty-second Day_--Riding
in the Rain--Reach Neola--_One Hundred and Sixty-third
Day_--Roads in Bad Condition--Ride through Council Bluffs--Arrive
at Omaha 401
CHAPTER XXIV.
A HALT AT OMAHA.
The Metropolis of Nebraska--First Impressions--Peculiarity of the
Streets--Hanscom Park--Poor House Farm--Prospect Cemetery--Douglas
County Fair Grounds--Omaha Driving Park--Fort
Omaha--Creighton College--Father Marquette--The Mormons--"Winter
Quarters"--Lone Tree Ferry--Nebraska Ferry Company--Old
State House--First Territorial Legislature--Governor
Cummings--Omaha in the Civil War--Rapid Development of the
"Gate City" 409
CHAPTER XXV.
OMAHA TO CHEYENNE.
Leave _Paul_ in Omaha--Purchase a Mustang--Use Mexican Saddle--Over
the Great Plains--Surface of Nebraska--Extensive Beds of
Peat--Salt Basins--The Platte River--High Winds--Dry Climate--Fertile
Soil--Lincoln--Nebraska City--Fremont--Grand Island--Plum
Creek--McPherson--Sheep Raising--Elk Horn River--In
Wyoming Territory--Reach Cheyenne--Description of Wyoming
"Magic City"--Vigilance Committee--Rocky Mountains--Laramie
Plains--Union Pacific Railroad 420
CHAPTER XXVI.
CAPTURED BY INDIANS.
Leave Cheyenne--Arrange to Journey with Herders--Additional
Notes on Territory--Yellowstone National Park--Sherman--Skull
Rocks--Laramie Plains--Encounter Indians--Friendly
Signals--Surrounded by Arrapahoes--One Indian Killed--Taken
Prisoners--Carried toward Deadwood--Indians Propose to Kill
their Captives--Herder Tortured at the Stake--Move toward
Black Hills--Escape from Guards--Pursued by the Arrapahoes--Take
Refuge in a Gulch--Reach a Cattle Ranch--Secure a
Mustang and Continue Journey 435
CHAPTER XXVII.
AMONG THE MORMONS.
Ride Across Utah--Chief Occupation of the People--Description of
Territory--Great Salt Lake--Mormon Settlements--Brigham
Young--Peculiar Views of the Latter Day Saints--"Celestial
Marriages"--Joseph Smith, the Founder of Mormonism--The Book
of Mormon--City of Ogden--Pioneer History--Peter Skeen Ogden--Weber
and Ogden Rivers--Heber C. Kimball--Echo Canyon--Enterprise
of the Mormons--Rapid Development of the Territory 446
CHAPTER XXVIII.
OVER THE SIERRAS.
The Word Sierra--At Kelton, Utah--Ride to Terrace--Wells,
Nevada--The Sierra Nevada--Lake Tahoe--Silver Mines--The
Comstock Lode--Stock Raising--Camp Halleck--Humboldt River--Mineral
Springs--Reach Palisade--Reese River Mountain--Golconda--Winnemucca--
Lovelocks--Wadsworth--Cross Truckee River--In California 458
CHAPTER XXIX.
ALONG THE SACRAMENTO.
Colfax--Auburn--Summit--Reach Sacramento--California Boundaries--Pacific
Ocean--Coast Range Mountains--The Sacramento Valley--Inhabitants of
California--John A. Sutter--Sutter's Fort--A Saw-mill--James Wilson
Marshall--Discovery of Gold--"Boys, I believe I have found a Gold
Mine"--The Secret Out--First Days of Sacramento--A "City of Tents"--
Capital of California 465
CHAPTER XXX.
SAN FRANCISCO AND END OF JOURNEY.
Metropolis of the Pacific Coast--Largest Gold Fields in the World--The
Jesuits--Captain Sutter--Argonauts of "49"--Great Excitement--Discovery
of Upper California--Sir Francis Drake--John
P. Lease--The Founding of San Francisco--The "Golden Age"--Story
of Kit Carson--The Golden Gate--San Francisco Deserted--The
Cholera Plague--California Admitted to the Union--Crandall's
Stage--Wonderful Development of San Francisco--United
States Mint--Handsome Buildings--Trade with China, Japan,
India and Australia--Go Out to the Cliff House--Ride into the
Pacific--End of Journey 476
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Wayside Notes _Frontispiece_.
Views in Boston 33
Scenes in Boston 39
Boston and Environs 49
Commonwealth Avenue, Boston 57
Leaving the Revere House, Boston 71
Riding Through Cambridge 77
View in Worcester, Mass. 81
A New England Paper Mill 85
Old Toll-Bridge at Springfield 91
A Massachusetts Mill Stream 95
The Springfield Armory 99
A Mill in the Berkshire Hills 103
A Hamlet in Berkshire Hills 107
Suburb of Pittsfield 111
A Scene in the Berkshire Hills 115
State Street and Capitol, Albany, N. Y. 125
River Street, Troy, N. Y. 129
View in Schenectady, N. Y. 133
View in Mohawk Valley 143
A Mill Stream in Mohawk Valley 139
A Flourishing Farm 157
An Old Landmark 161
The Road to Albany 121
View of Rochester 171
The District School-House 177
Rural Scene in Central New York 183
The Road to Buffalo 189
Juvenile Picnic 205
A Cottage on the Hillside 211
Haying in Northern Ohio 221
Just Out of Cleveland 225
On the Shore of Lake Erie 235
Sunday at the Farm 241
A Home in the Woods 245
Country Store and Post Office 255
An Ohio Farm 265
Outskirts of a City 279
A Summer Afternoon 303
The Country Peddler 313
A Mill in the Forest 321
No Rooms To Let 335
Rural Scene in Michigan 341
Spinning Yarns by a Tavern Fire 345
A Hoosier Cabin 355
A Circus in Town 359
A Country Road in Illinois 381
An Illinois Home 385
A Happy Family 395
An Illinois Village 399
The Road to the Church 404
An Iowa Village 419
On the Way to Mill 427
A Night Among the Coyotes 431
High School, Omaha, Neb. 441
Omaha, Neb., in 1876 437
Sport on the Plains 449
Pawnee Indians, Neb. 453
North Platte, Neb. 457
Plum Creek, Neb. 463
Cattle Ranch in Nebraska 467
A Mountain Village 471
Captured by the Indians 477
Deciding the Fate of the Captives 481
Escape from the Arrapahoes 487
An Indian Encampment, Wyoming 495
Sheep Ranch in Wyoming 503
Mining Camp in Nevada 507
A Rocky Mountain River 513
A Lake in the Sierra Nevadas 517
A Cascade by the Roadside 525
View in Woodward's Garden, San Francisco 533
The Pacific Ocean, End of Journey 541
OCEAN TO OCEAN
ON
HORSEBACK.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
From earliest boyhood it had been my earnest desire to see and learn
from personal observation all that was possible of the wonderful land of
my birth. Passing from the schoolroom to the War of the Rebellion and
thence back to the employments of peace, the old longing to make a
series of journeys over the American Continent again took possession of
me and was the controlling incentive of all my ambitions and struggles
for many years.
To see New England--the home of my ancestors; to visit the Middle and
Western States; to look upon the majestic Mississippi; to cross the
Great Plains; to scale the mountains and to look through the Golden Gate
upon the far-off Pacific were among the cherished desires through which
my fancy wandered before leaving the Old Home and village school in
Northern New York.
The want of an education and the want of money were two serious
obstacles which confronted me for a time. Without the former I could not
prosecute my journeys intelligently and for want of the latter I could
not even attempt them.
Aspiring to an academic and collegiate course of study, but being at
that period entirely without means for the accomplishment of my purpose,
I left the district school of my native town and sought to raise the
necessary funds by trapping for mink and other fur-bearing animals along
the Oswegatchie and its tributary streams. This venture proving
successful I entered the academy at Gouverneur in August, 1857, from
which institution I was appointed to the State Normal College at Albany
in the fall of 1859.
I had been in Albany but six weeks when it became apparent that if I
continued at the Normal I would soon be compelled to part with my last
dollar for board and clothing.
The years 1859-60 were spent alternately at Albany as student and in the
village schools of Rensselaer County as teacher--the latter course being
resorted to whenever money was needed with which to meet current
expenses at the Normal School.
Then came our great Civil Conflict overriding every other consideration.
Books were thrown aside and the pursuits of the student and teacher
supplanted by the sterner and more arduous duties of the soldier.
During my three years of camping and campaigning with the cavalry of the
Army of the Potomac I was enabled to gratify to some extent my desire
for travel and to see much of interest as the shifting scenes of war led
Bayard, Stoneman, Pleasonton, Gregg, Custer, Davies and Kilpatrick and
their followers over the hills and through the valleys of Virginia,
Maryland and Pennsylvania.
Being captured in a cavalry battle between Kilpatrick and Stuart in
October, 1863, I was imprisoned successively at Richmond, Danville,
Macon, Savannah, Charleston and Columbia, from which last prison I
escaped in November, 1864; was recaptured and escaped a second and third
time, traversing the States of South Carolina and Georgia in my long
tramp from Columbia to Savannah.
The marches, raids, battles, captures and escapes of those days seem to
have increased rather than diminished my ardor for travel and adventure
and hence it is possibly not strange that on leaving the army I still
looked forward to more extended journeys in the East and exploratory
tours beyond the Mississippi.
With the close of the war and mustering out of service came new duties
and responsibilities which I had hardly contemplated during my school
days. The question of ways and means again confronted me. I desired
first to continue the course of study which had been interrupted by my
enlistment, and secondly to carry out my cherished plans for
exploration. Having a journal kept during my incarceration in and
escapes from Southern prisons, I was advised and decided to amplify and
publish it if possible with a view to promoting these projects.
Going to New York, I at once sought the leading publishers. My
manuscript was submitted to the Harpers, Appletons, Scribners, and some
others, but as I was entirely unknown, few cared to undertake the
publication and none seemed disposed to allow a royalty which to me at
least seemed consistent with the time and labor expended in preparation.
I had now spent my last dollar in the Metropolis in pursuit of a
publisher, and in this dilemma it was thought best to return to Albany,
where I had friends and perhaps some credit, and endeavor to bring out
the book by subscription. This course would compel me to assume the cost
of production, but if successful would prove much more lucrative than if
issued in the usual way through the trade.
Fully resolved upon retracing my steps to Albany, I was most fortunate
in meeting an old comrade and friend to whom I frankly stated my plans
and circumstances. He immediately loaned me twenty dollars with which to
continue my search for a publisher and to meet in the meantime necessary
current expenses.
On reaching Albany an attic room and meals were secured for a trifling
sum, arrangements made with a publisher, and the work of getting out the
book begun. While the printer was engaged in composing, stereotyping,
printing and binding the work, I employed my spare time in a
door-to-door canvass of the city for subscriptions, promising to deliver
on the orders as soon as the books came from the press. In this way the
start was made and before the close of the year hundreds of agencies
were established throughout the country.
The venture proved successful beyond my most sanguine expectations, and
where I had expected to dispose of two or three editions and to realize
a few hundred dollars from the sale of "Capture, Prison-Pen and Escape,"
the book had a sale of over 400,000 copies and netted me $75,000, This
remarkable success, rivalling in its financial results even "Uncle
Tom's Cabin," which had just had a run of 300,000 copies, was most
gratifying and led to the publication, at intervals, of "Three Years in
the Federal Cavalry," "Battles for the Union," and "Heroes of Three
Wars."
The temptation to make the most of my literary ventures lured me on from
year to year until 1875, when I laid down the pen and began preparation
for my long contemplated and oft deferred journey across the Continent.
Being now possessed of ample means, I proposed to ride at leisure on a
tour of observation from OCEAN TO OCEAN ON HORSEBACK.
My preference for an equestrian journey was in a great measure due to
early associations with the horse, in jaunts along country highways and
over the hills after the cows, as well as numerous boyhood adventures in
which this noblest of animals frequently played a conspicuous part.
Then, too, my experience in the cavalry largely influenced me to adopt
the saddle as the best suited to my purpose.
Reflecting further upon the various modes of travel, I was led to
conclude as the result of much experience that he who looks at the
country from the windows of a railway car, can at best have only an
imperfect idea of the many objects of interest which are constantly
brought to his notice. Again, a journey in the saddle, wherein the rider
mounts and dismounts at will as he jogs along over the highway, chatting
with an occasional farmer, talking with the people in town and gazing
upon rural scenes at his pleasure, presents many attractive features to
the student and tourist who wishes to view the landscape, to commune
with nature, to see men and note the products of their toil and to
learn something of their manners and customs.
Having therefore decided to make my journey in the saddle, I at once set
about to secure such a horse as was likely to meet the requirements of
my undertaking. As soon as my purpose was known, horses of every grade,
weight and shade were thrust upon my attention and after some three
weeks spent in advertising, talks with horse fanciers and in the livery
and sale stables of Boston, my choice fell upon a Kentucky Black Hawk,
one of the finest animals I had ever seen and, as was subsequently
established, just the horse I wanted for my long ride from sea to sea.
His color was coal black, with a white star in the forehead and four
white feet; long mane and tail; height fifteen hands; weight between ten
and eleven hundred pounds, with an easy and graceful movement under the
saddle; his make-up was all that could be desired for the objects I had
in view. The price asked for this beautiful animal was promptly paid,
and it was generally conceded that I had shown excellent judgment in the
selection of my equine companion.
A few days after my purchase I learned that my four-legged friend had
been but a short time before the property of an ex-governor of
Massachusetts and that the reason he had but recently found his way into
a livery stable on Portland street, was that he had acquired the very
bad habit of running away whenever he saw a railway train or anything
else, in short, that tended to disturb his naturally excitable nature.
This information led to no regrets, however, nor did it even lessen my
regard for the noble animal which was destined soon to be my sole
companion in many a lonely ride and adventure.
The unsavory reputation he had made, and possibly of which he was very
proud, of running away upon the slightest provocation, smashing up
vehicles and scattering their occupants to the four winds, was
considered by his new master a virtue rather than a fault, so long as he
ran in the direction of San Francisco, and did not precipitate him from
his position in the saddle.
As soon as I was in possession of my horse the question of a suitable
name arose and it was agreed after some discussion among friends that he
should be christened _Paul Revere_, after that stirring patriot of the
Revolution who won undying fame by his ride from Boston and appeals to
the yeomanry the night before the Battle of Lexington.
CHAPTER II.
BOSTON AND ITS ENVIRONS.
The month of April, 1876, found myself and horse fully equipped and
ready to leave Boston, but I will not ride away from the metropolis of
New England without some reference to its early history and remarkable
development, nor without telling the reader of my lecture at Tremont
Temple and other contemplated lectures in the leading cities and towns
along my route.
Boston, standing on her three hills with the torch of learning in her
hand for the illumination of North, South, East and West, is not one of
your ordinary every-day cities, to be approached without due
introduction. Like some ancient dame of historic lineage, her truest
hospitality and friendliest face are for those who know her story and
properly appreciate her greatness, past and present. Before visiting
her, therefore, I recalled to memory those facts which touch us no more
nearly than a dream on the pages of written history, but when studied
from the living models and relics gain much life, color and
verisimilitude.
Boston Harbor, with its waters lying in azure placidity over the buried
boxes of tea which the hasty hands of the angered patriots hurled to a
watery grave; Boston Common, whose turf grows velvet-green over ground
once blackened by the fires of the grim colonial days of witch-burning,
and again trampled down by innumerable soldierly feet in Revolutionary
times; the Old State House, from whose east window the governor's
haughty command, "Disperse, ye rebels!" sounded on the occasion of the
"Boston Massacre," the first shedding of American blood by the British
military; and the monument of Bunker Hill--these, with a thousand and
one other reminders of the city's brilliant historical record, compose
the Old Boston which I was prepared to see. The first vision, however,
of that many-sided city was almost bewilderingly different from the
mental picture. Where was the quaint Puritan town of the colonial
romances? Where were its crooked, winding streets, its plain
uncompromising meeting-houses, darkened with time, its curious gabled
houses, stooping with age? Around me everything was shining with
newness--the smooth wide streets, beautifully paved, the splendid
examples of _fin de siècle_ architecture in churches, public buildings,
school houses and dwellings.
Afterwards I realized that there was a New Boston, risen Phoenix-like
from the ashes of its many conflagrations, and an Old Boston, whose
"outward and visible signs" are best studied in that picturesque, shabby
stronghold of ancient story, now rapidly degenerating into a "slum"
district--the North End.
Boston, viewed without regard to its history, is indeed "Hamlet
presented without the part of Hamlet." It would be interesting to
conjecture what the city's present place and condition might be, had
Governor Winthrop's and Deputy-Governor Dudley's plan of making
"New-towne"--the Cambridge of to-day--the Bay Colony's principal
settlement, been executed. Instead, and fortunately, Governor Winthrop
became convinced of the superiority of Boston as an embryo "county
seat." "Trimountain," as it was first called, was bought in 1630 from
Rev. William Blackstone, who dwelt somewhere between the Charles River
and what is now Louisburg Square, and held the proprietary right of the
entire Boston Peninsula--a sort of American Selkirk, "monarch of all he
surveyed, and whose right there was none to dispute." He was "bought
off," however, for the modest sum of _£_30, and retired to what was then
the wilderness, on the banks of the Blackstone River--named after
him--and left "Trimountain" to the settlers. Then Boston began to grow,
almost with the quickness of Jack's fabled beanstalk. Always one of the
most important of colonial towns, it conducted itself in sturdy Puritan
style, fearing God, honoring the King--with reservations--burning
witches and Quakers, waxing prosperous on codfish, and placing education
above every earthly thing in value, until the exciting events of the
Revolution, which has left behind it relics which make Boston a
veritable "old curiosity shop" for the antiquarian, or indeed the
ordinary loyal American, who can spend a happy day, or week, or month,
prowling around the picturesque narrow streets, crooked as the
proverbial ram's horn, of Old Boston.
He will perhaps turn first, as I did, to the "cradle of
Liberty"--Faneuil Hall. A slight shock will await him, possibly, in the
discovery that under the ancient structure, round which hover so many
imperishable memories of America's early struggles for freedom, is a
market-house, where thrifty housewives and still more thrifty farmers
chaffer, chat and drive bargains the year round, and which brings into
the city a comfortable annual income of $20,000. But the presence of the
money-changers in the temple of Freedom does not disturb the "solid men
of Boston," who are practical as well as public-spirited. The market
itself is as old as the hall, which was erected by the city in 1762, to
take the place of the old market-house, which Peter Faneuil had built at
his own expense and presented to the city in 1742, and which was burned
down in 1761.
The building is an unpretending but substantial structure, plainly
showing its age both in the exterior and the interior. Its
size--seventy-four feet long by seventy-five feet wide--is apparently
increased by the lack of seats on the main floor and even in the
gallery, where only a few of these indispensable adjuncts to the comfort
of a later luxurious generation are provided. The hall is granted rent
free for such public or political meetings as the city authorities may
approve, and probably is only used for gatherings where, as in the old
days, the participants bring with them such an excess of effervescent
enthusiasm as would make them unwilling to keep their seats if they had
any. The walls are embellished by portraits of Hancock, Washington,
Adams, Everett, Lincoln, and other great personages, and by Healy's
immense painting--sixteen by thirty feet--of "Webster Replying to
Hayne."
For a short time Faneuil Hall was occupied by the Boston Post Office,
while that institution, whose early days were somewhat restless ones,
was seeking a more permanent home. For thirty years after the
Revolution, it was moved about from pillar to post, occupying at one
time a building on the site of Boston's first meeting-house, and at
another the Merchants' Exchange Building, whence it was driven by the
great fire of 1872. Faneuil Hall was next selected as the temporary
headquarters, next the Old South Church, after which the Post Office--a
veritable Wandering Jew among Boston public institutions--was finally
and suitably housed under its own roof-tree, the present fine building
on Post Office Square.
[Illustration: VIEWS IN BOSTON.]
To the Old South Church itself, the sightseer next turns, if still bent
on historical pilgrimages. This venerable building of unadorned brick,
whose name figures so prominently in Revolutionary annals, stands at the
corner of Washington and Milk streets. Rows of business structures, some
of them new and clean as a whistle and almost impertinently eloquent of
the importance of this world and its goods, cluster around the old
church and hem it in, but are unable to jostle it out of the quiet
dignity with which it holds its place, its heavenward-pointing spire
preaching the sermons against worldliness which are no longer heard
within its ancient walls. To every window the fanciful mind can summon a
ghost--that of Benjamin Franklin, who was baptized and attended service
here; Whitfield, who here delivered some of the soul-searching,
soul-reaching sermons, which swept America like a Pentecostal flame;
Warren, who here uttered his famous words on the anniversary of the
Boston Massacre; of the patriot-orators of the Revolution and the
organizers of the Boston Tea-Party, which first took place as a definite
scheme within these walls. Here and there a red-coated figure would be
faintly outlined--one of the lawless troop of British soldiers who in
1775 desecrated the church by using it as a riding-school.
At present the church is used as a museum, where antique curiosities and
historical relics are on exhibition to the public, and the Old South
Preservation Committee is making strenuous efforts to save the building
from the iconoclastic hand of Progress, which has dealt blows in so many
directions in Boston, destroying a large number of interesting
landmarks. Its congregation left it long ago, in obedience to that
inexorable law of change and removal, which leaves so many old churches
stranded amid the business sections of so many of our prominent cities,
and settled in the "New Old South Church" at Dartmouth and Boylston
streets.
It is curious and in its way disappointing to us visitors from other
cities to see what "a clean sweep" the broom of improvement has been
permitted in a city so intensely and justly proud of its historical
associations as Boston. Year by year the old landmarks disappear and
fine new buildings rise in their places and Boston is apparently
satisfied that all is for the best. The historic Beacon, for which
Beacon Hill was named and which was erected in 1634 to give alarm to the
country round about in case of invasion, is not only gone, but the very
mound where it stood has been levelled, this step having been taken in
1811. The Beacon had disappeared ten years before and a shaft sixty
feet high, dedicated to the fallen heroes of Bunker Hill, had been
erected on the spot and of course removed when the mound was levelled.
The site of Washington's old lodgings at Court and Hanover street--a
fine colonial mansion, later occupied by Daniel Webster and by Harrison
Gray Otis, the celebrated lawyer--is now taken up by an immense
wholesale and retail grocery store; the splendid Hancock mansion, where
the Revolutionary patriot entertained Lafayette, D'Estaing, and many
other notabilities of the day, was torn down in 1863, despite the
protests of antiquarian enthusiasts. The double house, in one part of
which Lafayette lived in 1825, is still standing; the other half of it
was occupied during his lifetime by a distinguished member of that
unsurpassed group of _literati_ who helped win for Boston so much of her
intellectual pre-eminence--George Ticknor, the Spanish historian, the
friend of Holmes, Lowell, Whittier and Longfellow, from
|
am sure he tried hard enough to carry them up. He
actually insisted on carrying them up whether we wanted them up or
not. He was quite rude about it. He said you had told him to carry
them up and that he meant to do it whether we let him or not,
and--and at last I had to give him a dollar to leave them down
here."
"You--you gave him a dollar _not_ to carry these trunks upstairs!"
exclaimed Mr. Fenelby. "Did you say you _paid_ the man a dollar
_not_ to carry them upstairs?"
"I had to," said Mrs. Fenelby. "It was the only way I could prevent
him from doing it. He said you told him to carry them up, and that
up they must go, if he had to break down the front door to do it. I
think he must have been drinking, Tom, he used such awful language,
and at last he got quite maudlin about it and sat down on one of the
trunks and cried, actually cried! He said that for years and years
he had refused to carry trunks upstairs, and that now, just when he
had joined the Salvation Army, and was trying to lead a better life,
and be kind and helpful and earn an extra dollar for his family by
carrying trunks upstairs when gentlemen asked him to, I had to step
in and refuse to let him carry trunks upstairs, and that this was
the sort of thing that discouraged a poor man who was trying to make
up for his past errors. So I gave him a dollar to leave them down
here."
Mr. Fenelby looked at the three big trunks ruefully, and shook his
head at them.
"Well," he said, "I suppose it is all right, Laura, but I can't see
why you wouldn't let him take them up. You know I don't enjoy that
kind of work, and that I don't think it is good for me."
"Kitty didn't want them taken up," said Mrs. Fenelby, gently.
"She--she wanted them left down here."
"Down here?" asked Mr. Fenelby, as if dazed. "Down here on the
grass?"
"Yes," said Kitty, lightly. "It was my idea. Laura had nothing to do
with it at all. I thought it would be nice to have the trunks down
here on the lawn. Everywhere I visit they always take my trunks up
to my room, and it gets so tiresome always having the same thing
happen, so I thought that this time I would have a variety and leave
my trunks on the lawn. I never in my life left my trunks on a front
lawn, and I wanted to see how it would be. You don't think they will
hurt the grass do you, Mr. Fenelby?"
Kitty asked this with such an air of sincerity that Mr. Fenelby
seated himself on one of the trunks and looked up at her anxiously.
He could not recall that he had ever heard of any weakness of mind
in Kitty or in her family, but he could not doubt his ears.
"But--but--" he said, "but you don't mean to leave them here, do
you?"
Kitty smiled down at him reassuringly.
"Of course, if it is going to harm the grass at all, Mr. Fenelby, I
sha'n't think of it," she said. "I know that sometimes when a board
or anything lies on the grass a long time the grass under the board
gets all white, and if the trunks are going to make white spots on
your lawn, I'll have them removed, but I thought that if we moved
the trunks around to different places every day it would avoid that.
But you know more about that than I do. Do you think they will make
white places on the lawn, Mr. Fenelby?"
"I don't know," he said, abstractedly. "I mean, yes, of course they
will. But they will get rained on. You don't want your trunks rained
on, you know. Trunks aren't meant to be rained on. It isn't good for
them." A thought came to him suddenly. "You and Laura haven't
quarreled, have you?" he asked, for he thought that perhaps that was
why Kitty would not have her trunks carried up.
"Indeed not!" cried Kitty, putting her arm affectionately around
Laura's waist.
"I--I thought perhaps you had," faltered Mr. Fenelby. "I
thought--that is to say--I was afraid perhaps you were going away
again. I thought you were going to make us a good, long visit--"
"Indeed I am," said Kitty, cheerfully. "I am going to stay weeks,
and weeks, and weeks. I am going to stay until you are all tired to
death of me, and beg me to begone."
"That is good," said Mr. Fenelby, with an attempt at pleasure. "But
don't you think, since you are going to do what we want you to do,
and stay for weeks, and weeks, and weeks, that you had better let
your trunks be taken up to your room? Or--I'll tell you what we'll
do! Suppose we just take the trunks into the lower hall?"
He felt pretty certainly, now, that Kitty must have had a little
touch of, say, sunstroke, or something of that kind, and he went on
in a gently argumentative tone.
"Just into the lower hall," he said. "That would be different from
having them in your room, and it would save my grass. I worked hard
to get this lawn looking as it does now, Kitty, and I cannot deny
that big trunks like these will not do it any good. Let us say we
will put the trunks in the lower hall. Then they will be safe, too.
No one can steal them there. A front lawn is a rather conspicuous
place for trunks. And what will the neighbors say, too, if we leave
the trunks on the lawn? Why shouldn't we put the trunks in the lower
hall?"
"Well," said Kitty, "I can't afford it, that is why. Really, Mr.
Fenelby, I can't afford to have those three trunks brought into the
house."
"And yet," said Mr. Fenelby, with just the slightest hint of
impatience, "you girls could afford to give the man a dollar _not_
to take them in! That is woman's logic!"
"Oh! a dollar!" said Kitty. "If it was only a matter of a dollar! I
hope you don't think, Mr. Fenelby, that I travel with only ten
dollars' worth of baggage! No, indeed! I simply cannot afford to pay
ten per cent. duty on what is in those trunks, and so I prefer to
let them remain on the lawn. I wrote Laura that I expected to be
treated as one of the family while I was visiting her, and if the
Domestic Tariff is part of the way the family is treated I certainly
expect to live up to it. Now, don't blame Laura, for she was not
only willing to have the trunks come in without paying duty, but
insisted that they should."
Mr. Fenelby looked very grave. He was in a perplexing situation. He
certainly did not wish to appear inhospitable, and yet Laura had had
no right to say that the trunks could enter the house duty free. The
only way such an unusual alteration in the Domestic Tariff could be
made was by act of the Family Congress, and he very well knew that
if once the matter of revising the tariff was taken up it was beyond
the ken of man where it would end. He preferred to stand pat on the
tariff as it had been originally adopted.
"I told her," said Kitty, "that she had no right to throw off the
duty on my trunks, at all, and that I wouldn't have it, and I
didn't."
"Well, Tom," said Mrs. Fenelby, "you know perfectly well that we
can't leave those trunks out on the lawn. It would not only be
absolutely foolish to do that, but cruel to Kitty. A girl simply
can't visit away from home without trunks, and it is absolutely
necessary that Kitty should have her trunks."
"'Necessities, ten per cent.,'" quoted Kitty.
"But, my dear," said Mr. Fenelby, softly, "we really can't break all
our household rules just because Kitty has brought three trunks, can
we? Kitty does not expect us to do that, and I think she looks at it
in a very rational manner. I like the spirit she has evinced."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Fenelby, "you must find some way to
take care of those trunks, for we cannot leave them on the lawn."
"Why can't we take them to some neighbor's house?" asked Kitty. "I
am sure some neighbor would be glad to store them for me for awhile.
Aren't you on good terms with your neighbors, Laura?"
"The Rankins might take them," said Laura, thoughtfully. "They have
that vacant room, you know, Tom. They might not mind letting us put
them in there."
"I don't know the Rankins," said Kitty, "but I am sure they are
perfectly lovely people, and that they would not mind in the least."
"I know they wouldn't," said Mr. Fenelby. "Rankin would be glad to
do something of that sort to repay me for the number of times he has
borrowed my lawn-mower. I will step over after dinner and ask him."
"Are you sure, very sure, that you do not mind, Kitty?" asked Mrs.
Fenelby. "You will not feel hurt, or anything?"
"Oh, no!" said Kitty, lightly. "It will be a lark. I never in my
life went visiting with three trunks, and then had them stored in
another house. It will be quite like being shipwrecked on a desert
island, to get along with one shirt-waist and one handkerchief."
"It will not be quite that bad, you know," said Mr. Fenelby, with
the air of a man stating a great discovery, "because, don't you see,
you can open your trunks at the Rankins', and bring over just as
many things as you think you can afford to pay on."
For some reason that Mr. Fenelby could not fathom Kitty laughed
merrily at this, and then they all went in to dinner. It was a very
good dinner, of the kind that Bridget could prepare when she was in
the humor, and they sat rather longer over it than usual, and then
Mr. Fenelby proposed that he should step over to the Rankins' and
arrange about the storage of Kitty's trunks, and on thinking it over
he decided that he had better step down to the station and see if he
could not get a man to carry the trunks across the street and up the
Rankins' stairs. As they filed out of the house upon the porch,
Kitty suddenly decided that it was a beautiful evening for a little
walk, and that nothing would please her so much as to walk to the
station with Mr. Fenelby, if Laura would be one of the party, and
after running up to see that Bobberts was all right, Laura said
that she would go, and they started. As they were crossing the
street to the Rankins' Kitty suddenly turned back.
[Illustration: "Never in the history of trunks was the act of
unpacking done so quickly or so recklessly"]
"You two go ahead," she said. "The air will do you good, Laura. I
have something I want to do," and she ran back.
She entered the house, and looked out of the window until she saw
the Fenelbys go into the Rankins' and come out again, and saw them
start to the station, but as soon as they were out of sight she
dashed down the porch steps and threw open the lids of her trunks.
Never in the history of trunks was the act of unpacking done so
quickly or so recklessly. She dived into the masses of fluffiness
and emerged with great armfuls, and hurried them into the house, up
the stairs, and into her closet, and was down again for another
load. If she had been looting the trunks she could not have worked
more hurriedly, or more energetically, and when the last armful had
been carried up she slammed the lids and turned the keys, and sank
in a graceful position on the lower porch step.
Mr. and Mrs. Fenelby returned with leisurely slowness of pace, the
station loafer and man-of-little-work slouching along at a
respectful distance behind them. Kitty greeted them with a cheerful
frankness of face. The man-of-little-work looked at the three big
trunks as if their size was in some way a personal insult to him. He
tried to assume the look of a man who had been cozened away from his
needed rest on false pretences.
"I didn't know as the trunks was as big as them," he drawled. "If
I'd knowed they was, I wouldn't of walked all the way over here.
Fifty cents ain't no fair price for carryin' three trunks, the size
and heft of them, across--well, say this is a sixty foot
street--say, eighty feet, and up a flight of stairs. I don't say
nothin', but I'll leave it to the ladies."
"Fifty cents!" cried Kitty. "I should think not! Why, I didn't
imagine you would do it for less than a dollar. I mean to pay you a
dollar."
"That's right," said the man. "You see I have to walk all the way
back to the station when I git through, too. My time goin' and
comin' is worth something."
[Illustration: "With all the grace of a Sandow"]
He bent down and took the largest trunk by one handle, to heave it
to his back, and as he touched the handle the trunk almost arose
into the air of its own accord. The man straightened up and looked
at it, and a strange look passed across his face, but he closed
his mouth and said nothing.
"Would you like a lift?" asked Mr. Fenelby.
"No," said the man shortly. "I know _how_ to handle trunks, I do,"
and it certainly seemed that he did, for he swung it to his back
with all the grace of a Sandow, and started off with it. Mr. Fenelby
looked at him with surprise.
"Now, isn't that one of the oddities of nature?" said Mr. Fenelby.
"That fellow looks as if he had no strength at all, and see how he
carries off that trunk as if there was not a thing in it. I suppose
it is a knack he has. Now, see how hard it is for me merely to lift
one end of this smallest one."
But before he could touch it Kitty had grasped him by the arm.
"Oh, don't try it!" she cried. "Please don't! You might hurt your
back."
IV
BILLY
A few minutes before noon the next day Billy Fenelby dropped into
Mr. Fenelby's office in the city and the two men went out to lunch
together. It would be hard to imagine two brothers more unlike than
Thomas and William Fenelby, for if Thomas Fenelby was inclined to be
small in stature and precise in his manner, William was all that his
nickname of Billy implied, and was not so many years out of his
college foot-ball eleven, where he had won a place because of his
size and strength. Billy Fenelby, after having been heroized by
innumerable girls during his college years, had become definitely a
man's man, and was in the habit of saying that his girly-girl days
were over, and that he would walk around a block any day to escape
meeting a girl. He was not afraid of girls, and he did not hate
them, but he simply held that they were not worth while. The truth
was that he had been so petted and worshiped by them as a star
foot-ball player that the attention they paid him, as an ordinary
young man not unlike many other young men out of college, seemed
tame by comparison. No doubt he had come to believe, during his
college days, that the only interesting thing a girl could do was to
admire a man heartily, and in the manner that only foot-ball players
and matinee idols are admired, so that now, when he had no
particular claim to admiration, girls had become, so far as he was
concerned, useless affairs.
"Now, about this girl-person that you have over at your house," he
said to his brother, when they were seated at their lunch, "what
about her?"
"About her?" asked Mr. Fenelby. "How do you mean?"
"What about her?" repeated Billy. "You know how I feel about the
girl-business. I suppose she is going to stay awhile?"
"Kitty? I think so. We want her to. But you needn't bother about
Kitty. She won't bother you a bit. She's the right sort, Billy. Not
like Laura, of course, for I don't believe there is another woman
anywhere just like Laura, but Kitty is not the ordinary flighty
girl. You should hear her appreciate Bobberts. She saw his good
points, and remarked about them, at once, and the way she has caught
the spirit of the Domestic Tariff that I was telling you about is
fine! Most girls would have hemmed and hawed about it, but she
didn't! No, sir! She just saw what a fine idea it was, and when she
saw that she couldn't afford to have her three trunks brought into
the house she proposed that she leave them at a neighbor's. Did not
make a single complaint. Don't worry about Kitty."
"That is all right about the tariff," said Billy. "I can't say I
think much of that tariff idea myself, but so long as it is the
family custom a guest couldn't do any less than live up to it. But I
don't like the idea of having to spend a number of weeks in the same
house with any girl. They are all bores, Tom, and I know it. A man
can't have any comfort when there is a girl in the house. And
between you and me that Kitty girl looks like the kind that is sure
to be always right at a fellow's side. I was wondering if Laura
would think it was all right if I stayed in town here?"
"No, she wouldn't," said Tom shortly. "She would be offended, and so
would I. If you are going to let some nonsense about girls being a
bore,--which is all foolishness--keep you away from the house, you
had better--Why," he added, "it is an insult to us--to Laura and
me--just as if you said right out that the company we choose to ask
to our home was not good enough for you to associate with. If you
think our house is going to bore you--"
"Now, look here, old man," said Billy, "I don't mean that at all,
and you know I don't. I simply don't like girls, and that is all
there is to it. But I'll come. I'll have my trunk sent over
and--Say, do I have to pay duty on what I have in my trunk?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Fenelby. "That is, of course, if you want to
enter into the spirit of the thing. It is only ten per cent., you
know, and it all goes into Bobberts' education fund."
Billy sat in silent thought awhile.
"I wonder," he said at length, "how it would do if I just put a few
things into my suit-case--enough to last me a few days at a
time--and left my trunk over here. I don't need everything I brought
in that trunk. I was perfectly reckless about putting things in that
trunk. I put into that trunk nearly everything I own in this world,
just because the trunk was so big that it would hold everything, and
it seemed a pity to bring a big trunk like that with nothing in it
but air. Now, I could take my suit-case and put into it the things I
will really need--"
"Certainly," said Mr. Fenelby. "You can do that if you want to, and
it would be perfectly fair to Bobberts. All Bobberts asks is to be
paid a duty on what enters the house. He don't say what shall be
brought in, or what shall not. Personally, Billy, I would call the
duty off, so far as you are concerned, but I don't think Laura would
like it. We started this thing fair, and we are all living up to it.
Laura made Kitty live up to it and you can see it would not be right
for me to make an exception in your case just because you happen to
be my brother."
"No," agreed Billy, "it wouldn't. I don't ask it. I will play the
game and I will play it fair. All I ask is: If I bring a suit-case,
do I have to pay on the case? Because if I do, I won't bring it. I
can wrap all I need in a piece of paper, and save the duty on the
suit-case. I believe in playing fair, Tom, but that is no reason why
I should be extravagant."
"I think," said Tom, doubtfully, "suit-cases should come in free. Of
course, if it was a brand new suit-case it would have to pay duty,
but an old one--one that has been used--is different. It is like
wrapping-paper. The duty is assessed on what the package contains
and not on the package itself. If it is not a new suit-case you
will not have to pay duty on it."
"Then my suit-case will go in free," said Billy. "It is one of the
first crop of suit-cases that was raised in this country, and I
value it more as a relic than as a suit-case. I carry it more as a
souvenir than as a suit-case."
"Souvenirs are different," said Mr. Fenelby. "Souvenirs are classed
as luxuries, and pay thirty per cent. If you consider it a souvenir
it pays duty."
"I will consider it a suit-case," said Billy promptly. "I will
consider it a poor old, worn-out suit-case."
"I think that would be better," agreed Mr. Fenelby. "But we will
have to wait and see what Laura considers it."
As on the previous evening the ladies were on the porch, enjoying
the evening air, when Mr. Fenelby reached home, with Billy in tow,
and Billy greeted them as if he had never wished anything better
than to meet Miss Kitty.
"Where is this custom house Tom has been telling me about?" he
asked, as soon as the hand shaking was over. "I want to have my
baggage examined. I have dutiable goods to declare. Who is the
inspector?"
[Illustration: "'I declare one collar'"]
"Laura is," said Kitty. "She is the slave of the grinding system
that fosters monopoly and treads under heel the poor people."
"All right," said Billy, "I declare one collar. I wish to bring one
collar into the bosom of this family. I have in this suit-case one
collar. I never travel without one extra collar. It is the
two-for-a-quarter kind, with a name like a sleeping car, and it has
been laundered twice, which brings it to the verge of ruin. How much
do I have to pay on the one collar?"
"Collars are a necessity," said Mrs. Fenelby, "and they pay ten
per--"
"What a notion!" exclaimed Kitty. "Collars are not a necessity.
Collars are an actual luxury, especially in warm weather. Many very
worthy men never wear a collar at all, and would not think of
wearing one in hot weather. They are like jewelry or--or something
of that sort. Collars certainly pay thirty per cent."
"I reserve the right to appeal," said Billy. "Those are the words of
an unjust judge. But how much do I take off the value of the collar
because two thirds of its life has been laundered away? How much is
one third of twelve and a half?"
"Now, that is pure nonsense," Kitty said, "and I sha'n't let poor,
dear little Bobberts be robbed in any such way. That collar cost
twelve and a half cents, and it has had two and a half cents spent
on it twice, so it is now a seventeen and a half cent collar, and
thirty per cent. of that is--is--"
"Oh, if you are going to rob me!" exclaimed Billy. "I don't care. I
can get along without a collar. I will bring out a sweater
to-morrow."
"Sweaters pay only ten per cent.," said Kitty sweetly. "What else
have you in your suit-case?"
"Air," said Billy. "Nothing but air. I didn't think I could afford
to bring anything else, and I will leave the collar out here. I
open the case--I take out the collar--I place it gently on the porch
railing--and I take the empty suit-case into the house. I pay no
duty at all, and that is what you get for being so grasping."
Mr. Fenelby shook his head.
"You can't do that, Billy," he said. "That puts the suit-case in
another class. It isn't a package for holding anything now, and it
isn't a necessity--because you can't need an empty suit-case--so it
doesn't go in at ten per cent., so it must be a luxury, and it pays
thirty per cent."
"That suit-case," said Billy, looking at it with a calculating eye,
"is not worth thirty per cent. of what it is worth. It is
worthless, and I wouldn't give ten per cent. of nothing for it. It
stays outside. So I pay nothing. I go in free. Unless I have to pay
on myself."
"You don't have to," said Kitty, "although I suppose Laura and Tom
think you are a luxury."
"Don't you think I am one?" asked Billy.
"No, I don't," said Kitty frankly, "and when you know me better, you
will not ask such a foolish question. Where ever I am, there a young
man is a necessity."
V
THE PINK SHIRT-WAIST
The morning after Billy Fenelby's arrival at the Fenelby home he
awakened unusually early, as one is apt to awaken in a strange bed,
and he lay awhile thinking over the events of the previous evening.
He was more than ever convinced that Kitty was not the kind of girl
he liked. He felt that she had made a bare-faced effort to flirt
with him the evening before, and that she was just the kind of a
girl that was apt to be troublesome to a bachelor. She was the kind
of a girl that would demand a great deal of attention and expect it
as a natural right, and then, when she received it, make the man
feel that he had been attentive in quite another way, and that the
only fair thing would be to propose. And he felt that she was the
kind of girl that no man could propose to with any confidence
whatever. She would be just as likely to accept him as not, and
having accepted him, she would be just as likely to expect him to
marry her as not. He felt that he was in a very ticklish situation.
He saw that Kitty was the sort of girl that would take any air of
rude indifference he might assume to be a challenge, and any comely
polite attention to be serious love making. He saw that the only
safe thing for him to do would be to run away, but, since he had
seen Kitty, that was the last thing in the world that he would have
thought of doing. He decided that he would constitute her bright
eyes and red lips to be a mental warning sign reading "Danger" in
large letters, and that whenever he saw them he would be as wary as
a rabbit and yet as brave as a lion.
He next felt a sincere regret that he had refused to pay the duty on
the clean collar he had brought with him, and that he had left on
the railing of the porch. He got out of bed and looked at the collar
he had worn the day before, and frowned at it as he saw that it was
not quite immaculate. Then he listened closely for any sound in the
house that would tell him Mr. or Mrs. Fenelby were up. He heard
nothing. He hastily slipped on his clothes, and tip-toed out of the
room and down the stairs. This tariff for revenue only was well
enough for Thomas and Laura, and assessing a duty of ten per cent.
on everything that came into the house (and thirty per cent. on
luxuries) might fill up Bobberts' bank, and provide that baby with
an education fund, but it was an injustice to bachelor uncles when
there was an unmarried girl in the house. If this Kitty girl was
willing to so forget what was due to a young man as to appear in one
dress the whole time of her stay, that was her look-out, but for his
part he did not intend to lower his dignity by going down to
breakfast in a soiled collar. If creeping down to the porch in his
stockings, and bringing in that collar surreptitiously, was
smuggling, then--
Billy stopped short at the screen door. From there he could see the
spot on the railing where he had put the collar, and the collar was
not there! No doubt it had fallen to the lawn. He opened the screen
door carefully and stepped outside. The early morning air was cool
and sweet, and an ineffable quiet rested on the suburb. He tip-toed
gently across the porch and down the porch steps, and hobbled
carefully across the painful pebble walk and stepped upon the lawn.
There was dew on the lawn. The lawn was soaked and saturated and
steeped in dew. It bathed his feet in chilliness, as if he had
stepped into a pail of ice water, and the vines that clambered up
the porch-side were dewy too. As he kneeled on the grass and pawed
among the vines, seeking the missing collar, the vines showered down
the crystal drops upon him, and soaked his sleeves, and added a
finishing touch of ruin to the collar he was wearing. The other
collar was not there! It was not among the vines, it was not on the
lawn, it was not on the porch, and soaked in socks and sleeves he
retreated. He paused a minute on the porch to glance thoughtfully at
the moist foot-prints his feet left on the boards, and wondered if
they would be dry before Tom or Laura came down. At any rate there
was no help for it now, and he went up the stairs again.
The most uncomfortable small discomfort is wet socks, whether they
come from a small hole in the bottom of a shoe or from walking on a
lawn in the early morning, and Billy wiggled his toes as he slowly
and carefully climbed the stairs. As he turned the last turn at the
top he stopped short and blushed. Kitty was standing there awaiting
him, a smile on her face and his other collar in her hand. She laid
her finger on her lip, and tapped it there to command silence, and
raised her brows at him, to let him know that she knew where he had
been and why.
"I thought you would want it," she said in the faintest whisper, "so
I smuggled it in last night. I had no idea _you_ would stoop to
such a thing, but--but I felt so sorry for you, without a collar."
"Thanks!" whispered Billy. It was a masterpiece of whispering, that
word. It was a gruff whisper, warding off familiarity, and yet it
was a grateful whisper, as a whisper should be to thank a pretty
girl for a favor done, but still it was a scoffing whisper, with a
tinge of resentfulness, but resentfulness tempered by courtesy.
Underlying all this was a flavor of independence, but not such crude
independence that it killed the delicate tone that implied that the
hearer of the whisper was a very pretty girl, and that that fact
was granted even while her interference in the whisperer's affairs
was misliked, and her suspicions of dishonest acts on his part
considered uncalled for. If he did not quite succeed in getting all
this crowded into the one word it was doubtless because his feet
were so wet and uncomfortable. Billy was rather conscious that he
had not quite succeeded, and he would have tried again, adding this
time an inflection to mean that he well understood that her object
was to get him into a quasi conspiracy and thus draw him irrevocably
into confidential relations of misdemeanor from which he could not
escape, but that he refused to be so drawn--I say he would have
repeated the word, but a sound in one of the bed-rooms close at hand
sent them both tip-toeing to their rooms.
They had hardly reached safety when the door of Mr. Fenelby's room
opened and Mr. Fenelby stole out quietly, stole as quietly down the
stairs and out upon the porch. He looked at the railing where Billy
had left the collar, and then he peered over the railing, and as
silently stole up the stairs again. He paused at Billy's door and
tapped on it. Billy opened it a mere hint of a crack.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"That collar," whispered Mr. Fenelby. "I thought about it all night,
and I didn't think it right that you should be made to do without
it. I just went down, to get it, but it isn't there."
"Never mind," whispered Billy. "Don't worry, old man. I will wear
the one I have."
Mr. Fenelby hesitated.
"Of course," he whispered, "you won't--That is to say, you needn't
tell Laura I went down--"
"Certainly not," whispered Billy. "It was awfully kind of you to
think of it. But I'll make this one do."
Mr. Fenelby waited at the door a moment longer as if he had
something more to say, but Billy had closed the door, and he went
back to his room.
It was with relief that Bridget heard the door close behind Mr.
Fenelby. She had been standing on the little landing of the
back-stairs, where he had almost caught her as she was coming up. If
she had been one step higher he would have seen her head. Usually
she would not have minded this, for she had a perfect right to be on
the back-stairs in the early morning, but this time she felt that it
was her duty to remain undiscovered. Now that Mr. Fenelby was gone
she softly stepped to Billy's door and knocked lightly.
"Misther Billy, sor, are ye there?" she whispered. Billy opened the
door a crack and looked out.
"Mornin' to ye," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry t'
disthurb ye, but Missus Fenelby axed me t' bring up th' collar ye
left on th' porrch railin', an' t' let no wan know I done it, an' I
just wanted t' let ye know th' reason I have not brung it up is
because belike someone else has brang it already, for it is gone."
"Thank you, Bridget," whispered Billy. "It doesn't matter."
She turned away, but when he had closed the door she paused, and
after hesitating a moment she tapped on his door again. He opened
it.
"I have put me foot in it," she said, "like I always do. W'u'd ye be
so good as t' fergit I mentioned th' name of Missus Fenelby, that's
a dear man? I raymimber now I was not t' mention it t' ye."
"Certainly, Bridget," said Billy, and he closed the door and went
again to the window, where he was turning his socks over and over in
the streak of sunlight that warmed a part of the window sill.
It took the socks a little longer to dry than he had thought it
would, and they were still damp enough to make his feet feel
anything but comfortable when he heard the breakfast bell tinkle
faintly. He hurried the rest of his toilet and went down the stairs,
|
this particular daughter of Eve did not spend her days simply and
solely divided between banging the keys of a typewriter and daubing
sticky colours on a canvas. It was merely his luck that he happened to
be first in the field.
To Evarne he appeared kindliness itself. Certainly she could and she
should study Art; and this brought him round to a suggestion that he
hoped would give her pleasure. He possessed a delightful villa in balmy
Naples, where Mrs. Kenyon was now staying to escape the rigours of the
English winter. Evarne must come out and stop awhile with his wife. On
the journey through Italy, she should behold all its Art treasures. That
alone, he assured her, would form a splendid foundation for her later
artistic training.
Despite her sorrows, Evarne's face lit up with a sudden brilliant light
of happiness at this altogether delightful prospect, both for the near
and distant future. Her brightened expression thanked her guardian more
ardently than did her softly-spoken words, and so it was settled.
CHAPTER III
A RICH CASKET FOR A RARE JEWEL
Despite the heavy heart with which Evarne bade farewell to her home, the
weeks occupied by the protracted journey to Naples became a period in
which the light-heartedness of youth gradually conquered sorrow. It was
so crowded with interest, novelty, fresh sights and experiences, that
every week seemed as a month, and her former monotonous existence faded
rapidly into the background. She seemed a different being, living in a
strange, new world. It was a world in which Leo had never had a place,
so that its progress was in no ways affected by his absence. Evarne
mourned her father sincerely; shed many tears for him in the silence of
the night; and sometimes felt pangs of compunction that novelty and
interest should have such powers of overcoming grief. But despite her
reluctance to accept their aid, these great forces continued their
healing work.
Amid its other charms and novelties, this new life was one totally
devoid of the necessity of considering ways and means. The girl's
natural tastes were far from simple, and the luxury in which Morris
lived and travelled soon seemed not only congenial, but proper and
customary.
At Paris, where they stayed some time, she first discovered the subtle
delight that lies in the possession of dainty clothes. Her guardian gave
her _carte blanche_ at both costumiers and milliners, but, through
diffidence, she took little advantage of this generosity. Realising
this, he visited one of the leading _ateliers_, and gave orders direct
to madame herself to lavishly stock Evarne's wardrobe.
Thus the girl found herself clad in garments totally different to any
she had ever seen--let alone possessed. She reluctantly consented to try
to endure corsets, but very soon gave up the attempt in despair. But
madame, far from discouraged, exerted her ingenuity to array the girl's
lithe yet well-developed young form to the best advantage without any
such fictitious aid, and she succeeded even beyond her expectations.
Never before had Evarne realised the latent possibilities of her own
figure. She took unconcealed delight in beholding her reflection in the
mirror, and positively revelled in her silk linings, silk petticoats,
silk stockings, and other hitherto undreamed-of silken luxuries.
Venice was visited, then Ravenna, Florence, Pisa and Rome. Day after day
Morris was untiring in the thought and care he took for his new toy.
Evarne, apparently, looked upon his utmost and constant attention as
merely part of the accepted routine of the journey, and noted it with
the quiet indifference of a spoilt beauty. Yet there was no suggestion
of coquetry or affectation about the girl. Her mind, as well as her
person, was developing on calm, stately and dignified lines.
She was, in her turn, almost as quietly affectionate and attentive to
him as she would have been to her father, but the vainest of men could
not have persuaded himself that she made the least effort--open or
covert--to at all unduly ingratiate herself into his regard. "Kindness
in women, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love," sings the wise
poet, but Morris had been taught so early and so often how many women
are over-eager to be "kind" to a wealthy man, that Evarne's simple ways
were attractive by reason of their very novelty. It served as a _sauce
piquante_, and before Naples was reached he felt more genuine love for
this sweet child than he had deemed that well-worn article--his
heart--would ever again have the good luck to experience.
It was not until they were actually in the train bound for Naples that
he broke to her the information that the looked-for introduction to Mrs.
Kenyon must be postponed for the present.
"A letter from my wife reached me just before we left Rome," he
explained. "She is very nervous, and fears Vesuvius is working up for
another eruption. She often thinks that--pure fancy, of course! Anyway
she has gone on to Taormina, in Sicily. She will return to Naples when
she can muster courage."
"How much she travels about," remarked the unsuspecting Evarne.
"Doesn't she!" agreed Morris with a grim little smile, thinking of the
invalid to whom the daily journey from bedroom to boudoir was an arduous
undertaking.
Then, noting a troubled expression on Evarne's face as she gazed out of
the window at the fast-flying landscape, he asked, with a tiny hint of
sadness in his voice--
"Am I such dull company for a bright little girl that you look thus
solemn at the prospect of a few more _tête-à-tête_ meals?"
He took her hand as he spoke. Evarne had long ago got to the point of
finding it pleasant to feel her slender fingers enclosed in his strong
magnetic clasp. She smiled a little and shook her head slightly in
response to his question, but the fingers he held moved restlessly, as
if they half-sought to free themselves.
Evarne's mental upbringing and education had been as unusual and
unconventional--to say the least of it--as had been her physical
training. She learnt the Greek and English alphabets almost
simultaneously, and while other damsels of her years were skimming
through novelettes, she had been poring over the eternal and inspiring
works of the writers of antiquity. Which form of exclusive mental diet
created, on the whole, the most impracticable, the most false, the most
mischievous ideas when considered in reference to the stern realities of
modern life, it is difficult to say. Infinitely more than the average
girl of her age did Evarne know of the possible sins of humanity, of the
grim tragedies of history; infinitely less of that perhaps more useful
field of knowledge--the restrictions, petty malignity, wickedness, and
cruelly quick suspicions of modern society.
Nevertheless, an instinct told her that there was a vast difference
between travelling under the escort of her guardian to join his wife,
and in staying with him at his villa without that lady.
"Do you not think Mrs. Kenyon expects us to go on to her at Sicily?" she
suggested in a hesitating voice, divided between her fear of appearing
to presume and dictate, and her instinctive shrinking from this new
programme.
Morris read the trouble in the girl's mind, and promptly answered in the
one and only manner that was calculated to set her thoroughly at ease
again.
"When you are comfortably fixed up at Naples I will go on to Taormina
and bring back the truant. As to you, my dear, forgive my plain
speaking, but it is time you seriously started to study for your future
profession. There are excellent Art masters at Naples, and you can draw
in the museum there, but in Sicily there is nothing of all this."
As he had foreseen, this business-like view of the proceeding reconciled
her to it as nothing else would have done, and it was with a light heart
and a smiling face that she first set foot over the threshold of "Mon
Bijou."
Morris himself conducted his little guest to the rooms that had been
prepared for her occupation. The villa was situated on the heights
overlooking the bay, and Evarne, stepping out on to the verandah, stood
enthralled by the beauty around. She gazed over the broad expanse of
purple sea sparsely dotted with small sails, white and brown--at the
island of Capri, haunted by the memory of dark mysteries--at the far
distant dome of the Italian heavens that crowned all. Then she let her
delighted eyes wander over the picturesque roof-tops of the town to the
soft yet never-failing canopy of smoke that mingled itself with billowy
white clouds overshadowing the crater of Vesuvius the volcano.
Then she looked at the gardens of the villa itself. There she saw paths
made of smooth-coloured pebbles arranged in mosaic designs, winding amid
strange and luxurious trees and shrubs and blossoms; saw snowy statues
gleaming amid the green growth; saw arbours, set near the scent of
orange-blossom or mimosa; while a white marble fountain--an art treasure
in itself--gaily tossed upwards a sparkling jet of water, which fell
with a gentle splash into a deep, carved basin encircled by thick clumps
of flowers.
Overwhelmed by beauty so universal, so lavish, so abundant, she stood
rapt until Morris's patience was exhausted. When at length she could be
persuaded to pay attention to her apartments she found them, in their
way, to be equally enchanting--equally appealing.
The chief room was very large, and decorated with an almost florid
luxuriance. Everywhere the eye turned were pictures, statuettes, carved
ivories, bowls and vases and bronzes--each the embodiment of some
artistic dream. Everything was profuse--there were many books, many
mirrors, much gilding, carving, tapestry and embroidery, while masses of
vivid flowers scented the air.
The characteristic feature, however, was the mad riot and mingling of
every glaring hue, blended together into a bewildering yet exquisite
harmony. There was mauve and deepest violet, gold, blue, and a touch of
emerald green. The walls were rich crimson, with creamy white introduced
into the deep frieze, whereon dancing maidens were moulded in relief.
The whole scheme of colour was daring, brilliant, defiant; it suggested
life, youth, vitality, pleasure without remorse.
The little bedroom opened out from this. It was daintily small, all
white and pale green, the one striking splash of colour being given by a
bowl of pink roses. Simple, demure, unassuming, it formed a strange
contrast to the tropical violence of its neighbour.
As soon as Evarne was quite alone she placed herself in the centre of
the brilliant red room, and pivoting round slowly, surveyed every
wall--every corner--anew. It was scarcely three months since she had
left the austerity of "The Retreat"--three months in which she had
learnt, seen, done and heard more than in all the previous years of her
life. In the dazzling luxury of this room the culminating point of the
extraordinary difference between the past and the present seemed to be
attained. Its mad superabundance of wealth and colour, appealing so
forcefully to the emotions, bewildered the child. Everything about it
appeared indefinably wrong--almost unnatural--and for a moment the
instinctive fear of the unknown gripped her heart.
Suddenly she became apprehensive, afraid of life, of the hidden future
and what it held. She felt very young, very ignorant, very helpless--a
stranger not only in a far land, but in a strange world. If only Mrs.
Kenyon had been here to welcome her! Apparently no one about the place
could speak a word of English save Morris himself--and, of course, his
valet. Even with the bright little maid who was to attend on her, she
had found she could only converse by signs. She walked timidly over the
thick, yielding carpet and leant against the open window, breathing
deeply of the fresh, pure air. But a little while and her natural
courage rallied, the shadow of depression was tossed aside; she turned
back into the room, glanced round it once again with sparkling eyes lit
up by admiration, and all unconsciously broke into a snatch of joyous
song.
CHAPTER IV
THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID
No trace of the uneasiness of the afternoon remained, as Evarne--clad in
a Parisian triumph, a loosely-falling dinner-gown of fragile black
chiffon and lace--took her seat that evening opposite Morris in the cosy
little anteroom in which he had ordered meals to be served in preference
to the ordinary dining-room. She was bright and smiling and
appreciative, as throughout that first evening beneath his own roof he
exerted himself particularly to please and entertain her.
Not that this called for much additional effort. Evarne invariably found
her guardian's society to be more inspiring and exhilarating than his
own champagne. Even in his ordinary converse with this unusual young
girl, the whole of his knowledge of men and matters, his wide
experience, his original ideas, all his natural wit and brightness ever
flowed forth readily and unrestricted. True, this implied not only the
teachings of some doctrines more or less heretical, but a certain
element of looseness of speech and the recounting of anecdotes and
incidents not usually deemed appropriate to the ears of sweet seventeen.
So, albeit the previous delicacy of her every thought unavoidably gave
place to something less ethereal, her character developed and matured by
leaps and bounds.
"Reading maketh a full man, conversation a ready man."
The girl's nature--rendered, perhaps, somewhat over-serious by solitude
and much deep reading--only needed the mental stimulant of a brilliant
and clever man's society, to grow rapidly bright and alert. She learnt
to find interest in many a subject hitherto sealed. From dress to
politics--from hard facts to vague fancies--from logical deducing to
limitless speculating, her mind was daily led over fresh fields and
pastures new, and rejoiced in this wandering.
Morris and Evarne sat up later that night than they had ever yet done
together. Within these walls Morris alone held sway, and both felt the
subtle influence of this state of affairs, so opposed to the constant,
comparative surveillance of life in hotels. At length the musical notes
of the clock chimed the hour past midnight, and Evarne sprang from her
low chair, startled by the flight of time.
Morris went upstairs with her. Standing on the threshold of her room she
touched the knob of the electric burners, then held out both hands with
her usual frankness to bid him good-night.
He held them for a few seconds with that firm and affectionate clasp in
which she so delighted. But then, suddenly transferring both her hands
into one of his, he put the first two fingers of his free hand to his
own lips and immediately pressed them gently upon Evarne's rosy mouth.
It was at most a mere suggestion of a kiss, yet with a startled glance
she jerked her hands away, stepped back quickly, instinctively slamming
the door, and Morris, standing outside with a little grimace of
amusement on his countenance, heard the key turn in the lock.
It was apparently a decided rebuke, yet he went downstairs well pleased
by the very violence of her reception of this experimental advance.
Easily enough had he conquered any temptation to kiss the girl as long
as there remained the fear that she might accept his kisses dutifully,
as mere fatherly salutes. But the light that had darted into her
eloquent eyes at the simple pressure of his fingers upon those fresh,
unsullied lips of hers, satisfied him that such an idea--had it ever
existed--had been got rid of forever.
Evarne flung herself amid the purple cushions of a big chair and shut
her eyes. Ere long one idea evolved itself from the tangle of confused
thought, and placed itself--clearly and shamelessly--before the bar of
her reason, to be relentlessly judged. Did she indeed owe all that Mr.
Kenyon was doing for her--was giving her--simply to the fact that she
was Leo Stornway's daughter, or were her own youth--her beauty--her
sex--the real forces that prompted his generous actions?
Scarcely one second for calm deliberation was granted her. The very
process of actually formulating such a question, brought into conscious
existence a knowledge that was both crushing and exalting--terrifying
and delightful. Doubtless it had been forming itself in her heart and
brain for many a long day, but its appearance as a fully-fledged
fact--something that had to be acknowledged and reckoned with--came with
the dazzling sharpness of lightning athwart a summer sky.
Whatever might be the nature of her guardian's feelings, this one fact
she knew all too well. Come what might _she_ loved _him_--loved him
devotedly--passionately--with all the ardour of youth and a nature
formed for loving. She realised that if in his eyes she was not the
fairest amid women, she might as well be possessed of no beauty; if he
did not seek and enjoy her society before that of any other creature
alive, she was worthless in her own sight; if all this divine emotion
that had come to her could touch no answering chord within his breast,
life would be as a weed, worthless, without colour, perfume or
sweetness.
To realise so much during a single tick of the clock was overwhelming!
Instinctively concealing her face in the cushions Evarne found her
breathing oppressed, while as to her heart--it stood quite still for one
brief moment, apparently daunted by the magnitude of the additional task
suddenly imposed upon it. Then loyally rising to the occasion, it
continued to beat, but with altogether unusual violence and rapidity, as
wishing defiantly to show that it could bear up with a good grace even
under this double duty.
Ere long Evarne sat erect again, while then and there her soul soared
aloft into vaporous and shining realms of happiness. Yet no white angel
would have veiled its face before this sweet maiden's thoughts and
ideals in her first love. Not for some time did she so much as remember
that Morris was married, and even then she was in no mood to actively
regret Mrs. Kenyon's existence.
That lady's rights were so unquestioned; Evarne would have shrunk with
horror at the mere notion that she should ever come to resent the wife
as either a rival or a hindrance.
The fact that she believed Morris was a kind, affectionate and faithful
husband, was quite consistent with his returning her love--at all
events, love as she conceived it and desired it in return.
Notwithstanding her classical reading, the girl failed to realise that
her passion--youthful, virginal and absolutely spiritual, yet ardent and
enthralling--was an emotion absolutely unknown to any male mind.
Long she sat, enchanted by the fair landscapes of this unexplored
country across whose borders her feet had newly strayed. When at length
she nestled down into her soft, scented bed, still the same soft visions
gladdened her mind.
Next morning, after finishing her coffee and roll, she lay back lazily
and reflected with the clearer, more rational, thoughts of the early
hours of the day, upon the one topic that now appeared of paramount
importance.
After a while Bianca, her little maid, entered, and with painstaking
effort repeated in English a short message that she had evidently just
learnt. "Master wishes come pay his respects to signorina."
Evarne renounced day-dreams and meditations and arose immediately.
Blissfully independent of hair-curlers or any other such artificial
accessories, her toilette could be completed with marvellous rapidity.
Now, in considerably less than half an hour, she issued from her room
fresh and blooming as a spring flower, and all unconsciously greeted
Morris with the richest smile she had ever flashed upon him.
He looked bright and _debonnairé_ that morning, and it was difficult to
realise that he was in fact the contemporary of the girl's father. He
seemed so glad to behold her again after the few hours' separation,
asked with such evident interest and concern if she had slept well, held
her hand for so long and finished by pressing it so warmly between his
own, that Evarne blushed slightly for very happiness, as with unerring
instinct her heart answered its own question, "He does care--he does--he
does!"
In her previous notions concerning both men and women who had attained
to the mature and dignified age of five-and-forty, she had unconsciously
taken it for granted that Cupid always observed a due respect for such
elderly hearts. True, she was well-informed respecting poor Hera's
troubles. Zeus had surely been old--quite old and grey-bearded--yet
apparently he could not ever look down from high Olympus, even on
business, without his eye falling on some fair damsel who promptly
became entitled to a place amid the crowd of rival fair ones who packed
that miraculously capacious heart. Nevertheless, despite this seemingly
instructive knowledge, it was only as she grew to know Morris that her
ideas became revolutionised on the subject of middle-aged men who were
not divinities, but merely modern and mortal. Now, her guardian's years,
viewed with the eyes of affection, appeared simply as an additional
fascination.
After a while he proceeded to consult her regarding their plans for the
day. Would she like to go sight-seeing that morning, or rest after the
fatigues of yesterday's journey?
Evarne was still amused at this novel notion, evidently entertained by
Morris, that she was a fragile blossom requiring to be carefully tended
and cherished. The idea flashed across her: "How different life will be
in a year or two when I am all alone in cheap little rooms in London,
earning a precarious living by Art."
This led her to recall what her guardian had told her last night
concerning the two most celebrated Art masters in Naples.
"They are very different one from another, both in their style of work
and their method of teaching," he had said. "I will take you to visit
both studios, and you can see if one appeals to you more than the
other."
Now she reminded him of this promise.
"I want to oversee the unpacking of my boxes," she said, "and then, if
you please, I should like to visit the studios you spoke of. I want to
start working in all seriousness almost at once."
"Oh, no hurry; postpone that!" was the lazy advice. But she shook her
head with righteous emphasis.
"I don't mean to delay and delay like the foolish virgins in the Bible.
You remember that story?"
"I can't say I remember those particular damsels," rejoined Morris, with
a twinkle in his eye; "but candidly I maintain that _all_ virgins are
foolish."
"That's a very debatable point!" retorted Evarne, smiling, yet slightly
biting her under-lip. "Seriously, I want to start work at once. Now, let
me go and put on my hat, and we will place business before pleasure,
like good people."
This time Morris wisely checked the response that rose to his lips.
The rival studios both got visited that day, and the one wherein Evarne
was to experience the pangs and delights of the aspiring Art student was
duly settled upon. It was really somewhat absurd that a mere beginner,
totally untrained in the very rudiments of drawing, should be introduced
into such an advanced coterie as that of Florelli's.
As Evarne gazed with admiring yet somewhat saddened eyes at the work of
the other students, she felt this herself. To her they all seemed
finished artists already! She could certainly get herself up in a loose
overall plentifully besmeared with paint and charcoal, she could allow a
curl of hair to escape from its confining bonds, and thus--as far as
appearance went--be on an artistic equality with those of her new
companions who were of the feminine persuasion. But would she ever be
able to work as beautifully as did these young men and women? She
doubted it, and yet, appalling realisation! these superior young people
were not winning fame and fortune. Alack and alas, they were still
studying--still knew their work imperfect--were still striving to
attain!
The momentary wave of despair was followed by a somewhat frantic
impatience to make an immediate start along this far-stretching road
that lay before her. She wanted to return at once to "Mon Bijou," to set
up a pot or vase and endeavour to make a drawing of it in which the two
sides should at least decently resemble one another. It was all very
nice and amusing to sketch pretty little faces with huge eyes, tiny
mouths and masses of very curly hair; to cover sheets of notepaper with
angels whose big, feathery wings and vapoury bodies conveniently
vanished into nothing. But one day in Paris she had tried to make a
correct drawing of a dull, unimaginative vase, and her effort had been
brought to an abrupt and highly unsatisfactory conclusion by the
much-employed indiarubber working a hole in the paper.
That evening, as she and Morris walked in the garden star-gazing, she
honestly confided to him her fear that the attaining of artistic
excellence would be a longer task than she had at all realised. He did
not appear to sink under the shock, but, on the contrary, inquired
calmly enough "what that mattered." Hesitatingly, Evarne broached the
subject of expense. It was a matter that pressed rather heavily upon her
mind.
His answer was unexpected. Half opening his lips as if to speak, he
closed them again firmly, looked frowningly into her tremulous, upturned
countenance, then suddenly slipping his arm round her waist, drew her
closely to him. Her instantaneous impulse was to free herself--not
because she wanted to, far from it--but because she knew well enough
that such were dull duty's dictates. Still, she hesitated a moment, and
thereby lost the strength of mind necessary to maintain strict propriety
upon its lofty pedestal. On the contrary, she rested quite impassive,
and Morris felt her soft uncorseted waist heave slightly with the deep,
quivering breath she drew. Somewhat fiercely clasping her yet closer, in
a second his other arm was also around her, and he was straining the
flexible young form to his breast with all the abandon of a man who,
having reluctantly practised self-control for long, lets himself go at
last.
But his very ardour and heedless violence frightened Evarne immediately.
Using the whole of her considerable strength she endeavoured to break
away from his clasp. "Don't, don't!" she cried in unmistakable
earnestness, and besides genuine alarm there was a touch of decided
anger in her voice.
As soon as she had freed herself she stood irresolute--motionless and
fascinated--yet obviously prepared at any second to dart away. Indeed,
unconsciously, prompted by her athletic instincts, she rested, poised
with her heels already slightly raised off the earth.
She looked more Greek than ever at that moment; fitted indeed to form
part of some legend--
"Of deities or mortals, or of both;
In Temple, or the dales of Arcady."
Morris gazing at her with eager, ardent appreciation, yet read a warning
that he must venture no farther that night! Trusting and confiding
though Evarne might be, she was too serious, too thoughtful, to accept
such overtures with childish carelessness.
Her expression gradually clouded, for the unknown Mrs. Kenyon rose in
indignant might before her mind's eye! Morris, guessing the nature of
some of her thoughts, knew that in dealing with a young woman possessed
of such painfully lofty principles, discretion was indeed the better
part of valour. Moreover, he was far too genuinely attached to her to
wish to cause her undue distress, and, however strong she might be
physically, he knew well that where her feelings were concerned, Evarne
was in deed a "fragile flower," to be guarded well and treated tenderly.
So he just smiled calmly and reassuringly, and into his eyes came that
kindly, indulgent look that always stirred the girl's very heart.
"Come, pretty one," he said, "hold my hand quietly, and go on telling me
the troubles about the drawing."
Such a sudden change of manner and topic was quite bewildering; Evarne
could not accommodate herself to it all with equal rapidity. There was a
considerable pause, while he stood waiting with his hand outstretched.
The imprint of very varying emotions passed over the girl's gentle
countenance. By the brilliant light of the moon every fleeting
expression could be seen, and the look with which she at length laid her
hand in his could not have been displeasing even to the chaste goddess
whose clear rays rendered it visible.
Somewhat hastily Evarne proceeded to chatter about the studio, but her
nerves were overwrought, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
"Let us go in," she urged ere long; "I'm cold."
"Cold now, perhaps," murmured Morris softly, "but, if I mistake not,
magnificently capable of burning with the most divine of all fires."
She made no answer. He could not be sure that she had heard, or if she
had, that she understood. Neither was he at all sure that the time had
even yet come when it was really desirable that she should hear and
understand.
CHAPTER V
THE WILES OF THE FOWLER
Within a week of taking up her residence at "Mon Bijou," Evarne started
her career at Florelli's. She proved very painstaking, and earnest--so
much so as to cause considerable surprise to the other students, who had
judged, from the luxury of her attire and appointments, that she was a
mere _dilettante_.
She was far and away the most elementary pupil in the studio, and truth
to tell did not find it particularly interesting to sit alone hour after
hour in a corner, covering reams of Michallet, and using up boxes of
charcoal in repeated struggles to depict gigantic plaster replicas of
detached features from Michael Angelo's "David," or innumerable casts of
torsos, of arms and legs, hands and feet, in all sizes and
attitudes--painfully suggestive of amputations.
For stimulus and encouragement she would peep into the two rooms where
the more advanced students were working from life, in one room from the
costume model, in the other from the nude. The mental atmosphere of
these rooms was so full of energy and enthusiasm that she would return
with fresh ardour to her limbs and features.
Not that she was able to devote all her time to the services of the
exigent Muses, nor, alas! could this pursuit arouse the keenest, most
engrossing thoughts and energies of which her nature was capable.
Interest in this, as in everything else in the wide universe, showed
pallid and feeble before the overwhelming and concentrated interest of
her love for Morris Kenyon. There was something almost tragic in such a
domination. Barely seventeen, her heart and mind should have been still
too youthful, too immature, to conceive and sustain such force of
emotion.
Morris had many friends in Naples, and both visited and entertained
considerably. Evarne, both by reason of her studies and her recent loss,
could be prevailed upon to take very little part in any fêtes. Still,
she started to learn Italian, and was soon able to express her will to
Bianca in all simple matters, and to amuse Morris by her courageous,
laughable efforts.
She fancied herself a perfect little diplomatist, and was blissfully
unaware that her affection for him was very soon betrayed to his
experienced eye by her every look--every word--every action. Under the
circumstances, silence on the momentous topic so uppermost in both minds
was naturally not maintained for long.
One night as she sat on a footstool at his feet, spoiling her eyesight
by delicate fancy work, not speaking much, but at intervals contentedly
humming a little song, a sudden impatience at further waste of time took
possession of him.
"Evarne," he said abruptly, and as the girl in all unconsciousness
stayed her needle and looked up inquiringly, he bent forward, and
without any warning pressed his lips to hers. Then, shaken from his
habitual calm, he placed his hands heavily upon her shoulders and gazed
intently into her eyes, his expression telling yet more than his
actions.
She remained motionless as if hypnotised, her face still uplifted.
"Evarne, sweetest little Evarne!" he murmured after a pause, in accents
tender and caressing. At the sound of his voice she dropped her head
slowly lower and yet lower, until it finally rested upon his knee. Still
she spoke nothing.
Slipping his arms around her, he forcibly drew her up until her head was
pillowed upon his breast. Then he kissed her again and again, kissed her
brow, her hair, her cheeks, her mouth.
"Darling, are you happy?" he breathed at length into her ear.
Upon this the girl released herself from his hold, and kneeling erect by
his side, looked with wide-open, excited, somewhat horrified eyes
straight into his. It was no highly-wrought sentiment either of love or
indignation that fell from her lips. Simply, yet emphatically, she
cried--
"Oh, we mustn't! we mustn't! We were both forgetting your wife!"
Morris was rather proud of his versatility, and cultivated the art of
being all things to all women. The last lady on whom he had temporarily
bestowed his affections had, like Evarne, been tactless and
inconsiderate enough to invoke the memory of the happily absent one at a
critical moment. To Evarne's predecessor he had lightly remarked, "Oh!
hang my wife, Birdie. She doesn't count." Birdie had giggled, called him
a "naughty man," and there had been an end to that topic.
To have addressed any such flippant answer to Evarne and her clamouring
conscience would have meant the end of all things. Morris unhesitatingly
took the one and only course that would serve his turn now. He adopted
the plan of apparent perfect frankness, not only regarding the legal
partner of his joys and woes, but concerning much else that he had
hitherto kept hidden.
With many a sign of great mental struggle, now flashing forth eloquent
glances, now veiling his eyes from her clear, searching gaze, he made
confession of his deception concerning Mrs. Kenyon's promised presence
at "Mon Bijou." He waxed alternately ardent and pathetic as he
discoursed upon the love he bore Evarne and all that it meant to him,
vowing that it was the intensity of his affection alone that had
prompted him to his falsehood. He abused himself so unsparingly, that
half-unconsciously she was moved to utter a pleading little cry of pity
and expostulation.
Thereupon he went on to explain in touching terms that he was but a
lonely, desolate man, rapidly becoming weary of life, embittered and
miserable, until her charm, her sweet goodness, aroused him, awoke
affection and brought fresh zest into his existence--and so on, and so
on.
"My wife, well, she was a nicely-brought-up, rather silly girl, pretty
enough once and good-natured too, but now soured and aged by permanent,
incurable illness. There is no bond of any kind between us. We have not
a thought in common. There are no children; she can never be either
companion or wife to me. Frail though she is, she has a marvellous
vitality, a wondrous clinging to life. Such unhappy existences--a curse
to themselves and others,--are always prolonged. Think of it, dearest,
think what it means to a man to be practically tied to a corpse, cut off
from all the joy of living."
Then he soared to lofty heights of moralising, told her--or at least
implied--that all his hopes of heaven rested upon
|
intolerable in
their demonstrations of friendship. Good-by. This letter will please
you; it is quite historical.
May 22.
That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised
heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I
consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring
faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in
providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to
prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction
concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better
than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our
prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,--when I
consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being and
find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires,
than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my
senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world.
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not
comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should
wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they
come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but
guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,--this is what
nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.
I know what you say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are
happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their play-things,
dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard,
where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get
a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are
certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who
dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions,
with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic
achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who
humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what
pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a
paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way
under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the
sun a little longer,--yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own
world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And
then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the
sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison
whenever he likes.
May 26.
You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little
cottage in some cosey spot, and of putting up in it with every
inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable
place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.
About a league from the town is a place called Walheim.[1] It is
delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and by proceeding along
one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view
of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small
inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant
notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two
linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green
before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages,
barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and
peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the
little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident
brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly
deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four
years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees
a child about six months old; he pressed it to his bosom with both
arms, which thus formed a sort of armchair; and notwithstanding the
liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly
still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and
sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly
tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some
broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about
an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without
putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my
resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to Nature, She alone
is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may
be alleged in favour of rules; as much may be likewise advanced in
favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never
produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes
the laws and obeys decorum can never be an absolutely intolerable
neighbour nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules,
they destroy the genuine feeling of Nature, as well as its true
expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only
restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will
illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A
warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends
every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and
lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly
devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and
respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is
natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a
portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress.
Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a
present, only not too often,--on her birthday, and such occasions."
Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I
should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up
with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why
is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom
rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul?
Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons
have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and
tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches,
and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger.
May 27.
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have
forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children.
Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my
letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours.
Towards evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running
towards the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed
from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I
returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the
mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the
eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed
it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she
said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some
wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various
articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make
some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the
youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday,
whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the
contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell
me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he
ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with
the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and
that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money
a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and
would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he
has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his
departure." I left the woman with regret, giving each of the children a
kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten
bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted.
I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the
sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She
moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her
existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and when she sees
the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter
is approaching.
Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I
drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the
evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good
woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after
evening service.
They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am
particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of
their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled
with them.
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother,
lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman."
May 30.
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent,
and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few
words. To-day I have had a scene which, if literally related, would
make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of
poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in Nature
without having recourse to art?
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you
will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has
excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once
more--always Walheim--which produces these wonderful phenomena.
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to
drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one
pretext or another, I lingered behind.
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some
part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance
pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made
his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was
soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a
young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his
mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he
was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said;
"and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not
mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what
incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished
she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first
husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in
order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and
devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to
convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and
the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of
his every movement and of every feature; no effort of mine could do
justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position
with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct,
touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described
her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won
and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the
imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived
the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections,
united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the
recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my
very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me
everywhere: and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame,
glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through
the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as
she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?
June 16.
"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a
question. You should have guessed that I am well--that is to say--in a
word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have--I know
not.
To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become
acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I
am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.
An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find
it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect:
suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.
So much simplicity with so much understanding--so mild, and yet so
resolute--a mind so placid, and a life so active.
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character
nor feature. Some other time--but no, not some other time, now, this
very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between
ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the
point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out.
And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet
every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.
* * * * *
I could not restrain myself--go to her I must. I have just returned,
Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper, I will write to you. What a
delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear,
beautiful children,--eight brothers and sisters!
But if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter
than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself
to give you the details.
I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with
S----, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit
him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected
going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered
to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of
our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I
consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty
and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate
neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and
call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to
the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park
to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very
charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose
your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very
worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the
death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable
inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we
arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the
mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their
fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were
gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to
be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our
pleasure should be interrupted.
I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a
moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built
house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door,
and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six
children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall,
and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed
in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a
rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all
round, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task
in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn
with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of
them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a
gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and
to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away.
"Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for
keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household
duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and
they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some
indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her
voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran
into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw
inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the
youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and
Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with
your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not
resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face.
"Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I
deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a
ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins that I should be
sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she
desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take
great care of the children, and to say good-by to papa for her when he
came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their
sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they
would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked
discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like
you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at
my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the
forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast.
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged
compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon
the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage,
and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands
once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of
fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She
desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off.
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she
had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can
have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was
surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ----.[2] I found
penetration and character in everything she said: every expression
seemed to brighten her features with new charms, with new rays of
genius, which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood.
"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as
romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could
settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul
into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that
they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom that I
prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best
whose scenes describe my own situation in life,--and the friends who
are about me whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my
own homely existence,--which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on
the whole, a source of indescribable happiness."
I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but
it was of slight avail; for when she had expressed so truly her opinion
of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I
omit,[3] I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to
what I thought of it; and it was not until Charlotte had addressed
herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and
observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me
several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all
mind.
We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it,"
said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other
amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to
which I have danced, and all goes right again directly."
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark
eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips
and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful
meaning of her words,--so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual
expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a
dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me that I scarcely heard
the music which resounded from the illuminated ball-room.
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself
with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received
us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I
followed with mine.
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and
precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring
themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English
country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn
to dance the figure with us.
You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and
soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were
conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and,
doubtless, for the moment every other sensation is extinct.
She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the
third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was
very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the
previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent
waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your
partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but
I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you
will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I
will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our
partners should mutually entertain each other.
We set off, and at first delighted ourselves with the usual graceful
motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When
the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled round each other in the
giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some
of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to
weary themselves; and when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined
in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,--Andran and
his partner. Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself more than
mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying with her
as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object; and
oh, Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for
whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with
any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!--you will
understand this.
We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat
down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had
secured,--the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which
from politeness she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a
dagger went through my heart.
We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going
down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes,
beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we
passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of
countenance, although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte
with a smile, then holding up her finger in a threatening attitude,
repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of
"Albert."
"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to
ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in
order to execute a figure in the dance; and as we crossed over again in
front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need
I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the
promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there
was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the
way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection
with her whom in so short a time I had learned to prize so highly.
Enough. I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned
general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind
to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place.
The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some
time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed
entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above
the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our
amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times,
either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather
perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the
shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright
and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with
her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second
knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw
herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears;
some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions,
wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their
young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which
the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the
gentlemen had gone downstairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of
the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire
into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had
hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and
when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she
forthwith proposed a round game.
I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves
up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at
counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the
circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the
other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops
or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have
counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round
the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second;
"three," the third; and so, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One
made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and amid the laughter that
ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came
in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite
delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long
before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into
little separate knots; the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte
into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears
of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was
as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up
the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the
window. It was still thundering at a distance; a soft rain was pouring
down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious
odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the
scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me: they
were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said,
"Klopstock!" At once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her
thoughts; I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank
under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed
it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes.
Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes?
And thy name, so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated!
June 19.
I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative; I only know it
was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me,
that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all
probability, have kept you up till daylight.
I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the
ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent
sunrise; the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by
drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep.
Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me
not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I
answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my
falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The
maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries,
that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left
her, asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She
consented, and I went; and since that time sun, moon, and stars may
pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole
world is nothing to me.
June 21.
My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and
whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted
joy,--the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I am now completely
settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and
there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the
lot of man.
Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian
excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often, in my wanderings
from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld
this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my
heart!
I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to
wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which
afterwards inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to
the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes
around them.
It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that
lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene
surrounding me. The little wood opposite,--how delightful to sit under
its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then that
delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet!
Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned
without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A
dim vastness is spread before our souls; the perceptions of our mind
are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to
surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete
and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have
attained our object, when the distant _there_ becomes the present
_here_, all is changed; we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and
our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.
So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in
his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his
children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness
which he had sought in vain through the wide, world.
When in the morning at sunrise I go out to Walheim and with my own
hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner;
when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals,
and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter,
put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as
occasion requires,--I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of
Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine.
Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than
those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate
without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is
capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant
whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only
enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny
mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and
the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth.
June 29.
The day before yesterday the physician came from the town to pay a
visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's
children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with
me; and as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The
doctor is a formal sort of personage; he adjusts the plaits of his
ruffles and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you;
and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I
could perceive this by his countenance; but I did not suffer myself to
be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I
rebuilt the children's card-houses for them as fast as they threw them
down. He went about the town afterwards, complaining that the judge's
children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was
completely ruining them.
Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as
children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little
creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will
|
pure essence of it in a fat, round package. The
little Jewish lady never objected to this regular morning interruption
of her work. And so the next moment, the miracle happened. Lake Erie
began to empty itself; and with splashes, gurgles and spurts, the
cataract descended upon the pots and pans heaped in the Barber sink.
The downpour was greeted by a treble chorus of delight from the
tourists. "Oh, Grandpa!" cried Johnnie, jumping up and down. "Ain't it
fine! Ain't it fine!" And "Fine!" chimed in the old man, swaying himself
against his breast rope. "Fine! Fine!"
One long half-minute Niagara poured--before the admiring gaze of the two
in the special. Then the great stream became dammed, the rush of its
waters ceased, except for a weak trickle, and the ceiling gave down the
sound of a rocking step bound away, followed by the squeaking of a
chair. Mrs. Kukor was back at work.
The train returned silently to Pittsburgh, the Grand Army hat was taken
off and hung in its place, the blanket was pulled up about Grandpa's
shoulders, and this one of the pair of travelers was left to take his
rest. Comfortable and swift as the whole journey was, nevertheless the
feeble, old soldier was tired. His pale blue eyes were roving wearily;
the chair at a standstill, down came their lids, and his head tipped
sidewise.
He looked as much like a small, gray monkey as his strapping son
resembled a gorilla. As Johnnie tucked the blanket about the thin old
neck, Grandpa was already breathing regularly, the while he made the
facial grimaces of a new-born child.
CHAPTER IV
THE FOUR MILLIONAIRES
JOHNNIE always started his own daily program with a taste of fresh air.
He cared less for this way of spending his first fifteen free minutes
than for many another. But as Cis, with her riper wisdom, had pointed
out, a short airing was necessary to a boy who had no red in his cheeks,
and too much blue at his temples--not to mention a pinched look about
the nose. Johnnie regularly took a quarter of an hour out of doors.
He took it from the sill of the kitchen window--which was the only
window in the Barber flat.
This sill was breast-high from the kitchen floor, Johnnie not being tall
for his age. But having shoved up the lower sash with the aid of the
broom handle, he did not climb to seat himself upon the ledge. For there
was no iron fire escape outside; the nearest one came down the wall of
the building to the kitchen window of the Gamboni family, to the left.
And so Johnnie denied himself a perch on his sill--a dangerous position,
as both Mrs. Kukor and Cis pointed out to him.
Their warnings were unnecessary. He could easily realize what a slip of
the hand might mean: a plunge through space to the brick paving far
below; and there an instant and horrible end. His picture of it was
enough to guard him against accident. He contented himself with laying
his body across the sill, with the longer and heavier portion of his
small anatomy balanced securely against a shorter and lighter upper
portion.
He achieved this position and held it untiringly by the aid of the old
rope coil. This coil was a relic of those distant times when there was
no fire escape even outside the kitchen window of the Gambonis, and the
landlord provided every tenant with this cruder means of flying the
building. The rope hung on a large hook just under the Barber window,
and was like a hard, smudged wheel, so completely had the years and the
climate of the kitchen colored and stiffened it. And Johnnie's weight
was not enough to elongate its set curves.
It was a handy affair. Using it as a stepping-place, and pulling himself
up by his hands, he brought the lower end of his breastbone into contact
with the sill. Resting thus, upon his midriff, he was thoroughly
comfortable, due to the fact that Big Tom's shirt and trousers
thoroughly padded his ribby front. Then he swelled his nostrils with his
intaking of air, and his back heaved and fell, so that he was for all
the world like some sort of a giant lizard, sunning itself on a rock.
Against the dingy black-red of the old wall, his yellow head stood forth
as gaudily as a flower. The flower nodded, too, as if moved by the
breeze that was wreathing the smoke over all the roofs. For Johnnie was
taking a general survey of the scenery.
The Barber window looked north, and in front of it were the rear windows
of tenements that faced on a street. There was a fire escape at every
other one of these windows--the usual spidery affair of black-painted
iron, clinging vinelike to the bricks. And over each escape were draped
garments of every hue and kind, some freshly washed, and drying; others
airing. Mingling with the apparel were blankets, quilts, mattresses,
pillows and babies.
Somehow Johnnie did not like the view. He glanced down into the gloomy
area, where a lean and untidy cat was prowling, and where there
sounded, echoing, the undistinguishable harangue of the fretful Italian
janitress.
Now Johnnie's general survey was done. He always made it short, wasting
less than one minute in looking down or around. It was beauty that drew
him--beauty and whatever else could start up in his mind the experiences
he most liked. His face upturned, one hand flung across his brows to
shield his eyes, for the light outside the sill seemed dazzling after
the semidark of the flat, he scanned first the opposite roof edges, a
whole story higher than he, where sparrows were alighting, and where
smoke plumes curled like veils of gossamer; next he scanned the sky.
Above the roofline of the tenements was a great, changing patch which he
called his own, and which he found fascinating. And not only for what it
actually showed him, which was splendid enough, but for the eternal
promise of it. At any moment, what might not come slipping into sight!
What he longed most to catch sight of was--a stork. Those babies across
on the fire escapes, storks had brought them (which was the main reason
why all the families kept bedclothes out on the barred shelves; a quilt
or a pillow made a soft place on which to leave a new baby). A stork had
brought Cis--she had had her own mother's word for it many times before
that mother died. A stork had brought Johnnie, too--and Grandpa, Mrs.
Kukor, the Prince of Wales, the janitress; in fact, every one.
"I wonder what kind of a stork was it that fetched _Big Tom_!" Johnnie
once had exclaimed, straightway visioning a black and forbidding bird.
Storks, according to Cis, were as bashful as they were clever, and did
not come into sight if any one was watching. They were big enough to be
seen easily, however, as proven by this: frequently one of them came
floating down with twins!
"Down from where?" Johnnie had wanted to know, liking to have his
knowledge definite.
"From their nests, silly," Cis had returned. But had been forced to
confess that she did not know where storks built their nests. "In
Central Park, I guess," she had added. (Central Park was as good a place
as any.)
"Oh, you guess!" Johnnie had returned, disgusted.
He had never given up his watching, nor his hope of some day seeing a
big baby-bringer. He searched his sky patch now. But could see only the
darting sparrows and, farther away, some larger birds that wheeled
gracefully above the city. Many of these were seagulls. The others were
pigeons, and Cis had told him that people ate them. This fact hurt him,
and he tried not to think about it, but only of their flight. He envied
them their freedom in the vast milkiness, their power to penetrate it.
Beyond the large birds, and surely as far away as the sun ever was, some
great, puffy clouds of a blinding white were shouldering one another as
they sailed northward.
Out of the wisdom possessed by one of her advanced age, Cis had told him
several astonishing things about this field of sky. What Barber
considered a troublesome, meddlesome, wasteful school law was, at
bottom, responsible for her knowing much that was true and considerable
which Johnnie held was not. And one of her unbelievable statements (this
from his standpoint) was to the effect that his sky patch was constantly
changing,--yes, as frequently as every minute--because the earth was
steadily moving. And she had added the horrifying declaration that this
movement was in the nature of _a spin_, so that, at night, the whole of
New York City, including skyscrapers, bridges, water, streets, vehicles
and population, _was upside down in the air_!
"Aw, it ain't so!" he cried, though Cis reminded him (and rather
sternly, for her) that in doing so he was questioning a teacher who drew
a magnificent salary for spreading just such statements. "And if they
pay her all that money, they're crazy! Don't y' know that if we was t'
come upside down, the chimnies'd fall off all the buildin's? and East
River'd _spill_?"
Cis countered with a demonstration. She filled Big Tom's lunch pail with
water and whirled it, losing not a drop.
But he went further, and proved her wrong--that is so far as the
upside-down of it was concerned. He did this by staying awake the whole
of the following night and noting that the city stayed right-side up
throughout the long hours. Cis, poor girl, had been pitifully
misinformed.
But the changing of the sky he believed. He believed it because at night
there was the kind of sky overhead that had stars in it; also,
sometimes, a moon. But by dawn, the starred sky was gone--been left
behind, or got slipped to one side; in its place was a plain,
unpatterned stretch of Heaven which, in due time, was once more
succeeded by a firmament adorned and a-twinkle.
When Cis returned home one evening and declared that the forewoman at
the factory had asserted that there were stars everywhere in the sky by
day as well as by night, and no plain spots at all anywhere; and,
further, that if anybody were at the bottom of a deep well he--or
she--could see stars in the sky in the daytime, Johnnie had fairly
hooted at the tale. And had finally won Cis over to his side.
Her last doubt fled when, having gone down into a dark corner of the
area the Sunday following, she found, as did he, that no stars were to
be seen anywhere. After that she believed in his theory of starless
sky-spots; starless, but not plain. For in addition to the sun, many
other things lent interest to that field of blue--clouds, rain, sleet,
snow, and fog, all in their time or season. Also, besides the birds, he
occasionally glimpsed whole sheets of newspapers as they ambitiously
voyaged above the house tops. And how he longed for them to blow against
his own window, so that he might read them through and through!
Sometimes he saw a flying machine. The first one that had floated across
his sky had very nearly been the death of him. Because, forgetting
danger in his rapturous excitement, he had leaned out dangerously, and
might have fallen if he had not suddenly thought of Grandpa, and thrown
himself backward into the kitchen to fetch the wheel chair. The little
old soldier had only been mildly diverted by the sight. Johnnie,
however, had viewed the passing of the biplane in amaze, though later on
he came to accept the conquest of the air as just one more marvel in a
world of marvels.
But his wonder in the sky itself never lessened. About its width he did
not ponder, never having seen more than a narrow portion of it since he
was big enough to do much thinking. But, oh, the depth of it! He could
see no sign of a limit to that, and Mrs. Kukor declared there was none,
but that it reached on and on and on and on! To what? Just to more of
the on and on. It never stopped.
One night Cis and he, bent over the lip of the window, she upholstered
on a certain excelsior-filled pillow which was very dear to her, and he
padded by Big Tom's cast-offs, had attempted to realize what Mrs. Kukor
had said. "On--and on--and on--and on," they had murmured. Until finally
just the trying to comprehend it had become overpowering, terrible. Cis
declared that if they kept at it she would certainly become dizzy and
fall out. And so they had stopped.
But Johnnie was not afraid to think about it, awful as it was. It was
at night, mostly, that he did his thinking. At night the birds he loved
were all asleep. But so was Barber; and Johnnie, with no fear of
interruption, could separate himself from the world, could mentally kick
it away from under him, and lightly project his thin little body up to
the stars.
Whenever fog or clouds screened the sky patch, hiding the stars, a
radiance was thrown upon the heavens by the combined lights of the
city--a radiance which, Johnnie thought, came from above; and he was
always half expecting a strange moon to come pushing through the cloud
screen, or a new sun, or a premature dawn!
Now looking up into the deep blue he murmured, "On--and--on--and on," to
himself. And he wondered if the gulls or the pigeons ever went so far
into the blue that they lost their way, and never came back--but just
flew, and flew, and flew, till weariness overcame them, when they
dropped, and dropped, and dropped, and dropped!
A window went up in front of him, across the area, and a voice began to
call at him mockingly: "Girl's hair! Girl's hair! All he's got is girl's
hair! All he's got is girl's hair!"
He started back as if from a blow. Then reaching a quick hand to the
sash, he closed the window and stepped down.
The voice belonged to a boy who had once charged Mrs. Kukor with going
to church on a Saturday. But even as Johnnie left the sill he felt no
anger toward the boy save on Mrs. Kukor's account. Because he knew that
his hair _was_ like a girl's. If the boy criticized it, that was no more
than Johnnie constantly did himself.
The second his feet touched the splintery floor he made toward the
table, caught up the teapot, went to lean his head over the sink, and
poured upon his offending locks the whole remaining contents of the
pot--leaves and all. For Cis (that mine of wisdom) had told him that
tea was darkening in its effect, not only upon the lining of the tummy,
which was an interesting thought, but upon hair. And while he did not
care what color he was inside, darker hair he longed to possess. So, his
bright tangles a-drip, he set the teapot in among the unwashed pans and
fell to rubbing the tea into his scalp.
And now at last he was ready to begin the really important matters of
the day.
But just which of many should he choose for his start? He stood still
for a moment, considering, and a look came into his face that was all
pure radiance.
High in the old crumbling building, as cut off from the world about him
as if he were stranded with Grandpa on some mountain top, he did not
fret about being shut in and away; he was glad of it. He was spared the
taunts of boys who did not like his hair or his clothes; but also he had
the whole flat to himself. Day after day there was no one to make him do
this, or stop his doing that. He could handle what he liked, dig around
in any corner or box, eat when he wished. Most important of all, he
could think what he pleased!
He never dwelt for any length of time upon unhappy pictures--those which
had in them hate or revenge. His brain busied itself usually with places
and people and events which brought him happiness.
For instance, how he could travel! And all for nothing! His calloused
feet tucked round the legs of the kitchen chair, his body relaxed, his
expression as rapt as any Buddhist priest's, his big hands locked about
his knees, and his eyes fastened upon a spot on the wall, he could
forsake the Barber flat, could go forth, as if out of his own body, to
visit any number of wonderful lands which lay so near that he could
cross their borders in a moment. He could sail vast East Rivers in
marvelous tugs. He could fly superbly over great cities in his own
aeroplane.
And all this travel brought him into contact with just the sort of men
and women he wanted to know, so politely kind, so interesting. They
never tired of him, nor he of them. He was with them when he wanted to
be--instantly. Or they came to the flat in the friendliest way. And when
its unpleasant duties claimed him--the Monday wash, the Tuesday ironing,
the Saturday scrubbing, or the regular everyday jobs such as dishes,
beds, cooking, bead-stringing, and violet-making--frequently they helped
him, lightening his work with their charming companionship, stimulating
him with their example and praise.
Oh, they were just perfect!
And how quiet, every one of them! So often when the longshoreman
returned of an evening, his bloodshot eyes roving suspiciously, a crowd
of handsomely dressed people filled the kitchen, and he threaded that
crowd, yet never guessed! When Big Tom spoke, the room usually cleared;
but later on Johnnie could again summon all with no trouble whatever,
whether they were great soldiers or presidents, kings or millionaires.
Of the latter he was especially fond; in particular, of a certain four.
And as he paused now to decide upon his program, he thought of that
quartet. Why not give them a call on the telephone this morning?
He headed for the morris chair. Under its soiled seat-cushion was a
ragged copy of the New York telephone directory, which just nicely
filled in the sag between the cushion and the bottom of the chair. He
took the directory out--as carefully as if it were some volume not
possible of duplication.
It was his only book. Once, while Cis was still attending school, he had
shared her speller and her arithmetic, and made them forever his own
(though he did not realize it yet) by the simple method of photographing
each on his brain--page by page. And it was lucky that he did; for when
Cis's brief schooldays came to an end, Big Tom took the two textbooks
out with him one morning and sold them.
The directory was the prized gift of Mrs. Kukor's daughter, Mrs.
Reisenberger, who was married to a pawnbroker, very rich, and who
occupied an apartment (not a flat)--very fine, very expensive--in a
great Lexington Avenue building that had an elevator, and a uniformed
black elevator man, very stylish. The directory meant more to Johnnie
than ever had Cis's books. He knew its small-typed pages from end to
end. Among the splendid things it advertised, front, back, and at the
bottom of its pages, were many he admired. And he owned these whenever
he felt like it, whether automobiles or animals, cash registers or
eyeglasses. But such possessions, fine as they were, took second place
in his interest. What thrilled him was the list of subscribers--the
living, breathing thousands that waited his call at the other end of a
wire! And what people they were!--the world-celebrated, the fabulously
wealthy, the famously beautiful (as Cis herself declared), and the
socially elect!
Of course there was still others who were prominent, such as
storekeepers, prize fighters, hotel owners and the like (again it was
Cis who furnished the data). But Johnnie, as has been seen, aimed high
always; and he was particular in the matter of his telephonic
associations. Except when shopping, he made a strict rule to ring up
only the most superior.
There was a clothesline strung down the whole length of the kitchen.
This Johnnie lowered on a washday to his own easy reach. At other times
it was raised out of the way of Big Tom's head.
He let the line down. Then pushing the kitchen chair to that end of the
rope which was farthest from the stove and the sleeping old man, he
stood upon it; and having considered a moment whether he would first
call up Mr. Astor, or Mr. Vanderbilt, or Mr. Carnegie, or Mr.
Rockefeller, decided upon Mr. Astor, and gave a number to a priceless
Central who was promptness itself, who never rang the wrong bell, or
reported a busy wire, or cut him off in the midst of an engrossing
conversation.
This morning, as usual, he got his number at once. "Good-mornin', Mister
Astor!" he hailed breezily. "This is Johnnie Smith.--'Oh, good-mornin',
Mister Smith! How are y'?'--I'm fine!--'That's fine!'--How are you,
Mister Astor?--'Oh, I'm fine.'--That's fine!--'I was just wonderin',
Mister Smith, if you would like to go out ridin' with me.'--Yes, I
would, Mister Astor. I think it'd be fine!--'Y' would? Well, that's
fine! And, Mister Smith, I'll come by for y' in about ten minutes. And
if ye'd like to take a friend along----'"
There now followed, despite the appointment set for so early a moment, a
long and confidential exchange of views on a variety of subjects. When
this was finished, Johnnie rang, in turn, Messrs. Vanderbilt, Carnegie
and Rockefeller, sparing these gentlemen all the time in the world.
(When any one of them did indeed call for him, fulfilling an
appointment, what a gorgeous blue plush hat the millionaire wore! and
what a royally fur-collared coat!)
Now Johnnie put aside the important engagement he had made with Mr.
Astor, and, being careful first to find the right numbers in the book,
got in touch with numerous large concerns, and ordered jewelry,
bicycles, limousines, steam boilers and paper drinking cups with
magnificent lavishness.
He had finished ordering his tenth automobile, which was to be done up
in red velvet to match the faithful Buckle, when there fell upon his
quick ear the sound of a step. In the next instant he let go of the
clothesline, sent the telephone book slipping from the chair at his
feet, and plunged like a swimmer toward that loose ball of gingham under
the sink.
And not a moment too soon; for scarcely had he tossed the tied strings
over his tea-leaf-sprinkled hair, when the door opened, and there, coat
on arm, great chest heaving from his climb, bulgy eyes darting to mark
the condition of the flat, stood--Barber!
CHAPTER V
NEW FRIENDS
IT WAS an awful moment.
During that moment there was dead silence. Johnnie's heart stopped
beating, his ears sang, his throat knotted as if paralyzed, and the skin
on the back of his head crinkled; while in all those uneven thickets of
his tawny, tea-stained hair, small, dreadful winds stirred, and he
seemed to lift--horribly--away from the floor.
Also, a sickish, sinking feeling at the lower end of his breastbone made
him certain that he was about to break in two; and a sudden wobbling of
the knees threatened to bring him down upon them.
Barber closed the hall door at his back--gently, so as not to waken his
father. His eyes were still roving the kitchen appraisingly. It was
plain that the full sink and the littered table were having their effect
upon him; for he had begun that chewing on nothing which betokened a
rising temper.
Johnnie saw, but he was too stunned and scared to think of any way out
of his difficulty. He might have caught up the big cooking spoon and
rapped on that lead pipe--five times in rapid succession, as if he were
trying to clear the spoon of the cereal clinging to its bowl. The five
raps was a signal that he had not used for a long time. It belonged to
that dreadful era to which Cis and he referred as "before the saloons
shut up." Preceding the miracle that had brought the closing of these,
Barber, returning home from his day's work, had needed no excuse for
using the strap or his boot upon either of the children. And once he had
struck helpless old Grandpa--a happening remembered by Cis and Johnnie
with awesome horror, so that they spoke of it as they spoke of the Great
War, or of a murder in the next block.
It had not been possible in those days for Big Tom to overlook the
temptation of drink. To arrive at his own door from any direction he had
to pass saloons. At both of the nearest street crossings northward,
three of the four corners had been occupied by drinking places. There
were two at each of the street crossings to the south. In those now
distant times, the signal, and Mrs. Kukor's prompt answering of it, had
often saved Cis and Johnnie from drunken beatings.
But now the boy sent no signal. Those big-girl's hands were shaking in
spite of all effort to control. His upturned face was a ghastly sallow.
The gray eyes were set.
Barber's survey of the room finished, he stepped across the sagging
telephone line, placed the cargo hook and his lunch pail on the untidy
table, and squared round upon Johnnie.
"Now, say!"
"Yes?" It was a whisper.
"What y' done in here since I left two hours ago?"
Johnnie drew a quick breath. He was not given to falsehood, but he did
at times depend upon evasion--at such times as this. And not
unnaturally. For he was in the absolute power of a bully five times his
own size--a bully who was none the less cruel because he argued that he
was disciplining the boy properly, bringing him up "right." Discipline
or not, Big Tom did not know the meaning of mercy; and to Johnnie the
blow of one of those great gorillalike fists was like some cataclysm of
nature.
"What y' done?" persisted Barber, but speaking low, so as not to
disturb the sleeper in the wheel chair. He leaned down toward Johnnie,
and thrust out that lower lip.
The boy's own lips began to move, stiffly. But he spoke as if he were
out of breath. "Grandpa f-f-fretted," he stammered. "He--he wanted to be
run up and down--with his hat on. And--and so I filled the
m-m-mush-kettle t' soak it, and then we--we----"
His lips went on moving; but his words became inaudible. A smile was
twisting Barber's mouth, and carrying that crooked, cavernous nose
sidewise. Johnnie understood the smile. The fringe about his thin arms
and legs began to tremble. He raised both hands toward the longshoreman,
the palms outward, in a gesture that was like a silent prayer.
With a muttered curse, Barber straightened, turned on his heel, strode
to the door of his bedroom, threw it wide, noted the unmade beds, and
came about, pushing at the sleeve of his right arm. "Come here," he
bade, and the quiet of his tone was more terrible to the boy than if he
had shouted.
Johnnie did not obey. He could not. His legs would not move. His feet
were rooted. "Oh, Mister Barber," he pleaded. "Oh, don't lick me! I
won't never do it again! Oh, don't! Oh, don't! Oh, don't!"
"Come here." The great arm was bared now. The voice was lower than
before. In one bulging, bloodshot eye that cast showed and went, then
showed again. "Do what I say--come here."
"Oh! oh! oh!" Again Johnnie was gasping.
Barber burst out at him like some fierce storm. "Don't y' try t' fool
_me_!" he cried. He came on. When he was within reach, that great,
naked, iron arm shot out, seized the boy at his middle, swept him up
from the floor with a violence that sent the tea leaves flying from the
yellow hair, held him for a second in mid-air, the small body slouched
in the big clothes as in the bottom of a sack, then shook him till he
fairly rattled, like a pea in a pod.
In a terror that was uncontrollable, Johnnie began to thrash about and
scream. And as Barber half dropped, half flung him to the floor, old
Grandpa roused, and came round in his chair, tap-tapping with the cane.
"Captain!" he shrilled. "The right's falling back! They're giving us
grape and canister!--Oh, our boys! Our poor boys!" Frightened by any
trouble, his mind always reverted to old scenes of battle, when his
broken sentences were like a halting, squeaky record in some talking
machine that is out of order and running down.
As Grandpa rolled near to Johnnie, the latter caught at a wheel, seeking
help, in his extremity, of the helpless, and thrust his hands through
the spokes to lock them. So that as Barber once more bent and dragged at
him, the chair and the old man followed about the kitchen.
"Let go!" commanded the longshoreman. He tried to shake Johnnie free of
the wheel.
But Johnnie held on, and his cries redoubled. The kitchen was in a
tumult now, for old Grandpa was also weeping--not only in fear for
Johnnie, but in terror lest he himself be overturned. And Big Tom was
alternately cursing and ordering.
The trouble was heard elsewhere. To right and left there was movement,
and the sound of windows being raised. Voices called out questioningly.
Some one pounded on a wall in protest. And overhead Mrs. Kukor left her
chair and went rocking across her floor.
Muttering a savage exclamation, Big Tom let go of the boy and flung
himself into the morris chair, not wanting to go so far with his
punishment as to invite the complaints of his neighbors and the
interference of the police. "Git up out of that!" he commanded, giving
Johnnie a rough nudge with a foot; then to quiet his father, "Now, Pa!
That'll do. Sh! sh! It's all right. The battle's over, and the Yanks've
beat."
But Johnnie was still prone, with the wheel in his embrace, and the old
veteran was sobbing, his wrinkled face glistening with tears, when Mrs.
Kukor opened the door and came doll-walking in.
She was a short little lady, with a compact, inflexible figure that was,
so to speak, square, with rounded-off corners--square, and solid, and
heavy. She had eyes that were as black and round and bright as a
sparrow's, a full, red mouth, and graying hair, abundant and crinkly,
which stood out around her countenance as if charged with electricity.
It escaped the hairpins. Even a knitted brown cap of some weight did not
adequately confine it. Every hair seemed vividly alive.
Her olive face was a trifle pale now. Her birdlike eyes darted from one
to another of the trio, quickly taking in the situation. Too concerned
to make any apology for her unannounced entrance, she teetered hastily
to Big Tom's side.
"Oy! oy!" she breathed anxiously. "Vot iss?"
"Tommie home," faltered old Grandpa. "Tommie home. And the color
sergeant's dead!" He reached his arms out to her like a frightened child
who welcomes company.
Like her eyes, Mrs. Kukor's lips never rested, going even when she
listened, for she had the habit of silently repeating whatever was said.
Thus, with lips and eyes busy, head alternately wagging and nodding
eloquently, and both hands waving, she was constantly in motion. Now,
"The color sergeant's dead!" her mouth framed, and she gave a swift
glance around almost as if she expected to see a fallen flag bearer.
"It's this lazy little rascal again," declared Barber, working his jaws
in baffled wrath.
"So-o-o-o!" She stooped and laid a gentle hand on Johnnie's shoulder.
"Come," she said. "Better Chonnie, he goes in a liddle by Cis's room.
No?" And as the boy, still trembling, got to his knees beside the chair,
she helped him to rise, and half led, half carried him past the stove.
Barber began his defense. "I go out o' here of a mornin'," he
complained, "to do a hard day's work, so's I can pay rent and the
grocer. I leave that kid t' do a few little things 'round the place. And
the minute my back's turned, what does he do? Nothin'! I come back, and
look!"
Mrs. Kukor, having seen Johnnie out of the room, turned about. Then,
smoothing her checked apron with her plump hands, she glanced at Barber
with a deprecating smile. "I haf look," she answered. "Und I know.
But--he wass yust a poy, und you know poys."
"I know boys have t' work," came back Barber, righteously. "If they
don't, they grow up into no-account men. When his Aunt Sophie died, I
promised her I'd raise him right. The work here don't amount to
nothin',--anyhow not if you compare it with what I done when _I_ was a
boy. Why, on my father's farm, up-state, I was out of my bed before
sunup, winter and summer, doin' chores, milkin', waterin' the stock,
hoein', and so on. What's a few dishes to _that_? What's a bed or two?
and a little sweepin'? And look! He ain't even washed the old man yet!
And I like to see my father clean and neat. That's what makes me so
red-hot, Mrs. Kukor--the way he neglects my father."
"Chonnie wass shut up so much," argued Mrs. Kukor.
That cast whitened Big Tom's eye anxiously. He did not want Johnnie to
hear any talk about going out. He hastened to reply, and his tone was
more righteous than ever. "No kid out of this flat is goin' to run the
streets," he declared, "and learn all kinds of bad, and bring it home to
that nice, little stepdaughter o' mine! No, Mrs. Kukor, her mother'd
haunt me if I didn't bring her up nice, and you can bet I'll do that.
That kid, long's he stays under my roof, is goin' t' be fit t' stay. And
he wouldn't be if he gadded the streets with the gangs in this part of
town." While this excuse for keeping Johnnie indoors was anything but
the correct one, Big Tom was able to make his voice fervent.
"But Chonnie wass tired mit always seeink the kitchen," persisted the
little Jewish lady. "He did-ent go out now for a lo-ong times. I got
surprises he ain't crazy!"
"That's just what he _is_!" cried Big Tom, triumphantly. "He's crazy! Of
all the foolishness in the world, he can think it up! And the things he
does!--but nothin' that'll ever git him anywh
|
, but still she spoke not. There seemed a sorrow at
her breast, which made her lip tremble, yet her eye was tearless.
Charles refrained to utter the joy which swelled in his bosom, for he
saw she was unhappy. He put his arm round her neck, and leaned his head
on her shoulder. As evening approached, they drew near the spot, where
she understood she must part from him. Then Charles said eagerly to her,
"Oh, go home with me to my father's house. Yes, yes, come all of you
with me, my dear, good people, that all of us may thank you together for
having saved my life."
"No," she answered sorrowfully: "I could not bear to see thy mother fold
thee in her arms, and to know that thou wert mine no more. Since thou
hast told me of thy God, and that he listened to prayer, my prayer has
been lifted up to Him night and day, that thy heart might find rest in
an Indian home. But this is over. Henceforth, my path and my soul are
desolate. Yet go thy way, to thy mother, that she may have joy when she
rises up in the morning, and at night goes to rest."
Her tears fell down like rain, as she embraced him, and they lifted him
upon the bank. And eager as he was to meet his parents, and his beloved
sister, he lingered to watch the boat as it glided away. He saw that she
raised not her head, nor uncovered her face. He remembered her long and
true kindness, and asked God to bless and reward her, as he hastened
over the well known space that divided him from his native village.
His heart beat so thick as almost to suffocate him, when he saw his
father's roof. It was twilight, and the trees where he used to gather
apples, were in full and fragrant bloom. Half breathless, he rushed in
at the door. His father was reading in the parlour, and rose coldly to
meet him. So changed was his person, and dress, that he did not know his
son. But the mother shrieked. She knew the blue eye, that no misery of
garb could change. She sprang to embrace him, and fainted. It was a keen
anguish to him, that his mother thus should suffer. Little Caroline
clung around his neck, and as he kissed her, he whispered "Remember, God
sees, and punishes the disobedient." His pale mother lifted up her head,
and drew him from his father's arms, upon the bed, beside her. "Father,
Mother," said the delighted boy, "forgive me." They both assured him of
their love, and his father looking upward said, "My God, I thank thee!
for this my son was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is
found."
Childhood's Piety.
If the meek faith that Jesus taught,
Admission fail to gain
Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,
Where dwell a haughty train,
Turn to the humble hearth and see
The Mother's tender care,
Luring the nursling on her knee
To link the words of prayer:
Or to the little bed, where kneels
The child with heaven-raised eye,
And all its guileless soul reveals
To Him who rules the sky;
Where the young babe's first lispings keep
So bright the parents tear,
The "_Now, I lay me down to sleep_,"
That angels love to hear.
Frank Ludlow.
"It is time Frank and Edward were at home," said Mrs. Ludlow. So she
stirred and replenished the fire, for it was a cold winter's evening.
"Mother, you gave them liberty to stay and play after school," said
little Eliza.
"Yes, my daughter, but the time is expired. I wish my children to come
home at the appointed time, as well as to obey me in all other things.
The stars are already shining, and they are not allowed to stay out so
late."
"Dear mother, I think I hear their voices now." Little Eliza climbed
into a chair, and drawing aside the window-curtain, said joyfully, "O
yes, they are just coming into the piazza."
Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the kitchen, and see that the bread was
toasted nice and warm, for their bowls of milk which had been some time
ready.
Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine boys, of eleven and nine years old.
They returned in high spirits, from their sport on the frozen pond. They
hung up their skates in the proper place, and then hastened to kiss
their mother.
"We have stayed longer at play than we ought, my dear mother," said
Edward.
"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said Mrs. Ludlow.
"Edward reminded me twice," said Frank, "that we ought to go home. But
O, it was such excellent skating, that I could not help going round the
pond a few times more. We left all the boys there when we came away. The
next time, we will try to be as true as the town-clock. And it is not
Edward's fault now, mother."
"My sons, I always expect you to leave your sports, at the time that I
appoint. I know that you do not intend to disobey, or to give me
anxiety. But you must take pains to be punctual. When you become men, it
will be of great importance that you observe your engagements. Unless
you perform what is expected of you, at the proper time, people will
cease to have confidence in you."
The boys promised to be punctual and obedient, and their mother assured
them, that they were not often forgetful of these important duties.
Eliza came in with the bread nicely toasted, for their supper.
"What a good little one, to be thinking of her brothers, when they are
away. Come, sweet sister, sit between us."
Eliza felt very happy, when her brothers each gave her a kiss, and she
looked up in their faces, with a sweet smile.
The evening meal was a pleasant one. The mother and her children talked
cheerfully together. Each had some little agreeable circumstance to
relate, and they felt how happy it is for a family to live in love.
After supper, books and maps were laid on the table, and Mrs. Ludlow
said,
"Come boys, you go to school every day, and your sister does not. It is
but fair that you should teach her something. First examine her in the
lessons she has learned with me, and then you may add some gift of
knowledge from your own store."
So Frank overlooked her geography, and asked her a few questions on the
map; and Edward explained to her a little arithmetic, and told a story
from the history of England, with which she was much pleased. Soon she
grew sleepy, and kissing her brothers, wished them an affectionate
good-night. Her mother went with her, to see her laid comfortably in
bed, and to hear her repeat her evening hymns, and thank her Father in
heaven, for his care of her through the day.
When Mrs. Ludlow returned to the parlour, she found her sons busily
employed in studying their lessons for the following day. She sat down
beside them with her work, and when they now and then looked up from
their books, they saw that their diligence was rewarded by her approving
eye.
When they had completed their studies, they replaced the books which
they had used, in the bookcase, and drew their chairs nearer to the
fire. The kind mother joined them, with a basket of fruit, and while
they partook of it, they had the following conversation.
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I should like to hear, my dear boys, more of what you
have learned to-day."
_Frank._ "I have been much pleased with a book that I borrowed of one of
the boys. Indeed, I have hardly thought of any thing else. I must
confess that I put it inside of my geography, and read it while the
master thought I was studying."
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I am truly sorry, Frank, that you should be willing to
deceive. What are called _boy's tricks_, too often lead to falsehood,
and end in disgrace. On this occasion you cheated yourself also. You
lost the knowledge which you might have gained, for the sake of what, I
suppose, was only some book of amusement."
_Frank._ "Mother, it was the life of Charles the XII. of Sweden. You
know that he was the bravest soldier of his times. He beat the king of
Denmark, when he was only eighteen years old. Then he defeated the
Russians, at the battle of Narva, though they had 80,000 soldiers, and
he had not a quarter of that number."
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "How did he die?"
_Frank._ "He went to make war in Norway. It was a terribly severe
winter, but he feared no hardship. The cold was so great, that his
sentinels were often found frozen to death at their posts. He was
besieging a town called Frederickshall. It was about the middle of
December. He gave orders that they should continue to work on the
trenches, though the feet of the soldiers were benumbed, and their hands
froze to the tools. He got up very early one morning, to see if they
were at their work. The stars shone clear and bright on the snow that
covered every thing. Sometimes a firing was heard from the enemy. But he
was too courageous to mind that. Suddenly, a cannon-shot struck him, and
he fell. When they took him up, his forehead was beat in, but his right
hand still strongly grasped the sword. Mother, was not that dying like a
brave man?"
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "I should think there was more of rashness than bravery
in thus exposing himself, for no better reason. Do you not feel that it
was cruel to force his soldiers to such labours in that dreadful
climate, and to make war when it was not necessary? The historians say
that he undertook it, only to fill up an interval of time, until he
could be prepared for his great campaign in Poland. So, to amuse his
restless mind, he was willing to destroy his own soldiers, willing to
see even his most faithful friends frozen every morning into statues.
Edward, tell me what you remember."
_Edward._ "My lesson in the history of Rome, was the character of
Antoninus Pius. He was one of the best of the Roman Emperors. While he
was young, he paid great respect to the aged, and when he grew rich he
gave liberally to the poor. He greatly disliked war. He said he had
'rather save the life of one subject, than destroy a thousand enemies.'
Rome was prosperous and happy, under his government. He reigned 22
years, and died, with many friends surrounding his bed, at the age of
74."
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "Was he not beloved by the people whom he ruled? I have
read that they all mourned at his death, as if they had lost a father.
Was it not better to be thus lamented, than to be remembered only by the
numbers he had slain, and the miseries he had caused?"
_Frank._ "But mother, the glory of Charles the XII. of Sweden, was
certainly greater than that of a quiet old man, who, I dare say, was
afraid to fight. Antoninus Pius was clever enough, but you cannot deny
that Alexander, and Cæsar, and Bonaparte, had far greater talents. They
will be called heroes and praised, as long as the world stands."
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "My dear children, those talents should be most admired,
which produce the greatest good. That fame is the highest, which best
agrees with our duty to God and man. Do not be dazzled by the false
glory that surrounds the hero. Consider it your glory to live in peace,
and to make others happy. Believe me, when you come to your death-beds,
and oh, how soon will that be, for the longest life is short, it will
give you more comfort to reflect that you have healed one broken heart,
given one poor child the means of education, or sent to one heathen the
book of salvation, than that you lifted your hand to destroy your
fellow-creatures, and wrung forth the tears of widows and of orphans."
The hour of rest had come, and the mother opened the large family Bible,
that they might together remember and thank Him, who had preserved them
through the day. When Frank and Edward took leave of her for the night,
they were grieved to see that there were tears in her eyes. They
lingered by her side, hoping she would tell them if any thing had
troubled her. But she only said, "My sons, my dear sons, before you
sleep, pray to God for a heart to love peace."
After they had retired, Frank said to his brother,
"I cannot feel that it is wrong to be a soldier. Was not our father one?
I shall never forget the fine stories he used to tell me about battles,
when I was almost a baby. I remember that I used to climb up on his
knee, and put my face close to his. Then I used to dream of prancing
horses, and glittering swords, and sounding trumpets, and wake up and
wish I was a soldier. Indeed, Edward, I wish so now. But I cannot tell
dear mother what is in my heart, for it would grieve her."
"No, no, don't tell her so, dear Frank, and pray, never be a soldier. I
have heard her say, that father's ill health, and most of his troubles,
came from the life that he led in camps. He said on his death-bed, that
if he could live his youth over again, he would be a meek follower of
the Saviour, and not a man of blood."
"Edward, our father was engaged in the war of the Revolution, without
which we should all have been slaves. Do you pretend to say that it was
not a holy war?"
"I pretend to say nothing, brother, only what the Bible says, Render to
no man evil for evil, but follow after the things that make for peace."
The boys had frequent conversations on the subject of war and peace.
Their opinions still continued to differ. Their love for their mother,
prevented their holding these discourses often in her presence; for they
perceived that Frank's admiration of martial renown gave her increased
pain. She devoted her life to the education and happiness of her
children. She secured for them every opportunity in her power, for the
acquisition of useful knowledge, and both by precept and example urged
them to add to their "knowledge, temperance, and to temperance,
brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness, charity."
This little family were models of kindness and affection among
themselves. Each strove to make the others happy. Their fire-side was
always cheerful, and the summer evening walks which the mother took with
her children were sources both of delight and improvement.
Thus years passed away. The young saplings which they had cherished grew
up to be trees, and the boys became men. The health of the kind and
faithful mother became feeble. At length, she visibly declined. But she
wore on her brow the same sweet smile which had cheered their childhood.
Eliza watched over her, night and day, with the tenderest care. She was
not willing that any other hand should give the medicine, or smooth the
pillow of the sufferer. She remembered the love that had nurtured her
own childhood, and wished to perform every office that grateful
affection could dictate.
Edward had completed his collegiate course, and was studying at a
distant seminary, to prepare himself for the ministry. He had sustained
a high character as a scholar, and had early chosen his place among the
followers of the Redeemer. As often as was in his power, he visited his
beloved parent, during her long sickness, and his letters full of fond
regard, and pious confidence, continually cheered her.
Frank resided at home. He had chosen to pursue the business of
agriculture, and superintended their small family estate. He had an
affectionate heart, and his attentions to his declining mother, were
unceasing. In her last moments he stood by her side. His spirit was
deeply smitten, as he supported his weeping sister, at the bed of the
dying. Pain had departed, and the meek Christian patiently awaited the
coming of her Lord. She had given much council to her children, and sent
tender messages to the absent one. She seemed to have done speaking. But
while they were uncertain whether she yet breathed, she raised her eyes
once more to her first-born, and said faintly, "My son, follow peace
with all men."
These were her last words. They listened attentively, but her voice was
heard no more.
Edward Ludlow was summoned to the funeral of his beloved mother. After
she was committed to the dust, he remained a few days to mingle his
sympathies with his brother and sister. He knew how to comfort them, out
of the Scriptures, for therein was his hope, in all time of his
tribulation.
Frank listened to all his admonitions, with a serious countenance, and a
sorrowful heart. He loved his brother with great ardour, and to the
mother for whom they mourned, he had always been dutiful. Yet she had
felt painfully anxious for him to the last, because he had not made
choice of religion for his guide, and secretly coveted the glory of the
warrior.
After he became the head of the household, he continued to take the
kindest care of his sister, who prudently managed all his affairs, until
his marriage. The companion whom he chose was a most amiable young
woman, whose society and friendship greatly cheered the heart of Eliza.
There seemed to be not a shadow over the happiness of that small and
loving family.
But in little more than a year after Frank's marriage, the second war
between this country and Great Britain commenced. Eliza trembled as she
saw him possessing himself of all its details, and neglecting his
business to gather and relate every rumour of war. Still she relied on
his affection for his wife, to retain him at home. She could not
understand the depth and force of the passion that prompted him to be a
soldier.
At length he rashly enlisted. It was a sad night for that affectionate
family, when he informed them that he must leave them and join the army.
His young wife felt it the more deeply, because she had but recently
buried a new-born babe. He comforted her as well as he could. He assured
her that his regiment would not probably be stationed at any great
distance, that he would come home as often as possible, and that she
should constantly receive letters from him. He told her that she could
not imagine how restless and miserable he had been in his mind, ever
since war was declared. He could not bear to have his country insulted,
and take no part in her defence. Now, he said, he should again feel a
quiet conscience, because he had done his duty, that the war would
undoubtedly soon be terminated, and then he should return home, and they
would all be happy together. He hinted at the promotion which courage
might win, but such ambition had no part in his wife's gentler nature.
He begged her not to distress him by her lamentations, but to let him
go away with a strong heart, like a hero.
When his wife and sister found that there was no alternative, they
endeavoured to comply with his request, and to part with him as calmly
as possible. So Frank Ludlow went to be a soldier. He was twenty-five
years old, a tall, handsome, and healthful young man. At the regimental
trainings in his native town, he had often been told how well he looked
in a military dress. This had flattered his vanity. He loved martial
music, and thought he should never be tired of serving his country.
But a life in camps has many evils, of which those who dwell at home are
entirely ignorant. Frank Ludlow scorned to complain of hardships, and
bore fatigue and privation, as well as the best. He was undoubtedly a
brave man, and never seemed in higher spirits, than when preparing for
battle.
When a few months had past, the novelty of his situation wore off. There
were many times in which he thought of his quiet home, and his dear wife
and sister, until his heart was heavy in his bosom. He longed to see
them, but leave of absence could not be obtained. He felt so unhappy,
that he thought he could not endure it, and, always moved more by
impulse than principle, absconded to visit them.
When he returned to the regiment, it was to be disgraced for
disobedience. Thus humbled before his comrades, he felt indignant and
disgusted. He knew it was according to the rules of war, but he hoped
that _he_ might have been excused.
Some time after, a letter from home informed him of the birth of an
infant. His feelings as a father were strong, and he yearned to see it.
He attempted to obtain a furlough, but in vain. He was determined to
go, and so departed without leave. On the second day of his journey,
when at no great distance from the house, he was taken, and brought back
as a deserter.
The punishment that followed, made him loathe war, in all its forms. He
had seen it at a distance, in its garb of glory, and worshipped the
splendour that encircles the hero. But he had not taken into view the
miseries of the private soldier, nor believed that the cup of glory was
for others, and the dregs of bitterness for him. The patriotism of which
he had boasted, vanished like a shadow, in the hour of trial; for
ambition, and not principle, had induced him to become a soldier.
His state of mind rendered him an object of compassion. The strains of
martial music, which he once admired, were discordant to his ear. His
daily duties became irksome to him. He shunned conversation, and thought
continually of his sweet, forsaken home, of the admonitions of his
departed mother, and the disappointment of all his gilded hopes.
The regiment to which he was attached, was ordered to a distant part of
the country. It was an additional affliction to be so widely separated
from the objects of his love. In utter desperation he again deserted.
He was greatly fatigued, when he came in sight of his home. Its green
trees, and the fair fields which he so oft had tilled, smiled as an Eden
upon him. But he entered, as a lost spirit. His wife and sister wept
with joy, as they embraced him, and put his infant son into his arms.
Its smiles and caresses woke him to agony, for he knew he must soon take
his leave of it, perhaps for ever.
He mentioned that his furlough would expire in a few days, and that he
had some hopes when winter came of obtaining a substitute, and then they
would be parted no more. He strove to appear cheerful, but his wife and
sister saw that there was a weight upon his spirit, and a cloud on his
brow, which they had never perceived before. He started at every sudden
sound, for he feared that he should be sought for in his own house, and
taken back to the army.
When he dared no longer remain, he tore himself away, but not, as his
family supposed, to return to his duty. Disguising himself, he travelled
rapidly in a different direction, resolving to conceal himself in the
far west, or if necessary, to fly his country, rather than rejoin the
army.
But in spite of every precaution, he was recognized by a party of
soldiers, who carried him back to his regiment, having been three times
a deserter. He was bound, and taken to the guard-house, where a
court-martial convened, to try his offence.
It was now the summer of 1814. The morning sun shone forth brightly upon
rock, and hill, and stream. But the quiet beauty of the rural landscape
was vexed by the bustle and glare of a military encampment. Tent and
barrack rose up among the verdure, and the shrill, spirit-stirring bugle
echoed through the deep valley.
On the day of which we speak, the music seemed strangely subdued and
solemn. Muffled drums, and wind instruments mournfully playing,
announced the slow march of a procession. A pinioned prisoner came forth
from his confinement. A coffin of rough boards was borne before him. By
his side walked the chaplain, who had laboured to prepare his soul for
its extremity, and went with him as a pitying and sustaining spirit, to
the last verge of life.
The sentenced man wore a long white mantle, like a winding-sheet. On his
head was a cap of the same colour, bordered with black. Behind him,
several prisoners walked, two and two. They had been confined for
various offences, and a part of their punishment was to stand by, and
witness the fate of their comrade. A strong guard of soldiers, marched
in order, with loaded muskets, and fixed bayonets.
Such was the sad spectacle on that cloudless morning: a man in full
strength and beauty, clad in burial garments, and walking onward to his
grave. The procession halted at a broad open field. A mound of earth
freshly thrown up in its centre, marked the yawning and untimely grave.
Beyond it, many hundred men, drawn up in the form of a hollow square,
stood in solemn silence.
The voice of the officer of the day, now and then heard, giving brief
orders, or marshalling the soldiers, was low, and varied by feeling. In
the line, but not yet called forth, were eight men, drawn by lot as
executioners. They stood motionless, revolting from their office, but
not daring to disobey.
Between the coffin and the pit, he whose moments were numbered, was
directed to stand. His noble forehead, and quivering lips were alike
pale. Yet in his deportment there was a struggle for fortitude, like one
who had resolved to meet death unmoved.
"May I speak to the soldiers?" he said. It was the voice of Frank
Ludlow. Permission was given, and he spoke something of warning against
desertion, and something, in deep bitterness, against the spirit of war.
But his tones were so hurried and agitated, that their import could
scarcely be gathered.
The eye of the commanding officer was fixed on the watch which he held
in his hand. "The time has come," he said, "Kneel upon your coffin."
The cap was drawn over the eyes of the miserable man. He murmured, with
a stifled sob, "God, I thank thee, that my dear ones cannot see this."
Then from the bottom of his soul, burst forth a cry,
"O mother! mother! had I but believed"--
Ere the sentence was finished, a sword glittered in the sunbeam. It was
the death-signal. Eight soldiers advanced from the ranks. There was a
sharp report of arms. A shriek of piercing anguish. One convulsive leap.
And then a dead man lay between his coffin and his grave.
There was a shuddering silence. Afterwards, the whole line was directed
to march by the lifeless body, that every one might for himself see the
punishment of a deserter.
Suddenly, there was some confusion; and all eyes turned towards a
horseman, approaching at breathless speed. Alighting, he attempted to
raise the dead man, who had fallen with his face downward. Gazing
earnestly upon the rigid features, he clasped the mangled and bleeding
bosom to his own. Even the sternest veteran was moved, at the
heart-rending cry of "_Brother! O my brother!_"
No one disturbed the bitter grief which the living poured forth in
broken sentences over the dead.
"Gone to thine account! Gone to thine everlasting account! Is it indeed
thy heart's blood, that trickles warmly upon me? My brother, would that
I might have been with thee in thy dreary prison. Would that we might
have breathed together one more prayer, that I might have seen thee look
unto Jesus of Nazareth."
Rising up from the corpse, and turning to the commanding officer, he
spoke through his tears, with a tremulous, yet sweet-toned voice.
"And what was the crime, for which my brother was condemned to this
death? There beats no more loyal heart in the bosom of any of these
men, who do the bidding of their country. His greatest fault, the source
of all his misery, was the love of war. In the bright days of his
boyhood, he said he would be content to die on the field of battle. See,
you have taken away his life, in cold blood, among his own people, and
no eye hath pitied him."
The commandant stated briefly and calmly, that desertion thrice repeated
was death, that the trial of his brother had been impartial, and the
sentence just. Something too, he added, about the necessity of enforcing
military discipline, and the exceeding danger of remissness in a point
like this.
"If he must die, why was it hidden from those whose life was bound up in
his? Why were they left to learn from the idle voice of rumour, this
death-blow to their happiness? If they might not have gained his pardon
from an earthly tribunal, they would have been comforted by knowing that
he sought that mercy from above, which hath no limit. Fearful power have
ye, indeed, to kill the body, but why need you put the never-dying soul
in jeopardy? There are those, to whom the moving of the lips that you
have silenced, would have been most dear, though their only word had
been to say farewell. There are those, to whom the glance of that eye,
which you have sealed in blood, was like the clear shining of the sun
after rain. The wife of his bosom would have thanked you, might she but
have sat with him on the floor of his prison, and his infant son would
have played with his fettered hands, and lighted up his dark soul with
one more smile of innocence. The sister, to whom he has been as a
father, would have soothed his despairing spirit, with the hymn which in
infancy, she sang nightly with him, at their blessed mother's knee. Nor
would his only brother thus have mourned, might he but have poured the
consolations of the Gospel, once more upon that stricken wanderer, and
treasured up one tear of penitence."
A burst of grief overpowered him. The officer with kindness assured him,
that it was no fault of theirs, that the family of his brother was not
apprized of his situation. That he strenuously desired no tidings might
be conveyed to them, saying that the sight of their sorrow would be more
dreadful to him than his doom. During the brief interval between his
sentence and execution, he had the devoted services of a holy man, to
prepare him for the final hour.
Edward Ludlow composed himself to listen to every word. The shock of
surprise, with its tempest of tears, had past. As he stood with
uncovered brow, the bright locks clustering around his noble forehead,
it was seen how strongly he resembled his fallen brother, ere care and
sorrow had clouded his manly beauty. For a moment, his eyes were raised
upward, and his lips moved. Pious hearts felt that he was asking
strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain that
submission, which as a teacher of religion he enforced on others.
Turning meekly towards the commanding officer, he asked for the body of
the dead, that it might be borne once more to the desolate home of his
birth, and buried by the side of his father and his mother. The request
was granted with sympathy.
He addressed himself to the services connected with the removal of the
body, as one who bows himself down to bear the will of the Almighty. And
as he raised the bleeding corpse of his beloved brother in his arms, he
said, "O war! war! whose tender mercies are cruel, what _enmity_ is so
fearful to the soul, as _friendship_ with thee."
Victory.
Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume,
They point me to the bosom gor'd,
They point me to the blood-stained tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?
And, ah! through glory's fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail:
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done;
Where the wild mother clasps her hands
And asks the victor for her son:
Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire, lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow
And flourish in a soil like this?
Silent People.
It was supposed in ancient times, that those who were deprived of
hearing and speech, were shut out from knowledge. The ear was considered
as the only avenue to the mind. One of the early classic poets has said.
"To instruct the deaf, no art could ever reach,
No care improve them, and no wisdom teach."
But the benevolence of our own days has achieved this difficult work.
Asylums for the education of mute children are multiplying among us, and
men of talents and learning labour to discover the best modes of adding
to their dialect of pantomime the power of written language. The
neighbourhood of one of these Institutions has furnished the opportunity
of knowing the progress of many interesting pupils of that class. Their
ideas, especially on religious subjects, are generally very confused at
their arrival there, even when much care has been bestowed upon them at
home.
A little deaf and dumb boy, who had the misfortune early to lose his
father, received tender care and love from his mother and a younger
sister, with whom it was his chief delight to play, from morning till
night. After a few years, the village where they resided was visited
with a dangerous fever, and this family all lay sick at the same time.
The mother and daughter died, but the poor little deaf and dumb orphan
recovered. He had an aged grandmother who took him to her home, and
seemed to love him better for his infirmities. She fed him carefully,
and laid him in his bed with tenderness; and in her lonely situation, he
was all the world to her. Every day she laboured to understand his
signs, and to communicate some new idea to his imprisoned mind. She
endeavoured to instruct him that there was a Great Being, who caused the
sun to shine, and the grass to grow; who sent forth the lightning and
the rain, and was the Maker of man and beast. She taught him the three
letters G O and D; and when he saw in a book this name of the Almighty,
he was accustomed to bow down his head with the deepest reverence. But
when she sought to inform him that he had a soul, accountable, and
immortal when the body died, she was grieved that he seemed not to
comprehend her. The little silent boy loved his kind grandmother, and
would sit for hours looking earnestly in her wrinkled face, smiling, and
endeavouring to sustain the conversation. He was anxious to perform any
service for her that might testify his affection; he would fly to pick
up her knitting-bag or her snuff-box when they fell, and traverse the
neighbouring meadows and woods, to gather such flowers and plants as
pleased her. Yet he was sometimes pensive and wept; she knew not why.
She supposed he might be grieving for the relatives he had lost, and
redoubled
|
the moose meat, all at one
mouthful, and at the same time fighting away a third bird which sneaked
in between their trips to their place of storage. The moose-bird takes
life very seriously, and his sole business is stealing everything he
can stick his bill into. Unless he is very often disturbed he is without
fear, and will readily alight on a stick held in your hand, if you put
a piece of meat on the end of the stick. I have often photographed the
bird at a distance of three or four feet.
About two o'clock that afternoon Joe and his friends appeared on the
scene, with another canoe; and they carried the moose home in sections.
The next day was so warm and bright that we took the canoe and went
on a long observation tour. Joe made a big circuit, from lake to lake
and pond to pond. One of the geographical peculiarities of the country
is that you can go by water in any direction you choose, with short
portages. Between almost any two ridges you will find a lake or two.
[Illustration: Cow Moose in Thick Timber.]
In many places we saw where, earlier in the season, the moose had been
eating the water-lilies. The remnants of the roots, as thick as a man's
wrist, were floating on the surface by the score.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, when we were on the return to our
tent, and paddling along very quietly, we heard a stick break close by
the edge of the water. Looking sharply into the thick brush I caught
sight of a cow moose, with two calves, in the woods about twenty
feet back from the shore. We kept very quiet, hoping they would come
out where they could be photographed. But soon the cow's great ears
straightened out in our direction, the calves backed around behind their
mamma, and in an instant they had begun a noiseless flight.
[Illustration: Hudson's Bay Post at the Grand Lake Victoria.]
It was dusk by the time we reached our own lake, and there was a faint
moon. All through the day we had traversed about as fine a moose country
as one could find. Every lake had its well-defined path around the
shore, just along the edge of the bushes.
[Illustration: A Portage.]
At the head of our lake, about a mile from the tent, we stopped and
ran the canoe ashore. Joe grunted hoarsely, and splashed the water
with his paddle, and, sooner than it takes to tell this, we heard, not
two hundred yards away, the most impressive sound that ever comes to
a sportsman's ears, the ripping, tearing noise made by a bull moose,
hooking the trees right and left out of sheer joy and pride in his
strength. He tore down a few cords of saplings, judging by the racket,
and then came out, "oofing" at every step, circling around us. In the
gathering dusk we saw his great black shape for a moment as he crossed
the little stream in which the canoe was hidden. That was the time to
have fired, if I had wanted him very badly, but Joe, whose wealth of
luck had made him over-bold, whispered, "I bring him close," and emitted
a loud roar, very like the squeal of a horse, and the moose never
stopped to take one more look. He simply wheeled around behind the fir
thicket where he was concealed, and, with a few characteristic remarks
in his own language, expressive of disdain and opprobrium, made a hasty
departure for a distant section of the country. He acted as though he
recognized Joe's voice. "Well, we fright him good, anyway," said Joe.
There was only one other place on our whole subsequent trip where the
moose seemed to be so plentiful as right here, close to Lake Kippewa.
We had one moose, and had seen that there were plenty more. The Quebec
law allows only two in a season, to one man.
I wished to see more of the Kippewa country before going north; so
we went back to Mr. Hunter's the next morning, and there met Mr.
Christopherson, on his way back to the Grand Lake Victoria, and with him
an Indian named Jocko, one of the "Grand Lakers," as Joe called them.
Jocko was a thick-set, open-faced barbarian who smiled at the slightest
excuse, and who was so pleasant and bright that I am going hunting
with him some day if I can. Mr. Christopherson said there would be no
trouble in finding our way to the Grand Lake Victoria, as there was a
plain trail from Ross Lake, where Joe had been, to Trout Lake, and that
on this latter sheet of water were two or three families of Indians who
traded at the Grand Lake Victoria, any one of whom could be induced,
for a dollar a day, to show us the way.
Joe and I spent another week camping about Kippewa Lake, getting used
to each other's paddling, before we started on our northern journey.
It was at this stage of the proceedings that Joe modestly suggested
that he had a little nephew, Billy Paulson, thirteen years old, who
could do a good deal around camp, and that he would like to take him
with us. So Billy went and was happy. He was a versatile little boy.
He could read, which Joe could not do, and he spoke English without
much accent. I shall not soon forget my amazement when he began, soon
after our introduction, to whistle, in good tune, Sousa's "Washington
Post" march. How it had reached that far corner of the earth I do not
know, and neither did he; but he had it, and with "Her Golden Hair was
Hanging down Her Back," as an occasional interlude, he made distant
lakes melodious during the succeeding days.
[Illustration: The Old Dam at Barrière Lake.]
The next day we took another side trip, to the east end of Lake Kippewa.
Joe had been telling of a wonderful trout lake, away up the mountain,
and we went to see it. There we found one of Billy's relatives, Johnnie
Puryea, and two squaws, catching a winter's supply of trout. They had
been there about a week, and had more than three hundred beautiful
fish hung up on a frame over a slow, smoky fire. While we partook of
Johnnie's trout, such a violent thunder-shower came up, with heavy
wind, that we stayed late. It was almost as dark as it could be when we
started back over the mile portage to the big lake. There was no good
trail, only a few trees being "spotted," and the side of the mountain
was furrowed with countless ravines, at the bottom of some one of which
lay our canoe. We could not see the trail at all, but kept going down
hill, and feeling of every tree we came to for the axe-spots. I suppose
we were about two hours making that mile, and I vividly appreciated
the force of the expression "feeling one's way." When we finally found
the canoe, and the moon came out from under the clouds, the smooth lake
seemed, after the storm, to be an old friend.
[Illustration: Heavy Swells.]
The next morning we paddled along the shores of the deep indenting bays
for miles, looking for moose tracks. At one place a whole family, big
and little, had left fresh hoof-prints in the mud, and Joe followed them
to see where they went, while Billy and I trolled, and caught as many
walleyed pike and pickerel as we pleased.
All along the shores of the lake, at conspicuous points, the
bush-rangers, or fire police, had posted printed warnings against
leaving fires in the woods. It is a misdemeanor there to leave
a smouldering fire. He who starts a blaze must see that it is
extinguished.
[Illustration: "Jocko"—a Typical Algonquin.]
Joe showed us a place where he and a companion were watching for moose
last year. "De moose come out. I shoot. De ca'tridge bu'st, and mos'
blind me. I listen for my chum to shoot, but he no shoot. I look 'round,
and my chum run away. So we no get dat moose."
There are many men who do not seem to be able to face a moose, but the
animal cannot do anything to a man with a heavy rifle, who uses it.
My note-book is full of Joe's moose stories. Here is one that shows how
common the animals are at Kippewa. "Las' year anoder lad and me, we took
a big head out to de station to sell. A man offer us five dollar for it.
At las' we sell it for six. De trouble was, 'noder feller sell a moose,
de head, skin, meat, and all, de week before, for five dollar. I swore
I never help take out no more heads twenty-five mile for t'ree dollar
my share, and me kill de moose, too!"
The shores of Lake Kippewa are high hard-wood ridges, and one can see
a long way through the trees, as there is not much undergrowth. It is
an ideal place to hunt. As late as October 14th it was rather warm for
a night fire in front of the tent.
Every red and golden leaf as it fell at our feet bore to us the same
message. The Indian summer was upon us, and it was time to be going
northward. So we gathered our simple belongings together, and started
on our swing around the wilderness circle, to find where the two rivers
run from the same lake, to behold the mountain home of the twins.
There is joy in the mere fact of following unmapped water-ways. No
matter if you mistake your course, you can, at least, come back by the
same way you go. The river will run just as it has run during all the
centuries while you were neglecting it, and the lake will stay where
it has waited for you these countless years. The land-marks will not
fade away. Few, indeed, have been the kings of earth who ever felt as
jaunty and independent as the one white man and two half-breeds who left
Hunter's Point for the far Upper Ottawa, on the 16th of October, last
year. No matter what happened to other people, we were secure; and the
farther away we got, the better pleased we were.
Half a day of steady paddling through the Birch Lakes took us past
shores where the standing pine has never been disturbed by the
lumbermen. There are in these vast forests thousands of miles of country
which have never yet been decimated.
[Illustration: Against the Current.]
The farther end of Big Birch Lake was the best we could do the first
day, and we camped at the foot of a portage as well cleared as a country
road, which has been in use by the Indians for a hundred years, and
probably much longer. Joe here rebelled against any elaborate tenting
arrangements for travellers. He cut three long poles, stuck them in the
ground slanting, and threw the tent over them. In truth this did just
as well, when the wind did not blow, as anything else.
A half-mile climb the next morning brought us to the top of a long hill;
and right at the very top, where a hundred dollars' worth of blasting
would let it run down into Birch Lake, stretched away Lake Sissaginega,
or "Island Lake," appropriately named, for there are about five hundred
islands in it.
[Illustration: Beaver-house.]
Joe produced a couple of short oars from the bottom of the canoe, and
nailed a pair of rude rowlocks onto the gunwales. He explained that on
the long, wind-swept lakes which we should have to traverse, a pair
of oars were superior to two paddles against a head wind. It was a
wonderful thing, but during hundreds of miles of lake travel after that
we never once had a serious delay from weather. Nearly every morning
the wind rose briskly with the sun, blew during the middle of the day,
and moderated toward evening; so we pursued the ancient Indian custom
of starting very early in the morning, before the wind came up; took a
good rest in the middle of the day, and continued as late as we could in
the evening. But not once on all our prosperous journey were we really
wind-bound, though this is one of the most common of occurrences on
these lakes, where the wind often piles the swells up so high that not
even a birch-bark can weather them.
The height of the wave which this marvellous little evolution of the
ages can stand is not conceivable till you have witnessed it. Running
with a heavy, fair wind, the swells rise behind you and seem about
to engulf you. But in some way the canoe rises with the wave, and the
boiling, foaming mass rushes harmlessly by, while you sit on the dry,
clean bottom, and your pride increases with each successive triumph.
A very long lake next north of Sissaginega is Cacaskanan, not shown
at all on the maps. On this lake, about eleven o'clock the second day
out, while Joe was rowing, and merely casting an occasional perfunctory
glance over his left shoulder, he suddenly hissed, "See de moose!" We
were at least a mile from shore, and though I have seldom met any one,
civilized or savage, who could beat me at seeing game, I took off my hat
to Joe from then on. Sure enough, over Joe's left shoulder he had seen a
cow moose in the edge of the timber on shore. A projecting point allowed
us to get pretty close to the animal. The wind was partly off shore, and
all the time we were approaching we could see her watching the shore,
starting at every sound made by the wind among the dead tree-trunks,
but paying no attention to the water side at all. This enabled us,
considering the difficulty of navigating among fallen tree-trunks, to
make one of the most remarkable photographs I have ever taken. We got to
the very shore, and crept within thirty-five feet of that moose. I made
my exposure of the negative before she saw us at all. This photograph
will give a better idea than could ever be conveyed in words, of the
tremendous difficulty of still-hunting the moose in thick, dry timber,
where the crackling of a twig will spoil the best-made stalk.
That photograph was more satisfactory to me than the shooting of fifty
moose would have been. The moose does not show to the best advantage in
the picture, but that was her fault, and not ours. At the click of the
shutter she went to find the rest of her folks.
Late that afternoon we came to a place where Lake Cacaskanan narrows to
about one hundred yards wide, and here there were many moose tracks.
Just beyond, we met a family of the Indians who had killed two moose
that very day, and had more than a hundred musquash freshly skinned.
Billy was wonderfully impressed by the dirty, unkempt appearance of
the little children, whose shocks of matted hair he unconsciously
Kiplingized by referring to them afterward as "haystacks." The Indian
who was the head of this family, on being told by Joe where we were
going, said that we would walk on the ice before we got back. I fear he
was a sluggard, who saw lions or bears in the path of every enterprise.
He was burning logs twenty feet long, to save the trouble of cutting
them in two, and so he had fire enough for four tents, instead of one.
[Illustration: The Moose-bird.]
Monday morning, October 18th, we had breakfast by starlight. Venus and
Jupiter were two particularly bright morning stars. Billy looked long
at the waning planets and remarked, in an awe-struck tone, "My, but they
must be high up!"
[Illustration: A Beaver Dam.]
That day we reached Ross Lake, where there is a lumberman's supply
depot for operations over on the main Ottawa, in the direction of
Lake Expanse. We had no occasion to stop there, and all the afternoon
followed the directions we had received from Mr. Christopherson,
pursuing the Hudson's Bay Company trail through some small beaver ponds,
till we reached Trout Lake, a beautiful sheet of water about fifteen
miles long, where we expected to find an Indian to guide us to the Grand
Lake Victoria.
We found the summer camp all right, where the Indians had a
potato-patch, which they had not dug, so Joe said they had not left for
the winter; but not a smoke or sign of life could we find. We explored
the lake, finding abundant moose signs and trolled for salmon trout,
which at this time were up near the surface. One we caught was the
largest I ever saw. We had no means of determining its weight, but when
placed in the centre of the canoe, crosswise, on the bottom, its nose
protruded over one gunwale and its tail above the other.
On the morning of our third day on the lake we heard a dog bark, and
found the Indians encamped on a secluded island. The wretches had
seen us the first day, but, fearing we were game wardens or other
evil-disposed persons, had kept out of our way. Joe said the Indians
up there had a reputation for hiding from passers-by. After we had met
them and given evidence of good intentions, they were sociable enough.
While we were inviting the Indians to pass judgment on the contents of
a certain jug, an extremely large domestic cat belonging to them ate
much of the moose meat in our canoe. Nearly every Indian camp in these
woods has at least one cat, to keep the moose-birds and wood-mice in
subjugation, and the cats, being hard to get, are highly prized.
[Illustration: On Lake Kakebonga.]
We soon made a bargain with Kakwanee, a young Indian just married and
needing money, to show us the way to the Hudson's Bay post on the Grand
Lake Victoria. Without knowing it, all the time we had been on Trout
Lake we were quite near a crew of lumbermen who were building a dam at
the outlet, to raise the water for a reserve supply, to be used, when
needed, to drive logs down the Ottawa, the water running out through
Lake Expanse. The intention was to raise the water six feet; and as
there are at least seventy-five square miles of water in Trout Lake,
it will be seen that a large reservoir would be produced by closing the
outlet, perhaps fifty feet wide. The Indians were doing a good deal of
laughing among themselves, as they said there was a marsh on the other
side of the lake, where, unless another very long dam was built, the
water would run off in the direction of Lake Kippewa as soon as it was
raised a foot or so; and the lumbermen did not know this.
In the evening while we were camped, waiting for Kakwanee to bid
farewell to his bride, Billy heard a trout splash the water. He at
once got some birch-bark and placed it in the cleft of a split stick,
warming it by the fire to make it curl up, and then lighting it on the
edge. In this way he made a torch which burned brightly for a long time.
Getting into the canoe he pushed silently out, standing up. Letting the
light shine into the clear water, he soon located the big trout, which
lay quietly on the bottom in the full blaze of light. Then he made the
motions of spearing, though he had no spear; and there was no doubt,
from the realism of the pantomime, that Billy, child as he was, well
knew a very unsportsmanlike way to kill fish. It was a beautiful sight
to see Billy stand up in a very tottlish birch-bark canoe, as confident
as a bare-back rider on a circus horse.
[Illustration: The "Mountain Chute," Gatineau River.]
Joe had done some work as a "shanty-man," and the sight of the crew who
were building the dam made him reminiscent. "One time," said he, "I do
de chainin' for a gang; dat is, fasten de logs wid de chain, and bind
em fas'. My chum, he was French, and he drive de sled. He was goin' for
git marry so soon it was time for de camp to break up, an' he was sing
an' smile to hisself de whole time. De ver' las' day, de las' load, he
say, 'Now, Joe, dis load be de las' I ever drive fore I go home to my
Julie.' So he start de sled, an' de sled hit a dead birch. When I come
'long behine him, dere he was dead. A limb break off de birch when de
sled strike it. It was all rotten, an' de piece of de limb not so big
as your arm. But de limb was freeze, an' it hit him on de head, an' he
never move. He go home to Julie, sure, but not de way he expec'."
"My," said Billy, solemnly, "it must be awful for a man's peoples when
he go 'way from home feelin' good, and laugh and sing, and, the next
thing his peoples know, he come home dead!"
The next morning Kakwanee appeared and we resumed our interrupted
journey, running all day through two lakes, neither of which has ever
appeared on any map of Quebec. It seems wonderful that after white
men have used watercourses for canoe routes for a century or two, and
when lumbermen have investigated the country, there are stretches of
many miles together which are not indicated on official maps except by
white spots. But this is true of over half a million square miles of
British-American territory. The two lakes we traversed are called by
Indian names which mean "Crosswise Lake" and "Old Man Lake." Out of the
latter runs a river which falls into the Grand Lake Victoria. This lake
is really an expansion of the Ottawa. In many places its shores are
covered with medium-sized pines, and in others bare rocks are the only
things to be seen. The greatest enemy to these forests is fire, and in
all parts of the country are vast tracts which have been so devastated.
It was a long day's paddle from the lower end of the Grand Lake Victoria
to the old Hudson's Bay agency near its northern extremity. Here Mr.
Christopherson received us with great hospitality. He said I was the
fourth white man who had visited the post that year. The Indians who
came there to get their annual supplies, material and spiritual, had
long since left their little summer cabins for winter hunting-grounds.
Though the sun shone warm and bright, it might turn cold any night now,
and so Mr. Christopherson sent Jocko to show us the portages as far as
an Indian village, twenty-seven miles up the river. There we could get
a guide to see us through to the place where the water runs the other
way. Jocko, himself, wanted to go away hunting, so he only accompanied
us as far as the Indian settlement.
[Illustration: A "Chute" on the Gatineau.]
This procuring of guides through an unknown country, on the instalment
plan, was very fascinating to me, and it illustrated a characteristic
of the northern forest Indian which is universal. The red man of the
prairies was a nomad, but the son of the woods does not make very long
pilgrimages, or know much about the world beyond his own hunting-ground.
Before he is old enough to remember any thing he makes his first journey
to the trading-post where his ancestors have for generations been
regular customers and perpetual debtors. He does not remember how or
when he learned the way. On his own stream and its tributaries he is
an infallible guide, for he learned all the landmarks before he could
pronounce their names. But every forest traveller has found the Indians
in one locality reluctant to go far from home. When Alexander Mackenzie
felt his way, by stream and portage, to the great river which bears his
name, and thence down to the Frozen Ocean, he found that the Indians
on one reach of the river always believed that below their own country
there were impassable rapids and insurmountable rocks, ferocious beasts
and hidden perils. If you will journey toward the head of the Ottawa,
in the fall of this year, you will find precisely the same state of
aboriginal mind. The Indians around the Grand Lake Victoria are within
a few miles of the sources of rivers flowing toward the four quarters of
the American continent. Ten days' steady canoeing in any direction would
take them to Hudson's Bay or Lake Huron or Lake Ontario or Montreal. But
they never travel for the sake of seeing the country, or get far from
home.
It was on the last day Jocko was with us, October 26th, that I made the
photograph of him which is one of the illustrations of this article.
He was in his shirt-sleeves and wore an old straw hat. While we were
eating our lunch at noon, the black flies were a little attentive and
it was uncomfortably warm. That was the climate of the far Upper Ottawa
in the last days of October. There was not yet a suggestion of snow.
For all the atmospheric indications told us, we might have been in the
Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
The Ottawa above Grand Lake House comes down out of the rocky hills, and
is full of rapids. In many smooth places the current is very swift, and
it was worth coming a long way to see Joe and Jocko paddle up places
where Billy and I could not go. Fighting inch by inch against a rapid
current is one of the most trying tests of endurance I know. It is
unlike anything else in the world. You pull and pull, and realize that
an instant's relaxation will cost you all you have gained. If the water
only would stop for an instant! But it is so easy for the current to
rush on and on. How futile are human energy and perseverance against a
power which has never for one second faltered in uncounted years!
Jocko told Joe—he could not say it in English—that he enjoyed travelling
with us more than he did with the Hudson's Bay Company people, because
they travelled for dear life, making fifty or sixty miles a day, and
nearly paralyzed his arms. When he had gone from Hunter's Point to Grand
Lake House a few weeks before, he and Mr. Christopherson had made the
trip in less than three days, but his arms were numb all the next night.
He liked to find a white man who travelled "like an Indian," and said if
I would come up this fall he would show me some moose and deer hunting
around the head of the Coulonge and Dumoine, the like of which white
men did not often see.
We reached the camp of the old chief, Jocko's objective point, just at
purple twilight, when the smoke was rising straight toward the sky, and
we witnessed one of the most peaceful and beautiful bits of wilderness
comfort I have ever beheld. It seemed more like approaching a white
man's farm than an Indian camp.
There were two or three log-houses, a few acres of cleared land, and two
or three horses and cows. A tame horned owl scolded us from the roof of
a barn. The Indian girls were singing and calling to each other across
the wide river. A score of children and grandchildren of the fat old
chief turned out to welcome us, and we slept in one of the log-barns,
on the hay. Jocko sat up and visited with his Indian girl friends, and
I heard them laughing and chatting until long after midnight.
As I lay looking out at the shining surface of the Ottawa, from my
cosey nest in the sweet, wild hay, it was bewildering to remember that
so much of Canada lay south of us. Only a rifle-shot away, at the end
of a forest path, were the bubbling springs which form the sources of
the Coulonge, that pine-embowered stream which, for two hundred miles,
straight away to the south, traverses the centre of the great interior
island whose borders we were encircling. I thought of the long reaches
of moonlit river, where the timid deer were drinking, and the moose, in
all the ardor of their courtship, roared hoarse contempt for impertinent
rivals. And this was only one of the streams whose sources we were
circumnavigating: the Maganasipi, the Bear, the swamp-fed Black, the
Dumoine, the Tomasine, the Desert—all these rivers and a thousand lakes,
gathered all at last in the generous arms of the twin rivers, and borne
away to join the grand chorus, the voice of many waters.
In the morning there was a pow-wow, as the result of which a son and
grandson of the chief agreed to see us out to the Gatineau, the boy
going along to help his father if a freeze-up should make it necessary
to carry their canoe back over the ice. For many miles through devious
channels and short cuts, we ran past natural meadows where the unsown
grass had grown high and dried up for the lack of something to feed
upon it—ancient beaver meadows, from which all trace of the original
forest had long ago disappeared. Joe and the Indian discussed the
beaver question earnestly. It appears that the most interesting issue
in Algonquin politics is what to do about the beavers. There are plenty
of them all through the back country, and the Indians regard them as
their personal property. They only kill a certain proportion of the
little animals, and carefully preserve the supply. The beaver's habit of
building for himself and family a comfortable and conspicuous residence
enables the hunters to take a pretty accurate census of the population,
and to tell just where the animals are to be found. On our way we
turned aside and photographed a beaver-dam and a house. The natural
history books generally picture these constructions as quite symmetrical
affairs, but all I have ever seen have been rough piles of sticks and
mud, and the photographs show typical beaver construction.
A few years ago a sportsman's club in Quebec induced the legislature
to pass a law entirely prohibiting the killing of beaver until the year
1900. Two hundred years ago, when the Iroquois made raids on the Ottawa
country, and prevented the annual catch of beaver skins from coming
down to Montreal and Quebec, hard times fell upon Canada. Precisely the
same condition has confronted the Indians and the Hudson's Bay Company
recently. It is almost as bad a situation as it would be in Illinois
if the farmers were forbidden by law to kill hogs. The Hudson's Bay
Company's agents at Grand Lake Victoria and the Barriere lake have not
dared to buy the skins. The Indians have had no other reliable way to
pay for their supplies. Ruin for the traders and starvation for the
Indians would inevitably follow the continued enforcement of the law.
Some relief has been afforded by the fact that the post at Abittibi
ships all its furs by way of Hudson's Bay, so they cannot be seized
by the Quebec authorities; and thousands of skins, worth $10 apiece,
were diverted to that market last year. The Indians have been very
much disturbed over the matter, for they find the law of necessity more
urgent than a statute whose logic they cannot understand. "Some families
up here starve to death last winter," interpreted Joe, after listening
for awhile to Jonas, our new guide. "I t'ink I no starve, w'en de beaver
build his house close by my water-hole."
Our newly acquired pilot had no idea of losing any business
opportunities. His canoe was ahead of the one in which Joe, Billy,
and I travelled, and he had his muzzle-loading, cylinder-bore double
shot-gun, a handy little weapon, lying in front of him, both hammers at
full cock, hour after hour as he paddled, the muzzle pointing squarely
at the back of his boy in the bow. It was trying to unaccustomed nerves,
but the boy seemed to be used to the idea of sudden death. Jonas had a
curious habit of holding a bullet in his mouth, ready to drop it in an
instant down the gun-barrel, on top of the shot. The utility of keeping
his decks cleared for action appeared when, toward evening, he cleverly
snapped up a reckless mink which darted along the bank, where the stream
was narrow and crooked. The report startled a caribou, which crashed
out of the alders, not fifty feet away. Jonas spat his bullet down the
left barrel and fired again, neatly missing both his boy's head and
the reindeer. Joe derided Jonas in choice Algonquin, and said to me,
confidentially, "I t'ink we better go in front in de mornin'." All the
same, the Indian's idea of a gun which will do for partridges one minute
and moose the next is a sound one, in a country where one's breakfast
flies or runs away.
At noon the next day, we reached the head of that branch of the Ottawa
rising in the Barriere lake. Long ago forgotten Gatineau timber-cutters
built a dam, to divert this water to the Jean de Terre, but now the
dam has fallen into disuse, and the stream seeks its ancient bed.
Just beyond the dam is the Hudson's Bay post, a branch of the one on
the Grand Lake Victoria. Mr. Edwards, the agent, was delighted to see
strangers, especially when I produced a letter which Mr. Christopherson
had sent by me, enclosing his three months' salary. Mrs. Edwards soon
discovered that our Billy was her nephew, and that much-related young
person was at once honored with a seat at the family dinner-table with
the twelve little Edwardses, fraternizing with them in the three-ply
language which is the natural speech of these mixed races. Mr. Edwards
told me he had that season refused hundreds of beaver-skins from
Indians, every one of whom was on his books for a year's supplies, and
now he did not quite see what the post was going to do, with beavers
demonetized.
Jonas, our most recent guide, did not wish to linger, being haunted
by the fear of coming frost which the warm air belied. So that same
afternoon we hastened on, regretfully declining Mr. Edwards's invitation
to go on a caribou hunt. These reindeer abound in the Barrière lake
country.
We camped perhaps fifteen miles from the post that night, and the next
morning, soon after starting up the lake, came to a narrow place where
the water, instead of coming toward us as it had been doing all the time
for days, formed a little rapid, running the same way we were going.
The day before we had seen the water pouring into the Ottawa through
the lumbermen's worn-out dam, and here, twenty-four hours afterward,
continuing up the same lake, we found the current was with us instead
of against us, down instead of up, and we were drifting out toward the
Gatineau, in the other direction. If we had not known about the two
outlets to the lake we should have thought the water was bewitched.
All that day we ran through Lake Kakebonga, which the Hudson's Bay
people consider the most bewildering sheet of water in the Gatineau
Valley. There are dozens of deep bays, which look about alike, and if
you start into the wrong one, you get wholly astray. Once during the day
it became a little foggy, and Jonas at once went ashore and waited for
the veil to lift, as he said no one could find his way there in thick
weather. These large lakes are all long and narrow, and very crooked.
Like Kippewa and Victoria, Lake Kakebonga is nowhere wide, but its
shore-line is very long, and the canoe route often cuts across a portage
to save miles of travelling.
East of Lake Kakebonga there is a very rough bit of country which we
crossed by what are locally known as the Sixteen Portages, or "the
Sixteen," where we clambered into and out of the canoe on an average
about once in half a mile. At last we came to a long, wide path over
a level plain. "I know dis portage so well I know my own house," said
Joe. "I was up here from de Gatineau fourteen year ago." And there our
forest friends turned back, and left Joe and Billy and me to make our
way by the smooth current of the Jean de
|
away from it--Enter Andrew. followed by
Waverly.)_
Waverly. _(looking at girls' backs and nudges Andrew)_ P'raps
he's got two patients.
Andrew. Oh, Susannah! _(takes double stethoscope off table, aside
to Waverly)_ Let's have a lark. I'll pretend to be the doctor.
Waver. No, no, never joke about business, _(scuffles to get
stethoscope)_
_(Ruby looks round.)_
Andrew. Ruby! _(goes to her with outstretched arms)_
_(Pearl looks round.)_
Waver. _(aside)_ Pearl! Oh, lor! _(goes down r.)_ Pearl.
_(coyly)_ Mr. Vane! What attraction has brought you all the way
from Southsea? _(follows him)_
_(Waverly looks confused.)_
Andrew. _(to Ruby)_ What's brought you? We called at Clarence
Parade this morning and found that you'd flown up to London by
the excurs--the early train, so we thought what a lark it'd be to
run up on the chance of meeting you.
Waver. We didn't expect to find you at the doctor's.
Andrew. No. _(to Ruby. anxiously)_ Are you ill?
Ruby. _(laughing)_ No.
Waver, _(to Pearl. wearily)_ Don't say it's _you_.
Pearl. I'm _never_ ill. What's the matter with you?
Waver. _I've_ only come with _Andrew_, _(tries to cross to
Andrew)_
_(Pearl pulls him back.)_
Ruby. _(screams)_ Oh Andrew. then it's _you!!!_ What's the matter
with you?
Andrew. _(laughing)_ Nothing! Sound me if you like. _(offers
stethoscope)_
Ruby. But _why_ have you come to see a _doctor_?
Andrew. _(laughs)_ I haven't--I've brought Vane to introduce
him to my old school-fellow, dear old, serious, studious,
short-sighted, absent-minded Jack Sheppard.
Ruby and Pearl. _(together)_ You know _Jack_?
Waver, and Andrew. _(surprised)_ Jack?
Ruby. Cousin Jack! Didn't you know?
Andrew. No, you never told us you _had_ any cousins. What a
lark! Jack's my greatest friend--because we're such opposites, I
suppose. I call him Dull Boy, because "all work and no play makes
Jack------" see? Rather smart for me, and he calls me "Merry
Andrew"--Andrew Merry--Merry Andrew--see? Oh, that was Jolly
smart for Jack--only joke he ever made.
_(Ruby sits on couch--Andrew behind couch.)_
Waver. Why have you never mentioned his name?
Ruby. We haven't seen him since he was a little boy in kilts.
Pearl. We saw lots of him then, we were both of us _awfully_ in
love with him.
Ruby. And we're longing to see him again! _(pointedly)_
Andrew. _(laughing)_ Oh, are you? Well, I shan't be jealous of
_serious_ old Jack.
Ruby. _(aside)_ Oh, won't you?
_(Ruby and Pearl exchange looks, smiling.)_
Waver. Where is he?
Ruby. _(quickly)_ He won't be back till half-past--_(coyly)_ How
shall we kill time?
Andrew. I know, come and shoot tin dickie-birds at the
Aquarium--I must have exercise.
Ruby. Oh, what fun! Come along!
_(Exeunt Ruby and Andrew.)_
Waver. _(breaking away--aside)_ I shall never have the pluck to
break it to her that I've got engaged to another girl.
Pearl. _(looking at door, then at Waverly, drops Tier eyes)_
Well!
Waver. _(stands facing audience, back to writing table--to
her)_ Miss Plant. there's something I want to say to
you--something--I--I--I don't know how to _say_ it.
Pearl. _(coquettishly)_ Then don't say it. Write me a little
note, _(taps his arm, goes to table, holds up note-paper and
pen)_
Waver. Thanks awfully! _(sits and writes)_
_(Pearl walks away.)_
_(Pauses, aside, alarmed)_ Does she mean business? She's not a
lawyer's child for nothing. She might make a Breach of Promise
out of this, _(tears up letter and pockets the pieces)_ I'd
better blurt it out. _(goes to her)_ I say, it's not--er--it's
not that.
Pearl. Not what?
Waver. I mean--er--_(absently takes from his pocket a kodak made
like a large turnip watch, and fumbling nervously with it)_ I
mean I've been and got--er--I've been and got----
Pearl. A watch?
Waver. No. _(aside)_ But it'll gain time, thank goodness.
Pearl. What is it? _Do_ tell me.
Waver. A detective camera that _defies_ detection.
Pearl. _(rises)_ Oh, what fun! _(takes it from him)_ Let's go and
take snap-shots at Andrew and Ruby when they're not looking, then
they shall take us--when we're not looking, _(takes his arm)_
_(Enter Tupper.)_
Waver. _(aside)_ She does mean business.
_(Exeunt Waverly and Pearl.)_
Tupper. _(looking after them)_ I don't like the look of those two
gents, _(takes cigarette end off ash-tray, lights it)_ They've
gorn and eloped with the fust two customers we've 'ad. _(lies on
operating couch)_ Oh, well, I don't interfere with other people's
business. I got enough to do to look after my own.
_(Enter Doctor in high hat, frock coat, overcoat, carrying a
Gladstone bag, looks as if he had something on his mind.)_
_(Jumping off couch)_ I _am_ glad to see you back, sir.
Doctor. Thank you, Tupper--a kind boy--unpack these, _(hands him
bag)_
Tupper. _(finds bag very heavy, drops it down by bureau, opens
bottom drawer, looks in, aside)_ Empty--must 'ave pawned the lot
to buy the noo ones, _(takes out pile of books and papers and one
collar)_ I wonder if 'e's spliced, 'e looks un'appy enough.
I'll arsk 'im. _(chucks books, MSS., collar, etc., into drawer,
anyhow, crosses on tiptoe to Doctor)_ 'Ave yer brought 'er with
yer, sir?
Doctor. _(swinging round on revolving chair facing Tupper, who
has backed to bureau alarmed)_ Don't talk, I'm busy! _(opening
his letters--aside)_ Can that boy have guessed? No, how could he?
_(picks up Cummerbund's letter)_
Tupper. _(aside)_ 'E's got the letter! _(closes drawer)_
Doctor. _(throwing down letters savagely)_ Bills, bills,
bills--nothing but bills! _(walks up and down shying things
about)_
Tupper. _(aside, stealing out on tiptoe)_ It's my last day out o'
bed, I know it is.
_(Exit Tupper.)_
Doctor. _(takes card out of mirror)_ "Sir Peter and Lady Quayle
request the pleasure----" That's what did it, that dinner of
Quayle's. Sir Peter told me over dessert, that for the first six
months after he started in practice, he was starving. Then he
met a young governess who was starving too, and with what their
friends called "sublime imprudence" they got married. _And he
never looked behind him after_. Then he said if I meant to get on
as a gynaecologist, I must get married. "Your wife will prove
a mascotte like mine did," he said, "and patients will flow
in--simply flow in." Well, I believe in Quayle. That was Tuesday
night; on Wednesday I ran down to Lowesloft, proposed to Flo on
Thursday, we were secretly married this morning at the Registry
Office, she's gone back to her people, and I've come back to
town; and what do I find? Nothing but bills, and I can't pay one
of them. After settling for the special license, my fare back to
town, and that telegram to Aurora. _(feels in pocket, produces
coppers)_ I've got sevenpence half-penny in the wide world and a
wife! It's all Quayle's fault! Damn Quayle! I'll never believe in
him again. I don't even know where my next meal is coming from,
_(walks up and down)_
_(Enter Aurora with the tea--goes to small tea-table.)_
Aurora. 'Ere's yer tea, sir. I was glad to get your telegram.
Mrs. O'Hara was getting quite anxious about you.
Doctor. _(aside)_ About her rent, more likely.
Aurora. She wondered where you'd got to, but I knew, sir. 'Ow is
the pore lady? Do you think she'll get over it, Doctor?
Doctor. Don't talk, my good girl, I'm busy, _(cuts bread)_
Aurora _(getting behind couch--aside)_ "'Is good girl," that
I am, it's all for 'im. I know 'e's starving. 'E goes for that
stale quartern like the pore prodigal gentleman with the 'usks,
but I've got a treat for 'im, that there card put it in my 'ead.
_(points to Quayle's card in mirror)_ I've bought 'im a beautiful
bird, that'll give 'im a relish, _(to Doctor)_ Couldn't you fancy
something light with yer tea, sir? _(back of couch)_
Doctor. Yes, I think I could--I'll finish that tin of potted pig
I left, _(rises, gets cC)_
Aurora. _(aside)_ My stars! An' Tupper's ate it!
Doctor. _(opens drawer of bureau)_ Hullo! It's gone!
Aurora. _(to him)_ G-gone bad, sir.
Doctor. _(suspiciously)_ Gone bad?
Aurora. Yes, sir, an' I've fr--fr--
Doctor. Fried it?
Aurora. No, sir, frowed it away!
Doctor. All of it? _(goes to medicine chest)_
Aurora. Yes, sir, all of it. _(one step back, nods hard)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ She's eaten it. _(to her)_ Aurora. show me your
tongue. H'm! you'd better take this. _(pours out a draught)_
Aurora. _(aside, rapturously)_ 'Is patient at larst! _(takes it)_
Thank you, sir. _(gasps)_ I've touched 'is 'and.
Doctor. You won't like it.
Aurora. I will, sir, if I die arter it. _(aside)_ I'm in seven
'eavens already! _(drinks, pulls an awful face)_ It's all for
'im!
_(Doctor puts glass back, Aurora takes big lump of sugar from
tea-table.)_
Doctor. _(seriously)_ You might have died of ptomaine poisoning,
eating that decayed tinned stuff, _(crosses to sofa, sits again)_
Aurora. Oh, sir, I never touched a mossel. _(big lump in her
cheek)_
Doctor. _(surprised)_ You didn't eat it?
Aurora. Not me, sir! I ain't no thief! _(takes another lump)_
Doctor. _(smiles)_ Well, never mind. That won't hurt you.
Aurora. Please, sir, _(looking at him fondly--hesitatingly)_
Mrs. O'Hara, she arsked me to say--as it's Lady day, would you
allow 'er----
Doctor. I know--something on account.
Aurora. Oh, no, sir--would you allow her to send up a beautiful
bird for yer tea?
Doctor. No, thanks, I--I've just dined, _(eats ravenously)_
Aurora. _(aside)_ Lord forgive 'im. _(watches him eating)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ Mrs. O'Hara has tried that dodge before, but
I'm not taking any.
Aurora. I'm sure you'd like it, sir, it's a quail on toast.
Doctor. _(aside, jumping up)_ Quail on toast!' Damn it! Do you
want to drive me mad? _(shouts to her)_ No! Go! _(sits and pours
out another cup)_
Aurora. _(aside)_ No go. 'E don't love me, or 'e wouldn't say
that?
_(Bell rings.)_
Oh, that bell! _(comes back and quickly removes the things)_
Doctor. _(still holding teapot in left hand)_ What are you doing
now?
Aurora. Clearing away, sir, in case it's for you.
_(Exit Aurora with tea-tray.)_
Doctor. What's she done that for? I wish Flo was here to look
after me. It was hard to leave her at Lowestoft, _(takes photo
from pocket, stands it up before him on table)_ Dear little Flo!
The one girl I've loved all my life! _(arm outstretched, teapot
in L. hand)_ To think that you're my wife at last! _(slowly
closing his arms)_ My wife! _(hugging teapot, yowls)_ It seems
too good to be true. And where are the patients Quayle said would
flow In? Simply flow In! _(waves teapot, tea, goes all over the
stage)_ Hello! its flowing out.
_(Enter Plant.)_
_(loudly)_ I say, where are my patients? _(loudly, coming down
stage, not seeing Plant)_
Plant. _(more loudly)_ And I say _where_ are my daughters?
Doctor. _(seeing him)_ My first! Quayle's right, after all.
_(comes to Plant teapot in hand, assumes professional air)_ Good
afternoon, won't you sit down? _(seats himself and writing table,
puts teapot on blotter. He is always absent-minded when absorbed
in his science)_
Now! _(earnestly)_ What can I do for you? What's the trouble, eh?
Plant. _(aside)_ Well, upon my word, he's a cool customer.
_(stands R. of table)_
Doctor. Come, come, let's hear what it is, or how I can help you;
you know I'm in the habit of hearing confidences, _(sees teapot,
puts it under table)_
Plant. _(indignantly)_ Sir, I'm a father!
Doctor. _(bowing)_ Sir, I congratulate you. _(writes "Father"
on note pad--to Plant cheerfully)_ Is it a boy or a girl?
Plant. _(hotly)_ Two girls, sir.
Doctor. Dear, dear, I sympathize with you. _(makes a note "two
girls")_ Mother doing well?
Plant. _(gesticulating wildly)_ The mother's dead, sir!
Doctor. _(with sympathy)_ Ah, now I understand your agitation,
_(makes note)_ And the twins--are _they_ well?
Plant. _(wildly)_ Damn it, Sir, they're not twins, and I've lost
'em.
Doctor. Dear, dear! _(aside)_ Lost his wife and both the poor
little babies, _(writing on note pad)_
Plant. _(chokingly)_ Only half an hour ago, and I've come to
you----
Doctor. _(putting up his hand)_ No, no, if your own Doctor won't
grant a certificate, it's no use coming to me. _(tears up notes)_
Plant. I tell you I left 'em here, on this sofa.
Doctor. _(rises indignantly)_ Oh _my_ sofa! Then you'd no
business to. How dare you leave the poor things lying on my sofa?
Where are they? _(looking under sofa cushions)_
Plant. Hang it, sir, that's what I've come to ask _you_. What
have you done with them?
_(Enter Tupper.)_
Tupper. _(to Doctor)_ Please, sir, Mrs. O'Hara says--_(hands him
her account book)_
Plant. _(seizing Tupper)_ Where are my daughters? _(crosses C,
shaking Tupper--threatening him with big stick)_
Tupper. I dunno, sir--give it up.
Plant. No prevarications! You saw the two young ladies.
Doctor. _(surprised)_ Two young ladies! I see now!
Tupper. Are you their _father_, sir? I didn't think you was old
enough.
Plant. _(pleased, releases him, pats his head)_ Good lad!
_(crosses down L.)_
Doctor. Where have they gone, Tupper?
Tupper, I dunno, sir--they was fetched.
Plant. Fetched? Who by? _(rushing at Tupper furiously)_
Tupper. I dunno, sir, two gentlemen--they didn't leave no name,
they simply come, saw the ladies---and carried 'em off.
_(Bus.--Plant threatening Tupper--Tupper arm up.)_
_(Exit Tupper quickly.)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ Just my luck--lost two cases!
Plant. A plot, sir--a vile plot--whoever the scoundrels are, they
shall pay heavily for this wounded heart.
Doctor. _(seriously)_ Heart? Cardiac? _(hand on Plant's heart,
listens)_
Plant. _(half crying, on Doctor's arm)_ My precious jewels!
Two dear girls, Doctor. who have never caused me a moment's
uneasiness all their blessed lives.
Doctor. Apparently not. Hadn't you better go and look for them?
Plant. _(excitedly walks up and down)_ Ah, you are not a
father--
Doctor. _(aside, looking through microscope)_ Hope not--only
married this morning.
Plant. --or you couldn't stand there unmoved. I am struck down in
the flower of my days; this is a stroke, sir, a fatal stroke.
Ach! _(cries out with pain--puts hands to his back)_
Doctor. That's not a _stroke_--that's _lumbago_.
Plant. _(hotly)_ Hang it, sir, I speak in parables--I'm not a
patient!
Doctor. Not a patient! Then what do you come here for? Parables
are no good to me. I've got my living to earn! _(rings bell)_
Good afternoon!
_(Enter Aurora.)_
Aurora. 'Ere's a letter for you, sir.
Doctor. _(taking it)_ Thanks, and show this gentleman out.
Aurora. Very good, sir, we _are_ busy to-day, sir. _(to Plant)_
This way out. _(at door)_
Plant. _(to Doctor)_ You little know whom you are insulting. Some
day, sir, your eyes will be opened--and you will discover that
the country cousin--
_(Aurora listens and mimics him.)_
--whom you spurned from your door, was none other than a fairy
prince, who will this very day lift you from the slough of
grovelling poverty to the realms of affluence and prosperity.
Good day, sir!
_(Aurora crosses and exits behind Plant.)_
Doctor. _(alone)_ "This very day"--"Affluence and
prosperity"--"fairy prince"--oh, he's off his dot! _(looks at
postmark)_ "Ambleside." Why, it's from _(rises and crosses L.)_
Aunt Susannah! "My dear Nephew: I have heard glowing accounts of
your success." My success! "I long to see my brilliant nephew
--I'm coming up to London to-morrow." To-morrow--to-morrow,
_(looks at calander)_ that's Saturday, good job it's not to-day.
Mrs. O'Hara's got an Irish party on upstairs and Aunt Susie's so
awfully quiet she can't stand the slightest noise, _(reads)_ "It
is my constant joy to know that you are devoting your days--and
I daresay many of your nights--to the noble work of alleviating
human suffering." _(looks at her picture--reads)_ "I mean to
do all that my money can do to help you to pursue your glorious
profession with everything in your favor." Its too good to be
true! _(rises)_ No, it isn't Quayle's right again! Flo _has_
brought me luck, and on our wedding day! _(pause)_ The very day!
That's what that silly old man with the dyed hair meant. By Jove!
he is a fairy prince! Oh, Flo, Flo, what a honeymoon we'll have!
_(dances all over the room with delight, seizing a sofa cushion
to dance with)_
_(Enter Aurora. followed by Ruby. Pearl. Waverly and Andrew in
single file.)_
Aurora. The Doctor'll see you directly. Take your seats, please.
_(Ruby and Pearl sit on couch, Ruby L. of Pearl; Andrew and
Waverly R. C, laughing.)_
TABLEAU.
Doctor. _(stops dancing suddenly--aside)_ Quayle's right again!
They're flowing in, simply flowing in! _(sits at table--to
Waverly down r.)_ Good afternoon. Won't you sit down?
_(Waverly sits O. P. corner.)_
Now what can I do for you? What's the trouble, eh?
Andrew. _(behind Doctor. slaps him on back, laughing)_ What do
you take us for, Dull Boy?
Doctor. _(turning round)_ Why, it's Merry Andrew!
Andrew. Of course it is! How are you? This is Mr. Vane, old
friend of mine.
Waver. _(other side of Doctor)_ How are you? _(shakes hands)_
Doctor. _(between them)_ Not a patient? _(to Andrew)_ Who are the
ladies?
Waver. Don't you know your own cousins?
Doctor. _(mystified)_ Cousins, what cousins?
Ruby. _(coming down L. of him--Andrew gives way)_ Second cousins.
Pearl. _(coming down r. of him--Waver, gives way)_ On mother's
side.
Doctor. I know, you're the Plants from Southsea? But how could I
recognise you? I haven't seen you for so long.
Pearl. _(making eyes at Doctor)_ We hope to see you every day
now; we're in town for a week.
Doctor. _(aside)_ What does she make eyes at me like that for?
Ruby. Yes, just across the road--_dear_ Jack!
Doctor. _(aside)_ "Dear Jack?" This is very sudden! _(to them)_
Er--have some tea? _(rings bell on table)_
Pearl. Oh, thank you. I love tea.
_(Girls go to sofa--Boys follow.)_
_(Enter Aurora.)_
Doctor. Some more tea, please, Aurora--hot, strong and quick!
Aurora. Yes, sir--hot, strong and quick, _(dives under knee-hole
of table)_
Doctor. What are you doing there?
Aurora. _(coming through)_ Getting out the teapot, sir.
TABLEAU. _(Exit Aurora.)_
Doctor. _(back of sofa, to Ruby)_ And have you come up from
Portsmouth with Merry Andrew?
Ruby. _(confused)_ No--of course not, my _dear_ Jack!
Doctor. But aren't you--eh?
Andrew. _(laughs)_ You've guessed it in once, Dull Boy! But it's
a secret.
Doctor. _(pleased)_ I'm never wrong in a diagnosis. _(shakes
hands with Andrew)_ I congratulate you. _(looks at Pearl)_
And you and Mr. Vane are---- _(shaking hands with Waverly)_ I
congratulate you----
_(Pearl shakes her head.)_
--Er--I mean I beg your pardon.
Waver. Don't mention it.
Andrew. You were having a jolly good caper when we came in;
what's up?
Doctor. She's coming! _(waves hand vaguely towards picture and
sits on sofa between girls)_
_(Enter Aurora with tea.)_
Andrew. _(laughing)_ Oh, _you've_ got a "she," have you? You dog!
_(back at sofa)_
Aurora. _(aside)_ 'E's got a she! _(gasps audibly)_
Ruby. Dear Jack!
Andrew. _(to her)_ Here, not so much of your "dear Jack!"
Ruby. Don't be absurd, Andrew. he's my cousin.
_(Andrew goes C.)_
I congratulate you with all my heart, dear Jack! _(kisses him)_
_(Aurora gasps again, louder.)_
Pearl. And I congratulate you too! _(kisses him)_
_( Aurora gasps a third time, loudest, and puts tray on
tea-table, upsetting milk jug onto tray. Takes everything off
tray quickly, pours spilt milk back into jug, wipes tray and mops
milk off floor with apron, goes to fire and wrings out apron in
fireplace.)_
Doctor. _(rises, goes up)_ You've got something on your chest,
Aurora----
Aurora. Yes, sir. _(takes out loaf of bread and puts it on the
table)_
Doctor. I must give you a tonic.
Aurora. _(with fervour)_ Oh, do, sir. _(goes C., aside)_ 'Is
patient again! I wonder what colour it'll he this time? _(to
Doctor as he hands her the draught)_ Will this 'ere mix with that
there, sir? _(pointing at it)_
Doctor. _(snatching it back)_ No, I'm hanged if it will!1 _(puts
it down)_
Aurora _(aside)_ I was a little silly to speak. I did want to
touch 'is 'and again. 'E's got sich a sorft 'and!
_(Exit Aurora. sadly.)_
Ruby. And what is your lady-love like?
Doctor. _(pointing to Aunt's picture)_ That!
Pearl. Oh, isn't she pretty! _(looks at Ruby grimacing)_ Who is
she?
Doctor. My maiden aunt Susannah!
Andrew. Oh, Susannah! Now you're having a lark with us.
Doctor. No, I'm not--I leave larking to you. She's coming
to-morrow.
Waver. To-morrow? We've got a box at the Hippodrome; you must
come and bring your aunt.
Andrew. Yes, we'll trot her round.
_(Doctor handing cigarettes to Andrew. who hands them to Waverly,
and Waverly to girls.)_
Doctor. No, no, she's not a trotter. She lives at Ambleside, and
she's awfully quiet.
_(Pearl takes a cigarette from Waverly, strikes match on her
shoe, lights it.)_
She'd think a visit to the Ballad Concerts was reckless
dissipation, and if she saw a girl riding a bicycle or smoking
a cigarette she'd say--_(sees Ruby and Pearl--stops confused)_
I--I--don't know what she'd say.
Andrew. _(roars and slaps him on the back)_ Just the same serious
old Jack. You must come out with Vane and me to-night.
_(Doctor writhes when Andrew slaps him.)_
Waver. Yes, we'll paint London red for you--it's the season for
spring-cleaning.
Doctor. With pleasure, but mind you, no larks after to-night. I
know what a fellow you are for practical jokes, but if you played
any joke on auntie, I'd never forgive you. She's one of the best,
and I want her to enjoy her visit in her own quiet way. _(looks
through microscope)_
Andrew. So she shall, old fellow! We'll take her to the Zoo to
see the lions fed.
Pearl. That _will_ be quiet!
_(All laugh.)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ Where's that specimen? _(rings bell)_ Oh, I
remember, in there--_(points to door R. I. E., to them)_ Will you
excuse me for a moment?
_(Exit R. U. E.)_
_(Andrew crosses to sofa, Pearl pulls Waverly on to sofa. The
Quartette sit around tea-table, talking and laughing.)_
_(Enter Aurora.)_
Aurora. _(aside)_ Where's the dear doctor? What have they done
with him?
Andrew. _(who has his arm round Ruby. aside to Waverly)_ Lend me
your detective camera?
Aurora. _(aside)_ Detective? I'm in this--it's all for 'im!
_(hides behind operating couch)_
Waver. Here, no larks, Merry Andrew. what do you want it for?
_(nervously indicating that Pearl's taken his arm and put it
round her waist)_
Andrew. _(with smothered laughter)_ I'll show you! _(takes it
from him)_
_(Waverly nervous tries to get his arm away--Andrew takes
snap-shot at Aunt's picture, Aurora watching, her eyes just above
couch.)_
All over!
_(Aurora bobs down.)_
Ruby. What's the joke?
Andrew. I'm going to that wig-maker fellow to get him to make me
up just like this snap-shot of that picture, he'll do it in half
an hour, dress and all. I'll come back before you're gone, and
Jack'll think I'm his "she."
Aurora. _(aside)_ _Will_ he? Not if I can help it! _(bobs down)_
Andrew. And you'll all be larking and smoking and kicking up no
end of a row, and poor old Jack's serious face'll be a study.
Aurora. _(aside)_ Will he? I'll learn you to make fun of the dear
Doctor. see if I don't! _(creeps to door)_
_(Exit Aurora. unobserved.)_
_(Re-enter Doctor--Waverly withdraws his arm suddenly, Pearl puts
it back.)_
Pearl. _(to Doctor)_ Jack?
_(Doctor doesn't hear, absorbed in microscope.)_
Jack, dear, has any one been here while we were away? _(toying
with Waverly's hand)_
Doctor. _(still looking through microscope)_ Only a Billy old
lunatic with dyed hair and a touch of lumbago.
Ruby and Pearl. _(jumping up suddenly)_ Father!
_(Andrew sits on couch with Waverly.)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ Oh, lor! _(aloud)_ I'm awfully sorry I didn't
know he was your father, he said he was a fairy prince.
Pearl. How like him! _(laughs)_
Ruby. Where's he gone?
Doctor. To look for someone--I think it was you. _(points to
Waverly and Andrew)_
Pearl. Had he his big walking stick? _(seriously)_
Doctor. _(nods)_ He had! He practised with it on Tupper.
Andrew and Waveb. _(together, rising)_ I think we had better be
going now.
Ruby. _(to Andrew)_ Yes, do, you don't know papa when he's
roused.
_(Waverly looks around nervously and goes up.)_
Andrew. Oh, I'm not afraid, but I've an appointment. _(winking
and smiling)_
Ruby. _(smiling)_ With a lady? _(pointing at picture)_
Andrew. _(smiling)_ Yes!
Waver. I'll come with you, I'd like to see her.
Andrew. Right! Shan't be long, Jack, and when we come back we're
going to take you out to have one jolly good caper for the last,
_(slaps him hard on back.)_
Doctor. _(absently)_ The last before auntie comes.
Andrew. _(laughing and nudging Waver.)_ As you say, _before
auntie comes_.
_(Exit Andrew and Waverly.)_
Pearl. _(to Ruby)_ He's looking at us! Suppose he's fallen in
love with us!
Ruby. He mustn't for worlds--father would accept him at once!
Pearl. _(to Ruby)_ We must be very _distant_ cousins now.
_(Girls sit on sofa.)_
Doctor. _(aside)_ I'm no match for the two of 'em. _(sits on
couch between girls--cheerily)_ Now make yourselves quite at
home, let me give you some more tea? _(to Ruby.)_
Ruby. _(freezingly)_ No, thank you. _(moves to armchair)_
_(Pearl goes to window and looks out.)_
Doctor. _(C. aside)_ Very sudden change! What have I done?
Pearl. _(looking out of window)_ Father's back!
_(Bell rings. Ruby and Pearl rush back and sit one on each
side of Doctor. cuddling close to him, each holding one of his
hands.)_
Doctor. _(to them)_ Father's back? Oh, yes, I know, _lumbago!_
I'll cure it.
_(Enter Plant.)_
Plant. Ah, here you are, my precious jewels!
_(Doctor rises, girls rise with him, still holding his hands.)_
Sir, accept a father's thanks!
_(Holds out his hand, which Doctor cannot take--Bus. then girls
release him--shaking Doctor's hand.)_
Forgive my harshness this afternoon--a father's feelings, you
know.
Doctor. On the contrary, you ought to forgive _me_--I know now
how much I owe you--my fairy prince!
_(Girls laugh and sit on sofa.)_
Plant. _(quickly)_ Hush! Not before the girls! _(goes to them,
stands back of sofa)_ My precious jewels, how thankful I am to
find you safe and well, _(aside)_ I'll give it you when I get
you home. I know _all!_ _(to Doctor)_ Two dear girls, Doctor.
who have never given me a moment's uneasiness all their blameless
lives, _(aside to Ruby)_ Have you settled? Which is it to be?
Ruby. _(aside to him)_ Me.
Pearl. _(aside to him)_ And me too!
Plant. _(savagely to Pearl)_ I shall lock you up in our room,
miss, for the rest of the day.
Ruby. _(ruefully)_ Oh, papa, how unkind!
Plant. _(aside to Ruby)_ And you too! _(aside)_ I can get on
better without you. _(to Doctor. stroking their hair)_ Ah,
Doctor. the man who would dare to rob me of my precious jewels,
Ruby and Pearl. will have much to answer for.
Doctor. Don't distress yourself, no man would be so heartless,
_(looking through microscope)_
Plant. Ahem! Not such a fool as he looks! These girls are no
match for him. I must get him alone. _(aloud)_ Well, Doctor. we
mustn't waste your precious time; I see you're busy.
Doctor. No, no, not on a Friday, to-morrow's my day. _(nearly
dances, checks himself, aside--to Plant)_ Besides I'm expecting
an old school fellow directly, he's a lieutenant in the navy, and
my greatest friend.
_(Consternation of Ruby and Pearl.)_
You _must_ stop.
Plant. My dear Jack, we should be charmed to meet any friend of
yours, but really during our short stay in town we have so many
engagements, _(to Ruby)_ Say good-bye and kiss him!
Ruby. I have kissed him once. _(rises)_
Plant. Good! Do it again for luck!
_(Pearl crosses towards Doctor)_
Not you! _(stops her)_
Pearl. _(to Plant)_ I wasn't going to.
Plant. I wouldn't trust you.
Pearl. Good-bye, Doctor. I wish you every success. _(shakes hands
and goes up stage)_
Ruby. Good-bye! _(pause)_ Dear Jack! _(pause)_ I _(going to kiss
him, catches her father's eye, aside to Plant)_ I can't when
you're looking.
Plant. _(aside to her)_ Idiot! _(aloud)_ Come, my precious
jewels!
_(Puts his arms round them; swing Bus.)_
The sunshine of my widowed home, Jack, a humble place, but when
you come to visit us at Southsea, you will echo the words of the
immortal bard, and join with us in singing, _(sings)_ "Ours is a
happy little home!"
_(Exit Plant. Ruby and Pearl. _all quarrelling loudly_.
|
arranged the whole in a new dramatic form.
"Un Curioso Accidente" was the title given to this pasticcio in two
acts, which was announced as a new Opera by Rossini.
Rossini, who is supposed to have been so entirely careless of his
reputation, did not choose that a production made up of pieces extracted
from the works of his youth, and put together without his sanction,
should be announced as a new and complete work from his pen; and lost no
time in addressing to M. Calzado the following letter:--
"_November 11, 1859._
"SIR,--I am told that the bills of your theatre announce a new
Opera by me under this title, 'Un Curioso Accidents.'
"I do not know whether I have the right to prevent the
representation of a production in two acts (more or less) made up
of old pieces of mine; I have never occupied myself with questions
of this kind in regard to my works (not one of which, by the way,
is named 'Un Curioso Accidente'). In any case I have not objected
to and I do not object to the representation of this 'Curioso
Accidente.' But I cannot allow the public invited to your theatre,
and your subscribers, to think either that it is a _new_ Opera by
me, or that I took any part in arranging it.
"I must beg of you then to remove from your bills the word _new_,
together with my name as author, and to substitute instead the
following:--'Opera, consisting of pieces by M. Rossini, arranged by
M. Berettoni.'
"I request that this alteration may appear in the bills of
to-morrow, in default of which I shall be obliged to ask from
justice what I now ask from your good faith.
"Accept my sincere compliments.
"Signed,
"GIOACHINO ROSSINI."
The effect of this letter was to cause the entire disappearance of "Un
Curioso Accidente," which was not heard of again. At the one
representation which took place a charming trio in the buffo style, for
men's voices, taken from the "Pietra del Paragone," and a very pretty
duet for soprano and contralto from "Aureliano in Palmira," were
remarked.
In addition to the five works already mentioned as having been written
by Rossini during the year 1812, "Demetrio e Polibio" may be mentioned
as belonging to that year by its production on the stage, if not by its
composition.
"Demetrio e Polibio" was Rossini's first opera. He wrote it in the
spring of 1809, when he was just seventeen years of age, but is said to
have re-touched it before its representation at Rome in the year 1812.
"Demetrio e Polibio" seems to have been altogether a family affair. The
libretto was written by Madame Mombelli. Her husband, Mombelli, a tenor
of experience, has the credit of having suggested to Rossini, from among
his copious reminiscences, some notions for melodies. The daughters,
Marianna and Esther, played two of the principal parts, while the third
was taken by the basso, Olivieri, a very intimate friend of the family,
of which Rossini himself was a relative.
An officer whom Stendhal met at Como one night when "Demetrio e Polibio"
was about to be played, furnished him with this interesting account of
the Mombellis, which tallies closely enough with the description of them
given some forty years afterwards by Rossini himself to Ferdinand
Hiller.
"The company," he said, "consists of a single family. Of the two
daughters, one who is always dressed as a man takes the parts of the
musico (or sopranist); that is Marianna. The other one, Esther, who has
a voice of greater extent though less even, less perfectly sweet, is the
prima donna. In 'Demetrio e Polibio' the old Mombelli, who was once a
celebrated tenor, takes the part of the _King_. That of the chief of the
conspirators will be filled by a person called Olivieri, who has long
been attached to Madame Mombelli, the mother, and who, to be useful to
the family, takes utility parts on the stage, and in the house is cook
and major domo. Without being pretty, the Mombellis have pleasing faces.
But they are ferociously virtuous, and it is supposed that the father,
who is an ambitious man, wishes to get them married."
The year 1813 was a much greater year for Rossini than that of 1812,
already sufficiently promising. The latter was the year of "L'Inganno
Felice" and "La Pietra del Paragone;" the former that of "Tancredi" and
"L'Italiana in Algeri."
Rossini's first work of the batch of three brought out in 1813 was a
trifle, but owing to peculiar circumstances, a very amusing trifle,
called "Il Figlio per Azzardo." This operetta, or _farza_, was written
for the San Mosè theatre, and was the last work furnished by Rossini to
that establishment.
The manager of the San Mosè was annoyed at Rossini's having engaged to
write for another Venetian theatre, the Fenice, and in consequence
treated him with great incivility, for which the young composer
determined to have his revenge. He had moreover deliberately, and of
malice prepense, given Rossini a libretto so monstrously absurd that to
make it the groundwork of even a tolerable opera was impossible; yet
Rossini was bound by his engagement to set it to music or pay damages.
He resolved to set it to music.
If the libretto was absurd, the music which Rossini composed to it was
ludicrous, grotesque, extravagant to the last degree of caricature. The
bass had to sing at the top of his voice, and only the very lowest notes
of the prima donna were called into requisition. One singer, whose
appearance was always a signal for laughter, had to deliver a fine-drawn
sentimental melody. Another artist who could not sing at all had a very
difficult air assigned to him, which, that none of his faults might pass
unperceived, was accompanied _pianissimo_ by a _pizzicato_ of violins.
In short, it was an anticipation of Offenbach, and it is astonishing
that this musical burlesque of Rossini's has never been reproduced
substantially, or by imitation (it is scarcely probable that the
original score was preserved), at the Bouffes Parisiens.
Nor must the orchestra be forgotten, which Rossini enriched on this
occasion by the introduction of instruments previously unknown. In one
movement the musicians, at the beginning of each bar, had to strike the
tin shades of the candles in front of them; when the sound extracted
from these new "instruments of percussion," instead of pleasing the
public, so irritated it, that the audacious innovator, hissed and hooted
by his audience, found it prudent to make his escape from the theatre.
This practical joke in music was one which few composers could have
afforded to make; but Rossini had to choose between a bad joke and a bad
opera, and he preferred the former.
CHAPTER II.
ITALIAN OPERA UNTIL "TANCREDI."
The first opera of Rossini's which became celebrated throughout Europe
was "Tancredi," which in the present day seems just a little
old-fashioned. In regard to the recitatives and their accompaniments
"Tancredi" is indeed somewhat antiquated. But it was new, strikingly
new, in the year 1813, when Mozart's great operas had scarcely been
heard out of Germany, and when, moreover, no one thought of comparing
Rossini's works with any but works by other Italian composers. It was
very unlike the serious operas of Rossini's Italian predecessors, and,
in the opinion of many who admired those operas even to prejudice, was
full of culpable innovations.
* * * * *
When Rossini began to write for the stage, the lyric drama of Italy was
divided by a hard line into the serious and the comic; and comic opera,
or rather opera buffa, was, musically speaking, in a much more advanced
state of development than opera seria. The dialogue, especially in
serious opera, was carried on for interminable periods in recitative.
Choruses were rarely introduced; and concerted pieces, though by no
means unknown, were still reserved, as a rule, for the conclusion of an
act.
The singers were allowed great liberty of adornment, and treated the
composer's melodies as so much musical canvas, to be embroidered upon at
will.
The orchestra was in a very subordinate position; the harmony was
meagre, the instrumentation mild--many instruments, that were afterwards
employed prominently and with great effect by Rossini, being kept in the
background or entirely ignored.
Clarinets, for instance, were only admitted into Italian orchestras on
condition of being kept quiet; while bassoons were used only to
strengthen the basses. Brass instruments, with the exception of horns,
were all but proscribed; and some of the brass instruments used by all
composers in the present day--opheicleids, for instance, cornets, and
all the family of saxhorns--were unknown.
Rossini did not stop, in the way of orchestrations, at "Tancredi;" and
the drums and trumpets of the "Gazza Ladra" overture, the military band
of "Semiramide," the sackbuts, psalteries, and all kinds of musical
instruments employed in his operas for the French stage, shocked the
early admirers of "Tancredi" as much as the innovations, vocal and
instrumental, in "Tancredi" had shocked those who cared only for the
much simpler works of Paisiello and Cimarosa. Thus we find Stendhal
complaining that in "Otello," "Zelmira," and above all "Semiramide,"
Rossini, in the matter of orchestration, had ceased to be an Italian,
and had become a German--which, in the opinion of Stendhal and his
Italian friends, was about as severe a thing as could be said.
* * * * *
Lord Mount Edgcumbe in his "Reminiscences of the Opera" gives a fair
account of the reforms introduced by Rossini into the operatic music of
Italy, which is interesting as proceeding from an old operatic habitué
to whom these changes were anything but acceptable. It would be a
mistake to suppose that Rossini's operas encountered formidable
opposition anywhere; and in England, as in France, those musicians and
amateurs who, here and there, made it their business to decry them, did
so with the more energy on account of the immense favour with which they
were received by the general public.
"So great a change," says Lord Mount Edgcumbe, "has taken place in the
character of the (operatic) dramas, in the style of the music and its
performance, that I cannot help enlarging on that subject before I
proceed further. One of the most material alterations is that the grand
distinction between serious and comic operas is nearly at an end, the
separation of the singers for their performance entirely so.[4] Not only
do the same sing in both, but a new species of drama has arisen, a kind
of mongrel between them called _semi seria_, which bears the same
analogy to the other two that that nondescript, melodrama, does to the
legitimate drama and comedy of the English."
Specimens of this "nondescript" style are of course to be found in
Shakspeare's plays and in Mozart's operas; but let Lord Mount Edgcumbe
continue his perfectly intelligible account of Rossini's reforms.
"The construction of these newly invented pieces," he proceeds, "is
essentially different from the old. The dialogue, which used to be
carried on in recitative, and which in Metastasio's operas is often so
beautiful and interesting, is now cut up (and rendered unintelligible if
it were worth listening to) into _pezzi concertati_, or long singing
conversations, which present a tedious succession of unconnected,
ever-changing _motivos_ having nothing to do with each other: and if a
satisfactory air is for a moment introduced which the ear would like to
dwell upon, to hear modulated, varied, and again returned to, it is
broken off before it is well understood, by a sudden transition into a
totally different melody, time and key, and recurs no more; so that no
impression can be made or recollection of it preserved. Single songs are
almost exploded... even the prima donna, who would formerly have
complained at having less than three or four airs allotted to her, is
now satisfied with one trifling cavatina for a whole opera."
Rossini's concerted pieces and finales described are not precisely a
"tedious succession of unconnected, ever-changing motivos;" but from his
own point of view Lord Mount Edgcumbe's account of Rossini's innovations
is true enough.
It seems strange, that in the year 1813, when Rossini produced
"Tancredi," the mere forms of the lyric drama should have still been
looked upon as unsettled. For though opera could only boast a history of
two centuries--little enough considering the high antiquity of the
spoken drama--it had made great progress during the previous hundred
years, and was scarcely the same entertainment as that which popes,
cardinals, and the most illustrious nobles in Italy had taken under
their special protection in the early part of the seventeenth century.
No general history of the opera in Europe can well be written, for its
progress has been different in each country, and we find continual
instances of composers leaving one country to visit and even to settle
in another, taking with them their works, and introducing at the same
time and naturalising their style. But its development in Italy can be
followed, more or less closely, from its origin in a long series of
experiments to the time of Scarlatti, and from Scarlatti (1649) in an
unbroken line to Rossini.
Indeed, from Scarlatti to the immediate predecessors of Rossini, the
history of the development of the opera in Italy is the history of its
development at Naples; and Rossini himself, though not educated at
Naples, like almost all the other leading composers of Italy, soon
betook himself to the great musical capital, and composed for its
celebrated theatre all his best Italian operas in the serious style.
Without proposing to imitate those conscientious historians who cannot
chronicle the simplest events of their own time without going back to
the origin of all things, I may perhaps find it more easy to explain to
the unlearned reader what Rossini did in the way of perfecting operatic
forms if I previously mark down the steps in advance taken by his
predecessors.
* * * * *
The first operas seem to have been little more than spoken dramas
interspersed with choruses in the madrigal style. "Dafne," performed for
the first time in the Corsi palace in 1597, passes for the first _opera
musicale_ in which recitative was employed.
In "Euridice," represented publicly at Florence on the occasion of the
marriage of Henry IV. of France with Marie de Medicis in 1600, each of
the five acts concludes with a chorus, the dialogue is in recitative,
and one of the characters, _Tircis_, sings an air which is introduced by
an instrumental prelude. Here, then, in germ, are the overture, the
chorus, the air, the recitative of modern opera.
Monteverde (1568--1643), who changed the whole harmonic system of his
predecessors, gave greater importance in his operas to the
accompaniments, increased the number of musicians in the orchestra, and
made use of a separate combination of instruments to announce the entry
and return of each dramatic personage--an orchestral device which
passes in the present day for new.
Scarlatti (1649--1745), who studied in Rome under Carissimi, gave new
development to the operatic air, and introduced measured recitative.
Scarlatti's operas contain the earliest examples of airs with
_obbligato_ solo accompaniments, and this composer must always hold an
important place in the history of the opera as the founder of the great
Neapolitan school.
Alessandro Scarlatti was followed by Logroscino and Durante;[5] the
former of whom introduced concerted pieces and the dramatic finale,
which was afterwards developed by Piccinni, and introduced into serious
opera by Paisiello; while the latter succeeded his old master,
contemporaneously with Leo, as professor at Naples, where Jomelli,
Piccinni, Sacchini, Guglielmi, Paisiello, and Cimarosa, were formed
under his guidance.
The special innovations of Piccinni and Paisiello have been mentioned.
Cimarosa, without inventing or modifying any particular form, wrote the
best overtures that the Italian school had yet produced, and was the
first to introduce concerted pieces in the midst of dramatic action.
* * * * *
We have seen that Rossini was a pupil of the Bologna Lyceum; but though
he was the first great Italian composer who never studied at the
Conservatories of Naples, to him fell all the rich inheritance of the
Neapolitan school.
CHAPTER III.
FOUR HISTORICAL OPERAS.
In bringing forward Monteverde, Scarlatti, Durante, Logroscino, and
Pergolese, Jomelli, Piccinni, Paisiello, and Cimarosa, as the founders
of opera, one seems to be tracing operatic history merely through names.
To opera goers, who do not limit the sphere of their observation to
London, it would be simpler to cite four examples of works belonging to
the century before Rossini, which, if not living in the full sense of
the word, are, at least, capable of revival, and have been presented to
the public in their revived state during the last few years.
Pergolese's "Serva Padrona," an opera or operetta of the year 1731, was
reproduced at Paris in 1862, for the _début_ of Madame Galli-Marié. In
this little work, which passed for its composer's masterpiece, the
accompaniments are all for stringed instruments, and as there are only
two speaking characters in the drama, it naturally follows that all the
musical pieces are of the simplest form. But when "La Serva Padrona" was
produced, a composer, however many characters he might have to deal
with, was not expected to go in the way of concerted pieces beyond a
duet; and it was not until twenty years afterwards that Logroscino
ventured upon a trio, and upon the first very simple model of the
dramatic finale.
* * * * *
In Gluck's "Orfeo" we have a well-known specimen of an opera, somewhat
later in date, and much more advanced in regard to dramatic form, than
the one just named. It must be remembered that "Orfeo" was originally
produced in 1764, not in France, but in Italy. In Gluck's operas we find
an abundance of recitative; airs; choruses taking part in the dramatic
action; occasionally duets; very rarely concerted pieces, and never
finales. Gluck, like his rival Piccinni, but certainly not more than
Piccinni, extended the limits of operatic art. If, as is generally
admitted, he excelled in his dramatic treatment of chorus and orchestra,
he neglected concerted pieces, and was not equal to the handling of
those grand dramatic finales which Piccinni was the first to produce, in
anything like their modern form, which Paisiello naturalised in serious
opera, and which were brought to perfection in both styles by the
comprehensive genius of Mozart.
* * * * *
A third opera by a præ-Mozartian composer, which, as it is still
occasionally represented, may be cited for the further progress it
exhibits in the development of operatic forms, is Cimarosa's "Matrimonio
Segretto." Before writing this, one of his latest works (1792), its
composer had been already completely distanced by Mozart, who adopted
all that was worth adopting in the methods of all his contemporaries and
predecessors; but to Cimarosa all the same belongs the merit of having
introduced quartets and other concerted pieces, not as ornaments at the
end of an act, but as integral parts of the musical drama. This
important innovation occurs for the first time in Cimarosa's "Il
fanatico per le antichi Romani," composed in 1773, thirteen years before
the production of the "Marriage of Figaro."
Cimarosa's "Matrimonio Segretto" is also remarkable in an historical
point of view for its overture, the finest that the Italian school had
up to that time produced. Paisiello's overture to the "Frascatana" had
previously made a decided mark; but Rossini was the first composer of
his nation who wrote a whole series of operatic overtures--"Tancredi,"
"Barber of Seville," "Gazza Ladra," "Semiramide," "Siege of Corinth,"
"William Tell"--which became celebrated apart from the works to which
they are prefixed.
* * * * *
The only opera of Paisiello's which has been presented in recent times,
is his original musical setting of the "Barber of Seville," written in
1780 for the Court Theatre at St. Petersburgh. This interesting work,
which was revived a couple of years ago, and is still occasionally
played at one of the half dozen musical theatres in Paris called Les
Fantaisies Parisiennes, is anterior to Mozart, more even in character
than by date. Produced twenty years before "Il Matrimonio Segretto," and
only six years before the "Marriage of Figaro," it seems very much
further removed from Mozart's than from Cimarosa's work. Mozart went so
far beyond his contemporaries that he may almost be described as a great
anticipator. Like Shakspeare he is much more modern than his immediate
successors.
However Paisiello's "Barbiere" may sometimes be heard, and is therefore
better worth speaking of than works of equal or greater importance,
which can only be looked at on paper; and it is interesting as marking a
stage in the history of opera by the number and merit of its concerted
pieces.
* * * * *
The opera, then, was at first nothing but recitative, or recitative and
chorus; the chorus having no dramatic character, but confining itself,
in imitation of the most ancient models, to solemn criticism and
comment. To relieve the drawling recitative or chant, an occasional air
was introduced; then more airs; then airs and duets. We have to wait
until the middle of the eighteenth century for a simple trio. Then
trios, quartets, finales, fully developed finales, occur. In the
meantime Gluck had given great prominence to the chorus, and had
cultivated choral writing with the happiest dramatic effect; and while
operatic forms, especially in regard to the employment of the voices,
had been gradually varied and extended by the Italians, the instrumental
writers of Germany, more especially Haydn, had invented new orchestral
combinations. Mozart appeared; and appropriating all in music that had
gone before--joining to all the vocal forms of the Italians all the
instrumental forms of the Germans, while improving, developing, and
perfecting both--helped dramatic music on to that point at which even
now, speaking broadly, it may be said to remain.
CHAPTER IV.
MOZART AND ROSSINI.
New instruments have been introduced since Mozart's time. It has become
the fashion still farther to shorten recitatives; the chorus has been
made more prominent than ever in Italian Opera, and Verdi gives it
flowing melodies to sing as to a soloist of fifty-voice power.
Nevertheless, in all essentials, no progress in the composition of
dramatic music has been made since "Don Giovanni;" and if Mozart's
operas had been known in Italy when Rossini began to write, then,
instead of saying that Rossini took this idea from Cimarosa and from
Paisiello, that from Gluck, that from Haydn, it would be much simpler to
say that he took all that was new in the construction of his works from
Mozart.
Rossini could scarcely have studied Mozart's works--certainly not their
effect on the stage--when, in 1813, he produced "Tancredi;" in fact,
"Tancredi" presents much less modern forms than the "Marriage of Figaro"
and "Don Giovanni," written a quarter of a century earlier. But it must
be remembered that Rossini did not perfect his style until about 1816,
the year of "Otello" and of the "Barber of Seville;" and in the
meanwhile La Scala had represented "Don Giovanni" (1814), and with much
greater success "Le Nozze di Figaro" (1815).
Mozart may have prepared the way for Rossini's European success, and
Rossini certainly profited in a direct manner by all Mozart's reforms in
the lyric drama. Still he may be said to have arrived independently of
Mozart's influence at many of Mozart's results. Even in what passes
specially for a reform introduced by Rossini, the practice of writing
airs, ornaments, and all, precisely as they are to be sung, Rossini had
been anticipated by Mozart, by Gluck, by Handel, by all the German
composers. Nevertheless, it was not in deliberate imitation of the more
exact composers of Germany, it was for the sake of his own music that
Rossini made this important innovation, which no composer has since
departed from.
Out of Germany Mozart's operas only became known a very short time
before those of Rossini. Mozart was at once appreciated by the Bohemians
of Prague, but his success was contested, by the Germans of Vienna, and
it may be said with only too much truth that his masterpieces met with
no general recognition until after his death. Joseph II. cared only for
Italian music, and never gave his entire approbation to anything Mozart
produced, though some of the best musicians of the period, with Haydn
and Cimarosa at their head, acknowledged him to be the greatest composer
in Europe.
The Emperor thought there were "too many notes" in the "Entführung aus
dem Serail," in spite of Mozart's assurance that there were "precisely
the proper number." The "Marriage of Figaro," not much esteemed by the
Court, was hissed by the Viennese public on its first production; while
"Don Giovanni" itself, in spite of its success at Prague, was quite
eclipsed at Vienna by the "Assur" of Salieri. Cimarosa in the meanwhile
was idolised at Court. The Emperor Leopold, at the first representation
of "Matrimonio Segretto," encored the whole work, and loaded the
composer with honours and riches; but he never really appreciated
Mozart's works.
The influence of a clique of hostile Italian musicians living at Vienna,
also, no doubt, counted for something. In taking an important part in
the establishment of German Opera, Mozart threatened to diminish the
reputation of the Italian school. The "Entführung aus dem Serail" was
the first blow to the supremacy of Italian Opera; "Der
Schauspiel-direktor" was the second; and when, after the production of
this latter work at the New German Theatre of Vienna, Mozart proceeded
to write the "Nozze di Figaro" for the Italians, he simply placed
himself in the hands of his enemies.
It cannot be said that in Italy Mozart's recognition was delayed by mere
national prejudice; but his works presented great executive
difficulties; many of the pieces were too complex for the Italian taste,
while in others too much importance was assigned to the orchestra, too
little to the voices. Mozart, moreover, was not in the country to
propose and superintend the production of his works, and the Italian
composers, his contemporaries, thought, no doubt, that they did enough,
in getting their own brought out.
Ultimately it was through Italian singers that both "Don Giovanni" and
"Le Nozze di Figaro" became known throughout Europe; but Mozart's two
great operas, though written fully thirty years before Rossini's best
works, were not introduced in Italy, France, and England, until about
the same time. It took Mozart upwards of a quarter of a century to make
the journey from Vienna to London; whereas Rossini, from Rome and
Naples, reached both London and Paris in three or four years.
CHAPTER V.
ROSSINI'S REFORMS IN SERIOUS OPERA.
We have seen that when Rossini's "Tancredi" was first brought out in
London, Lord Mount-Edgcumbe did not know what to make of it, and thought
Italian Opera was coming to an end; whereas, as far as that generation
was concerned, it was only just beginning. "Tancredi" has, in the
present day, somewhat of an old-fashioned, or rather, let us say,
antique character. Many of the melodic phrases, by dint of fifty years'
wear, have lost their primitive freshness; and they are often decorated
in a style which, good or bad, does not suit the taste of the present
day. But it marks the commencement of the reforms introduced by Rossini
into opera seria, and it is the first work by which he became known
abroad. A very few years after its first production at Venice,
"Tancredi" was played all over Europe.
To most opera goers of the present-day, the recitatives of "Tancredi"
will appear sufficiently long--they are interminable compared with the
brief recitatives by which Verdi connects his pieces. But before the
time of "Tancredi," dialogue in recitative may be said to have formed
the ground-work and substance of opera; and many an opera seria
consisted almost entirely of recitative broken here and there by airs
for a single voice. The opera buffa was richer in concerted music; and
Rossini, speaking broadly, introduced the forms of opera buffa into
opera seria. For much declamation he substituted singing; for endless
monologues and duologues, ensembles connected and supported by a
brilliant orchestra. The bass singer was still kept somewhat in the
background. But he had a part; his personality was recognised; and some
of the amateurs of the old school pointed to him in "Tancredi" with
prophetic eye, and sadly foretold that, having been allowed to make his
first step, he would be gradually brought forward until, at last, he
would stand prominently in the front--as he in fact did a very few years
afterwards in Rossini's "Mosè."
Before "Tancredi" the bass took no part in tragic opera. Then, in
addition to the new distribution of parts, the new arrangement of the
dramatic scenes, the elaborate finale, the bright sonorous
instrumentation, there were the charming melodies, there was the
animation of the style, which, whatever the plan of the work, would
certainly have sufficed to ensure it a large measure of success. All who
heard the opera must, consciously or unconsciously, have felt the effect
of Rossini's admirable innovations; but what chiefly excited the
enthusiasm of the public was the beauty of the melodies. All Venice sang
the airs from "Tancredi," the gondoliers made them into serenades;
Rossini was followed by them wherever he went. It is said that they used
even to be introduced in the law courts, and that the judges had more
than once to stop the humming of "mi rivedrai, te revedro." "I thought
when they heard my opera," said Rossini, "that the Venetians would think
me mad. But I found that they were much madder than I was."
It was indeed with some fear and trepidation that Rossini witnessed the
preparations for the first performance of "Tancredi." He had not met
the Venetian public since that affair of the lamp-shade accompaniment,
into the humour of which they had positively refused to enter; and it
was not at all certain that by way of a practical joke on their side,
they would not hiss a work which the composer meant this time to be
enthusiastically applauded. The manager of the Mosè, moreover, was now
an enemy of Rossini, and, independently of that, would certainly not be
sorry to hear of a failure at the "other house." The Fenice, then, was
full, the musicians of the orchestra were at their posts, the time for
commencing the overture had arrived, and still Rossini was nowhere to be
found.
It was at that time the custom in Italy for the composer of a new opera
to preside at its representation three successive times; but Rossini
seemed determined to escape at least one of these trial performances.
However, he intended the overture as a sort of peace-offering. It was
begun in his absence under the leadership of the first violin; and the
first allegro was so much applauded that Rossini at once felt justified
in leaving his hiding place by the entrance to the orchestra and taking
his seat on the conductor's chair. The crescendo, a means not invented
by Rossini, but employed by him more persistently and with more success,
than by any other composer, produced an effect which was repeated again
and again in subsequent works, and never once too often. In fact, the
whole of the animated and rather joyous prelude to what, if not a very
serious opera, is at least an opera on a very serious subject, was
received with expressions of delight.
No operatic overture was at one time more popular than that of
"Tancredi." Perhaps it is our fault as much as that of the music, if it
appears a little old-fashioned now. Certainly it is trivial in
character. It does not fill the mind with thoughts and visions of noble
deeds; nor does it present the slightest picture of the crusades as a
modern programme-overture (with the aid of the programme) might do. But
it caused the Venetians to forget the affair of the lamp-shade
accompaniment; it predisposed them to enjoy the melodic beauties of
which "Tancredi" is full; and, reduced for the piano-forte, it became,
during only too long a period, an effective show-piece for young
ladies.
The crescendo, which pleased the audience in the overture, must have
delighted them in the concerted finale, where it is reproduced on a more
extended scale. This effect is said to have been suggested to Rossini by
a similar one in Paisiello's "Re Teodoro." But the great maker of
crescendo movements before Rossini was Mosca, who circulated numerous
copies of one of his pieces containing crescendo effects, by way of
proving his exclusive right to manufacture them. He was very indignant
with Rossini for interfering with what he had accustomed himself to
regard as his own private monopoly, and always declared that he, Mosca,
was the true author of Rossini's celebrated crescendi.
* * * * *
Considering the very delicate relations subsisting between Rossini and
the Venetian public, it must somewhat have alarmed him, when, the day
before "Tancredi" was to be produced, he found that Madame Malanotte,
the representative of the young hero, was dissatisfied with her first
air.
Probably Madame Malanotte was difficult to please. At all events, it
was necessary to please her; and Rossini went away from the theatre
wondering what he could improvise for her in place of the cavatina she
had rejected.
He went home to dinner--even the composer who has, at a moment's notice,
to satisfy the caprices of a prima donna, must dine--and told his
servant to "prepare the rice;" fried rice being the Venetian substitute
for macaroni, oysters, soup, no matter what first
|
not
always apparent to finite mortals.
The history of some of our slaveholding States, in relation to efforts
of this character, it would seem, ought to be conclusive, at least,
against those who have no actual interests involved, and whom a proper
sense of self-respect, if not of constitutional obligation, should
restrain from impertinent interference. Virginia in 1831, and Kentucky
more recently, were agitated from centre to circumference by a bold and
unrestricted discussion of the subject of emancipation. Upon the
hustings and in legislative assemblies, the subject was thoroughly
examined, and every project which genius or philanthropy could suggest,
was investigated. Brought forward in the Old Dominion, under the
sanction of names venerated and respected throughout the limits of the
commonwealth--well known to have been a cherished project of her most
distinguished statesmen--favored by the happening of a then recent
servile disturbance, and patronized by some of the most patriotic and
enlightened citizens, the scheme nevertheless failed, without a show of
strength or a step in advance towards the object contemplated. The
magnitude of the difficulties to be overcome was so great, and so
obvious, as to strike alike the emancipationists and their adversaries.
The result has been, both in Virginia and Kentucky, that slavery, to use
the language of one of Kentucky's eloquent and distinguished sons, and
one, too, of the foremost in the work of emancipation, "has been
accepted as a permanent part of their social system." Can it be that
there is a destitution of honesty--of intelligence--of patriotism and
piety in slaveholding States, and that these qualities are alone to be
found in Great Britain and the northern free States? If not, the
conclusion must be, that the difficulties in the way of such an
enterprise exceed all the calculations of statesmanship and philosophy;
and their removal must await the will of that Being, whose prerogative
it is to make crooked paths straight, and justify the ways of God to
man.
We have no thought of discussing the subject of slavery. Viewed in its
social, moral or economical aspects, it is regarded, as the resolutions
of the Convention declare, as solely and exclusively a matter of State
jurisdiction, and therefore, one which does not concern the Federal
Government, or the States where it does not exist. We have merely
adverted to the fact, in connexion with the recent abolition movements
upon Kansas, that amidst all their fierce denunciations of slavery for
twenty years past, these fanatics have never yet been able to suggest a
plan for its removal, consistent with the safety of the white
race--saying nothing of constitutional guarantees, Federal and State.
The colonization scheme of Massachusetts, as we have said, excited alarm
in Missouri. Its obvious design was to operate further than the mere
prevention of the natural expansion of slavery. It was intended to
narrow its existing limits,--to destroy all equilibrium of power between
the North and the South, and leave the slaveholder at the will of a
majority, ready to disregard constitutional obligations, and carry out
to their bitter end the mandates of ignorance, prejudice and bigotry.
Its success manifestly involved a radical change in our Federal
Government, or its total overthrow. If Kansas could be thus
abolitionized, every additional part of the present public domain
hereafter opened to settlement, and every future accession of territory,
would be the subject of similar experiments, and an exploded Wilmot
Proviso thus virtually enforced throughout an extended domain still
claimed as _national_, and still bearing on its military ensigns the
stars and stripes of the Union. If the plan was constitutional and
legal, it must be conceded that it was skillfully contrived, and
admirably adapted to its ends. It was also eminently practicable, if no
resistance was encountered, since the States adopting it contained a
surplus population which could be bought up and shipped, whilst the
South, which had an interest in resisting, had no such people among her
white population. The Kansas-Nebraska law, too, which was so extremely
hateful to the fanatics, and has constituted the principal theme of
their recent denunciations, would be a dead letter, both as it regarded
the two Territories for which it was particularly framed, and as a
precedent to Congress for the opening of other districts to settlement.
The old Missouri restriction could have done no more, and the whole
purpose of the anti-slavery agitators, both in and out of Congress, was
quietly accomplished. But the scheme failed--as it deserved to fail; and
as the peace, prosperity, and union of our country required it should
fail. It was a scheme totally at variance with the genius of our
government, both State and Federal, and with the social institutions
which these governments were designed to protect, and its success would
have been as fatal to those who contrived it, as it could have been to
those intended to be its victims.
The circumstance of novelty is entitled to its weight in politics as
well as law. The abolition irruption upon Kansas is without precedent in
our history. Seventy-nine years of our national life have rolled by;
Territory after Territory has been annexed, or settled, and added to the
galaxy of States, until from thirteen we have increased to thirty-two;
yet it never before entered into the head of any statesman, North or
South, to devise a plan of acquiring exclusive occupation of a Territory
by State colonization. To Massachusetts belongs the honor of its
invention, and we trust she will survive its defeat. But, she is not the
Massachusetts, we must do justice to her past history to say, that she
was in the times of her Adams', her Hancocks, and her Warrens; nor yet
is she where she stood in more recent times, when her Websters, and
Choates, and Winthrops, led the van of her statesmen. Her legislative
halls are filled with ruthless fanatics, dead to the past and reckless
to the future; her statute books are polluted with enactments purporting
to annul the laws of Congress, passed in pursuance, and by reason of the
special requirements of the Constitution; and her senatorial chairs at
Washington are filled by a rhetorician and a bigot, one of whom studies
to disguise in the drapery of a classic elocution, the most hideous and
treasonable forms of fanaticism; whilst his colleague is pleased to
harangue a city rabble with open and unadulterated disunionism,
associated with the oracles of abolitionism and infidelity--a melancholy
spectacle to the descendants of the compatriots of Benjamin Franklin!
No southern or slaveholding State has ever attempted to colonize a
Territory. Our public lands have been left to the occupancy of such
settlers as soil and climate invited. The South has sent no armies to
force slave labor upon those who preferred free labor. Kentucky sprung
from Virginia, as did Tennessee from North Carolina, and Kansas will
from Missouri--from contiguity of territory, and similarity of climate.
Emigration has followed the parallels of latitude and will continue to
do so, unless diverted by such organizations as Emigrant Aid Societies
and Kansas Leagues.
It has been said that the citizens of Massachusetts have an undoubted
right to emigrate to Kansas; that this right may be exercised
individually, or in families, or in larger private associations; and
that associated enterprise, under the sanction of legislative
enactments, is but another and equally justifiable form of emigration.
Political actions, like those of individuals, must be judged by their
motives and effects. Unquestionably, emigration, both individual and
collective, from the free States to the South, and, _vice versa_, from
the slave States to the North, has been progressing from the foundation
of our government to the present day, without comment and without
objection. It is not pretended that such emigration, even if fostered by
State patronage, would be illegal, or in any respect objectionable. The
wide expanse of the fertile West, and the deserted wastes of the sunny
South, invite occupation; and no man, from the southern extremity of
Florida to the northern boundary of Missouri, has ever objected to an
emigrant simply because he was from the North, and preferred free labor
to that of slaves. Upon this subject he is allowed to consult his own
taste, convenience, and conscience; and it is expected that he will
permit his neighbors to exercise the same privilege. But, no one can
fail to distinguish between an honest, _bona fide_ emigration, prompted
by choice or necessity, and an organized colonization with offensive
purposes upon the institutions of the country proposed to be settled.
Nor can there be any doubt in which class to place the movements of
Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Societies and Kansas Leagues. Their motives
have been candidly avowed, and their objects boldly proclaimed
throughout the length and breadth of the land. Were this not the case,
it would still be impossible to mistake them. Why, we might well
enquire, if simple emigration was in view, are these extraordinary
efforts confined to the Territory of Kansas? Is Nebraska, which was
opened to settlement by the same law, less desirable, less inviting to
northern adventurers, than Kansas? Are Iowa, and Washington, and Oregon,
and Minnesota, and Illinois and Michigan, filled up with
population--their lands all occupied, and furnishing no room for
Massachusetts emigrants? Is Massachusetts herself overrun with
population--obliged to rid herself of paupers whom she cannot feed at
home? Or, is Kansas, as eastern orators have insinuated, a newly
discovered paradise--a modern El Dorado, where gold and precious stones
can be gathered at pleasure; or an Arcadia, where nature is so bountiful
as not to need the aid of man, and fruits and vegetables of every
desirable description spontaneously spring up?
There can be but one answer to these questions, and that answer shows
conclusively the spirit and intent of this miscalled and pretended
emigration. _It is an anti-slavery movement._ As such it was organized
and put in motion by an anti-slavery legislature; as such, the organized
army was equipped in Massachusetts, and transported to Kansas; and, as
such, it was met there and defeated.
If further illustration was needed of the illegality of these movements
upon Kansas, we might extend our observations to the probable reception
of similar movements upon a State. If the Massachusetts legislature, or
that of any other State, have the right to send an army of abolitionists
into Kansas, they have the same right to transport them to Missouri. We
are not apprised of any provisions in the constitutions or laws of the
States, which in this respect distinguishes their condition from that of
a territory. We have no laws, and we presume no slaveholding State has,
which forbids the emigration of non-slaveholders. Such laws, if passed,
would clearly conflict with the Federal Constitution. The southern and
south-western slaveholding States are as open to emigration from
non-slaveholding States as Kansas. They differ only in the price of land
and the density of population. Let us suppose, then, that Massachusetts
should turn her attention to Texas, and should ascertain that the
population of that State was nearly divided between those who favored
and those who opposed slavery, and that one thousand votes would turn
the scale in favor of emancipation, and, acting in accordance with her
world-wide philanthropy, she should resolve to transport the thousand
voters necessary to abolish slavery in Texas, how would such a movement
be received there? Or, to reverse the proposition, let it be supposed
that South Carolina, with her large slaveholding population, should
undertake to transport a thousand slaveholders to Delaware, with a view
to turn the scale in that State, now understood to be rapidly passing
over to the list of free States, would the gallant sons of that ancient
State, small as she is territorially, submit to such interference? Now,
the institutions of Kansas are as much fixed and as solemnly guaranteed
by statute, as those of Delaware or Texas. The laws of Kansas Territory
may be abrogated by succeeding legislatures; but, so also may the laws,
and even the constitutions, of Texas and Delaware. Kansas only differs
from their condition in her limited resources, her small population, and
her large amount of marketable lands. There is no difference in
principle between the cases supposed; if justifiable and legal in the
one, it is equally so in the other. They differ only in point of
practicability and expediency; the one would be an outrage, easily
perceived, promptly met, and speedily repelled; the other is disguised
under the forms of emigration, and meets with no populous and organized
community to resent it. We are apprised that it is said, that the Kansas
legislature was elected by fraud, and constitute no fair representation
of the opinions of the people of the Territory. This is evidently the
excuse of the losing party, to stimulate renewed efforts among their
friends at home; but even this is refuted by the record. The Territorial
Governor of Kansas, a gentleman not suspected of, or charged with
partiality to slavery or to its advocates, has solemnly certified under
his official seal, that the statement is false; that a large majority of
the legislature were duly and legally elected. Even in the districts
where Governor Reeder set aside the elections for illegality, the
subsequent returns of the special elections ordered by him, produced the
same result, except in a single district. There is, then, no pretext
left, and it is apparent, that to send an army of abolitionists to
Kansas to destroy slavery existing there, and recognized by her laws, is
no more to be justified on the part of the Massachusetts legislature,
than it would be to send a like force to Missouri, with the like
purposes. The object might be more easily and safely accomplished in the
one case than in the other, but in both cases it is equally repugnant to
every principle of international comity, and likely to prove equally
fatal to the harmony and peace of the Union.
We conclude, then, that this irruption upon Kansas by Emigrant Aid
Societies and Kansas Leagues, under the patronage of the Massachusetts
legislature, is to be regarded in no other light than a new phase of
abolitionism, more practical in its aims, and therefore more dangerous
than any form it has yet assumed. We have shown it to be at variance
with the true intent of the act of Congress, by which the Territory was
opened to settlement; at variance with the spirit of the Constitution of
the United States, and with the institutions of the Territory, already
recognized by law; totally destructive of that fellowship and good
feeling which should exist among citizens of confederated States;
ruinous to the security, peace and prosperity of a neighboring State;
unprecedented in our political annals up to this date, and pregnant with
the most disastrous consequences to the harmony and stability of the
Union. Thus far its purposes have been defeated; but renewed efforts are
threatened. Political conventions at the north and north-west have
declared for the repeal of the Kansas-Nebraska law, and, anticipating a
failure in this direction, are stimulating the anti-slavery sentiment to
fresh exertions, for abolitionizing Kansas after the Massachusetts
fashion. We have discharged our duty in declaring the light in which
such demonstrations are viewed here, and our firm belief of the spirit
by which they will be met. If civil war and ultimate disunion are
desired, a renewal of these efforts will be admirably adapted to such
purposes. Missouri has taken her position in the resolutions adopted by
the Lexington Convention, and from that position she will not be likely
to recede. It is based upon the Constitution--upon justice, and equality
of rights among the States. What she has done, and what she is still
prepared to do, is in self-defence and for self-preservation; and from
these duties she will hardly be expected to shrink. With her, everything
is at stake; the security of a large slave property, the prosperity of
her citizens, and their exemption from perpetual agitation and border
feuds; whilst the emissaries of abolition are pursuing a phantom--an
abstraction, which, if realized, could add nothing to their possessions
or happiness, and would be productive of decided injury to the race for
whose benefit they profess to labor. If slavery is an evil, and it is
conceded that Congress cannot interfere with it in the States, it is
most manifest that its diffusion through a new territory, where land is
valueless and labor productive, tends greatly to ameliorate the
condition of the slaves. Opposition to the extension of slavery is not,
then, founded upon any philanthropic views, or upon any love for the
slave. It is a mere grasp for political power, beyond what the
Constitution of the United States concedes; and it is so understood by
the leaders of the movement. And this additional power is not desired
for constitutional purposes--for the advancement of the general welfare,
or the national reputation. For such purposes the majority in the North
is already sufficient, and no future events are likely to diminish it.
The slaveholding States are in a minority, but so far, a minority which
has commanded respect in the national councils. It has answered, and we
hope will continue to subserve the purposes of self-protection.
Conservative men from other quarters have come up to the rescue, when
the rights of the South have been seriously threatened. But it is
essential to the purposes of self-preservation, that this minority
should not be materially weakened; it is essential to the preservation
of our present form of government, that the slave States should retain
sufficient power to make effectual resistance against outward aggression
upon an institution peculiar to them alone. Parchment guarantees, as all
history shows, avail nothing against an overwhelming public clamor. The
fate of the Fugitive Slave Law affords an instructive warning on the
subject, and shows that the most solemn constitutional obligations will
be evaded or scorned, where popular prejudice resists their execution.
The South must rely on herself for protection, and to this end her
strength in the Federal Government cannot be safely diminished.
If indeed it be true, as public men at the North have declared, and
political assemblages have endorsed, that a determination has been
reached in that quarter to refuse admission to any more slave States,
there is an end to all argument on the subject. To reject Kansas, or any
other Territory from the Union, simply and solely because slavery is
recognized within her limits, would be regarded here, and, we presume,
throughout the South and South-west, as an open repudiation of the
Constitution--a distinct and unequivocal step towards a dissolution of
the Union. We presume it would be so regarded everywhere, North and
South. Taken in connexion with the abrogation of that provision of the
Constitution which enforces the rights of the owners of slaves in all
the States of the Union, into which they might escape, which has been
effected _practically_ throughout nearly all the free States, and more
formally by solemn legislative enactments in a portion of them, the
rejection of Kansas on account of slavery would be disunion in a form of
grossest insult to the sixteen slave States now comprehended in the
nation. It would be a declaration that slavery was incompatible with
republican government, in the face of at least _two formal recognitions_
of its legality, _in terms_, by the Federal Constitution.
We trust that such counsels have not the remotest prospect of prevailing
in our National Legislature, and will not dwell upon the consequence of
their adoption. We prefer to anticipate a returning fidelity to national
obligations--a faithful adherance to the Constitutional guarantees, and
the consequent prospect--cheering to the patriot of this and other
lands--of a continued and _perpetual_ UNION.
WM. B. NAPTON, _Chairman_.
STERLING PRICE,
M. OLIVER,
S. H. WOODSON.
PROCEEDINGS
OF THE
PRO-SLAVERY CONVENTION,
HELD AT LEXINGTON, MO.
The Convention was called to order by Judge Thompson, of Clay county,
and on his motion Samuel H. Woodson, Esq., of Jackson county, was called
to the chair; and on motion of E. C. McCarty, Esq., Col. Sam. A. Lowe,
of Pettis county, was appointed Secretary.
On motion of Col. Young, of Boone county, Resolved, That a committee of
one delegate from each county represented in the Convention be raised,
to select and report permanent officers for the Convention, and to
select a committee who shall prepare resolutions and other business for
the action of the Convention.
In accordance with the above resolution, the following gentlemen were
appointed said committee:
J. W. Torbert, of Cooper county,
Major Morin, of Platte "
W. M. Jackson, of Howard "
S. Barker, of Carroll "
A. G. Davis, of Caldwell "
J. S. Williams, of Linn "
E. C. McCarty, of Jackson "
Austin A. King, of Ray "
Edwin Toole, of Andrew "
D. H. Chism, of Morgan "
A. M. Forbes, of Pettis "
A. G. Blakey, of Benton "
Thomas E. Birch, of Clinton "
G. H. C. Melody, of Boone "
Sam. L. Sawyer, of Lafayette "
C. F. Jackson, of Saline "
Wm. Hudgins, of Livingston "
C. F. Chamblin, of Johnson "
W. H. Russell, of Cass "
John Dougherty, of Clay "
Joseph Davis, of Henry "
Capt. Head, of Randolph "
John A. Leppard, of Daviess "
Wm. H. Buffington, of Cole "
On motion of Mr. Russell, of Cass county, Resolved, That the delegations
from the different counties furnish the Secretary of this Convention
with a list of delegates from their counties.
On further motion of Mr. Russell, of Cass county, permission was given
to the committee on resolutions, &c., to retire and draft resolutions,
to report as soon as practicable.
On motion of Mr. Field, of Lafayette, a committee, consisting of Messrs.
Field, of Lafayette, Bayless, of Platte, and Boyce, of Ray, was
appointed to wait upon Messrs. D. R. Atchison and A. W. Doniphan, and
invite them to address the Convention.
Mr. Moss, of Clay, offered the following resolution:
Resolved, That all persons who are present from the different counties,
although not appointed as delegates by their several counties, be
considered as delegates to this Convention.
Mr. Peabody, of Boone county, moved to amend so as to read, That all
persons from the different counties of the State, friendly to the object
of this Convention, be considered as delegates.
Pending which question, on leave granted, Mr. Field, of Lafayette
county, from the committee appointed to wait on Messrs. D. R. Atchison
and A. W. Doniphan, made their report, stating that those gentlemen
declined addressing the Convention at the present time.
On motion of Mr. Bryant, of Saline, the Convention adjourned. to meet at
2 o'clock, P. M.
EVENING SESSION.
The Convention was called to order by the President, when, on motion of
Mr. Slack, of Livingston, the resolution offered by Mr. Moss, of Clay,
together with the amendment offered by Mr. Peabody, which was pending
when the Convention adjourned, was laid on the table.
On motion of Mr. Field, of Lafayette, Major M. Oliver was requested to
address the Convention, and to give his views on the different subjects
now agitating this country, and which would be brought before this
Convention; which he was proceeding to do, when the committee on
resolutions, &c., asked leave to make their report, which was granted.
The committee then, through their Chairman, Hon. A. A. King, submitted
the following report:
The Committee to whom was assigned the duty of designating permanent
officers for this Convention, beg leave to report the following:
For President, Hon. W. G. Wood, of Lafayette county.
For Vice Presidents, Hon. J. T. V. Thompson, of Clay Co.
Hon. John J. Lowry, of Howard "
Secretaries, Hon. Samuel A. Lowe, of Pettis county,
L. A. Wisely, of Platte "
For Committee on Resolutions,
Major Bradley, of Cooper county,
Dr. Bayless, of Platte "
B. F. Willis, of Clinton "
S. A. Young, of Boone "
Wade M. Jackson, of Howard "
Martin Slaughter, of Lafayette "
Stephen Stafford, of Carroll "
W. B. Napton, of Saline "
W. S. Pollard, of Caldwell "
W. Y. Slack, of Livingston "
J. S. Williams, of Linn "
G. D. Hansbrough, of Cass "
Sam. H. Woodson, of Jackson "
James H. Moss, of Clay "
M. Oliver, of Ray "
D. C. Stone, of Henry "
Robert Wilson, of Andrew "
B. W. Grover, of Johnson "
John S. Jones, of Pettis "
John A. Leppard, of Daviess "
A. G. Blakey, of Benton "
John Head, of Randolph "
W. H. Buffington, of Cole "
The committee also offered the following resolution, which was adopted
by the Convention:
Resolved, That to ascertain the sense of this Convention on all
propositions submitted for its action, each county represented shall be
permitted to cast the same number of votes that it is entitled to cast
in the Lower House of the General Assembly of this State.
On motion of Col. Young, of Boone, a committee, consisting of Messrs.
Young, of Boone, Napton, of Saline, and Russell, of Cass, was appointed
to wait on the President, Hon. W. T. Wood, and escort him to the chair.
On motion of Dr. McCabe, of Cooper, the Convention took a recess for one
hour.
The Convention was again called to order by the President, Hon. W. T.
Wood, when the following gentlemen appeared as delegates, and took their
seats:
_Andrew Co._--Robert Wilson and Edwin Toole.
_Benton Co._--A. G. Blakey.
_Boone Co._--Saml. A. Young, Dr. Peabody, Dr. Thomas, Col. G. H. C.
Melody, Sterling Price, Jr., and James Shannon.
_Caldwell Co._--W. S. Pollard, David Thomson, Wm. Griffey, Albert G.
Davis.
_Carroll Co._--S. Barker, S. Stafford, W. J. Poindexter, R. H. Courts,
C. Haskins, H. Wilcoxen, Judge Thomas, Hyram Willson.
_Cass Co._--Wm. Palmer, J. F. Callaway, F. R. Martin, J. G. Martin, T.
Railey, J. T. Thornton, C. T. Worley, W. H. Russell, S. R.
Crockett, T. F. Freeman, C. Vanhoy, G. D. Hansbrough, S. G.
Allen, H. D. Russell, J. T. Martin.
_Clay Co._--J. T. V. Thompson, John Dougherty, A. W. Doniphan, J. G.
Price, D. J. Adkins, W. E. Price, W. McNealy, J. H. Moss, J. H.
Adams, G. W. Withers, T. McCarty, E. P. Moore, J. M. Jones,
L. A. Talbott, R. J. Lamb, J. Lincoln, W. D. Hubble, T. M. Dawson,
H. L. Rout, R. H. Miller, J. A. Poague, L. W. Burris, S. R.
Shrader, G. Elgin, H. Corwine.
_Cooper Co._--J. W. Torbert, J. K. Ragland, Wm. Bradly, H. E. Moore,
Geo. S. Cockrell, Thomas S. Cockrell, Horace W. Ferguson, R.
Ellis, J. K. McCabe, Jacob Alstadt, H. Tracy.
_Clinton Co._--John Reed, B. F. Williss, C. C. Birch, M. Summers, T. E.
Birch, J. T. Hughes.
_Cole Co._--W. H. Buffington, R. R. Jefferson, J. C. Rogers, C. Eckler.
_Chariton Co._--W. S. Hyde, S. J. Cortes, L. Salisbury.
_Daviess Co._--B. Weldon, J. A. Leppard.
_Howard Co._--J. J. Lowry, S. Graves, W. Payne, R. Basket, M. Taylor,
B. W. Lewis, H. Cooper, J. B. Clark, R. Patterson.
_Henry Co._--D. A. Gillespie, Jo. Davis, D. C. Stone, R. T. Lindsay, H.
Lewis.
_Jackson Co._--S. H. Woodson, W. M. F. Magraw, W. F. Robinson, W.
Easley, E. C. McCarty, N. R. McMurry, J. A. Winn, T. M. Adams,
N. M. Miller, W. Ellis, E. McClanahan, John McCarty, J. M.
Ridge, J. R. Henry, Col. J. M. Cogswell, Jno. Hambright.
_Johnson Co._--Hy. Ousley, S. Craig, N. W. Perry, W. Marr, W. L. Wood,
W. L. Barksdale, C. F. Chamblin, J. M. Fulkerson, Reuben
Fulkerson, W. P. Tucker, P. Manion, W. Kirkpatrick, B. W. Grover.
_Lafayette Co._--F. C. Sharp, W. K. Trigg, O. Anderson, S. L. Sawyer, A.
Jones, R. N. Smith, W. T. Field, W. M. Smallwood, Dr. G. A.
Rucker, (a Committee to cast the vote.)
_Livingston Co._--A. T. Kirtly, A. Craig, W. Hudgins, W. Y. Slack, W. F.
Miller, W. O. Jennings, J. D. Hoy.
_Linn Co._--J. S. Williams.
_Morgan Co._--D. H. Chism.
_Pettis Co._--J. S. Jones, Saml. A. Lowe, A. M. Forbes, G. W. Rothwell,
Geo. Anderson, T. E. Staples.
_Platte Co._--D. R. Atchison, Jo. Walker, G. W. Bayless, T. Beaumont,
D. P. Wallingford, Hy. Coleman, E. P. Duncan, Jesse Morin,
P. Ellington, Sr., Jesse Summers, A. B. Stoddard, Thomas H.
Starnes, J. C. Hughes, Jno. H. Dorriss, F. P. Davidson, L. A.
Wisely, H. B. Ladd.
_Randolph Co._--Judge Head.
_Ray Co._----A. A. King, B. J. Brown, Col. Bohannan, M. Oliver, Major
Boyce, Judge Branstetter, Dr. Chew, W. Warriner, D. P. Whitmer,
Dr. Woodward, S. A. Richardson, Major Shaw, Dr. Garner, A.
Oliphant, T. A. H. Smith, G. J. Wasson, Judge Carter, J. E.
Couch, G. L. Benton, J. P. Quisenberry, S. J. Brown, J. S.
Shoop, J. S. Hughes, D. D. Bullock, Dr. Stone, Judge Price, W.
Hughes, C. T. Brown, O. Taylor, M. C. Nuckolls, J. H. Taylor, R.
Winsett, J. P. Taylor, D. Harbison, Dr. Buchanan, W. M. Jacobs,
Wm. Murry, Col. Smith.
_Saline Co._--W. B. Sappington, C. F. Jackson, O. B. Pearson, T. R. E.
Harvey, J. H. Irvine, L. B. Harwood, V. Marmaduke, M. Marmaduke,
J. H. Grove, Robert Grove, A. M. Davison, W. B. Napton, J. W.
Bryant, T. W. B. Crews, F. A. Combs, M. W. O'Banon, Jas. Coombs,
H. C. Simmons.
Mr. Withers, of Clay, offered a series of resolutions, which he asked
might be read and acted on by the Convention.
Mr. Jackson, of Saline, objected to the reading and moved their
reference to the Committee on Resolutions.
Previous to the vote on said motion, Mr. Withers withdrew the
resolutions, and then, by leave of the Convention, the resolutions were
handed over to the Committee.
The President being notified of the presence of Gov. Sterling Price, in
the house, on motion of Dr. Lowry, of Howard, appointed Messrs. Lowry,
of Howard, and Shewalter, of Lafayette, a committee to wait upon him and
invite him to a seat within the bar.
Mr. C. T. Worley offered the following resolutions:
Resolved, That it is the sense of this Convention, that no valuable
purpose whatever will be subserved by debate, but on the other hand,
will most certainly lead to heated and unprofitable excitement;
therefore,
Resolved, That from henceforward, we will proceed on all propositions
submitted to a direct vote.
Mr. Jackson, of Saline, moved to lay the resolutions on the table, which
motion was carried.
On motion of Mr. King, of Ray, the Convention adjourned till to-morrow
morning at eight o'clock.
SECOND DAY.
FRIDAY MORNING, 8 o'clock.
The Convention met, and was called to order by the President.
Owing to the absence of Mr. Lowe, one of the Secretaries, on motion of
Col. S. A. Young, of Boone, L. J. Sharp, of Lafayette, was appointed to
act in his place.
On motion of J. W. Bryant, of Saline, the proceedings of yesterday were
ordered to be read.
It being announced that other delegates had arrived from different
counties, the following named gentlemen appeared and took their seats in
Convention:
F. Walker, of Howard, Dr. E. C. Moss, of Pettis, P. T. Able, Esq. of
Platte, and George T. Wood, of Henry. Messrs. J. Loughborough and George
F. Hill also appeared and took their seats as delegates from St. Louis
county.
Dr. Lowry, of Howard, moved that the President appoint a committee to
wait on President Shannon, of Boone, and invite him to address the
Convention on the subject of slavery.
A motion was then made to lay Dr. Lowry's motion on the table, which,
being voted upon by counties, resulted as follows:
Yeas--Cass, Daviess, Henry, Johnson, Ray, Cole, Clay.
Noes--Andrew, Boone, Caldwell, Carroll, Cooper, Jackson, Lafayette,
Livingston, Linn, Morgan, Pettis, Platte, Randolph, Chariton, St. Louis,
Saline.
Dr. Lowry's motion was then put to the Convention, and on motion of
C. F. Jackson, of Saline, the rule to vote by counties was suspended.
Dr. Lowry's motion was then adopted by the Convention: whereupon the
President appointed Dr. Lowry, of Howard, and Major Morin, of Platte,
said committee.
S. L. Sawyer, of Lafayette, announced that the Committee on Resolutions
was ready to report.
The report being called for, the Committee proceeded to report, through
their Chairman, Judge Napton, of Saline, the following preamble and
resolutions:
Whereas, This Convention have observed a deliberate and apparently
systematic effort,
|
There
must be no delay--no waiting for legal procedure--or the mischief is
done. Indeed, I very much question whether you have any legal remedy,
strictly speaking."
"Mr. Hewitt, I implore you, do what you can. I need not say that all
I have is at your disposal. I will guarantee to hold you harmless
for anything that may happen. But do, I entreat you, do everything
possible. Think of what the consequences may be!"
"Well, yes, so I do," Hewitt remarked, with a smile. "The consequences
to me, if I were charged with housebreaking, might be something that no
amount of guarantee could mitigate. However, I will do what I can, if
only from patriotic motives. Now, I must see your tracer, Ritter. He is
the traitor in the camp."
"Ritter? But how?"
"Never mind that now. You are upset and agitated, and had better not
know more than necessary for a little while, in case you say or do
something unguarded. With Ritter I must take a deep course; what I
don't know I must appear to know, and that will seem more likely to him
if I disclaim acquaintance with what I do know. But first put these
tracings safely away out of sight."
Dixon slipped them behind his book-case.
"Now," Hewitt pursued, "call Mr. Worsfold and give him something to do
that will keep him in the inner office across the way, and tell him to
send Ritter here."
Mr. Dixon called his chief draughtsman and requested him to put in
order the drawings in the drawers of the inner room that had been
disarranged by the search, and to send Ritter, as Hewitt had suggested.
Ritter walked into the private room, with an air of respectful
attention. He was a puffy-faced, unhealthy-looking young man, with very
small eyes and a loose, mobile mouth.
[Illustration: "SIT DOWN, MR. RITTER."]
"Sit down, Mr. Ritter," Hewitt said, in a stern voice. "Your recent
transactions with your friend, Mr. Hunter, are well known both to Mr.
Dixon and myself."
Ritter, who had at first leaned easily back in his chair, started
forward at this, and paled.
"You are surprised, I observe; but you should be more careful in your
movements out of doors if you do not wish your acquaintances to be
known. Mr. Hunter, I believe, has the drawings which Mr. Dixon has
lost, and, if so, I am certain that you have given them to him. That,
you know, is theft, for which the law provides a severe penalty."
Ritter broke down completely and turned appealingly to Mr. Dixon:--
"Oh, sir," he pleaded, "it isn't so bad, I assure you. I was tempted, I
confess, and hid the drawings; but they are still in the office, and I
can give them to you--really, I can."
"Indeed?" Hewitt went on. "Then, in that case, perhaps you'd better get
them at once. Just go and fetch them in--we won't trouble to observe
your hiding-place. I'll only keep this door open, to be sure you don't
lose your way, you know--down the stairs, for instance."
The wretched Ritter, with hanging head, slunk into the office opposite.
Presently he reappeared, looking, if possible, ghastlier than before.
He looked irresolutely down the corridor, as if meditating a run for
it, but Hewitt stepped toward him and motioned him back to the private
room.
"You mustn't try any more of that sort of humbug," Hewitt said, with
increased severity. "The drawings are gone, and you have stolen
them--you know that well enough. Now attend to me. If you received your
deserts, Mr. Dixon would send for a policeman this moment, and have you
hauled off to the gaol that is your proper place. But, unfortunately,
your accomplice, who calls himself Hunter--but who has other names
beside that, as I happen to know--has the drawings, and it is
absolutely necessary that these should be recovered. I am afraid that
it will be necessary, therefore, to come to some arrangement with this
scoundrel--to square him, in fact. Now, just take that pen and paper,
and write to your confederate as I dictate. You know the alternative if
you cause any difficulty."
Ritter reached tremblingly for the pen.
"Address him in your usual way," Hewitt proceeded. "Say this: '_There
has been an alteration in the plans_.' Have you got that? '_There has
been an alteration in the plans. I shall be alone here at six o'clock.
Please come, without fail._' Have you got it? Very well, sign it,
and address the envelope. He must come here, and then we may arrange
matters. In the meantime, you will remain in the inner office opposite."
The note was written, and Martin Hewitt, without glancing at the
address, thrust it into his pocket. When Ritter was safely in the
inner office, however, he drew it out and read the address. "I see,"
he observed, "he uses the same name, Hunter; 27, Little Carton Street,
Westminster, is the address, and there I shall go at once with the
note. If the man comes here, I think you had better lock him in with
Ritter, and send for a policeman--it may at least frighten him. My
object is, of course, to get the man away, and then, if possible,
to invade his house, in some way or another, and steal or smash his
negatives if they are there and to be found. Stay here, in any case,
till I return. And don't forget to lock up those tracings."
* * * * *
It was about six o'clock when Hewitt returned, alone, but with a
smiling face that told of good fortune at first sight.
"First, Mr. Dixon," he said, as he dropped into an easy chair in the
private room, "let me ease your mind by the information that I have
been most extraordinarily lucky--in fact, I think you have no further
cause for anxiety. Here are the negatives. They were not all quite dry
when I--well, what?--stole them, I suppose I must say; so that they
have stuck together a bit, and probably the films are damaged. But you
don't mind that, I suppose?"
He laid a small parcel, wrapped in newspaper, on the table. The
engineer hastily tore away the paper and took up five or six glass
photographic negatives, of the half-plate size, which were damp, and
stuck together by the gelatine films, in couples. He held them, one
after another, up to the light of the window, and glanced through them.
Then, with a great sigh of relief, he placed them on the hearth and
pounded them to dust and fragments with the poker.
For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Dixon, flinging himself into a
chair, said:--
"Mr. Hewitt, I can't express my obligation to you. What would have
happened if you had failed I prefer not to think of. But what shall we
do with Ritter now? The other man hasn't been here yet, by-the-bye."
"No--the fact is, I didn't deliver the letter. The worthy gentleman
saved me a world of trouble by taking himself out of the way." Hewitt
laughed. "I'm afraid he has rather got himself into a mess by trying
two kinds of theft at once, and you may not be sorry to hear that his
attempt on your torpedo plans is likely to bring him a dose of penal
servitude for something else. I'll tell you what has happened.
"Little Carton Street, Westminster, I found to be a seedy sort of
place--one of those old streets that have seen much better days. A good
many people seem to live in each house--they are fairly large houses,
by the way--and there is quite a company of bell-handles on each
doorpost--all down the side, like organ-stops. A barber had possession
of the ground-floor front of No. 27 for trade purposes, so to him I
went. 'Can you tell me,' I said, 'where in this house I can find Mr.
Hunter?' He looked doubtful, so I went on: 'His friend will do, you
know--I can't think of his name; foreign gentleman, dark, with a bushy
beard.'
"The barber understood at once. 'Oh, that's Mirsky, I expect,' he said.
'Now I come to think of it, he has had letters addressed to Hunter once
or twice--I've took 'em in. Top floor back.'
"This was good, so far. I had got at 'Mr. Hunter's' other alias. So,
by way of possessing him with the idea that I knew all about him, I
determined to ask for him as Mirsky, before handing over the letter
addressed to him as Hunter. A little bluff of that sort is invaluable
at the right time. At the top floor back I stopped at the door and
tried to open it at once, but it was locked. I could hear somebody
scuttling about within, as though carrying things about, and I knocked
again. In a little while the door opened about a foot, and there stood
Mr. Hunter--or Mirsky, as you like--the man who, in the character of a
traveller in steam-packing, came here twice to-day. He was in his shirt
sleeves and cuddled something under his arm, hastily covered with a
spotted pocket-handkerchief.
"'I have called to see M. Mirsky,' I said, 'with a confidential letter
----.'
"'Oh, yas, yas,' he answered, hastily; 'I know--I know. Excuse me one
minute.' And he rushed off downstairs with his parcel.
"Here was a noble chance. For a moment I thought of following him, in
case there might be anything interesting in the parcel. But I had to
decide in a moment, and I decided on trying the room. I slipped inside
the door, and, finding the key on the inside, locked it. It was a
confused sort of room, with a little iron bedstead in one corner and a
sort of rough boarded inclosure in another. This I rightly conjectured
to be the photographic darkroom, and made for it at once.
"There was plenty of light within when the door was left open, and I
made at once for the drying-rack that was fastened over the sink. There
were a number of negatives in it, and I began hastily examining them
one after another. In the middle of this, our friend Mirsky returned
and tried the door. He rattled violently at the handle and pushed. Then
he called.
"At this moment I had come upon the first of the negatives you have
just smashed. The fixing and washing had evidently only lately been
completed, and the negative was drying on the rack. I seized it, of
course, and the others which stood by it.
"'Who are you, there, inside?' Mirsky shouted indignantly from the
landing. 'Why for you go in my room like that? Open this door at once,
or I call the police!'
"I took no notice. I had got the full number of negatives, one for each
drawing, but I was not by any means sure that he had not taken an extra
set; so I went on hunting down the rack. There were no more, so I set
to work to turn out all the undeveloped plates. It was quite possible,
you see, that the other set, if it existed, had not yet been developed.
[Illustration: "I HAVE CALLED TO SEE M. MIRSKY."]
"Mirsky changed his tune. After a little more banging and shouting,
I could hear him kneel down and try the keyhole. I had left the key
there, so that he could see nothing. But he began talking softly and
rapidly through the hole in a foreign language. I did not know it in
the least, but I believe it was Russian. What had led him to believe
I understood Russian I could not at the time imagine, though I have
a notion now. I went on ruining his stock of plates. I found several
boxes, apparently of new plates, but, as there was no means of telling
whether they were really unused or were merely undeveloped, but with
the chemical impress of your drawings on them, I dragged every one
ruthlessly from its hiding-place and laid it out in the full glare of
the sunlight--destroying it thereby, of course, whether it was unused
or not.
"Mirsky left off talking, and I heard him quietly sneaking off. Perhaps
his conscience was not sufficiently clear to warrant an appeal to the
police, but it seemed to me rather probable at the time that that was
what he was going for. So I hurried on with my work. I found three dark
slides--the parts that carry the plates in the back of the camera,
you know--one of them fixed in the camera itself. These I opened, and
exposed the plates to ruination as before. I suppose nobody ever did so
much devastation in a photographic studio in ten minutes as I managed.
"I had spoilt every plate I could find and had the developed negatives
safely in my pocket, when I happened to glance at a porcelain
washing-well under the sink. There was one negative in that, and I took
it up. It was _not_ a negative of a drawing of yours, but of a Russian
twenty-rouble note!
[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TALKING SOFTLY AND RAPIDLY."]
"This _was_ a discovery. The only possible reason any man could have
for photographing a bank-note was the manufacture of an etched plate
for the production of forged copies. I was almost as pleased as I had
been at the discovery of _your_ negatives. He might bring the police
now as soon as he liked; I could turn the tables on him completely. I
began to hunt about for anything else relating to this negative.
"I found an inking-roller, some old pieces of blanket (used in printing
from plates), and in a corner on the floor, heaped over with newspapers
and rubbish, a small copying-press. There was also a dish of acid, but
not an etched plate or a printed note to be seen. I was looking at
the press, with the negative in one hand and the inking-roller in the
other, when I became conscious of a shadow across the window. I looked
up quickly, and there was Mirsky, hanging over from some ledge or
projection to the side of the window, and staring straight at me, with
a look of unmistakable terror and apprehension.
"The face vanished immediately. I had to move a table to get at the
window, and by the time I had opened it, there was no sign or sound
of the rightful tenant of the room. I had no doubt now of his reason
for carrying a parcel downstairs. He probably mistook me for another
visitor he was expecting, and, knowing he must take this visitor into
his room, threw the papers and rubbish over the press, and put up his
plates and papers in a bundle and secreted them somewhere downstairs,
lest his occupation should be observed.
"Plainly, my duty now was to communicate with the police. So, by the
help of my friend the barber downstairs, a messenger was found and a
note sent over to Scotland Yard. I awaited, of course, for the arrival
of the police, and occupied the interval in another look round--finding
nothing important, however. When the official detective arrived he
recognised at once the importance of the case. A large number of forged
Russian notes have been put into circulation on the Continent lately,
it seems, and it was suspected that they came from London. The Russian
Government have been sending urgent messages to the police here on the
subject.
"Of course I said nothing about your business; but while I was
talking with the Scotland Yard man a letter was left by a messenger,
addressed to Mirsky. The letter will be examined, of course, by the
proper authorities, but I was not a little interested to perceive
that the envelope bore the Russian Imperial arms above the words,
'Russian Embassy.' Now, why should Mirsky communicate with the Russian
Embassy? Certainly not to let the officials know that he was carrying
on a very extensive and lucrative business in the manufacture of
spurious Russian notes. I think it is rather more than possible that
he wrote--probably before he actually got your drawings--to say that
he could sell information of the highest importance, and that this
letter was a reply. Further, I think it quite possible that, when I
asked for him by his Russian name and spoke of 'a confidential letter,'
he at once concluded that _I_ had come from the Embassy in answer
to his letter. That would account for his addressing me in Russian
through the keyhole; and, of course, an official from the Russian
Embassy would be the very last person in the world whom he would like
to observe any indications of his little etching experiments. But
anyhow, be that as it may," Hewitt concluded, "your drawings are safe
now, and if once Mirsky is caught--and I think it likely, for a man
in his shirt-sleeves, with scarcely any start and, perhaps, no money
about him, hasn't a great chance to get away--if he is caught, I say,
he will probably get something handsome at St. Petersburg in the way
of imprisonment, or Siberia, or what-not; so that you will be amply
avenged."
"Yes, but I don't at all understand this business of the drawings even
now. How in the world were they taken out of the place, and how in the
world did you find it out?"
"Nothing could be simpler; and yet the plan was rather ingenious.
I'll tell you exactly how the thing revealed itself to me. From your
original description of the case, many people would consider that an
impossibility had been performed. Nobody had gone out and nobody had
come in, and yet the drawings had been taken away. But an impossibility
is an impossibility after all, and as drawings don't run away of
themselves, plainly somebody had taken them, unaccountable as it might
seem. Now, as they were in your inner office, the only people who could
have got at them beside yourself were your assistants, so that it was
pretty clear that one of them, at least, had something to do with the
business. You told me that Worsfold was an excellent and intelligent
draughtsman. Well, if such a man as that meditated treachery, he would
probably be able to carry away the design in his head--at any rate,
a little at a time--and would be under no necessity to run the risk
of stealing a set of the drawings. But Ritter, you remarked, was an
inferior sort of man, 'not particularly smart,' I think, were your
words--only a mechanical sort of tracer. _He_ would be unlikely to
be able to carry in his head the complicated details of such designs
as yours, and, being in a subordinate position, and continually
overlooked, he would find it impossible to make copies of the plans in
the office. So that, to begin with, I thought I saw the most probable
path to start on.
"When I looked round the rooms I pushed open the glass door of the
barrier and left the door to the inner office ajar, in order to be able
to see anything that _might_ happen in any part of the place, without
actually expecting any definite development. While we were talking, as
it happened, our friend Mirsky (or Hunter--as you please) came into the
outer office, and my attention was instantly called to him by the first
thing he did. Did you notice anything peculiar yourself?"
"No, really I can't say I did. He seemed to behave much as any
traveller or agent might."
"Well, what I noticed was the fact that as soon as he entered the place
he put his walking-stick into the umbrella stand, over there by the
door, close by where he stood; a most unusual thing for a casual caller
to do, before even knowing whether you were in. This made me watch
him closely. I perceived, with increased interest, that the stick was
exactly of the same kind and pattern as one already standing there;
also a curious thing. I kept my eyes carefully on those sticks, and
was all the more interested and edified to see, when he left, that he
took the _other_ stick--not the one he came with--from the stand, and
carried it away, leaving his own behind. I might have followed him, but
I decided that more could be learnt by staying--as, in fact, proved to
be the case. This, by-the-bye, is the stick he carried away with him.
I took the liberty of fetching it back from Westminster, because I
conceive it to be Ritter's property."
Hewitt produced the stick. It was an ordinary, thick Malacca cane, with
a buckhorn handle and a silver band. Hewitt bent it across his knee,
and laid it on the table.
"Yes," Dixon answered, "that is Ritter's stick. I think I have often
seen it in the stand. But what in the world----"
"One moment; I'll just fetch the stick Mirsky left behind." And Hewitt
stepped across the corridor.
He returned with another stick, apparently an exact facsimile of the
other, and placed it by the side of the other.
"When your assistants went into the inner room, I carried this stick
off for a minute or two. I knew it was not Worsfold's, because there
was an umbrella there with his initial on the handle. Look at this."
Martin Hewitt gave the handle a twist, and rapidly unscrewed it from
the top. Then it was seen that the stick was a mere tube of very thin
metal, painted to appear like a Malacca cane.
"It was plain at once that this was no Malacca cane--it wouldn't bend.
Inside it I found your tracings, rolled up tightly. You can get a
marvellous quantity of thin tracing-paper into a small compass by tight
rolling."
"And this--this was the way they were brought back!" the engineer
exclaimed. "I see that, clearly. But how did they get away? That's as
mysterious as ever."
[Illustration: "HEWITT PRODUCED THE STICK."]
"Not a bit of it. See here. Mirsky gets hold of Ritter, and they
agree to get your drawings and photograph them. Ritter is to let his
confederate have the drawings, and Mirsky is to bring them back as
soon as possible, so that they shan't be missed for a moment. Ritter
habitually carries this Malacca cane, and the cunning of Mirsky at
once suggests that this tube should be made in outward facsimile. This
morning, Mirsky keeps the actual stick and Ritter comes to the office
with the tube. He seizes the first opportunity--probably when you
were in this private room, and Worsfold was talking to you from the
corridor--to get at the tracings, roll them up tightly, and put them in
the tube, putting the tube back into the umbrella stand. At half-past
twelve, or whenever it was, Mirsky turns up for the first time with
the actual stick and exchanges them, just as he afterwards did when he
brought the drawings back."
"Yes, but Mirsky came half an hour after they were--oh, yes, I see.
What a fool I was! I was forgetting. Of course, when I first missed
the tracings they were in this walking-stick, safe enough, and I was
tearing my hair out within arm's reach of them!"
"Precisely. And Mirsky took them away before your very eyes. I expect
Ritter was in a rare funk when he found that the drawings were missed.
He calculated, no doubt, on your not wanting them for the hour or two
they would be out of the office."
"How lucky that it struck me to jot a pencil-note on one of them! I
might easily have made my note somewhere else, and then I should never
have known that they had been away."
"Yes, they didn't give you any too much time to miss them. Well, I
think the rest's pretty clear. I brought the tracings in here, screwed
up the sham stick and put it back. You identified the tracings and
found none missing, and then my course was pretty clear, though it
looked difficult. I knew you would be very naturally indignant with
Ritter, so, as I wanted to manage him myself, I told you nothing of
what he had actually done, for fear that, in your agitated state, you
might burst out with something that would spoil my game. To Ritter I
pretended to know nothing of the return of the drawings or _how_ they
had been stolen--the only things I did know with certainty. But I
_did_ pretend to know all about Mirsky--or Hunter--when, as a matter
of fact, I knew nothing at all, except that he probably went under
more than one name. That put Ritter into my hands completely. When he
found the game was up he began with a lying confession. Believing that
the tracings were still in the stick and that we knew nothing of their
return, he said that they had not been away, and that he would fetch
them--as I had expected he would. I let him go for them alone, and when
he returned, utterly broken up by the discovery that they were not
there, I had him altogether at my mercy. You see, if he had known that
the drawings were all the time behind your book-case, he might have
brazened it out, sworn that the drawings had been there all the time,
and we could have done nothing with him. We couldn't have sufficiently
frightened him by a threat of prosecution for theft, because there the
things were, in your possession, to his knowledge.
"As it was, he answered the helm capitally: gave us Mirsky's address on
the envelope, and wrote the letter that was to have got him out of the
way while I committed burglary, if that disgraceful expedient had not
been rendered unnecessary. On the whole, the case has gone very well."
"It has gone marvellously well, thanks to yourself. But what shall I do
with Ritter?"
"Here's his stick--knock him downstairs with it, if you like. I should
keep the tube, if I were you, as a memento. I don't suppose the
respectable Mirsky will ever call to ask for it. But I should certainly
kick Ritter out of doors--or out of window, if you like--without delay."
[Illustration: "KNOCK HIM DOWNSTAIRS."]
Mirsky was caught, and after two remands at the police-court was
extradited on the charge of forging Russian notes. It came out that he
had written to the Embassy, as Hewitt had surmised, stating that he had
certain valuable information to offer, and the letter which Hewitt had
seen delivered was an acknowledgment, and a request for more definite
particulars. This was what gave rise to the impression that Mirsky had
himself informed the Russian authorities of his forgeries. His real
intent was very different, but was never guessed.
"I wonder," Hewitt has once or twice observed, "whether, after all, it
would not have paid the Russian authorities better on the whole if I
had never investigated Mirsky's little note-factory. The Dixon torpedo
was worth a good many twenty-rouble notes."
_Illustrated Interviews._
XXXIV.--SIR FRANCIS AND LADY JEUNE.
[Illustration: ARLINGTON MANOR
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
It would be difficult indeed to single out a more pleasant method of
passing a couple of days than with Sir Francis Jeune, Lady Jeune,
and their children. It was in the early days of spring that I had
this privilege, when, for a brief time, Sir Francis was free from the
trials and tribulations of the law, and, together with his family, was
enjoying the rest afforded by a short sojourn at his charming house in
Berkshire. About a couple of miles from Newbury--rich in reminiscence
of the troublesome times associated with the Cromwellian _régime_--is
Arlington Manor. It is a substantially-built country mansion--built of
a peculiar species of Bath stone--and no matter from which of its four
sides you view the outlook, it is "as fair as fair can be." From one
side you can here and there catch sight of a streak of blue sky through
a forest of fir trees; from another is a grand stretch of meadows, from
which you may often hear the voice of young Francis Christian Seaforth
Jeune--Sir Francis's son, who had for his godmother the Princess
Christian, and is proud of the fact that he was entered for Harrow
before he was four days old--shouting out "Well hit!" at a particularly
good drive of the ball by the butler, who happens to be a capital
cricketer. Perhaps, however, the view from the veranda is the finest.
The lawn is immediately before you; a little series of valleys and
hills rise and fall until all is lost in the blue line of hills miles
away. It is an ideal spot, and one which must be peculiarly interesting
to Sir Francis, owing to its being in the centre of a piece of country
closely allied with a period of history in which he is so deeply read.
Around the house golf links have been recently laid out. Sir Francis
said that I should have been at Arlington and seen a match between
Sir Evelyn Wood, Mr. Lockwood, and himself. "The General was the best
player," he added, "or, perhaps, I should say, the least bad."
It was on this veranda--with the glorious scene before us--that I
met Sir Francis and Lady Jeune. Lady Jeune's two daughters--Miss
Madeline Stanley and Miss Dorothy Stanley--were enjoying their first
game of croquet of the year. Lady Jeune has been twice married, her
first husband being Mr. John Stanley, a brother of Lord Stanley of
Alderley. After a time the two young girls joined us. I am well aware
that this paper is to be devoted to Sir Francis and Lady Jeune, but
it is impossible to stay one's pen at this point from chronicling
an impression formed regarding two of the brightest of sisters.
It happened that during my stay at Newbury there was a gymnastic
display in the town given by some young women of the class connected
with the People's Palace--young women, doubtless, for the most part
who know what it is to work, and work hard, for their living. They
were entertained to tea at Arlington Manor. The anxiety of the
Misses Stanley to make them happy was intense--nothing was forced
about it, but all heart-born. I judged Lady Jeune's daughters from
the semi-whispered invitations I could not help hearing to many of
these young women to "_Be sure and come and see us in London, won't
you?_"--repeated in one case, I know, half-a-dozen times. It is to be
hoped that this expression will convey the full meaning with which it
struck me.
[Illustration: THE DOGS.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
The interior of Arlington Manor is charmingly comfortable. Entering
from the veranda--you will probably be followed by one of the quartette
of dogs, and even "Randolph," the cat, who has the remarkable
feasting record of thirty chickens in a fortnight to be placed to his
credit!--you are in the billiard-room. Amongst the engravings of more
modern days are those after Sir Joshua Reynolds, Long, and Briton
Riviere; but the most noticeable is certainly a very fine set of
Hogarth's "Marriage à la Mode." Sir Francis Jeune is a great admirer
of Hogarth. Here, too, hangs his card of membership of the Athenæum
Club, forming a perfect collection of autographs of as many of the
most distinguished men of the day as could possibly get their names
on the card which was to "back" Sir Francis's candidature. A huge
volume here may be examined with interest. It contains no fewer than
seven hundred letters of congratulation which its owner received--and
faithfully answered every one--when he was appointed to the judicial
vacancy in the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division occasioned by
the elevation of Sir James Hannen to the House of Lords. A smaller one
is treasured which holds similar letters when Sir Francis was made
President of the Division.
[Illustration: "RANDOLPH".
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
The hall--the entrance to which finds room for a magnificently carved
oak cabinet--is very much like the gangway of a ship which leads to
the saloon cabins. Indeed, it was constructed on this principle. A
former occupier of Arlington Manor being unable to get out of doors,
and being nautically inclined, was wont to walk this hall and imagine
he was on board. The first apartment on the right is the drawing-room.
It is filled with flowers and portrait reminiscences of friends, whilst
its pictures are admirable. There are two very fine pieces of mountain
scenery by Lady Canning, a Prout, Loppe--and the old Dutch school is
represented. Three pictures, however, are specially interesting. One
is a grand Michiel van Mierevelt of Hugo Grotius, and given by him to
Oliver Cromwell. It has only been in three or four hands, and was in
the possession of an uncle of Sir Francis at the age of ninety-four,
and he received it when quite young. It owes its exceptionally fine
state of preservation to the fact that it has never been touched by the
cleaner--it actually hung in one spot for over sixty years. The other
two pictures are over the mantelpieces. One is a copy--the original
being at Brahan Castle--of Lady Jeune's great-great-grandmother a
daughter of Baron D'Aguilars, and, therefore, a Spanish Jewess, and the
other is of Lady Jeune herself, by Miss Thompson.
[Illustration: THE OUTER HALL.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
[Illustration: THE INNER HALL.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
The dining-room is hung with some exquisite tapestry, and in the
centre of the oaken mantel-board is a painting of the late Bishop
of Peterborough, Sir Francis Jeune's father. Sir Francis's own room
upstairs is a very pleasant corner of the house. On a table--in
very official-looking boxes, and, indeed, the only suggestion of
judicial duties about the place--are the various patents granted to
the President, and also those belonging to his father--who was Dean
of Jersey, as well as filling the Episcopal See of Peterborough. Sir
Francis merrily points out that the writ accompanying the patent making
him a judge expresses in legal phraseology an invitation to pretermit
all other business and go to Parliament.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"But they wouldn't let me in if I went there," he said.
There are a number of beautiful studies by Raphael here. Near the
window is a book-case containing many of the prizes Sir Francis won
at school and college. We look at them together. Sir Francis takes
down from one of the shelves a small volume of "Dodd's Beauties of
Shakespeare." It was given to him by Sir George Cornwall Lewis on the
occasion of his tenth birthday.
"I value it," said Sir Francis, "because good nature is not a quality
generally attributed to Sir George Cornwall Lewis."
There is much, very much, more to look at inside Arlington Manor--and
one would like to refer at greater length to its many interior
beauties; but the desire to take full advantage of the pleasant
opportunity of having a talk with Sir Francis Jeune--and later on
with Lady Jeune--leads one to hurry away from the apartments within
and settle down in one of the wicker chairs on the veranda and listen
to the quietly told story, and the impressive observations of the
President of the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division--at his
country home.
Sir Francis Jeune is tall--his bearing is erect and stately. His hair
is just turning grey--there is never a pleasant twinkle missing out
of the immediate
|
minds to the functional industrial democracy
of the Middle Ages, in order that we may learn what we can from its
successes and its failures, and, even more, gain living inspiration
from what is good and enduring in the spirit which inspired the men who
lived in it and under it.
G. D. H. COLE.
_November 1918._
CHAPTER I
ORIGIN AND GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION
1. The origin of guilds has been the subject of a great deal of
discussion, and two opposing theories have been advanced. According to
the first theory they were the persistence of earlier institutions;
but what were these institutions? Some say that, more particularly
in the south of France, they were of Roman and Byzantine origin, and
were derived from those _collegia_ of the poorer classes (_tenuiorum_)
which, in the last centuries of the Empire, chiefly concerned
themselves with the provision of funerals; or, again, from the
_scholae_, official and compulsory groups, which, keeping the name of
the hall in which their councils assembled, prolonged their existence
till about the year 1000. According to others they were, particularly
in the north, of German origin, and were derived from associations
resembling artificial families, the members of which mingled their
blood and exchanged vows to help each other under certain definite
circumstances; or again, they may have descended in a straight line
from the _ministeriales_, the feudal servitors who, in every royal or
feudal domain of any extent, were grouped according to their trade,
under the authority of a _panetier_,[1] a _bouteillier_,[2] a head
farrier, or a chief herdsman. According to others again, the Church,
that great international association, had, by the example of its
monastic orders and religious brotherhoods, given the laity lessons and
examples of which they were not slow to take advantage.
According to the opposite theory, each guild was a separate creation,
born, as it were, by spontaneous generation, and had no connection
with the past. Associations (_gildae_), _scholae_, colleges--all had
been killed by the hostility of the central power before they had
had time to mature fully. They were children of the necessity which
compelled the weak to unite for mutual defence in order to remedy the
disorders and abuses of which they were the victims. They were the
result of the great associative movement, which, working by turns on
political and economic lines, first gave birth to the communes, and so
created a social environment in which they could live and develop. The
craftsmen, drawn together into one street or quarter by a similar trade
or occupation, the tanners by the river, or the dockers by the port,
acquired for themselves in the towns which had won more or less freedom
the right to combine and to make their own regulations.[3]
As is nearly always the case, there is a kernel of truth in each
of these opposing theories. Certainly it is hardly likely that
the germs or the wreckage of trade associations, existing in the
_collegia_, the _scholae_, the associations, the groups in royal,
feudal, or ecclesiastical domains, should have totally disappeared, to
reappear almost immediately. Why so many deaths followed by so many
resurrections?
The provision trades in particular do not appear to have ceased to be
regulated and organized. If, as Fustel de Coulanges says, "history
is the science of becoming," it must here acknowledge that guilds
already existed potentially in society. It may even be added that in
certain cases, it was to the interest of count or bishop to encourage
their formation; for, as he demanded compulsory payment in kind or
in money, it was to his advantage to have a responsible collective
body to deal with. It is certain, too, that religious society, with
its labouring or weaving monks (the Benedictines or Umiliate for
instance), with its bodies of bridge-building brothers, with its lay
brotherhoods, was also tending to encourage the spirit of association.
But it is none the less true that these organisms,--if not exactly
formless, at any rate incomplete, unstable, with little cohesion, and
created with non-commercial aims,--could not, without the influence
of favourable surroundings, have transformed themselves into guilds
possessing statutes, magistrates, political jurisdiction, and often
political rights. It was necessary that they should find, in Europe,
social conditions in which the need for union, felt by the mass of
the population, could act on their weakness and decadence like an
invigorating wind, infusing new life into them. It was necessary
that they should find in the town[4] which sheltered them, a little
independent centre, which would permit the seeds of the future, which
they held, to grow and bear fruit unchecked.
It may then be concluded that there was, if not a definite persistence
of that which had already existed, at least a survival out of the
wreckage, or a development of germs, which, thanks to the surrounding
conditions, underwent a complete metamorphosis.
2. What we have just said explains both how it was that the guilds
were not confined to any small region, and why they were not of equal
importance in all the countries in which they were established. They
are to be met with in the whole of the Christian West, in Italy as well
as in France, in Germany as well as in England. They were introduced
simultaneously with town life in the countries of the north. There is
sufficient authority for believing that the system which they represent
predominated in those days in the three worlds which disputed the
coasts and the supremacy of the Mediterranean--the Roman Catholic, the
Byzantine, and the Mohammedan. Thus there reigned in the basin of that
great inland sea a sort of unity of economic organization.
This unity, however, did not exclude variety. The guilds were more
alive and more powerful as the towns were more free. Consequently it
was in Flanders, in Italy, in the "Imperial Towns," in the trading
ports, wherever, in fact, the central authority was weak or distant,
that they received the strongest impetus.
They prospered more brilliantly in the Italian Republics than at Rome
under the shadow of the Holy See. In France, as in England, they had
to reckon with a jealous and suspicious royalty which has ever proved
a bad neighbour to liberty. The more commercial, the more industrial
the town, the more numerous and full of life were the guilds; it was
at Bruges or at Ghent, at Florence or at Milan, at Strasburg or at
Barcelona, that they attained the height of their greatness; at all
points, that is, where trade was already cosmopolitan, and where the
woollen industry, which was in those days the most advanced, had the
fullest measure of freedom and activity.
CHAPTER II
THE ORGANIZATION OF THE GUILDS
1. It is sometimes imagined that the guilds united all the merchants
and all the craftsmen of one region. This is a mistake. At first those
who lived in the country, with rare exceptions,[5] did not belong to
them: certain towns, Lyons for instance, knew nothing of this method
of organization, and even in those towns where it was in existence,
there were trades which remained outside, and there were also isolated
workers who shunned it--home-workers, who voluntarily or involuntarily
kept themselves apart from it.[6] Guilds, then, were always privileged
bodies, an aristocracy of labour.
It is also imagined that they were voluntary organizations of a uniform
type. There is the classic division into three degrees or grades. Just
as under the feudal system, a man became successively page, esquire,
and knight, and it was necessary, in order to rise from one stage of
the hierarchy to the next, to complete a certain time of service and
of military education, so in the guild organization, he was first an
apprentice for one or more years, then a journeyman (_garçon_, _valet_,
_compagnon_, _serviteur_), working under the orders of others for
an indeterminate period, and finally, a master, established on his
own account and vested with full rights. Just as the knight, after he
had given proof of having finished his instruction, had still, before
putting on his golden spurs, to go through a religious and symbolic
service which included the purifying bath, the oath, and the communion,
so the master, after having proved his capabilities by examination or
by the production of a piece of fine craftsmanship, took the oath,
communicated, and fraternized with his fellows at a solemn banquet.
But this quasi-automatic promotion from rank to rank was in fact far
from being as regular as has been imagined. It was not unusual for
one of the three grades, that of _compagnon_, to be passed over, for
the apprentice to rise directly to the rank of master, and for the
formalities of admission to be reduced to a minimum for one who had
the good luck to be a master's son. From the earliest times mastership
tended to become hereditary, as did the life fiefs held by barons
and earls. Nor on the other hand was it rare for a _compagnon_ to
find himself for life at that grade without the possibility of rising
higher. Moreover, the famous divisions never existed, except in certain
trades.
The truth is that guild organization, even within the walls of a
single town, presented several different types. It might be _simple_,
or _complex_; it might be either half democratic or capitalistic in
structure.
2. It was simple when it included only one trade, and this was fairly
often the case. It was complex when it was composed of several
juxtaposed or superimposed groups. In this case it was a federation of
craft guilds, each keeping its individual life, its own statutes, and
its own officers, but all united in a larger body of which they became
members. This was the name which at Florence was borne by those lesser
bodies of which the whole was composed.[7] The whole was called an
_Arte_, and just as the _membri_ could themselves be subdivided, so the
_Arte_ might be defined as a union of unions.
The Middle Age was not an age of equality. Usually among the groups
united under a central government there was one which predominated,
which held fuller corporate rights; the others, regarded as inferiors,
only enjoyed a greater or smaller part of such rights. Some did not
enjoy the privilege of co-operating in the election of the federal
magistrates, to whom none the less they owed obedience; others were not
allowed to carry the banners, towards which they nevertheless had to
contribute their share.
Take, for example, the _Arte dei medici, speziali, e merciai_, at
Florence, which included, as may be seen, three _membri_--doctors,
apothecaries, and haberdashers. This seems a heterogeneous assemblage,
but the first two are easily accounted for; and if the connection is
less clear between the last and these two, it may be found in the fact
that the haberdashers, like the great shops of our own day, sold some
of everything, and consequently kept in their shops those foreign drugs
and spices of which the _speziali_ were the usual depositaries.[8] The
complication is here increased because the _speziali_, among whom Dante
was enrolled, included as subordinate _membri_ the painters combined
with the colour merchants, while the saddlers were coupled with the
haberdashers.[9]
It will easily be understood how troubled must have been the life of
associations formed of such diverse elements. There was in each an
endless succession of internal struggles in the attempt to maintain
between the varying elements an equilibrium which was necessarily
unstable. Each "member," according to the number of its adherents,
or according to the social standing which it claimed, or which was
accorded to it by public opinion, fought for the mastery; but as in
the course of years their relative importance was constantly modified,
the constitution of the whole body was for ever changing. No fixed
principle regulated its ceaseless mobility, or set on a solid basis the
organization of its compact but rival groups, of which one or another
was ever tempted to imagine itself sacrificed.
3. The guild, when simple, was usually half democratic. Being a
bourgeois growth developing in feudal surroundings, it rested, like the
feudal system itself, on two closely connected principles--hierarchy
and equality. It included several superposed grades, while at the same
time it assured identical rights to everybody included in any one of
those grades. Masters, journeymen, and apprentices were ranked one
above another, but those of the same grade were equals. Inequality
could be, theoretically at least, only temporary, since the master
had once been a journeyman, the journeyman was a prospective master,
and the apprentice in his turn would climb to the top of the ladder.
This state of things, however, was only to be met with in the building
trades, in "small" industry and "small" commerce--the most numerous it
is true, but not the most powerful. There alone was almost realized
the idyllic picture of the workman working in the workshop beside his
master, sharing his life, eating at his table, his partner in joys and
sorrows, joining him in processions and at public ceremonies, until the
day when he himself should rise to be a master.
4. It is convenient to begin with the lowest grade and work upwards.
The apprentice was, as may be imagined, the object of a somewhat keen
solicitude. Apprenticeship, in "small" industry, with which it was
intimately associated, was the means of maintaining that professional
skill on which the guild prided itself. The apprentice was a child whom
his parents or guardians wished to be taught a trade as soon as he was
ten or twelve years of age, although there was no fixed age limit. A
master was found who would take him. Every instructor must be a master:
he must also be of good life and character, endowed with patience, and
approved of by the officers of the guild. If he were recognized as
capable of carrying out his duties, the two parties bound themselves by
a contract, often verbal, often also made before a notary. This fixed
the length of the apprenticeship, which varied greatly in different
trades; for it might cover from one to six, eight, ten, or twelve
years; sometimes it stipulated for a time of probation--usually a
fortnight--during which time either side could cancel the agreement.
The apprenticeship was not free of expense, at any rate to begin with,
and the child's guardians paid an annual fee in corn, bread, or money.
In return, the child received his lodging, food, clothes, washing,
and light, and was supervised and taught in the master's house.
Certain contracts contain special clauses: one states that the family
will supply clothes and boots; another, that the apprentice shall
receive a fixed salary after a certain time; another provides for the
circumstances under which the engagement may be cancelled.[10]
The apprentice had certain obligations, which sometimes, in spite
of his youth, he solemnly swore to keep (the oath has never been
so much used as in the Middle Ages). He promised to be industrious
and obedient, and to work for no other master. The master, on his
side, promised to teach him the secrets of his craft, to treat him
"well and decently in sickness as in health," and certain contracts
add, "provided that the illness does not last longer than a month."
Naturally these duties carried with them certain rights. The master
might correct and beat the apprentice, provided that he did it himself;
a contract drawn up with a rope-maker in Florence says, "short of
drawing blood." It often happened that the apprentice, sick of work
or in a fit of ill-temper, ran away from his master; a limit was
then fixed for his return, and his place was kept for him during his
absence, which sometimes lasted quite a long time (it has been known to
continue as long as twenty-six weeks). If he returned within the time
limit he was punished but taken back; but if he indulged in three such
escapades he was dismissed, his parents had to indemnify the master,
and the truant was not allowed to go back to the craft which he had
abandoned.
However, an enquiry was held to decide whether the master had abused
his rights, and the officers of the guild or the civil authority, as
the case might be, set at liberty any apprentice who had been unkindly
or inhumanly treated. We find a master prosecuted for having beaten
and kicked an apprentice to death; a mistress indicted for having
forced into evil living a young girl who had been entrusted to her
care. In such a case the apprentice was removed from his unworthy
master and put into safer hands. Sometimes it happened that the master
was attacked by a long and serious illness, or that through trouble and
poverty he could no longer carry out his agreement.
A custom, however, sprang up which threatened to wreck the system.
This was the practice of buying for money so many years or months of
service, thus establishing a privilege to the detriment of professional
knowledge and to the advantage of the well-to-do. A sum of money took
the place of actual instruction received, and some apprentices at the
end of two years, others only at the end of four, obtained their final
certificate which allowed them to aspire to mastership.
Attention should be called to the fact that there are many statutes
which limit the number of apprentices. What was the motive of this
limitation? The reason which was usually put foremost--namely,
the difficulty one master would have in completing the technical
education of many pupils--does not seem to have been always the most
serious. Perhaps a reduction was insisted on by the journeymen, for
it was usually to the interest of the masters to have a great many
apprentices, and to keep them for a long time at that stage. They were
so many helpers to whom little or nothing was paid, although the work
exacted of them nearly equalled that of the journeymen. Therefore we
must not be astonished if the latter looked unfavourably on these young
competitors who lowered the price of labour. The poor apprentices
were thus between the devil and the deep sea. They suffered from the
jealousy of the journeymen as well as from the greed of the masters,
who cut down their allowance of food, and by keeping them unreasonably
long prevented them from earning a decent living.
The literature of the times,[11] when it deigns to notice them, leaves
us to infer that their existence was not a particularly happy one;
nevertheless it is only right to add that their lot cannot be compared
with that of the wretched children who, in the opening years of the era
of machinery, were introduced in large numbers into the great modern
industries.
5. The journeymen (also called _valets_, _compagnons_, _serviteurs_,
_massips_, _locatifs_, _garçons_, etc.) were either future masters or
else workmen for life, unable to set up for themselves because they
lacked the indispensable "wherewithal," as certain statutes crudely
express it. Their time of apprenticeship over, they remained with the
master with whom they had lived; or else, especially in the building
trades, having perfected themselves by travel, they went to the market
for disengaged hands[12] and offered their services. They were hired in
certain places where the unemployed of all trades assembled. They were
required to give proof that they were free of all other engagements,
and to present certificates, not only of capability, but of good
conduct, signed by their last master. Thieves, murderers, and outlaws,
and even "dreamers" and slackers, stood no chance of being engaged,
while those who, though unmarried, took a woman about with them, or who
had contracted debts at the inns, were avoided. They were required to
be decently clothed, not only out of consideration for their clients,
but also because they had to live and work all day in the master's
house. The master, when he was satisfied with the references given, and
when he had assured himself that he was not defrauding another master
who had more need of hands than himself, could engage the workman. The
contract which bound them was often verbal, but there was a certain
solemnity attaching to it; for the workman had to swear on the Gospels
and by the saints that he would work in compliance with the rules of
the craft.
The engagement was of very varying duration; it might be entered into
for a year, a month, a week, or a day. The workman who left before the
time agreed upon might be seized, forced to go back to the workshop,
and punished by a fine. If the master wished to dismiss the workman
before the date arranged, he had first to state his reasons for so
doing before a mixed assembly composed of masters and journeymen. A
mutual indemnity seems to have been the rule, whether the workman
abandoned the work he had begun, or whether the master prematurely
dismissed the man he had hired.[13]
The journeyman had to work in his master's workshop, and it was
exceptional for him to go alone to a client (in which case he was
duly authorized by the master), or to finish an urgent piece of work
at home. The length of the working day was regulated by the daylight.
Lighting was in those days so imperfect that night work was forbidden,
as nothing fine or highly finished could be done by the dim light of
candles. This rule could never be broken except in certain crafts--by
the founders, for example, whose work could not be interrupted without
serious loss--or by those who worked for the king, the bishop, or the
lord.[14] The rest worked from sunrise to sunset, an arrangement which
made summer and winter days curiously unequal. Some neighbouring clock
marked the beginning and end of the day, and a few rests amounting
to about an hour and a half broke its length. All this was very
indefinite, and disputes were frequent as to the time for entering or
leaving the workshop. The Paris workmen often complained of being kept
too late, and of the danger of being obliged to go home in the dark
at the mercy of thieves and footpads. It was necessary for the royal
provost to issue a decree before the difficulty was overcome.
The workers, however, reaped the benefit of the many holidays which
starred the calendar and brought a little brightness into the grey
monotony of the days. The Sunday holiday was scrupulously observed
without interfering with the Saturday afternoon, when work stopped
earlier, or the religious festivals which often fell on a week day. It
has been calculated[15] that the days thus officially kept as holidays
amounted to at least thirty, and it may be safely said that work was
less continuous then than nowadays.
To leave work voluntarily at normal times was strictly forbidden,
and the police took up and imprisoned any idlers or vagabonds found
wandering in the towns. But even in those days Monday was often taken
as an unauthorized holiday. Certain crafts had their regular dead
season:[16] thus at Paris among the bucklers (makers of brass buckles)
the _valets_ were dismissed during the month of August; but such
holidays, probably unpaid, were rare, as was also the arrangement to be
found among the weavers at Lunéville, which limited the amount of work
a journeyman might do in a day.
For various reasons it is difficult to state precisely what wages were
paid; there are very few documents; the price of labour varied very
much in different crafts and at different periods; the buying power
of money at any given time is a difficult matter to determine;[17]
and finally, it was the custom to pay a workman partly with money and
partly in kind. It must not be forgotten too that a man ate with his
master, a decided economy on the one hand, and on the other a guarantee
that he was decently fed. Sometimes he received an ell of cloth, a
suit of clothes, or a pair of shoes.[18] It has been stated that his
wages (which were paid weekly or fortnightly) were, in the thirteenth
century, enough for him to live on decently.[19] It has been possible
to reconstruct the earnings and expenditure of a fuller at Léon in
the year 1280; the inventory of a soap-maker of Bruges of about the
same date[20] has been published; it has been estimated that in those
days the daily wage of a _compagnon_ at Aix-la-Chapelle was worth
two geese, and his weekly wage a sheep; comparisons have been made,
and it has been concluded that a workman earned more in Flanders than
in Paris, more in Paris than in the provinces. All this seems likely
enough; but I should not dare to generalize from such problematic
calculations. I limit myself to stating that historians are almost
unanimous in holding that, taking into consideration that less was
spent on food, rent, and furniture, and above all on intellectual needs
(because both the demands were less and the prices lower), it was
easier for a workman's family to make both ends meet in those days than
it is now.
It is at any rate certain that a journeyman's salary was sometimes
guaranteed to him; this is shown by an article of the regulations in
force among the tailors of Montpellier, dated July 3, 1323:
"If a master does one of his workmen a wrong in connection with the
wages due to him, that master must be held to give satisfaction to the
said workman, according to the judgment of the other masters; and, if
he does not do this, no workman may henceforward work with him until he
is acquitted; and, in case of non-payment, he must give and hand over
to the relief fund of the guild ten 'deniers tournois' [of Tours]."
On the whole, then, in spite of the varying conditions in the Middle
Ages, it is not too much to say that, materially, the position of
the journeyman was at least equal, if not superior, to that of the
workman of to-day. It was also better morally. He sometimes assisted
in the drawing up and execution of the laws of the community; he was
his master's companion in ideas, beliefs, education, tastes. Above
all, there was the possibility of rising one day to the same social
level. Certainly one paid and the other was paid, and that alone was
enough to set up a barrier between the two. But where "small" industry
predominated, there was not as yet a violent and lasting struggle
between two diametrically opposed classes. Nevertheless, from this time
onwards, an ever-increasing strife and discord may be traced.
First the privileges accorded to the sons of masters tended to close
the guilds and to keep the workmen in the position of wage-earners;
this gave rise to serious dissatisfaction. Besides this, the masters
were not always just, as even their statutes prove. Those of the
tailors of Montpellier, which we have just quoted, decreed that the
workshops of every master who had defrauded a workman of his wages
should be boycotted. These injustices therefore must have occurred,
since trouble was taken to repress them. Still more acute was the
dissatisfaction in towns where the rudiments of "great" industry
existed. Strikes broke out, with a spice of violence. In 1280 the
cloth-workers of Provins rose and killed the mayor;[21] at Ypres, at
the same date, there was a similar revolt for a similar reason, viz.
the attempt to impose on the workmen too long a working day. At Chalon,
the king of France had to intervene to regulate the hours of labour.
Already the question of combination was discussed, and the masters did
their best to prevent it. At Rheims in 1292 a decision by arbitration
prohibited alliances whether of _compagnons_ against masters or of
masters against _compagnons_. This already displays the spirit of
the famous law which was to be voted by the Constituent Assembly in
1791.[22] In the year 1280, in the _Coutume de Beauvoisis_ by the
jurist Beaumanoir, the combination of workmen is clearly defined as an
offence[23]--"any alliance against the common profit, when any class
of persons pledge themselves, undertake, or covenant not to work at so
low a wage as before, and so raise their wages on their own authority,
agree not to work for less, and combine to put constraint or threats on
the _compagnons_ who will not enter their alliance."
The attempt to raise wages by combination was condemned under the
pretext that it would make everything dearer, and was punished by the
lord by fine and imprisonment.
One can see in these and other symptoms signs of the coming storm.
The workmen protested against the importation of foreign workers as
lowering the price of labour, and made them submit to an entrance
fee. They attempted to secure a monopoly of work, just as the masters
attempted to secure the monopoly of this or that manufacture. Thus
amongst the nail-makers of Paris[24] it was forbidden to hire a
_compagnon_ from elsewhere, as long as one belonging to the district
was left in the market. Even in the religious brotherhoods, which
usually united master and workman at the same altar, a division
occurred, and in certain crafts the journeymen formed separate
brotherhoods: the working bakers of Toulouse, the working shoemakers
of Paris, set up their brotherhoods in opposition to the corresponding
societies of masters, and this shows that the dim consciousness of the
possession of distinct interests and rights was waking within them.[25]
6. Finally we should take into account the condition of the masters
in the lesser guilds where the workshop remained small, intimate, and
homely, but these we shall constantly meet with again when we come to
study the life and purpose of the guilds, since it was they who made
the statutes and administered them. For the present it is enough to
mention that women were not excluded from guild life. It would be a
mistake to imagine that the woman of the Middle Ages was confined to
her home, and was ignorant of the difficulties of a worker's life.
In those days she had an economic independence, such as is hardly to
be met with in our own times. In many countries she possessed, for
instance, the power to dispose of her property without her husband's
permission. It is therefore natural that there should be women's guilds
organized and administered like those of the men. They existed in
exclusively feminine crafts: fifteen of them were to be found in Paris
alone towards the end of the thirteenth century, in the dressmaking
industry and among the silk-workers and gold-thread workers especially.
There were also the mixed crafts--that is, crafts followed both by men
and women--which in Paris numbered about eighty. In them a master's
widow had the right to carry on her husband's workshop after his death.
This right was often disputed. Thus in 1263 the bakers of Pontoise
attempted to take it from the women, under the pretext that they were
not strong enough to knead the bread with their own hands; their
claims, however, were dismissed by an ordinance of the _Parlement_.
Another decree preserved to the widows this right even when they were
remarried to a man not of the craft.
Nevertheless, in many towns, above all in those where entry into a
guild conferred political rights and imposed military duties, the
women could not become masters. Condemned to remain labourers, working
at home, and for this reason isolated, they appear to have been paid
lower wages than the workmen; and certain documents show them seeking
in prostitution a supplement to their meagre wages, or appropriating
some of the raw silk entrusted to them to wind and spin. But other
documents show them as benefiting by humane measures which the
workwomen of to-day might envy them. They were forbidden to work in the
craft of "Saracen" carpet-making, because of the danger of injuring
themselves during pregnancy. This protective legislation dates from the
year 1290: for them, as for children, exhausting and killing days of
work were yet to come.[26] All the same, one can see the tendency to
keep them in an inferior position for life, and, taken along with the
strikes and revolts, the first appearances of which amongst weavers,
fullers, and cloth-workers we have already mentioned, this clearly
shows that, side by side with the half-democratic guilds which were the
humblest, there existed others of a very different type.
7. Directly we go on to study the great commercial and industrial
guilds profound inequalities appear. Nor do these disappear with time;
whether we deal with the bankers' or with the drapers' guilds, we find
that their organization is already founded on the capitalist system.
The masters, often grouped together in companies, are great personages,
rich tradesmen, influential politicians, separated from those they
employ by a deep and permanent gulf.
The river merchants of Paris, the Flemish and German Hanse, the
English Guild Merchants, and the _Arte di Calimala_ in the commune
of Florence,[27] may be taken as types of the great commercial
guilds. They were the first to succeed in making their power felt,
and represent, first by right of priority, and later by right of
wealth, all that existed in the way of business, the _Universitas
mercatorum_, and they long retained an uncontested supremacy. Not only
the whole body, but the heads of the houses or societies dependent
on them, had numberless subordinates, destined for the most part
to remain subordinates--cashiers, book-keepers, porters, brokers,
carriers, agents, messengers. These paid agents--often sent abroad
to the depots, branch houses, bonded warehouses, _fondouks_, owned
collectively or individually by the wholesale merchants whose servants
they were--were always under the strictest regulations. Take, for
instance, the prohibition to marry which the Hanseatic League imposed
on the young employees whom it planted like soldiers in the countries
with which it traded. Nor was the Florentine _Arte di Calimala_, so
called after the ill-famed street in which its rich and sombre shops
were situated, any more lenient to those of its agents who, especially
in France, were set to watch over its interests. The merchants
of the Calimala--buyers, finishers, and retailers of fine cloth,
money-changers too, and great business magnates, constantly acting as
mediums of communication between the West and the East--were far from
treating their indispensable but untrustworthy subordinates in a spirit
of brotherhood. They looked on them with suspicion as inferiors.
They complain of their "unbridled malice";[28] they reproach them,
and probably not without reason, with making their fortunes at the
expense of the firms which paid them. It was decided that in the case
of a dispute as to wages, if nothing had been arranged in writing,
the master could settle the matter at will without being bound by
precedent or by anything he had paid in a similar case. If the employee
was unlucky enough to return to Florence much richer than he left it,
he was at once spied upon, information was lodged against him, and
an inquiry instituted by the consuls of the guild; after which he
was summoned to appear and made to disgorge and restore his unlawful
profits. If he could not explain the origin of his surplus gains, he
was treated as a bankrupt, his name and effigy were posted up, and
the town authority was appealed to that he might be tortured till a
confession of theft or fraud was forced from him; he was then banished
from the Commune. Thus we see exasperated masters dealing severely with
dishonest servants: capital ruling labour without tact or consideration.
The autocratic and capitalistic character of the great industrial
guilds is even more striking.[29]
The woollen industry offers the most remarkable instances. The
manufacture of cloth (which was the principal article of export to the
Levantine markets) was the most advanced and the most active industry
of the Middle Ages, with its appliances already half mechanical,
supplying distant customers scattered all over the world. It was the
prelude to that intensity of production in modern times which is the
result of international commerce.
The wholesale cloth merchants no longer worked with their own
hands; they confined themselves to giving orders and superintending
everything; they supplied the initiative; they were the prime movers
in the weaving trades which
|
actors and orators 308
Our Indian conditions favorable to sign language 311
Theories entertained respecting Indian signs 313
Not correlated with meagerness of language 314
Its origin from one tribe or region 316
Is the Indian system special and peculiar? 319
To what extent prevalent as a system 323
Are signs conventional or instinctive? 340
Classes of diversities in signs 341
Results sought in the study of sign language 346
Practical application 346
Relations to philology 349
Sign language with reference to grammar 359
Gestures aiding archæologic research 368
Notable points for further researches 387
Invention of new signs 387
Danger of symbolic interpretation 388
Signs used by women and children 391
Positive signs rendered negative 391
Details of positions of fingers 392
Motions relative to parts of the body 393
Suggestions for collecting signs 394
Mode in which researches have been made 395
List of authorities and collaborators 401
Algonkian 403
Dakotan 404
Iroquoian 405
Kaiowan 406
Kutinean 406
Panian 406
Piman 406
Sahaptian 406
Shoshonian 406
Tinnean 407
Wichitan 407
Zuñian 407
Foreign correspondence 407
Extracts from dictionary 409
Tribal signs 458
Proper names 476
Phrases 479
Dialogues 486
Tendoy-Huerito Dialogue. 486
Omaha Colloquy. 490
Brulé Dakota Colloquy. 491
Dialogue between Alaskan Indians. 492
Ojibwa Dialogue. 499
Narratives 500
Nátci's Narrative. 500
Patricio's Narrative. 505
Na-wa-gi-jig's Story. 508
Discourses 521
Address of Kin Ch[-e]-[)E]ss. 521
Tso-di-a´-ko's Report. 524
Lean Wolf's Complaint. 526
Signals 529
Signals executed by bodily action 529
Signals in which objects are used in connection with
personal action 532
Signals made when the person of the signalist
is not visible 536
Scheme of illustration 544
Outlines for arm positions in sign language 545
Types of hand positions in sign language 547
Examples 550
CATALOGUE OF LINGUISTIC MANUSCRIPTS IN THE LIBRARY OF THE BUREAU OF
ETHNOLOGY, BY J. C. PILLING.
Introductory 555
List of manuscripts 562
ILLUSTRATION OF THE METHOD OF RECORDING INDIAN LANGUAGES. FROM THE
MANUSCRIPTS OF MESSRS. J. O. DORSEY, A. S. GATSCHET, AND S. B. RIGGS.
How the rabbit caught the sun in a trap, by J. O. Dorsey 581
Details of a conjurer's practice, by A. S. Gatschet 583
The relapse, by A. S. Gatschet 585
Sweat-Lodges, by A. S. Gatschet 586
A dog's revenge, by S. R. Riggs 587
FIRST ANNUAL REPORT
OF THE
BUREAU OF ETHNOLOGY.
BY J. W. POWELL, _Director._
INTRODUCTORY.
The exploration of the Colorado River of the West, begun in 1869 by
authority of Congressional action, was by the same authority
subsequently continued as the second division of the Geographical and
Geological Survey of the Territories, and, finally, as the Geographical
and Geological Survey of the Rocky Mountain Region.
By act of Congress of March 3, 1879, the various geological and
geographical surveys existing at that time were discontinued and the
United States Geological Survey was established.
In all the earlier surveys anthropologic researches among the North
American Indians were carried on. In that branch of the work finally
designated as the Geographical and Geological Survey of the Rocky
Mountain Region, such research constituted an important part of the
work. In the act creating the Geological Survey, provision was made to
continue work in this field under the direction of the Smithsonian
Institution, on the basis of the methods developed and materials
collected by the Geographical and Geological Survey of the Rocky
Mountain Region.
Under the authority of the act of Congress providing for the
continuation of the work, the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution
intrusted its management to the former director of the Survey of the
Rocky Mountain Region, and a bureau of ethnology was thus practically
organized.
In the Annual Report of the Geographical and Geological Survey of the
Rocky Mountain Region for 1877, the following statement of the condition
of the work at that time appears:
ETHNOGRAPHIC WORK.
During the same office season the ethnographic work was more
thoroughly organized, and the aid of a large number of volunteer
assistants living throughout the country was secured. Mr. W. H.
Dall, of the United States Coast Survey, prepared a paper on the
tribes of Alaska, and edited other papers on certain tribes of
Oregon and Washington Territory. He also superintended the
construction of an ethnographic map to accompany his paper,
including on it the latest geographic determination from all
available sources. His long residence and extended scientific labors
in that region peculiarly fitted him for the task, and he has made a
valuable contribution both to ethnology and geography.
With the same volume was published a paper on the habits and customs
of certain tribes of the State of Oregon and Washington Territory,
prepared by the late Mr. George Gibbs while he was engaged in
scientific work in that region for the government. The volume also
contains a Niskwalli vocabulary with extended grammatic notes, the
last great work of the lamented author.
In addition to the map above mentioned and prepared by Mr. Dall,
a second has been made, embracing the western portion of Washington
Territory and the northern part of Oregon. The map includes the
results of the latest geographic information and is colored to show
the distribution of Indian tribes, chiefly from notes and maps left
by Mr. Gibbs.
The Survey is indebted to the following gentlemen for valuable
contributions to this volume: Gov. J. Furujelm, Lieut. E. De Meulen,
Dr. Wm. F. Tolmie, and Rev. Father Mengarini.
Mr. Stephen Powers, of Ohio, who has spent several years in the
study of the Indians of California, had the year before been engaged
to prepare a paper on that subject. In the mean time at my request
he was employed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs to travel among
these tribes for the purpose of making collections of Indian arts
for the International Exhibition. This afforded him opportunity of
more thoroughly accomplishing his work in the preparation of the
above-mentioned paper. On his return the new material was
incorporated with the old, and the whole has been printed.
At our earliest knowledge of the Indians of California they were
divided into small tribes speaking diverse languages and belonging
to radically different stocks, and the whole subject was one of
great complexity and interest. Mr. Powers has successfully unraveled
the difficult problems relating to the classification and affinities
of a very large number of tribes, and his account of their habits
and customs is of much interest.
In the volume with his paper will be found a number of vocabularies
collected by himself, Mr. George Gibbs, General George Crook,
U.S.A., General W. B. Hazen, U.S.A., Lieut. Edward Ross, U.S.A.,
Assistant Surgeon Thomas F. Azpell, U.S.A., Mr. Ezra Williams, Mr.
J. R. Bartlett, Gov. J. Furujelm, Prof. F. L. O. Roehrig, Dr.
William A. Gabb, Mr. H. B. Brown, Mr. Israel S. Diehl, Dr. Oscar
Loew, Mr. Albert S. Gatschet, Mr. Livingston Stone, Mr. Adam
Johnson, Mr. Buckingham Smith, Padre Aroyo; Rev. Father Gregory
Mengarini, Padre Juan Comelias, Hon. Horatio Hale, Mr. Alexander S.
Taylor, Rev. Antonio Timmeno, and Father Bonaventure Sitjar.
The volume is accompanied by a map of the State of California,
compiled from the latest official sources and colored to show the
distribution of linguistic stocks.
The Rev. J. Owen Dorsey, of Maryland, has been engaged for more than
a year in the preparation of a grammar and dictionary of the Ponka
language. His residence among these Indians as a missionary has
furnished him favorable opportunity for the necessary studies, and
he has pushed forward the work with zeal and ability, his only hope
of reward being a desire to make a contribution to science.
Prof. Otis T. Mason, of Columbian College, has for the past year
rendered the office much assistance in the study of the history and
statistics of Indian tribes.
On June 13, Brevet Lieut. Col. Garrick Mallery, U.S.A., at the
request of the Secretary of the Interior, joined my corps under
orders from the honorable Secretary of War, and since that time has
been engaged in the study of the statistics and history of the
Indians of the western portion of the United States.
In April last, Mr. A. S. Gatschet was employed as a philologist to
assist in the ethnographic work of this Survey. He had previously
been engaged in the study of the languages of various North American
tribes. In June last at the request of this office he was employed
by the Bureau of Indian Affairs to collect certain statistics
relating to the Indians of Oregon and Washington Territory, and is
now in the field. His scientific reports have since that time been
forwarded through the honorable Commissioner of Indian Affairs to
this office. His work will be included in a volume now in course of
preparation.
Dr. H. O. Yarrow, U.S.A., now on duty at the Army Medical Museum, in
Washington, has been engaged during the past year in the collection
of material for a monograph on the customs and rites of sepulture.
To aid him in this work circulars of inquiry have been widely
circulated among ethnologists and other scholars throughout North
America, and much material has been obtained which will greatly
supplement his own extended observations and researches.
Many other gentlemen throughout the United States have rendered me
valuable assistance in this department of investigation. Their
labors will receive due acknowledgment at the proper time, but I
must not fail to render my sincere thanks to these gentlemen, who
have so cordially and efficiently co-operated with me in this work.
A small volume, entitled "Introduction to the Study of Indian
Languages," has been prepared and published. This book is intended
for distribution among collectors. In its preparation I have been
greatly assisted by Prof. W. D. Whitney, the distinguished
philologist of Yale College. To him I am indebted for that part
relating to the representation of the sounds of Indian languages;
a work which could not be properly performed by any other than a
profound scholar in this branch.
I complete the statement of the office-work of the past season by
mentioning that a tentative classification of the linguistic
families of the Indians of the United States has been prepared. This
has been a work of great labor, to which I have devoted much of my
own time, and in which I have received the assistance of several of
the gentlemen above mentioned.
In pursuing these ethnographic investigations it has been the
endeavor as far as possible to produce results that would be of
practical value in the administration of Indian affairs, and for
this purpose especial attention has been paid to vital statistics,
to the discovery of linguistic affinities, the progress made by the
Indians toward civilization, and the causes and remedies for the
inevitable conflict that arises from the spread of civilization over
a region previously inhabited by savages. I may be allowed to
express the hope that our labors in this direction will not be void
of such useful results.
In 1878 no report of the Survey of the Rocky Mountain Region was
published, as before its completion the question of reorganizing all of
the surveys had been raised, but the work was continued by the same
methods as in previous years.
The operations of the Bureau of Ethnology during the past fiscal year
will be briefly described.
In the plan of organization two methods of operation are embraced:
First. The prosecution of research by the direct employment of scholars
and specialists; and
Second. By inciting and guiding research immediately conducted by
collaborators at work throughout the country.
It has been the effort of the Bureau to prosecute work in the various
branches of North American anthropology on a systematic plan, so that
every important field should be cultivated, limited only by the amount
appropriated by Congress.
With little exception all sound anthropologic investigation in the lower
states of culture exhibited by tribes of men, as distinguished from
nations, must have a firm foundation in language Customs, laws,
governments, institutions, mythologies, religions, and even arts can not
be properly understood without a fundamental knowledge of the languages
which express the ideas and thoughts embodied therein. Actuated by these
considerations prime attention has been given to language.
It is not probable that there are many languages in North America
entirely unknown, and in fact it is possible there are none; but of many
of the known languages only short vocabularies have appeared. Except for
languages entirely unknown, the time for the publication of short
vocabularies has passed; they are no longer of value. The Bureau
proposes hereafter to publish short vocabularies only in the exceptional
cases mentioned above.
The distribution of the Introduction to the Study of Indian Languages is
resulting in the collection of a large series of chrestomathies, which
it is believed will be worthy of publication. It is also proposed to
publish grammars and dictionaries when those have been thoroughly and
carefully prepared. In each case it is deemed desirable to connect with
the grammar and dictionary a body of literature designed as texts for
reference in explaining the facts and principles of the language. These
texts will be accompanied by interlinear translations so arranged as
greatly to facilitate the study of the chief grammatic characteristics.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF NORTH AMERICAN PHILOLOGY, BY MR. J. C. PILLING.
There is being prepared in the office a bibliography of North American
languages. It was originally intended as a card catalogue for office
use, but has gradually assumed proportions which seem to justify its
publication. It is designed as an author's catalogue, arranged
alphabetically, and is to include titles of grammars, dictionaries,
vocabularies, translations of the scriptures, hymnals, doctrinæ
christianæ, tracts, school-books, etc., general discussions, and reviews
when of sufficient importance; in short, a catalogue of authors who have
written in or upon any of the languages of North America, with a list of
their works.
It has been the aim in preparing this material to make not only full
titles of all the works containing linguistics, but also to exhaust
editions. Whether full titles of editions subsequent to the first will
be printed will depend somewhat on the size of the volume it will make,
there being at present about four thousand five hundred cards, probably
about three thousand titles.
The bibliography is based on the library of the Director, but much time
has been spent in various libraries, public and private, the more
important being the Congressional, Boston Public, Boston Athenæum,
Harvard College, Congregational of Boston, Massachusetts Historical
Society, American Antiquarian Society of Worcester, the John Carter
Brown at Providence, the Watkinson at Hartford, and the American Bible
Society at New York. It is hoped that Mr. Pilling may find opportunity
to visit the principal libraries of New York and Philadelphia,
especially those of the historical societies, before the work is
printed.
In addition to personal research, much correspondence has been carried
on with the various missionaries and Indian agents throughout the United
States and Canada, and with gentlemen who have written upon the subject,
among whom are Dr. H. Rink, of Copenhagen, Dr. J. C. E. Buschman, of
Berlin, and the well-known bibliographers, Mr. J. Sabin, of New York,
Hon. J. R. Bartlett, of Providence, and Señor Don J. G. Icazbalceta, of
the City of Mexico.
Mr. Pilling has not attempted to classify the material linguistically.
That work has been left for a future publication, intended to embody the
results of an attempt to classify the tribes of North America on the
basis of language, and now in course of preparation by the Director.
LINGUISTIC AND OTHER ANTHROPOLOGIC RESEARCHES, BY THE REV. J. OWEN
DORSEY.
For a number of years Mr. Dorsey has been engaged in investigations
among a group of cognate Dakotan tribes embracing three languages:
[¢]egiha, spoken by the Ponkas and Omahas, with a closely related
dialect of the same, spoken by the Kansas, Osage, and Kwapa tribes; the
[T][c]iwere, spoken by the Iowa, Oto, and Missouri tribes; and the
Hotcañgara, spoken by the Winnebago.
In July, 1878, he repaired to the Omaha reservation, in the neighborhood
of which most of these languages are spoken, for the purpose of
continuing his studies.
Mr. Dorsey commenced the study of the [¢]egiha in 1871, and has
continued his researches in the group until the present time. He has
collected a very large body of linguistic material, both in grammar and
vocabulary, and when finally published a great contribution will be made
to North American linguistics.
These languages are excessively complex because of the synthetic
characteristics of the verb, incorporated particles being used in an
elaborate and complex scheme.
In these languages six general classes of pronouns are found:
1st. The free personal.
2d. The incorporated personal.
3d. The demonstrative.
4th. The interrogative.
5th. The relative.
6th. The indefinite.
One of the most interesting features of the language is found in the
genders or particle classifiers. The genders or classifiers are
_animate_ and _inanimate_, and these are again divided into the
_standing_, _sitting_, _reclining_, and _moving_; but in the Winnebago
the _reclining_ and _moving_ constitute but one class. They are suffixed
to nouns, pronouns, and verbs. When nouns, adjectives, adverbs, and
prepositions are used as predicants, _i.e._, to perform the function of
verbs, these classifiers are also suffixed. The classifiers point out
with particularity the gender or class of the subject and object. When
numerals are used as nouns the classifiers are attached.
In nouns and pronouns case functions are performed by an elaborate
system of postpositions in conjunction with the classifiers.
The verbs are excessively complex by reason of the use of many
incorporated particles to denote _cause_, _manner_, _instrument_,
_purpose_, _condition_, _time_, etc. Voice, mode, and tense are not
systematically differentiated in the morphology, but voices, modes, and
tenses, and a great variety of adverbial qualifications enter into the
complex scheme of incorporated particles.
Sixty-six sounds are found in the [¢]egiha; sixty-two in the
[T][c]iwere; sixty-two in the Hotcañgara; and the alphabet adopted by
the Bureau is used successfully for their expression.
While Mr. Dorsey has been prosecuting his linguistic studies among these
tribes he has had abundant opportunity to carry on other branches of
anthropologic research, and he has collected extensive and valuable
materials on sociology, mythology, religion, arts, customs, etc. His
final publication of the [¢]egiha will embrace a volume of literature
made up of mythic tales, historical narratives, letters, etc., in the
Indian, with interlinear translations, a selection from which appears in
the papers appended to this report. Another volume will be devoted to
the grammar and a third to the dictionary.
LINGUISTIC RESEARCHES, BY THE REV. S. R. RIGGS.
In 1852 the Smithsonian Institution published a grammar and dictionary
of the Dakota language prepared by Mr. Riggs. Since that time Mr. Riggs,
assisted by his sons, A. L. and T. L. Riggs, and by Mr. Williamson, has
been steadily engaged in revising and enlarging the grammar and
dictionary; and at the request of the Bureau he is also preparing a
volume of Dakota literature as texts for illustration to the grammar and
dictionary. He is rapidly preparing this work for publication, and it
will soon appear.
The work of Mr. Riggs and that of Mr. Dorsey, mentioned above, with the
materials already published, will place the Dakotan languages on record
more thoroughly than those of any other family in this country.
The following is a table of the languages of this family now recognized
by the Bureau:
LANGUAGES OF THE DAKOTAN FAMILY.
1. Dakóta (Sioux), in four dialects:
(_a_) Mdéwaka[n]to[n]wa[n] and Waqpékute.
(_b_) Waqpéto[n]wa[n] (Warpeton) and Sisíto[n]wa[n] (Sisseton).
These two are about equivalent to the modern Isa[n]´yati (Santee).
(_c_) Ihañk´to[n]wa[n] (Yankton), including the Assiniboins.
(_d_) Títo[n]wa[n] (Teton).
2. [¢]egiha, in two (?) dialects:
(_a_) Uma[n]´ha[n] (Omaha), spoken by the Omahas and Ponkas.
(_b_) Ugáqpa (Kwapa), spoken by the Kwapas, Osages, and Kansas.
3. [T][c]iwére, in two dialects:
(_a_) [T][c]iwére, spoken by the Otos and Missouris.
(_b_) [T][c]é[k]iwere, spoken by the Iowas.
4. Hotcañ´gara, spoken by the Winnebagos.
5. Númañkaki (Mandan), in two dialects:
(_a_) Mitútahañkuc.
(_b_) Ruptári.
6. Hi¢átsa (Hidatsa), in two (?) dialects:
(_a_) Hidátsa or Minnetaree.
(_b_) Absároka or Crow.
7. Tútelo, in Canada.
8. Katâ´ba (Catawba), in South Carolina.
LINGUISTIC AND GENERAL RESEARCHES AMONG THE KLAMATH INDIANS,
BY MR. A. S. GATSCHET.
Of the Klamath language of Oregon there are two dialects--one spoken by
the Indians of Klamath Lake and the other by the Modocs--constituting
the Lutuami family of Hale and Gallatin.
Mr. Gatschet has spent much time among these Indians, at their
reservation and elsewhere, and has at the present time in manuscript
nearly ready for the printer a large body of Klamath literature,
consisting of mythic, ethnic, and historic tales, a grammar and a
dictionary. The stories were told by the Indians and recorded by
himself, and constitute a valuable contribution to the subject. Some
specimens will appear in the papers appended to this report.
The grammatic sketch treats of both dialects, which differ but slightly
in grammar but more in vocabulary. The grammar is divided into three
principal parts: Phonology, Morphology, and Syntax.
In Phonology fifty different sounds are recognized, including simple and
compound consonants, the vowels in different quantities, and the
diphthongs.
A characteristic feature of this language is described in explaining
syllabic reduplication, which performs iterative and distributive
functions. Reduplication for various purposes is found in most of the
languages of North America. In the Nahuatl, Sahaptin, and Selish
families it is most prominent. Mr. Gatschet's researches will add
materially to the knowledge of the functions of reduplication in tribal
languages.
The verbal inflection is comparatively simple, for in it the subject and
object pronouns are not incorporated. In the verb Mr. Gatschet
recognizes ten general forms, a part of which he designates as
_verbals_, as follows:
1. Infinitive in -a.
2. Durative in -ota.
3. Causative in -oga.
4. Indefinite in -ash.
5. Indefinite in -u[)i]sh.
6. Conditional in -asht.
7. Desiderative in -ashtka.
8. Intentional in -tki.
9. Participle in -ank.
10. Past participle and verbal adjectives in -tko.
Tense and mode inflection is very rudimentary and is mostly accomplished
by the use of particles. The study of the prefixes and suffixes of
derivation is one of the chief difficulties of the language, for they
combine in clusters, and are not easily analyzed, and their functions
are often obscure.
The inflection of nouns by case endings and postpositions is rich in
forms; that of the adjective and numeral less elaborate.
Of the pronouns, only the demonstrative show a complexity of forms.
Another feature of this language is found in verbs appended to certain
numerals, and thus serving as numerical classifiers. These verbs express
methods of counting and relate to form; that is, in each case they
present the Indian in the act of counting objects of a particular form
and placing them in groups of tens.
The appended verbs used as classifiers signify _to place_, but in Indian
languages we are not apt to find a word so highly differentiated as
_place_, but in its stead a series of words with verbs and adverbs
undifferentiated, each signifying _to place_, with a qualification, as
_I place upon_, _I lay alongside of_, _I stand up, by_, etc. Thus we get
classifiers attached to numerals in the Klamath, analogous to the
classifiers attached to verbs, nouns, numerals, etc., in the Ponka, as
mentioned above.
These classifiers in Klamath are further discriminated as to form; but
these form discriminations are the homologues of attitude
discriminations in the Ponka, for the form determines the attitude.
It is interesting to note how often in these lower languages attitude or
form is woven into the grammatic structure. Perhaps this arises from a
condition of expression imposed by the want of the verb _to be_, so that
when existence in place is to be affirmed, the verbs of attitude,
_i.e._, _to stand_, _to sit_, _to lie_, and sometimes _to move_, are
used to predicate existence in place, and thus the mind comes habitually
to consider all things as in the one or the other of these attitudes.
The process of growth seems to be that verbs of attitude are primarily
used to affirm existence in place until the habit of considering the
attitude is established; thus participles of attitude are used with
nouns, &c., and finally, worn down by the law of phonic change, for
economy, they become classifying particles. This view of the origin of
classifying particles seems to be warranted by studies from a great
variety of Indian sources.
The syntactic portion is divided into four parts:
1st. On the predicative relation;
2d. On the objective relation;
3d. On the attributive relation; and the
4th. Exhibits the formation of simple and compound sentences, followed
by notes on the incorporative tendency of the language, its rhetoric,
figures, and idioms.
The alphabet adopted by Mr. Gatschet differs slightly from that used by
the Bureau, particularly in the modification of certain Roman characters
and the introduction of one Greek character. This occurred from the fact
that Mr. Gatschet's material had been partly prepared prior to the
adoption of the alphabet now in use.
Mr. Gatschet has collected much valuable material relating to
governmental and social institutions, mythology, religion, music,
poetry, oratory, and other interesting matters. The body of Klamath
literature, or otherwise the text previously mentioned, constitutes the
basis of these investigations.
STUDIES AMONG THE IROQUOIS, BY MRS. E. A. SMITH.
Mrs. Smith, of Jersey City, has undertaken to prepare a series of
chrestomathies of the Iroquois language, and has already made much
progress. Three of them are ready for the printer, and that on the
Tuscarora language has been increased much beyond the limits at first
established. She has also collected interesting material relating to the
mythology, habits, customs, &c., of these Indians, and her contributions
will be interesting and important.
WORK BY PROF. OTIS T. MASON.
On the advent of the white man in America a great number of tribes were
found. For a variety of reasons the nomenclature of these tribes became
excessively complex. Names were greatly multiplied for each tribe and a
single name was often inconsistently applied to different tribes.
Several important reasons conspired to bring about this complex state of
synonymy:
1st. A great number of languages were spoken, and ofttimes the first
names obtained for tribes were not the names used by themselves, but the
names by which they were known to some other tribes.
2d. The governmental organization of the Indians was not understood, and
the names for gentes, tribes, and confederacies were confounded.
3d. The advancing occupancy of the country by white men changed the
habitat of the Indians, and in their migrations from point to point
their names were changed.
Under these circumstances the nomenclature of Indian tribes became
ponderous and the synonymy complex. To unravel this synonymy is a task
of great magnitude. Early in the fiscal year the materials already
collected on this subject were turned over to Professor Mason and
clerical assistance given him, and he has prepared a card catalogue of
North American tribes, exhibiting the synonymy, for use in the office.
This is being constantly revised and enlarged, and will eventually be
published.
Professor Mason is also engaged in editing a grammar and dictionary of
the Chata language, by the late Rev. Cyrus Byington, the manuscript of
which was by Mrs. Byington turned over to the Bureau of Ethnology. The
dictionary is Chata-English, and Professor Mason has prepared an
English-Chata of about ten thousand words. He has also undertaken to
enlarge the grammar by a further study of the language among the Indians
themselves.
THE STUDY OF GESTURE SPEECH, BY BREVET LIEUT. COL. GARRICK MALLERY,
U.S.A.
The growth of the languages of civilized peoples in their later stages
may be learned from the study of recorded literature; and by comparative
methods many interesting facts may be discovered pertaining to periods
anterior to the development of writing.
In the study of peoples who have not passed beyond the tribal condition,
laws of linguistic growth anterior to the written stage may be
discovered. Thus, by the study of the languages of tribes and the
languages of nations, the methods and laws of development are discovered
from the low condition represented by the most savage tribe to the
highest condition existing in the speech of civilized man. But there is
a development of language anterior to this--a prehistoric condition--of
profound interest to the scholar, because in it the beginnings of
language--the first steps in the organization of articulate speech--are
involved.
On this prehistoric stage, light is thrown from four sources:
1st. Infant speech, in which the development of the language of the race
is epitomized.
2d. Gesture speech, which, among tribal peoples, never passes beyond the
first stages of linguistic growth; and these stages are probably
homologous to the earlier stages of oral speech.
3d. Picture writing, in which we again find some of the characteristics
of prehistoric speech illustrated.
4th. It may be possible to learn something of the elements of which
articulate speech is compounded by studying the inarticulate language of
the lower animals.
The traits of gesture speech that seem to illustrate the condition of
prehistoric oral language are found in the synthetic character of its
signs. The parts of speech are not differentiated, and the sentence is
not integrated; and this characteristic is more marked than in that of
the lowest oral language yet studied. For this reason the facts of
gesture speech constitute an important factor in the philosophy of
language. Doubtless, care must be exercised in its use because of the
advanced mental condition of the people who thus express their thought,
but with due caution it may be advantageously used. In itself,
independent of its relations to oral speech, the subject is of great
interest.
In taking up this subject for original investigation, valuable published
matter was found for comparison with that obtained by Colonel Mallery.
His opportunities for collecting materials from the Indians themselves
were abundant, as delegations of various tribes are visiting Washington
from time to time, by which the information obtained during his travels
was supplemented.
Again, the method of investigation by the assistance of a number of
collaborators is well illustrated in this work, and contributions from
various sources were made to the materials for study. The methods of
obtaining these contributions will be more fully explained hereafter.
One of the papers appended to this report was prepared by Colonel
Mallery and relates to this subject.
During the continuance of the Survey of the Colorado River, and of the
Rocky Mountain Region, the Director and his assistants made large
collections of pictographs. When Colonel Mallery joined the corps these
collections were turned over to him for more careful study. From various
sources these pictographs are rapidly accumulating, and now the subject
is assuming large proportions, and valuable results are expected.
An interesting relation between gesture speech and pictography consists
in the discovery that to the delineation of natural objects is added the
representation of gesture signs. Materials in America are very abundant,
and the prehistoric materials may be studied in the light given by the
practices now found among Indian tribes.
STUDIES IN CENTRAL AMERICAN PICTURE WRITING, BY PROF. E. S. HOLDEN.
In Central America and Mexico, picture writing had progressed to a stage
far in advance of anything discovered to the northward. Some of the most
interesting of these are the rock inscriptions of Yucatan, Copan,
Palenque, and other ruins of Central America.
Professor Holden has devoted much time to the study of these
inscriptions, for the purpose of discovering the characteristics of the
pictographic method and deciphering the records, and the discoveries
made by him are of great interest.
The Bureau has given him clerical assistance and such other aid as has
been found possible, and a paper by him on this subject appears with
this volume.
THE STUDY OF MORTUARY CUSTOMS, BY DR. H. C. YARROW.
The tribes of North America do not constitute a homogeneous people. In
fact, more than seventy distinct linguistic stocks are discovered, and
these are again divided by important distinctions of language. Among
these tribes varying stages of culture have been reached, and these
varying stages are exhibited in their habits and customs; and in a
territory of such vast extent the physical environment affecting culture
and customs is of great variety. Forest lands on the one hand, prairie
lands on the other, unbroken plains and regions of rugged mountains, the
cold, naked, desolate shores of sea and lake at the north and the dense
chaparral of the torrid south, the valleys of quiet rivers and the
cliffs and gorges of the cañon
|
, and
ever assumes the rich man's prerogatives and bearing. All experience
has proved that as a man estimates himself, so in time will the
community esteem him; and he who assumes to lead or dictate will soon
be permitted to do so, and will become the first in prominence and
influence in his neighborhood, county, or State. Greatness commences
humbly and progresses by assumption. The humble ruler of a
neighborhood, like a pebble thrown into a pond, will continue to
increase the circle of his influence until it reaches the limits of
his county. The fathers speak of him, the children hear of him, his
name is a household word; if he but assumes enough, in time he becomes
the great man of the county; and if with impudence he unites a modicum
of talent, well larded with a cunning deceit, it will not be long
before he is Governor or member of Congress. It is not surprising,
then, that in nearly every one of these communities the great man was
a Virginian. It has been assumed by the Virginians that they have
descended from a superior race, and this may be true as regards many
families whose ancestors were of Norman descent; but it is not true of
the mass of her population; and for one descendant from the nobility
and gentry of the mother country, there are thousands of pure
Anglo-Saxon blood. It was certainly true, from the character and
abilities of her public men, in her colonial condition and in the
earlier days of the republic, she had a right to assume a superiority;
but this, I fancy, was more the result of her peculiar institutions
than of any superiority of race or greater purity of blood. I am far,
however, from underrating the influence of blood. That there are
species of the same race superior in mental as well as in physical
formation is certainly true. The peculiar organization of the brain,
its fineness of texture in some, distinguish them as mentally superior
to others, as the greater development of bone and muscle marks the
superiority of physical power. Very frequently this difference is seen
in brothers, and sometimes in families of the same parents--the males
in some usurping all the mental acumen, and in others the females. Why
this is so, I cannot stop to speculate.
Virginia, in her many divisions of territory, was granted to the
younger sons of the nobility and gentry of England. They came with the
peculiar habits of their class, and located upon these grants,
bringing with them as colonists their dependants in England, and
retaining here all the peculiarities of caste. The former were the
governing class at home, and asserted the privilege here; the latter
were content that it should be so. In the formation of the first
constitution for Virginia, the great feature of a landed aristocracy
was fully recognized in the organic law. The suffragist was the landed
proprietor, and in every county where his possessions were this right
attached. They recognized landed property as the basis of government,
and demanded the right for it of choosing the lawmakers and the
executors of the law. All power, and very nearly all of the wealth of
the State, was in the hands of the landlords, and these selected from
their own class or caste the men who were to conduct the government.
To this class, too, were confined most of the education and learning
in the new State; and in choosing for the Legislature or for Congress,
State pride and the love of power prompted the selection of their
brightest and best men.
Oratory was esteemed the first attribute of superior minds, and was
assiduously cultivated. There were few newspapers, and the press had
not attained the controlling power over the public mind as now.
Political information was disseminated chiefly by public speaking, and
every one aspiring to lead in the land was expected to be a fine
speaker. This method, and the manner of voting, forced an open avowal
of political opinion. Each candidate, upon the day of election, took
his seat upon the bench of the judge in the county court-house, and
the suffragist appeared at the bar, demanding to exercise his
privilege in the choice of his representative. This was done by
declaring the names of those he voted for. These peculiar institutions
cultivated open and manly bearing, pride, and independence. There was
little opportunity for the arts of the demagogue; and the elevation of
sentiment in the suffragist made him despise the man, however superior
his talents, who would attempt them. The voter's pride was to sustain
the power of his State in the national councils, to have a great man
for his Governor; they were the representatives of his class, and he
felt his own importance in the greatness of his representative. It is
not to be wondered at, under these circumstances, that Virginia held
for many years the control of the Government, furnishing Presidents of
transcendent abilities to the nation, and filling her councils with
men whose talents and eloquence and proud and independent bearing won
for them, not only the respect of the nation's representatives, but
the power to control the nation's destinies, and to be looked upon as
belonging to a superior race.
There were wanting, however, two great elements in the nation's
institutions, to sustain in its pride and efficiency this peculiar
advantage, to wit, the entailment of estates, and the right of
primogeniture. Those landed estates soon began to be subdivided, and
in proportion as they dwindled into insignificance, so began to perish
the prestige of their proprietors. The institution of African slavery
served for a long time to aid in continuing the aristocratic features
of Virginia society, though it conferred no legal privileges. As
these, and the lands, found their way into many hands, the democratic
element began to aspire and to be felt. The struggle was long and
severe, but finally, in 1829 or 1830, the democratic element
triumphed, and a new constitution was formed, extending universal
suffrage to white men. This degraded the constituent and
representative alike, and all of Virginia's power was soon lost in the
councils of the nation. But the pride of her people did not perish
with her aristocracy; this continued, and permeated her entire people.
They preserved it at home, and carried it wherever they went. Those
whose consideration at home was at zero, became of the first families
abroad, until Virginia pride became a by-word of scorn in the western
and more southern States. Yet despite all this, there is greatness in
the Virginians: there is superiority in her people,--a loftiness of
soul, a generosity of hospitality, a dignified patience under
suffering, which command the respect and admiration of every
appreciative mind.
Very soon after the Revolution, the tide of emigration began to flow
toward Tennessee, Kentucky, and Georgia. Those from Virginia who
sought new homes went principally to Kentucky, as much because it was
a part of the Old Dominion, as on account of climate and soil. Those
from North Carolina and South Carolina preferred Tennessee, and what
was then known as Upper Georgia, but now as Middle Georgia; yet there
was a sprinkling here and there throughout Georgia from Virginia. Many
of these became leading men in the State, and their descendants still
boast of their origin, and in plenary pride point to such men as
William H. Crawford and Peter Early as shining evidences of the
superiority of Virginia's blood.
Most of these emigrants, however, were poor; but where all were poor,
this was no degradation. The concomitants of poverty in densely
populated communities--where great wealth confers social distinction
and frowns from its association the poor, making poverty humility,
however elevated its virtues--were unknown in these new countries. The
nobler virtues, combined with energy and intellect, alone conferred
distinction; and I doubt if the world, ever furnished a more honest,
virtuous, energetic, or democratic association of men and women than
was, at the period of which I write, to be found constituting the
population of these new States. From whatever cause arising, there
certainly was, in the days of my early memory, more scrupulous truth,
open frankness, and pure, blunt honesty pervading the whole land than
seem to characterize its present population. It was said by Nathaniel
Macon, of North Carolina, that bad roads and fist-fights made the best
militia on earth; and these may have been, in some degree, the means
of moulding into fearless honesty the character of these people. They
encountered all the hardships of opening and subduing the country,
creating highways, bridges, churches, and towns with their public
buildings. These they met cheerfully, and working with a will,
triumphed. After months of labor, a few acres were cleared and the
trees cut into convenient lengths for handling, and then the neighbors
were invited to assist in what was called a log-rolling. This aid was
cheerfully given, and an offer to pay for it would have been an
insult. It was returned in kind, however, when a neighbor's
necessities required. These log-rollings were generally accompanied
with a quilting, which brought together the youth of the neighborhood;
and the winding up of the day's work was a frolic, as the dance and
other amusements of the time were termed. Upon occasions like this,
feats of strength and activity universally constituted a part of the
programme. The youth who could pull down his man at the end of the
hand-stick, throw him in a wrestle, or outstrip him in a footrace, was
honored as the best man in the settlement, and was always greeted with
a cheer from the older men, a slap on the shoulder by the old ladies,
and the shy but approving smiles of the girls,--had his choice of
partners in the dance, and in triumph rode home on horseback with his
belle, the horse's consciousness of bearing away the championship
manifesting itself in an erect head and stately step.
The apparel of male and female was of home-spun, woven by the mothers
and sisters, and was fashioned, I was about to say, by the same fair
hands; but these were almost universally embrowned with exposure and
hardened by toil. Education was exceedingly limited: the settlements
were sparse, and school-houses were at long intervals, and in these
the mere rudiments of an English education were taught--spelling,
reading, and writing, with the four elementary rules of arithmetic;
and it was a great advance to grapple with the grammar of the
language. As population and prosperity increased, their almost
illiterate teachers gave place to a better class; and many of my
Georgia readers will remember as among these the old Irish preachers,
Cummings, and that remarkable brute, Daniel Duffee. He was an Irishman
of the Pat Freney stripe, and I fancy there are many, with gray heads
and wrinkled fronts, who can look upon the cicatrices resulting from
his merciless blows, and remember that Milesian malignity of face,
with its toad-like nose, with the same vividness with which it
presents itself to me to-day. Yes, I remember it, and have cause. When
scarcely ten years of age, in his little log school-house, the
aforesaid resemblance forced itself upon me with such _vim_ that
involuntarily I laughed. For this outbreak against the tyrant's rules
I was called to his frowning presence.
"What are you laughing at, you whelp?" was the rude inquiry.
Tremblingly I replied: "You will whip me if I tell you."
"And you little devil, I will whip you if you don't," was his
rejoinder, as he reached for his well-trimmed hickory, one of many
conspicuously displayed upon his table. With truthful sincerity I
answered:
"Father Duffy, I was laughing to think how much your nose is like a
frog."
It was just after play-time, and I was compelled to stand by him and
at intervals of ten minutes receive a dozen lashes, laid on with
brawny Irish strength, until discharged with the school at night.
To-day I bear the marks of that whipping upon my shoulders and in my
heart. But Duffy was not alone in the strictness and severity of his
rules and his punishments. Children were taught to believe that there
could be no discipline in a school of boys and girls without the
savage brutality of the lash, and the teacher who met his pupils with
a caressing smile was considered unworthy his vocation. Learning must
be thrashed into the tender mind; nothing was such a stimulus to the
young memory as the lash and the vulgar, abusive reproof of the gentle
and meritorious teacher.
There was great eccentricity of character in all the conduct and
language of Duffy. He had his own method of prayer, and his own
peculiar style of preaching, frequently calling out the names of
persons in his audience whom it was his privilege to consider the
chiefest of sinners, and to implore mercy for them in language
offensive almost to decency. Sometimes, in the presence of persons
inimical to each other, he would ask the Lord to convert the sinners
and make the fools friends, first telling the Lord who they were by
name, to the no small amusement of his most Christian audience; many
of whom would in deep devotion respond with a sonorous "Amen."
From such a population sprang the present inhabitants of Georgia; and
by such men were they taught, in their budding boyhood, the rudiments
of an English education;--such, I mean, of the inhabitants who still
live and remember Duffy, Cummings, and McLean. They are few, but the
children of the departed remember traditionally these and their like,
in the schoolmasters of Georgia from 1790 to 1815.
At the close of the war of 1812-15, a new impetus was given to
everything throughout the South, and especially to education. The
ambition for wealth seized upon her people, the high price of cotton
favored its accumulation, and with it came new and more extravagant
wants, new and more luxurious habits. The plain homespun jean coat
gave way to the broad-cloth one; and the neat, Turkey-red striped
Sunday frock of the belle yielded to the gaudy red calico one, and
there was a sniff of aristocratic contempt in the upturned nose
towards those who, from choice or necessity, continued in the old
habits.
Material wealth augmented rapidly, and with it came all of its
assumptions. The rich lands of Alabama were open to settlement. The
formidable Indian had been humbled, and many of the wealthiest
cultivators of the soil were commencing to emigrate to a newer and
more fertile country, where smiling Fortune beckoned them.
The first to lead off in this exodus was the Bibb family, long
distinguished for wealth and influence in the State. The Watkinses,
the Sheroos, and Dearings followed: some to north, some to south
Alabama. W.W. Bibb was appointed, by Mr. Madison, Territorial Governor
of Alabama, and was followed to the new El Dorado by his brothers,
Thomas, John Dandridge, and Benajah, all men of substance and
character.
For a time this rage for a new country seemed to threaten Georgia and
South Carolina with the loss of their best population. This probably
would have been the result of the new acquisition, but, in its midst,
the territory between the Ocmulgee and Chattahoochee was ceded by the
Indians, and afforded a new field for settlement, which effectually
arrested this emigration at its flood. The new territory added to the
dominion of Georgia was acquired mainly through the energy and
pertinacity of George M. Troup, at the time Governor of Georgia.
I have much to record of my memories concerning this new acquisition,
but must reserve them for a new chapter.
CHAPTER III.
THE GEORGIA COMPANY.
YAZOO PURCHASE--GOVERNOR MATHEWS--JAMES JACKSON--BURNING OF THE YAZOO
ACT--DEVELOPMENT OF FREE GOVERNMENT--CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION--SLAVERY:
ITS INTRODUCTION AND EFFECTS.
The grant by the British Government of the territory of Georgia to
General Oglethorpe and company, comprised what now constitutes the
entire States of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, except that
portion of Alabama and Mississippi lying below the thirty-first degree
of north latitude, which portions of those States were originally part
of West Florida.
The French settlements extended up the Mississippi, embracing both
sides of that river above the mouth of Red River, which discharges
into the former in the thirty-first degree of north latitude. The
river from the mouth of the Bayou Manshac, which left the river
fourteen miles below Baton Rouge, on the east side, up to the
thirty-first degree of north latitude, was the boundary line between
West Florida and Louisiana. Above this point the French claimed
jurisdiction on both sides; but Georgia disputed this jurisdiction
over the east bank, and claimed to own from the thirty-first to the
thirty-sixth degree of latitude. There were many settlements made by
Americans upon this territory at a very early day,--one at Natchez,
one at Fort Adams, and several on the Tombigbee, the St. Stephens, at
McIntosh's Bluff, and on Bassett's Creek. These settlements formed the
nucleus of an American population in the States of Mississippi and
Alabama. The lands bordering upon these rivers and their tributaries
were known to be exceedingly fertile, and proffered inducements to
settlers unequalled in all the South. Speculation was very soon
directed to these regions. A company was formed of citizens of Georgia
and Virginia for the purchase of an immense tract of territory,
including most of what is now Mississippi and Alabama. This company
was known as the Georgia Company, and the territory as the Yazoo
Purchase. It was a joint-stock company, and managed by trustees or
directors. The object was speculation. It was intended to purchase
from Georgia this domain, then to survey it and subdivide it into
tracts to suit purchasers. Parties were delegated to make this
purchase: this could only be done by the Legislature and by special
act passed for that purpose. The proposition was made, and met with
formidable opposition. The scheme was a gigantic one and promised
great results, and the parties concerned were bold and unscrupulous.
They very soon ascertained that means other than honorable to either
party must be resorted to to secure success. The members to be
operated upon were selected, and the company's agents began the work.
Enough was made, by donations of stock and the direct payment of money
by those interested in the scheme, to effect the passage of the Act
and secure the contract of purchase and sale. The opposition denied
the power of the Legislature to sell; asserting that the territory was
sacred to the people of the State, and that those, in selecting their
representatives, had never contemplated delegating any such powers as
would enable them to dispose by sale of any part of the public domain;
that it was the province of the Legislature, under the Constitution,
to pass laws for the general good alone, and not to barter or sell any
portion of the territory of the State to be separated from the domain
and authority of the State. They insisted that the matter should be
referred to the people, who at the next election of members to the
Legislature should declare their will and intention as to this sale.
On the other side they were met with the argument, that the
Legislature was sovereign and the supreme power of the State, and
might rightfully do anything, not forbidden in the Constitution,
pertaining to sovereignty, which they in their wisdom might deem
essential to the general welfare; that the territory included in the
grant to Oglethorpe and company was entirely too extended, and that by
a sale a new State or States would be formed, which would increase the
political power of the South--especially in the United States Senate,
where she greatly needed representation to counterbalance the
influence of the small States of the North in that body. These
arguments were specious, but it was well understood they were only
meant to justify a vote for the measure which corruption had secured.
The Act was passed by a bare majority of both branches of the
Legislature, and the sale consummated. Before the passage of this
measure, the will of the people had been sufficiently expressed in the
indignant outburst of public feeling, as to leave no doubt upon the
minds of the corrupt representatives that they had not only forfeited
the public confidence, but had actually imperilled their personal
safety. Upon the return to their homes, after the adjournment, they
were not only met with universal scorn, but with inappeasable rage.
Some of the most guilty were slain; some had their houses burned over
their heads, and others fled the State; one was pursued and killed in
Virginia, and all not only entailed upon themselves infamy, but also
upon their innocent posterity; and to-day, to be known as the
descendant of a Yazoo man is a badge of disgrace. The deed, however,
was done: how to undo it became an agitating question. The Legislature
next ensuing was elected pledged to repeal the odious Act; and upon
its convening, all made haste to manifest an ardent zeal in this work.
At the time of the passage of this Act, the Legislature sat in
Augusta, and the Governor who by the Act was empowered to make the
sale was George Mathews. Mathews was an Irishman by birth, and was
very illiterate, but a man of strong passions and indomitable will.
During the war of the Revolution he had, as a partisan officer, gained
some distinction, and in the upper counties exercised considerable
influence. Many anecdotes are related of his intrepidity and daring,
and quite as many of his extraordinary orthography. At the battle of
Eutaw Springs, in South Carolina, he was severely wounded, at the
moment when the Continental forces were retiring to a better position.
A British soldier, noticing some vestiges of a uniform upon him,
lifted his musket to stab him with the bayonet; his commander caught
the weapon, and angrily demanded, "Would you murder a wounded officer?
Forward, sir!" Mathews, turning upon his back, asked, "To whom do I
owe my life?" "If you consider it an obligation, sir, to me," answered
the lieutenant. Mathews saw the uniform was British, and furiously
replied, "Well, sir, I want you to know that I scorn a life saved by a
d----d Briton." The writer had the anecdote from a distinguished
citizen of Georgia, who was himself lying near by, severely wounded,
and who in one of his sons has given to Georgia a Governor.
General Wade Hampton, George Walker, William Longstreet, Zachariah
Cox, and Matthew McAllister were the parties most active in procuring
the passage of the Yazoo Act. That bribery was extensively practised,
there is no doubt, and the suspicion that it even extended to the
Executive gained credence as a fact, and was the cause of preventing
his name ever being given to a county in the State: and it is a
significant fact of this suspicion, and also of the great unpopularity
of the Act, that to this day every effort to that end has failed. No
act of Governor Mathews ever justified any such suspicion. As Governor
of the State, and believing the sovereign power of the State was in
the Legislature, and consequently the power to dispose of the public
domain, he only approved the Act as the State's Executive, and
fulfilled the duties assigned to him by the law. But suspicion
fastened upon him, and its effects remain to this day.
The pertinacious discussions between the parties purchasing and those
opposed to the State's selling and her authority to sell, created
immense excitement, and pervaded the entire State. The decision of the
Supreme Court of the United States was invoked in the case of Fletcher
_versus_ Peck, which settled the question of the power of the
State to sell the public domain, and the validity of the sale made by
the State to the Georgia Company. In the meantime the Legislature of
Georgia had repealed the law authorizing the Governor to sell. This
decision of the Supreme Court brought about an amicable adjustment of
the difficulties between the Company and the State, with the
Government of the United States as a third party.
The excitement was not so much on account of the sale, though this was
bitter, as of the corruption which procured it. The test of public
confidence and social respect was opposition to the Yazoo fraud. Every
candidate at the ensuing election for members of the Legislature was
compelled to declare his position on the subject of repealing this
Act, and, almost to a man, every one who believed in the power of the
State to sell, and that rights had vested in the purchasers and their
assigns, was defeated.
James Jackson, a young, ardent, and talented man, who had in very
early life, by his abilities and high character, so won the public
confidence that he had been elected Governor of the State, when he was
ineligible because of his youth, was at this time a member of
Congress. He made a tour through the State, preaching a crusade
against the corrupt Legislature, and denouncing those who had produced
and profited by this corruption, inflaming the public mind almost to
frenzy. He resided in Savannah, and was at the head of the Republican
or Jeffersonian party, which was just then being organized in
opposition to the administration of John Adams, the successor of
Washington. His parents had emigrated from England, and fixed their
home in Savannah, where young Jackson was born, and where, from the
noble qualities of his nature, he had become immensely popular.
Talent and virtuous merit at that period was the passport to public
confidence. Had it continued to be, we should never have known the
present deplorable condition of the country, with the Government
sinking into ruin ere it has reached the ten o'clock of national life.
His Shibboleth was, that the disgrace of the State must be wiped out
by the repeal of the Yazoo Act; and _repeal_ rang from every
mouth, from Savannah to the mountains. Jackson resigned his seat in
Congress, and was elected a member of the Legislature. Immediately
upon the assembling of this body, a bill was introduced repealing the
odious Act, and ordering the records containing it to be burned. This
was carried out to the letter. Jackson, heading the Legislature and
the indignant public, proceeded in procession to the public square in
Louisville, Jefferson County, where the law and the fagots were piled;
when, addressing the assembled multitude, he denounced the men who had
voted for the law as bribed villains--those who had bribed them, and
the Governor who had signed it; and declared that fire from heaven
only could sanctify the indignation of God and man in consuming the
condemned record of accursed crime. Then, with a Promethean or convex
glass condensing the sun's rays, he kindled the flame which consumed
the records containing the hated Yazoo Act.
Jackson was a man of ordinary height, slender, very erect in his
carriage, with red hair and intensely blue eyes. His manners were
courteous, affable, and remarkable for a natural dignity which added
greatly to his influence with the people. He was the model from which
was grown that chivalry and nobility of soul and high bearing so
characteristic of the people of Southern Georgia. In truth, the
essence of his character seemed subtilly to pervade the entire circle
in which he moved, inspiring a purity of character, a loftiness of
honor, which rebuked with its presence alone everything that was low,
little, or dishonest. Subsequently he was elected Governor of the
State, bringing all the qualities of his nature into the
administration of the office; he gave it a dignity and respectability
never subsequently degraded, until an unworthy son of South Carolina,
the pus and corruption of unscrupulous party, was foisted into the
position. Strength of will, a ripe judgment, and purity of intention,
were the great characteristics distinguishing him in public life, and
these have endeared his name to the people of Georgia, where now
remain many of his descendants, some of whom have filled high
positions in the State and United States, and not one has ever soiled
the honor or tarnished the name with an act unworthy a gentleman.
The Revolutionary struggle called out all the nobler qualities nature
has bestowed on man, in those who conceived the desire and executed
the determination to be free. The heroic was most prominent: woman
seemed to forget her feebleness and timidity, and boldly to dare, and
with increased fortitude to bear every danger, every misfortune, with
a heroism scarcely compatible with the delicacy of her nature. To
this, or some other inexplicable cause, nature seemed to resort in
preparation for coming events. In every State there came up men, born
during the war or immediately thereafter, of giant minds--men
seemingly destined to form and give direction to a new Government
suited to the genius of the people and to the physical peculiarities
of the country where it was to control the destinies of hundreds of
millions of human beings yet unborn, and where the soil was virgin and
unturned, which nature had prepared for their coming. This required a
new order of men. These millions were to be free in the fullest sense
of the word; they were only to be controlled by laws; and the making
of these laws was to be their own work, and nature was responding to
the exigencies of man.
The early probation of independent government taught the necessity of
national concentration as to the great features of government, at the
same time demonstrating the importance of keeping the minor powers of
government confined to the authority of the States. In the assembling
of a convention for this purpose, which grew out of the free action of
the people of each State, uninfluenced by law or precedent, we see
congregated a body of men combining more talent, more wisdom, and more
individuality of character than perhaps was ever aggregated in any
other public body ever assembled. From this convention of sages
emanated the Constitution of the United States; and most of those
constituting this body reassembled in the first Congress, which sat as
the supreme power in the United States. It was these men and their
coadjutors who inaugurated and gave direction to the new Government.
Under its operations, the human mind and human soul seemed to expand
and to compass a grasp it had scarcely known before. There were
universal content and universal harmony. The laws were everywhere
respected, and everywhere enforced. The freedom of thought, and the
liberty of action unrestrained, stimulated an ambition in every man to
discharge his duties faithfully to the Government, and honestly in all
social relations. There was universal security to person and property,
because every law-breaker was deemed a public enemy, and not only
received the law's condemnation, but the public scorn. Under such a
Government the rapid accumulation of wealth and population was a
natural consequence. The history of the world furnishes no example
comparable with the progress of the United States to national
greatness. The civilized world appeared to feel the influence of her
example and to start anew in the rivalry of greatness. Her soil's
surplus products created the means of a widely extended commerce, and
Americans can proudly refer to the eighty years of her existence as a
period showing greater progress in wealth, refinement, the arts and
sciences, and human liberty, than was ever experienced in any two
centuries of time within the historical period of man's existence. My
theme expands, and I am departing from the purposes of this work; yet
I cannot forbear the expression of opinion as to the causes of this
result. I know I shall incur the deepest censure from the professors
of a mawkish philanthropy, and a hypocritical religion which is
cursing with its cant the very sources of this unparalleled progress,
this unexampled prosperity.
Slavery was introduced into the Colonies by English merchants about
two centuries since: this was to supply a necessity--labor--for the
purpose of developing the resources of this immense and fertile
country. The African was designed by the Creator to subserve this
purpose. His centre of creation was within the tropics, and his
physical organization fitted him, and him alone, for field labor in
the tropical and semi-tropical regions of the earth. He endures the
sun's heat without pain or exhaustion in this labor, and yet he has
not nor can he acquire the capacity to direct profitably this labor.
It was then the design of the Creator that this labor should be
controlled and directed by a superior intelligence. In the absence of
mental capacity, we find him possessed of equal physical powers with
any other race, with an amiability of temper which submits without
resistance to this control. We find him, too, without moral, social,
or political aspirations, contented and happy in the condition of
servility to this superior intelligence, and rising in the scale of
humanity to a condition which under any other circumstances his race
had never attained. I may be answered that this labor can be had from
the black as a freeman as well as in the condition of a slave. To this
I will simply say, experience has proved this to be an error. Such is
the indolence and unambitious character of the negro that he will not
labor, unless compelled by the apprehension of immediate punishment,
to anything approaching his capacity for labor. His wants are few,
they are easily supplied, and when they are, there is no temptation
which will induce him to work. He cares nothing for social position,
and will steal to supply his necessities, and feel no abasement in the
legal punishment which follows his conviction; nor is his social
status among his race damaged thereby. As a slave to the white man, he
becomes and has proved an eminently useful being to his kind--in every
other condition, equally conspicuous as a useless one. The fertility
of the soil and the productions of the tropical regions of the earth
demonstrate to the thinking mind that these were to be cultivated and
made to produce for the uses and prosperity of the human family. The
great staples of human necessity and human luxury are produced here in
the greatest abundance, and the great majority of these nowhere else.
The white man, from his physical organization, cannot perform in these
regions the labor necessary to their production. His centre of
creation is in the temperate zones, and only there can he profitably
labor in the earth's cultivation. But his mental endowments enable him
to appropriate all which nature has supplied for the necessities of
life and the progress of his race. He sees and comprehends in nature
the designs of her Creator: these designs he develops, and the
consequence is a constant and enlightened progress of his race, and
the subjection of the physical world to this end.
He finds the soil, the climate, the production, and the labor united,
and he applies his intelligence to develop the design of this
combination; and the consequence has been the wonderful progress of
the last two centuries. I hold it as a great truth that nature points
to her uses and ends; that to observe these and follow them is to
promote the greatest happiness to the human family; and that wherever
these aims are diverted or misdirected, retrogression and human misery
are the consequence. In all matters, experience is a better test than
speculation; and to surrender a great practical utility to a mere
theory is great folly. But it has been done, and we abide the
consequences.
In all nations, a spurious, pretentious religion has been the
_avant-coureur_ of their destruction. In their inception and early
progress this curse exercises but slight influence, and their growth
is consequently healthy and vigorous. All nations have concealed this
cancerous ulcer, sooner or later to develop for their destruction.
These wear out with those they destroy, and a new or reformed religion
is almost always accompanied with new and vigorous developments in
a new and progressive Government. The shackles which have paralyzed
the mind, forbidding its development, are broken; the unnatural
superstition ceases to circumscribe and influence its operations; and
thus emancipated, it recovers its elasticity and springs forward
toward the perfection of the Creator. Rescued from these baleful
influences, the new organization is vigorous and rapid in its growth,
yielding the beneficent blessings natural to the healthful and
unabused energies of the mind. But with maturity and age the webs of
superstition begin to fasten on the mind; priests become prominent,
and as is their wont, the moment they shackle the mind, they reach out
for power, and the chained disciple of their superstition willingly
yields, under the vain delusion that he shares and participates in
this power as a holy office for the propagation of his
|
the _Argus_ was short and bloody. The stocky sailors, no
match for the tall barbarians, were cut down to a man. Elsewhere the
battle had taken a peculiar turn. Conan, on the high-pitched poop, was
on a level with the pirate's deck. As the steel prow slashed into the
_Argus_, he braced himself and kept his feet under the shock, casting
away his bow. A tall corsair, bounding over the rail, was met in midair
by the Cimmerian's great sword, which sheared him cleanly through the
torso, so that his body fell one way and his legs another. Then, with a
burst of fury that left a heap of mangled corpses along the gunwales,
Conan was over the rail and on the deck of the _Tigress_.
In an instant he was the center of a hurricane of stabbing spears and
lashing clubs. But he moved in a blinding blur of steel. Spears bent on
his armor or swished empty air, and his sword sang its death-song. The
fighting-madness of his race was upon him, and with a red mist of
unreasoning fury wavering before his blazing eyes, he cleft skulls,
smashed breasts, severed limbs, ripped out entrails, and littered the
deck like a shambles with a ghastly harvest of brains and blood.
Invulnerable in his armor, his back against the mast, he heaped mangled
corpses at his feet until his enemies gave back panting in rage and
fear. Then as they lifted their spears to cast them, and he tensed
himself to leap and die in the midst of them, a shrill cry froze the
lifted arms. They stood like statues, the black giants poised for the
spear-casts, the mailed swordsman with his dripping blade.
* * * * *
Bêlit sprang before the blacks, beating down their spears. She turned
toward Conan, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing. Fierce fingers of
wonder caught at his heart. She was slender, yet formed like a goddess:
at once lithe and voluptuous. Her only garment was a broad silken
girdle. Her white ivory limbs and the ivory globes of her breasts drove
a beat of fierce passion through the Cimmerian's pulse, even in the
panting fury of battle. Her rich black hair, black as a Stygian night,
fell in rippling burnished clusters down her supple back. Her dark eyes
burned on the Cimmerian.
She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther.
She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood
of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came
to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his
somber menacing eyes.
'Who are you?' she demanded. 'By Ishtar, I have never seen your like,
though I have ranged the sea from the coasts of Zingara to the fires of
the ultimate south. Whence come you?'
'From Argos,' he answered shortly, alert for treachery. Let her slim
hand move toward the jeweled dagger in her girdle, and a buffet of his
open hand would stretch her senseless on the deck. Yet in his heart he
did not fear; he had held too many women, civilized or barbaric, in his
iron-thewed arms, not to recognize the light that burned in the eyes of
this one.
'You are no soft Hyborian!' she exclaimed. 'You are fierce and hard as a
gray wolf. Those eyes were never dimmed by city lights; those thews were
never softened by life amid marble walls.'
'I am Conan, a Cimmerian,' he answered.
To the people of the exotic climes, the north was a mazy half-mythical
realm, peopled with ferocious blue-eyed giants who occasionally
descended from their icy fastnesses with torch and sword. Their raids
had never taken them as far south as Shem, and this daughter of Shem
made no distinction between Æsir, Vanir or Cimmerian. With the unerring
instinct of the elemental feminine, she knew she had found her lover,
and his race meant naught, save as it invested him with the glamor of
far lands.
'And I am Bêlit,' she cried, as one might say, 'I am queen.'
'Look at me, Conan!' She threw wide her arms. 'I am Bêlit, queen of the
black coast. Oh, tiger of the North, you are cold as the snowy mountains
which bred you. Take me and crush me with your fierce love! Go with me
to the ends of the earth and the ends of the sea! I am a queen by fire
and steel and slaughter--be thou my king!'
His eyes swept the blood-stained ranks, seeking expressions of wrath or
jealousy. He saw none. The fury was gone from the ebon faces. He
realized that to these men Bêlit was more than a woman: a goddess whose
will was unquestioned. He glanced at the _Argus_, wallowing in the
crimson sea-wash, heeling far over, her decks awash, held up by the
grappling-irons. He glanced at the blue-fringed shore, at the far green
hazes of the ocean, at the vibrant figure which stood before him; and
his barbaric soul stirred within him. To quest these shining blue realms
with that white-skinned young tiger-cat--to love, laugh, wander and
pillage--
'I'll sail with you,' he grunted, shaking the red drops from his blade.
'Ho, N'Yaga!' her voice twanged like a bowstring. 'Fetch herbs and dress
your master's wounds! The rest of you bring aboard the plunder and cast
off.'
As Conan sat with his back against the poop-rail, while the old shaman
attended to the cuts on his hands and limbs, the cargo of the ill-fated
_Argus_ was quickly shifted aboard the _Tigress_ and stored in small
cabins below deck. Bodies of the crew and of fallen pirates were cast
overboard to the swarming sharks, while wounded blacks were laid in the
waist to be bandaged. Then the grappling-irons were cast off, and as the
_Argus_ sank silently into the blood-flecked waters, the _Tigress_ moved
off southward to the rhythmic clack of the oars.
As they moved out over the glassy blue deep, Bêlit came to the poop. Her
eyes were burning like those of a she-panther in the dark as she tore
off her ornaments, her sandals and her silken girdle and cast them at
his feet. Rising on tiptoe, arms stretched upward, a quivering line of
naked white, she cried to the desperate horde: 'Wolves of the blue sea,
behold ye now the dance--the mating-dance of Bêlit, whose fathers were
kings of Askalon!'
And she danced, like the spin of a desert whirlwind, like the leaping of
a quenchless flame, like the urge of creation and the urge of death. Her
white feet spurned the blood-stained deck and dying men forgot death as
they gazed frozen at her. Then, as the white stars glimmered through the
blue velvet dusk, making her whirling body a blur of ivory fire, with a
wild cry she threw herself at Conan's feet, and the blind flood of the
Cimmerian's desire swept all else away as he crushed her panting form
against the black plates of his corseleted breast.
2 The Black Lotus
_In that dead citadel of crumbling stone
Her eyes were snared by that unholy sheen,
And curious madness took me by the throat,
As of a rival lover thrust between._
THE SONG OF BÊLIT
The _Tigress_ ranged the sea, and the black villages shuddered. Tomtoms
beat in the night, with a tale that the she-devil of the sea had found a
mate, an iron man whose wrath was as that of a wounded lion. And
survivors of butchered Stygian ships named Bêlit with curses, and a
white warrior with fierce blue eyes; so the Stygian princes remembered
this man long and long, and their memory was a bitter tree which bore
crimson fruit in the years to come.
But heedless as a vagrant wind, the _Tigress_ cruised the southern
coasts, until she anchored at the mouth of a broad sullen river, whose
banks were jungle-clouded walls of mystery.
'This is the river Zarkheba, which is Death,' said Bêlit. 'Its waters
are poisonous. See how dark and murky they run? Only venomous reptiles
live in that river. The black people shun it. Once a Stygian galley,
fleeing from me, fled up the river and vanished. I anchored in this very
spot, and days later, the galley came floating down the dark waters, its
decks blood-stained and deserted. Only one man was on board, and he was
mad and died gibbering. The cargo was intact, but the crew had vanished
into silence and mystery.
'My lover, I believe there is a city somewhere on that river. I have
heard tales of giant towers and walls glimpsed afar off by sailors who
dared go part-way up the river. We fear nothing: Conan, let us go and
sack that city!'
Conan agreed. He generally agreed to her plans. Hers was the mind that
directed their raids, his the arm that carried out her ideas. It
mattered little to him where they sailed or whom they fought, so long as
they sailed and fought. He found the life good.
Battle and raid had thinned their crew; only some eighty spearmen
remained, scarcely enough to work the long galley. But Bêlit would not
take the time to make the long cruise southward to the island kingdoms
where she recruited her buccaneers. She was afire with eagerness for her
latest venture; so the _Tigress_ swung into the river mouth, the oarsmen
pulling strongly as she breasted the broad current.
They rounded the mysterious bend that shut out the sight of the sea, and
sunset found them forging steadily against the sluggish flow, avoiding
sandbars where strange reptiles coiled. Not even a crocodile did they
see, nor any four-legged beast or winged bird coming down to the water's
edge to drink. On through the blackness that preceded moonrise they
drove, between banks that were solid palisades of darkness, whence came
mysterious rustlings and stealthy footfalls, and the gleam of grim eyes.
And once an inhuman voice was lifted in awful mockery--the cry of an
ape, Bêlit said, adding that the souls of evil men were imprisoned in
these man-like animals as punishment for past crimes. But Conan doubted,
for once, in a gold-barred cage in an Hyrkanian city, he had seen an
abysmal sad-eyed beast which men told him was an ape, and there had been
about it naught of the demoniac malevolence which vibrated in the
shrieking laughter that echoed from the black jungle.
Then the moon rose, a splash of blood, ebony-barred, and the jungle
awoke in horrific bedlam to greet it. Roars and howls and yells set the
black warriors to trembling, but all this noise, Conan noted, came from
farther back in the jungle, as if the beasts no less than men shunned
the black waters of Zarkheba.
Rising above the black denseness of the trees and above the waving
fronds, the moon silvered the river, and their wake became a rippling
scintillation of phosphorescent bubbles that widened like a shining road
of bursting jewels. The oars dipped into the shining water and came up
sheathed in frosty silver. The plumes on the warrior's headpiece nodded
in the wind, and the gems on sword-hilts and harness sparkled frostily.
The cold light struck icy fire from the jewels in Bêlit's clustered
black locks as she stretched her lithe figure on a leopardskin thrown
on the deck. Supported on her elbows, her chin resting on her slim
hands, she gazed up into the face of Conan, who lounged beside her, his
black mane stirring in the faint breeze. Bêlit's eyes were dark jewels
burning in the moonlight.
'Mystery and terror are about us, Conan, and we glide into the realm of
horror and death,' she said. 'Are you afraid?'
A shrug of his mailed shoulders was his only answer.
'I am not afraid either,' she said meditatively. 'I was never afraid. I
have looked into the naked fangs of Death too often. Conan, do you fear
the gods?'
'I would not tread on their shadow,' answered the barbarian
conservatively. 'Some gods are strong to harm, others, to aid; at least
so say their priests. Mitra of the Hyborians must be a strong god,
because his people have builded their cities over the world. But even
the Hyborians fear Set. And Bel, god of thieves, is a good god. When I
was a thief in Zamora I learned of him.'
'What of your own gods? I have never heard you call on them.'
'Their chief is Crom. He dwells on a great mountain. What use to call on
him? Little he cares if men live or die. Better to be silent than to
call his attention to you; he will send you dooms, not fortune! He is
grim and loveless, but at birth he breathes power to strive and slay
into a man's soul. What else shall men ask of the gods?'
'But what of the worlds beyond the river of death?' she persisted.
'There is no hope here or hereafter in the cult of my people,' answered
Conan. 'In this world men struggle and suffer vainly, finding pleasure
only in the bright madness of battle; dying, their souls enter a gray
misty realm of clouds and icy winds, to wander cheerlessly throughout
eternity.'
Bêlit shuddered. 'Life, bad as it is, is better than such a destiny.
What do you believe, Conan?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I have known many gods. He who denies them
is as blind as he who trusts them too deeply. I seek not beyond death.
It may be the blackness averred by the Nemedian skeptics, or Crom's
realm of ice and cloud, or the snowy plains and vaulted halls of the
Nordheimer's Valhalla. I know not, nor do I care. Let me live deep while
I live; let me know the rich juices of red meat and stinging wine on my
palate, the hot embrace of white arms, the mad exultation of battle when
the blue blades flame and crimson, and I am content. Let teachers and
priests and philosophers brood over questions of reality and illusion. I
know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being
thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I
slay, and am content.'
'But the gods are real,' she said, pursuing her own line of thought.
'And above all are the gods of the Shemites--Ishtar and Ashtoreth and
Derketo and Adonis. Bel, too, is Shemitish, for he was born in ancient
Shumir, long, long ago and went forth laughing, with curled beard and
impish wise eyes, to steal the gems of the kings of old times.
'There is life beyond death, I know, and I know this, too, Conan of
Cimmeria--' she rose lithely to her knees and caught him in a pantherish
embrace--'my love is stronger than any death! I have lain in your arms,
panting with the violence of our love; you have held and crushed and
conquered me, drawing my soul to your lips with the fierceness of your
bruising kisses. My heart is welded to your heart, my soul is part of
your soul! Were I still in death and you fighting for life, I would come
back from the abyss to aid you--aye, whether my spirit floated with the
purple sails on the crystal sea of paradise, or writhed in the molten
flames of hell! I am yours, and all the gods and all their eternities
shall not sever us!'
* * * * *
A scream rang from the lookout in the bows. Thrusting Bêlit aside, Conan
bounded up, his sword a long silver glitter in the moonlight, his hair
bristling at what he saw. The black warrior dangled above the deck,
supported by what seemed a dark pliant tree trunk arching over the rail.
Then he realized that it was a gigantic serpent which had writhed its
glistening length up the side of the bow and gripped the luckless
warrior in its jaws. Its dripping scales shone leprously in the
moonlight as it reared its form high above the deck, while the stricken
man screamed and writhed like a mouse in the fangs of a python. Conan
rushed into the bows, and swinging his great sword, hewed nearly through
the giant trunk, which was thicker than a man's body. Blood drenched the
rails as the dying monster swayed far out, still gripping its victim,
and sank into the river, coil by coil, lashing the water to bloody foam,
in which man and reptile vanished together.
Thereafter Conan kept the lookout watch himself, but no other horror
came crawling up from the murky depths, and as dawn whitened over the
jungle, he sighted the black fangs of towers jutting up among the trees.
He called Bêlit, who slept on the deck, wrapped in his scarlet cloak;
and she sprang to his side, eyes blazing. Her lips were parted to call
orders to her warriors to take up bow and spears; then her lovely eyes
widened.
It was but the ghost of a city on which they looked when they cleared a
jutting jungle-clad point and swung in toward the in-curving shore.
Weeds and rank river grass grew between the stones of broken piers and
shattered paves that had once been streets and spacious plazas and broad
courts. From all sides except that toward the river, the jungle crept
in, masking fallen columns and crumbling mounds with poisonous green.
Here and there buckling towers reeled drunkenly against the morning sky,
and broken pillars jutted up among the decaying walls. In the center
space a marble pyramid was spired by a slim column, and on its pinnacle
sat or squatted something that Conan supposed to be an image until his
keen eyes detected life in it.
'It is a great bird,' said one of the warriors, standing in the bows.
'It is a monster bat,' insisted another.
'It is an ape,' said Bêlit.
Just then the creature spread broad wings and flapped off into the
jungle.
'A winged ape,' said old N'Yaga uneasily. 'Better we had cut our throats
than come to this place. It is haunted.'
Bêlit mocked at his superstitions and ordered the galley run inshore and
tied to the crumbling wharfs. She was the first to spring ashore,
closely followed by Conan, and after them trooped the ebon-skinned
pirates, white plumes waving in the morning wind, spears ready, eyes
rolling dubiously at the surrounding jungle.
Over all brooded a silence as sinister as that of a sleeping serpent.
Bêlit posed picturesquely among the ruins, the vibrant life in her lithe
figure contrasting strangely with the desolation and decay about her.
The sun flamed up slowly, sullenly, above the jungle, flooding the
towers with a dull gold that left shadows lurking beneath the tottering
walls. Bêlit pointed to a slim round tower that reeled on its rotting
base. A broad expanse of cracked, grass-grown slabs led up to it,
flanked by fallen columns, and before it stood a massive altar. Bêlit
went swiftly along the ancient floor and stood before it.
'This was the temple of the old ones,' she said. 'Look--you can see the
channels for the blood along the sides of the altar, and the rains of
ten thousand years have not washed the dark stains from them. The walls
have all fallen away, but this stone block defies time and the
elements.'
'But who were these old ones?' demanded Conan.
She spread her slim hands helplessly. 'Not even in legendary is this
city mentioned. But look at the handholes at either end of the altar!
Priests often conceal their treasures beneath their altars. Four of you
lay hold and see if you can lift it.'
She stepped back to make room for them, glancing up at the tower which
loomed drunkenly above them. Three of the strongest blacks had gripped
the handholes cut into the stone--curiously unsuited to human
hands--when Bêlit sprang back with a sharp cry. They froze in their
places, and Conan, bending to aid them, wheeled with a startled curse.
'A snake in the grass,' she said, backing away. 'Come and slay it; the
rest of you bend your backs to the stone.'
Conan came quickly toward her, another taking his place. As he
impatiently scanned the grass for the reptile, the giant blacks braced
their feet, grunted and heaved with their huge muscles coiling and
straining under their ebon skin. The altar did not come off the ground,
but it revolved suddenly on its side. And simultaneously there was a
grinding rumble above and the tower came crashing down, covering the
four black men with broken masonry.
A cry of horror rose from their comrades. Bêlit's slim fingers dug into
Conan's arm-muscles. 'There was no serpent,' she whispered. 'It was but
a ruse to call you away. I feared; the old ones guarded their treasure
well. Let us clear away the stones.'
With herculean labor they did so, and lifted out the mangled bodies of
the four men. And under them, stained with their blood, the pirates
found a crypt carved in the solid stone. The altar, hinged curiously
with stone rods and sockets on one side, had served as its lid. And at
first glance the crypt seemed brimming with liquid fire, catching the
early light with a million blazing facets. Undreamable wealth lay before
the eyes of the gaping pirates; diamonds, rubies, bloodstones,
sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, opals, emeralds, amethysts, unknown
gems that shone like the eyes of evil women. The crypt was filled to the
brim with bright stones that the morning sun struck into lambent flame.
With a cry Bêlit dropped to her knees among the blood-stained rubble on
the brink and thrust her white arms shoulder-deep into that pool of
splendor. She withdrew them, clutching something that brought another
cry to her lips--a long string of crimson stones that were like clots of
frozen blood strung on a thick gold wire. In their glow the golden
sunlight changed to bloody haze.
Bêlit's eyes were like a woman's in a trance. The Shemite soul finds a
bright drunkenness in riches and material splendor, and the sight of
this treasure might have shaken the soul of a sated emperor of Shushan.
'Take up the jewels, dogs!' her voice was shrill with her emotions.
'Look!' a muscular black arm stabbed toward the _Tigress_, and Bêlit
wheeled, her crimson lips a-snarl, as if she expected to see a rival
corsair sweeping in to despoil her of her plunder. But from the gunwales
of the ship a dark shape rose, soaring away over the jungle.
'The devil-ape has been investigating the ship,' muttered the blacks
uneasily.
'What matter?' cried Bêlit with a curse, raking back a rebellious lock
with an impatient hand. 'Make a litter of spears and mantles to bear
these jewels--where the devil are you going?'
'To look to the galley,' grunted Conan. 'That bat-thing might have
knocked a hole in the bottom, for all we know.'
He ran swiftly down the cracked wharf and sprang aboard. A moment's
swift examination below decks, and he swore heartily, casting a clouded
glance in the direction the bat-being had vanished. He returned hastily
to Bêlit, superintending the plundering of the crypt. She had looped the
necklace about her neck, and on her naked white bosom the red clots
glimmered darkly. A huge naked black stood crotch-deep in the
jewel-brimming crypt, scooping up great handfuls of splendor to pass
them to eager hands above. Strings of frozen iridescence hung between
his dusky fingers; drops of red fire dripped from his hands, piled high
with starlight and rainbow. It was as if a black titan stood
straddle-legged in the bright pits of hell, his lifted hands full of
stars.
'That flying devil has staved in the water-casks,' said Conan. 'If we
hadn't been so dazed by these stones we'd have heard the noise. We were
fools not to have left a man on guard. We can't drink this river water.
I'll take twenty men and search for fresh water in the jungle.'
She looked at him vaguely, in her eyes the blank blaze of her strange
passion, her fingers working at the gems on her breast.
'Very well,' she said absently, hardly heeding him. 'I'll get the loot
aboard.'
* * * * *
The jungle closed quickly about them, changing the light from gold to
gray. From the arching green branches creepers dangled like pythons. The
warriors fell into single file, creeping through the primordial
twilights like black phantoms following a white ghost.
Underbrush was not so thick as Conan had anticipated. The ground was
spongy but not slushy. Away from the river, it sloped gradually upward.
Deeper and deeper they plunged into the green waving depths, and still
there was no sign of water, either running stream or stagnant pool.
Conan halted suddenly, his warriors freezing into basaltic statues. In
the tense silence that followed, the Cimmerian shook his head irritably.
'Go ahead,' he grunted to a sub-chief, N'Gora. 'March straight on until
you can no longer see me; then stop and wait for me. I believe we're
being followed. I heard something.'
The blacks shuffled their feet uneasily, but did as they were told. As
they swung onward, Conan stepped quickly behind a great tree, glaring
back along the way they had come. From that leafy fastness anything
might emerge. Nothing occurred; the faint sounds of the marching
spearmen faded in the distance. Conan suddenly realized that the air was
impregnated with an alien and exotic scent. Something gently brushed his
temple. He turned quickly. From a cluster of green, curiously leafed
stalks, great black blossoms nodded at him. One of these had touched
him. They seemed to beckon him, to arch their pliant stems toward him.
They spread and rustled, though no wind blew.
He recoiled, recognizing the black lotus, whose juice was death, and
whose scent brought dream-haunted slumber. But already he felt a subtle
lethargy stealing over him. He sought to lift his sword, to hew down the
serpentine stalks, but his arm hung lifeless at his side. He opened his
mouth to shout to his warriors, but only a faint rattle issued. The next
instant, with appalling suddenness, the jungle waved and dimmed out
before his eyes; he did not hear the screams that burst out awfully not
far away, as his knees collapsed, letting him pitch limply to the earth.
Above his prostrate form the great black blossoms nodded in the windless
air.
3 The Horror in the Jungle
_Was it a dream the nighted lotus brought?
Then curst the dream that bought my sluggish life;
And curst each laggard hour that does not see
Hot blood drip blackly from the crimsoned knife._
THE SONG OF BÊLIT
First there was the blackness of an utter void, with the cold winds of
cosmic space blowing through it. Then shapes, vague, monstrous and
evanescent, rolled in dim panorama through the expanse of nothingness,
as if the darkness were taking material form. The winds blew and a
vortex formed, a whirling pyramid of roaring blackness. From it grew
Shape and Dimension; then suddenly, like clouds dispersing, the darkness
rolled away on either hand and a huge city of dark green stone rose on
the bank of a wide river, flowing through an illimitable plain. Through
this city moved beings of alien configuration.
Cast in the mold of humanity, they were distinctly not men. They were
winged and of heroic proportions; not a branch on the mysterious stalk
of evolution that culminated in man, but the ripe blossom on an alien
tree, separate and apart from that stalk. Aside from their wings, in
physical appearance they resembled man only as man in his highest form
resembles the great apes. In spiritual, esthetic and intellectual
development they were superior to man as man is superior to the gorilla.
But when they reared their colossal city, man's primal ancestors had not
yet risen from the slime of the primordial seas.
These beings were mortal, as are all things built of flesh and blood.
They lived, loved and died, though the individual span of life was
enormous. Then, after uncounted millions of years, the Change began. The
vista shimmered and wavered, like a picture thrown on a windblown
curtain. Over the city and the land the ages flowed as waves flow over a
beach, and each wave brought alterations. Somewhere on the planet the
magnetic centers were shifting; the great glaciers and ice-fields were
withdrawing toward the new poles.
The littoral of the great river altered. Plains turned into swamps that
stank with reptilian life. Where fertile meadows had rolled, forests
reared up, growing into dank jungles. The changing ages wrought on the
inhabitants of the city as well. They did not migrate to fresher lands.
Reasons inexplicable to humanity held them to the ancient city and their
doom. And as that once rich and mighty land sank deeper and deeper into
the black mire of the sunless jungle, so into the chaos of squalling
jungle life sank the people of the city. Terrific convulsions shook the
earth; the nights were lurid with spouting volcanoes that fringed the
dark horizons with red pillars.
After an earthquake that shook down the outer walls and highest towers
of the city, and caused the river to run black for days with some lethal
substance spewed up from the subterranean depths, a frightful chemical
change became apparent in the waters the folk had drunk for millenniums
uncountable.
Many died who drank of it; and in those who lived, the drinking wrought
change, subtle, gradual and grisly. In adapting themselves to the
changing conditions, they had sunk far below their original level. But
the lethal waters altered them even more horribly, from generation to
more bestial generation. They who had been winged gods became pinioned
demons, with all that remained of their ancestors' vast knowledge
distorted and perverted and twisted into ghastly paths. As they had
risen higher than mankind might dream, so they sank lower than man's
maddest nightmares reach. They died fast, by cannibalism, and horrible
feuds fought out in the murk of the midnight jungle. And at last among
the lichen-grown ruins of their city only a single shape lurked, a
stunted abhorrent perversion of nature.
Then for the first time humans appeared: dark-skinned, hawk-faced men in
copper and leather harness, bearing bows--the warriors of pre-historic
Stygia. There were only fifty of them, and they were haggard and gaunt
with starvation and prolonged effort, stained and scratched with
jungle-wandering, with blood-crusted bandages that told of fierce
fighting. In their minds was a tale of warfare and defeat, and flight
before a stronger tribe which drove them ever southward, until they lost
themselves in the green ocean of jungle and river.
Exhausted they lay down among the ruins where red blossoms that bloom
but once in a century waved in the full moon, and sleep fell upon them.
And as they slept, a hideous shape crept red-eyed from the shadows and
performed weird and awful rites about and above each sleeper. The moon
hung in the shadowy sky, painting the jungle red and black; above the
sleepers glimmered the crimson blossoms, like splashes of blood. Then
the moon went down and the eyes of the necromancer were red jewels set
in the ebony of night.
When dawn spread its white veil over the river, there were no men to be
seen: only a hairy winged horror that squatted in the center of a ring
of fifty great spotted hyenas that pointed quivering muzzles to the
ghastly sky and howled like souls in hell.
Then scene followed scene so swiftly that each tripped over the heels of
its predecessor. There was a confusion of movement, a writhing and
melting of lights and shadows, against a background of black jungle,
green stone ruins and murky river. Black men came up the river in long
boats with skulls grinning on the prows, or stole stooping through the
trees, spear in hand. They fled screaming through the dark from red eyes
and slavering fangs. Howls of dying men shook the shadows; stealthy feet
padded through the gloom, vampire eyes blazed redly. There were grisly
feasts beneath the moon, across whose red disk a bat-like shadow
incessantly swept.
Then abruptly, etched clearly in contrast to these impressionistic
glimpses, around the jungled point in the whitening dawn swept a long
galley, thronged with shining ebon figures, and in the bows stood a
white-skinned ghost in blue steel.
It was at this point that Conan first realized that he was dreaming.
Until that instant he had had no consciousness of individual existence.
But as he saw himself treading the boards of the _Tigress_, he
recognized both the existence and the dream, although he did not awaken.
Even as he wondered, the scene shifted abruptly to a jungle glade where
N'Gora and nineteen black spearmen stood, as if awaiting someone. Even
as he realized that it was he for whom they waited, a horror swooped
down from the skies and their stolidity was broken by yells of fear.
Like men maddened by terror, they threw away their weapons and raced
wildly through the jungle, pressed close by the slavering monstrosity
that flapped its wings above them.
* * * * *
Chaos and confusion followed this vision, during which Conan feebly
struggled to awake. Dimly he seemed to see himself lying under a nodding
cluster of black blossoms, while from the bushes a hideous shape crept
toward him. With a savage effort he broke the unseen bonds which held
him to his dreams, and started upright.
Bewilderment was in the glare he cast about him. Near him swayed the
dusky lotus, and he hastened to draw away from it.
In the spongy soil near by there was a track as if an animal had put out
a foot, preparatory to emerging from the bushes, then had withdrawn it.
It looked like the spoor of an unbelievably large hyena.
He yelled for N'Gora. Primordial silence brooded over the jungle, in
which his yells sounded brittle and hollow as mockery. He could not see
the sun, but his wilderness-trained instinct told him the day was near
its end. A panic rose in him at the thought that he had lain senseless
for hours. He hastily followed the tracks of the spearmen, which lay
plain in the damp loam before him. They ran in single file, and he soon
emerged into a glade--to stop short, the skin crawling between his
shoulders as he recognized it as the glade he had seen in his
lotus-drugged dream. Shields and spears lay scattered about as if
dropped in head
|
about it.”
“She’s trying to make Sam think her father has money enough to buy a
fifty-dollar wheel every day if he wants to,” said the other, joining in
the doubtful derision.
June was forced to smile. Sammy had risen and taken off his cap when
Dick lifted his.
“It’s plain your friends haven’t much faith in my promise,” said June.
“That’s all right,” declared the owner of the wheel. “I believe it,
anyhow. Of course, I feel pretty bad over my wheel, but I’m glad the
horse was stopped before you was hurt.”
June’s expressive eyes glowed.
“Thank you,” she said. “Did you ever hear of D. Roscoe Arlington?”
“No; I—why, do you mean the big railroad man?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him!”
“He is my father, and I promise you that he will buy another wheel for
you at——”
“Excuse me,” put in Dick. “But I was the one who snatched the bicycle
from this boy and smashed it, so it is I who should provide for the
loss.”
“Not at all,” declared June, with almost haughty decision. “You did it
while trying to save me from harm, and the debt is mine. I insist, and I
shall be angry if you do not let me refer this matter to my father, who
will certainly replace this wheel with the very best bicycle money can
procure.”
Dick saw that she was very much in earnest, and it was plain that June
was accustomed to have her own way in most things. He was obliged to
yield gracefully.
June borrowed a pencil and piece of paper from Dick, after which she
noted the answers of the boy in regard to the kind of a wheel he wanted,
height of frame, gear, saddle, pedals, and so forth. She was perfectly
practical in this, and when she had finished questioning Sammy she was
in condition, if necessary, to go out and purchase the bicycle herself
and get exactly what the lad most desired.
Dick’s admiration for June Arlington grew steadily. He noted that she
was perfectly cool and self-possessed, for all of the recent adventure
through which she had passed, and that, to a large extent, she was
lacking in the frivolity and giggling giddiness that marred the natural
charm of many girls near her age.
“If I had the money with me,” said June to Sammy, “I would pay you for
your wheel right here; but I haven’t that much, and, besides, I think it
possible you will get a far better machine if you permit my father to
select it for you.”
“Oh, I’m willing to do that!” exclaimed the boy; “and I thank you for——”
“I am the one to thank you,” said June. “You happened along at just the
right time to aid in stopping that runaway.”
This made the boy feel very good, while some of the fellows who stood
near grew jealous and tried to sneer.
June shook hands with Sammy, promising he should hear from Mr. Arlington
within a week, and then she turned back into the hotel, telling Dick she
wished to speak with him. The moment she entered the hotel the other
boys surrounded Sammy. One of them, a raw-boned, freckled chap with
dirty teeth, gave Sammy “the laugh.”
“You’re a soft mark!” he said. “Why, if you’d raised a big fuss you
might have frightened her into paying for your bike right off—that is,
if her father is the big gun she says he is.”
“Go on, Spike Hanlon!” exclaimed Sammy. “What do you take me for? I
ain’t built that way!”
“Because you’re easy. Mebbe you’ll get another bicycle, and, then again,
mebbe you won’t! Soon as she gits outer town she’ll never bother about
it no more. You let her soft-soap you and fool you jest because she
shook hands with ye! Yah!”
“Now, close your face!” exclaimed Sammy, flushing hotly and showing
anger for the first time. “If you say anything more about her I’ll soak
you in the mouth!”
Which demonstrated that Sam had temper and could be aroused to anger,
for all that he had taken the smashing of his wheel so mildly.
At once the boys began to take sides. The majority were with Sammy, but
two fellows sidled over and joined Spike Hanlon.
“You hit me,” said Hanlon, “and I’ll break your head with a rock! That’s
what I’ll do, softie! I’m glad your old wheel was smashed. I’m glad of
it, and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you never get another one! Yah,
yah! Thought you was big because you beat Art Merritt and got a fine
bike, didn’t ye! Well, now you ain’t no better off than any of us! You
ain’t so well off, for my brother’s got your old wheel, and he lets me
ride it when I want to! Yah! yah! yah!”
But Hanlon had carefully placed himself at a distance by walking away in
a sidelong fashion, and he took to his heels, whooping and laughing
scornfully as Sammy made a move as if to rush at him.
“Don’t you mind, Sammy,” said one of the friends who had sided with him.
“Spike’s jealous. He’s been so ever since you won your bike. And I think
you’ll get a new wheel all right.”
“I know it!” said Sam, with the utmost confidence. “That girl’s all
right, and I’d bet my life she’d have the wheel sent to me! Then won’t
Spike feel sick!”
CHAPTER V—DICK KEEPS THE LOCKET
Up one flight in the hotel was a window in the hall at the front of the
house. Dick and June passed by this window, which, although closed, did
not prevent them from hearing the words of the boys below, and June
laughed when Sammy declared he would soak Spike Hanlon in the mouth if
Spike said anything more about her.
“That’s the kind of champion to have!” exclaimed Dick.
“They are going to fight!” exclaimed June. “That freckled boy is big and
strong.”
“But I’ll bet anything Sammy does him if they come to a genuine scrap,”
said Dick. “But don’t worry; there’ll be no fight. The most of the boys
are on Sammy’s side, and the other fellow doesn’t want to mix in.”
They heard Spike’s taunts just before he retreated, and June muttered:
“Just you wait and see what kind of a wheel he’ll have! I’ll make father
buy him the very best in the market.”
“Then that other boy will turn green with jealousy,” laughed Dick. “It
will be a great triumph for Sammy.”
“He deserves it.”
“I agree with you. He is a most remarkable fellow, and I like him.
Evidently he’s a poor boy. But he didn’t whimper when his wheel was
smashed, and that is why I say he is remarkable. Most boys would have
put up a terrible outcry over it.”
“It is strange that my brother should have been hurt so badly just from
falling backward out of the carriage when the horse started,” said June.
“Is it a fact that he is badly hurt?” asked Dick.
“I fear so. The doctor told me that, at least, we had not better think
of returning to Fardale before to-morrow. He said he would be able to
say positively to-morrow whether Chester is badly hurt or not. He is
coming back with another doctor in a short time, and they will make a
more complete examination.”
“For your sake,” said Dick sincerely, “I am very sorry that your brother
was hurt.”
Dick spoke with perfect truthfulness, and she understood him. It is not
likely that he would have felt keen regret on Chester’s account alone,
but his interest in June made it possible for him to be sorry, as the
affair had caused her distress.
She thanked him, but she did not misinterpret his words in the least.
She understood that her brother and Dick Merriwell were persistent and
unrelenting enemies.
“I was so glad to see you win the game to-day,” she said, seeming to
wish to change the subject.
“Yes, the boys did splendidly.”
“They did very well, but you—you were the one who really won the game.”
“In football every man is dependent on the others engaged in the game.
Without their assistance he would be powerless to win.”
“Oh, if you put it that way, of course no fellow could stand up alone
against eleven others and win a game. But that does not alter the fact
that you were the one who won the game to-day. And I thought you badly
hurt that time when I—when I made a sensation by running on to the
field,” she finished, her face getting very red.
She was confused, and Dick’s heart beat a bit faster now. But she
quickly found a way to make it appear that it was not purely from
agitation over Dick that she hurried on to the gridiron.
“I was so afraid that meant failure for the team! When I saw you down
and feared you would have to leave the field, I knew Fardale was in a
bad scrape. Without a captain, she would have been defeated quickly.”
Dick knew well enough that it was more than fear for the result of the
game that had caused her to rush pale and trembling across the field and
kneel to lift his head while he lay helpless on the ground; but he
pretended disappointment now, seeking to draw her out.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, watching her closely; “I fancied you were
anxious on my account. I presume it was conceited of me to have such a
thought.”
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“Doubtless my conduct was such that it gave you cause to think so,” she
nodded, perfectly at ease.
“Your conduct—and your words,” he returned.
She remembered with some dismay that she had been greatly excited as she
lifted his head and knelt on the ground. She could not recall the words
she had uttered at the time, but she knew she had called him “Dick,” and
she entreated the doctor to tell her he was not badly hurt. Still June
retained her self-possession, although she did not repress an added bit
of color that again rose to her cheeks.
“I believe you were shamming, sir!” she asserted, severely. “You seemed
almost unconscious, yet you pretend that you heard what I said. I think
you dreamed that you heard it.”
“Well, it was a very pleasant dream, and it quite repaid me for the jar
I received in that little clash.”
She could not resist his subtle compliment, and, in spite of her
self-control, she felt her pulse thrill a little. Although a girl of
sixteen and usually most reserved, she was open to flattery in its
finest form, as most girls are.
Dick, however, was no flatterer, and he spoke what he felt to be the
simple truth and nothing more. It is possible that his sincerity
impressed her.
“My locket——” she began.
“Oh, I hope you are not going to command me to return it to you again!”
he exclaimed.
“No.”
“I am thankful for that. I gave it up once, thinking you would be
generous enough to hear what I had to say; but you refused to see me or
to permit me to explain——”
“Which was very unjust of me,” she frankly admitted. “I was sorry when
it was too late, but you did not come again.”
“Because I did not care to receive another snub.”
“Will you pardon me?”
“Surely I will, now that I have the locket again. But I do not wish you
to believe that I ever dropped that locket intentionally with the desire
of having it become known that you had given it to me. I did not think
you could believe such a thing of me.”
There was reproach in Dick’s words, and she felt it.
“My brother made it seem that you did,” she hastened to say;
“and—and—another would not deny it.”
“Another?” exclaimed Dick. “I know who it was! It was Hal Darrell!”
“I have not said so.”
“But you cannot say it was not Darrell?”
“I will not say it wasn’t or that it was.”
“We were enemies once,” said Dick, “but I found him pretty square, and I
can admire a fellow who is my enemy if he is honest. Later we became,
not exactly friends, but reconciled. Somehow we could not get on real
friendly terms, though I fancy we both wished to be friendly at one
time. Of late he has changed, and I am satisfied that he is once more my
enemy. I don’t think he will lie about me, but it is possible he might
not correct the false statement of another. Miss Arlington, is it
possible that, at the present time, there remains in your mind the least
doubt concerning my behavior? If there is such a doubt, even though I
would dearly love to keep your locket and your picture, I must beg you
to take it back.”
He was grim and stern now, and for a single instant she felt a trifle
awed. Then pride came to her rescue, and she exclaimed:
“If you wish to get rid of it so much, I’ll take it, sir!”
“I do not wish to get rid of it. Indeed, I wish to keep it always; but I
cannot keep it knowing you might suspect me of showing it, laughing over
it and boasting that it was a ‘mash.’ Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” she said quietly. “I shall let you keep it, and you may
be sure there is no doubt in my mind. I believe you are a gentleman.”
Dick had triumphed. Again he was a winner, and it made him glad indeed.
He thanked her earnestly and sincerely, upon which she said:
“Foolish though it may seem, I am certain now that the locket has given
you good fortune. I felt sure you would win the game for Fardale to-day
after I gave you the locket, and you took it. Then, with the locket
still in your possession, you stopped the runaway. Keep it, and may it
be the charm to give you luck as long as it remains in your possession.”
“I am sure it will!” he laughed. “As long as it contains that picture it
will remain a charm for me.”
“You know I accept you as a friend, Mr. Merriwell; but my brother is
angry with me, my mother will be more so, and my father will side with
my mother. I tell you this as an explanation of my conduct in the
future, should anything happen to make it seem that I am unfriendly.”
“I think I’ll understand you.”
“Then you will do better than most fellows,” smiled June; “for they do
not understand girls at all. Hal Darrell——”
Then she paused suddenly, for Hal himself had ascended the stairs and
stopped, staring at them. His face was rather pale, and there was a
glitter in his dark eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Darrell!” exclaimed June. “I have been looking for you.”
“Have you?” said Hal, his eyes on Dick.
“Yes. Brother wants to see you. He’s in room 37. Please go right up.”
Hal stood still and stared at Dick a moment longer, after which he
mounted the stairs to the second story and disappeared.
CHAPTER VI—A DOUBTFUL MATTER
Chester and June Arlington remained in Hudsonville that night and the
next day. On Monday they came back to Fardale, but Chester did not
return to the academy. He declined to go to the house where June had
been stopping, but ordered the best suite of rooms in the Fardale Hotel,
and there he went comfortably to bed.
Perhaps it was a mistake to say he went comfortably to bed, for he was
far from comfortable, as his back had been hurt badly, although the
Hudsonville doctors consoled him with the assurance that, with rest and
proper treatment, he would recover without any permanent injury.
June remained at the hotel to care for him as best she could, and Mrs.
Arlington was notified of his misfortune, with the result that she lost
no time in hastening to the side of her idolized son.
Dick had called at the hotel to see June a moment, and she showed him
the telegram that told her that her mother was coming with all speed.
“I don’t know what will happen when mother gets here,” confessed June,
“but there may be trouble. To tell the truth, I am afraid there will be,
for Chester is determined to tell her I gave you that locket, unless I
get it back.”
Dick’s heart sank a little, but he soon said:
“Then I suppose I shall have to give it up, for I do not wish you to get
into trouble on my account.”
But she declined to take it.
“No,” she said firmly. “I gave it to you, and you are to keep it. I want
you to promise to keep it, even though my mother demands it of you.”
His heart rose at once.
“You may be sure I will do so,” he said.
He was in very good spirits as he went whistling back to the academy. It
was just past midday, but the autumn sun was well over into the
southwest. The wind sent a flock of yellow leaves scudding along the
roadside like a lot of startled birds. The woods were bare, and there
was a haze on the distant hills. In spite of the bright sunshine, in
spite of the satisfaction in his heart, he felt vaguely the sadness of
autumn, as if the world itself were fading and growing old and feeble,
like a man that has passed the prime of life and is hurrying down the
hill that leads to decrepit old age and death. Always the autumn
impressed Dick thus. True he saw in it much of beauty, but it was a sad
beauty that made him long to fly to another clime where fallen leaves
and bare woods would not remind him of winter.
Not that Dick disliked the winter, for in it he found those pleasures
enjoyed by every healthful lad with a healthy mind; but it was the
change from early autumn to winter days that stirred his emotions so
keenly and filled him with that unspeakable longing for something that
was not his.
A stream ran through the little valley, the sunshine reflected on its
surface. Beyond the valley was a little grove, where a red squirrel was
barking, the clear air and favorable wind bringing the chatter of the
little creature to the lad’s ears. Some one had started a fire on the
distant hillside, and the smoke rose till it was hurled away by the
sweeping wind.
Dick’s eyes noted much of beauty in the landscape, for he was sensitive
to color, and the woods were gray and brown and green, the fields were
mottled with brown and green, for there remained a few places where the
grass was not quite dead, late though it was; the hills were misty blue
in the far distance, and the sky overhead was cloudless.
From a high point of the road he could look out on the open sea, and he
heard the breakers roaring on Tiger Tooth Ledge.
The squirrel in the grove seemed calling to him, the woods seemed to
beckon, and even the dull, distant roar of the sea struck a responsive
chord in his heart. A sudden desire came upon him to stray deep into the
woods and hills and seek to renew the old-time friendship and confidence
with nature and the wild things he had once been able to call around
him. Then he thought of Fardale, of the football-field, of his friends
at school, and, lastly, of—June.
“No,” he muttered, “I would not give up my new friends for those I used
to know. The birds and squirrels know me no longer, but I have found
human friends who are dearer.”
He resumed his whistling and trudged onward with a light heart.
That afternoon Dick worked earnestly with the scrub on the field, for
the weakness of the academy’s line in the recent game with Hudsonville
had shown him that injury to one or two players simultaneously might
cause Fardale’s defeat unless some remarkably good substitutes were
ready at hand to go in. And he had come to realize that first-class
substitutes were lacking.
The injured ones were improving as swiftly as could be expected, but it
was certain they would not get into practice until near the end of the
week, and Shannock might not be able to go on to the field for another
week to come.
At the opening of the season Fardale had resolved not to play with
Franklin Academy for reasons well known on both sides. A year before
Franklin had permitted a Fardale man and a traitor to play with its
eleven, and the traitor had dashed red pepper into Dick Merriwell’s eyes
at a time when it seemed certain that the game would be won by the
cadets through young Merriwell’s efforts.
Brad Buckhart “mingled in” and promptly knocked the pepper-thrower
stiff, after which the fellow had been exposed.
But Franklin’s action in permitting the traitor to play on her team had
angered the Fardale athletic committee so that a vote was taken not to
meet her on the gridiron again. But the faculty at Franklin took a hand,
offered apologies, regrets, and made promises to look after the team in
the future. They felt a keen disgrace to have Fardale refuse to meet the
Franklin eleven. The result was that the Fardale athletic committee
finally withdrew the ban, and a date was arranged with Franklin.
This was the team Fardale had to meet on the following Saturday after
the game with Hudsonville, and to Dick’s ears came a rumor that Franklin
had a remarkable eleven that had been winning games in a most alarming
manner.
To add to Dick’s uneasiness came a report that Franklin had hired a
professional coach and that there were at least four “ringers” on the
team. Dick was not inclined to believe this at first, for it did not
seem possible such fellows would be permitted on the eleven after the
entreaty and assurance of the Franklin faculty.
Brad Buckhart resolved to investigate. Without saying a word to Dick,
who, he fancied, might object to “spying,” the Texan paid a man to find
out the truth. The result was that, one day, he informed Dick there was
not the least doubt but the “ringers” were to be with the Franklin team.
“I can hardly believe it now!” exclaimed Dick, when Buck had explained
how he came by his knowledge. “How can they afford to do such a thing?”
“Well, pard,” said the Westerner, “I hear that they’re hot set to wipe
out the disgrace of last year’s defeat, and then they won’t care a rap
whether we play with them any more or not. That’s what’s doing over yon
at Franklin. I opine we’d better decline to play.”
“No,” said Dick. “We have no absolute proof that there are ‘ringers’ on
their team, although it is likely your man made no mistake. I shall
notify their manager at once that I have heard such a report, ask
concerning its correctness, and protest against the questionable men
being in the game.”
“And then if they are in it just the same?”
“We’ll play them,” said Dick grimly, “and beat them. After that we can
decline to have any further athletic dealings with them.”
“Partner, you’re right!” exclaimed the Texan. “The only thing I fear is
that our team may not be up to its usual form. If it is, we can down
’em, ‘ringers’ or no ‘ringers.’”
No reply came to Dick’s note of protest until Friday, before the game
was to come off. Then the manager answered briefly that all the men on
his team were amateurs and were taking regular courses at Franklin
Academy.
“That settles it,” said Dick. “I’d play him now if I had proof that he
had ‘ringers’ on his team. Then I’d relieve my mind after the game.”
CHAPTER VII—SOMETHING WRONG
Dick knew Mrs. Arlington had arrived in Fardale, and after her arrival
he waited in daily expectancy of hearing something from June. He learned
that the injury to Chester Arlington was so serious that he might be
confined to his bed for two or three weeks. And he also found out that
Hal Darrell visited the hotel daily.
Ostensibly Hal went to see Chester, but Dick felt that the real reason
of his going was to see June. And Dick was startled to feel a sensation
of keen jealousy in his heart. He tried bravely to put it aside, telling
himself that June was his friend and nothing more; but it was obstinate
and declined to be crushed in such a manner, not a little to his
annoyance.
On Saturday morning Dick received a brief note from June, and it fairly
staggered him. This was what she said:
“_Mr. Richard Merriwell_: Kindly return my locket at once by the
messenger who brings you this. I insist on it, and you will do
so if you are a gentleman. —_June Arlington_.”
A second time had this happened. Once before June had sent for her
locket and Dick had returned it as requested. Then, when he sought to
call for an explanation, he was snubbed at the door. He puzzled over
this second note, being astonished by it. For had not June urged him to
promise not to give up the locket on any condition?
“Is she so changeable?” he muttered, in great disappointment. “I could
not have thought it of her! She doesn’t seem that way.”
He could not express his feeling of disappointment at June. She had
seemed like an unusually sensible girl, who would not whiffle round with
every shifting wind.
He understood that, without doubt, strong pressure had been brought to
bear on June by her mother and brother. She had been commanded to send
again for her locket. Chester Arlington was determined that Dick should
not keep it, and he would rejoice if it were sent back to his sister.
But had June been influenced so that she really wished the locket
returned? Rather had she not been compelled to write the request while
she did not wish Dick to comply with it?
He started at this thought, and, of a sudden, he found a way to excuse
June. She could not refuse to obey the command of her mother, and she
had written for the locket because Mrs. Arlington commanded it. That was
the explanation. The messenger was waiting outside the door. Dick
turned, walked to the door, and said:
“There is no answer.”
“But the lady what give me the note said there would be one,” declared
the boy. “She said I was to bring back somethin’ you’d give me.”
“Did she?”
“Yep. An’ said I was to be careful not to lose it.”
“What sort of a lady gave you this note?”
“Oh, she was pritty swell, you bet! She wore good togs, but she had gray
hair, and she looked me over through a glass with a handle what she held
up to her eye, and she says, says she, ‘Boy, are you honest?’ and I
says, ‘I am, though I know I’ll never grow up to be a great politician
or a millionaire if I stay so.’ She didn’t seem to like that much, but
she finally give me the paper what I brought to you, sayin’ as how I was
to bring back the thing what you would give me.”
“Well, there is nothing for you to take back,” said Dick. “But here is a
quarter for you. Just say to the lady that the article is so precious
that I will bring it in person, as I dare not trust it out of my hands.”
“All right. Thankee,” said the boy, and he hurried away.
A feeling of satisfaction had come to Dick.
“I was right,” he exclaimed, with a short laugh. “It is the work of
June’s mother. But how can I get out of giving up the locket and the
picture? June told me to keep it, but if her mother demands it of me
I’ll be placed in an awkward position.”
He was soon given other things to think of, however. The Franklin team
arrived in town before noon, and Buckhart, who was at the station to see
them, came hustling back to the academy and sought Dick, whom he found
in the gym.
“There’s no mistake about it,” said the Westerner excitedly. “One of
their players is Plover, the chap who was barred from the Exeter team
because he was a professional. Why, he’s nineteen years old, and he’s
played the game for three or four years. He got into some kind of a mess
at Exeter and left school to avoid a disgrace. He’s one of the
‘ringers.’”
“How do you know this?” asked Dick. “You do not know Plover personally,
do you?”
“No, but there was a chap at the station who knew him and spoke to him.”
“Well?”
“Plover didn’t seem to like it much. He pretended not to know the fellow
who spoke to him.”
“Who was the fellow?”
“Clerk in Peabody’s store, a fellow who hasn’t been here very long.”
“I’ll have to see him at once,” said Dick.
“I had a talk with him, you bet your boots!”
“Did you?”
“Sure thing, pardner. Said he knew Plover all right, and that the fellow
couldn’t fool him. Said Plover was a chap who played baseball summers
for money, raced for money, had been pulled up for some sort of
crookedness in a running-race, had coached football-teams for money; in
short, he made his living by just such things.”
“Well, he is a fine fellow for Franklin to run up against us!” exclaimed
Dick. “Come, Brad, we’ll look up the manager of that team without
delay.”
But the manager of the visiting team had not come to Fardale with his
players, as they learned on hurrying to the hotel and making inquiries.
“He didn’t dare come!” muttered Buckhart in Dick’s ears. “He was afraid
you’d get after him before the game. That’s why the onery galoot stayed
away.”
Dick’s face wore a grim expression as he called for Captain Hickman.
Hickman and two other Franklin fellows were found in a room. The captain
of the team rose and held out his hand to Dick, crying:
“How are you, Merriwell, old man! Glad to see you again! Of course,
we’ll have to trounce you this afternoon, but that is no reason why we
shouldn’t be friends before the game—and afterward.”
“No, that is no reason,” admitted Dick. “As for trouncing us, that
remains to be seen; but I am sure you ought to do it with the kind of
team you have brought!”
“Oh, yes! we’ve got a corker this year,” laughed Hickman.
“But aren’t you out of your class a bit?” asked Dick, while Brad stood
by the door, grimly waiting the clash of words he expected would come
and eying the two chaps with Hickman, to have their measure in case
there was an encounter.
“Do you fancy your team so very weak?” asked Hickman jokingly. “Why, you
seem to be doing very well.”
“We are strong enough for a school team made up of amateurs, but we may
not be able to cope with professionals.”
“And ‘ringers,’” put in Brad.
Hickman pretended to be surprised and astonished.
“Professionals?” he exclaimed. “Ringers? Why, what do you mean? It can’t
be that you accuse us of having such men on our team?”
“I have information that leads me to believe you have,” said Dick
grimly.
“It’s not true!” retorted the captain of the Franklin team hotly.
“It’s a lie!” said a yellow-haired chap, rising behind Hickman, and
stepping forward.
“That’s exactly what it is!” agreed the third fellow, as he also rose
and joined the others.
“Here’s where we get into a scrimmage!” thought Buckhart, with a glow of
genuine satisfaction. “Here is where we wipe the floor with three young
gents from Franklin!”
But Dick was not there to get into a row.
“Such information reached me a few days ago,” said Dick, “and I wrote at
once to Mr. Rankin, your manager.”
“Well, you heard from him, didn’t you?”
“Yes; he answered that the report was untrue.”
“Well, that should have satisfied you,” said Hickman. “What more do you
want?”
“To-day,” said Dick calmly, “I have been told that on your team there is
a regular professional by the name of Plover.”
“Plover?”
“Yes.”
“There is no man by that name on the team,” said Hickman. “So you see
that you have been led astray in this matter.”
“Of course it is possible,” admitted Dick, “But we have not forgotten
last year, Mr. Hickman.”
“Last year?” said Hickman uneasily. “What do you mean by that?”
“You should remember very well.”
“Why not——”
“Yes, your little trick you played on us. I believe a fellow by the name
of Jabez Lynch played with you, and he was a Fardale man at the time. He
wore a nose-guard and head-harness that so disguised him he was not
recognized; but he did a piece of dirty work that exposed him before the
game was over. You remember, Captain Hickman.”
Hickman forced a short laugh.
“That was a joke, Merriwell.”
“A joke!” exclaimed Dick, his eyes flashing. “Is that what you call it?
It was no joke, Mr. Hickman, and you know very well that it came very
near ending all athletic relations between our teams and our schools.”
“If that is what he considers as a joke,” put in Brad; “mebbe he allows
it’s a joke to spring a lot of ‘ringers’ on us!”
“Who are you?” savagely asked the captain of the visiting team, glaring
at Brad. “What right have you to dip into this matter?”
“Who am I? Well, I’m Brad Buckhart, the unbranded maverick of the Rio
Pecos! I’m playing with Fardale, and I allow that I can dip in some. If
any of you gents think not, I’m willing to argue it with you any old way
you say. You hear me chirp!”
“Have you come to raise a fuss, Mr. Merriwell?” cried Hickman.
“I have come to warn you,” said Dick, with unabated grimness.
“Warn us—of what?”
“That you are making a grave mistake.”
“Are you going to squeal? Are you going to back out?”
“We shall play you this afternoon if your team is made up entirely of
professionals.”
“Then what——”
“I wish to notify you, Mr. Hickman, that a thorough investigation will
be made. If we learn that you have professionals on your team, Fardale
will sever relations with you. There will be no further contests between
us.”
Hickman snapped his fingers.
“Do as you like,” he said. “We’ll have the pleasure of wiping you up in
the last encounter, anyway.”
“Will you?” cried Dick. “Not much! Fardale will defeat you to-day, for
all of tricks and crookedness!”
“Whoop-ee!” exploded Buckhart. “You bet your boots she will!”
Then both boys turned on their heels and left the room.
Dick and Brad were descending the stairs to leave the hotel when
something struck Dick’s shoulder with a little tinkle and fell on the
steps before him.
Dick picked it up, and glanced upward. He fancied he saw a face
disappear above, and there was a rustling sound that died away almost
immediately. In his hand Dick held a bit of paper that was twisted about
an old-fashioned copper coin. He untwisted the paper and saw there was
some writing upon it.
“I shall try to be at the game. See me a moment if possible.
Have something to say to you. —_June_.”
“What is it, pard?” asked Brad.
“Nothing much,” smiled Dick, folding the paper and carefully putting it
in his pocket, along with the coin.
The smile left his face, as at the very door, when he was passing out,
he encountered Mrs. Arlington, who had just alighted from a carriage and
was coming in. She saw him, and a haughty look of anger and accusation
settled on her cold face.
“So you decided to come!” she said freezingly. “It is well that you did.
I have consulted a lawyer, and I have about concluded to have you
arrested.”
“To have me arrested?” said Dick, in surprise.
“Exactly.”
“What for?”
“Theft!”
Dick’s face flamed crimson, while a gurgle of incredulity and
astonishment came from Brad’s throat.
“Theft, madam?” said Dick warmly. “Such a thing is ridiculous!”
“Outrageous!” came from Brad.
“I sent for a piece of property belonging to my daughter and you
|
| Lorette | |
Ancienne Lorette |Ancienne |Quebec Q|George Dufresne
(sub) | Lorette | |
Anderson |Blanchard |Perth, S. R. O|Humphrey White
Anderson, W. O. | |Westmoreland N B|Archibald Simpson
Anderson’s Corners |Hinchinbrooke |Huntingdon Q|James Anderson
_Andover_ | |Victoria N B|Wm. B. Beveridge
Ange Gardien |Ange Gardien |Montmorency Q|Joseph Goulet
Angeline |Ange Gardien |Rouville Q|Onésime Boisvert
Angers |Buckingham |Ottawa Q|L. Moncion
* _Angus_ |Essa |Simcoe, S. R. O|J. R. Brown
Annagance | |King’s N B|Stanford Palmer
_Annapolis_ | |Annapolis N S|Thos. A. Gavaza
_Antigonishe_ | |Antigonishe N S|H. P. Hill
Antigonishe | |Antigonishe N S|John Chisholm
Harbour, W. O. | | |
Antler Creek | |Cariboo B C|
Antrim |Fitzroy |Carleton O|John Wilson
Antrim, W. O. | |Halifax N S|Samuel Kerr
_Apohaqui_ | |King’s N B|Thomas E. Smith
Appin |Ekfrid |Middlesex, W. R. O|Angus McKenzie
Appleby |Nelson |Halton O|James W. Cotter
Apple Grove |Stanstead |Stanstead Q|John G. Christie
Apple River, W. O. | |Cumberland N S|W. R. Elderkin
_Appleton_ |Ramsay |Lanark, N. R. O|Albert Teskey
Apsley |Anstruther |Peterborough, O|Thomas Castlands
| | E. R. |
Apto |Flos |Simcoe, N. R. O|C. McLaughlin
Archibald | |Restigouche N B|R. Archibald
Settlement, W. O.| | |
Arden |Kennebec |Addington O|Wm. B. Mills
Ardoch |Clarendon |Addington O|Bramwell Watkins
Ardtrea |Orillia |Simcoe, N. R. O|William Blair,
| | | sen.
Argyle |Eldon |Victoria, N. R. O|John McKay
Argyle, W. O. | |Yarmouth N S|Mrs. S. Ryder
_Arichat_ | |Richmond N S|W. G. Ballam
Arisaig, W. O. | |Antigonishe N S|Wm. Gillis
Arkell |Pushlinch |Wellington, O|Wm. Watson
| | S. R. |
* _Arkona_ |Warwick |Lambton O|Miss Louisa
| | | Schooley
_Arkwright_ |Arran |Bruce, N. R. O|
Arlington |Adjala |Cardwell O|Thomas Kidd
Armadale |Scarboro’ |York, E. R. O|
Armagh |St. Cajetan |Bellechasse Q|C. Roy
Armand |Armand |Témiscouata Q|Paschal Lebel
Armow |Kincardine |Bruce, S. R. O|Alexander Gardner
Armstrong’s Brook, | |Restigouche N B|John C. Bent
W. O. | | |
Armstrong’s Corner,| |Queen’s N B|George Mills
W. O. | | |
Arnott |Holland |Grey, N. R. O|Wm. G. Murray
* _Arnprior_ |McNabb |Renfrew, S. R. O|Ezra A. Bates
Aroostook, W. O. | |Victoria N B|Albert D. Olmstead
Aros |Bexley |Victoria, N. R. O|Charles McInnes
Arthabaska Station |Arthabaska |Arthabaska Q|Louis Foisy
* _Arthur_ |Arthur |Wellington, O|Mrs. Janet Small
| | N. R. |
Arthurette, W. O. | |Victoria N B|
Arundel |Arundel |Argenteuil Q|William Thomson
_Arva_ |London |Middlesex, E. R. O|W. B. Bernard
Ascot Corner |Ascot |Sherbrooke Q|Fred G. Stacey
Ashburn |Whitby |Ontario, S. R. O|Edward Oliver
Ashburnham |Otonabee |Peterborough, O|Robt. D. Rodgers
| | E. R. |
Ashcroft | |Yale B C|H. P. Cornwall
Ashdown |Humphrey |Muskoka O|James Ashdown
Ashgrove |Esquesing |Halton O|Robert Smyth
Ashley |Derby |Grey, N. R. O|George Follis
Ashton |Goulburn |Carleton O|John Sumner
Ashworth |Scott |Ontario, N. R. O|John Mustard
Assametquagan |Assametquagan |Bonaventure Q|Charles McCarron
Aston Station |Aston |Nicolet Q|Antoine Vachon
Atha |Pickering |Ontario, S. R. O|John M. Bell
Athelstan |Hinchinbrooke |Huntingdon Q|Joshua Breadner
Athens |Scott |Ontario, N. R. O|R. Bingham
Atherley |Mara |Ontario, N. R. O|Arthur Reeve
Atherton |Windham |Norfolk, N. R. O|G. C. Willson
_Athlone_ |Adjala |Cardwell O|John Kidd
Athol |Kenyon |Glengarry O|M. A. Fisher
Athol | |Cumberland N S|F. A. Donkin
Attercliffe |Caistor |Monck O|James Crawther
Aubigny |Ripon |Ottowa Q|P. G. Aubry
Aubrey |South |Chateauguay Q|A. Lafleur
| Georgetown | |
Auburn |Wawanosh |Huron, N. R. O|Samuel Caldwell
Audley |Pickering |Ontario, S. R. O|Daniel McBrady
Aughrim |Brooke |Lambton O|J. McKeune
Augustine Cove |No. 28 |Prince P E I|Eliza McKenzie
Au Lac, W. O. | |Westmoreland N B|Ira H. Patterson
_Aultsville_ |Osnabruck |Stormont O|I. R. Ault
* _Aurora_ |Whitchurch |York, N. R. O|Charles Doan
Avening |Nottawasaga |Simcoe, N. R. O|R. Morris
Avignon |Matapédia |Bonaventure Q|Octave Martin
Avoca |Grenville |Argenteuil Q|John McCallum
Avon |Dorchester |Middlesex, E. R. O|G. C. Smith
| North | |
Avonbank |Downie |Perth, S. R. O|John McMillan
Avondale, W. O. | |Carleton N B|John E. McCready
Avondale, W. O. | |Pictou N S|Robert McDonald
Avonmore |Roxborough |Stormont O|E. N. Shaver
Avonport, W. O. | |King’s N S|W. A. Reid
Avonport Station, | |King’s N S|W. F. Newcomb
W. O. | | |
Avonton |Downie |Perth, S. R. O|A. Shields
Ayer’s Flat |Hatley |Stanstead Q|C. Ayer
_Aylesford_ | |King’s N S|T. R. Harris
* _Aylmer (East)_ |Hull |Ottawa Q|J. R. Woods
* _Aylmer (West)_ |Malahide |Elgin, E. R. O|Philip Hodgkinson
Aylwin |Aylwin |Ottawa Q|J. Little
* _Ayre_ |Dumfries |Waterloo, S. R. O|Robert Wylie
Ayton |Normanby |Grey, S. R. O|Robert Smith
| | |
| | |
Baby’s Point |Sombra |Bothwell O|Edward Keely
Back Bay, W. O. | |Charlotte N B|Joseph McGee
Back Lands, W. O. | |Antigonishe N S|William Doyle
_Baddeck_ | |Victoria N S|R. Elmsly
Baddeck Bay, W. O. | |Victoria N S|C. McDonald
Baddeck Bridge, | |Victoria N S|Alex. McRae
W. O. | | |
_Baden_ |Wilmot |Waterloo, S. R. O|Jacob Beck
Bagot |Bagot |Renfrew, S. R. O|Patrick Kennedy
Bagotville |St. Alphonse |Chicoutimi Q|E. Lévesque
Baie St. Paul |Baie St. Paul |Marquette M|Félix Chenier
_Baie Verte_ | |Westmoreland N B|John Carey
Baie Verte Road, | |Westmoreland N B|John Copp, jun.
W. O. | | |
Bailey’s Brook, | |Pictou N S|D. D. Macdonald
W. O. | | |
_Bailieboro’_ |South Monaghan|Peterborough, O|John D. Perrin
| | W. R. |
Baillargeon |St. Etienne de|Lévis Q|Frs. Xavier
| Lauzon | | Bilodeau
Baillie, W. O. | |Charlotte N B|W. S. Robinson
Bairdsville, W. O. | |Carleton N B|Henry Baird
Bala |Medora |Muskoka O|Thomas Burgess
Balderson |Drummond |Lanark, S. R. O|John W. Cowie
Ballantrae |Whitchurch |York, N. R. O|Robert Hill
Ballantyne’s |Pittsburgh |Frontenac O|John Hysop
Station | | |
Ballinafad |Erin |Wellington, O|John S. Applebe
| | S. R. |
Ballycroy |Adjala |Cardwell O|Peter Small
Ballyduff |Manvers |Durham, E. R. O|J. C. Williamson
Ballymote |London |Middlesex, E. R. O|T. W. Johnson
Balmoral |Rainham |Haldimand O|Geo. B. Lundy
Balsam |Pickering |Ontario, S. R. O|Ira Palmer
_Baltimore_ |Hamilton |Northumberland, O|Thos. J. Milligan
| | W. R. |
Bamberg |Wellesley |Waterloo, N. R. O|F. Walter
Banda |Mulmer |Simcoe, S. R. O|John Cleminger
Bandon |Hullet |Huron, C. R. O|James Allen
Bannockburn |Madoc |Hastings, N. R. O|William H. Wilson
Barachois, W. O. | |Westmoreland N B|Thos. Gallang
Barachois de Malbay|Malbay |Gaspé Q|Thomas Tapp
Bardsville |Monck |Muskoka O|Charles Bard
Barkerville | |Cariboo B C|John Bowron
Bark Lake |Jones |Renfrew, S. R. O|
Barnaby River, | |Northumberland N B|Mrs. E. J. Dalton
W. O. | | |
Barnesville, W. O. | |King’s N B|Thomas Worrell
Barnett |Nichol |Wellington, O|James Elmslie
| | C. R. |
Barney’s River, | |Pictou N S|Donald Nicolson
W. O. | | |
Barnston |Barnston |Stanstead Q|Sam’l Goodhue
Barrett’s Cross |No. 19 |Prince P E I|William Glover
* _Barrie_ |Vespra |Simcoe, N. R. O|Jas. Edwards
Barrington |Hemmingford |Huntingdon Q|Oliver Lyttle
_Barrington_ | |Shelburne N S|R. H. Crowell
Barrington Passage,| |Shelburne N S|Leonard Knowles
W. O. | | |
Barrio’s Beach, |Antigonishe |Antigonishe N S|Benj. Boudret
W. O. | | |
Barronsfield, W. O.| |Cumberland N S|William Baker
Bartibog, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|Robert Wall
Bartonville |Barton |Wentworth, S. R. O|W. J. Gage
Bass River, W. O. | |King’s N B|Robert Brown
Bass River, W. O. |Londonderry |Colchester N S|Mrs. A. Dickey
Basswood Ridge, | |Charlotte N B|Margaret Love
W. O. | | |
Batchewana |Fisher |Algoma O|W. J. Scott, jun.
_Bath_ |Ernestown |Lennox O|John Belfour
Bath | |Carleton N B|W. Commins
_Bathurst_ | |Gloucester N B|Helen J. Waitt
Bathurst Village, | |Gloucester N B|John Ferguson,
W. O. | | | jun.
Batiscan |Ste. Geneviève|Champlain Q|D. Lacourcière
Batiscan Bridge |St. François |Champlain Q|Narcisse Fugère
| Xavier | |
Battersea |Storrington |Frontenac O|W. J. Anglin
Bay du Vin, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|Alex. Williston
Bay du Vin Mills, | |Northumberland N B|James Graham
W. O. | | |
* _Bayfield_ |Stanley |Huron, S. R. O|James Gairdner
Bayfield, W. O. | |Westmoreland N B|C. Van Buskirk
Bayfield, W. O. | |Antigonishe N S|E. W. Randall
Bay Fortune |No. 56 |King’s P E I|J. Needham
Bayside, W. O. | |Charlotte N B|F. W. Bradford
Bayham |Bayham |Elgin, E. R. O|George Laing
Bay St. Lawrence, | |Victoria N S|Angus McIntosh
W. O. | | |
Bayview |St. Vincent |Grey, E. R. O|Whitney Wait
_Beachburg_ |Westmeath |Renfrew, N. R. O|George Surtees
_Beachville_ |Oxford, West |Oxford, S. R. O|Charles Mason
Bealton |Townsend |Norfolk, N. R. O|Frank Turner
* _Beamsville_ |Clinton |Lincoln O|J. B. Osborne
Bear Brook |Cumberland |Russell O|John Rogers
Bear Island, W. O. | |York N B|Isaiah Parent
Bear Point, W. O. | |Shelburne N S|David Smith
_Bear River (West | |Digby N S|V. T. Hardwick
Side)_ | | |
Beatrice |Watt |Muskoka O|Richard Lance
* _Beauharnois_ |St. Clement |Beauharnois Q|Crosbie McArthur
Beaulac |Rawdon |Montcalm Q|George Mason
Beaulieu |St. Pierre |Montmorency Q|Prudent Blais
| d’Orléans | |
Beaumont |Beaumont |Bellechasse Q|George Couture
Beauport |Beauport |Quebec Q|Margaret O’Brien
Beaurivage |St. Sylvester |Lotbinière Q|Owen Loughrey
| East | |
Beaver Bank, W. O. | |Halifax N S|Daniel Hallisey
Beaver Brook, W. O.| |Albert N B|W. R. Brewster
Beaver Cove, W. O.,| |Cape Breton N S|Stephen McNeill
late Boisdale, | | |
W. O. | | |
Beaver Harb’r, | |Charlotte N B|Leonard Best
W. O. | | |
Beaver River, W. O.| |Digby N S|S. P. Raymond
Beaver River Corner| |Digby N S|W. S. Raymond
* _Beaverton_ |Thora |Ontario, N. R. O|Donald Cameron
_Bécancour_ |Bécancour |Nicolet Q|Miss M. E. Rivard
Bécancour Station |Ste. Julie |Megantic Q|Richard St. Pierre
Becher |Sombra |Bothwell O|
Bedeque |No. 26 |Prince P E I|Major Wright
_Bedford_ |Stanbridge |Missisquoi Q|George Clayes,
| | | jun.
Bedford Basin, | |Halifax N S|Wm. Steven, jun.
W. O. | | |
Beebe Plain |Stanstead |Stanstead Q|J. L. House
Beech Hill, W. O. | |King’s N S|Edmund Quigley
Bégon |Bégon |Témiscouata Q|H. Boucher
Belfast |Ashfield |Huron, N. R. O|William Phillips
Belfast |No. 57 |Queen’s P E I|James Moore
Belford |Markham |York, E. R. O|Israel Burton
Belfountain |Caledon |Cardwell O|Noah Herring
Begrave |Morris |Huron, N. R. O|Simon Armstrong
Belhaven |North |York, N. R. O|Daniel Prosser
| Gwillimbury | |
Belle Creek |No. 62 |Queen’s P E I|James Cook
Belle Alodie |St. Valentin |St. John’s Q|Ambroise Messier
Belledune, W. O. | |Gloucester N B|John Chalmers
Belledune River, | |Gloucester N B|M. Killoran
W. O. | | |
Belleisle, W. O. |Granville |Annapolis N S|Valentine Troop
Belleisle Bay, | |King’s N B|Thos. Davis
W. O. | | |
Belleisle Creek, | |King’s N B|Cosmo F. McLeod
W. O. | | |
Belle Rivière | |Two Mountains Q|William McCubbin
* _Belleville_ |Thurlow |Hastings, W. R. O|J. H. Meacham
Belleville, W. O. | |Carleton N B|James Martin
_Bell Ewart_ |Innisfil |Simcoe, S. R. O|P. Ed. Drake
Belliveaux Cove, | |Digby N S|Urbain Belliveaux
W. O. | | |
Belliveaux Village,| |Westmoreland N B|Lewis Richard
W. O. | | |
Bellrock |Portland |Addington O|Edward Walker
_Bell’s Corners_ |Nepean |Carleton O|George Arnold
Belmont |Westminster |Middlesex, E. R. O|W. H. Odell
Belmore |Turnbury |Huron, N. R. O|Peter Tariff
Belœil Station |Belœil |Verchères Q|William Goullette
Belœil Village |Belœil |Verchères Q|J. B. Brillon
Belyea’s Cove, | |Queen’s N B|George N. Belyea
W. O. | | |
Benmiller |Colborne |Huron, C. R. O|Jonathan Miller
Bennie’s Corners |Ramsay |Lanark, N. R. O|Robert Philip
Bensfort |South Monaghan|Peterborough, O|Alexr. D. Galloway
| | W. R. |
Bentley |Harwich |Kent O|Julius Guild
Beaton, late | |Carleton N B|John E. Murchie
Rankin’s Mills, | | |
W. O. | | |
Beresford |Beresford |Terrebonne Q|V. Charbonneau
Bentonville |Cambridge |Russell O|John Benton
Bergerville |St. Colomb de |Quebec Q|Mrs. C. Petitclerc
| Sillery | |
Berkeley |Holland |Grey, N. R. O|John Fleming
* _Berlin_ |Waterloo, |Waterloo, N. R. O|William Jaffray
| North | |
Berne |Hay |Huron, S. R. O|John Grandy
Berryton, W. O. | |Albert N B|Edward Berry
Bersimis |Bersimis |Saguenay Q|W. S. Church
Berthier |Berthier |Montmagny Q|P. S. Joncas
* _Berthier, en |Berthier |Berthier Q|Miss Annie Kitson
haut_ | | |
Bervie |Kincardine |Bruce, S. R. O|Nichol McIntyre
Berwick |Finch |Stormont O|Moses A. Tobin
_Berwick_ | |King’s N S|J. M. Parker
Berwick Station, | |King’s N S|S. J. Nichols
W. O. | | |
_Bethany_ |Manvers |Durham, E. R. O|W. M. Graham
Bethel |Ely |Shefford Q|G. Bartlett
Bewdley |Hamilton |Northumberland, O|John Sidey
| | W. R. |
Bexley |Bexley |Victoria, N. R. O|George Broadway
Bic |Bic |Rimouski Q|J. R. Colclough
Bienville |Lauzon |Lévis Q|P. Morin
Big Bank, W. O. | |Victoria N S|Donald McLean
Big Bras d’Or, | |Victoria N S|J. A. Fraser
W. O. | | |
Big Brook, W. O. | |Inverness N S|Malcolm McLeod
Big Cove, W. O. | |Queen’s N B|Jas. Umphrey
Big Harbor, W. O. | |Inverness N S|D. McKay
Big Intervale | |Inverness N S|Donald Gillis
(Grand Narrows), | | |
W. O. | | |
Big Intervale |Margaree |Victoria N S|Malcolm McLeod
(Margaree), | | |
W. O. | | |
Big Island, W. O. | |Pictou N S|Alexander McGregor
Big Lorraine, W. O.| |Cape Breton N S|
Big Marsh |No. 42 |King’s P E I|D. McDonald
Big Pond, W. O. | |Cape Breton N S|Hugh McLellan
Big Port’le Bear, | |Shelburne N S|Thomas Richardson
W. O. | | |
Big Tracadie, W. O.| |Antigonishe N S|William Genoir
Billings’ Bridge |Gloucester |Russell O|William Smith
Bill Town, W. O. | |King’s N S|Stubbard Sweet
Binbrook |Binbrook |Wentworth, S. R. O|Henry Hall
Bingham Road |Cayuga South |Haldimand O|Joseph Goehringer
Birchton |Eaton |Compton Q|George N. Hodge
Birdton, W. O. | |York N B|Robert Bird
Birkhall |Moore |Lambton O|F. McKenzie
Birmingham |Pittsburg’ |Frontenac O|Mrs. E. Birmingham
Birr |London |Middlesex, E. R. O|Joseph M. Young
Bishop’s Mills |Oxford |Grenville, N. R. O|Asa W. Bishop
Bismarck |Gainsborough |Monck O|Christian Trumm
Black Bank |Mulmur |Simcoe, S. R. O|John Newel
Black Brook, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|Robert Blake
Black Creek |Willoughby |Welland O|Isaac H. Allen
Black Heath |Binbrook |Wentworth, S. R. O|Alexander Simpson
Black Land, W. O. | |Restigouche N B|William Cook
Black Point, W. O. | |Restigouche N B|H. Connacher
Black Point, W. O. | |Halifax N S|James Hubley
Black River, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|Robert McNaughton
Black River, W. O. | |St. John N B|Robert Stewart
Black River, W. O. | |Antigonishe N S|Colin McDonald
Black River Bridge,| |Northumberland N B|Mrs. I. Cameron
W. O. | | |
Black River Station|St. Giles |Lotbinière Q|Louis Olivier
Black Rock, W. O. | |Cumberland N S|Jas. Williger
Blackville, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|W. H. Grindley
Blair |Waterloo |Waterloo, S. R. O|J. Renshaw
_Blairton_ |Belmont |Peterboro’, O|Roger Bates
| | E. R. |
Blanchard Road, | |Pictou N S|Donald Ross
W. O. | | |
Blandford |St. Louis de |Arthabaska Q|D. Bergeron
| Blandford | |
Blandford, W. O. | |Lunenburg N S|
Blantyre |Euphrasia |Grey, E. R. O|James C. Patterson
Blayney Ridge, |Prince William|York N B|Josiah Davis
W. O. | | |
Blessington |Tyendinaga |Hastings, E. R. O|Isaac Mott
Blissfield, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|John A. Arbo
Blissville | |Sunbury N B|John E. Smith
Bloomfield |Hallowell |Prince Edward O|Jonathan Striker
Bloomfield |No. 5 |Prince P E I|M. Gavin
Bloomfield, W. O. | |Carleton N B|Reuben Allerton
Bloomfield, W. O. | |King’s N B|John Leavitt
Bloomingdale |Waterloo |Waterloo, N. R. O|J. G. Moyer
Bloomington |Whitchurch |York, N. R. O|Maxon Jones
Bloomsburg |Townsend |Norfolk, N. R. O|L. W. Kitchen
Blue Mountain, | |Pictou N S|Wm. McDonald
W. O. | | |
Blue’s Mill, W. O. | |Inverness N S|Malcolm Blue
_Bluevale_ |Morris |Huron, N. R. O|John Messer
_Blyth_ |Morris |Huron, N. R. O|P. J. Rooney
Blytheswood |Mersea |Essex O|John Miller
_Bobcaygeon_ |Verulam |Victoria, S. R. O|R. La T. Tupper
Bocabec, W. O. | |Charlotte N B|Wm. Erskine
Bogart |Hungerford |Hastings, E. R. O|John Longman
Boiestown, W. O. | |Northumberland N B|Miles McMillen
Boisdale Chapel, | |Cape Breton N S|Michael McIntyre
W. O. | | |
Bolingbroke |S. Sherbrooke |Lanark, S. R. O|John Kerry
Bolsover |Eldon |Victoria, N. R. O|Duncan McRae
Bolton Centre |Bolton |Brome Q|John Blaisdell
Bolton Forest |Bolton |Brome Q|James T. Channell
Bomanton |Haldimand |Northumberland, O|Richard Knight
| | W. R. |
Bonaventure River |Hamilton |Bonaventure Q|Frederic Forest
* _Bondhead_ |W. Gwillimbury|Simcoe, S. R. O|A. H. Carter
Bongard’s Corners |Marysburg |Prince Edward O|Job. D. Bongard
Bonshaw |No. 30 |Queen’s P E I|A. Robertson
Bookton |Windham |Norfolk, N. R. O|P. N. McIntosh
Boom, W. O. | |Inverness N S
|
started by
individuals or firms, like any other private enterprise, without the
formality of application for permission to some public officer, and
without compliance with a set of legally prescribed regulations. They
are subject to the laws of the country governing all kinds of private
business enterprises and sometimes to special laws applying
specifically to them. In some of the states of the United States such
banks are prohibited by law.
Incorporated banks are usually started by private initiative but owe
their actual legal existence and status to a special law, to the
requirements of which they must conform before they are permitted to
do business. Their right to do business is usually evidenced by a
document known as a charter, executed and delivered by a public
officer legally endowed with the requisite authority, or passed in the
form of a law by the legislative organs of the state. Charters of the
latter kind are known as special charters and are rarely used
nowadays, except in the case of institutions of a peculiar character,
endowed with special functions. The central banks of Europe owe their
existence to such charters, as did also the first and second United
States banks. In the early history of the United States special
charters were uniformly employed by the states, but for many years
general incorporation laws have been the rule, on compliance with the
requirements of which persons who desire to incorporate banks can
secure charters.
In federal states, both the federal government and the governments of
the constituent states frequently have and exercise the right to
incorporate banks. In the United States, banks incorporated by the
federal government under the terms of a general law, originally passed
in 1863 and many times amended since that date, are known as
_national_ banks, and those incorporated by the states under the
terms of general banking acts or of general incorporation laws are
known as _state_ banks. These latter are endowed with privileges which
enable them to exercise commercial and some investment banking
functions. Other banks also are incorporated by our states under the
terms of general laws, which are known as savings banks and trust
companies. The former, as the name implies, are institutions primarily
designed for the encouragement, collection, and investment of savings.
The latter are called trust companies because the earliest
institutions of this type made the execution of trusts of various
kinds their exclusive business. Banking functions were later added and
in many cases have now assumed chief importance.
The nature of the banking business requires some kind of organization
of the individual institutions in which certain ones will assume to a
degree at least the rôle of bankers' banks. In most European countries
this position is occupied by single institutions specially chartered
and endowed with special privileges and usually described as central
banks. Examples are the Bank of England in England, the Bank of France
in France, and the Imperial Bank of Germany in Germany. Around these
are grouped the other institutions in a kind of hierarchy, certain
large banks in the larger cities forming centers about which smaller
institutions group themselves. In the United States there is no single
central institution, but a small group of banks in New York City are
the real centers of the system. Around these are grouped the banks in
the other large cities of the country and these in turn perform
important services for banks in the surrounding smaller towns and
country districts.
CHAPTER II
THE NATURE AND OPERATIONS OF COMMERCIAL BANKING
In the preceding chapter commercial banking has been defined as the
conduct of exchanges by means of a world-wide process of bookkeeping.
We must now describe this process. Its essential features are the
discount of commercial paper, the conduct of checking accounts, and
the issue of notes.
_1. Commercial Paper_
By commercial paper is meant the credit instruments or documents which
the credit system now in general use throughout the commercial world
regularly brings into existence and liquidates.
The essence of this system is buying and selling _on time_. The farmer
buys seed, implements, fertilizer, labor, etc., and pays for them
after the crops have been harvested and sold. The manufacturer buys
raw materials and pays for them after they have passed through the
transformation process which he conducts and the completed goods have
been marketed. He frequently sells them to jobbers or wholesalers on
time and these in turn sell them on time to retailers and these to
consumers. Farmers, manufacturers, and merchants both buy on time and
sell on time, and are thus both debtors and creditors, and each
expects that his sales will ultimately pay for his purchases.
The obligations involved in these transactions are represented and
recorded in the form of book accounts, promissory notes, or bills of
exchange, the latter being written or printed, or partly written and
partly printed, orders of creditors on debtors to pay to themselves or
to third parties the sums indicated. These documents are being
constantly made and constantly paid as the processes of agriculture,
industry, and commerce proceed. Indeed, their creation and liquidation
is a normal phenomenon of our modern economic life.
The term commercial paper, as we are using it, applies to such
promissory notes and bills of exchange as belong to this credit
system. It does not apply to such notes and bills when they owe their
existence to credit operations of a different kind, such for example
as accommodation loans or investment operations. Indeed, the
essential characteristic of commercial paper is not revealed in the
form of the credit document but in the fact that it is a link in this
chain of exchange operations by which modern commerce is carried on.
This use of the term should also be distinguished from the one common
among bankers and others. In this popular usage these documents are
called commercial paper because they are themselves objects of
commerce. In our use of the term the adjective "commercial" applies to
them only when they play the rôle of intermediary in a process of
exchange through credit. In this sense it is a matter of indifference
whether they pass through the hands of brokers or not, and the fact of
their being objects of purchase and sale does not confer the quality
of commercial paper upon documents having an origin and character
other than that above described.
_2. The Operation of Discount_
Every person in this chain of credit is confronted with the problem of
paying his debts as they mature by the use of the amounts due him from
other people. Since it is rarely possible to arrange maturities on
both sides in such a way that the amounts due to be paid him at a
given date shall at least equal those he is due to pay on that date,
some means of transforming claims against other people due in the
future into present means of payment must be found. The one
universally employed is the discount of commercial paper. By this is
meant the exchange at a bank of his own promissory notes due at times
when debts of equal or greater amount due him mature, or of bills of
exchange drawn against his debtors, for cash or credits on a checking
account. These latter are available as means of payment at any time.
As a consideration for this accommodation, the bank charges interest
for the period intervening before the maturity of the paper
discounted. Sometimes this charge is paid at the time the paper is
purchased and sometimes at the date of its maturity. The term
"discount" technically means taking interest in advance by making
available as means of present payment in any of the above mentioned
forms a sum less than the amount the bank expects to collect at the
date of the maturity of the discounted paper. If the interest is paid
when the discounted paper matures, the process is technically called
a loan. However, since the time of collecting interest makes no
essential difference in the nature of the transaction, the process is
commonly described as the discount of commercial paper, regardless of
whether the interest is collected in advance or not.
_3. The Conduct of Checking Accounts_
A checking account is an ordinary book account on which are credited
the cash deposited by a customer and the proceeds of collections,
loans, and discounts made on his behalf, and on which are debited
payments made to him in cash or on his behalf to other people or to
the bank itself. These payments are made on orders signed by the
customer and known as checks.
The ordinary customer of a commercial bank every day brings to the
bank the cash he receives as the result of the day's business, and the
checks received, drawn on his own and other banks, and is credited
with the amount on the books of the bank as well as on a passbook
which he himself retains. If he needs cash during the day, he presents
to the bank a check payable to himself for the amount needed, and
receives the kinds and denominations wanted; and if he wants to make
payments to his creditors in other forms than cash, he sends them
checks on his bank payable to their order, or a check drawn by his
bank on some bank in another place, usually called a draft, which he
has obtained by exchanging for it a check drawn to the order of his
bank. To the amount of these payments his account at the bank is
debited, and from time to time his passbook is left at the bank for
the entry therein of the debits made to date and its subsequent return
to him.
The customer must take care that his account is not overdrawn, that
is, that the debits on his account do not exceed the credits, since
overdrafts, except by accident or for very short periods and small
amounts, are not allowed in this country, and in other countries,
where they are allowed, they must be provided for in advance by a
special agreement between the bank and the customer, which usually
involves the deposit with the bank of ample security. In order to
avoid overdrafts, the customer in this country agrees with his banker
on what is known as a "line," that is, a maximum amount of loans or
discounts to be allowed. Whenever his credit balance falls to a
certain minimum, also established by agreement with the bank, the
latter discounts for him the paper of his customers, that is, bills of
exchange drawn on them or their promissory notes in his favor, or his
own promissory notes. The proceeds of these discounts are credited on
his account like deposits of cash or of checks for collection.
So long as the discounts are confined to commercial paper the bank's
part in these transactions consists almost exclusively of bookkeeping
between its customers and between itself and other banks. Ordinarily,
what is debited on one man's account is credited on another's, the
cash received nearly balancing that paid out. To the extent that the
cash receipts and payments do not balance, the bank either has a
surplus or is obliged to provide for the meeting of a deficit. The
means available for this latter purpose will be explained in
subsequent sections, as well as some of the details of this
bookkeeping process. For the present it is important to note precisely
how the discount of commercial paper is related to this bookkeeping
process.
As explained in Section 1, commercial paper is an essential part of
the process of exchanging goods through credit. A person buys on time
and sells on time and expects to pay for his purchases by the
proceeds of his sales. So long, therefore, as the processes of
commerce and industry proceed in a normal fashion, the paper
discounted by a bank will be paid at maturity and the credit balance
created by means of such discounts offset by corresponding debits.
Ordinarily the credits created through discounts during a given
period, say a day or a week, in favor of one set of customers will be
balanced during this same period by the payment of notes previously
discounted for other customers. Within a complete trading area this is
certain to happen, since purchases and sales of goods are equal and
what is credited to one man is debited to another.
The result is very different if a bank discounts investment paper,
that is, credit documents which represent the unproductive consumption
of individuals or of public and private corporations, or which
represent the purchase on time of the instruments of production rather
than the production of goods through the use of such instruments and
their transfer from the producer to the consumer. The means of payment
of such documents can only be created gradually by the application of
the profits of the enterprises in which the investments were made, or
by taxes spread over a series of years, or by a slow process of
saving. If a bank issues its own demand obligations in exchange for
such documents, it cannot make its books balance and it will be
constantly exposed to the danger of forced liquidation. If it attempts
to protect itself by requiring that the discounted paper shall mature
in a short period, the necessity of liquidation will be forced upon
customers who are responsible for the payment of the discounted paper;
that is, such customers will be obliged to sell at such prices as they
can command the property in which the investments were made, or some
other property. Such liquidation always results in forced
readjustments of prices and business depression, and sometimes in
commercial crises.
_4. The Issue of Notes_
As an alternative for or a supplement to the conduct of checking
accounts a commercial bank may issue its promissory notes payable to
bearer on demand. By the issue of notes is meant their transfer to
customers in exchange for cash, for checks left for collection or
drawn against a credit balance in a checking account, or for
discounted notes and bills.
By the use of these notes commercial banking can be carried on
without checking accounts. In that case the notes are issued in
exchange for cash and discounted bills, and notes are returned to the
bank in exchange for cash or when discounted bills or notes mature and
are paid. In the bookkeeping process which has been described bank
notes thus issued and returned perform precisely the same function as
checking accounts, and are related to the discount of commercial paper
and the credit system of the country in precisely the same manner as
such accounts.
Most banks of issue at the present time conduct checking accounts
also, using the one instrumentality or the other as their customers
desire. In this case notes are issued in exchange for checks drawn
against credit balances on checking accounts or deposited for
collection as well as in exchange for discounted notes and bills and
cash.
By the use of both notes and checking accounts, a bank can supply most
of the needs of its customers for a circulating medium, the notes
serving as hand-to-hand money, and the checking accounts, practically
all other purposes. Being the direct obligations of banks attested by
the signatures of their responsible officers, and being payable to
bearer on demand and capable of being issued in all necessary
denominations, such notes can be transferred without indorsement, can
be used for making change and payments of small and moderate size for
which checks are not convenient, and they do not need to be presented
at a bank for the test of their validity. If the bank or banks which
issue them are properly conducted and supervised and properly
safeguarded by law, such notes will circulate freely through the
length and breadth of a country.
Checking accounts meet in the most satisfactory manner all currency
needs for which hand-to-hand money is not well adapted, such as large
payments and payments at a distance. With a few strokes of a pen
payments of the greatest magnitude can be made through their agency.
Checks can be sent through the mails at slight expense and without
danger of loss of the amount involved. By the devices known as
travelers' and commercial letters of credit, checking accounts supply
the most convenient form of currency for travelers and for merchants
engaged in foreign trade.
Besides bank notes and checking accounts the only forms of currency
needed in any community are standard and subsidiary coins, the former
for use as ultimate redemption material for all other forms of
currency and for the payment of international and other balances, and
the latter for small change. Even these forms of currency are supplied
by commercial banks, but since they do not create them, ways and means
of procuring them in the quantities needed constitute one of their
peculiar problems.
_5. Collections_
One of the most important functions of commercial banks is the
collection for their customers of checks and drafts drawn on other
institutions. When these documents are received, the accounts of
customers who deposited them are credited with the amounts, less a
small fee for collection, unless by agreement this service of
collection is performed free of charge. The checks are then assorted
according to the banks upon which they are drawn and the cities in
which those banks are located.
Checks drawn upon home banks are collected either through messengers
who present the checks at the counters of the banks upon which they
are drawn and secure payment therefor, or through the local clearing
house. This is a place where representatives of the banks meet for the
exchange of checks. After the representative of each bank has
distributed all the checks held by his institution against the others
participating in the clearing, and received from them those drawn
against his bank, a balance sheet is prepared showing the balance due
by or to his bank after the total of the checks distributed has been
balanced against the total received. If said balance is adverse, it is
paid to the master of the clearing house, and if it is favorable, it
is received from him.
The checks received through the clearing house or presented by
messengers from other banks and paid, are debited to the accounts of
the persons who drew them and returned to such persons as vouchers,
the net result of the entire transaction being the same as if all the
parties involved had been customers of a single bank, with the
exception that some means of paying balances had to be found. Since
balances are sometimes paid by checks on some central institution in
which credit balances may be obtained by rediscounts of commercial
paper, this necessity can be met without the use of any form of
currency other than that furnished by banks themselves.
Checks drawn upon out-of-town banks are, in this country, collected
through so-called correspondents. Each bank enters into an
arrangement with a few other banks, distributed throughout the country
and conveniently located for the purpose, by which the correspondent
bank agrees to conduct with it a checking account on which it will
credit at par or at a stipulated discount the checks sent it for
collection and debit checks drawn against such an account. A
comparatively small number of such correspondents suffices, since
certain banks in the larger cities, by making a business of such
collections, conduct checking accounts with a large number of banks,
and can thus make collections by mere transfers of credits on their
own books or by the use of the local clearing house. The so-called
reserve cities in this country constitute clearing centers for the
territories contiguous to them, and New York, Chicago, and St. Louis,
for the entire country.
Checks received from correspondents and drawn against themselves are
debited to the accounts of the customers who drew them and returned as
vouchers in the same manner as checks received through the clearing
house or paid over their own counters.
Through this interchange of checks between banks and the conduct of
checking accounts with each other, intermunicipal and international
exchanges are conducted through the bookkeeping processes of
commercial banks with the same ease and economy as are exchanges
between people living in the same town.
_6. Domestic Exchange_
The accounts of a bank with its correspondents are a record of the
transactions of its customers with the outside world, the checks they
receive as a result of sales to outsiders of merchandise, real estate
or other property, or as a result of gifts by outsiders to them being
credited on such accounts, while the checks they draw or the drafts
they purchase in payment for merchandise, real estate or other
property purchased of outsiders, or of gifts made to them are debited.
When in a given period, say a day or a week, the receipts of the
customers of a bank from outsiders, as a result of current or past
sales and gifts, exceed the payments made by them as a result of
purchases and gifts, its credit balances with its correspondents will
increase, and under opposite conditions they will decrease. If the
payments should continue in excess for a considerable period, the
credit balances of a bank with its correspondents would be exhausted
and some means of replenishing them would have to be found, and under
the opposite conditions too large a portion of the bank's resources
would accumulate with its correspondents and some means of withdrawing
funds would have to be found.
When a bank needs to replenish its credit balances with its
correspondents, it may ship cash or purchase drafts from other home
banks, which it can send to its correspondents for collection like
checks deposited in the ordinary course of business. The latter
resource will of course be available only when these other banks'
balances with their correspondents are not exhausted. Should the
balances of all the banks of a town with their out-of-town
correspondents be nearly or quite exhausted, shipments of cash to
correspondents could not be avoided. If a bank wishes to withdraw
funds from its correspondents for home use, it may order cash shipped
or it may, perhaps, be able to sell drafts for cash to other home
banks.
The expenses involved in shipments of cash, loans, or purchases or
sales of drafts for the purpose of replenishing balances with or
withdrawing them from out-of-town correspondents, give rise to what is
called the _rate of exchange_. If, in order to make out-of-town
payments for its customers, a bank is obliged to pay the expense of
shipping cash to its correspondents or to pay a premium on drafts
purchased from other banks, the natural method of reimbursement will
be a premium charge on drafts sold equal to the amount of the expense
incurred. If it wishes to withdraw a balance with its correspondent,
since to order cash shipped will involve expense, it will be glad to
sell drafts for cash at a discount not to exceed such expense.
The rate of exchange, or the price of drafts on a given point, may,
therefore, fluctuate between a premium equal to the cost of shipping
cash to that point and a discount of the same amount. Beyond these
extremes, these fluctuations cannot ordinarily go, because customers
may demand cash of their banks in payment of checks against their own
credit balances and ship it to their out-of-town creditors at their
own expense, and would do so if the rates charged on drafts should
make such procedure profitable. The actual rate of exchange will not
ordinarily reach either of these extremes, on account of competition
either between the banks which are desirous of selling drafts on their
correspondents or between those which are forced to buy as an
alternative to cash shipments. If the aggregate balances of the banks
of a town with their out-of-town correspondents are large and
increasing, the pressure to sell drafts will be greater than that to
buy and the rate of exchange will go to a discount, the amount of
which, however, will be fixed by competition between the selling
banks. In the opposite case, the rate will go to a premium and be
fixed by competition between the buying banks.
In most towns in the United States there is little or no competition
between banks in the business of buying and selling drafts and
consequently no open market for exchange and no quotations of exchange
rates. In such cases each bank acts more or less independently;
shipments of cash to or from correspondents are the ordinary means of
regulating balances; and the cost of such shipments are charged to the
general expense account of the bank and taken out of customers either
by a fixed and more or less invariable charge on drafts sold, or in
other ways.
Since the balances of the banks of a town with their out-of-town
correspondents depend primarily upon the commercial and gift relations
of their customers with the outside world, it is pertinent to inquire
whether as a result of a long continued excess of purchases from
outsiders over sales to them and of gifts to over gifts from them, the
cash resources of a community might not be completely exhausted, and
if not, how such an outcome is prevented.
Bankers have no direct control over the purchases and sales of their
customers, but through the rate of interest they charge on loans and
discounts and their ability absolutely to discontinue such
accommodations they exert a very potent indirect influence. The rates
of interest and discount charged are an important element in the cost
of doing business and, if loaning and discounting is discontinued,
sales of property to meet maturing obligations are forced, with the
result of price readjustments between the town in question and the
outside world which speedily change the relations between purchases
and sales.
When the cash resources of the banks of a town approach the limit of
safety and their balances with their correspondents fall to an
ominously low point, the normal method of procedure is to raise the
rates on loans and discounts, and if conditions grow worse, to raise
them higher still and as a last resort to cease temporarily to make
them at any price. By increasing the cost of doing business this rise
in the rates will check purchases by diminishing or annihilating the
profits resulting, and will stimulate sales by rendering it more
profitable for some customers to secure funds by sales to outsiders at
lower prices than were formerly asked rather than by borrowing from
banks. Under ordinary circumstances this procedure will be sufficient
to change an unfavorable into a favorable balance of indebtedness with
the outside world, with the result that more checks on outside
institutions will be deposited with the banks and a smaller amount of
drafts purchased. Bankers' balances with their correspondents will,
therefore, increase, and with them their ability to command cash in
case of need. The demands made upon them for cash will also decrease,
since the volume of loans and of business transacted will fall.
If the banks stop discounting, a more or less violent readjustment
with the outside world results. Business men who have obligations to
meet, and most of them will belong to this class, are obliged to sell
their goods and property at whatever prices are necessary and to stop
purchasing entirely. The outcome, so far as the banks are concerned,
is as above indicated. If conditions are such that sales at any price
cannot be forced, a crisis ensues; that is, business operations are
temporarily suspended and transfers of property in settlement of
obligations are made through bankruptcy and other court proceedings.
_7. Foreign Exchange_
The business relations between banks located in different countries do
not differ in any essential respect from those between banks located
in the same country. Interchange of checks, the conduct of checking
accounts, shipments of cash, and borrowing and lending proceed in the
same manner as between domestic institutions. The chief peculiarities
of the foreign exchanges are due to the fact that different units of
value and sometimes different standards must here be reckoned with,
and that the precious metals, chiefly gold, are used in the settlement
of balances. Drafts drawn in the United States on English points, for
example, call for the payment of pounds sterling, those on French
points for francs, and those on German points for marks, while all
must be paid for in dollars.
The translation of the language of values of one country into that of
others thus involved requires the calculation of a so-called _par of
exchange_. By this is meant the relation between the weights of pure
metal contained in their respective units of value, if the countries
in question have the same standard, and the relation between the
market values of the metallic content of their units, if their
standards are different. Thus the par of exchange between this country
and England is $4.8665, since our dollar contains 23.22 grains of pure
gold and the English pound sterling 4.8665 times as many grains, or
113.0016. Our par of exchange with France is 19.294 cents, the
quotient of 4.4802, the number of grains of pure gold in the French
franc, divided by 23.22. Between China and the United States the par
of exchange is the market value in our dollars of the amount of silver
contained in the tael, the Chinese unit.
Another technical term employed in connection with the foreign
exchanges is _the gold points_. These are the points above and below
the par of exchange fixed by the addition in the one case, and the
subtraction in the other, of the cost of shipping gold between the two
places in question. They are the points between which the rates of
exchange fluctuate, or the points at which, when the rate of exchange
reaches them, gold moves between gold standard countries. Assuming
for example, that the cost of shipping gold between New York and
London is two cents per pound sterling, the gold points are 4.8865 and
4.8465, it being profitable to ship gold from New York to London when
sterling exchange reaches the former figure and to import gold from
London when it reaches the latter figure.
In the conduct of the foreign exchanges several classes of bills are
employed upon which the quotations differ, in part on account of
differences in their quality and in part on account of the interest
element entering into the value of time bills. For example, New York
regularly quotes on London _cables_, _demand_, and _sixty-day_ bills.
The rates on a certain date were: Cables, 4.8860; demand, 4.8790; and
sixty days, 4.8370. Inasmuch as these are all bankers' bills and
consequently of the same quality, the differences in their quotations
are due to the interest element and to the fact that in the case of
the cables the cost of the cablegram is included.
When a New York banker sells a cable on London, his balance with his
correspondent is reduced by the amount in a few hours, and the
interest he receives on such balances is proportionately diminished at
once, and he is also out the cost of the necessary cablegram. When he
sells a demand bill, his account with his London correspondent remains
undiminished during the time required for sending the bill by mail
across the Atlantic and for its presentation for payment. He draws
interest on his entire balance during this period. When he sells a
sixty-day bill, his balance does not suffer diminution on its account
for sixty days. In order to place these bills on a footing of equality
so far as he is concerned, therefore, he must quote demand and
sixty-day bills lower than cables; the former by the cost of the
cablegram plus interest on the amount of the bill, say for ten days,
at the rate he receives on his London balance, and the latter by the
amount of the cablegram plus interest on the amount for sixty days at
the same rate.
Trade, or mercantile, as well as bankers' bills are also frequently
and, in some markets, regularly quoted. Being of a quality ranked as
inferior to bankers' bills, they must be negotiated at a lower rate
and are quoted accordingly.
CHAPTER III
THE PROBLEMS OF COMMERCIAL BANKING
The conduct of commercial banking presents problems both to the
bankers and to the public, the methods of solution of which will be
given attention at this point. The problems concerning the bankers
primarily may be grouped under the heads, supply of cash, selection of
loans and discounts, and rates; and those which primarily concern the
public may be grouped under the heads, protection against unsound
practices, and adequacy and economy of service.
_1. The Supply of Cash_
The credit balances on checking accounts and the notes of commercial
banks are payable on demand in the legal-tender money of the nation to
which they belong, and such banks must at all times be prepared to
meet these obligations.
The term employed to designate the funds provided for this purpose is
_reserves_, and in this country they consist of money kept on hand
and of credit balances in other banks. In other countries there is
also included under this head commercial bills of the kind which can
always be discounted. The term _secondary reserve_ is sometimes
employed in this country to designate certain securities, such as
high-class bonds listed on the stock exchanges, which can be sold
readily for cash in case of need.
The amount of reserve required can be determined only by experience.
In ordinary times it depends chiefly upon the habits of the community
in which the bank is located regarding the use of hand-to-hand money
as distinguished from checks and upon the character of its customers.
These habits differ widely in different nations, and considerably in
the different sections and classes of the same nation. In most
European and Oriental countries, for example, checks are little used
by the masses of the people, while in the United States and England
they are widely used. In these latter countries, however, they are
less widely used by people in the country than in the cities, and by
the laboring than the other classes in the cities. Within the same
city one bank may need to keep larger reserves than another on account
of the peculiarities of the lines of business carried on by its
customers and the classes of people with whom it deals.
In times of crisis and other periods of extraordinary demand, bank
reserves must be much larger than in ordinary times. Hoarding,
unusually large shipments of money to foreign countries and between
different sections of the same country, and payments of unusual
magnitude, increase the demands for cash made upon banks at such
times.
The manner in which clearing and other balances between banks are met
also has an influence on the amount of reserves required. If such
balances are paid daily and always in cash, the amount needed for this
purpose is much larger than if they are paid in checks on some one or
a few institutions and at longer intervals.
The note issue privileges of a bank also affect its reserve
requirements. Since, if not prohibited by law, notes may be issued in
all denominations needed for hand-to-hand circulation within a nation,
and since for all purposes except small change such notes are as
convenient as any other form of currency, a bank with unrestricted
issue privileges can supply all the demands of its customers for
currency for domestic use, except those for small change, without
resort to outside sources of supply. In this case, however, it needs
to keep a reserve in order to meet demands for the redemption of
notes. Such demands arise on account of the need of coin for small
change or for shipment abroad or of means for meeting domestic
clearing and other bank balances. The aggregate needed for the supply
of such demands, however, is much less than would be required if the
privilege of issuing notes did not exist.
In the maintenance of reserves the chief reliance of commercial banks
is the circulation of standard coin within a nation and the
importation of such coin. The coin within the borders of a nation
passes regularly into the vaults of banks by the process of deposit,
and on account of the credit balances they carry with foreign
institutions, the loans they are able to secure from them, the
commercial paper they hold which is discountable in foreign markets,
and the bonds and stocks sometimes in their possession which are
salable there, they are able to import large quantities in case of
need. Since the standard coin in existence in the world adjusts itself
to the need for it in substantially the same manner that the supply of
any other instrument or commodity adjusts itself to the demand, banks
ordinarily have no difficulty in supplying their needs, and under
extraordinary circumstances, though difficulties along this line
sometimes arise, means of overcoming them are available which will be
discussed in the proper place.
If, as is the case in the United States, certain forms of government
notes are available as bank reserves, these find their way into the
banks' vaults by the process of deposit in the same manner as coin.
The possession of such notes by a bank enables it, to the extent of
their amount, to throw the responsibility for the supply of standard
coin upon the government, and in the circulation of the country such
notes take the place of an equivalent amount of standard coin. Whether
or not a government ought to assume such a responsibility is a
question which will be discussed in a subsequent chapter.
For the nation as a whole, the balances in other banks and the
discountable commercial paper and bonds which a bank may count as a
part of its reserves are not reserves except to the extent that they
may be employed as a means of importing gold. They are only means
through which real reserves of standard coin are distributed. The
payment in cash of a balance with another bank or the discount of
commercial paper with another domestic bank or the sale of bonds on
domestic stock exchanges do not add to the sum total of the cash
resources of the banks of a nation. Their only effect is to increase
the cash resources of one bank at the expense of another.
Adequate facilities for the distribution of the reserve funds of a
country, however, are second in importance only to the existence of
adequate supplies of standard coin. If such facilities are lacking,
existing reserves can be only partially and uneconomically used, with
the result that much larger aggregate reserves are required than would
otherwise be necessary and that the entire credit system is much less
stable than it otherwise would be.
_2. The Selection of Loans and Discounts_
The problem of the reserves is vitally connected with that of the
selection of loans and discounts. As was shown in the preceding
chapter, the chief business of a commercial bank is to conduct
exchanges by a process of bookkeeping between individuals, banks,
communities, and nations. This process consists primarily in the
converting of commercial bills and notes into credit balances and
bank notes, in the transfer of such balances and notes between
individuals and banks, and in the final extinguishment of such
balances and the return of such notes at the maturity of the
commercial bills and notes in which the process originated.
In this process there is little need for cash, provided the
arrangements between banks for clearing checks and for the interchange
of notes are complete and efficiently administered. But when a bank
accepts investment in lieu of commercial paper, its need for cash at
once increases
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itive from whom? And why? The message will come and I will
not be able to deliver it. The coal tract will be lost to the Inland Coal
and Coke Company and our hopes for a schoolhouse will be blighted.
“But no!” she clinched her fist. “It must not be! There is yet a way!”
The message did come, a message of great good news. It came on the wings
of the wind, came to Mrs. McAlpin and Marion, late that very afternoon.
In the meantime, on the mountain-side near the cabin in which Florence
was hiding, strange things were happening. Florence was wondering about
the identity of the rough mountain men who had made her prisoner. Were
they feudists? Or moonshiners suspecting her of being a spy? Or real
spies themselves, employed by the great mining corporation to trap her?
Or were they just plain robbers?
Such were the thoughts running through her mind when she caught the sound
of a cheery note outside the cabin. It was the _chee-chee-chee, to-wheet,
to-wheet, to-wheet_ of a mountain wren. The song brightened her spirits
and allayed her fears.
“As long as he keeps up his joyous notes I need have no fear,” she told
herself. “The appearance of someone near would frighten him into silence.
“Dear little friend,” she whispered, “how wonderful you are! When human
friends were here you came each year to make your nest in some niche in
their cabin. Now they are gone. Who knows where? But you, faithful to
their dream of happiness, return to sing your merry song among the
ruins.”
Even as she whispered this, her ear caught a far different note, a dread
sound—the long-drawn note of a hound.
As this grew louder and louder her heart beat rapidly with fear.
“On my trail,” she thought with dread.
As the sound began to grow fainter she felt sure that the hunters, if
hunters they were, had passed on up over the main trail. Hardly had the
hope been born when it was suddenly dashed aside. The solid thump-thump
of footsteps sounded outside the cabin, then ended.
For a moment there was silence, such a silence as she had not experienced
in all her days. Flies had ceased to buzz. The little brown wren had
flown away.
Then a harsh voice crashed into that silence.
“Reckon she are up thar, Lige?”
“’T’ain’t no ways possible,” drawled the second man. “Look at them thar
hollyhocks. Narry a leaf broke. Reckon airy one’d pass through that door
without a tramplin’ ’em down?”
“Reckon not.”
“Better be stirrin’ then, I reckon.”
“Reckon so.”
Again came the solid drum of feet. This grew fainter and fainter until it
died away in the distance.
“Good old hollyhocks! Good little old sentries, how I could hug you for
that!” A tear splashed down upon the girl’s hand, a tear for which none
should be ashamed.
Even as the footsteps of the men died away in the distance, Florence felt
the shadow of the mountain creeping over the cabin.
“Soon be dark,” she breathed, “and then—”
She was some time in deciding just what should be done. Her first impulse
was to take the up-trail as soon as darkness had fallen and to make her
way back to her friends.
“But that,” she told herself, “means the end of our hopes.”
At once there passed before her closed eyes pictures of brave, laughing
little children of the mountain; ragged, barefooted, pleading children,
walking miles over the frosts of November to attend their school, the
first real school they would have known.
“No!” She set her teeth hard. “There is still a way. I will wait here for
Marion’s signal. It will come. If she has news, good news, somehow I will
find my way to Caleb Powers. Somehow the race must be won!”
CHAPTER III
A DARTING SHADOW
That same evening, just at dusk, Marion came upon a fresh and startling
mystery. She had climbed the hill at the back of the ancient whipsawed
cabin which was occupied by Mrs. McAlpin and her friends.
Beside the bubbling brook that sang so softly, she had found she could
think calmly. There was reason enough for calm thinking, too. They had
entered into this business of buying the Powell coal tract, expecting
only mild adventure and possibly a large profit. Mysterious things were
happening to Florence. She was sure of that. By the aid of the Silent
Alarm she had received a message from her. The message had warned her to
retreat, to return to the whipsawed cabin and wait. She had obeyed.
It was indeed very singular.
“What can have happened?” Marion now asked herself for the hundredth
time. “Wherever she may be, she can hardly be out of reach of the Silent
Alarm. Darkness will find me again on the trail that leads to the crest
of Pine Mountain.
“She must succeed! Must! Must!” she told herself. “And I must let her
know. I surely must!”
That very afternoon she had received information of tremendous
importance.
In the whipsawed cabin was a small radio receiving set. The long twilight
of the mountains often slipped away with a score of mountain people
sitting on the hillside listening to the sweet strains of music that came
from this radio and floated through the open windows. At times, even in
the afternoon, they tuned in on Louisville that they might catch some
news of the outside world. On this particular afternoon, wearied from her
long hike of the previous night, Marion had been lolling half asleep on
the couch when of a sudden she sat upright, wide awake. Her ear had
caught the words, “M. and N. Railroad.”
Here might be important news. It was important, for the announcer, after
a brief pause in which he had perhaps referred to his notes, had gone on:
“At a meeting to-day of the Board of Directors of the M. and N. Railroad,
it was decided that a spur would be built along the south slope of Pine
Mountain. This work, which is to be rushed to completion within a year,
will tap vast tracks of valuable coal land.”
Marion had risen trembling from the couch. She had wanted to cry, to
laugh, to shout. Here was great news indeed. Coming right in from the
air, it had beyond doubt given them many hours of advantage over their
rival, the agent of the Inland Coal and Coke Company.
But she had not shouted, nor had she cried nor laughed. She had climbed
the hillside and had stretched out on the leafy slope by the murmuring
brook to think.
She had decided to wait for darkness. Then she would hurry away over the
four miles that led to the crest of the low mountain. Once there she
would kindle a beacon fire.
Down deep in her heart she prayed that Florence might catch the gleam of
that fire as she had the one of the night before, and that having caught
her joyous message, she might be free to act.
“If only it would hurry and get dark!” she whispered to herself. “If only
it would. Then I could slip up there and send the message.”
But what was this? Of a sudden this all important problem was driven from
her mind. From out the clump of mountain ivy that skirted the hill above
the whipsawed cabin there had darted a shadow.
Who could it be? No mysterious persons were known to be about, but she
could not be sure. Men hid out in these hills—rough, dangerous men who
were wanted by the law.
The cheery lamplight that suddenly burst forth through the small square
window of the whipsawed cabin below reassured her. There were friends in
that house, her friends Mrs. McAlpin and little Hallie.
Even as she settled back again to think of their great problems, she was
given another start. Outside the window, into the square of light that
poured forth from it, there had crept the face of a man. It was not a
charming face to behold, but rather an alarming one. Beneath bushy
eyebrows gleamed a pair of beady black eyes. The nose was hawk-like and
the cheeks and chin were covered by a stubby beard.
It was a face to make one shudder, and Marion did shudder. She drew back
as if to bury herself in the giant chestnut at her back. Even as she did
so she saw the man start, saw an unuttered exclamation spring to his
lips. What had he seen? What had he hoped to see? There was mystery
enough about that whipsawed cabin. Once there had been gold in it—much
gold. Preacher Gibson had hinted that it might still be there. It had
been brought there many years before, just after the Civil War. Jeff
Middleton, who with the help of a neighbor had built the cabin, had died
suddenly in a feud. The gold had vanished. No one, so far as was known,
had ever found it.
Who was this man at the window? Did he at last have a clue to the
whereabouts of the gold, and had he come to search for it, only to find
the cabin occupied?
Little Hallie, too, was quite as mysterious as the whipsawed cabin in
which she lived. She had been brought to the cabin door on a stormy
night—a beautiful eight year old child, unconscious from an ugly blow on
her head. While she was being cared for, the man who brought her had
vanished. He had not returned. That was three weeks ago. Efforts to
discover the identity of the child—other than the name “Hallie,” which
had come from her own lips—had been unavailing. Her memory appeared to
have gone with the blow on her head.
Fortunately, Mrs. McAlpin had studied medicine in her younger days. Under
her efficient care Hallie had become the cheery joy of the whipsawed
house.
Did this mysterious man know something about little Hallie? Or was he
just some wanderer looking for food and shelter? This last seemed the
most probable.
Yet, as Marion came to this conclusion, she suddenly learned that this
man knew something about one member of the household, for even as she sat
there he passed close enough to touch her, mumbling as he passed:
“Hit’s her. Hit shorely are!”
The girl’s heart went into double-quick time as the man came near to her.
It slowed down very little as he vanished into the night. Questions were
pounding away at her brain. Who was this man? What did he want? To whom
had he referred? To Mrs. McAlpin? To Hallie?
“Must have been Hallie,” she told herself. “And now perhaps he will steal
upon us unawares and carry her away.”
Even as she thought this she felt that it was a foolish fear. Why should
he?
Then of a sudden, as a new thought struck her, she sprang to her feet. A
cry was on her lips, but it died unuttered.
It had suddenly occurred to her that if this man knew something about
this mysterious little girl he should be called back and questioned.
She did not call him back. She was afraid, very much afraid of that man.
“Anyway,” she reassured herself, “he probably didn’t mean Hallie at all.
Probably meant Mrs. McAlpin. She’s been here three summers, and has been
up every creek for miles around.”
With this as a concluding thought, and having caught the delicious odor
of spring chicken roasting on the hearth, she hurried down to supper.
As she entered the cabin, Mrs. McAlpin, who was a famous cook, lifted the
lid of the small cast-iron oven that had been buried beneath the hearth
coals for an hour. At once the room was filled with such delectable
fragrance as only can come from such an oven.
Since the cabin had been purchased by its present owner, it had not been
disfigured by a stove. An immense stone fireplace graced the corner of
each of the four rooms. The cooking was done on the hearth of the room
used as kitchen and dining room.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Marion exclaimed as she hung her sweater on the
deer’s antlers which served as a coat rack. “Just to live like this! To
be primitive as our ancestors were! I shall never forget it, not as long
as I live!”
Supper was over. Darkness had fallen “from the wings of night” when
Marion slipped alone out of the whipsawed cabin.
As she entered the shadows that lay across the path that led away from
the cabin, she caught sound of a movement off to the right.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she did not pause. The message she had to
send could not be longer delayed. And yet, as she hurried on, she could
not help wondering who might have been behind the bushes. Was it the
prowler, he of the beady black eyes and hooked nose, who had peered in at
the cabin window? If it were, what did he want? What did he mean by that
strange exclamation: “Hit’s her?” Had he seen Hallie? Did he know her?
Would he attempt to carry her away? She hoped not. The little girl had
become a spot of sunshine in that brown old cabin.
Two hours later the proceedings of the previous night were being
re-enacted. Marion’s beacon fire appeared on the mountain’s crest.
Florence caught it at once and flashed back her answer. There followed a
half hour of signaling. At the end of this half hour Florence found
herself sitting breathless among the husks in the cabin loft.
“Oh!” she breathed. “What news! The railroad is to be built. I wonder if
the land is still for sale?”
“And I,” she exclaimed, squaring her shoulders, “I must be afraid no
longer. Somehow I must find my way down this slope to Caleb Powell’s
home. I must buy that land.”
She patted the crinkly bills, five hundred dollars, still pinned to the
inside of her blouse. Then, slipping quickly down the ladder, she stepped
into the cool, damp air of night.
Yet, even as she turned to go down the mountain, courage failed her.
Above her, not so far away but that she could reach it in an hour, hung
the mountain’s crest. Dim, dark, looming in the misty moonlight, it
seemed somehow to beckon. Beyond it, down the trail, lay home, her
mountain home, and loving friends.
She had experienced thus far only distrust, captivity without apparent
cause, the great fear of worse things to come.
“No,” she said, “I can’t go back.” Her feet moved slowly up the trail.
“And yet I must!” She faced the other way. “I can’t go back and say to
them, ‘I have no money for the school. I went on a mission and failed
because I was afraid.’ No, No! I can’t do that.”
Then, lest this last resolve should fail her, she fairly ran down the
trail.
She had hurried on for fully fifteen minutes when again she paused,
paused this time to consider. What plan had she? What was she to do? She
did not know the way to the home of her friend, nor to the home of Caleb
Powell. Indeed, she did not so much as know where she was. How, then, was
she to find Caleb Powell?
“Only one way,” she told herself. “I must risk it. At some cabin I must
inquire my way.”
Fifteen minutes later she found herself near a cabin. A dim light shone
in the window. For a moment she hesitated beside the footpath that led to
its door.
“No,” she said at last, starting on, “I won’t try that one.”
She passed three others before her courage rose to the sticking point. At
last, realizing that the evening was well spent and that all would soon
be in bed, she forced herself to walk boldly toward a cabin. A great
bellowing hound rushed out at her and sent her heart to her mouth. The
welcome sound of a man’s voice silenced him.
“Who’s thar?” the voice rang out.
“It’s—it’s I, Florence Huyler.” The girl’s voice trembled in spite of her
effort to control it.
“Let’s see.” The man held a candle to her face. “Step inside, Miss.”
“It—I—I can’t stop,” she stammered, “I—I only wanted to ask where Caleb
Powell lives.”
“Hey, Bill,” the man turned to someone within the cabin. “Here’s that
girl we was lookin’ for this evenin’.”
“Naw ’t’ain’t. Don’t stand to reason.” The man’s feet came to the floor
with a crash. The girl’s heart sank. She recognized the voices of the
men. They were the men who had visited the deserted cabin. The hollyhock
sentinel had done their bit, but all to no purpose. She was once more
virtually a prisoner.
“Guess you come to the wrong cabin, Miss. We are plumb sorry, but hit are
our bond an’ duty to sort of ask you to come in and rest with we-all a
spell. Reckon you ain’t et none. Hey, Mandy! Set on a cold snack for this
here young lady.”
Florence walked slowly into the cabin and sank wearily into a chair. Her
head, which seemed suddenly to grow heavy, sank down upon her breast. She
had meant so well, and this was what fate had dealt her.
Suddenly, as she sat there filled with gloomy thoughts, came one gloomier
than the rest—a thought as melancholy as a late autumn storm.
“Why did we not think of that?” she almost groaned aloud.
She recalled it well enough now. Mrs. McAlpin had once told her of the
queer mixing of titles to land which existed all over the mountains. In
the early days, when land was all but worthless, a man might trade a
thousand acres of land for a yoke of oxen and no deed given or recorded.
“Why,” Mrs. McAlpin had said, “when I purchased the little tract on which
this cabin stands I was obliged to wait an entire year before my lawyer
was able to assure me of a deed that would hold.”
“A year!” Florence repeated to herself. “A year for a small tract! And
here we are hoping to purchase a tract containing thousands of acres
which was once composed of numerous small tracts. And we hope to get a
deed day after to-morrow, and our commission a day later.” She laughed in
spite of herself.
“If we succeed in making the purchase, which doesn’t seem at all likely,
Mr. Dobson may be two years getting a clear title to the land. Will he
pay our commission before that? No one would expect it. And if we don’t
get it before that time what good will it do our school?”
“No,” she told herself, facing the problem squarely, “there must be some
other way; though I’ll still go through with this if opportunity offers.”
In her mental search for “some other way” her thoughts returned to the
ancient whipsawed house on Laurel Branch. She had heard old preacher
Gibson’s story of Jeff Middleton’s return from the Civil War with a great
sack of strange gold pieces.
“Hit’s hid som’ers about that ar whipsawed cabin,” the tottering old
mountain preacher had declared, “though whar it might be I don’t rightly
know. Been a huntin’ of it right smart o’ times and ain’t never lit onto
narry one of them coins yet.”
“If only we could find that gold,” Florence told herself, “all would be
well. That is, if we win the election—if we elect our trustee.”
She smiled a little at this last thought; yet it was no joking matter,
this electing a trustee back here in the Cumberlands. Many a grave on the
sun kissed hillsides, where the dogwood blooms in springtime and ripe
chestnuts come rattling down in the autumn, marks the spot where some
lusty mountaineer lies buried. And it might be written on his tombstone,
“He tried to elect a trustee and failed because the other man’s pistol
gun found its mark.” Elections are hard fought in the Cumberlands. Many a
bitter feud fight has been started over a school election.
Surely, as she sat there once more a prisoner, held by these mysterious
mountaineers, there was enough to disturb her.
CHAPTER IV
A STRANGE ESCAPE
Morning came at last. Florence stirred beneath the home woven covers of
her bed in the mountain cabin. Then she woke to the full realization of
her position.
“A prisoner in a cabin,” she groaned. “And yet they do not treat me
badly. For my supper they set on the table the best they had. It meant a
real sacrifice for them to give up this entire room to me, yet they did
it. I can’t understand it.”
“But I must not let them defeat me!” She brought her feet down with a
slap upon the clean scrubbed and sanded floor. “Somehow, by some means or
another, I must make my way to Caleb Powell’s home to-day.”
Her eyes lighted upon an object that hung above the fireplace—a long
barreled squirrel rifle with a shiny new cap resting beneath the hammer.
“Loaded,” she thought. “Cap wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t. They left it
hanging there because I am a girl and they were certain I couldn’t shoot.
Hump! I can shoot as straight as any of them.”
For a moment a wild vision whirled before her—a vision of a girl bursting
from a room, yelling like a wild Indian and brandishing the long rifle
above her head.
“No,” she smiled. “’Twouldn’t do. It would be very dramatic, but it would
probably end in tragedy, and I have no desire to act a part in such a
tragedy.”
She dressed quickly, then stepped into the other room of the cabin where
she found crisp, brown biscuits, wild honey and fried eggs awaiting her.
She ate a hearty breakfast. “Who knows what strength I may need for this
day?” she thought to herself as she spread honey on her third biscuit.
After that, knowing from past experiences what her limitations would be,
she did not attempt to go many steps from the cabin but contented herself
with sitting outside the cabin door in the sun.
“Such a lovely scene,” she sighed as she looked away and away to where
the peaks of Pine Mountain blended with the bluer peaks of Big Black
Mountain, and all at last were lost in the hazy mists of the morning.
“So peaceful,” she thought, “you’d think there had never been a bit of
trouble since the world began. And yet, right down here in the mountains
there is more trouble than anywhere else in the country. Some men say
that Nature, God’s open book, will make men good and kind. It takes more
than that. It takes—it must take God inside their hearts to accomplish
that.” So she mused, and half the morning slipped away.
From time to time her eyes left the mountain tops to follow the winding
stream that, some fifty feet down a gentle slope, went rushing and
tumbling over its rocky bed. Above and beyond this creek bed, at the
other side of the gorge, ran a trail. Down that trail from time to time
people passed. Now a woman, leading a lean pack horse laden with corn,
shambled along on her way to mill. Now a pair of active, shouting boys
urged on a team of young bullocks hitched to a sled, and now a bearded
mountaineer, with rifle slung across his saddle horn, rode at a dog trot
down the dusty trail.
The girl watched all this with dreamy eyes. They meant nothing to her;
were, in fact, but a part of the scenery.
Still she watched the trail, taking little interest in the people passing
there until suddenly she came to life with surprising interest. A person
of evident importance was passing up the trail. He sat upon a blooded
sorrel horse, and across the pommel of his saddle was a rifle.
“Who is that?” Florence asked, interested in the way this man sat his
horse.
“That? Why, that are Caleb Powell.” Her guard, who sat not far from her,
had also spoken without thinking.
“Caleb Powell!” The girl sprang to her feet. In an instant her two hands
were cupped into a trumpet and she had sent out a loud call.
“Whoo-hoo!”
Caught by rocky walls, the call came echoing back. The man on the blooded
horse turned his gaze toward the cabin.
“Here, you can’t do that away!” The guard put a rough hand on her
shoulder.
“I can, and I will!” The girl’s tone was low and fierce. “You take your
hands away from me, and keep them off!” She jerked away. “I came back
here to see him. He’s a man, a real man, and he—he’s got a rifle.”
Cowering, the man fell back a step.
Again the girl’s hands were cupped.
“Mr. Powell! Come over!” she called. “I have something important to tell
you.”
The man reined in his horse, stared across the gorge in apparent
surprise, then directed his horse down a narrow path that led down one
side of the gorge and up the other.
Standing there, leaning against the doorpost, the girl watched him with
all the fascination that a condemned man must feel as he sees a man
approaching with a message commuting his sentence.
The man who, a few minutes later, came riding up the steep trail to the
cabin, was quite as different from the average mountaineer as Florence
had, at a distance, judged him to be. His face was smooth shaven and his
gray suit, his tie, his leggings, his riding boots, all were in good
order. When at last he spoke it was not in the vernacular of the
mountains, but of the wide world outside.
“You—you have some coal land?” she hesitated as he asked what he might do
for her.
“Why, yes, little girl,” he smiled as he spoke. “My brothers and I have
several acres up these slopes.”
Florence stiffened at his “little girl.” She realized that he had used
the term in kindness, but he must not think of her as a little girl. She
was for a moment a business woman with an important transaction to carry
through.
“You want to sell it?” she said briskly.
“We have offered to sell.”
“For twenty-one thousand?”
“About that.” He was staring at her now. He stared harder when she said:
“I am authorized to buy it at that price.”
For a moment he did not speak; just kept his keen grey eyes upon her.
“I am waiting,” he said at last in a droll drawl, “for the smile.”
“The—the smile?”
“Of course, you are joking.”
“I am not joking.” She was tempted to be angry now. “Here—here’s the
proof. It’s the—Mr. Dobson called it the earnest money.” She dragged the
five hundred dollars in bank notes from her blouse.
For ten seconds after that her heart fluttered wildly. What if this whole
affair were a game played by these men at her expense? What if this man
was not Caleb Powell at all? The thought of the consequences made her
head whirl.
But no, the guard of a half hour before was staring, popeyed, at the
sheaf of bills.
“That looks like business,” said Caleb Powell. “Your Mr. Dobson—I know
him well. So he made you his agent? Well, well! That’s singular. But men
do strange things. I suppose he sent a contract?”
“Yes, yes.” She was eager now. “Here it is.”
“Well,” he said quietly.
Then turning to the former guard, he said; “You’ll not be wanting
anything further of the girl, Jim?”
“Reckon not,” the man drawled.
“Then, Miss—er—”
“Ormsby,” she volunteered.
“Then, Miss Ormsby, if you’ll be so kind as to mount behind me, I’ll take
you down to the house. We’ll fix up the papers. After that we’ll have a
bite to eat and I’ll send you over the mountain.”
The hours that followed were long-to-be-remembered. The signing of the
papers, the talk on the cool veranda, a perfect dinner, then the long,
long ride home over the mountains on a perfect horse with a guide and
guard at her side, and all this crowned by the consciousness of a
wonderful success after days of perils and threatened failure; all these
seemed a dream indeed.
One thing Florence remembered distinctly. She had said to Caleb Powell:
“Mr. Powell, why did those men wish to hold me prisoner?”
“Miss Ormsby,” he said, and there was no smile upon his lips, “some of
our people are what you might call ‘plumb quare’.”
That was all he had said, and for some time to come that was all she was
destined to know about the reason for her mysterious captivity.
Only one thought troubled her as she neared the whipsawed cabin, and
that, she told herself, was only a bad dream.
That it was more than a dream she was soon to learn. Two days later Mr.
Dobson, having dismounted at their cabin, smiled with pleasure when he
was told of the successful purchase of Caleb Powell’s coal land. Then for
a moment a frown darkened his face.
“I—I hate to tell you,” he hesitated.
“You don’t have to,” said Florence quickly. “Please allow me to guess.
You were about to tell us that it is necessary to spend a great deal of
time looking up records and getting papers signed before you have a clear
title to this mountain land, and that we can’t have our money until you
have your title.”
“That puts it a little strongly,” said Mr. Dobson, smiling a little
strangely. “As fast as we can clear up the titles to certain tracts my
company has authorized me to pay that portion of the commission. I should
say you ought to have your first installment within four months. It may
be six, however. Matters move slowly here in the mountains.”
“Four months!” exclaimed Marion.
“Not sooner, I fear.”
“Four—” Marion began, but Florence squeezed her arm as she whispered;
“It’s no use. We can’t help it and neither can they? There must be some
other way. Besides, we haven’t yet elected our trustee.”
CHAPTER V
SAFE AT HOME
That night, for the first time in many days, Florence found herself ready
to creep beneath the hand woven blankets beside her pal. Ah, it was good
to feel the touch of comfort and the air of security to be found there.
What did it matter that after all the struggle and danger she had found
her efforts crowned only by partial success? Time would reveal some other
way. New problems beckoned. Let them come. Life was full of problems, and
solving them is life itself.
The whipsawed house in which the girls lived had been built more than
sixty years before. The heavy beams of its frame and the broad thick
boards of its sheeting inside and out had been sawed by hand from massive
poplar logs.
The walls of the room in which the girls slept were as frankly free of
paint or paper as when the boards were first laid in place. But time and
sixty summers of Kentucky mountain sunshine had imparted to every massive
beam and every broad board such a coat of deep, mellow, old gold as any
millionaire might covet for his palace.
Heavy, hand-cut sandstone formed the fireplace. Before this fireplace, on
a black bearskin, in dream-robes and dressing gowns, sat the two girls
curled up for a chat before retiring.
Then it was that Marion told of the mysterious stranger who had peered in
at the window at dusk.
“That’s strange,” said Florence as a puzzled look knotted her brow. “Who
could he have meant when he said, ‘Hit’s her’? Could he have meant Mrs.
McAlpin?”
“Maybe. She’s been around doctoring people a great deal. He might have
seen her somewhere; might even have needed her services for his family
and been too timid to ask for it. You know how these mountain folks are.
But—” Marion paused.
“But you don’t believe it was Mrs. McAlpin,” prompted Florence, leaning
toward the fire. “Neither do I. I believe it was little Hallie, and I
don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” said Marion with a sudden dab at the fire that sent the
sparks flying. “I—I suppose we ought to want her identity to be
discovered, want her returned to her people, but she’s come to mean so
much to us. She’s a dashing little bit of sunshine. This place,” her eyes
swept the bare brown walls, “this place would seem dreary without her.”
“Marion,” said Florence, “will we be able to elect our trustee?”
“I don’t know.”
“Al Finley and Moze Berkhart taught the school last year. They taught a
month or two; then when it got cold they discouraged the children all
they could, and when finally no one came they rode up and looked in every
day, then rode home again, and drew their pay just the same.”
“We wouldn’t do that.”
“No, we wouldn’t. We’d manage somehow.”
“Marion,” said Florence after they had sat in silence for some time,
their arms around each other, “this building belongs to Mrs. McAlpin,
doesn’t it?”
“Surely. She bought it.”
“And everything inside belongs to her?”
“I suppose so.”
“Old Jeff Middleton’s gold—if it’s here?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then, if we found the gold we could use it to buy repairs for the
schoolhouse, couldn’t we?”
“Yes,” laughed Marion, “and if the moon is really made of green cheese,
and we could get a slice of it, we might ripen it and have it for
to-morrow’s dinner.”
“But preacher Gibson thinks it’s hidden somewhere about here. He saw it,
over sixty years ago. When Jeff Middleton came home from the war he came
from Georgia driving a white mule hitched to a kind of sled with a box on
it, and on the sled, along with some other things, was a bag of gold. Not
real coins, Preacher Gibson said, but just like them; ‘sort of queer-like
coins,’ that’s just the way he said it. There wasn’t anything to spend
gold for back here in the mountains in those days. He built this house,
so he must have hidden the gold here. He lived here until he was killed.
The gold must still be here.”
“Sounds all right,” said Marion with a merry little laugh, “but I imagine
the schoolhouse windows will have to be patched with something other than
that gold. And besides—” she rose, yawning, “we haven’t even got the
positions yet.”
“You don’t think they’d refuse to hire us? Just think! Those boys who
tried to teach last year couldn’t even do fractions, and there wasn’t a
history nor a geography in the place!”
“You never can tell,” said Marion.
In this she was more right than she knew.
A moment later Florence crept beneath the homewoven blankets. A little
while longer Marion sat dreamily gazing at the darkening coals. Then,
drawing her dressing gown tightly about her, she stepped to the door and
slipped out. Like most mountain homes, the door of every room in the
cabin opened onto the porch.
Stepping to the edge of the porch, she stood there, bathed in moonlight.
The night was glorious. Big Black Mountain, laying away in the distance,
seemed the dark tower of some clan of the giants. Below, and nearer, she
caught the reflection of the moon in a placid pool on Laurel Branch,
while close at hand the rhododendrons wove a fancy border of shadows
along the trail that led away to the bottom lands.
As the girl stood drinking in the splendor of it all, she gave a sudden
start, then shrank back into the shadows. Had she caught the sound of
shuffled footsteps, of a pebble rolling down the steep trail? She thought
so. With a shudder she stepped through the door, closed it quickly, and
let the heavy bar fall silently into place. Then, without a word, she
crept beneath the covers. As an involuntary shudder seized her she felt
her companion’s strong arms about her. So, soothed and reassured, she
rested there for a moment. She and Florence had been pals for many long
months. Strange and thrilling were the mysteries they had solved, the
adventures they had experienced. What would the morrow bring? More
mystery, greater adventures? At any rate, they would face them together,
|
Jéza, you are lost. All of those
beautiful wild beasts known as women become mute and helpless the
moment this lion-tamer looks at them."
The Circassian girl tossed her head and turned a defiant look upon
Ödön; but no sooner did she meet his eye than she blushed in spite of
herself--perhaps for the first time since the slave-dealer at
Yekaterinograd had severed her girdle.
"Come, let us drink, my children," cried Leonin, striking off the head
of one of the champagne bottles. Filling three glasses, he handed one
to Ödön and one to Jéza; and when they had half emptied them he
exchanged and refilled them.
"Drink to the bottom this time," he said. "That is right. Now you have
drunk love to each other."
The wine loosed the girl's tongue and she began to chatter in the
liveliest fashion. From the hall the notes of the orchestra reached
them, and she sang an accompaniment. Ödön sat with his back against
the grating and did not once turn around to see any of the pieces that
were being presented. Leonin, on the other hand, looked through the
grating at every new number and indulged in various random comments.
"Well, Jéza," he asked at length, "haven't you any number to-night?"
"No, I am having a holiday," she replied.
"But couldn't you oblige my friend by giving one of your productions?"
Jéza sat upright and stole a look at Ödön. "If he wishes it," she
answered.
"What shall I ask for?" asked Ödön, turning to Leonin.
"Oh, I forgot," replied the latter; "you didn't know that Jéza was an
_artiste_, and above all things unexcelled as a rider. Her number is
always given the place of honour,--at the end of the programme. Choose
any of her rôles."
"But I am not acquainted with the young lady's repertoire," returned
the other.
"Barbarian! not to know Jéza's masterpieces after living for half a
year in a civilised country. Well, I'll name the best ones to you.
'_La Reine Amalasunthe_;' '_La Diablesse_;' '_Étoile qui File_;' '_La
Bayadère_;' '_La Nymphe Triomphante_;' '_Diane qui Chasse Actæon_;'
'_Mazeppa_'--"
"No, that is not among them!" cried the girl, interrupting the
speaker.
"Ödön, don't let her fool you," said Leonin; "choose Ma--"
But he was stopped by Jéza, who had sprung from her seat and was
holding her hand over his mouth. He struggled to free himself, but
meanwhile Ödön ended the contest by making his choice.
"Mazeppa!" he called, and Jéza turned her back to them both in a pet
and leaned against the wall. Leonin, however, gained his point.
"You have always refused me that," said he; "but I told you the time
would come when you would have to yield."
The girl threw a look at Ödön. "Very well, then; it shall be done."
And therewith she disappeared.
Ödön now turned his attention for the first time to the arena, a
vaulted space of sixty yards in diameter, half enclosed by a
semicircle of grated boxes. No spectators were to be seen, but the
cigar-smoke that, made its way through the gratings betrayed their
presence. The side of the arena unenclosed by boxes was draped with
hangings on which were depicted various mythological scenes, while an
occasional door broke up the wall-space and relieved the monotony.
For a few minutes after Jéza's exit from Leonin's box the arena was
quite empty, save that two Moorish girls in Turkish costume were busy
smoothing the sand,--a sign that an equestrian act was to follow.
A knock was heard at the door of Leonin's box, and he went to open
it. A servant stood without, bearing a letter on a silver tray.
"What have you there?" asked Leonin.
"A letter for the other gentleman, sir."
"How did it come?"
"A courier brought it, sir, with instructions to find the gentleman
without delay, wherever he might be."
"Fee the courier and send him away."
Leonin took the letter and fingered it a moment. Its seal was black
and its address was in a woman's hand.
"Here is a billet-doux for you," said he, as he handed the letter to
Ödön. "The Princess N---- sends you word that she has taken arsenic
because you failed to claim her hand for the quadrille." With that he
turned to the grating and drew out his opera-glass, as if resolved not
to lose a moment of Jéza's impersonation of Mazeppa; but he added,
over his shoulder, to Ödön: "You see, in spite of my precautions, we
failed to cover our tracks. Oh, these women have a thousand-eyed
police in their service, I verily believe. They have us watched at
every turn."
The overture began. At the ringing of a bell the blind musicians
struck up the Mazeppa galop. Behind the scenes could be heard the
barking of the dogs which, as a substitute for wolves, were to pursue
Mazeppa as he was borne away, fast bound upon a wild horse's back; and
the cracking of whips also sounded, arousing the horse to a livelier
display of his mettle. Finally the beating of the animal's hoofs was
heard, a loud outcry was raised, and Mazeppa's wild ride began amid
cheers and hand-clapping from behind the gratings.
"Oh, beautiful! Infernally beautiful!" exclaimed Leonin. "Look, Ödön,
look! See there!" But what did he behold as he turned his head for an
instant toward his friend?
Ödön's hand was over his eyes and he was weeping.
"What is the matter?" cried the other in amazement. Ödön handed him
the letter without a word, and he read its brief contents, which were
in French.
"Your father is dead. Come at once.
"Your affectionate MOTHER."
Leonin's first impulse was one of resentment. "I'd like to get hold of
that blockhead of a courier who brought you this letter. Couldn't he
have waited till morning?"
But Ödön arose without a word and left the box. Leonin followed him.
"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed, seizing his friend's hand. "This letter
came very _mal à propos_."
"Excuse me," returned the other; "I must go home."
"I'll go with you," was the hearty response. "Let those stay and see
Mazeppa who care to. We promised that we would go with each other to
hell, to heaven--and home. So I shall go with you."
"But I am going home to Hungary," said Ödön.
Leonin started. "Oh, to Hungary!"
"My mother calls me," explained the other, with the simple brevity of
one overcome with grief.
"When do you start?"
"Immediately."
Leonin shook his head incredulously. "That is simply madness," he
declared. "Do you wish to freeze to death? Here in the city it is
twenty degrees below zero, and out in the open country it is at least
twenty-five. Between Smolensk and Moscow the roads are impassable, so
much snow has fallen. In Russia no one travels in winter except
mail-carriers and tradesmen."
"Nevertheless I shall start at once," was the calm rejoinder.
"Surely your mother wouldn't have you attempt the impossible. Where
you live they have no conception what it means to travel in midwinter
from St. Petersburg to the Carpathians. Wait at least till the roads
are open."
"No, Leonin," returned Ödön, sadly; "every hour that I waited would be
a reproach to my conscience. You don't understand how I feel."
"Well, then," replied the other, "let us go to your rooms."
Reaching his quarters, Ödön first awakened his valet and bade him pack
his master's trunk and pay whatever accounts were owing. Then, so
great was the young man's haste, he proceeded to build a fire with his
own hands rather than wait for his servant to do it. Meanwhile Leonin
had thrown himself into an easy chair and was watching his friend's
movements.
"Are you really in earnest about starting this very day?" he asked.
"You see I am," was the reply.
"And won't you delay your departure to please me, or even at the
Czar's request?"
"I love you and respect the Czar, but my mother's wishes take
precedence of all else."
"Very well; so that appeal will not serve. But I have a secret to tell
you. My betrothed, Princess Alexandra, is desperately in love with
you. She is the only daughter of a magnate who is ten times as rich as
you. She is beautiful, and she is good, but she does not care for me,
because she loves you. She has confessed as much to me. Were it any
one else that stood in my way, I would challenge him; but I love you
more than my own brother. Marry her and remain here with us."
Ödön shook his head sadly. "I am going home to my mother."
"Then, Heaven help me! I am going with you," declared the young
Russian. "I shall not let you set out on such a journey alone."
The two embraced each other warmly, and Leonin hastened away to make
preparations for the journey. He despatched couriers to order relays
of horses, together with drivers, at all the stations; he loaded his
travelling-sledge with all kinds of provisions,--smoked meat, smoked
fish, biscuits, caviare, and brandy; a tea-kettle and a spirit-lamp
were provided; two good polar-bear skins, foot-bags, and fur caps for
himself and his friend were procured; and he also included in their
equipment two good rifles, as well as a brace of pistols and a Greek
dagger for each of them,--since all these things were likely to prove
useful on the way. He even had the forethought to pack two pairs of
skates, that they might, when they came to a stream, race with each
other over the ice and thus warm their benumbed feet. The space under
the front seat he filled with cigars enough to last them throughout
their twenty days' journey. When at length, as twilight was falling,
he drove up with a merry jingle of bells before Ödön's lodging, he
felt himself thoroughly equipped for the journey. But first he had to
dress his friend from top to toe, knowing well from experience how
one should be attired for a winter journey in Russia.
The Russian sledge stood ready at the door, its runners well shod, its
body covered with buffalo-hide, the front sheltered by a leather hood,
and the rear protected by a curtain of yet thicker leather. Three
horses were harnessed abreast, the middle one standing between the
thills, which were hung with bells. The driver stood with his
short-handled, long-lashed whip before the horses.
The young Russian stopped his friend a moment before they took their
places in the sledge. "Here, take this amulet," said he; "my mother
gave it to me on her death-bed, assuring me it would shield the wearer
from every danger."
The trinket was a small round cameo cut out of mother-of-pearl and set
in gold; it represented St. George and the dragon. Ödön felt unwilling
to accept the gift.
"Thank you," said he, "but I have no faith in charms. I only trust to
my stars, and they are--loving woman's eyes."
Leonin grasped his friend's hands. "Answer me one question: do you see
two eyes or four among your stars?"
Ödön paused a moment, then pressed his comrade's hand and answered,
"Four!"
"Good!" exclaimed Leonin, and he helped his companion into the sledge.
The driver pulled each of his horses by the forelock, kissed all three
on the cheek, crossed himself, and then took his place on the front
seat. In a moment more the sledge was flying through the snow-covered
streets on its way southward.
CHAPTER IV.
THE TWO OTHERS.
"The King of Hungary" was, at the time of our narrative, one of the
finest hotels in Vienna, and much frequented by aristocratic Hungarian
travellers and by Hungarian army officers.
A young hussar officer was ascending the stairs to the second story.
He was a handsome, well-built, broad-shouldered youth, and his uniform
fitted his athletic figure well. His cheeks were ruddy, his face full,
and on his upper lip he wore a mustache, the ends of which pointed
upward with a sprightly air. His cap was tilted well forward over his
eyes, and he carried his head as proudly as if he had been the only
captain of horse in the whole wide world.
On reaching the landing his attention was arrested by a strange scene
in the passageway leading to one of the guest-chambers. An old
gentleman with a smooth face, and wearing a peasant's cloak, was
vociferating wrathfully before three waiters and a chambermaid. Both
the waiters and the chambermaid were exerting themselves with every
demonstration of respect to gratify his slightest wish, which only
increased the old gentleman's anger, and caused him to renew his
scolding, now in Hungarian, and now in Latin. Catching sight of the
hussar, who had been brought to a standstill by the clamour, he called
to him in Hungarian--feeling sure that no hussar could be of any other
nationality--and begged his assistance.
"My dear Captain," he cried, "do have the goodness to come here, and
explain matters to these hyperboreans, who seem to understand no
language that I can speak."
The officer approached, and perceived that his interlocutor was, to
all appearances, a minister of the gospel.
"Well, reverend father, what is the trouble?" he asked.
"Why, you see," explained the other, "my passport describes me rightly
enough, in Latin, as _verbi divini minister_, that is, a preacher of
God's word. Well, now, when it came my turn to show my papers to the
custom-house officer, they all began to salute me, as if I had been a
minister of state, calling me 'your Excellency,' and paying me every
sort of compliment, right and left,--porters, cab-drivers, waiters,
and all. I thought they would kiss the ground I stood on before I was
at last shown up to this splendid apartment. Now this style is more
than I can afford. I am only a poor pastor, and I have come to Vienna
not for pleasure, but forced by necessity. Pray explain matters for me
to these people. I can't speak German, it is never used at home among
our people, and no one here seems to understand any other language."
The hussar officer smiled.
"Good father," he asked, "what languages do you speak?"
"Well," was the reply, "I can speak Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and, in case
of need, some Arabic."
"They will hardly be of any service here," rejoined the other,
laughing. Then, turning to the head waiter, he asked him a question in
a low tone, to which the servant replied by winking mysteriously and
pointing upward.
"Well, reverend father," said the hussar to the poor priest, "you go
into your room now, and in a quarter of an hour, I will return and
arrange everything for you. Just now I am in haste, as some one is
waiting for me."
"But, I beg to assure you, my business is even more pressing than
yours," was the other's reply, as he seized the young officer's
sword-tassel to prevent his escape. "If I so much as set foot in this
state apartment, it will cost me five florins at least."
"But, sir," explained the other, apologetically, "my affair is far
more important. Five comrades of mine are expecting me in the room
above, and one of them is to fight with me. I really cannot wait."
The priest was so startled by this announcement that he dropped the
sword-tassel.
"What!" he exclaimed, "you are on your way to a duel? Pray tell me the
reason of such a piece of folly."
But the young man only pressed his hand with a smile. "You wait here
quietly till I come back," said he. "I shall not be gone long."
"Supposing you are slain?" the old gentleman called after him, in
great anxiety.
"I'll look out for that," replied the hussar, as he sprang blithely up
the stairs, clinking his spurs as he went.
The old priest was forced to take possession of the splendid
apartment, while the whole retinue of servants still persisted in
honouring him with the title, "your Excellency."
"This is fine, to be sure," said the good man to himself, as he
surveyed his surroundings. "Silk bed-curtains, porcelain stove--why, I
shall have to pay five florins a day, if not six. And then all the
good-for-nothing servants! One brings my valise, another a pitcher of
water, a third the bootjack, and each one counts on receiving a good
big fee from 'his Excellency.' I shall be expected to pay for the
extra polish on the floor, too."
Thus grumbling and scolding, and estimating how much all this
splendour would probably cost him in the end, the priest suddenly
heard a stamping of feet, and a clashing of swords in the room above.
The duellists were surely at it over his very head. Now here, now
there, he heard the heavy footsteps, accompanied by the ringing of
steel against steel. For five or six minutes the sounds continued, the
poor parson meanwhile in great perplexity as to what course he ought
to pursue. He felt half inclined to open the window and call for help,
but immediately bethought himself that he might be arrested by the
police for disturbing the peace. Then it occurred to him to run
up-stairs, throw himself between the combatants, and deliver them a
sermon on the text (Matt. 26: 52): "Put up again thy sword into his
place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."
But while he was still debating the matter the tumult over his head
subsided, and in a few minutes he heard steps approaching his door,
which opened and admitted, to his great relief, the young hussar
officer, safe and sound.
The priest ran to him and felt of his arms and breast, to make sure
that he had actually received no injury. "Aren't you hurt, then, in
the least?" he inquired.
"Of course not, good father," replied the other.
"But did you slay your opponent?"
"Oh, I scratched him a little on the cheek."
"And is he not in great pain?" asked the kind-hearted pastor, with
much concern.
"Not at all; he is as pleased over his wound as a boy with a new
jacket."
But the minister of the gospel found the matter no subject for light
treatment. "How, pray, can you gentlemen indulge in such unchristian
practices?" he asked, earnestly. "What motive can you possibly have?"
"My dear sir," returned the other, "have you ever heard the story of
the two officers who fought a duel because one of them maintained that
he had picked sardines from a tree in Italy, and the other refused to
believe him? So they fought it out, and it was only after the first
had received a slash across the face that he remembered,--'Ah, yes,
quite right; they were not sardines, after all, but capers.' So here
you may imagine some such cause as that."
"And you fought for such a trifle!" exclaimed the pastor.
"Yes, something of the sort, if I remember rightly. You see, I have
just joined the regiment after serving in the life-guard, and I have
been promoted captain; so I must fight with a dozen comrades in
succession, until they either cut me to pieces or learn to endure my
presence among them. That is the custom. But let us discuss your
affairs now. You said you were here on urgent business; pray tell me
its nature."
"Certainly," responded the other; "if you will have the kindness to
hear me, I shall be most grateful. I am an entire stranger in the city
and have no one to render me any assistance. I have been summoned
hither _ad audiendum verbum_, having had some differences with the
landlord of the village where I am settled as pastor. You must first
understand that the squire was a great oligarch, while I am nothing
but a poor country parson. There was discord between our families,
arising from the squire's having a young cavalier as his eldest son
and my having a pretty daughter. I refused to listen to certain
proposals on the part of the squire, and the upshot was that the son
was sent away to Russia. That, however, did not greatly concern me.
But not long afterward the squire departed this life and was buried
with all the pomp of the Church. I made the prayer at the grave, and
it is true, I said some hard things; but what I said was for God's
ear, not for man's. And now, because of that prayer of mine to Heaven,
I am called to account by the mighty ones of this earth. Already I
have appeared before the consistory and before the county court,
accused of impiety and sedition. I am expelled from my pastorate, and
yet they are not content; they summon me hither, I know not before
whom, to answer the charge of _lèse-majesté_. But see here and judge
for yourself; I have the text of the prayer in my pocket. Read it and
see whether it contains a single word by which I have made myself
guilty of any such offence."
The old man's lips trembled as he spoke, and his eyes filled with
tears. The hussar took the writing from his hand and read it through,
the other watching meanwhile every line of the young man's face, to
see what impression the perusal would make on him.
"Well, sir, what do you say to it?" he asked when the young officer
had finished reading. "Would you condemn me for anything in that
prayer?"
The other folded the paper and returned it to the old man. "I should
not condemn you," he replied gently. He appeared to be much moved.
"Now may God bless you for those words!" exclaimed the priest. "Would
that you were my judge!"
And, indeed, he was his judge at that moment; for he was no other than
Richard Baradlay, the son of him over whose body the prayer had been
offered. "But let me give your Reverence a piece of advice," added the
young man. "First, stay here quietly in your room until you are
summoned. Visit no one and make your complaint to no one. You cannot
be found guilty of the offence charged against you. But if you should
undertake to defend yourself, I could not answer for the
consequences. Just stay here in your room, and if you are sent for,
answer the summons. Go whither you are called, and hear in silence
what is said to you. When that is over, bow yourself out and hasten
back to your hotel without saying a word to any one on the way or
answering a single question."
"But I shall be taken for a blockhead," objected the other.
"No, believe me, silence is a passport that will carry a man half-way
around the world."
"Very well, I will do as you direct; only I hope the process will be
brief. The Vienna air is costly to breathe."
"Don't worry in the least about that, reverend father. If some one has
compelled you to make the journey against your will, you may be sure
he will pay your score."
The old man wondered not a little at these words, and would gladly
have inquired who the unknown "some one" was.
"But now my engagements call me away," concluded the young officer,
and he took his leave before the other could question him further.
Soon after he had gone a waiter appeared with coffee, which, in spite
of the old priest's protestations that he never took any breakfast and
was in general a very light eater, the German domestic insisted on
leaving upon the table. At length, as the coffee was there on his
hands, the reverend gentleman proceeded to drink it in God's name; for
it would have to be paid for in any case. The warm breakfast did him
good. The servant now appeared, to carry away the breakfast service.
The old gentleman had learned one German word on his journey, and he
hastened to make use of it.
"Pay?" he said inquiringly, producing from the depths of his pocket a
long knit purse, a birthday present from his daughter, in which his
scanty savings were carefully hoarded. He wished to settle at once for
his breakfast, both because it troubled him to be in debt for even an
hour, and also that he might gain some idea from this first payment
how much his total daily expenses would probably be.
Great was his surprise, however, when the waiter, smiling politely and
waving aside the offered purse, assured him that the breakfast was
already paid for.
"So that young man was right, after all," said the good priest to
himself. "Why didn't I ask him his name? But who can it be that is
paying my bills?"
The unknown benefactor was, of course, none other than Richard
Baradlay, who, on leaving the hotel, had handed the head waiter two
ducats and bidden him provide for all the old gentleman's wants,
adding that he, Baradlay, would pay the bill. After that the young
officer repaired to the military riding school and exercised for an
hour in vaulting, fencing on horseback, breaking a lance or two, and
mastering a vicious horse. Then he went to walk for an hour around the
fortifications, looked at all the pretty faces he met, and at length,
toward noon, returned to his quarters. He kept bachelor's hall on the
fourth floor, occupying a sitting-room and a bedroom, while across the
passageway was a little room for his servant, and a diminutive
kitchen.
His domestic was an old hussar who answered to the name of Paul, and
who was rather more inclined to command his master than to receive
orders from him. He was sixty years old and more, and still a private
and a bachelor. He was serving out his fourth enlistment and wore on
his breast the cross given to the veterans of the Napoleonic wars.
"Well, Paul, what is there to eat to-day?" asked the captain,
unbuckling his sword and hanging it up in his closet, which showed a
collection of ancient swords and daggers.
The reader must here be informed that Paul was at once body-servant
and cook to his young master.
"What is there to eat? A Greek rose-garland," answered the old
servant, with humourous phlegm.
"Ah, that must be delicious," returned Richard; "but what is it made
of?"
"Angels' slippers," was the reply.
"Excellent! And is it ready?"
Paul surveyed his master from top to toe. "Do we eat at home again
to-day?" he asked.
"Yes, if we can get anything to eat."
"Very well; I will serve dinner at once," answered Paul, and he
proceeded to spread the table--which was accomplished by turning its
red cloth, ornamented with blue flowers, so that it became a blue
cloth adorned with red flowers. Then he laid a plate of faience ware
and a horn-handled knife and fork, together with an old-fashioned
silver spoon, first wiping each article on a corner of the
table-cloth. He completed these preparations by adding an old
champagne-bottle filled, as the reader will have guessed, with cold
water.
The cavalry captain pulled up a chair and seated himself comfortably,
stretching his legs out under the table. Meanwhile Paul, his hands on
his hips, thus addressed his master:
"So we are stranded again, are we,--not a kreutzer in our pockets?"
"Not a solitary one, as sure as you live," answered Richard, as he
took up his knife and fork and began to beat a tattoo on his plate.
"But this morning I found two ducats in your vest pocket," remarked
the old servant.
Captain Richard laughed and asked, in expressive pantomime: "Where are
they now?"
"Good!" muttered the other, as he took up the decanter that stood
before his master's plate and went out. Having brought it back filled
with wine, which he had procured in some way, he set it down again and
resumed his discourse.
"No doubt they went to buy a bouquet for a pretty girl," said he. "Or
have the boys drunk them up in champagne?" With that he took up a
plate with a sadly nicked edge from the sideboard and added, with
philosophic resignation, as he went out: "Well, I was just that way
when I was young." Soon he returned, bearing his master's dinner.
The "Greek rose-garland" proved to be a dish of beans, while the
"angels' slippers," cooked with them, were nothing but pigs' feet. The
old hussar had prepared the meal for himself, but there was enough for
two, and Richard attacked the camp fare with as keen a relish as if he
had never known anything better in his life. While he ate, his old
servant stood behind his chair, although his services were not needed,
as there were no plates to change, the first course being also the
last.
"Has any one called?" asked Richard as he ate.
"Any one called? Why, yes, we have had some callers."
"Who were they?"
"First the maid-servant of the actress--not the blonde one, but the
other, the pug-nosed one. She brought a bouquet and a letter. I stuck
the flowers into a pitcher in the kitchen, gave the maid a pinch on
the cheek, and kindled the fire with the letter."
"The deuce take you!" exclaimed Richard; "what made you burn up the
letter?"
"It asked for money from the captain," was the reply.
"But how did you know that, Paul? I thought you couldn't read."
"I smelt it."
Richard laughed aloud. "Well, who else has been here?" he asked.
"The young gentleman." This title was always used by Paul to designate
one particular person.
"My brother? What did he wish?"
As if in answer to this inquiry, the young gentleman suddenly appeared
in person.
The youngest Baradlay was a slender youth of frail physique. On his
smooth, boyish face sat a somewhat affected expression of amiability,
and if he carried his head rather high, it was not from pride, but on
account of the eye-glasses which he wore on his nose. As he shook
hands with his older brother, the latter was somehow reminded of the
regulation that requires certain government officials, as a part of
their duties, to show the utmost courtesy to every one--_ex officio_.
"Your servant, Jenő. What's up now?"
"I came to tell you," replied the other, "that I have received a
letter from mother."
"I received one, too," said Richard.
"She informs me," continued Jenő, "that she is going to double my
monthly allowance, and, in order to enable me to fit up my rooms as
becomes one of my rank, she sends me a thousand florins."
"And she writes to me," said the older brother, "that if I continue to
spend money as I have in the past, I shall soon run through my share
of the property; and unless I am more economical she will send me no
more funds."
"But my difficulty," rejoined the other, "is that if I begin now to
spend a good deal of money, those over me will notice it. You can't
imagine how one is made to suffer for it when once his superiors in
the government service begin to suspect him of playing the independent
gentleman. Really, I don't know what I shall do. Look here, Richard;
do you know what I came for this morning? I came to share with you the
money that mother sent me."
The other continued to chew his toothpick. "What interest?" he asked.
"Don't insult me with such a question!" protested Jenő.
"Then you offer to divide with me simply because you don't know how to
spend the money yourself and want my help in getting rid of it? Good!
I am at your service."
"I thought you could make a better use of it than I," said the youth,
handing over the half of his thousand florins, and pressing his
brother's hand as he did so. "I have something else to give you also,"
he added, with assumed indifference,--"an invitation to the
Plankenhorsts' reception to-morrow evening."
Richard rested his elbows on the table and regarded his brother with a
satirical smile. "How long have you been acting as advertising agent
of the Plankenhorst receptions?" he asked.
"They begged me most cordially to invite you in their name," returned
the other, moving uneasily in his chair.
Richard laughed aloud. "So that is the usury I am to pay?" said he.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Jenő, with vexation, rising from his
seat.
"I mean that you would like to pay your court to Miss Alfonsine if her
mother, who considers you a very raw youth as yet, were not in the
way. Madame Antoinette herself claims to be not devoid of personal
charms, and, if her _friseur_ is to be believed, she is still a
beautiful woman. When I was in the guard I used to dance with her
often at the masked balls, and I recognised her under her domino more
than once when she mistook me for an acquaintance and fell to
chatting with me. You know all that very well, and you say to
yourself: 'I'll take my brother along as elephant.' All right,
brother; never fear, I am not going to hand back the five hundred
florins. Your charges are high, but I'll be your elephant. Climb up on
my back, and while you beguile the daughter I will keep the mother
amused. But first I must impose one condition. If you really want my
company at the reception, do me the favour to intercede with your
chief on behalf of a poor priest who has been summoned to Vienna. Have
him sent home in peace. I don't need to tell you he is our pastor at
Nemesdomb, and he has been set upon because of the funeral prayer he
saw fit to make."
"How did you learn all that?" asked Jenő, in surprise.
"Oh, I picked it up," replied the other; "and I tell you he is an
honest man. Let him go."
Jenő assumed his official expression of countenance. "But really,"
said he, "I have reason to know that the chancellor is greatly
incensed against him."
"Come, come!" cried the elder brother, impatiently; "don't try to
impose on me with your great men. I have seen any number of them, in
all sorts of undress, and I know that they are built just like other
mortals,--eat and drink, yawn and snore exactly like the rest of
mankind. Your great magistrate wrinkles his brow, talks in a harsh
tone to the innocent victim before him, and when he has let him go,
the mighty man laughs aloud at the terrible fright he gave the poor
wretch. This priest is an honest fellow, but his tongue sometimes runs
away with him. Yet he is a servant of God, and he must be allowed to
depart in peace. May he long minister to his little flock!"
"Well, I will speak to his Excellency," returned Jenő.
"Thank you. Now sit down and drink with me, to seal our compact.
Paul!"
The old hussar appeared.
"There is a ten-florin note. Go and get two bottles of champagne,--one
for us and one for yourself."
Old Paul shook his head as he withdrew, and muttered, "I was just such
another myself when I was a youngster."
CHAPTER V.
ALL SORTS OF PEOPLE
|
without a single Curl in it.
In the same Manner did Captain _Hippolytus_ march off with Miss
_Phaedra_, though his Shock Head of Hair never had any Powder in it:
nay, Lady _Venus_ herself chose young _Jack Adonis_ in a Jockey Coat
and Buckskin Breeches.
Cleanliness however is agreeable: Let your Face be burnt with the Sun;
but let your Cloaths be well made, and without a Spot on them.
Wash your Mouth, and clean your Teeth often; let your Beard be close
shaved, and your Nails short and free from Dirt.
Observe these Documents, and leave all other Niceties to the Women,
and to Men who desire to supply their Places.
But now _Bacchus_ summons his Poet. He likewise assists Lovers, and
favours the Flame which warms himself.
The _Cretan_ Lady having jumped out of Bed in a raving Fit, wandered
on the foreign Shore of _Dia_. She had nothing on but a loose wrapping
Gown, without Stockings or Cap: and her Hair hung dishevelled over her
Shoulders. She complained of the Cruelty of _Theseus_ to the deep
Waves, whilst an unworthy Shower of Tears ran down her Cheeks. She
wept, and lamented aloud, and both became her; nor did her Tears
diminish her Beauty. Once, and again, she beat her delicious Breasts
with her Hands, and cried aloud, _The perfidious Man hath abandoned
me; What will become of poor _Ariadne_? What will become of poor
_Ariadne_?_ On a sudden a vast Multitude was heard, while many Kinds
of strange Instruments, like those of the miserable Masons,
accompanied the Voices. The poor Lady sunk with Fear; and suppressed
her last Words; nor did the least Blood remain in her Countenance. And
now behold the _Bacchanalian_ Women, with their Hair about their Ears,
and the light Satyrs, who are always Forerunners of the God. Behold
old Master _Silenus_[47] as drunk as a Piper, riding on an Ass, which
he is hardly able either to sit or guide. The old Gentleman,
endeavouring to follow the _Bacchanalians_, who fly from him and
towards him, sets Spurs to his Ass, which being a vicious Beast,
kicked up, and threw him over his Ears: upon which all the Satyrs set
up a loud Shout, crying out, _Rise, Father, rise and be d----nd to
you_. And now the God himself, high mounted on his Four-Wheel Chaise,
the Top of which was adorned with Grapes, and which he drove himself,
flung his Golden Reins over the Backs of his Pair of Tygers. Poor
_Ariadne's_ Colour forsook her Cheeks, and _Theseus_ and her Voice at
once deserted her Lips. Thrice she attempted to fly, and thrice being
retained, she grew stiff with Fear, and stood trembling as Corn waves
in the Field, or Reeds on the River Bank, when fanned by the Wind. To
whom the God; _Behold, Madam, a more faithful Lover at your Feet: Fear
nothing, Lady fair, you shall be the Wife of _Bacchus_. The Sky shall
be your Dowry, where shining in a bright Constellation, by the Name of
_Ariadne's_ Crown, you shall often direct the doubtful Mariner's
Passage._ He said; and leaping from his Chariot, lest _Ariadne_ should
be afraid of the Tygers, the Sand sunk under the Weight of his Feet;
and catching her instantly in his Arms, he carried her, who was
incapable of scratching, directly off; (for every Thing, we know, is
in the Power of a Deity:) And now, whilst Part of his Train sing the
_Hymenaeum_, and other cry _Evie Evoe_, two very mysterious Words, and
full of Masonry, the God and his new-ravished Bride go together,
between a Pair of sacred Sheets.
Whenever therefore you happen to be in Company with a pretty Girl over
a Bottle, pray heartily to _Bacchus_, and invoke his nocturnal Rites,
that the Wine may not get into your Head. You may now take an
Opportunity to toast some Nymph by a fictitious Name, of whom you may
say an hundred amorous Things; all which, with the least Assistance,
she will readily apply to herself. Double Entendres likewise may be
used. You may moreover draw certain Figures in Wine on the Table; and
after having spoken of your Mistress in the third Person, you may take
this Method of writing her Name, and convincing her, that she herself
is the Goddess.
But let your gloating Eyes inform her of your Passion: for an
expressive Countenance often finds both Words and Utterance.
When she drinks, receive the Cup from her; and let her see you
industrious to find out the Place before pressed by her Lips; and then
drink eagerly at the same.
And whatever Part of the Meat she shall touch with her Fingers, do not
fail to give the Preference to that: if in catching at it, you touch
her Hand into the Bargain, it is the better.
But above all Things, let it be your Endeavour to please her Keeper,
if she have any: For to make a Friend of him will be very useful to
you both.
When you are at Table, let him be always helped first, and to the most
elegant Tid-Bit; and when you drink together, offer him always the
Place of Toast-maker; whether he be your Inferiour or your Equal, let
him always choose before you, and be not ashamed to trowel him well
over with Flattery.
It is a safe and common Way to deceive under Pretence of Friendship; I
must own, however safe and common it is, it is not altogether
blameless.
This is indeed a Dishonesty not very unlike that of a Major Domo, who
under the Colour of Friendship empties your Cellars of your Wine, by
pushing the Bottle further than is necessary.
Now to fix a certain Stint to your Cups, I allow you never to drink
till your Head becomes giddy, and your Feet begin to totter.
Beware of Quarrels, which are often occasioned by Wine. Let not your
Hands be too ready to strike in your Cups.
Remember the old Story of the Wedding of _Pyrothous_[48] and many more
where drunken Fools by being quarrelsome in their Liquor have come
short home. A Drinking Bout is in Reality a properer Scene for Joke
and Mirth, than for Fighting.
I proceed to other Lessons[49]. If you have a Voice, then sing; if you
have handsome Legs, cut Capers, or slide into the Minuet Step. In
short, endeavour to please your Mistress, by exerting those Talents in
which Nature hath given you to excel.
Now, as real Drunkenness may be hurtful to you, so you may sometimes
reap Advantages by pretending yourself in Liquor, by Stammering or
Lisping a little slyly: For then if you should descend to some
Expressions of the grosser Kind, it will be imputed to your having
taken a Cup too much.
Drink Bumpers to the Health of your Mistress, and of the Gentleman
with whom she is obliged to sleep; but I do not insist on your being
extremely sincere on this Occasion: for you may heartily wish him
hanged at the same Time, if you please.
When the Company rises to go away, there is always a Confusion in the
Room, of which you may take Advantage. You may then creep close up to
your Mistress, may perhaps palm her, and gently tread on her Toes.
Whenever you have an Opportunity of speaking to her privately, be not
bashful like a Country Boobily Squire. Remember Fortune and Love both
favour the Bold.
I do not intend to lay down any Rules for your Oratory on this
Occasion. Do but begin boldly, and you will be Eloquent of course: Set
this only before you, that you are to act the Part of a Lover, to talk
of Wounds and Darts, and Dying and Despair, and all that, as Mr.
_Bayes_ says: For if you can once make her believe you are in Love,
your Business is done. To create therefore this Faith in her, you
must employ every Art of which you are Master.
Nor is this indeed so difficult a Task: For every Woman believes
herself to be the Object of Love; be she never so ugly, she is still
amiable in her own Eye.
Sometimes indeed no Deceit is in the End put on the Woman, for her
pretended Lover becomes often a real one, and is the very Creature
which he before personated.
And by the Way, young Ladies, let me tell you this is no small
Encouragement to you, to countenance such Pretences; for if you manage
well, you may often inspire a Man with Love in Earnest, while he is
endeavouring to impose a fictitious Passion upon you.
But to return to my Scholars. Flatter with all your Might: for the
Mind is taken as it were by Stealth, by Flattery, even as the Bank
which hangs over a River is undermined by the liquid Waves.
Never be weary therefore of commending her Face, or her Hair; her
taper Arm, or her pretty little Foot.
The chastest Matrons are fond of hearing the Praises of their Beauty;
and the purest Virgins make the Charms of their Persons at once their
Business and their Pleasure.
What else is meant by that ancient Fable of _Juno_ and _Pallas_, whom
the _Greek_ Poets represent as yet ashamed of the Conquest obtained by
_Venus_.
This Vanity seems to extend itself to Animals, in many of which we may
observe some Traces of it.
The peacock, if you seem to admire her, spreads forth her Golden
Plumes, which she never displays to an indifferent Spectator.
The Race-Horse, while he is running for a Plate, enjoys the Beauties
of his well-combed Mane, and gracefully turned Neck.
Secondly, to Flattery, add Promises, and those not timorous nor
sneaking ones. If a Girl insists upon a Promise of Marriage, give it
her, and bind it by many Oaths[D]; for no Indictment lies for this
sort of Perjury.
The Antients vented horrid Impieties on this Occasion, and introduced
_Jupiter_ shaking his Sides at the Perjuries of Lovers, and ordering
the Winds to puff them away: Nay, he is said to have forsworn himself
even by _Styx_ to _Juno_: and therefore, say they, he encourages Men
to follow his Example.
[Note D: This is the most exceptionable Passage in the whole Work. We
have endeavoured to soften it as much as possible; but even as it now
stands, we cannot help expressing Detestation of this Sentiment, which
appears shocking even in a Heathen Writer.]
But though a Christian must not talk in this Manner, yet I believe it
may be one of those Sins which the Church of _Rome_ holds to be
venial, or rather venal.
I would here by no Means be suspected of Infidelity or Profaneness. It
is necessary there should be a God; and therefore we must believe
there is; nay, we must worship him: For he doth not possess himself in
that indolent State in which the Deities of _Epicurus_ are depictured.
If we live innocent Lives, we may depend on the Care of his
Providence.
Restore faithfully whatever is deposited in your Hands: Be just in all
your Contracts: Avoid all Kind of Fraud, and be not polluted with
Blood. A wise Man will be a Rogue only among the Girls: For in all
other Articles a Gentleman will be ashamed of breaking his Word.
And what is this more than deceiving the Deceivers? The Sex are for
the greatest Part Impostors; let them therefore fall in the Snares
which they have spread for others.
Perhaps you have never read the Justice of _Busiris_; when Egypt was
burnt up Nine Years together for want of Rain, one _Thrasius_ a
Foreigner came to Court, and being introduced to the King by
_Clementius Cotterelius_, he acquainted his Majesty, that _Jupiter_
was to be propitiated by the Blood of a Stranger. The King Answered
him, _Then thou thyself shalt be the first Victim, and with thy
foreign Blood shalt give Rain to Egypt_.
To the same Purpose is the Story of _Phalaris_, who roasted the Limbs
of _Perillus_ in his own Bull: Thus making Proof of the Goodness of
the Work by the Torments of the unhappy Maker.
Now there was great Justice in both these Examples; for nothing can be
more equitable than that the Inventers of Cruelty should perish by
their own Art.
To apply this to our present Purpose: As there is no Deceit or Perjury
which Women will stick at putting in use against us, let them lament
the Consequence of their own Examples.
Thirdly, Tears are of great Service. The Proverb tells you, _Tears
will move Adamant_. If you can bring it about therefore, let your
Mistress see your Cheeks a little blubbered upon Occasion.
If Tears should refuse to come (as they sometimes will) an Onion in
your Handkerchief will be of great use.
Fourthly, Kisses. What Lover of any Sense doth not mix Kisses with his
tender Expressions! Perhaps she will not give them easily: No Matter,
take them without her Leave.
Perhaps she will scratch, and say you are rude: Notwithstanding her
Scratches, she will be pleased with your getting the better.
Do this, however, in so gentle a Manner, that you may not hurt her
tender Lips; nor let her complain of being scrubbed with your Beard.
Now when you have proceeded to Kisses, if you proceed no farther, you
may well be called unworthy of what you have hitherto obtained. When
you was at her Lips, how near was you to your Journey's End! If
therefore you stop there, you rather deserve the Name of a bashful
'Squire than of a modest Man.
The Girls may call this perhaps Violence; but it is a Violence
agreeable to them: For they are often desirous of being pleased
against their Will: For a Woman taken without her Consent,
notwithstanding her Frowns, is often well satisfied in her Heart, and
your Impudence is taken as a Favour; whilst she who, when inclined to
be ravished, hath retreated untouched, however she may affect to
smile, is in reality out of Humour.
Ravishing is indeed out of Fashion in this Age; and therefore I am at
a Loss for modern Examples; but antient Story abounds with them.
Miss[50] _Phoebe_ and her Sister were both ravished, and both were
well pleased with the Men who ravished them.
Though the Story of _Deidamia_ was formerly in all the _Trojan_
News-Papers, yet my Reader may be pleased to see it better told.
_Venus_ had now kept her Word to _Paris_, and given him the Beauty she
had promised, not as a Bribe, but as a Gratification for his having
made an Award in her Favour, in the famous Cause between _Juno_ and
others against _Venus_, in _Trover_ for a Golden Apple; which was
referred to him at the Assizes at _Ida_.
_Paris_, every one knows, no sooner had received Mrs. _Helen_, than he
immediately carried her off to his Father's Court.
Upon this the _Grecians_ entered into an Association; and several
Noblemen raised Regiments at their own Expence, out of their Regard to
the Public: For Cuckoldom was a public Cause, no one knowing whose
Turn it would be next.
Lieutenant-General _Achilles_, who was to command a large Body of
Grenadiers, which the _Greeks_ call _Myrmidons_, did not behave
handsomely on that Occasion, though he got off afterwards at a
Court-Martial by pleading, that his Mother (who had a great deal in
her own Power) had insisted on his acting the Part he did; for, I am
ashamed to say, he dressed himself in Women's Clothes, and hid himself
at the House of one _Lycomedes_, a Man of good Fortune in those parts.
_Fie upon it, General, I am ashamed to see you sit quilting among the
Girls; a Sword becomes your Hands much better than a Needle._
_What can you mean by that Work-Basket in a Hand by which Count
_Hector_ is to fall? Do you carry that Basket with you to put his Head
in?_
_For Shame then, cast away your Huswife, and all those effeminate
Trinkets from a Fist able to wield _Harry_ the Fifth's Sword._
It happened, that at the same Time when the General, at the House of
'Squire _Lycomedes_, performed this Feat, Miss _Deidamia_, one of the
Maids of Honour, was visiting at the same Place. This young Lady soon
discovered that the General was a Man; for indeed he got her
Maidenhead.
He ravished her, that is the Truth on't; that a Gentleman ought to
believe, in Favour of the Lady: But he may believe the Lady was
willing enough to be ravished at the same Time.
When the General threw away his Needle, and grasped the Armour, (you
must remember the Story, for it was in the _Trojan Alamain_) the young
Lady began to change her Note, and to hope he would not forsake her
so.
_Ah! little _Mia_! is this the Violence you complained of? Is this the
Ravisher you are afraid of? Why with that gentle Voice do you solicite
the Author of your Dishonour to stay with you?_
To come at once to the Moral of my Story; as they are ashamed to make
the first Advances, so they are ready to suffer whatever a pushing Man
can do unto them.
As for those pretty Master-Misses, the _Adonis's_ of the Age, who
confide in their own Charms, and desire to be courted by the Girls;
believe me, they will stay long enough before they are asked the
Question.
If you are a Man, make the first Overtures: Remember, it is the Man's
Part to address the Fair; and it will be her's to be tenderly won.
Be bold then, and put the Question; she desires no more than to have
the Question put; and sure you will not deny your own Wishes that
Favour.
_Jupiter_ himself went a courting to the Heroines of old: For I never
heard of any Girl who courted him.
But if you find Madam gives herself any immoderate Airs at your
Proposal, it will then be good to recede a little from your
Undertaking, and to affect to sheer off: For many of them, according
to the Poet,
_Pursue what flies, and fly what doth pursue._
A short Absence will soon cure her Disdain.
It may be proper likewise to conceal your intentions a little at
first, and make your first Advance under the Pretence of _Platonic_
Friendship.
I have known many a Prude taken under these false Colours; and the
_Platonic_ Friend hath soon become a happy Lover.
And now as to your Complexion; for believe me, this is a Matter of
some Consequence: Though I would not have you effeminate, yet I would
have you delicate.
A fair Complexion in a Tar is scandalous, and looks more like a
Borough Captain or one of those fresh-water Sailors, who have so much
dishonoured our Navy. The Skin of a Seaman ought to be rough, and well
battered with Winds and Waves.
Such likewise ought to be the Face of a Fox-hunter, who ought not to
fear Rain or Easterly Winds: And the fame becomes the Soldier.
But let the Soldier of _Venus_ look fair and delicate; nay, if your
Complexion inclines to Paleness, so much the better; for this will be
imputed by every young Girl to Love.
Young _Orion_[51] with a pale Countenance wandered through the Groves,
being sick with the Love of Lyrice: And the same Effect had the Love
of _Naïs_ upon the Countenance of _Daphnis_[52]; two Lovers very
famous in Antiquity.
Leanness is another Token of a Lover; to obtain which, you need not
take Physick; sitting up all Night; and writing Love-Letters, will
bring this about.
Be sure to look as miserable as possible; so that every one who sees
you, may cry, _There goes a Lover_.
And here shall I lament the Wickedness of Mankind, or only simply
observe it to you? But in Reality all Friendship and Integrity are
nothing more than Names.
Alas! It is dangerous to be too prodigal in the Praises of your
Mistress, even to your Friend; for if he believes you, he becomes your
Rival.
It is true there are some old Stories of faithful Friends: _Patroclus_
never made a Cuckold of _Achilles_; and _Phaedra's_ Chastity was never
attempted by _Pirithous_.
_Pylades_ loved _Hermions_, who was his Friend's Wife; but it was with
the pure Love of a Brother: And the same Fidelity did _Castor_
preserve towards his Twin-Brother _Pollux_.
But if you expect to find such Instances in these degenerate Days, you
may as well have Faith enough to expect a Pine-Apple from a Pear-Tree,
or to hope to fill your Bottle with _Burgundy_ from the River.
I am afraid we are grown so bad, that Iniquity itself gives a Relish
to our Pleasures; and every Man is not only addicted to his Pleasures,
but those are the sweeter, when season'd with another's Pain.
It is in short a terrible Case, that a Lover ought to fear his Friend
more than his Enemy. Beware of the former, and you are safe.
Beware of your Cousin, and your Brother, and your dear and intimate
Companions. These are the Sort of Gentry, from whom you are to
apprehend most Danger.
Here I intended to have finished; but one Rule more suggests itself.
You are to note then, that there is a great Variety in the Tempers of
Women; for a thousand different Women are to be wooed a thousand
different Ways.
Mr. _Miller_ will tell you, that the same kind of Soil is not proper
for all Fruits. One produces good Carrots, another Potatoes, and a
third Turneps. Now there is as great a Variety of Disposition in the
human Mind, as there are Forms in the World: For which Reason a
Politician is capable of accommodating himself to innumerable Kinds of
Tempers: Not _Proteus_ could indeed diversify himself more Ways than
he can.
Nay you may learn this Lesson from every Fisherman; for some Fish are
to be taken with one Bait, and some with another; others will scarce
bite at any, but are however to be drawn out of the Water by a Net.
One good Caution under this Head, is to consider the Age of your
Mistress: Old Birds are not taken with Chaff; and an old Hare will be
sure to double.
Again, consider Circumstances. Do not frighten an ignorant Woman with
Learning, nor a poor Country Girl with your fine Cloathes; for by
these Means you will create in them too great an Awe of you. Many a
Girl hath run away frighted from the Embraces of the Master, and
afterwards fallen into the Clutches of his Footman.
And here we will now cast our Anchor, having finished the first Part
of our intended Voyage.
_FINIS_
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 1: Here _Ovid_ uses the Examples of _Automedon_, who was the
Coachman of _Achilles_; and of _Tiphys_, who was Pilot or Steersman to
the _Argonauts_.]
[Footnote 2: This is a literal Translation; by which it appears this
barbarous Custom of whipping Boys on the Hands, till they look as if
they had the Itch, was used by the _Roman_ Schoolmasters as well as by
ours.]
[Footnote 3: The Original introduces _Achilles_, who was the pupil of
_Chiron_.]
[Footnote 4: In the Original,--_held forth at his Master's Commands
those Hands to be whipt, which_ Hector _was hereafter to feel_. The
Indelicacy of which Image we have avoided applying to our _British_
Hero.]
[Footnote 5: _Both born of a Goddess._]
[Footnote 6: This is transferred, we hope not improperly from _Roman_
to _British_ Superstition. The _Latin_ alludes to Augury, and very
justly ridicules the Folly of Divination by the Flight of Birds.]
[Footnote 7: _Nor were_ Clio _or her Sisters seen by me, while I
tended a Flock in the Valleys of Ascra._ This _Ascra_ was a Valley
near the _Helicon_, which was the Residence of the Parents of
_Hesiod_. Now _Hesiod_ was fabled, whilst he was keeping his Father's
Sheep, to have been led by the Muse to the Fountain _Hippocrene_; and
being, I suppose, well ducked in that Water, commenced Poet.]
[Footnote 8: This whole Passage is a manifest Burlesque on the
Invocations with which the Ancients began their Poems. Not very
different is that Sneer at the Beginning of the _Metamorphosis_,
---- _Dii, caeptis_, (NAM VOS MUTASTIS ET ILLAS)
_Adspirate_ ----
But the strongest Piece of Burlesque of this kind is the Invocation to
_Venus_ at the Beginning of _Lucretius_: For what can be more so than
a solemn Application to a Deity for her Assistance in a Work, the
professed Intention of which is to expose the Belief of any Deity at
all; and more particularly of any Concern which such superior Beings
might be supposed to take in the Affairs of Men. For my own part, I
must confess, I cannot perceive _that graceful Air of Enthusiasm_
which a noble Author observes in the Invocation of the Antients; many
of them indeed seem to have been too apparently in jest, to endeavour
to impose on their Readers, and in reality to apply to the Muses with
less Devotion than our modern Poets, many of whom perhaps believe as
much in those Deities as in any other.]
[Footnote 9: _Ovid_ would here insinuate, that the Courtezans only
were the Subjects of the ensuing Poem; and in his _Tristibus_ he cites
these Lines, and pleads them in his Defence: But he is not over-honest
in his Profession; for in many Parts it appears, that his Instructions
are calculated for much more than _concessa furtia_.]
[Footnote 10: _Andromeda_ was the Daughter of _Cepheus_ King of
_Aethiopia_ and of _Cassiope_. Her Mother having offended the
_Nereids_, by contending with them for Superiority in Beauty,
_Neptune_, at their Petition, sent a Sea-Monster, which greatly
annoyed the _Aethiopians_. Upon this they consulted the Oracle of
_Jupiter Ammon_, who ordered them to expose one of the Progeny of
_Cepheus_ and _Cassiope_ to be devoured by the Monster. _Andromeda_
was accordingly ty'd to a Rock, where she was espied by _Perseus_, who
killed the Monster, and rescued the Lady; for which he received her at
the Hands of her Parents as his Reward. The Story is told in the 4th
Book of the _Metamorphosis_.]
[Footnote 11: _Bunches of Grapes in _Methymna__; a City of _Lesbia_,
the Wine of which Country was famous among the Ancients.]
[Footnote 12: _Ears of Corn in _Gargara__; which was in _Mysia_, a
Province of the _Hellespont_.]
[Footnote 13: The Original is, _And the Mother of _AEneas_ resides in
the City of her Son._ _AEneas_, from whom the Romans derived their
Original, was the Son of _Venus_ by _Anchises_.]
[Footnote 14: The Original, rendered as literally as possible, is as
follows: _Walk at your ease under the _Pompeian_ Shade, when the Sun
enters the _Herculean_ Lion; or where the Mother hath added her
Benefactions to those of her Son; a work rich in foreign Marble: Nor
avoid that Portico adorned with ancient Pictures, which is called
_Livia_, from the Name of its Founder: nor that adorned by the Statues
of the _Belides_, who attempted the Lives of their unfortunate
Cousins; and where you see the cruel Father standing with his drawn
Sword: Nor pass by the Temple of _Venus_ and her lamented_ Adonis;
_nor omit the Seventh-Day Festivals of the _Jews_; nor the _Egyptian_
Temples of the _Linnen-clad_ Heifer: She makes many Women to be that
which she herself was to _Jupiter_._
To explain these several Particulars to an _English_ Reader, it must
be known, that the Portico's in _Rome_ were the publick Walks; and
here Persons of both Sexes used to assemble. Among these was one built
by _Pompey_. The second Portico mentioned, is by the best Commentators
understood of the _Octavian_, which was built by _Octavia_, Sister to
_Augustus_, and Mother to _Marcellus_; and this adjoined to a Temple
built by the same _Marcellus_. The third Portico was built by _Livia_
the Wife of _Augustus_, and called from her Name. The fourth, where
the Picture of the _Belides_ was, is to be understood of the Portico
of _Apollo Palatinus_, in which were the Statues of the fifty
Daughters of _Danaus_ and Grandaughters of _Belus_. These being
married to the fifty Sons of their Uncle _AEgyptus_, every one, by her
Father's Command, slew her husband on the first Night, save only
_Hypermnestra_. For this they were punished in the lower World, by
being obliged to fill a Barrel full of Holes with Water. _Scaliger_
and others have here made a mistake, supposing the Picture of the
_Belides_ was here hung up: But the contrary appears by many
Authorities, particularly by this in _Qv. Trist. 3_.
_Signa peregrinis ubi sunt alterna columnis,
Belides, & stricto barbarus ense pater._
It appears that the Number of Pillars was equalled by the Number of
Statues. 5thly, The Temple of _Venus_, in which she was worshipped,
together with _Adonis_, after the _Assyrian_ manner. This _Adonis_ was
the Son of _Cinyras_ King of _Cyprus_, begotten by him on his own
Daughter _Myrrha_. The Fame of his Beauty, and the Passion which
_Venus_ bore towards him, are well known. 6thly, The _Jewish_
Synagogues. The _Jews_ having been encouraged by _Julius Caesar_, were
very numerous in _Rome_ at that time; and the Strangeness and Pomp of
their Ceremonies inviting the Curiosity of the _Roman_ Ladies, their
Synagogues became famous Places of Intrigue. 7. The Temple of _Isis_.
This Goddess, when a Woman, was called _Io_. She was the Daughter of
_Inachus_; and being beloved by _Jupiter_, was by him, to preserve her
from his Wife's Jealousy, turned into a Heifer, _Juno_ suspecting the
Fact, obtained this Heifer of her Husband, and set Argus to watch over
her. _Jupiter_ wanting to visit his old Friend, sent _Mercury_ to kill
_Argus_; in revenge of which, _Juno_ ordered a Gad-Bee to sting the
poor Heifer; which thereupon growing mad, ran to _Egypt_, where she
was again restored to the Shape of a Woman, and married to _Osiris_.
The Feast of _Isis_ was celebrated in _Rome_ ten Days together by the
Women, and was a time of Carnival among them.]
[Footnote 15: In _Caesar's Forum_, which was built on the _Appian_
Way, was the Temple of _Venus Genetrix_.]
[Footnote 16: Races were run at _Rome_ in _April_ in the _Circus
Maximus_, which was likewise the Scene of many other public Exercises
and Shews.]
[Footnote 17: _And when the Procession shall pass on with the Ivory
Deities, do you applaud most the Statue of _Lady_ Venus._ Thus the
Original. The Paraphrase preserves the same Sense, though in other
Circumstances. These Statues were carried in Procession on many
Occasions, particularly at the _Maegalesian_ Games.]
[Footnote 18: _Adjusting her cushion._]
[Footnote 19: _Putting a Foot-stool under her._]
[Footnote 20: The Original mentioned the Fights of the _Gladiators_.
The Paraphrase comes as near as our Customs admit; for the _British_
Ladies never attend to see Men kill one another in jest.]
[Footnote 21: _Augustus Caesar_ among other rich Shews, with which he
entertained the People, exhibited to them a Sea-Fight in a Place dug
on purpose near the banks of the _Tyber_. The Poet takes this occasion
of introducing many Compliments to the Grandson of this Prince. We
have done little more than altered Names in this Place; and as we are
assured all here said is as properly applicable to the noble Person to
whom we have transferred it, the learned Reader will admire that any
Passage in an antient Author can be so apposite to the present Times,
and the true _English_ Reader will be no less delighted to see _Ovid_
introduced as singing forth the Praises of the _British Hero_.]
[Footnote 22: _Parthia._]
[Footnote 23: The _Crassi_.]
[Footnote 24: _Hercules._]
[Footnote 25: _Bacchus._]
[Footnote 26: The Original here described the many Nations who are led
Captives.]
[Footnote 27: Here we have inverted the Original; but sure the Sense
upholds us in so doing.]
[Footnote 28: _Baiae_, a Place not far from _Naples_, famous for
wholesome as well as pleasant Baths. It is described very largely by
_Diodorus_; and _Horace_ mentions it as the pleasantest Place in the
World.]
[Footnote 29: In the Original, the Temple of _Diana_ in the Suburbs.
It stood in a Grove not far from Rome. The next Line, _Partaque per
gladios, &c._ alludes to a very singular Custom, by which the Priests
of this Temple succeeded to each other, _viz._ by Conquest in single
Combat, for which every Slave or Fugitive was admitted to contend, and
the Victor was rewarded with the Priesthood. This Practice was renewed
every Year, and was, as _Strabo_ informs us, originally taken from the
_Scythians_.]
[Footnote 30: _Byblis_ fell in love with her Brother _Caunus_; and
upon his rejecting her Addresses
|
on the top of a gray hill, from the steep
eastern end of which one looks over a broad plain, toward a range of high
hills beyond. At any time, as one drew near the place, coming from
Jerusalem, he would pass by rounded hills, and now and then cross little
ravines with brooks, sometimes full of water, sometimes only beds of
stone; and, if it were spring-time, he would see the hills and valleys
covered with their grass, and sprinkled abundantly with a great variety of
wild flowers, daisies, poppies, the Star of Bethlehem, tulips and
anemones--a broad sheet of color, of scarlet, white and green. Perhaps,
very long ago, there were trees also where now there are none; and on
those hills, gray with the stone that peeped out through the grass, stood
the mighty cedars of Lebanon, stretching out their sweeping branches, and
oaks, sturdy and rich with dark foliage, green the year round. At any
rate, then, as now, we may believe that there were vineyards upon the
sunny slopes, and we know that the wind blew over corn-fields covering the
plains that lay between the ranges of hills.
It is of the time long since that we are thinking, when there were no
massive buildings on Bethlehem hill, such as are to be seen in the town as
it now appears. Instead, there were low houses, many of mud and sunburnt
brick, some so poor, doubtless, that the cattle were stalled, if not in
the same room with the people of the house, yet so near that they could be
heard through the partition, stamping, and crunching their food. There was
an inn there, also; but we must not think of it as like our modern
public-houses, with a landlord and servants, where one could have what he
needed by paying for it. Rather, it was a collection of buildings for the
convenience and accommodation of travelers, who brought with them whatever
they required of food, and the means of preparing it, finding there only
shelter and the roughest conveniences. The larger inns of this sort were
built in the form of a great courtyard surrounded by arcades, in which
people stayed, and kept their goods, if they were merchants.
The inn at Bethlehem was not probably one of these great
caravanserais,--as they are called now in the East, because caravans stop
at them; and it is even possible that the stables about the inn were
simply caves scooped out of the soft chalk rock, for the country there
has an abundance of these caves used for this very purpose.
From the hill on which Bethlehem stands, one can see travelers
approaching, and at that time, long ago, no doubt the people who lived
there saw companies of travelers, on foot or mounted, coming up to the
village. For it was a busy time in Judea. The Emperor at Rome, the capital
of the world, had ordered a tax to be laid upon his subjects, and first it
had to be known just who were liable to be taxed. Nowadays, and in our
country, people have their names taken down at the door of their own
houses, and pay their tax in the town where they live. But then, in Judea,
it was different. If a man had always lived in one place, and his parents
before him, well and good: there his name was taken down, and there he was
taxed. But if he was of a family that had left another place, he went back
to the old home, and there his name was registered. There were many, it
may be, who at this time were visiting Bethlehem for this purpose.
At least, we know of two amongst these travelers; devout and humble people
they were; Joseph, a carpenter, living in Nazareth, a village of Galilee,
sixty miles or more to the northward, and Mary, his wife. Together they
were coming to Bethlehem, for while Nazareth was now their home, they were
sprung from a family that once lived in Bethlehem, and though they were
now poor and lowly, that family was the royal family, and King David, the
greatest king that ever sat on the Jewish throne, was their ancestor.
Perhaps, as they climbed the hill, they thought of Ruth, who had gleaned
in the corn-fields just where they were passing, and no doubt they thought
of Ruth's great-grandson, King David, who was born here, and here kept his
father's sheep,--such sheep as even now they could see on the hillsides,
watched by the watching shepherds.
They came, like the rest, to the caravanserai, but found it already filled
with travelers. They could not have room with other men and women, and yet
there was shelter to be had, for the place where the horses and beasts of
burden stood was not all taken up. It may be that many of those now
occupying the inn had come on Joseph's errand, and, not being merchants,
had come unattended by the beasts that bore the goods of merchants, who
were there occupying the inn; and what were they there for? We can only
guess. All is forgotten of that gathering; men remember only the two
travelers from Nazareth who could find no room in the inn, and made their
resting-place by a manger.
For there, away from the crowd, was born to Mary a child, whom she wrapped
in swaddling-clothes and laid in the manger. She was away from home; she
was not even in a friend's house, nor yet in the inn; the Lord God had
made ready a crib for the babe in the feeding-place of cattle. What
gathering of friends could there be to rejoice over a child
born in this solitary place?
Yet there were some, friends of the child and of the child's mother, who
welcomed its birth with great rejoicing. It may be that when Mary was
laying Him upon His first hard earthly resting-place, there was, not far
off, such a sight as never before was seen on earth. On the hilly slopes
about Bethlehem were flocks of sheep that, day and night, cropped the
grass, watched by shepherds, just as, so long before, young David, in the
same place, had watched his father's sheep. These shepherds were devout
men, who sang, we may easily believe, the songs which the shepherd David
had taught them; and now, in the night-time, on the quiet slopes, as they
kept guard over their flocks, out of the darkness appeared a heavenly
visitor: whence he came they knew not, but round about him was a
brightness which they knew could be no other than the brightness of His
presence which God cast about His messengers. Great fear fell upon
them--for who of mortals could stand before the heavenly beings? But the
angel, quick to see their fear, spoke in words which were the words of men
and fell in peaceful accents:--
"Fear not!" said he, "for see, I bring you glad tidings of a great joy
that shall be to all the people. For there has been born to you, this very
day, a Saviour, who is the Holy Lord, born in the city of David; and this
shall be its sign to you: ye shall find a child wrapped in
swaddling-clothes lying in a manger."
And now, suddenly, before they could speak to the heavenly messenger, they
saw, not him alone, but the place full of the like heavenly beings. A
multitude was there; they came not as if from some distant place, but as
angels that ever stood round these shepherds. The eyes of the men were
opened, and they saw, besides the grassy slopes and feeding sheep, and
distant Bethlehem, and the stars above, a host of angels. Their ears were
opened, and besides the moving sheep and rustling boughs, they heard from
this great army of heavenly beings a song, rising to God and falling like
a blessing upon the sleeping world:--
"Glory to God in the highest
And on earth peace,
Good will to men."
In the lowly manger, a little child; on the hillside pasture, a heavenly
host singing His praises! Then it was once more quiet, and the darkness
was about the shepherds. They looked at one another and said,--"Let us go,
indeed, to Bethlehem, to see this thing that has come to pass, which the
Lord hath made us know."
So, in all haste, with the sound of that hymn of glory in their ears, they
left the pasture and sought the town. They went to the inn, but they
looked not there for the child; where the mangers were, there they sought
Him, and found Him lying, and by Him Joseph and Mary. There were others by
the new-born child, some who had doubtless come out from the inn at
hearing of the birth. "Whence are these shepherds?" they might have said
to themselves, "and what has brought them to this birthplace?"
To all by the manger, the shepherds, their minds full of the strange sight
they had witnessed, recount the marvel. They tell how one appeared with
such brightness about him as in old times they had heard gave witness that
the Lord God would speak to His people; how their fear at his presence was
quieted by his strange and joyful words; and how, when he had said, "Ye
shall find a child wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger," they
suddenly were aware of a host of angels round about them sounding praise,
to which God also listened.
Those to whom they told these things were amazed indeed at the
strangeness. What did the marvel mean, they wondered. They could
know no more than the shepherds had told them, and as for these men, they
went away to their flocks again, praising God, for now they too, had seen
the child, and it was all true, and with their human voice they caught up
the song of rejoicing which had fallen from angelic lips.
There was one who heard it all, and we may think did not say much or ask
much, but laid it away in her heart. It was Mary, and she had, in the
treasure-house where she put away this wonder, other thoughts and
recollections in company with it. There, in her inmost heart, she kept the
remembrance of a heavenly visitor who had appeared to her when she was
alone, and had quieted her fear by words that told her of this coming
birth, and filled her soul with the thought that He whom she should bear
was to have the long-deserted throne and a kingdom without end. She
remembered how, when she visited her cousin Elizabeth, she was greeted
with a psalm of rejoicing that sprang to the lips of that holy woman, and
from her own heart had come a psalm of response.
And now the child was born--born in the place of David, yet born to be
laid in a manger. A name had been given it by the angel, and she called
the child Jesus; for Jesus means Saviour, and "He shall," said the angel,
"save His people from their sins."
AS JOSEPH WAS A-WALKING
OLD ENGLISH CAROL
As Joseph was a-walking
He heard an angel sing:--
"This night there shall be born
Our heavenly King.
"He neither shall be born
In housen, nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox's stall.
"He neither shall be clothèd
In purple nor in pall;
But in the fair, white linen,
That usen babies all.
"He neither shall be rockèd
In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle
That rocks on the mould.
"He neither shall be christened
In white wine nor in red,
But with fair spring water
With which we were christened."
Mary took her baby,
She dressed Him so sweet,
She laid Him in a manger,
All there for to sleep.
As she stood over Him
She heard angels sing,
"O bless our dear Saviour,
Our heavenly King."
THE PEACEFUL NIGHT
JOHN MILTON
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began.
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,--
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence;
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them
go.
And, though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame
The new-enlightened world no more should need:
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
THE CHRISTMAS SILENCE
MARGARET DELAND
Hushed are the pigeons cooing low
On dusty rafters of the loft;
And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft,
Sleep on the fragrant hay below.
Dim shadows in the corner hide;
The glimmering lantern's rays are shed
Where one young lamb just lifts his head,
Then huddles 'gainst his mother's side.
Strange silence tingles in the air;
Through the half-open door a bar
Of light from one low-hanging star
Touches a baby's radiant hair.
No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays
Her cheek against the little face.
Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace!
'Tis yet in silence that she prays!
Ages of silence end to-night;
Then to the long-expectant earth
Glad angels come to greet His birth
In burst of music, love, and light!
NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST NIGHT
NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH
Deep in the shelter of the cave,
The ass with drooping head
Stood weary in the shadow, where
His master's hand had led.
About the manger oxen lay,
Bending a wide-eyed gaze
Upon the little new-born Babe,
Half worship, half amaze.
High in the roof the doves were set,
And cooed there, soft and mild,
Yet not so sweet as, in the hay,
The Mother to her Child.
The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath
To keep Babe Jesus warm,
While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale,
The cocks crowed, "Christ is born!"
Out in the fields, beneath the stars,
The young lambs sleeping lay,
And dreamed that in the manger slept
Another, white as they.
These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child;
To Thee their love was given,
For in Thy baby face there shone
The wonder-light of Heaven.
CHRISTMAS CAROL
FROM THE NEAPOLITAN
When Christ was born in Bethlehem,
'T was night, but seemed the noon of day;
The stars, whose light
Was pure and bright,
Shone with unwavering ray;
But one, one glorious star
Guided the Eastern Magi from afar.
Then peace was spread throughout the land;
The lion fed beside the tender lamb;
And with the kid,
To pasture led,
The spotted leopard fed;
In peace, the calf and bear,
The wolf and lamb reposed together there.
As shepherds watched their flocks by night,
An angel, brighter than the sun's own light,
Appeared in air,
And gently said,
Fear not,--be not afraid,
For lo! beneath your eyes,
Earth has become a smiling paradise.
A CHRISTMAS HYMN
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
Tell me what is this innumerable throng
Singing in the heavens a loud angelic song?
These are they who come with swift and shining feet
From round about the throne of God the Lord of Light to greet.
Oh, who are these that hasten beneath the starry sky,
As if with joyful tidings that through the world shall fly?
The faithful shepherds these, who greatly were afeared
When, as they watched their flocks by night, the heavenly host appeared.
Who are these that follow across the hills of night
A star that westward hurries along the fields of light?
Three wise men from the east who myrrh and treasure bring
To lay them at the feet of him their Lord and Christ and King.
What babe new-born is this that in a manger cries?
Near on her lowly bed his happy mother lies.
Oh, see the air is shaken with white and heavenly wings--
This is the Lord of all the earth, this is the King of kings.
THE SONG OF A SHEPHERD--BOY AT BETHLEHEM
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary:
Rest Thee now.
Though these hands be rough from shearing
And the plough,
Yet they shall not ever fail Thee,
When the waiting nations hail Thee,
Bringing palms unto their King.
Now--I sing.
Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary,
Hope divine.
If Thou wilt but smile upon me,
I will twine
Blossoms for Thy garlanding.
Thou'rt so little to be King,
God's Desire!
Not a brier
Shall be left to grieve Thy brow;
Rest Thee now.
Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary.
Some fair day
Wilt Thou, as Thou wert a brother,
Come away
Over hills and over hollow?
All the lambs will up and follow,
Follow but for love of Thee.
Lov'st Thou me?
Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary;
Rest Thee now.
I that watch am come from sheep-stead
And from plough.
Thou wilt have disdain of me
When Thou'rt lifted, royally,
Very high for all to see:
Smilest Thou?
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS ROSES
ADAPTED FROM AN OLD LEGEND
The sun had dropped below the western hills of Judea, and the stillness of
night had covered the earth. The heavens were illumined only by numberless
stars, which shone the brighter for the darkness of the sky. No sound was
heard but the occasional howl of a jackal or the bleat of a lamb in the
sheepfold. Inside a tent on the hillside slept the shepherd, Berachah, and
his daughter, Madelon. The little girl lay restless,--sleeping, waking,
dreaming, until at last she roused herself and looked about her.
"Father," she whispered, "oh, my father, awake. I fear for the sheep."
The shepherd turned himself and reached for his staff. "What nearest thou,
daughter! The dogs are asleep. Hast thou been burdened by an evil dream?"
"Nay, but father," she answered, "seest thou not the light? Hearest thou
not the voice?"
Berachah gathered his mantle about him, rose, looked over the hills toward
Bethlehem, and listened. The olive trees on yonder slope were casting
their shadows in a marvellous light, unlike daybreak or sunset, or even
the light of the moon. By the camp-fire below on the hillside the
shepherds on watch were rousing themselves. Berachah waited and wondered,
while Madelon clung to his side. Suddenly a sound rang out in the
stillness. Madelon pressed still closer.
"It is the voice of an angel, my daughter. What it means I know not.
Neither understand I this light." Berachah fell on his knees and prayed.
"Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall
be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a
Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye
shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."
The voice of the angel died away, and the air was filled with music.
Berachah raised Madelon to her feet. "Ah, daughter," said he, "It is the
wonder night so long expected. To us hath it been given to see the sign.
It is the Messiah who hath come, the Messiah, whose name shall be called
Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince
of Peace. He it is who shall reign on the throne of David, he it is who
shall redeem Israel."
Slowly up the hillside toiled the shepherds to the tent of Berachah, their
chief, who rose to greet them eagerly.
"What think you of the wonder night and of the sign?" he queried. "Are we
not above all others honored, thus to learn of the Messiah's coming!"
"Yea, and Berachah," replied their spokesman, Simon, "believest thou not
that we should worship the infant King! Let us now go to Bethlehem, and
see this thing which has come to pass."
A murmur of protest came from the edge of the circle, and one or two
turned impatiently away, whispering of duty toward flocks, and the folly
of searching for a new-born baby in the city of Bethlehem. Hardheaded,
practical men were these, whose hearts had not been touched by vision or
by song.
The others, however, turned expectantly toward Berachah, awaiting his
decision. "Truly," said Jude, "the angel of the Lord hath given us the
sign in order that we might go to worship Him. How can we then do
otherwise? We shall find Him, as we have heard, lying in a manger. Let us
not tarry, but let us gather our choicest treasures to lay at His feet,
and set out without delay across the hills toward Bethlehem."
"Oh, my father," whispered Madelon, "permit me to go with thee." Berachah
did not hear her, but turned and bade the men gather together their gifts.
"I, too, father?" asked Madelon. Still Berachah said nothing. Madelon
slipped back into the tent, and throwing her arms around Melampo, her
shepherd dog, whispered in his ear.
Soon the shepherds returned with their gifts. Simple treasures they
were,--a pair of doves, a fine wool blanket, some eggs, some honey, some
late autumn fruits. Berachah had searched for the finest of his flock,--a
snow-white lamb. Across the hills toward Bethlehem in the quiet, star-lit
night they journeyed. As they moved silently along, the snow beneath their
feet was changed to grass and flowers, and the icicles which had dropped
from the trees covered their pathway like stars in the Milky Way.
Following at a distance, yet close enough to see them, came Madelon with
Melampo at her heels. Over the hills they travelled on until Madelon lost
sight of their own hillside. Farther and farther the shepherds went until
they passed David's well, and entered the city. Berachah led the way.
"How shall we know?" whispered Simon. And the others answered, "Hush, we
must await the sign."
When at last they had compassed the crescent of Bethlehem's hills, they
halted by an open doorway at a signal from their leader. "The manger,"
they joyfully murmured, "the manger! We have found the new-born King!"
One by one the shepherds entered. One by one they fell on their knees.
Away in the shadow stood the little girl, her hand on Melampo's head. In
wonder she gazed while the shepherds presented their gifts, and were
permitted each to hold for a moment the newborn Saviour.
Melampo, the shepherd dog, crouched on the ground, as if he too, like the
ox and the ass within, would worship the Child. Madelon turned toward the
darkness weeping. Then, lifting her face to heaven, she prayed that God
would bless Mother and Baby. Melampo moved closer to her, dumbly offering
his companionship, and, raising his head, seemed to join in her petition.
Once more she looked at the worshipping circle.
"Alas," she grieved, "no gift have I for the infant Saviour. Would that I
had but a flower to place in His hand."
Suddenly Melampo stirred by her side, and as she turned again from the
manger she saw before her an angel, the light from whose face illumined
the darkness, and whose look of tenderness rested on her tear-stained
eyes.
"Why grievest thou, maiden?" asked the angel.
"That I come empty-handed to the cradle of the Saviour, that I bring no
gift to greet Him," she murmured.
"The gift of thine heart, that is the best of all," answered the angel.
"But that thou mayst carry something to the manger, see, I will strike
with my staff upon the ground."
Wonderingly Madelon waited. From the dry earth wherever the angel's staff
had touched sprang fair, white roses. Timidly she stretched out her hand
toward the nearest ones. In the light of the angel's smile she gathered
them, until her arms were filled with flowers. Again she turned toward the
manger, and quietly slipped to the circle of kneeling shepherds.
Closer she crept to the Child, longing, yet fearing, to offer her gift.
"How shall I know," she pondered, "whether He will receive this my gift as
His own?"
Berachah gazed in amazement at Madelon and the roses which she held. How
came his child there, his child whom he had left safe on the hillside? And
whence came such flowers! Truly this was a wonder night.
Step by step she neared the manger, knelt, and placed a rose in the Baby's
hand. As the shepherds watched in silence, Mary bent over her Child, and
Madelon waited for a sign. "Will He accept them?" she questioned. "How,
oh, how shall I know?" As she prayed in humble silence, the Baby's eyes
opened slowly, and over His face spread a smile.
THE LITTLE GRAY LAMB
ARCHIBALD BERESFORD SULLIVAN
Out on the endless purple hills, deep in the
clasp of somber night,
The shepherds guarded their weary ones--
guarded their flocks of cloudy white,
That like a snowdrift in silence lay,
Save one little lamb with its fleece of gray.
Out on the hillside all alone, gazing afar with
sleepless eyes,
The little gray lamb prayed soft and low, its
weary face to the starry skies:
"O moon of the heavens so fair, so bright,
Give me--oh, give me--a fleece of white!"
No answer came from the dome of blue, nor
comfort lurked in the cypress-trees;
But faint came a whisper borne along on the
scented wings of the passing breeze:
"Little gray lamb that prays this night,
I cannot give thee a fleece of white."
Then the little gray lamb of the sleepless eyes
prayed to the clouds for a coat of snow,
Asked of the roses, besought the woods; but
each gave answer sad and low:
"Little gray lamb that prays this night,
We cannot give thee a fleece of white."
Like a gem unlocked from a casket dark, like
an ocean pearl from its bed of blue,
Came, softly stealing the clouds between, a
wonderful star which brighter grew
Until it flamed like the sun by day
Over the place where Jesus lay.
Ere hushed were the angels' notes of praise
the joyful shepherds had quickly sped
Past rock and shadow, adown the hill, to kneel
at the Saviour's lowly bed;
While, like the spirits of phantom night,
Followed their flocks--their flocks of white.
And patiently, longingly, out of the night,
apart from the others,--far apart,--
Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, the
little gray lamb of the weary heart,
Murmuring, "I must bide far away:
I am not worthy--my fleece is gray."
And the Christ Child looked upon humbled
pride, at kings bent low on the earthen floor,
But gazed beyond at the saddened heart of the
little gray lamb at the open door;
And he called it up to his manger low and laid
his hand on its wrinkled face,
While the kings drew golden robes aside to
give to the weary one a place.
And the fleece of the little gray lamb was blest:
For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest!
* * * * *
In many cathedrals grand and dim, whose windows
glimmer with pane and lens,
Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, hallowed
about with last amens,
The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with
kneeling Magi wise and old,
But his baby-hand rests--not on the gifts, the
myrrh, the frankincense, the gold--
But on the head, with a heavenly light,
Of the little gray lamb that was changed to white.
THE HOLY NIGHT
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horned faces
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonied hearing rung
The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!
THE STAR BEARER
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
There were seven angels erst that spanned
Heaven's roadway out through space,
Lighting with stars, by God's command,
The fringe of that high place
Whence plumèd beings in their joy,
The servitors His thoughts employ,
Fly ceaselessly. No goodlier band
Looked upward to His face.
There, on bright hovering wings that tire
Never, they rested mute,
Nor of far journeys had desire,
Nor of the deathless fruit;
For in and through each angel soul
All waves of life and knowledge roll,
Even as to nadir streamed the fire
Of their torches resolute.
They lighted Michael's outpost through
Where fly the armored brood,
And the wintry Earth their omens knew
Of Spring's beatitude;
Rude folk, ere yet the promise came,
Gave to their orbs a heathen name,
Saying how steadfast in men's view
The watchful Pleiads stood.
All in the solstice of the year,
When the sun apace must turn,
The seven bright angels 'gan to hear
Heaven's twin gates outward yearn:
Forth with its light and minstrelsy
A lordly troop came speeding by,
And joyed to see each cresset sphere
So gloriously burn.
Staying his fearless passage then
The Captain of that host
Spake with strong voice: "We bear to men
God's gift the uttermost,
Whereof the oracle and sign
Sibyl and sages may divine:
A star shall blazon in their ken,
Borne with us from your post.
"This night the Heir of Heaven's throne
A new-born mortal lies!
Since Earth's first morning hath not shone
Such joy in seraph eyes."
He spake. The least in honor there
Answered with longing like a prayer,--
"My star, albeit thenceforth unknown,
Shall light for you Earth's skies."
Onward the blessed legion swept,
That angel at the head;
(Where seven of old their station kept
There are six that shine instead.)
Straight hitherward came troop and star;
Like some celestial bird afar
Into Earth's night the cohort leapt
With beauteous wings outspread.
Dazzling the East beneath it there,
The Star gave out its rays:
Right through the still Judean air
The shepherds see it blaze,--
They see the plume-borne heavenly throng,
And hear a burst of that high song
Of which in Paradise aware
Saints count their years but days.
For they sang such music as, I deem,
In God's chief court of joys,
Had stayed the flow of the crystal stream
And made souls in mid-flight poise;
They sang of Glory to Him most High,
Of Peace on Earth abidingly,
And of all delights the which, men dream,
Nor sin nor grief alloys.
Breathless the kneeling shepherds heard,
Charmed from their first rude fear,
Nor while that music dwelt had stirred
Were it a month or year:
And Mary Mother drank its flow,
Couched with her Babe divine,--and, lo!
Ere falls the last ecstatic word
Three Holy Kings draw near.
Whenas the star-led shining train
Wheeled from their task complete,
Skyward from over Bethlehem's plain
They sped with rapture fleet;
And the angel of that orient star,
Thenceforth where Heaven's lordliest are,
Stands with a harp, while Christ doth reign,
A seraph near His feet.
THE VISIT OF THE WISE MEN
ST. MATTHEW, II, 1-12
Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the
king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,
Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his
star in the east, and are come to worship him.
When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all
Jerusalem with him.
And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people
together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.
And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judaea: for thus it is written by
the prophet,
And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, art not the least among the
princes of Judah: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule
my people Israel.
Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them
diligently what time the star appeared.
And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the
young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may
come and worship him also.
When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they
saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the
young child was.
When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.
And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary
his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened
their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense,
and myrrh.
And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod,
they departed into their own country another way.
THE THREE KINGS
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.
"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."
And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men
|
iously a small hammer, and with it proceeded frantically to pound
the beads. Evidently he was accustomed to being doubted, and carried his
materials for proof around with him. Then, in one motion, the hammer
disappeared, the beads were snatched up, and again offered, unharmed,
for inspection.
"Are those good tests for genuineness?" we asked the professor, aside.
"As to that," he replied regretfully, "I do not know. I know of coral
only that is the hard calcareous skeleton of the marine coelenterate
polyps; and that this red coral iss called of a sclerobasic group; and
other facts of the kind; but I do not know if it iss supposed to resist
impact and heat. Possibly," he ended shrewdly, "it is the common
imitation which does _not_ resist impact and heat. At any rate they are
pretty. How much?" he demanded of the vendor, a bright-eyed Egyptian
waiting patiently until our conference should cease.
"Twenty shillings," he replied promptly.
The professor shook with one of his cavernous chuckles.
"Too much," he observed, and handed the necklace back through the
window.
The Egyptian would by no means receive it.
"Keep! keep!" he implored, thrusting the mass of red upon the professor
with both hands. "How much you give?"
"One shilling," announced the professor firmly.
The coral necklace lay on the edge of the table throughout most of our
leisurely meal. The vendor argued, pleaded, gave it up, disappeared in
the crowd, returned dramatically after an interval. The professor ate
calmly, chuckled much, and from time to time repeated firmly the words,
"One shilling." Finally, at the cheese, he reached out, swept the coral
into his pocket, and laid down two shillings. The Egyptian deftly
gathered the coin, smiled cheerfully, and produced a glittering veil, in
which he tried in vain to enlist Billy's interest.
For coffee and cigars we moved to the terrace outside. Here an orchestra
played, the peoples of many nations sat at little tables, the peddlers,
fakirs, jugglers, and fortune-tellers swarmed. A half-dozen postal cards
seemed sufficient to set a small boy up in trade, and to imbue him with
all the importance and insistence of a merchant with jewels. Other
ten-year-old ragamuffins tried to call our attention to some sort of
sleight-of-hand with poor downy little chickens. Grave, turbaned, and
polite Indians squatted cross-legged at our feet, begging to give us a
look into the future by means of the only genuine hall-marked Yogi-ism;
a troupe of acrobats went energetically and hopefully through quite a
meritorious performance a few feet away; a deftly triumphant juggler did
very easily, and directly beneath our watchful eyes, some really
wonderful tricks. A butterfly-gorgeous swarm of insinuating smiling
peddlers of small things dangled and spread their wares where they
thought themselves most sure of attention. Beyond our own little group
we saw slowly passing in the lighted street outside the portico the
variegated and picturesque loungers. Across the way a phonograph bawled;
our stringed orchestra played "The Dollar Princess;" from somewhere over
in the dark and mysterious alleyways came the regular beating of a
tom-tom. The magnificent and picturesque town car with its gaudy
ragamuffins swayed by in train of its diminutive mule.
Suddenly our persistent and amusing _entourage_ vanished in all
directions. Standing idly at the portico was a very straight, black
Soudanese. On his head was the usual red fez; his clothing was of trim
khaki; his knees and feet were bare, with blue puttees between; and
around his middle was drawn close and smooth a blood-red sash at least a
foot and a half in breadth. He made a fine upstanding Egyptian figure,
and was armed with pride, a short sheathed club, and a great scorn. No
word spoke he, nor command; but merely jerked a thumb towards the
darkness, and into the darkness our many-hued horde melted away. We were
left feeling rather lonesome!
Near midnight we sauntered down the street to the quay, whence we were
rowed to the ship by another turbaned, long-robed figure, who sweetly
begged just a copper or so "for poor boatman."
We found the ship in the process of coaling, every porthole and doorway
closed, and heavy canvas hung to protect as far as possible the clean
decks. Two barges were moored alongside. Two blazing braziers lighted
them with weird red and flickering flames. In their depths, cast in
black and red shadows, toiled half-guessed figures; from their depths,
mounting a single steep plank, came an unbroken procession of natives,
naked save for a wisp of cloth around the loins. They trod closely on
each other's heels, carrying each his basket atop his head or on one
shoulder, mounted a gang-plank, discharged their loads into the side of
the ship, and descended again to the depths by way of another plank. The
lights flickered across their dark faces, their gleaming teeth and eyes.
Somehow the work demanded a heap of screeching, shouting, and
gesticulation; but somehow also it went forward rapidly. Dozens of
unattached natives lounged about the gunwales with apparently nothing to
do but to look picturesque. Shore boats moved into the narrow circle of
light, drifted to our gangway, and discharged huge crates of vegetables,
sacks of unknown stuffs, and returning passengers. A vigilant police
boat hovered near to settle disputes, generally with the blade of an
oar. For a long time we leaned over the rail watching them, and the
various reflected lights in the water, and the very clear, unwavering
stars. Then, the coaling finished, and the portholes once more opened,
we turned in.
IV.
SUEZ.
Some time during the night we must have started, but so gently had we
slid along it fractional speed that until I raised my head and looked
out I had not realized the fact. I saw a high sandbank. This glided
monotonously by until I grew tired of looking at it and got up.
After breakfast, however, I found that the sandbank had various
attractions all of its own. Three camels laden with stone and in convoy
of white-clad figures shuffled down the slope at a picturesque angle.
Two cowled women in black, veiled to the eyes in gauze heavily sewn with
sequins, barefooted, with massive silver anklets, watched us pass. Hindu
workmen in turban and loin-cloth furnished a picturesque note, but did
not seem to be injuring themselves by over-exertion. Naked small boys
raced us for a short distance. The banks glided by very slowly and very
evenly, the wash sucked after us like water in a slough after a duck
boat, and the sky above the yellow sand looked extremely blue.
At short and regular intervals, half-way up the miniature sandhills,
heavy piles or snubbing-posts had been planted. For these we at first
could guess no reason. Soon, however, we had to pass another ship; and
then we saw that one of us must tie up to avoid being drawn irresistibly
by suction into collision with the other. The craft sidled by, separated
by only a few feet, so that we could look across to each other's decks
and exchange greetings. As the day grew this interest grew likewise.
Dredgers in the canal; rusty tramps flying unfamiliar flags of strange
tiny countries; big freighters, often with Greek or Turkish characters
on their sterns; small dirty steamers of suspicious business; passenger
ships like our own, returning from the tropics, with white-clad, languid
figures reclining in canvas chairs; gunboats of this or that nation
bound on mysterious affairs; once a P. & O. converted into a troopship,
from whose every available porthole, hatch, deck, and shroud laughing,
brown, English faces shouted chaff at our German decks--all these
either tied up for us, or were tied up for by us. The only craft that
received no consideration on our part were the various picturesque Arab
dhows, with their single masts and the long yards slanting across them.
Since these were very small, our suction dragged at them cruelly. As a
usual thing four vociferous figures clung desperately to a rope passed
around one of the snubbing-posts ashore, while an old man shrieked
syllables at them from the dhow itself. As they never by any chance
thought of mooring her both stem and stern, the dhow generally changed
ends rapidly, shipping considerable water in the process. It must be
very trying to get so excited in a hot climate.
The high sandbanks of the early part of the day soon dropped lower to
afford us a wider view. In its broad, general features the country was,
quite simply, the desert of Arizona over again. There were the same
high, distant, and brittle-looking mountains, fragile and pearly; the
same low, broken half-distances; the same wide sweeps; the same
wonderful changing effects of light, colour, shadow, and mirage; the
same occasional strips of green marking the watercourses and oases. As
to smaller detail, we saw many interesting divergences. In the
foreground constantly recurred the Bedouin brush shelters, each with its
picturesque figure or so in flowing robes, and its grumpy camels. Twice
we saw travelling caravans, exactly like the Bible pictures. At one
place a single burnoused Arab, leaning on his elbows, reclined full
length on the sky-line of a clean-cut sandhill. Glittering in the
mirage, half-guessed, half-seen, we made out distant little white towns
with slender palm trees. At places the water from the canal had
overflowed wide tracts of country. Here, along the shore, we saw
thousands of the water-fowl already familiar to us, as well as such
strangers as gaudy kingfishers, ibises, and rosy flamingoes.
The canal itself seemed to be in a continual state of repair. Dredgers
were everywhere; some of the ordinary shovel type, others working by
suction, and discharging far inland by means of weird huge pipes that
apparently meandered at will over the face of nature. The control
stations were beautifully French and neat, painted yellow, each with its
gorgeous bougainvilleas in flower, its square-rigged signal masts, its
brightly painted extra buoys standing in a row, its wharf--and its
impassive Arab fishermen thereon. We reclined in our canvas chairs, had
lemon squashes brought to us, and watched the entertainment steadily and
slowly unrolled before us.
We reached the end of the canal about three o'clock of the afternoon,
and dropped anchor off the low-lying shores. Our binoculars showed us
white houses in apparently single rank along a far-reaching narrow sand
spit, with sparse trees and a railroad line. That was the town of Suez,
and seemed so little interesting that we were not particularly sorry
that we could not go ashore. Far in the distance were mountains; and the
water all about us was the light, clear green of the sky at sunset.
Innumerable dhows and row-boats swarmed down, filled with eager salesmen
of curios and ostrich plumes. They had not much time in which to
bargain, so they made it up in rapid-fire vociferation. One very tall
and dignified Arab had as sailor of his craft the most extraordinary
creature, just above the lower limit of the human race. He was of a dull
coal black, without a single high light on him anywhere, as though he
had been sand-papered, had prominent teeth, like those of a baboon, in a
wrinkled, wizened monkey face, across which were three tattooed bands,
and possessed a little, long-armed, spare figure, bent and wiry. He
clambered up and down his mast, fetching things at his master's behest;
leapt nonchalantly for our rail or his own spar, as the case might be,
across the staggering abyss; clung so well with his toes that he might
almost have been classified with the quadrumana; and between times
squatted humped over on the rail, watching us with bright, elfish, alien
eyes.
At last the big German sailors bundled the whole variegated horde
overside. It was time to go, and our anchor chain was already rumbling
in the hawse pipes. They tumbled hastily into their boats; and at once
swarmed up their masts, whence they feverishly continued their
interrupted bargaining. In fact, so fully embarked on the tides of
commerce were they, that they failed to notice the tides of nature
widening between us. One old man, in especial, at the very top of his
mast, jerked hither and thither by the sea, continued imploringly to
offer an utterly ridiculous carved wooden camel long after it was
impossible to have completed the transaction should anybody have been
moonstruck enough to have desired it. Our ship's prow swung; and just at
sunset, as the lights of Suez were twinkling out one by one, we headed
down the Red Sea.
V.
THE RED SEA.
Suez is indeed the gateway to the East. In the Mediterranean often the
sea is rough, the winds cold, passengers are not yet acquainted, and hug
the saloons or the leeward side of the deck. Once through the canal and
all is changed by magic. The air is hot and languid; the ship's company
down to the very scullions appear in immaculate white; the saloon chairs
and transoms even are put in white coverings; electric fans hum
everywhere; the run on lemon squashes begins; and many quaint and
curious customs of the tropics obtain.
For example: it is etiquette that before eight o'clock one may wander
the decks at will in one's pyjamas, converse affably with fair ladies in
pigtail and kimono, and be not abashed. But on the stroke of eight bells
it is also etiquette to disappear very promptly and to array one's self
for the day; and it is very improper indeed to see or be seen after that
hour in the rather extreme _negligée_ of the early morning. Also it
becomes the universal custom, or perhaps I should say the necessity, to
slumber for an hour after the noon meal. Certainly sleep descending on
the tropical traveller is armed with a bludgeon. Passengers, crew,
steerage, "deck," animal, and bird fall down then in an enchantment. I
have often wondered who navigates the ship during that sacred hour, or,
indeed, if anybody navigates it at all. Perhaps that time is sacred to
the genii of the old East, who close all prying mortal eyes, but in
return lend a guiding hand to the most pressing of mortal affairs. The
deck of the ship is a curious sight between the hours of half-past one
and three. The tropical siesta requires no couching of the form. You sit
down in your chair, with a book--you fade slowly into a deep, restful
slumber. And yet it is a slumber wherein certain small pleasant things
persist from the world outside. You remain dimly conscious of the
rhythmic throbbing of the engines, of the beat of soft, warm air on your
cheek.
At three o'clock or thereabout you rise as gently back to life, and sit
erect in your chair without a stretch or a yawn in your whole anatomy.
Then is the one time of day for a display of energy--if you have any to
display. Ship games, walks--fairly brisk--explorations to the
forecastle, a watch for flying fish or Arab dhows, anything until
tea-time. Then the glowing sunset; the opalescent sea, and the soft
afterglow of the sky--and the bugle summoning you to dress. That is a
mean job. Nothing could possibly swelter worse than the tiny cabin. The
electric fan is an aggravation. You reappear in your fresh "whites"
somewhat warm and flustered in both mind and body. A turn around the
deck cools you off; and dinner restores your equanimity--dinner with the
soft, warm tropic air breathing through all the wide-open ports; the
electric fans drumming busily; the men all in clean white; the ladies,
the very few precious ladies, in soft, low gowns. After dinner the deck,
as near cool as it will be, and heads bare to the breeze of our
progress, and glowing cigars. At ten or eleven o'clock the groups begin
to break up, the canvas chairs to empty. Soon reappears a pyjamaed
figure followed by a steward carrying a mattress. This is spread, under
its owner's direction, in a dark corner forward. With a sigh you in your
turn plunge down into the sweltering inferno of your cabin, only to
reappear likewise with a steward and a mattress. The latter, if you are
wise, you spread where the wind of the ship's going will be full upon
you. It is a strong wind and blows upon you heavily, so that the sleeves
and legs of your pyjamas flop, but it is a soft, warm wind, and beats
you as with muffled fingers. In no temperate clime can you ever enjoy
this peculiar effect of a strong breeze on your naked skin without even
the faintest surface chilly sensation. So habituated has one become to
feeling cooler in a draught that the absence of chill lends the night an
unaccustomedness, the more weird in that it is unanalyzed, so that one
feels definitely that one is in a strange, far country. This is
intensified by the fact that in these latitudes the moon, the great,
glorious, calm tropical moon, is directly overhead--follows the centre
line of the zenith--instead of being, as with us in our temperate zone,
always more or less declined to the horizon. This, too, lends the night
an exotic quality, the more effective in that at first the reason for it
is not apprehended.
A night in the tropics is always more or less broken. One awakens, and
sleeps again. Motionless white-clad figures, cigarettes glowing, are
lounging against the rail looking out over a molten sea. The moonlight
lies in patterns across the deck, shivering slightly under the throb of
the engines, or occasionally swaying slowly forward or slowly back as
the ship's course changes, but otherwise motionless, for here the sea is
always calm. You raise your head, look about, sprawl in a new position
on your mattress, fall asleep. On one of these occasions you find
unexpectedly that the velvet-gray night has become steel-gray dawn, and
that the kindly old quartermaster is bending over you. Sleepily, very
sleepily, you stagger to your feet and collapse into the nearest chair.
Then to the swish of water, as the sailors sluice the decks all around
and under you, you fall into a really deep sleep.
At six o'clock this is broken by chota-hazri, another tropical
institution, consisting merely of clear tea and biscuits. I never could
get to care for it, but nowhere in the tropics could I head it off. No
matter how tired I was or how dead sleepy, I had to receive that
confounded chota-hazri. Throwing things at the native who brought it did
no good at all. He merely dodged. Admonition did no good, nor
prohibition in strong terms. I was but one white man of the whole white
race; and I had no right to possess idiosyncrasies running counter to
dastur, the custom. However, as the early hours are profitable hours in
the tropics, it did not drive me to homicide.
The ship's company now developed. Our two prize members, fortunately for
us, sat at our table. The first was the Swedish professor
aforementioned. He was large, benign, paternal, broad in mind,
thoroughly human and beloved, and yet profoundly erudite. He was our
iconoclast in the way of food; for he performed small but illuminating
dissections on his plate, and announced triumphantly results that were
not a bit in accordance with the menu. A single bone was sufficient to
take the pretension out of any fish. Our other particular friend was C.,
with whom later we travelled in the interior of Africa. C. is a very
celebrated hunter and explorer, an old Africander, his face seamed and
tanned by many years in a hard climate. For several days we did not
recognize him, although he sat fairly alongside, but put him down as a
shy man, and let it go at that. He never stayed for the long _table
d'hôte_ dinners, but fell upon the first solid course and made a
complete meal from that. When he had quite finished eating all he
could, he drank all he could; then he departed from the table, and took
up a remote and inaccessible position in the corner of the smoking-room.
He was engaged in growing the beard he customarily wore in the jungle--a
most fierce outstanding Mohammedan-looking beard that terrified the
intrusive into submission. And yet Bwana C. possesses the kindest blue
eyes in the world, full of quiet patience, great understanding, and
infinite gentleness. His manner was abrupt and uncompromising, but he
would do anything in the world for one who stood in need of him. From
women he fled; yet Billy won him with infinite patience, and in the
event they became the closest of friends. Withal he possessed a pair of
the most powerful shoulders I have ever seen on a man of his frame; and
in the depths of his mild blue eyes flickered a flame of resolution that
I could well imagine flaring up to something formidable. Slow to make
friends, but staunch and loyal; gentle and forbearing, but fierce and
implacable in action; at once loved and most terribly feared; shy as a
wild animal, but straightforward and undeviating in his human relations;
most remarkably quiet and unassuming, but with tremendous vital force in
his deep eyes and forward-thrust jaw; informed with the widest and most
understanding humanity, but unforgiving of evildoers; and with the most
direct and absolute courage, Bwana C. was to me the most interesting man
I met in Africa, and became the best of my friends.
The only other man at our table happened to be, for our sins, the young
Englishman mentioned as throwing the first coin to the old woman on the
pier at Marseilles. We will call him Brown, and, because he represents a
type, he is worth looking upon for a moment.
He was of the super-enthusiastic sort; bubbling over with vitality, in
and out of everything; bounding up at odd and languid moments. To an
extraordinary extent he was afflicted with the spiritual blindness of
his class. Quite genuinely, quite seriously, he was unconscious of the
human significance of beings and institutions belonging to a foreign
country or even to a class other than his own. His own kind he treated
as complete and understandable human creatures. All others were merely
objective. As we, to a certain extent, happened to fall in the former
category, he was as pleasant to us as possible--that is, he was pleasant
to us in his way, but had not insight enough to guess at how to be
pleasant to us in our way. But as soon as he got out of his own class,
or what he conceived to be such, he considered all people as
"outsiders." He did not credit them with prejudices to rub, with
feelings to hurt, indeed hardly with ears to overhear. Provided his
subject was an "outsider," he had not the slightest hesitancy in saying
exactly what he thought about any one, anywhere, always in his high
clear English voice, no matter what the time or occasion. As a natural
corollary he always rebuffed beggars and the like brutally, and was
always quite sublimely doing little things that thoroughly shocked our
sense of the other fellow's rights as a human being. In all this he did
not mean to be cruel or inconsiderate. It was just the way he was built;
and it never entered his head that "such people" had ears and brains.
In the rest of the ship's company were a dozen or so other Englishmen of
the upper classes, either army men on shooting trips, or youths going
out with some idea of settling in the country. They were a clean-built,
pleasant lot; good people to know anywhere, but of no unusual interest.
It was only when one went abroad into the other nations that inscribable
human interest could be found.
There was the Greek, Scutari, and his bride, a languorous rather
opulent beauty, with large dark eyes for all men, and a luxurious manner
of lying back and fanning herself. She talked, soft-voiced, in half a
dozen languages, changing from one to the other without a break in
either her fluency or her thought. Her little lithe, active husband sat
around and adored her. He was apparently a very able citizen indeed, for
he was going out to take charge of the construction work on a German
railway. To have filched so important a job from the Germans themselves
shows that he must have had ability. With them were a middle-aged
Holland couple, engaged conscientiously in travelling over the globe.
They had been everywhere--the two American hemispheres, from one Arctic
Sea to another, Siberia, China, the Malay Archipelago, this, that, and
the other odd corner of the world. Always they sat placidly side by
side, either in the saloon or on deck, smiling benignly, and conversing
in spaced, comfortable syllables with everybody who happened along. Mrs.
Breemen worked industriously on some kind of feminine gear, and
explained to all and sundry that she travelled "to see de sceenery wid
my hoos-band."
Also in this group was a small wiry German doctor, who had lived for
many years in the far interior of Africa, and was now returning after
his vacation. He was a little man, bright-eyed and keen, with a clear
complexion and hard flesh, in striking and agreeable contrast to most of
his compatriots. The latter were trying to drink all the beer on the
ship; but as she had been stocked for an eighty-day voyage, of which
this was but the second week, they were not making noticeable headway.
However, they did not seem to be easily discouraged. The Herr Doktor was
most polite and attentive, but as we did not talk German nor much
Swahili, and he had neither English nor much French, we had our
difficulties. I have heard Billy in talking to him scatter fragments of
these four languages through a single sentence!
For several days we drifted down a warm flat sea. Then one morning we
came on deck to find ourselves close aboard a number of volcanic
islands. They were composed entirely of red and dark purple lava blocks,
rugged, quite without vegetation save for occasional patches of stringy
green in a gully; and uninhabited except for a lighthouse on one, and a
fishing shanty near the shores of another. The high mournful mountains,
with their dark shadows, seemed to brood over hot desolation. The rusted
and battered stern of a wrecked steamer stuck up at an acute angle from
the surges. Shortly after we picked up the shores of Arabia.
Note the advantages of a half ignorance. From early childhood we had
thought of Arabia as the "burning desert"--flat, of course--and of the
Red Sea as bordered by "shifting sands" alone. If we had known the
truth--if we had not been half ignorant--we would have missed the
profound surprise of discovering that in reality the Red Sea is bordered
by high and rugged mountains, leaving just space enough between
themselves and the shore for a sloping plain on which our glasses could
make out occasional palms. Perhaps the "shifting sands of the burning
desert" lie somewhere beyond; but somebody might have mentioned these
great mountains! After examining them attentively we had to confess that
if this sort of thing continued farther north the children of Israel
must have had a very hard time of it. Mocha shone white, glittering, and
low, with the red and white spire of a mosque rising brilliantly above
it.
VI.
ADEN.
It was cooler; and for a change we had turned into our bunks, when B.
pounded on our stateroom door.
"In the name of the Eternal East," said he, "come on deck!"
We slipped on kimonos, and joined the row of scantily draped and
interested figures along the rail.
The ship lay quite still on a perfect sea of moonlight, bordered by a
low flat distant shore on one side, and nearer mountains on the other. A
strong flare, centred from two ship reflectors overside, made a focus of
illumination that subdued, but could not quench, the soft moonlight with
which all outside was silvered. A dozen boats, striving against a
current or clinging as best they could to the ship's side, glided into
the light and became real and solid; or dropped back into the ghostly
white unsubstantiality of the moon. They were long, narrow boats, with
small flush decks fore and aft. We looked down on them from almost
directly above, so that we saw the thwarts and the ribs and the things
they contained.
Astern in each stood men, bending gracefully against the thrust of long
sweeps. About their waists were squares of cloth, wrapped twice and
tucked in. Otherwise they were naked, and the long smooth muscles of
their slender bodies rippled under the skin. The latter was of a
beautiful fine texture, and chocolate brown. These men had keen,
intelligent, clear-cut faces, of the Greek order, as though the statues
of a garden had been stained brown and had come to life. They leaned on
their sweeps, thrusting slowly but strongly against the little wind and
current that would drift them back.
In the body of the boats crouched, sat, or lay a picturesque mob. Some
pulled spasmodically on the very long limber oars; others squatted doing
nothing; some, huddled shapelessly underneath white cloths that
completely covered them, slept soundly in the bottom. We took these for
merchandise until one of them suddenly threw aside his covering and sat
up. Others, again, poised in proud and graceful attitudes on the
extreme prows of their bobbing craft. Especially decorative were two,
clad only in immense white turbans and white cloths about the waist. An
old Arab with a white beard stood midships in one boat, quite
motionless, except for the slight swaying necessary to preserve his
equilibrium, his voluminous white draperies fluttering in the wind, his
dark face just distinguishable under his burnouse. Most of the men were
Somalis, however. Their keen small faces, slender but graceful necks,
slim, well-formed torsos bending to every movement of the boat, and the
white or gaudy draped nether garments were as decorative as the figures
on an Egyptian tomb. One or two of the more barbaric had made neat
headdresses of white clay plastered in the form of a skull-cap.
After an interval a small and fussy tugboat steamed around our stern and
drew alongside the gangway. Three passengers disembarked from her and
made their way aboard. The main deck of the craft under an awning was
heavily encumbered with trunks, tin boxes, hand baggage, tin bath-tubs,
gun cases, and all sorts of impedimenta. The tugboat moored itself to us
fore and aft, and proceeded to think about discharging. Perhaps twenty
men in accurate replica of those in the small boats had charge of the
job. They had their own methods. After a long interval devoted strictly
to nothing, some unfathomable impulse would incite one or two or three
of the natives to tackle a trunk. At it they tugged and heaved and
pushed in the manner of ants making off with a particularly large fly or
other treasure trove, tossing it up the steep gangway to the level of
our decks. The trunks once safely bestowed, all interest, all industry,
died. We thought that finished it, and wondered why the tug did not pull
out of the way. But always, after an interval, another bright idea would
strike another native or natives. He--or they--would disappear beneath
the canvas awning over the tug's deck, to emerge shortly, carrying
almost anything, from a parasol to a heavy chest.
On close inspection they proved to be a very small people. The
impression of graceful height had come from the slenderness and justness
of their proportions, the smallness of their bones, and the upright
grace of their carriage. After standing alongside one, we acquired a
fine respect for their ability to handle those trunks at all.
Moored to the other side of the ship we found two huge lighters, from
which bales of goods were being hoisted aboard. Two camels and a dozen
diminutive mules stood in the waist of one of these craft. The camels
were as sniffy and supercilious and scornful as camels always are; and
everybody promptly hated them with the hatred of the abysmally inferior
spirit for something that scorns it, as is the usual attitude of the
human mind towards camels. We waited for upwards of an hour, in the hope
of seeing those camels hoisted aboard; but in vain. While we were so
waiting one of the deck passengers below us, a Somali in white clothes
and a gorgeous cerise turban, decided to turn in. He spread a square of
thin matting atop one of the hatches, and began to unwind yards and
yards of the fine silk turban. He came to the end of it--whisk! he sank
to the deck; the turban, spread open by the resistance of the air,
fluttered down to cover him from head to foot. Apparently he fell asleep
at once, for he did not again move nor alter his position. He, as well
as an astonishingly large proportion of the other Somalis and
Abyssinians we saw, carried a queer, well-defined, triangular wound in
his head. It had long since healed, was an inch or so across, and looked
as though a piece of the skull had been removed. If a conscientious
enemy had leisure and an icepick he would do just about that sort of a
job. How its recipient had escaped instant death is a mystery.
At length, about three o'clock, despairing of the camels, we turned in.
After three hours' sleep we were again on deck. Aden by daylight seemed
to be several sections of a town tucked into pockets in bold, raw, lava
mountains that came down fairly to the water's edge. Between these
pockets ran a narrow shore road; and along the road paced haughty camels
hitched to diminutive carts. On contracted round bluffs towards the sea
were various low bungalow buildings which, we were informed, comprised
the military and civil officers' quarters. The real Aden has been built
inland a short distance at the bottom of a cup in the mountains.
Elaborate stone reservoirs have been constructed to catch rain water, as
there is no other natural water supply whatever. The only difficulty is
that it practically never rains; so the reservoirs stand empty, the
water is distilled from the sea, and the haughty camels and the little
carts do the distributing.
The lava mountains occupy one side of the spacious bay or gulf. The
foot of the bay and the other side are flat, with one or two very
distant white villages, and many heaps of glittering salt as big as
houses.
We waited patiently at the rail for an hour more to see the camels slung
aboard by the crane. It was worth the wait. They lost their impassive
and immemorial dignity completely, sprawling, groaning, positively
shrieking in dismay. When the solid deck rose to them, and the sling had
been loosened, however, they regained their poise instantaneously. Their
noses went up in the air, and they looked about them with a challenging,
unsmiling superiority, as though to dare any one of us to laugh. Their
native attendants immediately squatted down in front of them, and began
to feed them with convenient lengths of what looked like our common
marsh cat-tails. The camels did not
|
certain famished longing within him--a
sense of an unattainable something which haunted him in his reflective
moods. The stars were coming out in the unclouded skies, revealing the
black outlines of the mountain, the intervening foot-hills, the level
meadows, where the cattle and sheep lay asleep, and over which fireflies
were darting and flashing their tiny search-lights. The sultry air held
the aroma of new-cut hay, of crushed and dying clover-blossom. The snarl
of the tree-frog and the chirp of the cricket were heard close at hand,
and in the far distance the doleful howling of a dog came in response to
the voice of another, so much farther away that it sounded softer than
an echo.
Presently Paul reached a spot on the creek-bank where the creeping
forest-fires had burned the bushes away, and where an abrupt curve of
the stream formed a swirling eddy, on the surface of which floated a
mass of driftwood, leaves, twigs, and pieces of bark. Baiting his hooks,
he lowered them into the water, fastening one pole in the earth and
holding the other in his hands. He had not long to wait, for soon there
was a vigorous jerking and tugging at the pole in his hands.
“That's an eel now!” the sportsman chuckled; “an' I'll land 'im, if he
don't wind his tail round a snag and break my line.”
Eels are hard to catch, and this one was seen to be nearly a yard in
length when Paul managed to drag it ashore. Even out of water an eel is
hard to conquer, for Nature has supplied it with a slimy skin that aids
it to evade the strongest human grip. The boy sprang upon his prey and
grasped it, but it wriggled from his hands, arms, and knees, and like an
animated rubber tube bounded toward the stream.
“Nail 'im, nail 'im!” cried out Ralph Rundel, excitedly, quickening his
stride down the path. “Put sand on yore hands! Lemme show you--thar
now, you got 'im--hold 'im till I--” But the snakelike thing, held for a
moment in Paul's eager arms, was away again. The boy and the man bumped
against each other as they sprang after it, and Ralph was fortunate
enough to put the heel of his shoe on it's head and grind it into the
earth. The dying thing coiled its lithe body round the man's ankle like
a boa, and then gradually relaxed.
Now, fully alive to the sport, Paul gave all his attention to rebaiting
his hook. “This one raised such a racket he has scared all the rest
off,” he muttered, his eyes on his line.
“They'll come back purty soon,” Ralph said, consolingly. He sat down
on the sand and began to fill his pipe. His excitement over the eel's
capture had lived only a moment. There was a fixed stare in his eyes, a
dreamy, contemplative note of weariness in his voice, which was that of
a man who had outgrown all earthly interests.
“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord!”
It was the mellow, sonorous voice of Jeff Warren singing at his home
across the fields.
“Humph! He gits a heap o' fun out of that, fust an' last,” Ralph
remarked, sardonically, and he shrugged his frail shoulders. “It ain't
so much the singin' he loves--if I'm any judge--as what it fetches to
his net, as the sayin' is. He is a born lady's man. Jeff knows exactly
when an' how to say the things that tickle a woman's fancy. I think--I
think yore ma loves to hear 'im talk mighty nigh as well as she loves to
hear 'im sing. I don't know”--a slight pause--“I say I don't know, but I
_think_ so.”
Paul thought he had a bite, and he raised his hook to see if the bait
was intact. Ralph sighed audibly. He embraced his thin knees with his
arms, and held the unlighted pipe in his hands. The hook was back in the
water; the boy's face was half averted.
“Thar's a good many points about Jeff that women like,” Ralph resumed,
in a forced, tentative tone. “He's a strappin', fine-lookin' feller, for
one thing; young, strong, an' always gittin' in fights over some'n or
other. The impression is out amongst women an' gals that he won't let
nobody pass the slightest slur ag'in' one o' the sex in his hearin'.
That will take a man a long way in the opinion of females; but all the
same, he's a sly devil. He'll do to watch--in my opinion, that is.
I've thought some that maybe--well, I don't know that I'd go that fur
neither; but a feller like me, for instance, will have odd notions once
in a while, especially if he ain't actively engaged an' busy, like I am
most o' the time since I've been so porely. I was goin' to say that I
didn't know but what I ort to sorter, you know”--Ralph hesitated, and
then plunged--“warn yore mother to--to go it sorter slow with Jeff.”
Paul turned his back on the speaker and began to examine the bait on
his hook; he shrugged his shoulders sensitively, and even in the
vague starlight evinced a certain show of awkwardness. But Ralph was
unobservant; his mental pictures were evidently more clear to him than
material ones.
“Yore aunt Mandy is right,” Ralph resumed. “She shorely did spoil yore
ma for any real responsibility in life. La me! it was the talk of the
neighborhood--I mean Mandy's love-affair was. She was just a gal when
she took a big fancy to a Yankee soldier that come along in one o'
Sherman's regiments. He was to come back after the war was over, but he
never did. It mighty nigh killed 'er; but yore ma was then growin' up,
and Mandy just seemed to find comfort in pamperin' and indulgin' her.
Addie certainly got all that was a-goin'! No gal in the neighborhood had
nicer fixin's; she was just like a doll kept in a bandbox. Stacks and
stacks o' fellows was after her, me in the bunch, of course. At first it
looked like I didn't stand much of a show; but my grandfather died about
then an' left me the farm I used to own. I reckon that turned the
scale, for the rest o' the fellows didn't own a foot o' land, a stick o'
timber, or a head o' stock. I say it turned the scale, but I don't mean
that Addie cared much one way or the other. Mandy had it in hand. I
begun to see that she sorter held the rest off and throwed me an' Addie
together like at every possible chance--laughin' an' jokin' an' takin'
a big interest an' tellin' me she was on my side. You see, it was a case
o' the real thing with me. From the fust day I ever laid eyes on yore
ma, an' heard 'er talk in her babyish way, I couldn't think o' nothin'
else. I felt a little squeamish over bein' so much older 'an her; but
Mandy laughed good an' hearty, an' said we'd grow together as time
passed. Addie kept me in hot water for a long while even after
that--looked like she didn't want Mandy to manage for her, an' kicked
over the traces some. I remember I had to beg an' beg, an' Mandy argued
an' scolded an' nagged till Addie finally consented. But, la me! how a
feller's hopes kin fall! Hard times came. I borrowed on my land to keep
Addie supplied with nice things, an' my crops went crooked. I lost money
in a sawmill, an' finally got to be a land-renter like I am now, low
in health an' spirits, an' dependent on you for even my
tobacco--_tobacco_.” Ralph repeated the word, for his voice had become
indistinct.
“That's all right,” Paul said, testily. “Go on to bed. Settin' up like
this ain't goin' to do you no good.”
“It does me more good'n you think,” Ralph asserted. “I hold in all day
long with not a soul to talk to, an' dyin' to say things to somebody. I
ain't hardly got started. Thar's a heap more--a heap that I'm afraid you
are too young to understand; but you will some day. Yore time will come,
too. Yore lady-love will cross yore track, an' you'll see visions in her
eyes that never was on land or sea. I look at you sometimes an' think
that maybe you will become a great man, an' I'll tell you why. It is
because you are sech a hard worker an' stick to a job so steady, and
because you've got sech a hot, spicy temper when folks rile you by
treatin' you wrong. Folks say thar is some'n in blood, an' I don't
want you to think because I'm sech a flat failure that you have to be.
Experts in sech matters say that a body is just as apt to copy after
far-off kin as that which is close by, and I want to tell you something.
It is about the Rundel stock. Three year ago, when I was a witness in
a moonshine case at government court, in Atlanta, my expenses was paid,
an' I went down, an' while I was in the city a feller called on me at my
boardin'-house. He said the paper had printed my name in connection with
the case, an' he looked me up because he was interested in everybody by
the name o' Rundel. He was writin' a family history for some rich
folks that wanted it all down in black an' white to keep for future
generations to look at. He was dressed fine, and talked like a presidin'
elder or a bishop. He told me, what I never had heard before, that the
name ought to be spelled with an A in front--Arundel. He had a short way
o' twistin' it that I can't remember. He said thar was several ways o'
callin' the name, an' he laughed an' said he met one old backwoods chap
in Kentucky that said his was 'Runnels' because his neighbors called
'im that, an' he liked the sound of it. He set for a good hour or more
tellin' me about the ups an' downs of folks by the name. He said what
made the whole thing so encouragin' was that the majority of 'em was
continually on the rise. He'd knowed 'em, he said, to be plumb down an'
out for several generations, an' then to pop up an' produce a man of
great fame an' power. He had a list o' big guns as long as yore arm. I
knowed I was too far gone to benefit by it myself, but I thought about
you, an' I felt comforted. I've always remembered with hope an' pride,
too, what Silas Tye told me about the tramp phrenologist that examined
heads at his shop one day. He said men was payin' the'r quarters an'
listenin' to predictions an' hearin' nothin' of any weight; but that the
feller kept lookin' at you while you set waitin', an' finally Tye said
the feller told the crowd that you had sech a fine head an' eye an'
shaped hands an' feet an' ankles, like a blooded hoss, that he would
pass on you for nothin'. Tye said you got mad an' went off in a big
huff; but the feller stuck to what he'd said. He declared you'd make
yore way up in the world as sure as fate, if you wasn't halted by some
accident or other.”
Paul saw his line moving forward, his tense hands eagerly clutching his
rod, but the swishing cord suddenly became slack on the surface of the
water. An impatient oath slipped from his lips.
“Snapped my line right at the sinker!” he cried. “He was a jim-dandy,
too, bigger than that one.” He threw the pole with the broken line on
the bank and grasped the other. If he had heard the rambling talk of his
father it was completely forgotten.
“Folks laugh at me'n you both,” Ralph ran on, a softer cadence in his
voice. “They say I've been a mammy to you, a nuss' an' what not. Well, I
reckon thar's truth in it. After I found--found that me'n yore ma wasn't
the sweethearts I thought we would be, an' you'd come an' looked so
little an' red an' helpless in the pore little cradle I made out of a
candle-box with wobbly rockers--I say, I reckon then that I did sorter
take yore ma's place. She wasn't givin' milk, an' the midwife advised a
bottle, and it looked like neither one o' the women would keep it filled
an' give it at the right time. I'd go to the field an' try to work, but
fearin' you was neglected I'd go to the house an' take you up an' tote
you about. It was turnin' things the wrong way, I reckon, but I was a
plumb fool about you. Yore mother seemed willin' to shift the job, an'
yore aunt was always busy fixin' this or that trick for her to wear. But
I ain't complainin'--understand that--I liked it. Yore little warm, soft
body used to give me a feelin' no man kin describe. An' I suffered, too.
Many a night I got up when you was croupy, an' uncovered the fire an'
put on wood an' set an' rocked you, fearin' every wheezy breath you
drawed would stop in yore throat. But I got my reward, if reward was
deserved, for you gave me the only love that I ever knowed about. Even
as a baby you'd cry for me--cry when I left you, an' coo an' chuckle,
an' hold out yore little chubby hands whenever I come. As you got older
you'd toddle down the field-road to meet me, yore yaller, flaxen head
hardly as high as the broom-sedge. I loved to tote you even after you
got so big folks said I looked ridiculous. You was about seven when my
wagon run over me an' laid me up for a spell. I'll never forget how you
acted. You was the only one in the family that seemed a bit bothered.
You'd come to my bed the minute you got home from school, an' set thar
an' rub my head. While that spell lasted I was the baby, an' you the
mammy, an' to this day I ain't able to recall a happier time.”
Ralph rose and stood by his son for a moment, his gaze on the steady
rod. “I'll take the eel to the house,” he said, “an' skin it an' slice
it up an' salt it down for breakfast. You may find me in yore bed. This
is one o' the times I feel like sleepin' with you--that is, if you don't
care?”
“It is all right, go ahead,” Paul said; “there is plenty of room.”
With the eel swinging in his hand, his body bent, Ralph trudged toward
the house, which, a dun blur on the landscape, showed in the hazy
starlight. A dewy robe had settled on every visible object. An owl
was dismally hooting in the wood, which sloped down from the craggy
mountain. In the stagnant pools of the lowlands frogs were croaking,
hooting, and snarling; the mountain-ridge, with its serried
trees against the sky, looked like a vast sleeping monster under
cloud-coverings.
Now and then Jeff Warren was heard singing.
CHAPTER V
|AT certain times during the year Paul was en abled to earn a little
extra money by hauling fire-wood to the village and selling it to the
householders. One morning he was standing by his wagon, waiting for
a customer for a load of oak, when Hoag came from the bar-room at the
hotel and steered toward him. The planter's face was slightly flushed
from drink, and he was in a jovial mood.
“Been playing billiards,” he said, thickly, and he jerked his thumb
toward the green, swinging doors of the bar. “Had six tilts with a St.
Louis drummer, an' beat the socks off of 'im. I won his treats an' I'm
just a little bit full, but it will wear off. It's got to. I'm goin' in
to eat dinner with my sister--you've seen 'er--Mrs. Mayfield. She's up
from Atlanta with her little girl to git the mountain air an' country
cookin'.”
At this moment Peter Kerr, the proprietor of the hotel, came out ringing
the dinner-bell. He was a medium-sized man of forty, with black eyes and
hair, the skin of a Spaniard, and an ever-present, complacent smile. He
strode from end to end of the long veranda, swinging the bell in front
of him. When Kerr was near, Hoag motioned to him to approach, and Kerr
did so, silencing the bell by catching hold of the clapper and swinging
the handle downward. Hoag laid his hand on Paul's shoulder and bore down
with unconscious weight.
“Say, Pete,” he said, “you know this boy?”
“Oh, yes, everybody does, I reckon,” Kerr answered patronizingly.
“Well, he's the best hand I've got,” Hoag said, sincerely enough; “the
hardest worker in seven States. Now, here's what I want. Paul eats
out at my home as a rule an' he's got to git dinner here at my expense
to-day. Charge it to me.”
Paul flushed hotly--an unusual thing for him--and shook his head.
“I'm goin' _home_ to dinner,” he stammered, his glance averted.
“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Hoag objected, warmly. “You've got that
wood to sell, an' nobody will buy it at dinner-time. Every livin'
soul is at home. Besides, I want to talk over some matters with you
afterward. Fix 'im a place, Pete, an' make them niggers wait on 'im.”
There was no way out of it, and Paul reluctantly gave in. With burly
roughness, which was not free from open patronage, the planter caught
him by the arm and drew him up the steps of the hotel and on into the
house, which Paul knew but slightly, having been there only once or
twice to sell game, vegetables, or other farm produce.
The office was noisily full of farmers, traveling salesmen, lawyers,
merchants, and clerks who boarded there or dropped in to meals at the
special rate given to all citizens of the place and vicinity. On the
right hand was a long, narrow “wash-room.” It had shelves holding basins
and pails of water, sloping troughs into which slops were poured, towels
on wooden rollers, and looking-glasses from the oaken frames of which
dangled, at the ends of strings, uncleanly combs and brushes.
When he had bathed his face and hands and brushed his hair, Paul
returned to the office, where the proprietor--with some more
patronage--took him by the arm and led him to the door of the big
dining-room. It was a memorable event in the boy's life. He was
overwhelmed with awe; he had the feeling that his real ego was
encumbered with those alien things--legs, arms, body, and blood which
madly throbbed in his veins and packed into his face. He would not have
hesitated for an instant to engage in a hand-to-hand fight with a man
wearing the raiment of an emperor's guard, if occasion had demanded it;
but this new thing under the heavens gave him pause as nothing else ever
had done. The low-ceiled room, with its many windows curtained in white,
gauzy stuff, long tables covered with snowy linen, glittering glass,
sparkling plated-ware, and gleaming china, seemed to have sprung into
being by some enchantment full of designs against his timidity. There
was a clatter of dishes, knives, forks, and spoons; a busy hum of
voices; the patter of swift-moving feet; the jar and bang of the door
opening into the adjoining kitchen, as the white-aproned negroes darted
here and there, holding aloft trays of food.
Seeing Paul hesitating where the proprietor had left him, the negro head
waiter came and led him to a seat at a small table in a corner somewhat
removed from the other diners. It was the boy's rough aspect and poor
clothing which had caused this discrimination against him, but he was
unaware of the difference. Indeed, he was overjoyed to find that his
entrance and presence were unnoticed. He felt very much out of place
with all those queer dishes before him. The napkin, folded in a goblet
at his plate, was a thing he had heard of but never used, and it
remained unopened, even after the waiter had shaken it out of the goblet
to give him ice-water. There were hand-written bills of fare on the
other tables, but the waiter simply brought Paul a goodly supply of food
and left him. He was a natural human being and unusually hungry, and
for a few moments he all but forgot his surroundings in pure animal
enjoyment. His appetite satisfied, he sat drinking his coffee and
looking about the room. On his right was a long table, at which sat
eight or ten traveling salesmen; and in their unstudied men-of-the-world
ease, as they sat ordering cigars from the office, striking matches
under their chairs, and smoking in lounging attitudes, telling yams and
jesting with one another, they seemed to the boy to be a class quite
worthy of envy. They dressed well; they spent money; they knew all the
latest jokes; they traveled on trains and lived in hotels; they had seen
the great outer world. Paul decided that he would like to be a drummer;
but something told him that he would never be anything but what he was,
a laborer in the open air--a servant who had to be obedient to another's
will or starve.
At this moment his attention was drawn to the entrance. Hoag was coming
in accompanied by a lady and little girl, and, treading ponderously,
he led them down the side of the room to a table on Paul's left. Hoag
seemed quite a different man, with his unwonted and clumsy air of
gallantry as he stood holding the back of his sister's chair, which he
had drawn out, and spoke to the head waiter about “something special” he
had told the cook to prepare. And when he sat down he seemed quite out
of place, Paul thought, in the company of persons of so much obvious
refinement. He certainly bore no resemblance to his sister or his niece.
Mrs. Mayfield had a fair, smooth brow, over which the brown tresses fell
in gentle waves; a slender body, thin neck, and white, tapering hands.
But it was Ethel, the little girl, who captured and held from that
moment forth the attention of the mountain-boy. Paul had never beheld
such dainty, appealing loveliness. She was as white and fair as a lily.
Her long-lashed eyes were blue and dreamy; her nose, lips, and chin
perfect in contour. She wore a pretty dress of dainty blue, with white
stockings and pointed slippers. How irreverent, even contaminating,
seemed Hoag's coarse hand when it rested once on her head as he smiled
carelessly into the girl's face! Paul felt his blood boil and throb.
“Half drunk!” he muttered. “He's a hog, and ought to be kicked.”
Then he saw that Hoag had observed him, and to his great consternation
the planter sat smiling and pointing the prongs of his fork at him. Paul
heard his name called, and both the lady and her daughter glanced at him
and smiled in quite a friendly way, as if the fork had introduced them.
Paul felt the blood rush to his face; a blinding mist fell before his
eyes, and the whole noisy room became a chaos of floating objects.
When his sight cleared he saw that the three were looking in another
direction; but his embarrassment was not over, for the head waiter came
to him just then and told him that Mr. Hoag wanted him to come to his
table as soon as his dinner was finished.
Paul gulped his coffee down now in actual terror of something
intangible, and yet more to be dreaded than anything he had ever before
encountered. He was quite certain that he would not obey. Hoag
might take offense, swear at him, discharge him; but that was of no
consequence beside the horrible ordeal the man's drunken brain had
devised. Hoag was again looking at him; he was smiling broadly,
confidently, and swung his head to one side in a gesture which commanded
Paul to come over. Mrs. Mayfield's face also wore a slight smile of
agreement with her brother's mood; but Ethel, the little girl, kept
her long-lashed and somewhat conscious eyes on the table. Again the
hot waves of confusion beat in Paul's face, brow, and eyes. He doggedly
shook his head at Hoag, and then his heart sank, for he knew that he was
also responding to the lady's smile in a way that was unbecoming in a
boy even of the lowest order, yet he was powerless to act otherwise.
Like a blind man driven desperate by encroaching danger that could not
be located, he rose, turned toward the door, and fairly plunged forward.
The toe of his right foot struck the heel of his left, and he stumbled
and almost fell. To get out he had to pass close to Hoag's table, and
though he did not look at the trio, he felt their surprised stare on
him, and knew that they were reading his humiliation in his flaming
face. He heard the planter laugh in high merriment, and caught the
words: “Come here, you young fool, we are not goin' to bite you!”
It seemed to the boy, as he incontinently fled the spot, that the whole
room had witnessed his disgrace. In fancy he heard the waiters laughing
and the amused comments of the drummers.
The landlord tried to detain him as he hurried through the office.
“Did you git enough t'eat?” he asked; but, as if pursued by a horde of
furies, Paul dashed on into the street.
He found a man inspecting his load of wood and sold it to him, receiving
instructions as to which house to take it to and where it was to be
left. With the hot sense of humiliation still on him, he drove down the
street to the rear fence of a cottage and threw the wood over, swearing
at himself, at Hoag, at life in general, but through it all he saw
Ethel Mayfield's long, golden hair, her eyes of dreamy blue, and pretty,
curving lips. She remained in his thoughts as he drove his rattling
wagon home through the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. She was in
his mind so much, indeed, from that day on, that he avoided contact with
the members of his family. He loved to steal away into the woods alone,
or to the hilltops, and fancy that she was with him listening to his
wise explanation of this or that rural thing which a girl from a city
could not know, and which a girl from a city, to be well informed, ought
to know.
CHAPTER VI
|BY chance he met her a week or so later. She and her mother were
spending the day at Hoag's, and near noon Ethel had strolled across the
pasture, gathering wild-flowers. Paul had been working at the tannery
assisting a negro crushing bark for the vats, and was starting home to
get his dinner when he saw her. She wore a big sailor hat and a very
becoming dress of a different color from the one he had first seen her
in. He wanted to take a good look at her, but was afraid she would see
him. She had her hands full of flowers and fern leaves, and was daintily
picking her way through the thick broom-sedge. He had passed on, and his
back was to her when he heard her scream out in fright, and, turning,
he saw her running toward him. He hurried back, climbed over the rail
fence, and met her. “A snake, a snake!” she cried, white with terror.
“Where?” he asked, boyishly conscious that his moment had arrived for
showing contempt for all such trivialities.
“There,” she pointed, “back under those rocks. It was coiled up right
under my feet and ran when it saw me.”
There was a fallen branch of a tree near by, and coolly picking it up
he broke it across his knee to the length of a cudgel, then twisted the
twigs and bark off. He swung it easily like a ball-player handling a
bat.
“Now, come show me,” he said, riding on a veritable cloud of
self-confidence. “Where did it go?”
“Oh, I'm afraid!” she cried. “Don't go, it will bite you!”
He laughed contemptuously. “How could it?” he sneered. “It wouldn't
stand a ghost of a chance against this club.” He advanced to the pile
of rocks she now indicated, and she stood aloof, holding her breath, her
little hands pressed to her white cheeks, as he began prying the stones
and boldly thrusting into crevices. Presently from the heap a brownish
snake ran. Ethel saw it and screamed again; but even as he struck she
heard him laugh derisively. “Don't be silly!” he said, and the next
moment he had the dying thing by the tail, calmly holding it up for her
inspection, its battered and flattened head touching the ground.
“It's a highland moccasin,” he nonchalantly instructed her. “They are as
poisonous as rattlers. It's a good thing you didn't step on it, I tell
you. They lie in the sun, and fellers mowing hay sometimes get bit to
the bone.”
“Drop it! Put it down!” Ethel cried, her pretty face still pale. “Look,
it's moving!”
“Oh, it will wiggle that way till the sun goes down,” he smiled down
from his biological height; “but it is plumb done for. Lawsy me! I've
killed more of them than I've got fingers and toes.”
Reassured, she drew nearer and looked at him admiringly. He was
certainly a strong, well-formed lad, and his courage was unquestionable.
Out of respect for her fears he dropped the reptile, and she bent down
and examined it. Again the strange, new power she had from the first
exercised over him seemed to exude from her whole being, and he felt
a return of the cold, insecure sensation of the hotel dining-room. His
heart seemed to be pumping its blood straight to his face and brain. Her
little white hands were so frail and flower-like; her golden tresses,
falling over her proud shoulders like a gauzy mantle, gave out a
delicate fragrance. What a vision of loveliness! Seen close at hand,
she was even prettier than he had thought. He had once admired Sally
Tibbits, whom he had kissed at a corn-husking, as a reward for finding
the red ear which lay almost in Sally's lap, and which, according to
the game, she could have hidden; but Sally had never worn shoes, that
he could remember, and as he recalled her now, by way of comparison, her
legs were ridiculously brown and brier-scratched; her homespun dress was
a poor bag of a thing, and her dingy chestnut hair seemed as lifeless as
her neglected complexion. And Ethel's voice! He had never heard anything
so mellow, soft, and bewitching. She seemed like a princess in one of
his storybooks, the sort tailors' sons used to meet and marry by rubbing
up old lamps.
“What are you going to do with it?” She looked straight at him, and he
felt the force of her royal eyes.
“Well, I don't intend to take it to the graveyard,” he boldly jested.
“I'll leave it here for the buzzards.” He pointed to the cloud-flecked
sky, where several vultures were slowly circling. “They'll settle here
as soon as our backs are turned. Folks say they go by the smell of
rotten flesh, but I believe their sense is keener than that. I wouldn't
be much surprised if they watched and seed me kill that snake.”
“How funny you talk!” Ethel said, in no tone of disrespect, but rather
that of the mild inquisitiveness of a stranger studying a foreign
tongue. “You said _seed_ for _saw_. Why, my teacher would give me awful
marks if I made a mistake like that. Of course, it may be correct here
in the mountains.” Paul flushed a deeper red; there was a touch of
resentment in his voice.
“Folks talk that way round here,” he blurted out; “grown-up folks. We
don't try to put on style like stuck-up town folks.”
“Please forgive me.” Ethel's voice fell; she put out her hand and
lightly touched his. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I never
will say such a thing again--never, on my honor.”
He bitterly repented it afterward, but he rudely drew his hand away, and
stood frowning, his glance averted.
“I am very sorry,” Ethel said, “and I can't blame you--I really can't.
What I said was a great deal worse than your little mistake. My mother
says rudeness is never excusable.”
“Oh, it's all right,” he gave in, as gracefully as he could.
“And are you sure you aren't mad with me?” she pursued, anxiously.
“Nothin' to be mad about,” he returned, kicking the snake with his foot.
“Well, I hope you won't hate me,” she said. “I feel that I know you
pretty well. Uncle told us a lot about you that day at the hotel. He
said you were the bravest boy he ever saw and the hardest worker. I saw
you looked embarrassed that day, and he had no right to tease you as he
did; but he was--of course, you know what was the matter with him?”
Paul nodded. “I wasn't going to pay any attention to him,” he declared.
“I wasn't--wasn't fixed up fit to--to be seen by anybody, any more than
I am now, for that matter; but I can't do the work I have to do and go
dressed like a town dude.”
“Of course not--of course not,” Ethel agreed, sympathetically, “and
Uncle says you spend all you make on others, anyway. He was telling us
about how you loved your father and took care of him. You know, I think
that is wonderful, and so does mama. Boys are not like that in Atlanta;
they are lazy and spoiled, and bad, generally. People in a city are so
different, you know. Mama says the greatest men were once poor country
boys. I'd think that was encouraging, if I was--if I _were_ you--see,
I make slips myself! After _if_ you must always say were to be strictly
correct. Just think of it, when I am grown up you may be a great man,
and be ashamed even to know me.”
He shrugged his shoulders and frowned.
|
them to
endure without a murmur severe privations, the cruel separation from all
they hold most dear, the long sojourn in their comfortless trenches,
amid water and mud and ruins that become more and more
depressing--heart-breaking surroundings among which they will have to
pass yet a fourth winter, now close at hand.
* * * * * *
To give a better idea of the work imposed on the Belgian Army it will be
convenient to summarise what, in the present war, is implied by
organising the defences of a sector. The power of modern artillery and
explosives, which are able to destroy the most massive fortifications,
renders it impossible to rest content with a single position, however
strong it may be. Hence the absolute necessity for extending the state
of defence to a _deep zone_ and for creating _several successive
positions_. This is the only way of localising a temporary success, such
as the enemy may win at any time if he take the necessary steps and be
willing to pay a heavy price for it. Moreover, every position must
itself consist of a series of defensive lines, a short distance apart,
each covered by its own subsidiary defences.
These conditions are all the more difficult to fulfil when the defences
are rendered less permanent by the nature of the ground, as is the case
on the Belgian front, where one cannot burrow into soil which is
practically at sea level. It thus comes about that--to take an
example--the organised zone, 10 to 12 kilometres deep, between the two
natural defensive lines of the Yser and the Loo canal, is nothing more
than an unbroken series of organised lines, placing as many successive
obstacles in the path of an assailant who may have succeeded in breaking
through at any point.
The positions nearest to the enemy are necessarily continuous; and the
lie of each is influenced not merely by the terrain but still more by
the arbitrary direction of the contact lines of the two opponents. Each
line, therefore, follows a twisting course. More or less straight
stretches are succeeded by salients and re-entrant angles which take the
most varied forms. The defences embrace farms and other premises and
small woods, all converted into _points d'appui_. Where such are lacking
at important points, they must be created artificially.
Communication trenches, allowing movement out of sight of the enemy,
connect the various positions, and the successive lines of a position,
with one another. Shelters have to be constructed everywhere--they
cannot be built too strong, to protect the men as much as possible from
bombardment and from the weather during their long spells on guard in
the trenches. Special emplacements must be most carefully prepared for
machine-guns, bomb-throwers and trench-mortars, which play a part too
important to need special comment.
The whole zone is dotted over at various distances from the enemy with
batteries, or emplacements for batteries, of all calibres. You will
understand that their construction represents a vast amount of hard and
exact work, and that only with the greatest difficulty can they be more
or less satisfactorily hidden from the enemy's direct or aerial
observation in a plain that is practically bare and commanded everywhere
by the Clercken heights.
The magnitude of the movements of troops and material, as well as the
need for ensuring rapid transfer in all directions, have compelled the
creation of all means of communication to alleviate the existing
shortage--roads, tracks and railways of standard or narrow gauge. The
execution of such work is attended by great difficulty where the soft
nature of the soil gives an unreliable foundation. You may imagine also
how complicated the task is when foot-bridges, in many cases several
hundred yards long, have to be carried right across the floods in full
view of the enemy, to give access to the most advanced positions. In
conclusion, we may mention among the most important undertakings the
vast network of telegraph and telephone wires, with which the whole of
the occupied zone has to be covered in order to inter-connect the
numberless centres and keep them in touch with the posts close to the
enemy lines.
* * * * * *
Topographically, the sector which the Belgian Army has had to organise
and defend is certainly one of the worst. This will be denied neither by
the British units which this year occupied the Nieuport district nor by
the French units linked up with the Belgians near Boesinghe and
Steenstraat. Several descriptions have been written of the peculiar
appearance presented by this low-lying, perfectly flat, region between
the Franco-Belgian frontier, the sea coast and the Yser, and known as
the "Veurne-Ambacht." It is a monotonous plain of alluvial soil, which
centuries of toil have slowly won from the waters. As far as the eye can
see stretch water-meadows, which serve as pasturage for large numbers of
cattle. That they may be flooded during the winter and drained again
later in the year, these water-meadows are surrounded by irrigation
ditches three to four yards wide--"vaarten" or "grachten," as they are
called locally.
A glance at the Staff map reveals so great a number of these ditches
that the district appears to be nothing more than a huge marsh. As a
matter of fact, the country is subdivided into innumerable lots by this
inextricable tangle of ditches, and looks like a huge fantastic
chess-board. With the approach of winter the "vaarten" become brimful
of water; and at any time of the year a short spell of rain makes them
overflow and transform the ground into a morass.
During the happy times of peace the only shelter to be found on the
plain was that of the villages or hamlets, their houses as a rule
grouped round a slated steeple, and of the isolated farms whose red
roofs relieved the monotony of the landscape with bright splashes of
colour. Apart from Nieuport and Dixmude it could boast but one town of
any importance--Furnes the dismal, which German shells soon reduced to
deserted ruins.
In this essentially agricultural country, boasting not a single
manufacturing industry, a people of simple tastes, strongly attached to
the fruitful soil which supplied most of their wants, lived a peaceful,
sober life, into which, at regular intervals, the village fairs
introduced an element of rude and boisterous gaiety. Property here has
always been much subdivided, and large farms are quite the exception. So
that in Belgium, which as a whole is so rich and thickly-populated,
"Veurne-Ambacht" has always been regarded as a district that would
afford an army the minimum of billeting facilities and of the various
supplies required.
Communications, too, are few and far between. Except for the
Nieuport-Dixmude railway--which follows the same course as our main
positions--and a few very second-rate light railways, there is but one
line, that connecting Dixmude and Furnes with Dunkirk; and it is only a
single line without depôts or sidings.
Roads worthy of the name are rare enough. One of them, which begins at
Nieuport and passes through Ramscapelle, Oudecapelle and Loo, runs
almost parallel to the front, under the enemy's direct fire. To the west
there is only one more, the high-road from Furnes to Ypres. This, also,
is of great importance, although, being within range of the German guns,
it is constantly subjected to bombardment.
Lateral communications towards the front are confined on the one side to
the roads which connect Furnes with Nieuport and Pervyse; and on the
other to the by-roads which the main Furnes-Ypres highway throws off
towards Oudecapelle, Loo and Boesinghe.
The remainder of the system is made up of badly-paved or dirt roads,
which are rendered useless by the lightest shower. Men and horses get
bogged in a deep, sticky mud, from which they can extricate themselves
only by the severest exertion. Of a truth the thick, clinging mud of
"Veurne-Ambacht" is a persistent and terrible enemy, which one can only
curse and fight without respite.
We may add that this inhospitable region is entirely exposed to an
observer stationed at any of several favourable points east of the Yser.
The plain is commanded on the north from the top of the Westende dunes;
centrally, from near Keyem; on the south, by the Clercken heights, where
the ground rises to Hill 43. Not a movement, not a single work
undertaken by the Belgian troops escaped the enemy until the clever but
very complex arrangement of artificial screens was evolved which now
protects almost the whole of this vast plain from direct observation.
The above is a short and imperfect description of the region in which
the Belgian Army has made a stand for the last three years, and which it
has converted into a practically impregnable fortress. The features
emphasised by us will enable readers to understand the very special
character of the defence works which it has had to construct, and the
amount of patient labour which was and still is imposed on it.
For Germany is not the only foe that the Belgian Army has to fight. It
must struggle ceaselessly with the weather and the treacherous water
which oozes from the inhospitable soil and gnaws at the foundations of
defences whereon shells and bombs fall day in, day out. It lives in a
country which has a disagreeable climate; where rain persists for
two-thirds of the year; where dense and quickly-forming fogs spread an
icy murk in the winter; where fierce storms rise suddenly and at times
blow with extraordinary violence.
A GENERAL REVIEW OF THE WORKS CONSTRUCTED.
Before we proceed to a short account of the main defensive works,
special attention should be drawn to certain constructive features
common to them all.
We must remember that it is impossible to excavate even to a slight
depth, except in some parts of the more southerly front, where the
ground rises on a gentle slope. Drive a spade in but a few inches, and
you strike water. The result is that defence-works of all kinds _have
had to be built with imported material_.
[Illustration: A SANDBAG COMMUNICATION TRENCH
_With Arches and Duckboards_.]
[Illustration: A COMMUNICATION TRENCH, SOUTHERN PART OF FRONT
_Revetted with Sandbags and Hurdles_.]
[Illustration: FIRST LINE AS SEEN ACROSS THE FLOODS]
[Illustration: A TYPICAL COMMUNICATION TRENCH
_With protective Arches and Light Railway Track_.]
The trenches of the Belgian line are not the least like the narrow, deep
ditches of the western front, of which we all have seen many
illustrations taken from all points of view. Properly speaking, they are
nothing else than _ramparts_ raised _above_ the ground. Behind these
breast-works, built throughout with the greatest difficulty, the
defenders tread on the natural ground, which thus really forms the
bottom of what is incorrectly named a "trench."
The mere fact that one cannot excavate obviously makes it necessary to
bring up from the rear--often from a great distance--all the materials
required, including earth, hundreds of thousands of cubic yards of which
is piled up in millions of bags.
The transport of these materials meant a very formidable task,
especially in the early days. We have referred to the country's
deficiency in means of communication of any value. So
everything--sand-bags, stakes, tree-trunks, rails, cement, bricks,
shingle, hurdles, barbed wire--has to be moved to the front lines by
night on men's backs or in light vehicles able to carry only a strictly
limited load, as a heavy one could not be got along the muddy and soft
roads. Need one dwell upon the peculiar difficulties encountered in
consolidating the ground sufficiently to bear the weight of special
defences, such as those of concrete?
Not till long after the battle of the Yser, when the main positions had
been adequately strengthened, could attention be given to improving the
road system by building new roads and constructing additional railways
of narrow and standard gauge. It is, therefore, not surprising that the
recollection of the labour, more particularly that done during the
winter, has remained a veritable nightmare to the men engaged upon the
task. Shot and shell raked them incessantly. They had to toil knee-deep
in water and mud, perished with cold, whipped by wind and rain. Owing to
the depleted condition of the ranks, most of the fighting forces had,
one may say, to mount guard continuously along an extended and still
imperfectly consolidated front.
An appeal was made to the older classes, elderly garrison troops, or
"old overcoats" as the soldiers picturesquely called them. Working
tirelessly behind the lines, they "shovelled their fatherland into
little bags," so they jokingly described it among themselves. These old
fellows, assisted by a few resting (?) units, toiled day and night,
preparing all the indispensable materials and carrying them to the front
trenches over sodden roads swept by the enemy's fire. There, the stoical
defenders of the Yser, protected by watchful guards and with their
rifles always ready to hand, patiently, persistently and with marvellous
pluck raised bit by bit the invincible barrier which they had sworn to
hold against every new effort of the enemy.
(_a_) _Mastering the Floods_
The inundation let loose at the most critical period of the battle of
the Yser, when the enemy had succeeded in crossing the river at Saint
Georges, Schoorbakke, Tervaete and near Oud-Stuyvekenskerke, could not
at first be so regulated as to harass the enemy only. It had gradually
invaded part of our own trenches, and it was therefore an urgent matter
to get the waters under complete control, lest the heroic means employed
should compel the Belgian Army to abandon positions held hitherto at so
serious a cost of life. To effect this, important works had to be put in
hand without delay; some for defence, others for offence.
The first defensive measure consisted in the construction of trenches,
which it was imperative to build at once, whether in water which oozed
up at all points or in deep mud. Working with feverish activity, men
piled sand-bags, brought up in a constant stream from the rear, on the
marshy soil. In this manner parapets of a steadily increasing solidity
slowly formed a continuous front which, though still of doubtful
strength, sufficed to protect the occupied zone against surprise
attacks.
Before the business of putting the ground in a proper state of defence
could be initiated, the inundation had to be got under effectual
control. This implied, let us note, the power to flood the ground on the
enemy's side at will, while preventing the water passing beyond a
sharply defined line, and making it quite impossible for the enemy to
threaten us in turn.
The enormous technical difficulties which our engineers had to overcome
can easily be imagined. We may observe, in the first place, that the
Yser district is intersected by many small tributaries of the river and
by a number of interconnected canals. The two zones--our own and that of
the enemy--thus had direct communication with one another, so that,
unless minute precautions were taken, and a great deal of work done, it
was not possible to flood either zone without exposing the other to a
similar fate.
[Illustration: AN ARTILLERY UNIT'S CONTROL POST]
[Illustration: BATTALION HEADQUARTERS IN THE FRONT LINE]
[Illustration: A SHELTER]
[Illustration: A FOOTBRIDGE ACROSS THE FLOODS
_From the First Line to an Outpost_.]
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE FIRST LINE
_Where it crosses Flooded Ground_.]
[Illustration: FIRST-LINE TRENCH ROUND THE RUINS OF A FARM
_Note the arch-shaped Traverses for protecting its Occupants from
Snipers._]
[Illustration: ADVANCED POST ON THE RIGHT BANK OF THE YSER
_Beyond it is seen "No Man's Land."_]
Nor was this all. The enemy was, and still is, at liberty to lower the
water level by "bleeding" the inundation on his side. To defeat such
attempts, it was necessary to put ourselves in a position to turn the
requisite volume of water towards his lines.
Finally, provision must be made for draining off the water promptly and
carefully, should the need arise, so as to prevent a disaster being
caused by the enemy increasing the inundation, or merely by the
torrential rain which falls at times with disheartening persistence in
this depressing region. A constant struggle between the two opponents
was thus always in progress. Let us say at once that the ingenuity and
unwearying exertions of our men always triumphed in contests of this
kind. They continue to dominate the situation completely, and the
Germans have had to own themselves beaten.
The reader will realise that we cannot give a detailed description of
the measures taken; the most difficult and complicated of which were
unquestionably those designed to protect the Belgian lines from
inundations let loose on the enemy's positions.
It has been mentioned more than once that, thanks to their command of
Nieuport and its locks, the Belgians held the key of the inundations in
their hands. But we must not forget that for three years German shells
have been continually directed at the locks and bridges. The works that
have had to be undertaken, carried out and maintained in good condition
throughout this region will astonish the experts when it is possible to
reveal their real character.
What shall be said, then, of the great importance of the many barrages
which we have had to raise; of the dykes--some of them more than a
kilometre long--of the strengthening of the banks along the canals and
water-courses that furrow the country in all directions?
The embankments are of two main kinds: the solid and those with
sluices. The second are used in places where the free play of the water
must be allowed and regulated. It will easily be believed that the
construction of these artificial barriers, able to withstand heavy
pressure, needed the piling up of 100,000, 200,000 and even 300,000
sand-bags apiece; that not fewer than a _million_ bags were required for
the largest dyke, the contents of which were a trifling 30,000 cubic
yards!
We cannot say more on the subject here; but the few figures given will,
we think, convey an adequate idea of the vast work entailed in
controlling the inundations.
(_b_) _The Trenches._
When the first dyke, running continuously along the front, had been
finished, and the waters were sufficiently under control to relieve all
fears of a serious catastrophe, and when the water-posts disputed with
the enemy had been occupied in the midst of the floods, we had to give
immediate attention to improving the lines, completing earthworks and
organising the depth of the positions in accordance with the general
principles set forth above.
There was no time to be lost. With the return of fine weather we had to
expect a renewal of activity on the part of the enemy, who apparently
had not given up his ambitious designs on Dunkirk and Calais. In each of
the sectors which our depleted divisions had to guard, operations were
organised on a systematic plan, with the firm determination of carrying
them through in the shortest time possible. Work of any importance could
not, of course, be done in broad daylight, for, as we have already said,
nothing escaped the enemy's notice. Though far away, his guns never
ceased to plough up the grounds, and to what losses should we not have
exposed ourselves had we attempted to strengthen our positions in
daylight, close up to his fines and before his very eyes!
So in the depths of a wet and severe winter our men had to toil during
the night, under the most trying conditions imaginable. Now that these
have been considerably improved, thanks to a perfect organisation which
extends to the smallest details, it is difficult to realise the enormous
efforts and the real physical suffering which the defenders of the Yser
had to face during those long months of the early part of the war.
[Illustration: A SECOND-LINE TRENCH]
[Illustration: A CONCRETE REDOUBT
_Forming the point d'appui for a First-line Trench_.]
[Illustration: A FRONT-LINE TRENCH, WITH SANDBAG PARAPET]
The unit detailed for work in the front line of a given sector was, by
the irony of words, "resting," or partly resting--which means that it
was quartered among ruins in cantonments partially destitute of
resources, a long way from the workshops to which it had to find its way
at night-fall. "Doing their bit" valiantly, sustained by a
self-confidence which never deserted them, the men showed on all
occasions the greatest goodwill, and--despite certain reports to the
contrary--unfailing good humour. They grumbled a good deal, goodness
knows; and who would not have done the same in their place? But they
kept going, enduring hard labour and privation, under the stimulus of a
burning desire to punish the enemy who was responsible for all the
troubles that afflicted them.
Clad in the most weird and often deplorable clothes, these men trudged
along through the darkness of the night, over muddy tracks and sodden
roads, towards the marshy belt of flooded meadows. This tramp through
the night was a real penance. At every step the men stumbled in the
heavy and sticky mud, over displaced cobbles or in shell-holes brimming
with water. They had to struggle along in this fashion, sometimes for
hours on end, to reach the "material depôts" where such sand-bags,
stakes, corrugated iron sheets, barbed wire and tools as could be got
together were distributed among them. To-day there is an abundance of
all these things; but at the time of which we write supplies were very
short, and one had to get along as best one could with anything that
came to hand in a haphazard way which now seems pitiable.
However, what did it matter? Carrying loads which added to the
difficulties of progress, the men plodded along almost indistinguishable
paths and tracks where the least slip threatened to send them headlong
into deep mud. Extreme caution was needed to avoid rousing the enemy.
Lights were constantly thrown up from his lines, flooding the dreary
country with their pale radiance. When one rose, the men instantly threw
themselves flat in the mire. Occasionally the column would be surprised
before it could take cover, and be subjected to bursts of machine-gun
fire. In this way many brave fellows died an obscure death while
performing one of the most thankless and disagreeable tasks imaginable.
On reaching the scene of action, the men set to work, forgetting their
fatigue in the anxiety to add their quotum to that done on the previous
night before daylight should return; raising and consolidating the frail
rampart of sandbags, building fresh shelters or arranging the auxiliary
defences in front of the trenches.
What words can fitly describe the patience, courage and endurance of
these workers, perpetually overlooked by the enemy, toiling to
exhaustion under the fire of machine-guns trained on our lines, exposed
to death-dealing bombs, a single one of which would sometimes nullify
the efforts of a whole night or burst like a thunder-clap in the midst
of a group of men, scattering death and horrible wounds?
No suffering, however, could break their indomitable will. Admirable
they were and are. Nothing could be more touching than the
self-sacrificing spirit which animated these heroes. They had not even
the satisfaction of being able to return blow for blow, to increase
their keenness and energy. On the contrary, they knew that death
threatened them, not while rifle in hand and drunk with the madness of
the fray, but while ingloriously wielding a common trenching-tool.
This dreadful life lasted for weeks and months on end. Think of the
exhaustion of it, when the same men had to work every night, then take
their turn on guard in the trenches without any chance of getting a
really refreshing sleep! Later on, the bringing of the regiments up to
full strength and the advanced condition of the work fortunately made it
possible to arrange a judicious rotation of duty. Nevertheless, our men
have never been able to consider their job quite done, since on the
Belgian front one has constantly to reconstruct, repair, even entirely
rebuild, fortifications damaged by the enemy's fire or by water--that
second foe which is often more destructive than the first.
The best means of arriving at a due appreciation of the perseverance
shown by the Belgian troops and of the time required for the completion
of their task, is a numerical statement of the work actually achieved.
We may note that the whole front organised by the Belgian Army extends
for about 31 kilometres (19¼ miles), as measured along the front line of
trenches; also, that this system of continuous or discontinuous
positions has a great depth, and that each position is made up of
several lines, one behind the other, their number varying according to
tactical requirements or topographical conditions.
Without fear of being accused of exaggeration, we may, therefore, reckon
the total length of the trenches which the Belgian Army had to make, as
10 to 15 times that of the front itself. To this we must add the many
kilometres of communication trenches which allow the men to move from
one line to another without being seen and to a certain extent without
being hit by the enemy.
At a low estimate the total work amounts to at least 400 kilometres of
earthworks[B]--the distance, as the crow flies, from Paris to Cologne or
from Paris to Strassburg, or half as much again as that from Ostend to
Arlon, the longest stretch which can be measured in Belgium.
The accompanying photographs show several views of the trenches of the
Belgian front on the Yser, and give a better idea than any words of the
real convict work accomplished during three years of incessant labour in
horribly difficult ground. Just think what it involved! Every yard of
fire-trench--traverses and parados included--required the moving of 7 to
8 cubic metres of earth; every yard of communication trench, the
transport and placing of at least 4 cubic metres. You will not be far
out if you reckon at 3½ _million cubic metres_ (4-2/3 million cubic
yards) the volume of the earthworks raised on the Belgian front in the
construction of the main and communication trenches alone.
Trenches of both classes are either formed entirely of sand-bags or very
solidly revetted with sand-bags, wattles or bricks. All these materials
have had to be laboriously brought up from the rear. We mention this
fact again, as it cannot be over-emphasised. The total number of bags
used runs into _tens of millions_, while the superficial area of the
hurdles placed in position must be reckoned in _thousands of square
yards_.
But the mere making of the trenches is not the whole business. They
must be protected from attack by means of a dense and deep system of
auxiliary defences--networks of barbed wire, _chevaux de frise_, land
mines, etc. What statistician could calculate the number of the
_hundreds of thousands_ of stakes that have been driven and the
_thousands of miles_ of wire arranged in front of the parapets by our
heroic workers?
Wherever our lines are near those of the enemy--who as a rule possesses
the great advantage of commanding them--special works are needed to
prevent bullets enfilading the trenches and doing havoc. All these
trenches are, therefore, covered with a series of arches, which may be
seen in some of our photographs. The soft bottoms of the whole system of
defences must also be carefully consolidated to render their occupation
possible and to enable the men to move about with ease. Duckboards,
assembled just behind the front and then brought into the lines, have
had to be laid everywhere with infinite labour in the muddy bottom of
the trenches--dozens of miles of them--and relaid heaven only knows how
often!
It would be a good thing if one could regard the works when once carried
through as definitely finished; but that would be too much to hope for,
since the most solid revetments crumble in sorry fashion under
bombardment, and the elements also seem to be bent on destroying them.
Anything heavy settles little by little, owing to the lack of
consistency in the subsoil. In bad weather especially, when the rain
never ceases and the floods spread, our men daily report parapets giving
way and duckboards disappearing under the water or mud. Then everything
has to be done over again. One must set to work, with a patience ever
sorely tried, to reconstruct laboriously what was originally put
together only by the most strenuous efforts. Thus it has come about that
many of the trenches have had to be reformed _five or six times_.
So far we have dealt only with the main positions. We turn now to the
prodigious effort demanded by the construction of advanced
fortifications right in the middle of the floods. The first step is to
make foot-bridges, several kilometres long in some places. (One of our
photographs gives a striking view of such a bridge.) Over these, which
the enemy can sweep with his fire, all the materials needed for making
the advanced works must be carried, usually on men's backs and in any
case by very precarious means of transport. A mere "water-post" requires
thousands of sand-bags, so you can form some idea of the labour implied
in the building of one of the many important posts situated in the
inundated area to protect our main positions. All the earthworks,
reckoned in hundreds of cubic yards; all the concrete emplacements which
alone are able to withstand the continual bombardment; all the close
networks of barbed wire have had to materialise but a few yards away
from the enemy's lines. You may well ask yourself whence the men have
drawn the reserves of perseverance, energy and pluck that were needed in
such conditions for raising fortifications like these above the waters.
(_c_) _Various Engineering Works._
Most of the works already referred to were carried out either entirely
or chiefly by the infantry, who, after hours of guard duty in the
trenches, laid aside the rifle only to pick up a tool and indefatigably
continue their rough and dangerous labour among the same scenes of ruin
and devastation.
We have remarked in passing that much detail work of widely different
kinds has had to go forward simultaneously with the organisation proper
of the defensive positions. Its execution was entrusted to special
troops; engineers (sappers), bridge-builders, telegraphists, railway
corps, etc., as well as to many labour companies consisting of men of
the older classes attached to the engineers. Men of the heavy and field
artillery have had to make the many emplacements for batteries of all
calibres, which have increased steadily in number as the Belgian Army
has been able to get and assemble in its workshops an abundance of the
requisite material. It is impossible to describe the innumerable works
of this kind in detail without straying too far, so we will content
ourselves here with reviewing them briefly and giving some figures which
will enable the reader to appreciate the great responsibilities assumed
by the various branches.
1. _Concrete Shelters, Redoubts and Fighting-Posts._--The weakness of
earthworks constructed with sand-bags, which are scattered in all
directions by bursting shells, has compelled us to build numerous
concrete shelters, though the work is beset by many difficulties and
sometimes has to be executed right under the enemy's nose--bombproofs,
machine-gun posts and fighting-posts for the battalion, regimental and
battery staffs. All construction of this kind must be preceded by a
thorough consolidation of the ground, which in its natural condition is
too soft to support such heavy weights. At several points in the front
lines themselves we have also had to make particularly strong _points
d'appui_, usually concrete redoubts, in which a large garrison may hold
out to the last man.
The importance of these works will be inferred from the statement that
their construction has involved the use of at least 300,000 to 400,000
cubic yards of concrete.
2. _Communications._--It will be remembered that the district occupied
by the Belgian Army was poorly supplied with railways, roads and usable
tracks. After the battle of Flanders (October to November, 1914) the
continuous movement of troops over the existing roads, added to the
effects of bombardment and bad weather, had done great damage to almost
all the few available means of communication. This state of things had
to be promptly remedied, both to accelerate putting the sector into a
state of defence and, what was still more urgent, to enable all kinds of
supplies required by the troops and the materials for the defence works
to be brought up.
Special units, therefore, laid in the advanced army zone some 180
kilometres of new railways of standard gauge, and several hundred
kilometres of Decauville railway. The light tracks were gradually pushed
through the communication and main trenches, and even along the
foot-bridges leading to the main pickets.
So that our men might cross the countless canals, streams and ditches
met with everywhere, and move over flooded and marshy areas, the Belgian
engineers built hundreds of bridges and thousands of culverts, besides
some tens of kilometres of the foot-bridges already described. As an
example, we may mention that one of these foot-bridges, crossing a marsh
in the southern part of the front, is quite 800 metres long.
As for the road-system, existing roads had to be remade and improved,
while new ones were built and narrow ones widened and strengthened
sufficiently to carry all kinds of traffic. This road-building and
mending was applied to 400 _kilometres of roads and usable tracks_ in
all; and absorbed some 500,000 tons of road metal and as many tons of
sand--which involved the moving and handling of, say, 1,000,000,000 tons
of various materials.
The upkeep of the roads, which carry a dense and continuous traffic,
demands unceasing labour, especially in the winter.
In conclusion, we should mention that there are, in addition to the
road-system properly so-called, many infantry routes and approaches for
artillery which have had to be made with great difficulty across marshes
and soft meadowland.
3. _Various Forms of Construction._--One cannot pretend to give even a
bare list of the varied and numberless erections for which our engineers
have been responsible behind the Belgian front, to accommodate the
fighting troops and auxiliary services and mitigate the scarcity of
suitable quarters. For three years German guns have battered everything
within range, and converted the humble, peaceful villages of
Veurne-Ambacht into heaps of ruins. One must go far behind the front to
find any premises that have still escaped shell-fire. In them have been
established all the organisations which need not be actually in the
lines, and there also are quartered as large a part as possible of the
resting units. But they cannot hold all the troops not in the trenches;
and it will readily be understood that battalions held in reserve and
warned first in case of an attack, must be near enough to throw
themselves into the fight without loss of time. The problem has been
solved by building a large number of huts in each divisional sector; yet
without grouping them so closely as to afford an easy mark to the
enemy's guns and aeroplanes. So the hutments, capable of accommodating
some 100,000 men and about 15,000 horses, have been scattered over the
whole of the district occupied.
In addition, much has had to be done and many buildings have had to be
erected, in order to secure the best possible conditions for the
elaborate organisations of the medical service, even in the fighting
zone. We have had to provide bombproof first-aid stations,
dressing-stations, and field hospitals, in many cases quite close to the
lines, under circumstances the difficulties of which have already been
sufficiently emphasised.
Huge hospitals, with several thousands of beds, have had to be built
from the foundations upwards for the reception of the wounded not able
to endure removal to the rear. Furnes, the only town in the district
|
street the carriage rolled until it came to a quaint
little Swiss inn, where it turned through a wide gateway that led into a
brick-paved courtyard. Here Billy was unfastened from the carriage by a
servant and led back of the inn, where he was tied by the strap to a
post, while Mr. Brown and his son Frank went to their mid-day meal.
Billy didn’t like to be tied; he was not used to it, so he began to chew
his strap in two. It was very tough leather but Billy’s teeth were very
sharp and strong, and he had it about half gnawed through when a little,
lean waiter came from the kitchen across the courtyard, carrying, high
up over his head, a great big tray piled with dishes of food. The
waiter saw Billy gnawing his strap in two and thought that he ought to
keep him from it.
"Stop that, you hammer-headed goat!" he cried and gave Billy a kick.
Billy was not going to stand anything like that, so he gave a mighty
jump and the strap parted where he had been gnawing upon it. As soon as
the lean waiter saw this he started to run, but, with the heavy tray he
was carrying, he could not run very fast and he looked most comical with
his apron flopping out behind him and his legs going almost straight up
and down in his effort to run and to balance the tray at the same time.
When Billy pulled the strap in two, the jerk of it sent him head over
heels and by the time he had scrambled to his feet again the waiter was
half way to the back door of the inn. The fat cook, who was looking out
of the door of the summer kitchen, saw Billy start for the waiter and he
started after the goat, but he got there too late, for the goat caught
up with the lean waiter in about three leaps and with a loud "baah!"
sent him sprawling. The big tray of dishes came down with a crash and a
clatter, and meats, vegetables, gravies and relishes, together with
broken dishes, were scattered all over the fellow who had kicked Billy,
all over the clean scrubbed bricks, spattered up against the walls and
into the long rows of geraniums that grew in a wooden trough at the end
of the house.
Billy turned and was about to trot back when he saw the fat cook coming
just behind him, so he ran right on across the little waiter, through
the mess and to the back door. Crossing the winter kitchen he found a
big, rosy-cheeked girl standing in his way and made a dive at her. With
a scream she jumped and Billy’s horns caught in her bright, red-checked
apron, which jerked loose. With this streaming along his back, he
dashed on into a long hall, and there at the far door whom did he see,
just starting into the dining-room, but his old enemy, fat Hans Zug, who
had that morning whipped Billy’s mother and himself. Billy stood up on
his hind feet for a second and shook his head at Hans, and then he
started for him. Hans saw him coming.
"Thunder weather!" he cried, and ran on through the door.
He tried to shut the door behind him but he was not in time, for Billy
butted against it and threw it open right out of Hans Zug’s hand. The
long room into which Hans had hurried was the dining-room, and here were
seated, around a long table, a number of ladies and gentlemen, among
them Mr. and Mrs. Brown and their son Frank, waiting for the dinner that
now lay scattered around the courtyard. Everybody looked up, startled,
when Hans came bursting through the door closely followed by an angry
goat with a red-checked apron streaming from his horns. A great many of
the men jumped up and scraped their chairs back, adding to the
confusion, and a great many of the ladies screamed. Hans, not knowing
what to do, started to run around and around the table with Billy close
behind him and the fat cook close after Billy. Billy would easily have
caught Hans except that every once in a while Hans would upset a chair
in the goat’s road and Billy would have to jump over the chair.
Sometimes the fat cook would almost catch Billy and finally did succeed
in catching the apron. When it came loose in his hand he did not know
what to do with it. He started to throw it down, he started to stuff it
in his pocket, he started to mop his perspiring face with it, and at
last he threw it around his neck and tied the strings in front to get
rid of it, then once more he chased after Billy, with the red apron
flopping out behind him.
At last he grabbed Billy by the tail just as he was going to jump over
the chair, and held on tightly, but Billy’s jump had been too strong for
him and the fat cook stumbled head over heels. Jumping up the angry
cook ran until he again caught the goat, and this time he fell on top of
Billy and then both rolled over and over on the floor.
"Ugh!" grunted the fat cook. "Beast animal!"
Billy jumped up in such a hurry that he simply danced on the fat cook’s
stomach. While Billy was doing this, Hans had stopped for a minute to
mop his face and to look wildly around for some way to escape. Around
and around, around and around the two raced, poor Hans puffing and
blowing and his face getting redder and redder every minute with the
chase.
Some men had been calsomining the wooden ceiling of the dining-room, but
they had quit during meal time. At one end of the room stood two
step-ladders with some long boards resting across them, and on these
were a number of buckets of green calsomine. Hans had tried to get out
through the doorway, but there were too many people crowded into it and
he knew that if he got into that crowd Billy would surely catch him, but
now he saw the step-ladders, and running to one of them started to climb
up. Billy, however, was through with the cook and had taken after Hans
again.
Hans, being so fat, was very slow in climbing a step-ladder, and he had
only puffed his way up one step when Billy tried to help him up a little
farther with his head and horns after a big running jump. Smash! went
the step-ladders. Crash! went the long boards. The buckets of green
calsomine flew everywhere. One of them tumbled down right over Hans’
head like a hat that was a couple of sizes too large for him, and the
green paint ran all over his face, down his neck and over his clothes.
Another bucket of it landed in the middle of the dining-room table,
splashing and splattering all over the clean cloth and over everybody
who sat around it.
Billy, having done more damage than a dozen ordinary goats could hope to
do in a lifetime, now made for the door, and the people there scattered
very quickly to let him through. Billy himself had received his share
of the green calsomine and he was a queer looking sight as he darted out
and went flying up the street, with an enemy after him in the shape of
the fat cook, who had grabbed down a shot-gun from where it hung over
the mantlepiece in the dining-room and had started out after him.
The cook was mad clear through and he was going to kill that goat.
Frank, however, was close after the cook, and being able to run much the
faster, soon caught up with him.
"Wait!" he panted, tugging at the tail of the cook’s white jacket.
"Wait! That’s my goat!" he cried. "Don’t you kill my goat!"
"Away with you, nuisance!" cried the cook, jerking loose from Frank and
at the same time pushing him.
Frank fell over backwards, although it did not hurt him, and while he
was getting to his feet the cook took careful aim at the flying goat and
pulled the trigger.
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE BURGOMASTER IS BUMPED*
Billy Mischief was lucky. In his excitement the fat cook had forgotten
that the shotgun had not been loaded for five years. The cook was so
angry that he nearly burst a blood vessel. Grabbing the gun by the
barrel, he jammed it, as he thought, butt end on the ground. Instead of
that, however, he struck his broad foot a mighty thump.
"Thunder and hailstones!" he screamed, and jerking his foot up he began
to hop along on the other leg, making the most ridiculous faces while he
did it. In spite of the pain that the gun must have caused the cook,
Frank could not help but laugh, and he forgot all his anger at the push
the man had given him.
"What’s the matter?" asked Frank when he could catch his breath. "Does
it hurt?"
The cook did not understand English but he felt that Frank was poking
fun at him, and stopped his dance long enough to shake his fist at
Frank. He wanted to say something very sharp and cutting to the boy,
but he could not think of anything strong enough, so, after drawing his
breath hard two or three times and screwing up his mouth with pain, he
turned the gun muzzle end down, and, using it for a crutch, swung along
back to the inn, muttering and mumbling all the way.
Frank laughed so hard that he had to sit down at the edge of the
sidewalk a moment to hold his sides, but all at once he thought of his
goat. There it was, going up the street, and although little more than
a green and white speck now, Frank bravely took after it. He probably
never would have caught it except that Billy, also being tired and
feeling himself free from pursuit, stopped before a big house set well
back from the street, on a wide, fine lawn.
Now the house in front of which he had stopped was the residence of the
burgomaster, or mayor of the village, a very pompous fellow who thought
a great deal of his own importance, and in the center of his lawn he had
a fountain of which he was very proud. The water in the base of the
fountain was clear as crystal and it looked very cool and inviting to
Billy after his dusty run, and, besides, the paint on his back felt
sticky. Without wasting any time about it, Billy trotted up across the
nice lawn and jumped into the fountain for a bath, just as the
burgomaster came out of his front door with his stout cane in his hand.
"Pig of a goat!" cried the burgomaster, hurrying down the walk and
across the lawn. "Out with him! Police!" and he drew a little silver
whistle from his pocket, whistling loudly upon it; then, shaking his
cane in the air, he ran up to the edge of the fountain, the waters of
which were turned a bright green by this time. Billy saw him coming,
but, instead of jumping out of the fountain and running away, he merely
splashed around to the far side of the basin. The burgomaster ran to
that side of the fountain but Billy simply splashed around out of his
reach. Then the burgomaster, up on the stone coping of the fountain,
began to run around and around after Billy, the goat keeping just out of
his reach and the burgomaster trying to strike him with the cane. At
last, after an especially hard blow, the burgomaster went plunging
headlong into the green water of the basin, where he floundered about
like a cow in a bath tub.
Billy jumped on him and used him as a stepping stone out of the basin,
running back to the street just as Frank and a stupid looking policeman
came running up from different directions. At first the policeman was
going to arrest the goat, but Frank pointed to where the burgomaster was
still flopping around in the fountain and the policeman ran to help the
burgomaster, who was now dyed a beautiful green, face and hands and
clothes, while Frank took Billy by one horn and raced back down the
street with him. This was what Billy liked. He was a young goat, and,
like other young animals, was playful, and he thought that Frank’s
racing with him was good fun, so he went along willingly enough, and
when Frank let go of his horn, he galloped along beside his young master
very contentedly.
Frank ran back to the hotel with his goat as fast as he could go, but
when they drew near he saw a large crowd out in front and their carriage
waiting for them, with the horses hitched and the driver sitting up in
front. Mrs. Brown was in the carriage and Frank’s father was in front
of the crowd handing out money, first to one and then to the other.
When Frank and his goat came up his father looked at the goat very
sternly.
"See all the trouble that animal has made us!" he said. "I have had to
pay out in damages nearly every cent of cash I have with me, and as
there is no bank in this little village, my letter of credit is worth
nothing here. We must hurry on to Bern as fast as we can, and I want
you to leave that goat behind you. We can’t bother with him any more.
Come on and get in."
"But, father," explained Frank, "the goat did not know what he was
doing."
"It does not matter," replied Mr. Brown. "There’s no telling what kind
of mischief he will get into next."
"But, father," again urged Frank, "if you’ve had to pay out all that
money for him you might as well have the goat. There is no use of
losing the goat and money, too."
"Get in the carriage," said Mr. Brown, sharply.
"But, father—" again Frank began to argue. This time, however, Mr.
Brown cut him short, and, picking him up, put him into the carriage with
a not very gentle hand. Then, climbing in himself, he ordered the
driver to start.
Billy had taken his place back where he had been tied the other time,
and he was surprised to find the carriage moving on without him. The
cook, seeing that the goat was to be left behind, started forward to
give the animal a kick, but Billy was too quick for him. Wheeling, he
suddenly ran between the cook’s legs and doubled him over. Just behind
the cook stood Hans Zug, and as Billy wriggled out sideways from beneath
the cook’s feet, the cook tumbled back against Hans and both of them
went to the ground. Billy stood and shook his head for a moment as if
to double them up again before they got to their feet, but the sight of
the retreating carriage made him change his mind and he ran after it
with Hans and the fat cook chasing him.
The carriage was not going very rapidly, and Billy, after he had caught
up with it, merely trotted along back of the rear axle, so that when the
carriage passed the burgomaster’s house, Hans and the cook were not very
far behind. They were bound to catch that goat and punish him for what
he had done, although it is very likely that before they got through
they would have sold him and kept the money. The burgomaster was still
out in front, fretting and fuming, but the stupid policeman was gone.
He had been sent down to the hotel to arrest the foreign boy and his
goat, and he was too stupid to notice them, even with Hans and the cook
paddling along behind. He had nothing in his mind but the hotel to which
he had been sent. The burgomaster, however, recognized the green-tinted
goat as soon as he saw him.
"There he goes!" cried the burgomaster. "Brute beast of a goat! Halt,
I say!" Blowing his little whistle, he, too, so filled with anger that
it made him puff up like a toad, started out after the carriage; and
there they ran, the three clumsy-looking fat men, one after the other,
puffing and panting and blowing, just out of reach of the goat.
[Illustration: There they ran, the three clumsy-looking fat men.]
Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Frank were too intent on getting up the steep
street and out of the town to notice what was going on behind them, but
just now they came to the top of the hill and began to go down the
gentle slope on the other side. The driver whipped up his horses, the
goat also increased his pace, and away they went. The cook, seeing that
the goat was about to escape, made a lunge, thinking that he could grab
it by the tail or the hind legs, but as he did so his feet caught on a
stone and over he went. Hans Zug, being right behind him, tumbled over
him, and the fat burgomaster tumbled over both of them. The burgomaster
was so angry that he felt he surely must throw somebody into jail, so,
as soon as he could get his breath, he grabbed Hans Zug by the collar
with one hand and the cook with the other.
[Illustration: BILLY SAW HIM COMING, SPLASHED AROUND TO THE FAR SIDE OF
THE FOUNTAIN.]
"I arrest you in the name of Canton Bern for obstructing a high
officer!" he exclaimed, and the stupid policeman running up just then,
he turned poor Hans and the cook over to him and sent them to jail.
All the hot, dusty afternoon Billy followed Mr. Brown’s carriage, now up
hill and now down hill, without ever showing himself to them. Whenever
he thought of straying off into the pleasant grassy valleys and striking
out into the world for himself again, he remembered that the Browns were
going to America and that if he went with them he might see his mother
again. He did not know, of course, that America was such a large place,
so, while now and then he stopped at the roadside to nibble a mouthful
of grass or stopped when they crossed a stream to get a drink of water,
he never lost sight of them, but when he found himself getting too far
behind, scampered on and overtook them.
[Illustration: Billy followed Mr. Brown’s carriage.]
It was not until nightfall that the carriage rolled into the city of
Bern. Billy had never seen so large a city before and the rumbling of
many wagons and carriages, the passing of the many people on the streets
and the hundreds of lights confused and surprised him. He was not half
so surprised at this, however, as Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Frank were to
find Billy behind their carriage when they stopped in front of a large,
handsome hotel. Frank was the first one to discover him.
"Oh, see, papa!" he cried. "My Billy followed us all the way from the
village; so now I do get to keep him, don’t I?"
Mr. Brown smiled and gave up.
"I’m afraid he’s an expensive goat, Frank," was all he said, and then he
gave Billy in charge of one of the porters who had crowded around the
carriage.
"Wash the paint from this goat and lock him up some place for the night
where he can’t do any damage," he directed the porter.
Billy was glad enough to have the dry green paint scrubbed off his back
and he willingly went with the porter to a clean little basement room,
where he got a good scrubbing. Then the porter went into another room
and brought him out some nice carrots with green tops still on them,
and, leaving a basin of water for him to drink, went out and closed the
door carefully after him. Billy liked the carrots, but he did not like
to be shut up in a dark room, so he soon went all around the walls
trying to find a way out. There was no way except the two doors and a
high, dim window. He tried to butt the doors down but they were of
solid, heavy oak, and he could not do it. In a few minutes, however the
porter came back for his keys, and the moment he opened the door Billy
seized his chance. Gathering his legs under him for a big jump, he
rushed between the man’s legs and dashed up the stairs, out through the
narrow courtyard and on the street. The porter, as soon as he could get
to his feet, rushed out after him, but Billy was nowhere in sight and
the poor porter did not know what to do. He did not dare to go back and
tell Mr. Brown that the goat had gotten loose, because he would be
charged with carelessness.
In the meantime Billy had galloped up the street and turned first one
corner and then another, until he came to a street much wider and
brighter and busier than any of the others. By this time first one boy
and then another and then another had followed him, until now there was
a big crowd of them running after him and shouting at the top of their
lungs.
A large dog that a lady was leading along the sidewalk by a strap broke
away from his mistress as soon as he saw Billy and ran out to bark at
him. Billy lowered his head and shook it at the dog. The dog began to
circle round him closer and closer, barking loudly all the while. A man
driving a big dray stopped to watch them; the boys crowded round in a
big ring; men came from the sidewalks and joined the crowd; a carriage
had to stop just behind the dray, then another; a wagon coming from the
other direction could not get through; and presently the street was
filled from sidewalk to sidewalk, the whole length of the block, with a
big crowd of people and a jam of vehicles of all kinds. Policemen tried
to push their way through the crowd and tried to get the blockade
loosened and moving on, but their time was wasted.
In the meantime Billy was turning around and around where he stood,
always facing the dog which now began to dart in with a snap of his
teeth and dart away again, trying to get a hold on Billy. The goat was
too quick, however, and dodged every time the dog made a snap. He was
waiting for his chance and at last it came. The dog, in jumping away
from one of his snaps, turned his body for a moment sideways to the goat
and in that moment Billy gathered himself up and made a spring, hitting
the dog square in the side and sending him over against the crowd.
Billy followed like a little white streak of lightning and, before the
dog could get on his feet, had butted him again.
Such a howling and yelling as there was among that side of the crowd;
Billy and the dog were now among them and they could not scatter much
for there were too many people packed solidly behind them. The dog
yelped as Billy butted him and began to run around and around the circle
with Billy right after him. After they had made two or three circles,
Billy overtook the dog and, giving him one more good one, jumped between
the legs of the crowd and wriggled his way through among carriages and
wagons, under horses and between wheels, until at last he was free from
the crowd.
Nobody at the outer edge noticed him getting away because they did not
know what the excitement was and they were all pressing forward to see.
Just as he left, somebody who could not understand what else could make
such excitement cried, "Fire!"
The cry was taken up, and that made still more confusion. People began
pouring into that block from every direction. More wagons and carriages
came. Some one had turned in a fire alarm, and presently here came the
fire engines from three or four directions at once, clanging and
clattering their way to this crowded block. The city of Bern had never
known so much excitement.
*CHAPTER V*
*THE WOODEN GOAT*
Billy trotted contentedly on, liking all the noise and hubbub very much
but not knowing that he was the cause of it all. Blocks away he could
hear their shouting, but he did not care to go back there, for all of
that. He was finding a great many things to interest him in the shop
windows, which were all brilliantly lighted. Before one of these low
windows he suddenly stopped. There, just inside the show window, was a
big, brown goat. Billy did not know it, but this was a wooden goat,
poised on its hind feet and ready to make a spring to butt somebody.
The Swiss woodcarvers are the finest in the world, and they carve
animals so naturally that one would think they were alive. If even human
beings can be fooled, there was very good excuse for Billy’s believing
this to be a real, live goat, particularly as it had very natural
looking glass eyes; besides, its head was separate and was cunningly
arranged to shake a little bit from side to side.
Now it is a deadly insult for one Billy goat to stand on his hind legs
and wag his head at another one. Billy Mischief for one was not going
to take such insults as that, even though the goat that gave it to him
was much larger and older than himself, so he backed off into the middle
of the street and gave a great run and jump. Crash! went the fine
plate-glass window! The sharp edges of the glass cut Billy somewhat and
stopped him so that he landed just inside the window glass. The other
goat was right in front of him, still insultingly wagging its flowing
beard at him so Billy gave one more spring from where he stood and
knocked that goat sixteen ways for Sunday. It was the hardest headed
goat that Billy had ever fought, and its sharp nose hurt his head
considerably, almost stunning him, in fact, so that he stood blinking
his eyes until the people in the store had come running up and
surrounded the show window.
[Illustration: Gave a great run and jump.]
Billy was still dazed when the manager of the store, a nervous little
man with a bald head, hit him a sharp crack across the nose with a
board. The pain brought the tears to Billy’s eyes and still further
dazed him. The manager hit him another crack but this time on the
horns, and that woke Billy up. He looked back at the broken window
through which he had just come but the crowd had quickly gathered there.
There were less people inside, so suddenly gathering his legs under him,
he gave a spring and went clear over the manager, kicking him with his
sharp hind hoofs upon the bald head as he went over. The place was a
delicatessen store and Billy landed in a big tub of pickles. He did not
care much for pickles anyhow, so he quickly scrambled out of them,
knocked over three tall glass jars that stood on a low bench, and turned
over big cakes of fine cheese. The manager was right after him with the
board and hit him two or three thumps with it.
Billy was just about to turn around and go for the little bald-headed
man when he noticed at the far end of the store a round, plump man with
his back turned to him. There seemed something familiar about his
figure and the cut of his short little coat, and it flashed across Billy
at once that here was his old enemy Hans Zug.
Paying no attention to the manager and his little board, he dashed
headlong down the store for the plump man. Just as Billy had almost
reached him, the man turned around. It was not Hans Zug after all, but
Billy was going too fast to stop now. Anyhow, ever since he had known
Hans he had taken a dislike to all fat men, so he dashed straight ahead.
The man darted behind the counter and ran up the aisle, Billy close
after him.
There never was a fat man in the world who ran so fast as this one.
Everybody had cleared out of the aisle behind the counter to make room
for them. Nobody wanted to get in the way of that heavy man and the
hard headed goat. The man stepped upon a pail of fish, overturning it,
jumped upon the counter and was over in the center aisle, Billy right
after him. Everybody in the store was packed in the center aisle,
together with a lot who had come in from the outside when the excitement
began, and they all made way for the fat man and for Billy. Women were
screaming and men were shouting and laughing. The manager was still
right after Billy with his little board and thumping him every now and
then on the back, but Billy scarcely knew it, so interested was he in
giving the fat man one for Hans Zug.
The man headed straight up the middle aisle for the door, but, looking
over his shoulder, he found that Billy would overtake him before he got
there, so he sprang over another counter, upsetting a pair of scales and
some tall, open jars of fine olives. Billy was still right after him
but this time the man fooled him by jumping back over the counter.
Billy followed up that aisle to the end where he turned into the crowd,
just as the fat man went out on the street. Here he upset two ladies and
a policeman who was just coming in, and then took after the man who
looked like Hans. He was flying down the street as fast as he could go.
After Billy came the manager of the store and two of his clerks, and all
of the boys that had congregated on the sidewalk.
Pell-mell they went, a howling, yelling mob, with the fat man and Billy
in the lead. The man by this time was puffing like a steam engine and
the sweat was pouring from his face in streams. His collar was wilted
like a dish rag. He had lost his hat and one of his cuffs, and he could
hardly get his breath.
Policemen, by this time, were coming running from every direction and
one of them, who turned off a side street just then, thinking the fat
man must be a thief, got right in his road and opened up his arms. The
fat man, who had scarcely any strength left, fell right against the
policeman who was also a very heavy fellow, and just at that time Billy
overtook them and gave the man he was chasing all that was coming to
Hans Zug. Down in a pile together went the fat man and the policeman.
The policeman had not seen the goat and for a moment imagined that the
fat man had jumped upon him and was trying to overpower him, so he
pulled out his club and, though he was underneath, began, in a way that
was comical, to try to pound the fat man.
They lay there, a struggling, wriggling mass, the policeman with his
short arms trying to reach around the big round man on top of him in
order to hit him some place. Billy Mischief had stopped and backed up
to give his fallen enemy another bump, and was just in the air after his
spring when the manager of the store caught his hind leg, and he also
was dragged on top of the struggling two on the ground. The manager
held to Billy’s leg, however, and the crowd which had been following
them closely now crowded around them. The manager scrambled to his
feet, still holding the kicking Billy by the hind leg, and it would,
probably have been all up with the goat if a big, strong man had not at
that moment come up and putting his great arms around Billy, jerked him
loose. Billy squirmed and struggled, but it was no use. The big man
held him tightly and began to run. The store manager got to his feet
and started after them, followed by his two clerks, but the big strong
fellow who was carrying Billy darted down an alley, then through another
alley, and before the pursuers could see where they had gone, the man
darted through the back gate of a high board fence with Billy, closed
the gate after him, ran along the side of a great building which was
blazing with lights, ran down some cellar steps, opened the door, went
in, closed it after him, turned on a light and set Billy down.
"There, you fool goat!" exclaimed the man. "I’ll wash the blood off of
you and nobody will know that you have been out."
The big man was the porter and he had brought Billy back to the little
basement room under the hotel. So ended Billy’s first night in a big
city.
All that night, all the next day and night, and all the following day,
Billy was cooped up in that little basement room with no chance to get
out, and with only Frank Brown and the porter to visit him twice a day.
How he did fret. The porter kept him well fed and saw that he had good
bedding and plenty of water, but he gave Billy no more chances to escape
and see the city. He watched carefully as he opened and closed the door
that the goat should not again scramble between his legs or butt him
over. On the third evening, however, the porter forgot to completely
close the door which led into the other part of the basement, and you
may be sure that Billy lost no time in finding out what was in there.
The room next to his led up into the kitchen and it was stocked with
vegetables and all sorts of kitchen stores.
Billy was not very hungry, but he nibbled at everything as he went
along, pulling the vegetables out of place, upsetting a barrel half
filled with flour in his attempt to see what was in it and working the
faucet out of a barrel of syrup in his efforts to get at the sweet stuff
which clung to it. Licking up all of the syrup that he cared for, Billy
went on to investigate another barrel which lay on its side not far
away, and knocked the faucet out of it. This, however, proved to be
wine and he did not like the taste of it at all, so he trotted on out of
the store-room into the laundry, leaving the two barrels to run to
waste.
[Illustration: Pulling the vegetables out of place.]
Everybody in the laundry had gone up into the servants’ hall for their
suppers, and the coast was clear for Billy. They had just finished
ironing, and dainty white clothes lay everywhere. From a big pile of
them that lay on a table, a lace skirt hung down, and Billy took a
nibble at it just to find out what it was. The starch in it tasted
pretty good, so he chewed at the lace, pulling and tugging to get it
within easier reach, until at last he pulled the whole pile off the
table on the dirty floor.
Hearing some steps then, he scampered out through the storeroom and into
another large room where stood a big, brass-trimmed machine which he did
not at all understand. It was a dynamo, which was run by a big engine
in the adjoining engine-room, and it furnished the electric lights for
the hotel. Two big wires ran from it, heavily coated with shellac and
rubber and tightly-wound tape to keep them from touching metal things
and losing their electricity. These crossed the basement room to the
further wall, where they distributed the electric current to many
smaller cables.
Billy sniffed at the two big cables at a point where they were very near
together. They had a peculiar odor and Billy tasted them. He scarcely
knew whether he liked the taste or not, but he kept on nibbling to find
out, nipping and tearing with his sharp teeth until he had got down to
the big copper wire on both cables; then he decided that he did not care
very much for that kind of food and walked away. It was not yet dark
enough for the dynamo to be started, or Billy might have had a shock
that would have killed him.
Hunting further, he found over in a dark corner a nice bed which
belonged to the engineer, and it looked so inviting that Billy curled up
there for a sleep. When he awoke it was nearly midnight and there was a
blaze of light in the basement. There was a strange whir of machinery
and he could hear anxious voices. Billy, of course, did not know that
he had been the cause of it but this is what had happened:
When the electric current passes through a wire, the wire becomes
slightly heated and stretches a little bit. In stretching, the two
cables where he had chewed them bare, came near enough together to touch
each other once in a while, and that made the lights all over the big
building wink, that is, almost go out for a second, and the engineer was
very
|
could find them?”
“And then?”
“Then, there existed, and exists, a copy, thank God! Written in an
elegant and easy hand, it once more proves the distinction of its author,
as well as the sincerity of her words. You will easily discover the
Italian text at Recanati, in the celebrated house of the Leopardis; for
the Count Monaldo, father of the great poet Giacomo Leopardi, was not
afraid of preparing an edition of this document for the edification of
his contemporaries speaking the same tongue. The French text, which
the supposed daughter of Philippe-Egalité undertook to publish in your
language, and which she signed with the actual name of Joinville, which
had at the first concealed the criminal _incognito_, would perhaps be
more difficult to recover in France after the hunt for it But here is
a copy which will console you for the loss of the rest. Shall we look
through it together?”
“Certainly; it is enough that the Vatican should shelter such noble
victims within the silence of its protecting walls, without Herod having
to impeach the Pope for his guilty connivance in a repetition of the
Massacre of the Innocents.”
So here we are in the presence of Lady Newborough’s Memoirs, which relate
that she was born on April 17, 1773, at Modigliana; her supposed father
being Lorenzo Chiappini, _sbirro_, or factotum, to the Count Borghi. Her
supposed mother was one Vincenzia Viligenti, attached, as _concierge_, to
the kind of prison of which her husband was warder.
This birth took place at the precise time that a certain Comte de
Joinville and the Comtesse, his wife, who were staying at the Palazzo
Borghi, opposite the prison of which Chiappini was warder, had also a
child born to them. The child of Chiappini was baptized on the very day
of its birth under the names of Maria Petronilla; _that of the Comte de
Joinville does not appear in the Baptismal Registers of the Parish of
San Stefano_, common to both families.
Maria Petronilla, always ignorant of her true origin and problematic
destiny, lived until she was four years old between the indifference of
her mother, who gave all her love to her other children, and the marked
affection of the Countess Borghi, who greatly appreciated the natural
distinction of the little girl, quite incompatible with so low an origin.
But the lowly estate of the Chiappinis improving day by day, Maria was
only four years old when she had to leave for Florence, the Grand Duke
having summoned the humble warder of the Modigliana prison to unhoped-for
good fortune there.
Maria Stella’s education kept pace with the growing prosperity of her
father Lorenzo.
When the little girl had learnt enough of dancing and accomplishments,
her father got her an engagement as ballet-dancer in a large theatre in
the town.
Scarcely of marriageable age, she had first to spurn and then to accept
the passionate addresses of an elderly English nobleman, who asked her
hand. The parents granted what the daughter refused, and one day, against
her will, Maria Petronilla became the wife of Lord Newborough.
Lady Newborough’s Memoirs continue as tales of travel up to the page
wherein she records the death of Lorenzo Chiappini, with this autograph
letter from the dying man.
“MILADY,
“I have come to the end of my days without having ever revealed
to any one a secret which directly concerns you and me.
“This is the secret.
“The day you were born of a person I must not name, and who
has already passed into the next world, a boy was also born to
me. I was requested to make an exchange, and, in view of my
circumstances at that time, I consented after reiterated and
advantageous proposals; and it was then that I adopted you as
my daughter, as in the same way my son was adopted by the other
party.
“I see that Heaven has made up for my fault, since you have
been placed in a better position than your father’s, although
he was of almost similar rank; and it is this that enables me
to end my life in something of peace.
“Keep this in your possession, so that I may not be held
totally guilty. Yes, while begging your forgiveness for my sin,
I ask you, if you please, to keep it hidden, so that the world
may not be set talking over a matter that cannot be remedied.
“Even this letter will not be sent to you till after my death.
“LORENZO CHIAPPINI.”
“Stranger and still stranger!”
“This letter, sent through the post from Florence to Lady Newborough,
then at Siena, about the middle of December 1821, was the beginning of
the lengthy investigations to which this daughter of noble but unknown
parents henceforth entirely devoted herself. You must read the rest
of the Memoirs, of which I venture to recommend whole pages to your
consideration. Here is an extract—
“‘After leaving my two eldest sons,’ writes Lady Newborough,
‘I took the road to Rome, where I had already made the
acquaintance of Cardinal Consalvi, who showed me the greatest
kindness. By his order, all the archives were thrown open to
me; everything was examined into, not only in the capital, but
in the country round about the Apennines; but everywhere the
answer was the same: “Nothing whatever has been discovered;
everything must have been destroyed during the Revolution.”
“‘Seeing that there was nothing to be done there, I set out
for Faenza, where I was informed that the Count Borghi was
absent, and that, moreover, it would be useless for me to see
him, as he had declared that he would never tell me anything at
all. I heard even that he had threatened the old servant-women
with the withholding of their modest pensions if they had the
ill-luck of speaking to me. But they could not restrain their
longing to see me or the cry of their consciences. Their first
words when they met me were a simultaneous exclamation of “O
Dio! how like you are to the Comtesse de Joinville!”
“‘I joyfully welcomed them and treated them kindly; and having
implored them to acquaint me with the details concerning my
birth, they at last consented to speak perfectly openly.
“‘“Our father, Nicholas Bandini,” they told me, “at the age of
seventeen entered the Borghi mansion as chief steward, and
never left it till his death. We also were taken on there in
our youth as maids to the Countess Camilla. That lady, with her
son, the Count Pompeo, was in the habit of spending a good part
of the year at the castle at Modigliana, and in the beginning
of the spring of 1773 we accompanied them there.
“‘“On our arrival we found, already established in the
Pretorial Palace, a French couple, called the Comte Louis
and the Comtesse Joinville. The Comte had a fine figure, a
rather brown complexion, and a red and pimpled nose. As to the
Comtesse, you can see almost her perfect image in your own
person, milady.
“‘“Being such near neighbours, the greatest intimacy soon
came to pass between them and our masters. Every day the two
families met, sometimes at one house, sometimes at the other.
“‘“The foreign stranger was extremely familiar with people of
the lowest rank, especially with Chiappini, the jailer, who
lived under the same roof. As it happened, both their wives
were then _enceinte_, and the two confinements appeared to be
imminent.
“‘“But the Comte was seriously anxious; his wife had not yet
given him a male child; and he was intensely uneasy lest he
should never have one, when of this very fear was born an idea,
both barbarous and advantageous. First he broached the subject
to the Count Pompeo and his mother, from a very charming point
of view; then he endeavoured to worm himself more and more into
the warder’s confidence, and ended by telling him that seeing
himself about to lose a great inheritance absolutely dependent
on the birth of a son, he was quite willing, in case he should
have a daughter, to exchange her for a boy, whose father he
would largely recompense.
“‘“The man who listened to his words, delighted to find
unlooked-for luck at so appropriate a moment, did not hesitate
for an instant; he accepted the offer, and the matter was
settled on the spot.
“‘“We know it,” the sisters Bandini went on, “because we
heard it with our own ears; and we know, too, that the event
justified the precautions taken; the Comtesse gave birth to a
daughter, and the other woman to a son. The news was brought
to our master, and one of us going into the Pretorial Palace
to see the newly-born children, was assured by some women of
the house that the exchange had really taken place. Chiappini,
who was present, confirmed it in his own words. Later on, the
Countess Camilla often repeated it to us; she used to say that
the Comtesse Joinville had been told all about it, and had
seemed quite content.
“‘“Soon after this abominable crime we ourselves saw the Comte
and the jailer on the best of terms; the first because he had
secured immense profit; the other because he had received
much money. Although silence had been promised, there were
indiscreet people, and public rumour soon accused the authors
of this horrible transaction. The Comte Louis, dreading the
general indignation of his accusers, fled and hid himself at
Brisighella, in the convent of St. Bernard. We knew he had been
arrested and then set at liberty, but we never saw him again.
“‘“The lady left with her servants and her reputed son,
while her own daughter, baptized by the name of Maria Stella
Petronilla, and described as belonging to Lorenzo Chiappini
and Vincenzia Viligenti, always remained with these last. Our
mistress was constantly distressed about this misfortune. To
repair it as much as possible she kept the unfortunate child
near her, caressing her and giving her all kinds of presents,
treating her not with ordinary friendliness, but with every
mark of ardent love. So she behaved to this child for the first
four years, that is to say till Chiappini took her with him
to Florence, where he had her educated, and where he bought
property with the price of his frightful bargain.”
“‘Thus spoke my venerable septuagenarians.
“‘Fully satisfied with their story, there seemed no need of
more, and that now it would be enough to appear before my
iniquitous parents and obtain from them just reparation.
“‘With this plan I set out for France with my third son,
his drawing-master, my maid, and my courier, a faithful and
intelligent servant.
“‘By the Sieur Fabroni’s advice, we went straight to Champagne,
and the mere name of the place led us to Joinville. I asked the
magistrates for information, and was told by them all that no
nobleman of the neighbourhood bore the name of their city, and
that it belonged solely to the Orleans family.
“‘After several attempts, which all had the same result, I went
to Paris, arriving on July 5, 1823. As a cleverly used ruse
may bring about an act of justice, and as the bait of riches
is nowadays the most powerful of motives, I had the following
advertisement inserted in several newspapers—
“‘“The widow of the late Count Pompeo Borghi has asked
Lady N. S. to find for her in France a certain Louis,
Comte Joinville, who, with the Comtesse, his wife, was
at Modigliana, a little town in the Apennines, where the
Comtesse gave birth to a son on the 16th of April, 1773. If
these two persons are still living, or the child born at
Modigliana, Lady N. S. has the honour to announce to them
that she has been empowered to make them a communication
of the highest interest. Supposing that these persons
can prove their identity, they have only to apply to the
Baronne de Sternberg, Hôtel de Belle-Vue, Rue de Rivoli.”
“‘Two days later appeared a colonel bearing the much-desired
name; I received him with the warmest welcome. He spoke,
recounting his various titles. Alas! the one that had at first
interested me so immensely was quite recent, and came to him
from Louis XVIII.
“‘At that moment I was told that M. l’Abbé de Saint-Fare
solicited the honour of an interview; the colonel looked much
astonished, and withdrew. In his place entered an enormous man,
wearing spectacles and supported by two footmen. As soon as he
was seated, the following conversation took place.
“‘“The Duke of Orleans, having seen your advertisement, has
this morning begged me to come and make inquiries about
this inheritance; for we presume that that is the matter
in question, and at the date you mention there was no one
in existence outside the family to whom the title of Comte
Joinville could belong.”
“‘“Was Monseigneur the Duke of Orleans born at Modigliana on
the 16th of April, 1773?”
“‘“He was born that year, but in Paris, on the 6th of October.”
“‘“Then I am very sorry that you should have taken the trouble
to come; for in that case he has no connection with the person
I am looking for.”
“‘“No doubt you have heard it said that the late Duke was very
gay with the fair sex, and the child in question might well be
that of one of his favourites.”
“‘“No, no, its legitimacy is incontestable.”
“‘“Could anything be more surprising! It is true, the late Duke
lived in the midst of mysteries.”
“‘“Could you not describe him to me, Monsieur?”
“‘“Willingly, madame. He was a fine man with a good leg; his
complexion was of a rather dark red, and, if it had not been
for the numerous pimples on his face, he would have been very
good-looking.”
“‘“And his character?”
“‘“What people principally admired in him was his extreme
affability to every one.”
“‘“Your description agrees exactly with that that was given me
of the Comte de Joinville.”
“‘“Then it must be supposed that it was the Duke himself.”
“‘“That can’t be if it is true that his son was born in Paris.”
“‘“May I ask you if there is a large sum to be had, and when?”
“‘“I am truly sorry not to be able to inform you; I am not at
liberty to say more.”
“‘During the whole of this conversation, the big abbé had never
left off looking at me in an almost offensive way; and, trying
to find out what was my native tongue, he had spoken now in
English, now in Italian, without being able to make up his
mind, in consequence of my speaking both languages equally well.
“‘After an hour’s talk, he took leave, asking my permission to
come again. I replied that I should be delighted to see him
again, and, in my turn, begged him to be so good as to make
inquiries amongst his many acquaintances.
“‘He kindly promised to do so, and added that he knew a very
aged lady from Champagne very well, and that she might be able
to give him much information, which he would transmit to me at
once.
“‘As nothing came of it, I sent M. Coiron, a teacher of French,
who was giving lessons in it to my son, to him.
“‘M. de Saint-Fare treated him politely, pleaded indisposition,
and made great protestations.
“‘On Coiron presenting himself a second time, he was received
very coldly, and simply told that nothing had been yet done.
“‘Moved by his own zeal and without my authority, he made a
third attempt. Then the abbé told him plainly that he might
discontinue his visits; that the lady knew nothing at all, and
that he himself did not want to have anything to do with this
fuss.
“‘Still, the first impression his visit made on me could not
be effaced. I procured a ticket, and went with my friends to
the Palais Royal. What was my surprise on seeing in some of
the portraits their extreme resemblance either to me or to
my children. My astonishment increased when my young Edward,
catching sight of a picture I had not yet noticed, exclaimed:
“Dieu! Maman, how much that face is like old Chiappini’s and
his son’s!”
“‘We discovered that it was actually the portrait of the
present Duke.…
“‘Thinking seriously over this, I realized that I owed to him
in fact the important service of being the first to tear the
impenetrable veil by deputing that Abbé de Saint-Fare, who, I
was told, was not only his great friend, but his natural uncle,
to see me.
“‘It will be believed that, from that moment, all my researches
went in the direction so clearly pointed out.…’
“The proofs Lady Newborough goes on heaping up in her startling Memoirs
ought to be quoted as a whole,” ended my guide, as he tied up the heap
of papers. “But that will need another sitting, longer than the first.
Here is the sun beginning to set, and the custodian of the Archives
of the Vatican inviting us to go. Will this historical puzzle awake
your curiosity? In that case you will have to endeavour to reconcile
these undeniable yet contradictory documents, since they repose in the
shadow of these protecting walls, where you may read on the face of the
_Archivio_ which Leo XIII set open for the truth of History, the proud
device that bold and beneficent Pontiff had cut upon it when he invited
the whole civilized world to enter its doors.
“‘_The first law of History is not to dare to lie; the second, not to
fear to tell the truth; further, the historian must not lay himself open
to a suspicion of either flattery or animosity._’
“The survivors of this domestic drama still draw breath at Modigliana
and Brisighella, where Lorenzo Chiappini and Philippe-Egalité have
left traces of their sojourn and their crime. At Glynllifon, in the
Principality of Wales, the lineage of Lady Newborough, in the shape of
her grandsons, still flourishes, if not the claims that died with her.
Shall you go there, too, to examine into them?”
“Most assuredly,” I answered; “for the honour of the blood of France,
which cannot lie, and of the truth which could not well serve a nobler
cause than this.”
But, while waiting for the information which cannot fail to bring
order and light into this still confused and perplexing affair, it was
important that the actual text of these Memoirs, hunted for by those
interested in them for nearly two-thirds of a century, so that there is
scarcely a copy left that is not worth its weight in gold, should be put
in reach of honest minds which have likewise a full right to form an
opinion on a case of such barbarity and of such national interest.
But what was to be expected of a Philippe-Egalité, who, to secure the
great inheritance of Penthièvre, and needing a male firstborn, did not
hesitate to sacrifice his own legitimate daughter for it? Would he be
likely, a few years later, to hesitate before voting for the death of
Louis XVI, who could no longer do anything for him? Had he not shown the
extent of his complaisance in his preference for Madame de Genlis over
his wife, whose confidante the mistress became under the very roof of the
infamous husband of one and lover of the other?
The Memoirs of de Genlis have been widely read; let the Memoirs of Maria
Stella be read likewise. After that we can talk with better knowledge of
the facts.
BOYER D’AGEN.
FIRST PART
FROM MY BIRTH TO THE DEATH OF HIM I CALLED MY FATHER
I
My Birth—Kindness of the Comtesse Borghi—We leave for
Florence—My Circumstances in that Town—Domestic Troubles—My
Parents’ good Fortune—My Tastes—My Education—Journey to Pisa—My
Illness.
I was born in 1773, in the little town of Modigliana, situated on the
heights of the Apennines, which could be reached only by very bad roads.
It belongs to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, though dependent on the Diocese
of Faenza in the Papal States.
On April 17 of the same year I was baptized in the parish church,
receiving the names of Maria Stella Petronilla. My father’s name was
Lorenzo Chiappini; my mother’s, Vincenzia Viligenti.
The family of Borghi Biancoli of Faenza owned, in my birthplace, a
magnificent palace almost opposite the Pretorial Palace, where my father
lived in the position of jailer.
The Count Pompeo Borghi, with his mother, the Countess Camilla, came
there every year to spend the summer. The Countess happened to see me,
and despite my father’s ignoble profession, she was very fond of me and
showed me immense kindness. I was admitted to her table, and often even
shared her bed; she heaped presents upon me, and I lived almost entirely
with her; I may even say that she inspired all the people of her house
with the same sentiments, and that I was generally loved.
It was a precious compensation for the ills I suffered at home, where I
had to endure the cruel brutality of a barbarous mother, to whom I was an
object of detestation!
I well remember that as the first germ of gratitude developed in my
little heart, I loved my benefactress as myself. When she was absent,
I longed for her return, and when I had got her back, I couldn’t tear
myself away from her; in a word, she was all the happiness of my life;
but, alas! it was soon to be torn from me.
I had not yet reached my fourth year, when my father was summoned to
Florence by the Grand Duke Leopold, who put him in command of a company
of archers (_capo squadra sbirri_). A few months later my father, in his
turn, sent for us. I was his eldest child; two brothers were born after
me, and the first had been dead some time.
The day we left, I was awakened very early, and in a few minutes my
brother and I were each put into a pannier on a mule, and my mother got
upon another animal of the same kind, our sole guide, protector and
companion being the muleteer.
What tears I shed at leaving my dear Countess! It almost seemed as if I
had foreseen that in losing this loving friend I should lose everything,
absolutely everything!…
During the journey, which lasted two days, my mother seemed to care for
nothing but my little brother, to whom she gave all her attention. Her
neglect of me filled me with such bitterness that I felt like complaining
to my father the instant we reached Florence.
In this new abode small-pox attacked our family; I got off with some
small suffering; but my brother fell a victim to it, and my mother was
not consoled for his loss till she gave birth to a third son six months
later.
Scarcely convalescent, I was sent to a school, taken every morning by an
ancient maidservant.
My appearance and manners, my native tongue, which nobody spoke at
Florence; my rich attire, my splendid bracelets, my coral necklace, and
all the gifts of the Countess Borghi, soon attracted much attention. I
was sent for; people were pleased to see me, and liked to listen to me.
But what struck other people so pleasingly made only an unfavourable
impression on my mother; for the slightest fault I was punished with the
greatest severity.
On one occasion she gave me such a violent blow with her heavy hand that
I fainted, and, falling backwards, hurt myself terribly. When I recovered
from my fainting fit, I could not restrain my grief. Going into a corner,
I gave myself up to the most frightful despair, invoking my protectress
with loud cries and calling to her for help.
Vain lamentations! Henceforth given over to my ill fortune, I was never
again to find maternal consolation.
My father had a sister who was very unfortunate in her marriage; she left
her husband and came to live with us. She and my mother could never get
on; they detested each other, and were perpetually quarrelling.
Witnessing their disputes, my father sometimes took the part of one,
sometimes of the other; still more often he reproved both of them, and
drew their anger upon himself. The arrival of my paternal grandmother,
who, growing old, came to be with her son, led to fresh subjects for
wrangling; and as they were all violent and passionate, our house was
like a veritable hell upon earth.
These interminable quarrels were not caused, as might be supposed, by the
cares attending poverty. Though my father’s post brought him in no more
than a hundred francs a month, he had always plenty of money. He was well
dressed, and often gave large dinners. He had abundance of provisions,
and his cellar contained wines of the best kinds. He had a very pretty
house and a splendid garden.
But these advantages were far from making up to me for my annoyances,
or from doing away with the mortal weariness I felt in the bosom of my
family.
I bewailed my fate unceasingly; I felt humiliated by my circumstances; I
envied the ladies who possessed many servants, beautiful mansions, fine
equipages, and most of all those who were received at Court.
These lofty aspirations were always with me; they were so deeply graven
on my mind, so natural to me after a fashion, that I should have liked
always to live with the great, and felt myself grievously hurt when I was
obliged to keep company with common people.
I had, too, a decided taste for the fine arts; I had a passion for
antiquities, and I do not doubt that I should have made great progress if
my talents had been cultivated.
However, from the age of seven I was given lessons in writing, dancing,
music, etc.
As my voice and my skill were remarkable, my parents made me early an
object of speculation, and I was forced into practising cruelly. They
made me sing, or play the piano eight hours a day, which inspired me with
an insurmountable detestation of that instrument.
If my master complained of my inattention, I was shut up in the
music-room from six in the morning till eight in the evening and given
hardly anything to eat. If by chance I got a good report, I was pretty
well treated, my father made me a present of twopence, and my mother told
me ghost stories, which terrified me to such an extent that I scarcely
dared to be alone during the night.
One day when they had forgotten to open my prison at the usual hour, I
was suddenly seized with a panic of terror, and, quite beside myself, I
opened the window and threw myself out into the garden, without doing
myself any harm, however.
About this time great rejoicings were taking place in Pisa in honour of
their Neapolitan Majesties, who were on a visit to the Grand Duke Leopold.
My mother, wishing to take the opportunity of going to see her sister,
who lived in that town, my father gave his consent, on condition that my
aunt and I should be of the party.
With what transports of joy did I receive this agreeable news! What a
delightful and lively satisfaction it would be to let my _dear_ piano
rest!
Great preparations were made for my toilette; several frocks were bought
for me; my father gave me two gold watches and a very valuable ring. He
did not forget to make me take my shoes with their very high red heels,
whose sound much delighted me.
We embarked on a public boat, and, although it was my first journey by
water, my young imagination, far from dreading the perils of the furious
element, was at once wonderfully diverted.
In twenty-four hours we landed at Pisa, where my uncle and aunt
Fillipini, as well as their son and daughters, received us with open
arms. They were greatly surprised to see me so richly clad, and said to
my mother that no doubt her husband was very well off.
She answered only that I was a _bastard_, a name she gave me pretty
often, and the meaning of which I did not understand.
Profiting by my father’s absence to treat me with greater harshness, she
was eternally scolding and tormenting me; she went so far as to take
away my watches and my ring, to give them, as she said, to the great
Madonna. Unluckily for me, she managed to procure a piano, at which I was
pitilessly forced to work.
One day, having suddenly sent for me, she ordered me to sing for the
amusement of two ragged and unpleasant-looking women she told me were
intimate friends of hers.
Indignant at such a proposal, I said that a bit of bread was all they
needed just at present.
She rose; I rushed to my room; but nothing could save me from her fury.
In vain did I beg her pardon, in vain entreated for mercy; a hail of
blows fell upon me; my body was a mass of bruises; the blood streamed
from my nose. I could not stand the overcoming pain; I went to bed, and
did not rise from it again till we set out for Florence.
In this fashion my visit to Pisa became a real martyrdom for me instead
of an amusement.
During my infancy I had been very subject to eruptions which from time
to time appeared all over my body; but none had ever equalled that which
was caused after my return by weariness and wretchedness. After the
doctors had prescribed a lengthy course of cooling remedies, my parents,
to rid themselves of such a nuisance, determined to send me to a hospital
maintained at the expense of the Grand Duchess, and the admission to
which needed great interest. Nevertheless, my father got an order
without any difficulty.
I stayed there several weeks, and I must proclaim aloud that I felt as if
I had refound my dear Countess in the person of each of the sisters who
managed the hospital. Their constant care soon cured me; they were always
near me, caressing me, and giving me fruit and sweetmeats.
No, no one could have been kinder, more courteous than those charitable
women, to whom I vowed eternal gratitude, and whom I could not leave
without anguish.
II
Fresh Tortures—My Parents’ Talks—Theatres—Mysterious
Letter—Troublesome Visits—Useless Prayers—My Protests.
Nature had given me a good figure; nevertheless, my father maintained
that I stooped, that one of my shoulders was higher than the other, and
that my feet grew large too quickly.
To remedy these imaginary defects he made me wear an iron collar, which
was taken off only at meal-time, a steel corset that increased the
torture and really made me deformed, and shoes so narrow and short that I
could hardly walk.
When I begged him to take off this painful apparatus, a box on the ear
was his usual answer.
He often took me to the opera, to teach me, he said, to hold myself
properly; to move my arms easily; to behave with grace.
All this rigmarole was an enigma to me, until at last he explained it to
me in these terms—
“Isn’t it about time, my dear Maria, that you repaid what I have spent on
your education?”
“How can I do that?” I answered quickly, and with a smile, “since all I
have comes from you.”
Instantly he replied—
“This is the way you are going to do it. I have got you an engagement at
the Piazza-Vecchia, where you will certainly make a great success.”
Dismayed by these words, I blushed, I trembled, and, concealing some of
my trouble, I exclaimed—
“But the thing would be impossible. Don’t you know, father, that the
presence of two or three lookers-on is enough to confuse me when I am
taking my lessons?”
Vain subterfuge.
“Make a beginning,” he said harshly; “after you’ve done it a few times
you’ll find all the courage you need.”
There was one last expedient left me. I flew to my mother and, with
tears, begged her to remember how often she had told me that actresses
deserved the most profound contempt. You may judge of my astonishment
when I heard her answer thus—
“It was so formerly, my daughter; nowadays all that is changed; on
the contrary, those ladies are admired and loved by everybody, and if
they sing well they gain great wealth, and even sometimes marry great
noblemen.”
After that I saw there was nothing more to hope for; my doom was fixed
and my misfortune inevitable.
I was made to study my part, which my unwillingness made a very slow
business, and when the day for acting it arrived, my parents themselves
came to introduce me.
When my turn came I found it impossible to open my mouth. My youth and
my simplicity stirred the pity of the whole audience, while my father
endeavoured to express his displeasure and anger to me by frightful
grimaces, which at last forced me to stammer out a few notes.
The spectators made the building echo with their loud cries of _brava!
brava! coraggio!_ and at the end of the play several ladies of quality
asked to see me, praising me repeatedly and lavishing all sorts of
endearments upon me.
All the time the carnival lasted I was compelled to carry out the painful
task imposed on me. One day, having tried to play the invalid, my father
discovered the trick, and made me pay for it so dear that I did not again
think of making that sort of excuse.
God alone knows how delighted I was when my engagement came to an end;
but, alas! the relief was a short one. After a few months’ rest, my
father announced to me that I was about to have the honour of appearing
on a larger stage, adding that everything was arranged and settled and
there was nothing left for me but to obey his orders.
The news came upon me like a clap of thunder. Putting aside my
nervousness, I felt myself degraded and debased.
More especially did I feel ashamed when I heard the actresses saying to
one another: “It is disparaging to us to have the daughter of a constable
put amongst us.”
At this period I had two brothers and one sister, three little tyrants
all of whose whims I had to humour; for if I made the smallest objection
my mother encouraged them to abuse me and beat me, and throw stones at
me. Fed and brought up delicately, nothing was good enough for them;
but I had no difficulty, nevertheless, in realizing that they were being
prepared for no better fate than mine, and they, too, were destined for
my degrading profession.
Too unfortunate already in that I belonged to such a family, I was far
from expecting fresh troubles, when my father read aloud to us the
following letter, which he had just received, addressed to me—
“I have seen you, you beautiful star, and listened to the melodious tones
of your angel
|
be many more positively weak. Such men may have
bright, uncommon heads. Yes; but a bright and uncommon head on a broken
down, or nearly broken down, body is not going to make half as effective a
man in the life-race as a little duller head and a good deal better body.
But have these graduates had a competent instructor at college to look
after them in this respect? Will some one name a college where they have
such an instructor? or a school where, instead of building the pupil up
for the future, more has been done than to insure his present health?
One or two such there may be, but scarcely more than one or two.
Take even the student who has devoted the most time to severe muscular
exercise--the rowing-man, not the beginner, but the veteran of a score
or more of races, who has been rowing all his four college years as
regularly and almost as often as he dined. Certainly it will not be
claimed that his is not a well-developed body, or that his permanent
health is not insured. Let us look a little at him and see. What has he
done? He entered college at eighteen, and is the son, say, of a
journalist or of a professional man. Finding, when he came to be
fourteen or fifteen, that he was not strong, that somehow he did not
fill out his clothes, he put in daily an hour or more at the gymnasium,
walked much at intervals, took sparring lessons, did some rowing, and
perhaps, by the time he entered college, got his upper arm to be a foot
or even thirteen inches in circumference, with considerable muscle on
his chest. Now this young man hears daily, almost hourly, of the
wonderful Freshman crew--an embryotic affair as yet, to be sure, but of
exalted expectations--and into that crew he must go at all hazards. He
is tried and accepted. Now, for four years, if a faithful oar, he will
row all of a thousand miles a year. As each year has, off and on, not
over two hundred rowing-days in all, he will generally, for the greater
part of the remaining time, pull nearly an equivalent daily at the
rowing-weights. He will find a lot of eager fellows at his side, working
their utmost to outdo him, and get that place in the boat which he so
earnestly covets, and which he is not yet quite sure that he can hold.
Some of his muscles are developing fast. His recitations are, perhaps,
suffering a little, but never mind that just now, when he thinks that
there is more important work on hand. The young fellow's appetite is
ravenous. He never felt so hearty in his life, and is often told how
well he is looking. He attracts attention because likely to be a
representative man. He never filled out his clothes as he does now. His
legs are improving noticeably. They ought to do so, for it is not one or
two miles, but three or four, which he runs on almost every one of
those days in the hundred in which he is not rowing.
Our young athlete has not always gone into the work from mere choice. For
instance, one of a recent Harvard Freshman crew told the writer that he had
broken down his eyes from over-use of them, and, looking about for some
vigorous physical exercise which would tone him up quickly and restore his
eyesight, and having no one to consult, he had taken to rowing.
The years roll by till the whole four are over, and our student is about
to graduate. He looks back to see what he has accomplished. In physical
matters he finds that, while he is a skilful, and perhaps a decidedly
successful, oar, and that some of his measurements have much improved
since the day he was first measured, others somehow have not come up
nearly as fast, in fact, have held back in the most surprising way. His
chest-girth may be three or even four inches larger for the four years'
work. Some, if not much, of that is certainly the result of growth, not
development, and, save what running did, the rest is rather an increase
of the back muscles than of front and back alike. Strong as his back
is--for many a hard test has it stood in the long, hot home-minutes of
more than one well-fought race--still he has not yet a thoroughly
developed and capacious chest. Doubtless his legs have improved, if he
has done any running. (In some colleges the rowing-men scarcely run at
all.) His calves have come to be well-developed and shapely, and so too
have his thighs, while his loins are noticeably strong-looking and well
muscled up, and so indeed is his whole back. But if he has done
practically no other arm-work than that which rowing and the preparation
for it called for, his arms are not so large, especially above the
elbow, as they ought to be for a man with such legs and such a back. The
front of his chest is not nearly so well developed as his back, perhaps
is hardly developed at all, and he is very likely to carry himself
inerectly, with head and neck canted somewhat forward, while there is a
lack of fulness, often a noticeable hollowness, of the upper chest, till
the shoulders are plainly warped and rounded forward.
[Illustration: Fig. 1. A warped University Oarsman,
imperfectly developed in Muscles not used in Rowing.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2. A warped Professional Sculler,
imperfectly developed in Muscles not used in Rowing.]
With professional oarsmen, who for years have rowed far more than they
have done anything else, and who have no especial care for their looks,
or spur to develop harmoniously, the defects rowing leaves stand out
most glaringly. Notice in the cuts on pp. 36, 37 (Figs. 1 and 2) the
flat and slab-sided, almost hollow, look about the upper chest and front
shoulder, and compare these with the full and well-rounded make of the
figure whose body is sketched on the cover. It will not take long to
determine which has the better front chest, or which is likely to so
carry that chest as to ward off tendencies to throat and lung troubles.
Yet Fig. 1 is from a photograph of one of the most distinguished
student-oarsmen America ever produced, while Fig. 2 represents one of
the swiftest and most skilful professional scullers of the country
to-day.[A] Better proof could not be presented of the effect of a
great amount of rowing, and of the very limited exercise it brings
to those muscles which are not especially called on.
After the student's rowing is over, and his college days are past, and
he settles down to work with not nearly so much play in it, how does he
find that his rowing pays? Has it made him fitter than his fellows, who
went into athletics with no such zeal and devotion, to stand life's
wear and tear, especially when that life is to be spent mainly
in-doors? When, in later years, with new associations, business cares,
and long, hard head-work, accompanied, as the latter usually is, by
only partial inflation of the lungs, when all these get him out of the
way of using his large back muscles, he will find their very size, and
the long spell of warping forward which so much rowing gave the
shoulders, tends more to weigh him forward than if he had never so
developed them. Instead of benefiting his throat and lungs, this
abnormal development actually inclines to cramp them.
Here, then, is the case of a man who voluntarily gave much time,
thought, and labor to the severest test of his strength, and who had
hoped to bring about staying powers, and he comes out of it all, to
begin his real race in life, often no better fitted, perhaps not nearly
so well fitted, for it as some of his comrades who did not spare half so
much time to athletics. The other men, who did not work nearly as much
as he did, still managed to hit upon a sort which, instead of cramping
their chests, expanded them, enlarging the lung-room, and so gave the
heart, stomach, and other vital organs all the freest play.
If the ordinary play and exercise of the boy do not build and round
him into a sound, well-made, and evenly-balanced man; if the hardest
work he has hit on, when left to himself to find out, mostly to
be paid for by a considerable amount of money; if these only leave
him a half-developed man, can it not be seen at once that an
improvement is wanted in his physical education?
Are we not behindhand, and far behindhand, then, in a matter of serious
importance to the well-being of the people of our country? Do we not want
some system of education which shall rear men, not morally and
intellectually good alone, but good physically as well? which shall
qualify them both to seize and to make the most of the advantages which
years of toil and struggle bring, but which advantages among us now are
too frequently thrown away. Men too often, just as they are about
clutching these benefits, find, Tantalus-like, that they are eluding their
grasp. The reason must be plain to all. It is because that grasp is
weakening, and falls powerless at the very time when it could be
and should be surest, and potent for the most good.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The faces of both men have, of course, been disguised.
CHAPTER III.
WILL DAILY PHYSICAL EXERCISE FOR GIRLS PAY?
Observe the girls in any of our cities or towns, as they pass to or from
school, and see how few of them are at once blooming, shapely, and strong.
Some are one or the other, but very few are all combined, while a decided
majority are neither one of them. Instead of high chests, plump arms;
comely figures, and a graceful and handsome mien, you constantly see flat
chests, angular shoulders, often round and warped forward, with scrawny
necks, pipe-stem arms, narrow backs, and a weak walk. Not one girl in a
dozen is thoroughly erect, whether walking, standing, or sitting. Nearly
every head is pitched somewhat forward. The arms are frequently held
almost motionless, and there is a general lack of spring and elasticity in
their movements. Fresh, blooming complexions are so rare as to attract
attention. Among eyes, plenty of them pretty, sparkling, or intelligent,
but few have vigor and force. If any dozen girls, taken at random, should
place their hands side by side on a table, many, if not most, of these
hands would be found to lack beauty and symmetry, the fingers, and indeed
the whole hand, too often having a weak, undeveloped, nerveless look.
Now watch these girls at play. See how few of their games bring them
really vigorous exercise. Set them to running, and hardly one in the
party has the swift, graceful, gliding motion she might so readily
acquire. Not one can run any respectable distance at a good pace. There
is abundant vivacity and spirit, abundant willingness to play with great
freedom, but very little such play as there might be, and which would
pay so well. Most of their exercise worth calling vigorous is for their
feet alone, the hands seldom having much to do. The girls of the most
favored classes are generally the poorest players. The quality and color
of their clothing necessitates their avoiding all active, hearty play,
while it is the constant effort of nurse or governess to repress that
superabundance of spirits which ought to belong to every boy and girl.
Holding one's elbows close to the body while walking, and keeping the
hands nearly or quite motionless, may accord with the requirements of
fashionable life, but it's terribly bad for the arms, keeping them poor,
indifferent specimens, when they might be models of grace and beauty.
As the girl comes home from school, not with one book only, but often six
or eight, instead of looking light and strong and free, she is too often
what she really appears to be, pale and weak. So many books suggest a
large amount of work for one day, certainly for one evening, and the
impression received is that she is overworked, while the truth frequently
is that the advance to be made in each book is but trifling, and the
aggregate, not at all large, by no means too great for the same girl were
she strong and hearty. It is not the mental work which is breaking her
down, but there is no adequate physical exercise to build her up. See what
ex-Surgeon-General Hammond says, in his work on "Sleep", as to the ability
to endure protracted brain-work without ill result:
"It is not the mere quantity of brain-work which is the chief factor
in the production of disease. The emotional conditions under which
work is performed is a far more important matter. A man of trained
mental habits can bear with safety an almost incredible amount of
brain-toil, provided he is permitted to work without distraction or
excitement, in the absence of disquieting cares and anxieties. It is
not brain-work, in fact, that kills, but brain-_worry_."
The girl, of course, has not the strength for the protracted effort of the
matured man, nor is such effort often required of her. Her studying is
done quietly at home, undisturbed, usually, by any such cares and
responsibilities as the man encounters. Hers is generally brain-work, not
brain-worry. Yet the few hours a day exhaust her, because her vital
system, which supports her brain, is feeble and inefficient. No girl is at
school over six hours out of the twenty-four, and, deducting the time
taken for recitation, recess, and the various other things which are not
study, five hours, or even less, will cover the time she gives to actual
brain-work in school, with two, or perhaps three, hours daily out of
school. With the other sixteen hours practically her own, there is ample
time for all the vigorous physical exercise she needs or could take, and
yet allow ten, or even twelve, of those hours for sleep or eating. But
notice, in any of these off-hours, what exercise these girls take. They
walk to and fro from school, they play a few minutes at recess, they may
take an occasional irregular stroll besides, and may indulge in a game of
croquet, but all the time intent on their conversation, never thinking of
the exercise itself, and the benefit it brings. Such things fill up the
measure of the daily physical exercise of thousands of our American girls.
It is the same thing for nearly all, save those from the poorest classes.
And what is the result? Exactly what such exercise--or, rather, such lack
of it--would bring. The short, abrupt run, the walk to or from school,
the afternoon stroll, or the miscellaneous standing about--none of these
call for or beget strength of limb, depth of chest, or vitality. None of
these exercises is more than almost any flat-chested, half-developed girl
could readily accomplish without serious effort, and, going through them
for years, she would need little more strength than she had at first.
But all this time her mental work comes in no meagre allowance. _It_ is
all the time pushing forward. Subjects are set before her, to grasp and
master which requires every day hours of close application for months
together. The number of them is also enlarging, and the task is constantly
becoming more severe. A variety of influences spurs her steadily onward.
Maybe it is emulation and determination which urges her on, not only to do
well, but to excel. Maybe it is to gratify the teacher's pride, and a
desire to show the good fruit of her work. Perhaps oftener than anything
else the girl is in dread of being dropped into another class, and she
resolves to remain with her present one at all hazards.
But with all this there is an advance in the amount and difficulty of the
brain-work. No distinction is made between the delicate girl and the
strong one. To those of a like age come like tasks. The delicate girl,
from her indifference to physical effort, finding that for the time her
weakness of body does not interfere with a ready-working brain, gradually
inclines to draw even more away from livelier games and exercises, in
which she does not excel, and to get more at her books. Can there be much
doubt as to the result a few years later? Is it any wonder that the
neglected body develops some partial weakness, or too often general
debility? Is it at all a rare thing, in the observation of any one, to
notice that this weakness, this debility, are very apt to become chronic,
and that the woman, later on in life, is a source of anxiety and a burden
to her friends, when instead of this she might have been a valued helper?
Now, if the body, during the growing years, was called on to do
nothing which should even half develop it, while the brain was pushed
nearly to its utmost, does it take long to decide whether such a
course was a wise one? Leaving out entirely the discomfort to the
body, is that a sensible system of education which leaves a girl
liable to become weak, if not entirely broken down, before she is well
on in middle age? Is this not like giving great care to moral and
mental education alone, and actually doing almost nothing for their
physical nature? Is this not an irrational and one-sided course, and
sure to beget a one-sided person? And yet is not that just what is
going on to-day with a great majority of the young girls in our land?
The moment it is conceded that a delicate body can be made a robust one,
that moment it is equally plain that there can be an almost incalculable
gain in the comfort and usefulness of the possessor of that body, not
only during all the last half of her life, but through the first half as
well. And yet, to persons familiar with what judicious, daily physical
exercise has done, and can do, for a delicate body, there is no more
doubt but that this later strength, and even sturdiness, can be acquired
than that the algebra or geometry, which at first seems impenetrable,
can be gradually mastered. The rules which bring success in each are in
many respects identical. Begin to give the muscles of the hand and
forearm, for instance, as vigorous and assiduous use as these
mathematical studies bring to the brain, and the physical grasp will as
surely and steadily improve as does the mental. Give not only the
delicate girls, but all girls, exercises which shall insure strong and
shapely limbs, and chests deep, full, and high, beginning these
exercises mildly, and progressing very gradually, correcting this high
shoulder, or that stoop, or this hollow chest, or that overstep, and
carrying on this development as long as the school-days last. Let this
be done under a teacher as familiar with her work as the mathematical
instructor is with his, and what incalculable benefit would accrue, not
to this generation alone, but to their descendants as well!
But will not this physical training dull the mind for its work? If
protracted several hours, or the greater part of each day, as with the
German peasant-woman in the field, or the Scotch fish-woman with her
wares, no doubt it would. But if Maclaren of Oxford wanted but a little
while each day to increase the girth of the chests of a dozen British
soldiers three inches apiece in four months, is this very moderate
allowance likely to work much mental dulness? Did Charles Dickens's
seven to twelve miles afoot daily interfere with some masterly work
which his pen produced each day? Did Napoleon's whole days spent in the
saddle tell very seriously on his mental operations, and prevent him
from conceiving and carrying out military and strategic work which will
compare favorably with any the world's history tells of?
And what if this daily exercise, beside the bodily benefit and improvement
which ensues, should also bring actually better mental work? Unbending the
bow for a little while, taking the tension from the brain for a few
minutes, and depleting it by expanding the chest to its fullest capacity,
and increasing the circulation in the limbs--these, instead of impairing
that brain, will repair it, and markedly improve its tone and vigor.
There ought to be in every girls' school in our land, for pupils of
every age, a system of physical culture which should first eradicate
special weaknesses and defects, and then create and maintain the
symmetry of the pupils, increasing their bodily vigor and strength up to
maturity. If several, or a majority, of the girls in a class have flat
or indifferent chests, put them in a squad which shall pay direct and
steady attention to raising, expanding, and strengthening the chest. If
many have a bad gait, some stepping too long, others too short, set them
aside for daily special attention to their step. If many, or nearly all,
have an inerect carriage, wholly lacking _la ligne_ of Dumas, then daily
insist on such exercises for them as shall straighten them up and keep
them up. The dancing-master teaches the girl to step gracefully and
accurately through various dancing-steps. To inculcate a correct length
of step, and method of putting the foot down and raising it in walking,
is not nearly so difficult a task. If the "setting-up" drill of the West
Pointer in a few weeks transforms the raw and ungainly country boy into
a youth of erect and military bearing, and insisting on that bearing at
all times throughout the first year gives the cadet a set and carriage
which he often retains through life, is there anything to hinder the
girl from acquiring an equally erect and handsome carriage of the body
if she too will only use the means? If the muscles which, when fully
developed, enable one to sit or stand erect for hours together are
now weak, is it not wise to at once strengthen them?
But may not this vigorous muscular exercise, which tends to produce hard
and knotted muscles in the man, take away the softer and more graceful
lines, which are essentially feminine? If exercise be kept up for hours
together, as in the case of the blacksmith, undoubtedly it would. But that
is a thing a sensible system of exercise would avoid, as studiously as it
would the weakness and inefficiency which result from no work. A little
trial soon tells what amount of work, and how much of it, is best adapted
to each pupil; then the daily maintaining of that proportion or kind of
exercise, and its increase, as the newly-acquired strength justifies and
invites it, is all that is required. Without that hardness and solidity
which are essentially masculine, there still comes a firmness and
plumpness of muscle to which the unused arm or back was a stranger.
Instead of these being incompatible with beauty, they are directly
accessory to it. "Elegance of form in the human figure," says Emerson,
"marks some excellence of structure;" and again, "any real increase of
fitness to its end, in any fabric or organism, is an increase of beauty."
Look at the famous beauties of any age, and everything in the picture or
statue points to this same firmness and symmetry of make, this freedom
from either leanness or flabbiness. The Venuses and Junos, the Minervas,
Niobes, and Helens of mythology, the Madonnas, the mediæval beauties,
all alike have the well-developed and shapely arm and shoulder, the high
chest, the vigorous body, and the firm and erect carriage. Were there a
thin chest or a flat shoulder, a poor and feeble arm or a contracted
waist, it would at once mar the picture, and bring down on it judgment
anything but favorable. Put now on the canvas or in marble, not the
strongest and most comely, neither the weakest and least-favored, of our
American girls or women, but simply her who fairly represents the
average, and, however well the face and expression might suffice,
the imperfect physical development, and indifferent figure and
carriage, would at once justly provoke unfavorable comment.
That the same vigorous exercise and training which brought forth womanly
physical beauty in ancient days will bring it out now, there need be no
manner of doubt. A most apt and excellent case in point was mentioned
in the _New York Tribune_ of June 19th, 1878. It said:
"The study and practice of gymnastics are to be made compulsory in all the
State schools in Italy. The apostle of physical culture in that enervating
climate is Sebastian Fenzi, the son of a Florence banker. He built a
gymnasium at his own expense in that city, and from that beginning the
movement has extended from city to city. He has preached gymnastics to
senators and deputies, to the syndic and municipal councillors, and even
to the crown princess, now queen. _He especially inculcates its advantages
on all mothers of families, as likely to increase to a remarkable extent
the personal charms of their daughters._ And so far as his own domestic
experience goes, his theories have not been contradicted by practice, for
_he is the father of the most beautiful women in Italy_."
Suppose Mr. Durant at Wellesley, or Mr. Caldwell at Vassar, should at
once introduce in their deservedly famous schools a system of physical
education which should proceed on the simple but intelligent plan, first
of training the weaker muscles of each pupil until they are as strong as
the rest, and then of transferring the young woman thus physically
improved from the class of this or that special work, to that which
insures to all muscles alike ample, daily vigorous exercise. Suppose
that all the girls could be made to consider this daily lesson as much a
matter of course in their studies as anything else. Suppose, again, that
there is a teacher familiar with the work and all its requirements, one
who is capable of interesting others, one who fully enters into the
spirit of it. If such a master or mistress can be found, if the pupils
are instructed--whether they be sitting, standing, or walking--to always
remain erect, is there any reason why the Vassar girls should not soon
have as fine and impressive a carriage as the manly young fellows at the
academy across the river, but a few miles distant?
Looking again at the effect on the mental work, would the daily
half-hour of exercise in-doors, and the hour's constitutional out-doors,
in all weathers, if sensibly arranged, interfere one whit with all the
intellectual progress the girls could or should make? For, is that a
rational system of intellectual progress which brings out a bright
intellect on a half-developed body, and promises fine things in the
future, when the body has had no training adequate to justify the belief
that there will be much of any future? Is not that rather a dear price
to pay for such intellectuality? Hear Herbert Spencer on this point:
"On women the effects of this forcing system are, if possible, even
more injurious than on men. Being in a great measure debarred from those
vigorous and enjoyable exercises of body by which boys mitigate the
evils of excessive study, girls feel these evils in their full
intensity. Hence the much smaller proportion of them who grow up
well-made and healthy. In the pale, angular, flat-chested young ladies,
so abundant in London drawing-rooms, we see the effect of merciless
application unrelieved by youthful sports; and this physical degeneracy
exhibited by them hinders their welfare far more than their many
accomplishments aid it. Mammas anxious to make their daughters
attractive could scarcely choose a course more fatal than this which
sacrifices the body to the mind. Either they disregard the tastes of the
opposite sex, or else their conception of those tastes is erroneous. Men
care comparatively little for erudition in women, but very much for
physical beauty and good nature and sound sense. How many conquests does
the blue-stocking make through her extensive knowledge of history?"
This is a question quite worthy of the consideration of every teacher
of girls in our land, and a paragraph full of suggestion, not
only to every parent having a child's interests in his or her
keeping, but to every spirited girl herself as well.
Every school-girl in America could be daily practised in a few simple
exercises, calling for no costly, intricate, or dangerous apparatus, taking
a little time, but yet expanding her lungs, invigorating her circulation,
strengthening her digestion, giving every muscle and joint of her body
vigorous play, and so keeping her toned up, and strong enough to be free
from much danger either of incurring serious disease, or any of the lighter
ailments so common among us. As to her usefulness, no matter where her lot
is to be cast, it will be increased, and, it is not too much to add, her
happiness would be greatly enhanced through all her life as well.
CHAPTER IV.
IS IT TOO LATE FOR WOMEN TO BEGIN?
But if the school-days are past and the girl has become a woman, what
then? If the girl, trammelled by few duties outside of school-hours, has
found amusement for herself, yet still needs daily and regular exercise
to make and keep her fresh and hearty, much more does the woman,
especially in a country like our own, where physical exercise for her
sex is almost unknown, require such exercise. Our women are born of
parents who pride themselves on their mental qualifications, on a good
degree of intelligence. Our educational system is one which offers an
endless variety of spurs to continued mental effort.
Are not the majority of our women to-day, especially in town and city,
physically weak? The writers on nervous disorders speak of the astounding
increase of such diseases among us, of late years, in both sexes, but
especially among the women. General debility is heard of nowadays almost
as often as General Grant. Most of our women think two miles, or even
less, a long distance to walk, even at a dawdling pace, while few of
them have really strong chests, backs, or arms. (If they wish to test
their arms, for instance, let them grasp a bar or the rung of a ladder,
and try to pull themselves up once till the chin touches. Not two in
fifty will do it, but almost any boy can.) Hardly a day goes by when
a woman's strength is not considerably taxed, and often overtaxed.
There is no calling of the unmarried woman where vigorous health and
strength--not great or herculean, but simply such as every well-built and
well-developed woman ought to have--would not be of great, almost
priceless value to her. The shop-girl, the factory operative, the clerk in
the store, the book-keeper, the seamstress, the milliner, the telegraph
operator, are all confined, for many hours a day, with exercise for but a
few of the muscles, and with the trunk held altogether too long in one
position, and that too often a contracted and unhealthy one. Actually
nothing is done to render the body lithe and supple, to develop the idle
muscles, to deepen the breathing and quicken the circulation--in short, to
tone up the whole system. No wonder such a day's work, and such a way of
living, leaves the body tired and exhausted. It would, before long, do the
same for the strongest man. No wonder that the walk to and from work is a
listless affair. No wonder that, later on, special or general weakness
develops, and the woman goes through life either weak and delicate, or
with not half the strength and vigor which might readily be hers.
And is it any better with the married woman? Take one of limited means.
Much of the work about her home which servants might do, could she
employ them, she bravely does herself, willing to make ten times this
sacrifice, if need be, for those dearest to her. Follow her throughout
the day, especially where there are children: there is an almost endless
round of duties, many of them not laborious, to be sure, or calling for
much muscular strength, but keeping the mind under a strain until they
are done, difficult to encompass because difficult to foresee. In the
aggregate they are almost numberless. A man can usually tell in the
morning most of what is in front of him for the day--indeed, can often
plan so as to say beforehand just what he will be at each hour. But not
so the housewife and mother of young children. She is constantly called
to perform little duties, both expected and unexpected, which cannot
fail to tell on a person not strong. A healthy child a year old will
often weigh twenty pounds; yet a woman otherwise weak will carry that
child on her left arm several times a day up one or more flights of
stairs, till you would think she would drop from exhaustion. Let
sickness come, and she will often seem almost tireless, so devotedly
will she keep the child in her arms. While children are, of course,
carried less when they begin to walk, many a child two, or even three
years old, is picked up by the mother, not a few times a day, even
though he weighs thirty or forty pounds instead of twenty. Now for this
mother to have handled a dumb-bell of that weight would have been
thought foolish and dangerous, for nothing about her suggested strength
equal to that performance. And yet the devotion of a weak mother to
her child is quite as great as that of a strong one. Is it any wonder
that this overdoing of muscles never trained to such work must sooner
or later tell? It would be wonderful if it did not.
Yet now, suppose that same mother had from early childhood been trained to
systematic physical exercise suited to her strength, and increasing with
that strength until, from a strong and healthy child, she grew to be a
hearty, vigorous woman, well developed, strong, and comely--what now would
she mind carrying the little tot on her arm? What before soon became heavy
and a burden--a willing burden though it was--now never seems so at all,
and really is no task for such muscles as she now has. Instead of her
day's work breaking her down, it is no more than a woman of her vigor
needs--indeed, not so much as she needs--to keep her well and strong.
And, besides escaping the bodily tire and exhaustion, look at the happiness
it brings her in the exhilaration which comes with ruddy health, in the
feeling of being easily equal to whatever comes up, in being a stranger to
indigestion, to nervousness and all its kindred ailments. This vital force,
sparing her many of the doubts and fears so common to the weak, but which
the strong seldom know, enables her to endure patiently privation,
watching, and bereavement. And who is the more likely to live to a ripe old
age, the woman who never took suitable and adequate exercise to give her
even moderate vitality and strength, or she who, by a judicious and
sensible system, suited to her particular needs, has developed such powers?
But, while this is all well enough for young girls, is it not too late
for full-grown women to attempt to get the same benefits? The girl was
young and plastic, and, with proper care, could be moulded in almost any
way; but the woman already has her make and set, and these cannot
readily be changed. Perhaps not quite so readily, but actual trial will
show that the difficulty is largely imaginary. To many, indeed to most
women, the idea is absolutely new, and they never supposed such change
possible. Bryant, beginning at forty, made exercise pay wonderfully.
Bear in mind how, with a few minutes a day, Maclaren enlarged and
strengthened men thirty years old; that, out of his class of over a
hundred, the greatest gain was in the oldest man in it, and he was
thirty-five. Let us look at what one or two women have managed to effect
by systematic and thorough bodily training. In "The Coming Man" Charles
Reade says (p. 50), "Nathalie, a French gymnast, and not a woman of
extraordinary build, can take two fifty-six-pound weights from the
ground, one in each hand, and put them slowly above her head." She has
"a sister who goes up the slack-rope. Farini saw her pitted against
twenty sailors. The sailors had a slack-rope; she had another. A sailor
went up as far as he could; the gymnast went as high on her rope at the
same time. Sailor came down tired, the lady fresh. Another sailor went
up, the lady ditto; and so on.
|
to a large
extent in the hands of the people of Europe. The old rule of the native
chiefs has in most places passed away, and in others is rapidly
passing. The power has gone into the hands of the white man. Pray God
he may use it wisely and guide his black brother towards the green
pastures as becomes a follower of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
CHAPTER III
THE GREAT RACES OF AFRICA
Before I begin to speak to you about the children of Africa, I would
like you to understand how the people of Africa are separated into
different families or divisions. There are in Africa nearly two hundred
millions of people, but they do not all belong to the same race. The
three big families are the Berbers in the north, the Negroes in the
middle, and the Bantus in the south. Besides these there are some
smaller divisions to which belong the Pigmies or Dwarfs, those strange
little people whom Stanley encountered on his famous journey through
the terrible forests of the Congo. Then there are the Hottentots and
the Bushmen of the south-west corner of Africa, who have been driven
into the desert and hilly places by the more powerful invading Bantu
tribes.
Many long years ago the whole of the northern part of Africa was
invaded by large numbers of fierce Arab tribes. They were very warlike
and soon overran the whole country and settled down in it, and lived
side by side with the original people of the country as their masters,
but with whom they afterwards mingled. So the North Africans of to-day
are, you see, a people of mixed race.
These hordes of conquering Arabs who overran the country were
Mohammedans, and they forced their religion upon the people among whom
they settled. Mohammedanism is therefore the chief religion of the
north of Africa. Now these Berber tribes are very dark-skinned when
compared with Europeans, but they do not belong to the black people.
They are, in fact, classed along with the white races.
The true black people are the Negroes, and their home is in the middle
part of Africa which stretches eastwards right across from the West
Coast. They are the people with the black skins, the woolly heads, the
thick lips, the flat noses, and the beautiful white teeth. It is they
whose forefathers were bought as slaves and taken to America where we
find their descendants to-day. They were a heathen people, and had many
cruel customs, and some of them were cannibals. Mohammedanism has come
upon them from the north and the east, and a great many of them now
belong to that religion.
The home of the Bantu people is the great southern portion of Africa.
The Bantus are not so black as are the Negroes, nor are they quite
so thick-lipped and flat-nosed. But in all other ways they are very
similar to their Negro neighbours. They are a heathen people although
Christianity has made good progress among them. They are brave and
intelligent, and are showing themselves able to adopt a higher and
better way of living.
The other smaller tribes, the Pigmies, the Hottentots, and the Bushmen
are far below the Negroes and Bantus in intelligence. The first of
these, the Pigmies or Dwarfs, inhabit the dense forest region of
the Congo, and not very much is known about them even to-day. The
Hottentots and the Bushmen live away down in the extreme south-west
of Africa and the Kalahari Desert. It is said that they are the
descendants of the older inhabitants of Africa, who had to seek refuge
in the hills and deserts from the powerful Bantu tribes who invaded and
seized their country.
Now I think this will be quite enough information about the different
races dwelling in Africa. What I want you to understand is that the
whole of the northern portion of Africa is Mohammedan, that the Negro
people are many already Mohammedan, and that others are rapidly being
converted to that religion, and that the Bantu people are mostly yet
heathen, while some have become Christian, especially those of the
south.
In Africa there is a great war going on. Three mighty forces or powers
are fighting against one another, and victory cannot go to them all.
These great forces are Mohammedanism, heathenism, and Christianity. But
to those of us who know the African, it is plain that the great fight
will be between the first and the last, that the Africans will be ruled
by the Cross or the Crescent, that the Bible or the Koran will be their
Holy Book, that Mohammed or Christ will be their guide in this life.
Already we see that the whole of the north follows the Prophet of
Mecca. The nature-worship of the Negro and Bantu, although yet strong,
will pass away with the passing years. The south is largely Christian,
and Christianity is pushing up northwards. Christian missions are
attacking the strongholds of Mohammedanism and heathenism in the north,
west, and east, in Egypt and the newly opened Soudan.
CHAPTER IV
AN AFRICAN HOUSE
You must be wondering when you are going to hear about the children of
Africa, for I am sure you want to know about them now, the little sons
and daughters of the big black people I have so far written about.
Well, it so happens that I am sitting writing this story in a native
hut in Africa, many thousands of miles away from you; and if any of you
wanted to come and join me here and see for yourselves, you would have
to travel a good many weeks to reach me. Will you let me first try to
describe this house I am in, and the village of which it is part, as
being what most African huts and villages are like, and in which black
boys and girls are born and play.
This hut is a square one, and a good deal larger than you would
imagine. It is the size of a small cottage at home. Long ago most of
the huts were round, I believe, and indeed many of them are so yet. But
square ones have come into fashion here, for even in far-off Africa
there is such a thing as fashion, and it can change too. This hut is
divided into three rooms. The middle one is provided with a door to the
front and another to the back. The rooms on each side have very small
windows like spy holes looking out to each end. All round the house
runs a verandah which prevents the fierce rays of the sun from beating
against the walls of the house and throws off the heavy showers of rain
of the wet season clear of the house. The whole house is built of grass
and bamboos, and is smeared over with mud inside and out. The roof,
supported by stout cross beams in the middle of the partition walls in
which other forked beams stand, slopes not very steeply down to the
verandah posts which hold up its lower edges. It is heavily thatched
with fine long grass. The owner knows by experience what a tropical
thunder-shower means, so he leaves nothing to chance in thatching his
house.
In the middle of the floor in the room with the doors a small hole
has been scooped. It is surrounded with stones and forms the cooking
hearth, although there is also attached to this house a very small
grass shed about a dozen yards away at the back of the house, which is
used as a kitchen on most occasions. The doors are made of grass and
bamboos, and at night are put in place and held firm by a wooden cross
bar. Such is the house of a well-off native of Africa. It takes but a
few weeks to build and lasts but a few years.
Of course in a house with such small windows it is always more or less
dark. In the end rooms with the spy holes it is always dark to me. But
black boys and girls do not seem to mind this. In fact I believe they
are like owls and cats, and can see in the dark. I am certain though of
this that they can see ever so much better than white children can.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE HUT]
There is not much to look at in the way of furniture in a black man’s
house. Here is a table made in imitation of a European one and some
chairs too, whose backs look forbiddingly straight, a few cooking pots,
some sleeping mats, a hoe or two, some baskets, and some odds and ends
complete the list. What surprises a white man is the number of
things the black people can do without. For instance, if a white man
wants to travel in this country, he must first of all gather together a
crowd of natives to carry him and his belongings. He must have a tent
and a bed, pots and pans, boxes of provisions, a cook, and servants,
before he can travel in comfort. But if a black man goes on a journey
he simply takes a pot and some food with him, and maybe a mat and
blanket, takes his stick in his hand and his bundle on his shoulder and
off he goes, it may be to walk hundreds of miles before he comes to his
destination.
To-day there is no fire in the hearth. There is no chimney in this
house so I could not have a fire and enjoy my stay. The owner, however,
would not mind the smoke from the firewood. He is used to crouching
over a fire and his eyes get hardened. I see in one corner there is a
heap of grain called millet, and in another a white ant-heap. It has
risen in the night for I did not notice it before, and I am glad that
none of my belongings were in that corner of the room. Nothing but iron
seems amiss to the white ant. His appetite is terrible and he can play
sad havoc with one’s property in a single night. There is grain in one
corner I have said, and consequently there are rats.
The Pied Piper of Hamlin of whom you have all heard would find plenty
of rats to charm in any African village. Then in the houses there are
many kinds of biting insects, and some that don’t bite, but look ugly.
The mosquito is calling ping! ping! everywhere, and night is made
endurable only by retiring under a mosquito net. The mosquito is the
most dangerous insect in Africa, for it has been found out by clever
doctors that it is the mosquito bite that causes the dreaded malaria
fever.
In tropical Africa nearly all the insects bite or sting, even
innocent-looking caterpillars, if touched, give one itch. Nor may
you pull every flower you see, for some of them are more stinging
than nettles. To-day I came across two boys hoeing a road. One was a
bright fellow who kept things lively by singing snatches of songs and
whistling at his work. When I came near I spied a fine large glossy
black beetle hurrying away after having been thrown up by the hoe. I
asked the lively youth what kind of insect it was. In reply he dropped
his hoe and pounced upon the unfortunate beetle and held it up to me
for inspection. “Does it bite?” I asked, astonished. “Oh! yes,” he
said, “look.” So saying he stuck the point of one of his fingers close
to the head of the angry creature, which promptly seized it with its
pincers.
But one gets used to these pests, and even the sight of a spider the
size of a two-shilling piece running up the wall does not disturb one.
There is one insect, however, you may not despise, and which you can
never get accustomed to, the red ant. He comes in millions, and if he
deigns to pay your house a visit while on his journey, you had better
leave him in possession of the place. Unless you happen to head him off
early with burning grass and red hot ashes you need not stay to argue
with him. Everything living disappears before him, rats, mice, lizards,
cats, dogs, boys and girls, men and women give way before his majesty,
the red ant.
I remember watching for half an hour an army of red ants on the march.
They were streaming out from a small hole in the grass, crossing
over a hoed road, and disappearing into another hole in the grass
on the other side. Each was carrying a tiny load that looked like a
small grain of rice, and was hurrying after his neighbour as if the
whole world depended on his speed. Here and there on each side of the
hurrying companies were scouts and officers without loads evidently
engaged in keeping the others in order and in watching for enemies.
What I thought were grains of rice, the boys told me were “ana a
chiswe,” that is white ant’s children. Somewhere underground there must
have been dreadful war and the red ants were carrying off the spoils of
victory.
Next there came along a poor little lizard home by eager and willing--I
had almost said hands--pincers. Here a pair were fixed in, there
another pair. Everywhere that a pair of pincers could find a grip
there was the pair. I pulled the lizard out but it was quite dead. So
I pushed it back into the excited line and it was soon on the march
again. After a little there came past a curious round little object
into which dozens of ants were sticking and which with ants swarming
atop was being carried along with the stream. I rescued this strange
thing too, because I was anxious to find out what it was--the thing
inside this living ball of ants. One of the boys got a basin of water
and plumped the ball into it, and with a piece of wood scraped the
angry insects and frothy-looking stuff off. Then there was revealed a
tiny toad which the boys called “Nantuzi.” It was just like a little
bag with four legs, one at each corner. When annoyed it swells itself
up like a ball and refuses to budge. When seized by the ants it had
promptly covered itself with a frothy, sticky spittle, and so was
little hurt. Had I not rescued it, however, it would have been eaten
at last overcome by numbers. Then I got tired watching, and left the
never-ending ant army still on the march.
CHAPTER V
THE AFRICAN CHILD
Inside such a house as has been described, and in many a smaller one,
are born the children of Africa. At first and for a few days they are
not black. I am told they are pink in colour and quite light, but
that they soon darken. The mothers and grandmothers are very pleased
to welcome new babies and bath and oil them carefully. Nearly all the
women one meets about a village have children tied on their backs, or
are followed by them toddling behind. These mites glisten in the sun as
they are well oiled to keep their skins in good condition.
In some tribes very little children have no names. You ask the
mother of an infant what she calls her baby, and she replies, “Alibe
dzina”--It has no name. I once asked the father of a plump little
infant what the name of his child was. He told me that it had not been
named yet but that when the child would begin to smile and recognise
people it would get a name. “Well,” I said, “when he smiles call him
Tommy.” Months after I saw the child again, a fine boy he was too, and
Tommy was his name. But alas! Tommy did not live more than two years.
He took some child trouble and died.
[Illustration: HIS FIRST SUIT]
Sometimes the father or the mother may give a child its name, or
sometimes a friend may name it. Many of the names have no special
meaning, but some of them refer to things that happened or were seen
at the time the child was born. Boys’ and girls’ names differ from
one another although the difference is not clear to the white man.
But if he stays long enough among the black children he will begin to
know what are boys’ names and what are girls’. I know a bright boy who
is called “Mang’anda.” In English you would have to call him Master
Playful. Another child I can recall is called “Handifuna,” which means
“Miss they don’t want me.” But wherever the white man is settling in
Africa the people are picking up European names; and it is a pity, I
think, that the old names will pass away.
Little black children are not nursed and tended so carefully as white
children are. From a very early age they are tied on to their mother’s
backs and are taken everywhere. It is seldom that an accident happens
through a child falling out, for the black children seem to have an
extraordinary power of holding on. If mother is too busy another back
is soon found for baby to show his sticking-on ability. In any village
you may see a group of women pounding corn in their mortars under a
shady tree. It is hard work, this daily pounding of corn. Up and down
go the heavy wooden pestles. Backwards and forwards go the heads of
the babies tied on the mothers’ backs. At each downward thud baby’s
neck gets a violent jerk, but he is all unconscious of it, and sleeps
through an ordeal that would kill his white brother. Again a woman with
an infant on her back may go a journey of many miles exposed to the
full blaze of the African sun. Yet baby is quite comfortable and never
gives a single cry unless when he is hungry.
Then black children have no cribs and cradles as have white ones. When
mother is tired of baby, and there is no other back at hand, she simply
lays him down on a mat and leaves him to himself to do as he likes. If
he makes a noise, well he can just make it. He will disturb nobody,
and is allowed to cry until he is tired. Unless he is known to be ill,
his squalling, be it never so loud, will attract no attention. Most of
the mothers are very proud of their children, and oil them and shave
their woolly heads with great care. But in spite of all this care on
the mother’s part, great numbers of the babies die. Very often they are
really killed through their mother’s ignorance of how they ought to be
fed and nursed when sick. Then diseases like smallpox pass through the
villages at intervals and carry off hundreds of children.
A black infant is not clothed like a white one. If his mother is very
proud of him he will have a string of beads round his neck or waist.
Round his fat little wrist or neck you will often see tied on by string
a small medicine charm, put there by his fond mother to protect him
against disease or evil influence. When the babies are big enough to
toddle they begin to look out for themselves, and when they have fairly
found their legs they go everywhere and do almost anything they like so
long as they do not give trouble.
A little boy’s first article of clothing may be made of different
coloured beads carefully woven into a square patch, which he wears
hanging down before him from a string of beads encircling his waist. Or
it may perhaps be only the skin of a small animal worn in the same way
as the square of beads. He may, however, begin with a cloth from the
beginning. If so his mother provides him with a yard of calico, rolls
it round him, and sends him out into the world as proud as a white boy
with his first pair of trousers.
He gets no special food because he is a child. He eats whatever is
going and whatever he can lay his hands upon. Thus he grows up not
unlike a little animal. There is not much trouble taken with him. If he
lives, he lives; and if he dies--well, he is buried. No fond lips have
bent over him and kissed him asleep, for kissing is not known to his
people. Nor has he learned to lisp the name of Jesus at his mother’s
knee. It is not that his mother does not love him, for she does in her
own peculiar way. But all are shrouded in ignorance, father, mother and
children, all held in the grip of dark superstitions from which nothing
but the light of the Gospel of Love can free them.
CHAPTER VI
AN AFRICAN VILLAGE
Shall we go round the village now? Well come away and we’ll have a walk
through it. But as we are strangers and white, I must warn you that
many pairs of curious eyes will be watching us when we know not, and
all we do and say will be the talk of the village for a long time to
come. It is not every day that the villagers get such a good look at
a white person, and they will take advantage of their chance to-day.
Babies on backs will cry if we come near them, and little mites that
can run will disappear behind their mothers and peep out at us, feeling
safe but very much afraid. In fact, many of the women frighten their
naughty children by telling them that if they do not behave better they
will send them to the white people, who will eat them. Consequently
when a white man comes along the children often scatter in terror as
from a wild beast. And would not white children do just the same from a
black man if they were told that he might eat them.
In a certain African Mission not long after school had been started for
the first time, it was found necessary to build a kiln for the burning
of bricks. But the eyes of the children had been watching the building,
and whatever could it be but a large oven in which to cook them. So the
whole school fled pell-mell to their homes. Of course you must remember
that in several different parts of Africa some of the tribes were
cannibals, and even in our day there are still tribes among which the
eating of human flesh is not unknown.
Here we come to a house not unlike the one we have already described to
you, but smaller and not so neatly finished. The owner will not be so
well-off as the owner of that we occupied. Let us go near along this
path. Here comes an old lady to receive us, and there go the children
round the corner, and off goes baby yonder into tears, and even the
dogs begin to bark. Banana trees grow all round the house, and yonder
is a small grove of them on the other side of the courtyard. They are
waving a welcome to us with their large ragged leaves. The fruit is
hanging in bunches here and there on the old trees, and is evidently
not yet ripe.
But before we are introduced to the old lady, who is coming to meet
us, let us take a hasty glance round about. First we see that the
children are getting braver, and are, beginning to show themselves
now. Ragged looking little things they are, who do not look overclean.
The skin of their bodies is too white to have been washed recently.
Isn’t it strange that a black boy when he is dirty looks white; just
the opposite from a white boy, who, when he is dirty, looks black. The
mother of the crying child has turned round so as to shut us off from
baby’s frightened gaze. In one corner of the courtyard is a pot on a
fire, the contents of which are boiling briskly. This we are informed
is to be part of the evening meal which is in preparation. It seems to
us but a mass of green vegetable. Really it consists of juicy green
leaves of a certain kind plucked in the bush. Over there in the shade
of the bananas stand one or two mortars in which the women pound their
grain, and without which no village, however small, is complete. On the
verandah of the house stands the mill--a very primitive one. A large
flat stone slightly hollowed out holds the grain which is ground down
by another stone, a round one, being rubbed backwards and forwards
over the hollow one. Snuff too is ground from tobacco in this way, for
many of the men enjoy a pinch of snuff and not a few of the women like
to smoke a pipe. A fierce-looking little cat is blinking up at us,
watching us narrowly through the dark slits in its large yellow-green
eyes, seeming in doubt whether to run off or to put up its back at us.
A sleeping mat, made of split reeds, and spread out on the ground near
the mortars, is covered with maize ready to be pounded. Two or three
baskets are lying about, some shallow, some deep, some large, and some
small. That stump of a tree there serves as a seat when the shade of
the bananas is thrown on it. And down on the whole is pouring a flood
of tropical sunshine, so hot that we are glad to retire into the shade
of a friendly tree.
But the old lady is come and offers us her left hand. Her arms from
the wrist almost to the elbow are covered with heavy bracelets, and
her legs, from the ankles half way to her knees, are laden with great
heavy anklets of the same metal. Clank! clank! clank! like a chained
prisoner goes the poor old soul when she walks. Long ago she would
carry these huge ornaments with no difficulty, and not a little joy.
But now, although proud of them still, no doubt, they must be a trouble
to her slipping up and down on her withered arms and legs, for she has
tried to protect her old ankles by wrapping round them a rag of calico
to keep the brass from hurting. She is dressed in a single calico,
none too new, but, we are pleased to see, very clean. Other calicoes
doubtless she will possess, carefully stored away and hidden in a
basket in the darkest corner of her house.
Her old face is a mass of wrinkles and she has lost nearly all her
teeth. But her upper lip! What a sight! Poor old creature, what a huge
ring there is in it. Why, we can see right into her mouth when she
speaks, and to us it is not a pleasant sight. This ring, seen in many
old women, is called here a “pelele.” Men do not wear it. When a girl
is young her upper lip is bored in the middle and a small piece of
bone is put into the hole to keep it open. Gradually larger and larger
pieces are put in until the full sized “pelele” is reached. Sometimes
these rings are as much as two inches in size, and the upper lip is
fearfully stretched by wearing them. It hangs away down over the lower
lip, and the tongue and inside of the mouth are seen when the old
“pelele” wearer speaks.
The old dame is very polite but you can see that she is afraid of us
and will be quite glad when we go elsewhere. She says her cat is not a
bit fierce but is a first-rate ratter, so much so that there isn’t a
single rat in her house.
Now to the next house through the bananas. It is like the last and very
much the same kind of things are lying about. But instead of a cat we
are met by the usual African yellow-haired dog. He, too, is suspicious
of us, but retires growling. A hen is busy scraping among the rubbish
at the side of the house to provide food for her numerous offspring
that chirping follow her motherly cluck! cluck!
Between this house and the last stand the grain stores, round giant
basket-like things with thatched roofs. The largest ones are for
holding the maize, and the small ones for storing away the beans.
That low building there built of very strong poles is the goat house.
It needs to be strong as the hyæna and leopard, and even the lion
sometimes pay the village a visit at night. And woe betide the poor
goats if a fierce leopard should get in among them. Not satisfied with
killing and eating one he will tear open as many as he can, simply for
the pure love of killing.
The houses in the village are all much the same as that you have
already read about and number about twenty. They are built here, there,
and everywhere with no regard to plan or regularity. The corner of
the verandah of this one projects out over the footpath, and we have
actually to cross the verandah to get down to the well. The owner only
laughs when we ask him why he built his house so near to, and partly
upon the path. Some day he says he will hoe a new path to go round
about his house. That is African all over. He will do things some day.
He thinks the European mad to be such a slave to time.
The owner of each house greets us with a smile, and we are well
received by all except some of the old people who are really afraid of
white people, and who, while glad to see them when they come to visit
their village, are still more glad when they go away. We have gathered
quite a crowd of little people about us, and they follow us round very
respectfully, watching all we do, and looking at all we have on. Many
of them you see suffer from ulcers.
Here and there are patches of tobacco and sweet potatoes, but most
of the gardens are outside the village proper. Their chief crops are
maize, millet, sweet potatoes and cassava root. Paths twist about and
cross one another in a marvellous manner. This one leads down to the
stream, that to the next village; this to the graveyard in yonder
thicket, a place shunned by the children, that to the hill. A white
stranger promptly gets lost in African paths and has to give himself
up to the guidance of the native. The whole country is a vast net-work
of such snake-like paths, and I verily believe you could pass from one
coast to the other along them.
[Illustration: AN AFRICAN VILLAGE]
But just as we get to the far end of the village there is something to
interest us. It is a very small house well fenced in. On the roof and
exposed to the sun and rain are spread and tied down a blanket and
various calicoes. This must be the grave of someone important. It is,
and we ask to be allowed to see inside. Permission is given because it
would not be polite to refuse it, not because it is given willingly. It
proves to be the grave of the headman of the village who died about a
year ago. His clothes and blanket, of no further use, have been spread
over the roof covering the grave, and on the grave itself are lying his
pots and baskets and drinking cups. In a small dish some snuff has been
placed.
His house which was only a few yards away had been destroyed with much
ceremony after the death of the owner, and the site is now heavily
overgrown with castor oil plants and self-sown tomatoes. Not far from
where his house had been is the tree at the foot of which he had
offered up sacrifices to the spirits of his forefathers. Being the
chief of the village he was buried beside his house and not away in the
bush where the common people are laid to rest. I asked the children if
they were not afraid of this grave in the middle of the village, and
they said that during the day they were not afraid because the noises
of the village kept the spirits away. All the time we were visiting
this sacred place the old woman with the “pelele” was following us at a
short distance, not at all too pleased to see us pry into such places,
but too afraid to tell us so. She was much relieved when our steps were
turned elsewhere.
Such is the home of the African children. Here they are born and
grow up and play and laugh and cry to their heart’s content. It is
a careless, easy life with nothing beyond food and clothing to be
interested in, and not a thought for the morrow. But we are here to
give them a new interest in life. In this large courtyard we gather all
the people of the village together, and with the western sun shining
upon the little crowd we tell them of Jesus and give them something
more to talk about than ourselves and our clothes. Here in the quiet of
this African village, surrounded by the banana trees, is told once more
the story of the love of Jesus. The old woman with the ring in her lip
says our words are only white men’s tales, and will go on in her own
way teaching the children the superstitions of her forefathers.
The seed we sow will not all fall on stony places. Some of it will fall
on good ground and bear fruit in the lives of these simple village
people.
CHAPTER VII
GAMES
When black children are small, the boys and girls play together; but
when they grow up a bit the boys separate themselves from the girls and
have their own games. They would never dream now of playing with the
girls. The latter are not strong and brave like boys, and must play
by themselves. In this respect they are just like white boys who feel
ashamed to play with girls.
One of the boy’s greatest enjoyments is to go hunting in the woods with
their bows and arrows. It is small birds they want, and their keen eyes
scan the leafy boughs for victims of any kind. It does not matter how
small or pretty a bird may be, down it comes struck by a heavy-headed
arrow. Victim and arrow fall back down at the feet of the cunning
shooter. The reason why the boys kill even the smallest bird is that
everything, no matter how small, will be eaten. They do not eat meat as
white people do. All they want is just enough to make their porridge
tasty and to let them have gravy. So any small animal, such as you
would despise, is acceptable to them.
Pushing through the bush is difficult work, but the black boys do not
seem to mind it although the grass towers far above their heads. All
they fear is, that perhaps they may tread upon a snake or disturb a
wild beast, but in the excitement of the chase they soon forget all
about snakes and wild beasts. Should a boy be very good at imitating
the call of birds he gets ready an arrow with many heads--six or seven.
This he makes by splitting up one end of a thin bamboo and sharpening
each piece. These ends he ties in such a way as to separate them from
one another, leaving one in the middle. He then takes his bow and his
newly made arrow and goes off to the bush. Having selected a likely
spot he quickly pulls the grass together loosely over his head to hide
him from above, crouches under it and begins to imitate the call of
a certain bird of which kind he sees many about. In a short time the
birds come hovering over the grass concealment, and the boy, watching
his chance, sends his arrow into their midst. In this way several birds
are obtained at a time.
Then the boys hunt small game, such as rabbits, with their dogs. The
dogs chase the rabbits out of the long grass, and the boys stand
ready to knock them over with their knobbed sticks. Another favourite
occupation is to go down to the gardens with hoes and dig out
field-mice which are relished just as much as the birds are.
Traps of various kinds are set to catch game. Some are made with
propped-up stones that fall down and crush the unwary victims. Some are
made with a running noose that strangles the unfortunate beast. A very
simple kind for catching birds is made out of a long bamboo. A spot is
first chosen where birds are likely to gather together quickly. The
bamboo is then split up the middle for about a third of its length. The
ends, which if left to themselves would spring together with a snap,
are held wide apart by a cross-pin of wood. To this pin is attached
a long string which goes away over to the grass where the youthful
trapper lies hidden. A handful of grain is then scattered over the
space between the split ends of the bamboo. When everything is prepared
the eager youth retires to hide in the grass and watch the birds. It is
not long before several are enjoying the bait, and when a sufficient
number have entered, the boy pulls the string which displaces the
cross-pin and the two ends of the bamboo close together with a snap.
The poor birds are not all quick enough to escape, and several lie dead
to reward the cunning of the trapper. Such doings you would hardly call
games, but so they are considered by the black boy, for whenever I
ask them to tell me what games they play at, hunting and trapping are
always among those given me.
Of games proper, hand-ball is a great favourite, and is played in the
courtyard or any other cleared space. This is a kind of ball-play in
which two sides contend against one another for possession of the ball,
which is usually just a lump of raw rubber. When the sides have been
chosen, and it matters not how many a side so long as there are plenty,
the game is started by a player throwing the ball to another boy on
his side
|
0 stones of butter, and 700
gallons of oil, extorted for centuries in kind or in value from Orkney
alone, in addition to its proportion of the ordinary taxation of the
kingdom, and exclusive of the burdens of Zetland. But of this booty,
little was allowed by the unscrupulous collectors to reach the National
Exchequer, and the gain of the Scottish Crown bore no proportion to its
guilty greed.
The interest of the Danish Crown in this transaction is not so obvious.
It had long been an ordinary resource of its exhausted Treasury to
pledge or sell its States or dependencies, but always for a valuable
equivalent. But in this case, Christian surrendered a large and
undoubted claim, and ceded two valuable provinces for no consideration
except the personal contingency of the Queen’s jointure, frustrated by
her early death (1486). Perhaps, as Count of Oldenburg, even when
exalted to the throne of three kingdoms, he had still a German
gratification in embellishing his family tree with another royal
marriage. Perhaps, as a Dane, he was not unwilling to tear a gem from
the rival, though now united Crown of Norway. If so, he had his
reward—promises without fulfilment—alliance, which never ripened into
aid or subsidy, were all that he obtained for abandoning these kindred
colonies to the will of their ancient enemies, and four centuries of
continuous disaster, defection and decline, have shown if Denmark did
well or wisely in casting off subjects so bound by blood, habit, and
history to love whom she loved, and hate whom she hated.
William Sinclair, the last of the Orkneyar Jarls, had many objects to
gain in the transfer of the sovereignty of the Islands. More refined,
and less ignorant than the contemporary herd of nobles, who suspected
his studies of subjects unearthly and unholy, he could appreciate, even
with some pride, the cloudy romance of his ancestral Sagas; but a
foreigner by descent, if not by birth, he had few sympathies with the
Islanders. His efforts to extend and consolidate his power and estates
had offended the King, estranged the Odallers, and embroiled him with
the Bishop and the Lawman—his family partialities had awakened bitter
feud between him and his eldest son—and as the vassal and high dignitary
of two kings, ruling a province of the one, dangerously near the coast
of the other, he might easily become an object of suspicion or umbrage
to either or both. Indeed, clouds had already arisen between the
Scottish Earl and his Norwegian Suzerain, and the substantial splendour
of the dignities, titles, lands, and pensions of his Scottish
connection, outshone the shadowy jurisdictions and waning revenues of
his ancient Jarldom. With such and so many motives, he can hardly be
blamed for favouring or even suggesting a change which (when consummated
by the subsequent excambion) would release him from a position so
irksome and unsafe, enhance his Scottish influence, and aggrandize a
favourite son, by disinheriting an unloved heir of his Odal birthright.
William Tulloch, the Bishop of Orkney, was a Norwegian prelate, but a
Scottish priest; and if he had any doubts of transferring the spiritual
allegiance of his diocese from Drontheim to St. Andrews, they were
speedily relieved by his appointment as Confessor to the Queen, and
removed by a favourable Tack of the newly acquired demesne of the
Scottish Crown. Indeed the change was almost essential to his safety,
for his frauds and rapacity had provoked the Earl to seize and imprison
him; and he owed his liberty only to the express solicitation of the
Kings of Denmark and Scotland—with both of whom he had the address to
make a merit of his sufferings as a martyrdom for his devotion to their
incompatible interests. The warm commendations of Christian were so ably
seconded by the bishop’s services to James, that the Queen’s confessor
became successively Lord Privy Seal, Ambassador to England, and Bishop
of Moray.
But to the unfortunate subjects of this bargain of kings and princes,
the change was an evil unmixed, irremediable, and scarcely alleviated by
the hope of its temporary nature. Every interest was threatened, and
every feeling wounded, in such betrayal by their natural rulers into the
hands of hereditary enemies—exasperated by five centuries of mutual feud
and outrage—despised as an inferior race for easy defeats and long
subjugation—and hated still more as masters, foreign in blood, language,
customs, and laws. When Scotland writhes under her subjection to her
“auld enemies of England,” and complains of the jealous removal or
destruction of every historical record or monument of independence,
Orkney in its turn may smile to trace, in every mortification of its
first oppressor, a retributary transcript of its own.
Christian indeed made a form of consulting his Orkney subjects, through
their Lawman, before he cast them off, but the Lawman was soon
afterwards, if not then, the bought pensioner of Scotland, and his
opinion, even if conscientious, could no more express the mind of Orkney
than the dictum of the Speaker could bind the judgment of Britain and
her Parliament. It is true that there was in the Islands an anti-patriot
or Alien faction, consisting of the Earl, the Bishop, and their Scottish
dependants, who viewed the change as in every respect favourable to
their own interests, but especially as offering in Scotland a nearer and
more friendly centre of law and Court of Appeal than that of Bergen. But
to the Islanders in general, there was nothing in the Revolution more
galling to their pride, or more dangerous to their interests, than the
imminent conflict of Feudalism with their dearly cherished Odal laws. As
the last command of their native King, they paid their Skatt to Scotland
without remonstrance, almost without a murmur; but the coming shadow of
the first feudal grant which menaced the freedom of their Odal soil,
roused the long-suffering Odallers into rebellion, and the exterminating
victory of Summerdale gave Scottish Kings a lesson for another
generation.
To illustrate this conflict of legal systems in connection with the
documents now printed for the first time, I propose briefly to sketch
the TENURE, RIGHTS, and BURDENS OF LAND in Orkney and Zetland prior to
the Impignoration, and the alterations and encroachments made by
Scottish rulers and Scottish lawyers in the sixteenth century.
In the primitive form of Scandinavian society, without trade,
manufacture, or commerce, _land_ was the only wealth, its _ownership_
the sole foundation of power, privilege, or dignity. As no man could win
or hold possession without the strong arm to defend it, every landowner
was a warrior, every warrior a husbandman. King Sigurd Syr tended his
own hay harvest, and Sweyn of Gairsay and Thorkell Fostri swept the
coasts of Britain or Ireland, while the crop which they and their rovers
had sown grew ready for their reaping. The landed interest was
all-powerful, for all were classed according to their interest in land,
as _Free_ or _Un-free_. The _Freemen_ were the landowners, and as such,
members of the Althing or Council of Freemen, including all the
governing powers of the State, the King, Jarl, Bishop, Odallers, and
Odal-baarn. The _Un-free_ were those who, possessing no land, had no
political rights, including not only Slaves, the captives of war or
relics of the conquered Pechts, but Tenants and Dependents, personally
free. But as the interests of all were more or less affected by the
Impignoration and subsequent changes, the extent of the revolution may
be best estimated by a successive consideration of the nature of
ODH-AL-RÆD, of the system of THINGS and STEFNS, and of the condition,
rights and powers of the KING, JARL, and ODALLERS—freeborn Thingmen; of
the BISHOP, a Thingman by custom or courtesy; and finally, of the
UNFREE, Tenants and others, subjects not members of the Thing.
The Al-odh-ial or Odh-al holding was the only tenure of land recognized
in Scandinavian kingdoms. It was transmitted by Odin’s followers to
their offspring, as the dearest of those free institutions which
distinguished them from servile races, willing to hold their lands as
the gift of a master; and in the end of the ninth century, was
established in the Norwegian colonies of Orkney and Zetland as the rule
and safeguard of all property, right and privilege enjoyed or claimed by
king or subject. The Odal tenure, by simple _primal occupancy_, has been
so long and generally superseded by the more complex Feudal theory of
landed property, as the gift of the State or its chief, repaid by
service or payment, conveyed by Charter and Saisine, subject to
casualties and irritancies, and inherited by a single first-born heir by
grace of the Superior, that perhaps it is most easy to realize the Odal
idea as the absolute negation of every Feudal principle. The ODH-AL-RÆDI
or Right of Full Possession, was a tacit entail upon the Primal Occupant
and his Heirs, of the ODALSJORD won by his strong right hand, complete
without a written title, subject to no service, payment or casualty,
comprising every conceivable right of use, ownership and possession, and
at his death, constituting in each of his children an equal, tacit
title, inalienable while one Odal-born descendant should exist to claim
the inheritance. The courtly _Beneficium_ flowing from the Sovereign was
the human invention of kingcraft; the _Alodium_ in its grand simplicity
was a direct gift to man from his Maker, by the true _jus divinum_. Such
was the right of the Odaller; nor was that of the ODAL-BAARN a mere
future contingency, but a present patent of nobility and privilege, not
by writ or summons from a king, but by grace of God, and right of birth
as a FRIBORINN and THINGMAN. He might take service as a Væringr, Hirdman
or Husskarl, or till another’s land as Leigu-madr or Bolman—he might
even sink into a Thræll, like Olaf Tryggveson, or rise like him to be a
king, but his Odal-ræd was indelible. The throne was often filled or
shared on the simple but admitted plea of descent from the founder of
the kingdom, for the royal race was Odal-born to the Crown. The
succession of the Orkneyar Jarl might be divided or disputed by many
heirs; but though royal favour might aid, even royal power could not set
aside one claimant Odal-born to the Jarldom; and after a life of roving,
the Odal-born Væringr might seek rest by reclaiming from the stranger
his Odalsjord in Norway, Iceland or Orkney, alienated in his boyhood or
absence.
The present or contingent possession of land by Odal-ræd was thus the
foundation of every right or franchise; and in the infancy of Odal
society, no Law could be made or administered, no Tax imposed or levied,
and no Power assumed or exercised by King or Jarl, without the sanction
of the ALTHING or _Council of Freemen_, where King, Jarl, and Bishop,
Odaller and Odal-born, were all and equally THINGMEN.
The ALTHING was the simple prototype of a modern Parliament, but the
assembly was primary, not representative; and the Estates met and voted
together as in one Chamber. Whether assembled at stated times of Jol and
Vor, or summoned by King or Jarl for special causes, by passing from
hand to hand the Stefn-bod or Cross, the place of solemn meeting was the
great Domring of Stenness, the Thing-stod in Magnus Kirk, or the
Thingholm in Tingwall-vatn, under the Presidency of the LAWMAN OF
ORKNEY, or FOUD OF ZETLAND, the official Speakers of this Island
Parliament. The LAWMAN was the judge appointed (in the early vigour of
Odal independence) by the Thing, but afterwards by the King or Jarl, to
keep the BOOK OF THE LAWS, and to pronounce and ratify the Thing-Doms or
Decreets by the COMMON SEAL OF ORKNEY, of which he was the custodier.
The FOUD was originally the Collector of the King’s Skatt and Mulcts,
first appointed by King Sverrer on the confiscation of Zetland (1196);
but his duties were afterwards assimilated, but subordinate, to those of
the Lawman, and the salary of both was paid by an assessment called
Thing-för-kaup. The Thing and Thing-stod were sacred both to Christian
and Pagan, as a sanctuary where all forgot their feuds and met unarmed,
with a security which weapons could neither win nor maintain elsewhere.
Even the sentenced criminal was safe within its sacred Vebönd, and if he
could win against his pursuers the race of life and death to the nearest
Mör-steinn, Cross or Kirk, was presumed to have redeemed his life in
sight of God and man. Much of the procedure was conducted by reference
to the oath of the accused, and the Lawman’s oath, Saxter oath,
Hirdman’s oath, &c., differed only in their degree of solemnity and
number of compurgators. Besides the criminal penalties of death,
forfeiture, or unlaw to the Crown, damages civil or criminal might be
awarded, and accepted by the sufferers or their kin, with minute
scrupulosity of compensation; and contempt of Court was visited by the
additional infliction of a DOM-ROF. In early times, the Althing enacted
the laws which it administered, authorized and apportioned taxation, and
virtually held the keys of peace and war, by granting or withholding the
supplies; but having once compiled a BOOK OF THE LAWS, it seems to have
exercised its legislative functions but rarely, and, under the less
solemn name of LÖGTHING or LAWTING, to have restricted its consultations
to matters of general administration, finance, police and judicature.
THINGS of many other kinds and of inferior powers, summoned as occasion
arose, were named from their objects, functions, or place of meeting, as
the Leidar-Thing, Höf-Thing, or Huss-Thing, or sometimes styled
_Stefnar_ or _Citations_, as the Hirdman-Stefn or _Council of Warriors_.
Each Herad, Hrepp, Skathald or Parish, regulated its local
administration and assessments by a Herad-Stefn, Hreppa-mot or
Vard-thing, assembled on its Ward Hill or round its Mör-steinn, where
the Under-foud presided as the ruler’s representative, and the
Lögrettman watched the interests of the Commons, and guarded and applied
the Standards of weight and measure. A SCHYND or inquest of Thingmen,
sanctioned every Erffd or division of Odal heritage by its Skind-Bref or
Schynd-bill, and in later times, confirmed every alienation of
land-right by a similar document. Every three or four years the
Vard-thing, headed by its Under-foud, “rode the Hagra,” or perambulated
the march of the common, and exacted from all intruders on the Hagi or
Skathald a rent of Hagleyffi, or a subsidiary Toldber-Skatt, for the
benefit of the Heradsmen, Hreppsmen or Skat-brethren. Every seventh year
the accumulated offences of the district were visited by a Thing of
SKULDING or GRAND-REFF for correction of abuses, where every offence had
its appropriate SKULD or _Fine_. But no sentence affecting life or limb
could be pronounced, except by the Althing or Lawthing, and every
decision was founded on the principles of the venerated LÖG-BOK. This
BOOK OF THE LAWS was probably a selection from the early Norse codes of
the Gula-Thing and Frosta-Thing, and the later enactments of Sverrer,
Magnus Lagabæter, and Haken the Fifth, with such additions and
modifications as the circumstances of the Islands required, together
with a record of former Dooms and Decreets. It was guarded by the
Islanders with superstitious reverence, and the final abstraction of
their LAW BOOK and their COMMON SEAL was perhaps the most unpopular
accusation against Earl Patrick. His perversion of justice under its
pretended sanction, and the irreparable loss occasioned by its
disappearance, gave to the Scottish Crown an excuse for abrogating the
LAWS OF ORKNEY, which, after being acknowledged by frequent Acts of
Parliament, were finally abolished by an Order of the Privy Council in
1612. The Things, though formally abolished by Cromwell and the
submissive Convention, still continued at times to haunt their ancient
Dom-rings, but their power and spirit had vanished with the laws which
gave them life. The Thing was a mere Jury of Inquest, their Lawman a
Sheriff, their Underfoud a Baillie; and strange to say, what may be
called the last ghost of a Thing was (1691) called into a vampire
existence, to give with its expiring breath the shadow of a sanction to
the fraudulent Weights and Measures, against which its Odal fathers had
protested.
When Harold Harfagr (895) gave the conquered Jarldom of Orkney to
Rognvald of Mære, the father of Rollo of Normandy, waiving his royal
rights of Skatt and Lydskyld, he ostensibly reserved to his successors,
the KINGS OF NORWAY, little more than a nominal sovereignty. But the
royal rights and prerogatives, though dormant, were not the less real.
The same King Harold exacted from the Islands a heavy Mulct for the
death of his wayward son. King Erik Bloody-axe, and his wicked wife and
sons, seized both lands and Skatts as their own (939). One King Olaf
forced Christian Baptism on Sigurd Jarl and his men (995), and another
compelled Thorfinn, the most powerful of the Orkney Jarls, to
acknowledge himself as his Liegeman (1025). King Olaf Kyrre granted to
his new city of Bergen the Monopoly of the trade with Zetland (1072).
King Magnus Barefoot imprisoned the Jarls, and at his will resumed and
restored the Jarldom (1098). King Sverrer punished Harald Jarl for
rebellion by the Forfeiture of Zetland, and the Islanders by conditional
Confiscation of the Odal of all rebels (1196). King Hacon IV. asked no
leave of Magnus Jarl or his Odallers when he Valued and Taxed their
Urislands (1263). Hacon V. appropriated the Revenue during the Jarl’s
minority (1309), and Hacon VI. during disputed succession (1370); and
every royal Sea-king, who ravaged the coasts of Britain or Ireland,
mustered his fleet in the Orkneys, and received or enforced the Military
Service of the Jarls. Thus from time to time had the Kings exacted in
Orkney every royalty exigible in Norway, but at such long intervals,
that we are apt to regard each rare assertion as a usurpation or new
conquest, and to forget that Harald’s heirs were the Odal-born lords of
Orkney, entitled to all royal rights whensoever they had will or
strength to enforce them.
But when the adoption of primogeniture in the thirteenth century gave to
the Norwegian throne a stability and consistency unknown to Odal
succession, the royal claims became more exacting and more definite, as
the Jarls and other Thingmen became, by Odal division and contest, less
able to resist them. Harald Madadson’s adherence to an unsuccessful
faction was punished as rebellion; and the long intervals of anarchy,
the disputed successions which followed the deaths of Erlend IV. (1158),
and of each last male of the successive lines of Athol, Angus or
Stratherne, Jarls of Orkney, and the reference by the claimants and the
Islanders to royal arbitration, afforded to the Crown irresistible
opportunities of asserting and realizing its claims to possess by Royal
and hereditary right—1st, The actual Sovereignty of the Islands, the
Ownership of the Jarldom and consequent prerogative to grant or to
withhold investiture of any of the claimants; 2nd, A Jurisdiction
exclusive in some cases, and cumulative and appellative in all others;
3rd, The Skatt of all occupied Odal lands, with confiscation in case of
Skattfal or non-payment; and 4th, The Bota-Mali or Mulcts for homicide,
and other finable crimes, and the O-bota-mali or Forfeitures for crimes
not expiable by fine. Commissions during the King’s pleasure were
granted to the Earl, the Bishop, or some other officer specially
appointed as Governor, Custos, Foud or Lieutenant, to govern the Islands
and collect or farm the revenue; but under an express acknowledgment
that such temporary and _fiduciary_ powers and rights, however ample,
were given without prejudice to the King’s prerogative to bestow, resume
or reserve, all or any of them at his pleasure. It is probable that some
lands and Skats were always thus reserved and intrusted to several
hands; but on what grounds, or to what extent, it is useless to inquire,
since the Impignoration included every royal right in Orkney and
Zetland—viz., SOVEREIGNTY and JURISDICTION, LANDS and SKATS, FINES and
FORFEITS, and conveyed them UNDER REDEMPTION to the Crown of Scotland.
The JARL held not only the largest Odal lands in his Jarldom, but the
sovereign power in a secondary and delegated degree. None of these
rights, however, descended to him by the Odal-ræd, which constituted the
immemorial title of his subjects. The Odal of his fathers lay in the
Norwegian Jarldom of Mære. Rognvald became Jarl of Orkney (895), only by
the gift of King Harald Harfagr; and his successors owed their lands and
dignities to similar royal grants, and their powers to the sanction of
the Althing. But though only the Lydskylldr or Liegeman of the King, the
Orkneyar Jarl was not only exempted from the customary Lydskylld of
Norwegian Lendermen; but in consideration of exposure to piracy, was
permitted to retain the royal Skatt paid by the Odallers for the
exigencies of the Jarldom, and there was little to remind him of his own
subjection, unless when face to face with the King, nor of the Odallers’
independence, except their rare refusal to join him in a Viking-för.
When at home he passed, like the kings of Norway, from one Bordland, Böl
or _Guestquarter_ to another, receiving most of his revenues in kind for
the ordinary necessities of his household, and defraying his wasteful
hospitalities at the cost of his Saxon or Celtic neighbours impartially.
With the Skatt of the Odallers, and the Landskylld of his tenants, he
kept up a fleet of restless rovers, ever ready for a provident
Haust-Viking on the coasts of England, Scotland, or Ireland, for their
Jol-feasts and winter cheer, or a thrifty Vörviking, when their
exuberant carouses threatened a short supply of beeves and ale. At his
death, his Jarldom and its rights were divided, compromised or contested
by his heirs, till but one or two remained to enjoy the impoverished
inheritance. Nine generations of this Northman race of Rognvald had
ruled the Jarldom by a sort of prescriptive Odal-ræd, sometimes
extending their authority over half of Scotland and Ireland—sometimes
struggling for their insular domains—but in the twelfth century, the
growing power of the Scoto-Celtic Crown had shorn them of their southern
conquests of Moray, Ross, Inverness, Man, and the Hebrides. Erlend IV.,
the last heir male of his line, shared the Jarldom with St. Rognvald
(the first instance of succession through a female—the founder of
Kirkwall and its stately kirk, in honour of his maternal uncle Magnus
Jarl, the Saint and Martyr), and on their closely consecutive deaths
(1154–8), the sole succession devolved upon HARALD II., son of the
Countess Margaret of Orkney and the Scottish Earl Madad of Athol. Harald
Madadson was the founder of the shortest but most disastrous of Orkneyan
dynasties. By his opposition to the Birkbeinar revolution, which made
Sverrer Sovereign of Norway, Harald Jarl forfeited Zetland (1196), never
to be again formally or permanently united to Orkney; and after two wars
of mutual barbarity and reprisals, he was compelled to do homage to
William the Lion for all Cathnes to the Oikel (1198). His son JOHN OF
ATHOL, by his share in the death of Bishop Adam of Cathnes, forfeited
the southern portion of that province, the new county of Sutherland
(1222); and on his murder, for his Scottish disregard of the Odal claims
of his Orkneyan relatives (1231), his son-in-law MAGNUS II., son of
Gilbert Earl of Angus, was acknowledged Jarl of Orkney by Hacon IV. of
Norway, and of Cathnes by Alexander II. of Scotland. Five generations of
this race of ANGUS ruled Orkney and Cathnes during a century of unwonted
peace, arising from this double vassalage, the minorities and civil wars
which weakened both Norway and Scotland, and the treaties of matrimony
and commerce which united them. This calm was scarcely disturbed by the
last Northman Viking-storm, which swept over the Islands to expire at
Largs in the equinoctial gales of 1263, but which is memorable to Orkney
for the Survey of its Urislands, and the Deathbed of Hacon, the last of
the Sea-Kings. MAGNUS JARL III. had little difficulty in making his
peace with his royal namesake of Norway, for his lukewarm support of an
invasion so violent, and his grandson JOHN II. married a daughter of
King Erik of Norway. The prudence of Robert the Bruce, Hacon V., and the
young MAGNUS JARL V., hastened by mutual compensation and a new treaty
(1312) to restore peace, when Scottish pirates seized and held to ransom
Sir Berner Pess, the Norwegian Governor of the Islands during the Earl’s
nonage, and Orkney had retaliated by a similar outrage upon Patrick of
Mowat, a Scot—perhaps the first introduction of two names now common in
the Islands. During this period of comparatively peaceful intercourse,
many other Scottish names and fashions found entrance, and many
distinctive Scandinavian features disappeared in Orkney, though still
prevalent in Zetland, which was less exposed to Scottish influences. The
male line of ANGUS JARLS failed in MAGNUS V., and their curtailed
Jarldom passed by a female heir to the Scottish EARLS OF STRATHERNE, and
from them to their representatives, ALEXANDER DE ARTH, who inherited and
resigned the Earldom of Cathnes to Robert II. (1375–6), and HENRY LORD
SINCLAIR, whose homage as EARL OF ORKNEY was, after an interval of
disputed succession, accepted by Hacon VI. (2nd August 1379), but on
conditions which left to him little beyond the lands of his fathers.
Even their title, the only hereditary title permitted in Norway to a
subject not of the Blood Royal, was declared to be subject to the Royal
option of investiture. The Earl was to govern the Islands and enjoy
their revenues, but only under Norse laws, and during the King’s
pleasure; to keep in pay soldiers for the King’s service, but to make no
war, build no place of strength, make no contract with the Bishop, nor
sell nor impignorate any of his rights without the King’s consent; and
finally, to answer for his administration to the King’s Court at Bergen.
But the civil broils which preceded the Union of Calmar, and were
continued through the restless reign of Eric the Pomeranian, freed Earl
Henry from royal interference, and he ruled the Islands regally in his
Castle of Kirkwall, which he built without waiting for the King’s
consent, and with such strength and skill, that the witch-haunted mind
of the 17th century believed that only the devil himself could have been
its engineer and architect. His powers and rights were tacitly continued
to his son EARL HENRY II., whose little Court of Orkney was the most
elegant and refined in Europe, and adorned with the official services of
many proud Scottish nobles. To his enlightened guardianship was
committed the early education of the most accomplished prince of his
time—James I. of Scotland, the Zerbino of Ariosto; and half a century
before Columbus commenced his baffling search for a patron among the
sovereigns of Europe, the Venetian navigator Zenoni had been
commissioned by Earl Henry to retrace the footsteps of the early
Scandinavian discoverers of the Western World. On the death of Henry
II., the Foudrie of Zetland was conferred upon John Sinclair his brother
(1418); and during the nonage of his son, the Government of Orkney was
committed (1422), first to the Bishop Thomas Tulloch, then to the Chief
of the Scottish Clan Menzies, and again to the Bishop, till (on 10th
August 1434) William Sinclair was formally invested with the title, and
intrusted with the Government, subject to the same hard limitations as
his grandfather. WILLIAM, the last JARL OF ORKNEY, was the most liberal
patron of Scottish literature and art in his day. He was busied in the
endeavour to consolidate his power and increase his estates by purchase
and excambion, when the Impignoration opened to him a shorter and safer
way to gratify at once his ambition, his affection, and his hatred; and
with the same worldly wisdom which led him (1455) to prefer the
possession of Caithness to his claims on Nithsdale, he accepted (1471),
with the full consent of the King of Denmark, the lands and pension
offered by James III. as an ample equivalent for all that remained to
him of the ancient Jarldom of Orkney—viz., his title and his lands,
inherited or acquired.
The ancient estate of the Jarls lay scattered through every Island and
township of Orkney and Zetland, and consisted, 1st, of LANDS SET or
_leased_ to tenants on a three years’ tack, with a GERSOM or _fine_ at
each renewal, and an annual LANDSKYLLD, _landmail_ or _rent_, in
addition to the King’s Skatt, the Bishop’s Teind and other burdens,
local and general; 2nd, of the BORDLANDS or _Mensal farms_, with their
Böl and its enclosures, the occasional quarters of the Jarl in his
progresses of pastime or State Service, and on that account exempt from
Skatt, even when leased to husbandmen on the usual terms in other
respects; and, 3rd, of certain QUOYS and other lands added by Odallers
to their holdings, but not by odal-ræd, and therefore paying no Skatt,
but Landskylld and other burdens of tenant lands. The Earldom also
included CONQUEST or _acquired lands_, consisting, 1st, of lands added
by the later Earls by purchase or excambion; and, 2nd, of lands which
they had seized as _ultimi hæredes_, or confiscated for crime or
Skatfall. The tenants or tacksmen of the “auld” Earldom were a sort of
Rentallers with a prescriptive claim of renewal by law or custom, on
payment of the stated Gersom; but those of the Conquest lands were in
the far less favourable condition of removable tenants, with terms and
burdens at the landlord’s mercy. A small fee was expected by the Earl’s
bailiff, at each renewal or assedation, called for the Mainland
LAND-SETTER, and for the smaller islands EYSETTER-KAUP, and every tenant
was bound to _fure_ or ferry the Earl and his family, to bring peats to
his Castles of Birsay or Orphir, and perform other prædial services when
required. The payments were mostly made in kind, altering in form
according to the convenience, residence or non-residence of the
donatary, but weighed and measured by fixed and native standards. These
LANDS, MALES, GERSOMS and SERVICES, constituted the _jus comitatus_
which Earl William (1471) conveyed to the Crown of Scotland.
From the time of WILLIAM, by Romish consecration PRIMUS EPISCOPUS
ORCADUM (1136), the Bishops had a seat in the great Council of Freemen.
Whether this were at first their right as actual or presumed Odal-born
Freemen, a concession to their sacred office, or a priestly assumption,
their presence in the Thing was often salutary, sometimes to the Jarl,
sometimes to the Odaller, either as Councillors for the wisdom of the
serpent, or as peacemakers for the gentleness of the dove.
The earliest authorities testify as usual to the undainty
acquisitiveness of the Clergy, making profit alike of the weakness and
the wealth, the crimes and the penitence of all around them. Augmenting
and prospering by Gifts—such as those of the Odaller of Airland to the
Crosskirk of Stenness, of David of Rendall to St. Ninian, or of
Guidbrand of Quendal to the Vicar of Evie, for “a mass ilk Friday;” by
Confiscations—as of Baddi’s Lands for bloodshed in the Kirkyard; by
perpetuation of all liferent Donations; by pretended Excambion,
retaining their own land and seizing the promised equivalent; by
withholding their own Skatts and embezzling others, and by the
numberless oppressions of lawless strength against weak neighbours, the
Bishops advanced in wealth and power. In the quaint language of Bishop
Graham, “the old Bishopric of Orkney became a greate thing, and lay
_sparsim_ throughout the haill parochines of Orkney and Zetland. Besyde
his lands, he hade the teyndis of achtene kirks; his lands grew daily as
adulteries and incests increased in the countrey,” till they were
“estimat at the third part of the COUNTREYIS of old.” How or when the
Bishops were permitted to Tithe the lands and labour of the Islands is
uncertain; probably the building of Magnus Kirk, the Primus Episcopus,
and this impost were connected and coincident (1136); but its rigorous
exaction and arbitrary increase were probably too recent for popular
patience, when (in 1222) Bishop Adam was burned to death for doubling
the customary payment. Certain Skatts were probably granted among the
earliest provisions for religious uses, but the indiscriminate
appropriation of those of Church-lands and others probably commenced
when the Scottish Bishop, Thomas Tulloch, combined the powers and
opportunities of Bishop, Governor and Collector of Royal Revenues,
during the non-investiture of Earl William (1422–34). With possessions
so extensive, a jurisdiction over their own lands almost unlimited, and
an influence
|
for his reputation as a carpet knight, and Baron de Vries' good opinion,
which could not be despised. And that made her the more displeased when
she realized how promptly she was surrendering to his charm. In a moment
of silence she gave a sudden little laugh which seemed to express a
half-angry astonishment.
"What was that for?" Ste. Marie demanded.
The girl looked at him for an instant and shook her head.
"I can't tell you," said she. "That's rude, isn't it? I'm sorry. Perhaps
I will tell you one day, when we know each other better."
But inwardly she was saying: "Why, I suppose this is how they all
begin--all these regiments of women who make fools of themselves about
him! I suppose this is exactly what he does to them all!"
It made her angry, and she tried quite unfairly to shift the anger, as
it were, to Ste. Marie--to put him somehow in the wrong. But she was by
nature very just, and she could not quite do that, particularly as it
was evident that the man was using no cheap tricks. He did not try to
flirt with her, and he did not attempt to pay her veiled compliments,
though she was often aware that when her attention was diverted for a
few moments his eyes were always upon her, and that is a compliment that
few women can find it in their hearts to resent.
"You say," said Ste. Marie, "'when we know each other better.' May one
twist that into a permission to come and see you--I mean, really see
you--not just leave a card at your door to-morrow by way of observing
the formalities?"
"Yes," she said. "Oh yes, one may twist it into something like that
without straining it unduly, I think. My mother and I shall be very glad
to see you. I'm sorry she is not here to-night to say it herself."
Then the hostess began to gather together her flock, and so the two had
no more speech. But when the women had gone and the men were left about
the dismantled table, Hartley moved up beside Ste. Marie and shook a sad
head at him. He said:
"You're a very lucky being. I was quietly hoping, on the way here, that
I should be the fortunate man, but you always have all the luck. I hope
you're decently grateful."
"Mon vieux," said Ste. Marie, "my feet are upon the stars. No!" He shook
his head as if the figure displeased him. "No, my feet are upon the
ladder to the stars. Grateful? What does a foolish word like grateful
mean? Don't talk to me. You are not worthy to trample among my
magnificent thoughts. I am a god upon Olympus."
"You said just now," objected the other man, practically, "that your
feet were on a ladder. There are no ladders from Olympus to the stars."
"Ho!" said Ste. Marie. "Ho! Aren't there, though? There shall be ladders
all over Olympus, if I like. What do you know about gods and stars? I
shall be a god climbing to the heavens, and I shall be an angel of
light, and I shall be a miserable worm grovelling in the night here
below, and I shall be a poet, and I shall be anything else I happen to
think of--all of them at once, if I choose. And you shall be the
tongue-tied son of perfidious Albion that you are, gaping at my
splendors from a fog-bank--a November fog-bank in May. Who is the
desiccated gentleman bearing down upon us?"
* * * * *
III
STE. MARIE MAKES A VOW, BUT A PAIR OF EYES HAUNT HIM
Hartley looked over his shoulder and gave a little exclamation of
distaste.
"It's Captain Stewart, Miss Benham's uncle," he said, lowering his
voice. "I'm off. I shall abandon you to him. He's a good old soul, but
he bores me." Hartley nodded to the man who was approaching, and then
made his way to the end of the table, where their host sat discussing
aero-club matters with a group of the other men.
Captain Stewart dropped into the vacant chair, saying: "May I recall
myself to you, M. Ste. Marie? We met, I believe, once or twice, a couple
of years ago. My name's Stewart."
Captain Stewart--the title was vaguely believed to have been borne some
years before in the American service, but no one appeared to know much
about it--was not an old man. He could not have been, at this time, much
more than fifty, but English-speaking acquaintances often called him
"old Stewart," and others "ce vieux Stewart." Indeed, at a first glance
he might have passed for anything up to sixty, for his face was a good
deal more lined and wrinkled than it should have been at his age. Ste.
Marie's adjective had been rather apt. The man had a desiccated
appearance. Upon examination, however, one saw that the blood was still
red in his cheeks and lips, and, although his neck was thin and withered
like an old man's, his brown eyes still held their fire. The hair was
almost gone from the top of his large, round head, but it remained at
the sides--stiff, colorless hair, with a hint of red in it. And there
were red streaks in his gray mustache, which was trained outward in two
loose tufts, like shaving-brushes. The mustache and the shallow chin
under it gave him an odd, catlike appearance. Hartley, who rather
disliked the man, used to insist that he had heard him mew.
Ste. Marie said something politely non-committal, though he did not at
all remember the alleged meeting two years before, and he looked at
Captain Stewart with a real curiosity and interest in his character as
Miss Benham's uncle. He thought it very civil of the elder man to make
these friendly advances when it was in no way incumbent upon him to do
so.
"I noticed," said Captain Stewart, "that you were placed next my niece,
Helen Benham, at dinner. This must be the first time you two have met,
is it not? I remember speaking of you to her some months ago, and I am
quite sure she said that she had not met you. Ah, yes, of course, you
have been away from Paris a great deal since she and her mother--her
mother is my sister: that is to say, my half-sister--have come here to
live with my father." He gave a little gentle laugh. "I take an elderly
uncle's privilege," he said, "of being rather proud of Helen. She is
called very pretty, and she certainly has great poise."
Ste. Marie drew a quick breath, and his eyes began to flash as they had
done a few moments before when he told Hartley that his feet were upon
the ladder to the stars.
"Miss Benham!" he cried. "Miss Benham is--" He hung poised so for a
moment, searching, as it were, for words of sufficient splendor, but in
the end he shook his head and the gleam faded from his eyes. He sank
back in his chair, sighing. "Miss Benham," said he, "is extremely
beautiful."
And again her uncle emitted his little gentle laugh, which may have
deceived Hartley into believing that he had heard the man mew. The sound
was as much like mewing as it was like anything else.
"I am very glad," Captain Stewart said, "to see her come out once more
into the world. She needs distraction. We--You may possibly have heard
that the family is in great distress of mind over the disappearance of
my young nephew. Helen has suffered particularly, because she is
convinced that the boy has met with foul play. I myself think it very
unlikely--very unlikely indeed. The lack of motive, for one thing, and
for another--Ah, well, a score of reasons! But Helen refuses to be
comforted. It seems to me much more like a boy's prank--his idea of
revenge for what he considered unjust treatment at his grandfather's
hands. He was always a headstrong youngster, and he has been a bit
spoiled. Still, of course, the uncertainty is very trying for us
all--very wearing."
"Of course," said Ste. Marie, gravely. "It is most unfortunate. Ah,
by-the-way!" He looked up with a sudden interest. "A rather odd thing
happened," he said, "as Hartley and I were coming here this evening. We
walked up the Champs-Elysées from the Concorde, and on the way Hartley
had been telling me of your nephew's disappearance. Near the Rond Point
we came upon a motor-car which was drawn up at the side of the
street--there had been an accident of no consequence, a boy tumbled over
but not hurt. Well, one of the two occupants of the motor-car was a man
whom I used to see about Maxim's and the Café de Paris and the
Montmartre places, too, some time ago--a rather shady character whose
name I've forgotten. The odd part of it all was that on the last
occasion or two on which I saw your nephew he was with this man. I think
it was in Henry's Bar. Of course, it means nothing at all. Your nephew
doubtless knew scores of people, and this man is no more likely to have
information about his present whereabouts than any of the others. Still,
I should have liked to ask him. I didn't remember who he was till he had
gone."
Captain Stewart shook his head sadly, frowning down upon the cigarette
from which he had knocked the ash.
"I am afraid poor Arthur did not always choose his friends with the best
of judgment," said he. "I am not squeamish, and I would not have boys
kept in a glass case, but--yes, I'm afraid Arthur was not always too
careful." He replaced the cigarette neatly between his lips. "This man,
now--this man whom you saw to-night--what sort of looking man will he
have been?"
"Oh, a tall, lean man," said Ste. Marie. "A tall man with blue eyes and
a heavy, old-fashioned mustache. I just can't remember the name."
The smoke stood still for an instant over Captain Stewart's cigarette,
and it seemed to Ste. Marie that a little contortion of anger fled
across the man's face and was gone again. He stirred slightly in his
chair. After a moment he said:
"I fancy, from your description--I fancy I know who the man was. If it
is the man I am thinking of, the name is--Powers. He is, as you have
said, a rather shady character, and I more than once warned my nephew
against him. Such people are not good companions for a boy. Yes, I
warned him."
"Powers," said Ste. Marie, "doesn't sound right to me, you know. I can't
say the fellow's name myself, but I'm sure--that is, I think--it's not
Powers."
"Oh yes," said Captain Stewart, with an elderly man's half-querulous
certainty. "Yes, the name is Powers. I remember it well. And I
remember--Yes, it was odd, was it not, your meeting him like that, just
as you were talking of Arthur? You--oh, you didn't speak to him, you
say? No, no, to be sure! You didn't recognize him at once. Yes, it was
odd. Of course, the man could have had nothing to do with poor Arthur's
disappearance. His only interest in the boy at any time would have been
for what money Arthur might have, and he carried none, or almost none,
away with him when he vanished. Eh, poor lad! Where can he be to-night,
I wonder? It's a sad business, M. Ste. Marie--a sad business."
Captain Stewart fell into a sort of brooding silence, frowning down at
the table before him, and twisting with his thin ringers the little
liqueur glass and the coffee-cup which were there. Once or twice, Ste.
Marie thought, the frown deepened and twisted into a sort of scowl, and
the man's fingers twitched on the cloth of the table; but when at last
the group at the other end of the board rose and began to move towards
the door, Captain Stewart rose also and followed them. At the door he
seemed to think of something, and touched Ste. Marie upon the arm.
"This--ah, Powers," he said, in a low tone--"this man whom you saw
to-night! You said he was one of two occupants of a motor-car. Yes? Did
you by any chance recognize the other?"
"Oh, the other was a young woman," said Ste. Marie. "No, I never saw her
before. She was very handsome."
Captain Stewart said something under his breath and turned abruptly
away. But an instant later he faced about once more, smiling. He said,
in a man-of-the-world manner, which sat rather oddly upon him:
"Ah, well, we all have our little love-affairs. I dare say this shady
fellow has his." And for some obscure reason Ste. Marie found the speech
peculiarly offensive.
In the drawing-room he had opportunity for no more than a word with Miss
Benham, for Hartley, enraged over his previous ill success, cut in ahead
of him and manoeuvred that young lady into a corner, where he sat before
her, turning a square and determined back to the world. Ste. Marie
listlessly played bridge for a time, but his attention was not upon it,
and he was glad when the others at the table settled their accounts and
departed to look in at a dance somewhere. After that he talked for a
little with Marian de Saulnes, whom he liked and who made no secret of
adoring him. She complained loudly that he was in a vile temper, which
was not true; he was only restless and distrait and wanted to be alone;
and so, at last, he took his leave without waiting for Hartley.
Outside, in the street, he stood for a moment, hesitating, and an
expectant fiacre drew up before the house, the cocher raising an
interrogative whip. In the end Ste. Marie shook his head and turned away
on foot. It was a still, sweet night of soft airs, and a moonless,
starlit sky, and the man was very fond of walking in the dark. From the
Etoile he walked down the Champs-Elysées, but presently turned toward
the river. His eyes were upon the mellow stars, his feet upon the ladder
thereunto. He found himself crossing the Pont des Invalides, and halted
midway to rest and look. He laid his arms upon the bridge's parapet and
turned his face outward. Against it bore a little gentle breeze that
smelled of the purifying water below and of the night and of green
things growing. Beneath him the river ran black as flowing ink, and
across its troubled surface the many-colored lights of the many bridges
glittered very beautifully, swirling arabesques of gold and crimson. The
noises of the city--beat of hoofs upon wooden pavements, horn of train
or motor-car, jingle of bell upon cab-horse--came here faintly and as if
from a great distance. Above the dark trees of the Cours la Reine the
sky glowed, softly golden, reflecting the million lights of Paris.
Ste. Marie closed his eyes, and against darkness he saw the beautiful
head of Helen Benham, the clear-cut, exquisite modelling of feature and
contour, the perfection of form and color. Her eyes met his eyes, and
they were very serene and calm and confident. She smiled at him, and the
new contours into which her face fell with the smile were more perfect
than before. He watched the turn of her head, and the grace of the
movement was the uttermost effortless grace one dreams that a queen
should have. The heart of Ste. Marie quickened in him, and he would have
gone down upon his knees.
He was well aware that with the coming of this girl something
unprecedented, wholly new to his experience, had befallen him--an
awakening to a new life. He had been in love a very great many times. He
was usually in love. And each time his heart had gone through the same
sweet and bitter anguish, the same sleepless nights had come and gone
upon him, the eternal and ever new miracle had wakened spring in his
soul, had passed its summer solstice, had faded through autumnal regrets
to winter's death; but through it all something within him had waited
asleep.
He found himself wondering dully what it was--wherein lay the great
difference?--and he could not answer the question he asked. He knew only
that whereas before he had loved, he now went down upon prayerful knees
to worship. In a sudden poignant thrill the knightly fervor of his
forefathers came upon him, and he saw a sweet and golden lady set far
above him upon a throne. Her clear eyes gazed afar, serene and
untroubled. She sat wrapped in a sort of virginal austerity, unaware of
the base passions of men. The other women whom Ste. Marie had--as he was
pleased to term it--loved had certainly come at least half-way to meet
him, and some of them had come a good deal farther than that. He could
not, by the wildest flight of imagination, conceive this girl doing
anything of that sort. She was to be won by trial and high endeavor, by
prayer and self-purification--not captured by a warm eye-glance, a
whispered word, a laughing kiss. In fancy he looked from the crowding
cohorts of these others to that still, sweet figure set on high, wrapped
in virginal austerity, calm in her serene perfection, and his soul
abased itself before her. He knelt in an awed and worshipful adoration.
So before quest or tournament or battle must those elder Ste.
Maries--Ste. Maries de Mont-les-Roses---have knelt, each knight at the
feet of his lady, each knightly soul aglow with the chaste ardor of
chivalry.
The man's hands tightened upon the parapet of the bridge, he lifted his
face again to the shining stars where-among, as his fancy had it, she
sat enthroned. Exultingly he felt under his feet the rungs of the
ladder, and in the darkness he swore a great oath to have done forever
with blindness and grovelling, to climb and climb, forever to climb,
until at last he should stand where she was--cleansed and made worthy by
long endeavor--at last meet her eyes and touch her hand.
It was a fine and chivalric frenzy, and Ste. Marie was passionately in
earnest about it, but his guardian angel--indeed, Fate herself--must
have laughed a little in the dark, knowing what manner of man he was in
less exalted hours.
It was an odd freak of memory that at last recalled him to earth. Every
man knows that when a strong and, for the moment, unavailing effort has
been made to recall something lost to mind, the memory, in some
mysterious fashion, goes on working long after the attention has been
elsewhere diverted, and sometimes hours afterward, or even days,
produces quite suddenly and inappropriately the lost article. Ste. Marie
had turned, with a little sigh, to take up, once more, his walk across
the Pont des Invalides, when seemingly from nowhere, and certainly by no
conscious effort, a name flashed into his mind. He said it aloud:
"O'Hara! O'Hara! That tall, thin chap's name was O'Hara, by Jove! It
wasn't Powers at all!" He laughed a little as he remembered how very
positive Captain Stewart had been. And then he frowned, thinking that
the mistake was an odd one, since Stewart had evidently known a good
deal about this adventurer. Captain Stewart, though, Ste. Marie
reflected, was exactly the sort to be very sure he was right about
things. He had just the neat and precise and semi-scholarly personality
of the man who always knows. So Ste. Marie dismissed the matter with
another brief laugh, but a cognate matter was less easy to dismiss. The
name brought with it a face--a dark and splendid face with tragic eyes
that called. He walked a long way thinking about them and wondering. The
eyes haunted him. It will have been reasonably evident that Ste. Marie
was a fanciful and imaginative soul. He needed but a chance word, the
sight of a face in a crowd, the glance of an eye, to begin
story-building, and he would go on for hours about it and work himself
up to quite a passion with his imaginings. He should have been a writer
of fiction.
He began forthwith to construct romances about this lady of the
motor-car. He wondered why she should have been with the shady
Irishman--if Irishman he was--O'Hara, and with some anxiety he wondered
what the two were to each other. Captain Stewart's little cynical jest
came to his mind, and he was conscious of a sudden desire to kick Miss
Benham's middle-aged uncle.
The eyes haunted him. What was it they suffered? Out of what misery did
they call--and for what? He walked all the long way home to his little
flat overlooking the Luxembourg Gardens, haunted by those eyes. As he
climbed his stair it suddenly occurred to him that they had quite driven
out of his mind the image of his beautiful lady who sat among the stars,
and the realization came to him with a shock.
* * * * *
IV
OLD DAVID STEWART
It was Miss Benham's custom, upon returning home at night from
dinner-parties or other entertainments, to look in for a few minutes on
her grandfather before going to bed. The old gentleman, like most
elderly people, slept lightly, and often sat up in bed very late into
the night, reading or playing piquet with his valet. He suffered
hideously at times from the malady which was killing him by degrees, but
when he was free from pain the enormous recuperative power, which he had
preserved to his eighty-sixth year, left him almost as vigorous and
clear-minded as if he had never been ill at all. Hartley's description
of him had not been altogether a bad one: "a quaint old beggar... a
great quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and the
fiercest eyes I ever saw..." He was a rather "quaint old beggar,"
indeed! He had let his thick, white hair grow long, and it hung down
over his brows in unparted locks as the ancient Greeks wore their hair.
He had very shaggy eyebrows, and the deep-set eyes under them gleamed
from the shadow with a fierceness which was rather deceptive but none
the less intimidating. He had a great beak of a nose, but the mouth
below could not be seen. It was hidden by the mustache and the enormous
square beard. His face was colorless, almost as white as hair and beard;
there seemed to be no shadow or tint anywhere except the cavernous
recesses from which the man's eyes gleamed and sparkled. Altogether he
was certainly "a quaint old beggar."
He had, during the day and evening, a good many visitors, for the old
gentleman's mind was as alert as it ever had been, and important men
thought him worth consulting. The names which the admirable valet Peters
announced from time to time were names which meant a great deal in the
official and diplomatic world of the day. But if old David felt
flattered over the unusual fashion in which the great of the earth
continued to come to him, he never betrayed it. Indeed, it is quite
probable that this view of the situation never once occurred to him. He
had been thrown with the great of the earth for more than half a
century, and he had learned to take it as a matter of course.
On her return from the Marquise de Saulnes' dinner-party, Miss Benham
went at once to her grandfather's wing of the house, which had its own
street entrance, and knocked lightly at his door. She asked the
admirable Peters, who opened to her, "Is he awake?" and being assured
that he was, went into the vast chamber, dropping her cloak on a chair
as she entered.
David Stewart was sitting up in his monumental bed behind a sort of
invalid's table which stretched across his knees without touching them.
He wore over his night-clothes a Chinese mandarin's jacket of old red
satin, wadded with down, and very gorgeously embroidered with the cloud
and bat designs, and with large round panels of the imperial five-clawed
dragon in gold. He had a number of these jackets--they seemed to be his
one vanity in things external--and they were so made that they could be
slipped about him without disturbing him in his bed, since they hung
down only to the waist or thereabouts. They kept the upper part of his
body, which was not covered by the bedclothes, warm, and they certainly
made him a very impressive figure.
He said: "Ah, Helen! Come in! Come in! Sit down on the bed there and
tell me what you have been doing!" He pushed aside the pack of cards
which was spread out on the invalid's table before him, and with great
care counted a sum of money in francs and half-francs and nickel
twenty-five centime pieces. "I've won seven francs fifty from Peters
to-night," he said, chuckling gently. "That is a very good evening,
indeed. Very good! Where have you been, and who were there?"
"A dinner-party at the De Saulnes'," said Miss Benham, making herself
comfortable on the side of the great bed. "It's a very pleasant place.
Marian is, of course, a dear, and they're quite English and
unceremonious. You can talk to your neighbor at dinner instead of
addressing the house from a platform, as it were. French dinner-parties
make me nervous."
Old David gave a little growling laugh.
"French dinner-parties at least keep people up to the mark in the art of
conversation," said he. "But that is a lost art, anyhow, nowadays, so I
suppose one might as well be quite informal and have done with it. Who
were there?"
"Oh, well"--she considered, "no one, I should think, who would interest
you. Rather an indifferent set. Pleasant people, but not inspiring. The
Marquis had some young relative or connection who was quite odious and
made the most surprising noises over his food. I met a new man whom I
think I am going to like very much, indeed. He wouldn't interest you,
because he doesn't mean anything in particular, and of course he
oughtn't to interest me for the same reason. He's just an idle, pleasant
young man, but--he has great charm--very great charm. His name is Ste.
Marie. Baron de Vries seems very fond of him, which surprised me,
rather."
"Ste. Marie!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in obvious astonishment.
"Ste. Marie de Mont Perdu?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, that is the name, I believe. You know him, then?
I wonder he didn't mention it."
"I knew his father," said old David. "And his grandfather, for that
matter. They're Gascon, I think, or Béarnais; but this boy's mother will
have been Irish, unless his father married again.
"So you've been meeting a Ste. Marie, have you?--and finding that he has
great charm?" The old gentleman broke into one of his growling laughs,
and reached for a long black cigar, which he lighted, eying his
granddaughter the while over the flaring match. "Well," he said, when
the cigar was drawing, "they all have had charm. I should think there
has never been a Ste. Marie without it. They're a sort of embodiment of
romance, that family. This boy's great-grandfather lost his life
defending a castle against a horde of peasants in 1799; his grandfather
was killed in the French campaign in Mexico in '39--at Vera Cruz it was,
I think; and his father died in a filibustering expedition ten years
ago. I wonder what will become of the last Ste. Marie?" Old David's eyes
suddenly sharpened. "You're not going to fall in love with Ste. Marie
and marry him, are you?" he demanded.
Miss Benham gave a little angry laugh, but her grandfather saw the color
rise in her cheeks for all that.
"Certainly not," she said, with great decision, "What an absurd idea!
Because I meet a man at a dinner-party and say I like him, must I marry
him to-morrow? I meet a great many men at dinners and things, and a few
of them I like. Heavens!"
"'Methinks the lady doth protest too much,'" muttered old David into his
huge beard.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Miss Benham, politely.
But he shook his head, still growling inarticulately, and began to draw
enormous clouds of smoke from the long black cigar. After a time he took
the cigar once more from his lips and looked thoughtfully at his
granddaughter, where she sat on the edge of the vast bed, upright and
beautiful, perfect in the most meticulous detail. Most women when they
return from a long evening out look more or less the worse for
it--deadened eyes, pale cheeks, loosened coiffure tell their inevitable
tale. Miss Benham looked as if she had just come from the hands of a
very excellent maid. She looked as freshly soignée as she might have
looked at eight that evening instead of at one. Not a wave of her
perfectly undulated hair was loosened or displaced, not a fold of the
lace at her breast had departed from its perfect arrangement.
"It is odd," said old David Stewart, "your taking a fancy to young Ste.
Marie. Of course, it's natural, too, in a way, because you are complete
opposites, I should think--that is, if this lad is like the rest of his
race. What I mean is that merely attractive young men don't, as a rule,
attract you."
"Well, no," she admitted, "they don't usually. Men with brains attract
me most, I think--men who are making civilization, men who are ruling
the world, or at least doing important things for it. That's your fault,
you know. You taught me that."
The old gentleman laughed.
"Possibly," said he. "Possibly. Anyhow, that is the sort of men you
like, and they like you. You're by no means a fool, Helen; in fact,
you're a woman with brains. You could wield great influence married to
the proper sort of man."
"But not to M. Ste. Marie," she suggested, smiling across at him.
"Well, no," he said. "No, not to Ste. Marie. It would be a mistake to
marry Ste. Marie--if he is what the rest of his house have been. The
Ste. Maries live a life compounded of romance and imagination and
emotion. You're not emotional."
"No," said Miss Benham, slowly and thoughtfully. It was as if the idea
were new to her. "No, I'm not, I suppose. No. Certainly not."
"As a matter of fact," said old David, "you're by nature rather cold.
I'm not sure it isn't a good thing. Emotional people, I observe, are
usually in hot water of some sort. When you marry you're very likely to
choose with a great deal of care and some wisdom. And you're also likely
to have what is called a career. I repeat that you could wield great
influence in the proper environment."
The girl frowned across at her grandfather reflectively.
"Do you mean by that," she asked, after a little silence--"do you mean
that you think I am likely to be moved by sheer ambition and nothing
else in arranging my life? I've never thought of myself as a very
ambitious person."
"Let us substitute for ambition common-sense," said old David. "I think
you have a great deal of common-sense for a woman--and so young a woman.
How old are you by-the-way? Twenty-two? Yes, to be sure. I think you
have great common-sense and appreciation of values. And I think you're
singularly free of the emotionalism that so often plays hob with them
all. People with common-sense fall in love in the right places."
"I don't quite like the sound of it," said Miss Benham. "Perhaps I am
rather ambitious--I don't know. Yes, perhaps. I should like to play some
part in the world, I don't deny that. But--am I as cold as you say? I
doubt it very much. I doubt that."
"You're twenty-two," said her grandfather, "and you have seen a good
deal of society in several capitals. Have you ever fallen in love?"
Oddly, the face of Ste. Marie came before Miss Benham's eyes as if she
had summoned it there. But she frowned a little and shook her head,
saying:
"No, I can't say that I have. But that means nothing. There's plenty of
time for that. And you know," she said, after a pause--"you know I'm
rather sure I could fall in love--pretty hard. I'm sure of that. Perhaps
I have been waiting. Who knows?"
"Aye, who knows?" said David. He seemed all at once to lose interest in
the subject, as old people often do without apparent reason, for he
remained silent for a long time, puffing at the long black cigar or
rolling it absently between his fingers. After awhile he laid it down in
a metal dish which stood at his elbow, and folded his lean hands before
him over the invalid's table. He was still so long that at last his
granddaughter thought he had fallen asleep, and she began to rise from
her seat, taking care to make no noise; but at that the old man stirred
and put out his hand once more for the cigar. "Was young Richard Hartley
at your dinner-party?" he asked, and she said:
"Yes. Oh yes, he was there. He and M. Ste. Marie came together, I
believe. They are very close friends."
"Another idler," growled old David. "The fellow's a man of parts--and a
man of family. What's he idling about here for? Why isn't he in
Parliament, where he belongs?"
"Well," said the girl, "I should think it is because he is too much a
man of family--as you put it. You see, he'll succeed his cousin, Lord
Risdale, before very long, and then all his work would have been for
nothing, because he'll have to take his seat in the Lords. Lord Risdale
is unmarried, you know, and a hopeless invalid. He may die any day. I
think I sympathize with poor Mr. Hartley. It would be a pity to build up
a career for one's self in the lower House, and then suddenly, in the
midst of it, have to give it all up. The situation is rather paralyzing
to endeavor, isn't it?"
"Yes, I dare say," said old David, absently. He looked up sharply.
"Young Hartley doesn't come here as much as he used to do."
"No," said Miss Benham, "he doesn't." She gave a little laugh. "To avoid
cross-examination," she said, "I may as well admit that he asked me to
marry him and I had to refuse. I'm sorry, because I like him very much,
indeed."
Old David made an inarticulate sound which may have been meant to
express surprise--or almost anything else. He had not a great range of
expression.
"I don't want," said he, "to seem to have gone daft on the subject of
marriage, and I see no reason why you should be in any haste about it.
Certainly I should hate to lose you, my child, but--Hartley as the next
Lord Risdale is undoubtedly a good match. And you say you like him."
The girl looked up with a sort of defiance, and her face was a little
flushed.
"I don't love him," she said. "I like him immensely, but I don't love
him, and,
|
philosophy may be natural to a man
of thirty-six who sees small prospect of realising his own ambition,
and resorts to the consolation of a collective enthusiasm, but it is
abnormal in a boy of seventeen, an age which usually sees itself in
the stalls of a theatre waiting for the curtain to rise and reveal
a stage set with limitless opportunities for self-development and
self-indulgence.
But Ralph had been brought up in an atmosphere of ideals; at the age of
seven he gave a performance of _Hamlet_ in the nursery, and in the same
year he visited a lenten performance of _Everyman_. At his preparatory
school he came under the influence of an empire builder, who used to
appeal to the emotions of his form. "The future of the country is in
your hands," he would say. "One day you will be at the helm. You must
prepare yourselves for that time. You must never forget." And Ralph did
not. He thought of himself as the arbiter of destinies. He felt that
till that day his life must be a vigil. Like the knights of Arthurian
romance, he would watch beside his armour in the chapel. In the process
he became a prig, and on his last day at Rycroft Lodge he became a
prude. His headmaster gave all the boys who were leaving a long and
serious address on the various temptations of the flesh to which they
would be subjected at their Public Schools. Ralph had no clear idea
of what these temptations might be. Their results, however, seemed
sufficient reason for abstention. If he yielded to them, he gathered
that he would lose in a short time his powers of thought, his strength,
his moral stamina; a slow poison would devour him; in a few years he
would be mad and blind and probably, though of this he was not quite
certain, deaf as well. At any rate he would be in a condition when the
ability of detecting sound would be of slight value. These threats were
alarming: their effect, however, would not have been lasting in the case
of Ralph, who was no coward and also, being no fool, would have soon
observed that this process of disintegration was not universal in its
application. No; it was not the threat that did the damage: it was the
romantic appeal of the headmaster's peroration.
"After all," he said, after a dramatic pause, "how can any one of you
who has been a filthy beast at school dare to propose marriage to some
pure, clean woman?"
That told; that sentiment was within the range of his comprehension;
it was a beautiful idea, a chivalrous idea, worthy, he inappropriately
imagined, of Sir Lancelot. He could understand that a knight should
come to his lady with glittering armour and an unstained sword. At the
time he did not fully appreciate the application of this image: he
soon learnt, however, that a night spent on one's knees on the stone
floor of a draughty chapel is a cold and lonely prelude to enchantment:
a discovery that did not make him the more charitable to those who
preferred clean linen and soft down.
It was only to be supposed, therefore, that he would receive Roland's
confidences with disgust. He had always felt a little jealous of April's
obvious preference for his friend, but he had regarded it as the fortune
of war and had taken what pleasure he might in the part of confidant.
To this vicarious excitant their intimacy indeed owed its strength. His
indignation, therefore, when he learnt of Roland's rustic courtship was
only exceeded by his positive fury when, on the first evening of the
holidays, he went round to see the Curtises and found there Roland and
his father. It was the height of hypocrisy. He had supposed that Roland
would at least have the decency to keep away from her. It had been bad
enough to give up a decent girl for a shop assistant, but to come back
and carry on as though nothing had happened.... It was monstrous, cruel,
unthinkable. And there was April, so clean and calm, with her thick
brown hair gathered up in a loop across her forehead; her eyes, deep
and gentle, with subdued colours, brown and a shade of green, and that
delicate smile of simple trust and innocence, smiling at him, ignorant
of how she had been deceived.
It must be set down, however, to Roland's credit that he had felt
a few qualms about going round at once to see the Curtises. Less
than twenty-four hours had passed since he had held Dolly's hand
and protested to her an undying loyalty. He did not love her; the
words meant nothing, and they both knew it; they were merely part of
the convention of the game. Nor for that matter was he in love with
April--at least he did not think he was. He owed nothing to either of
them. But conscience told him that, in view of the understanding that
was supposed to exist between them, it would be more proper to wait a
day or two. After all, one did not go to a theatre the day after one's
father's funeral, however eagerly one's imagination had anticipated the
event.
Things had, however, turned out otherwise. At a quarter to six Mr
Whately returned from town. He was the manager of a bank, at a salary of
seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, an income that allowed the family
to visit the theatre, upper circle seats, at least once every holidays
and provided Roland with as much pocket-money as he needed. Mr Whately
walked into the drawing-room, greeted his son with the conventional joke
about a holiday task, handed his wife a copy of _The Globe_, sat down in
front of the fire and began to take off his boots.
"Nothing much in the papers to-day, my dear. Not much happening anywhere
as a matter of fact. I had lunch to-day with Robinson and he called it
the lull before the storm. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he wasn't
right. You can't trust these Radicals."
He was a scrubby little man: for thirty years he had worked in the same
house: there had been no friction and no excitement in his life: he had
by now lost any independence of thought and action.
"I've just found a splendid place, my dear, where you can get a really
first-class lunch for one-and-sixpence."
"Have you, dear?"
"Yes; in Soho, just behind the Palace. I went there to-day with
Robinson. We had four courses, and cheese to finish up with. Something
like."
"And was it well cooked, dear?"
"Rather; the plaice was beautifully fried. Just beginning to brown."
His face flushed with a genuine animation. Change of food was the only
adventure that life brought to him. He rose slowly.
"Well, I must go up and change, I suppose. I've one or two other things
to tell you, dear, later on."
He did not ask his wife what she had been doing during the day; it was
indeed doubtful whether he appreciated the existence of any life at 105
Hammerton Villas, Hammerton, during the hours when he was away from
them. Himself was the central point.
Five minutes later he came down stairs in a light suit.
"Well, who's coming out with me for a constitutional?"
Roland got up, walked into the hall, picked up his hat and stick.
"Right you are, father; I'm ready."
It was the same thing every day. At eight-thirty-five Mr Whately caught
a bus at the corner of the High Street. He had never been known to miss
it. On the rare occasions when he was a few seconds late the driver
would wait till he saw the panting little figure come running round
the corner, trying to look dignified in spite of the top hat that
bobbed from one side of his head to the other. From nine o'clock till a
quarter-past five Mr Whately worked at a desk, with an hour's interval
for lunch. Every evening he went for an hour's walk; for half-an-hour
before dinner he read the evening paper. After dinner he would play a
game of patience and smoke his pipe. Occasionally a friend would drop in
for a chat; very occasionally he would go out himself. At ten o'clock
sharp he went to bed. Every Saturday afternoon he attended a public
performance of either cricket or football according to the season.
Roland often wondered how he could stand it. What had he to look forward
to? What did he think about when he sat over the fire puffing at his
pipe. And his mother. How monotonous her life appeared to him. Yet
she seemed always happy enough: she never grumbled. Roland could not
understand it. Whatever happened, he would take jolly good care that he
never ran into a groove like that. They had loved each other well enough
once, he supposed, but now--oh, well, love was the privilege of youth.
Father and son walked in silence. They were fond of each other;
they liked being together; Mr Whately was very proud of his son's
achievements; but their affection was never expressed in words. After a
while they began to talk of indifferent things, guessing at each other's
thoughts: a relationship of intuitions. They passed along the High
Street and, turning behind the shops, walked down a long street of small
red-brick villas with stucco fronts.
"Don't you think we ought to go in and see the Curtises?" Mr Whately
asked.
"I don't know. I hadn't meant to. I thought...."
"I think you ought to, you know, your first day; they'd be rather
offended if you didn't. April asked me when you were coming back."
And so Roland was bound to abandon his virtuous resolution.
It was not a particularly jolly evening before Ralph arrived. Afterwards
it was a good deal worse.
In the old days, when father and son had paid an evening visit, Roland
had run straight up to the nursery and enjoyed himself, but now he had
to sit in the drawing-room, which was a very different matter. He did
not like Mrs Curtis: he never had liked her, but she had not troubled
him in the days when she had been a mere voice below the banisters. Now
he had to sit in the small drawing-room, with its shut windows, and hear
her voice cleave through the clammy atmosphere in languid, pathetic
cadences; a sentimental voice, and under the sentiment a hard, cold
cruelty. Her person was out of keeping with her voice; it should have
been plump and comfortable-looking; instead it was tall, thin, angular,
all over points, like a hat-rack in a restaurant: a terrible bedfellow.
And she talked, heavens! how she talked. It was usually about her
children.
"Dear Arthur, he's getting on so well at school. Do you know what his
headmaster said about him in his report?"
"Oh, but, mother, please," Arthur would protest.
"No, dear, be quiet: I know Mr Whately would like to hear. The
headmaster said, Mr Whately...." Then it was her daughter's turn.
"And April too, Mr Whately, she's getting on so well with her drawing
lessons. Mr Hamilton was only saying to me yesterday...."
It was not surprising that Roland was less keen now on going round
there. It was little fun for him after all to sit and listen while she
talked, to see his father so utterly complacent, with his "Yes, Mrs
Curtis," and his "Really, Mrs Curtis," and to look at poor April huddled
in the window-seat, so bored, so ashamed, her eyes meeting his with a
look that said: "Don't worry about her, don't take any notice of what
she says. I'm not like that." Once or twice he tried to talk to her,
but it was no use: her mother would interrupt, would bring them back
into the circle of her own egotism. In her own drawing-room she would
tolerate nothing independent of herself.
"Yes, Roland; what was it you were saying? The Saundersons' dance? Of
course April will be going. They're very old friends of ours, the
Saundersons. Mr Saunderson thinks such a lot of Arthur too. You know, Mr
Whately, I met him in the High Street the other afternoon and he said to
me, 'How's that clever son of yours getting on, Mrs Curtis?'"
"Really, Mrs Curtis."
"Yes, really, Mr Whately."
It was at this point that Ralph arrived.
His look of surprised displeasure was obvious to everyone. But knowing
Ralph, they mistook it for awkwardness. He did not like company, and his
shyness was apparent as he stood in the doorway in an ill-fitting suit,
with trousers that bagged at the knees, and with the front part of his
hair smarmed across his forehead with one hurried sweep of a damp brush,
at right angles to the rest of his hair, that fell perpendicularly from
the crown of his head.
"Come along, Ralph," said April, and made room for him in the
window-seat. She treated him with an amused condescension. He was so
clumsy; a dear fellow, so easy to rag. "And how did your exam. go?" she
asked.
"All right."
"No; but really, tell me about it. What were the maths like?"
"Not so bad."
"And the geography? You were so nervous about that."
"I didn't do badly."
"And the Latin and the Greek? I want to know all about it."
"You don't, really?"
"Yes, but I do."
"No, you don't," he said impatiently. "You'd much rather hear about
Roland and all the things he does at Fernhurst."
There was a moment of difficult silence, then April said quite quietly:
"You are quite right, Ralph; as a matter of fact I should"; and she
turned towards Roland, but before she could say anything, Mrs Curtis
once more assumed her monopoly of the conversation.
"Yes, Roland, you've told us nothing about that, and how you got your
firsts. We were so proud of you too. And you never wrote to tell us. If
it hadn't been for your father we should never have known." And for the
next half-hour her voice flowed on placidly, while Ralph sat in a frenzy
of self-pity and self-contempt, and Roland longed for an opportunity to
kick him, and April looked out between the half-drawn curtains towards
the narrow line of sky that lay darkly over the long stretch of roofs
and chimney-pots, happy that Roland's holidays had begun, regretting
wistfully that childhood was finished for them, that they could no
longer play their own games in the nursery, that they had become part of
the ambitions of their parents.
When at last they rose to go, Ralph lingered for a moment in the
doorway; he could not go home till April had forgiven him.
She stood on the top of the step, looking down the street to Roland, her
heart still beating a little quickly, still disturbed by that pressure
of the hand and that sudden uncomfortable meeting of the eyes when he
had said "Good-bye." She did not notice Ralph till he began to speak to
her.
"I am awfully sorry I was so rude to you, April. I'm rather tired. I
didn't mean to offend you. I wouldn't have done it for worlds."
She turned to him with a quiet smile.
"Oh, don't worry about that," she said, "that's nothing."
And he could see that to her it was indeed nothing, that she had not
thought twice about it. That nothing he said or did was of the least
concern to her. He would much rather that she had been angry.
* * * * *
Next day Ralph came round to the Whatelys' soon after breakfast.
"Well, feeling more peaceful to-day, old friend?" Ralph looked at Roland
in impotent annoyance. As he knew of old, Roland was an impossible
person to have a row with. He simply would not fight. He either agreed
to everything you said or else brushed away your arguments with a
good-natured "All right, old man, all right!" On this occasion, however,
he felt that he must make a stand.
"You're the limit," he said; "the absolute limit."
"I don't know about that, but I think you were last night."
"Oh, don't joke about it. You know what I mean. I think it's pretty
rotten for a fellow like you to go about with a shop-assistant, but
that's not really the thing. What's simply beastly is your coming back
to April as though nothing had happened. What would she say if she
knew?"
Roland refused to acknowledge omniscience. "I don't know," he said.
"She wouldn't be pleased, would she?" Ralph persisted.
"I don't suppose so."
"No; well then, there you are; you oughtn't to do anything you think she
mightn't like."
Roland looked at him with a sad patience, as a preparatory schoolmaster
at a refractory infant.
"But, my dear fellow, we're not married, and we're not engaged. Surely
we can do more or less what we like."
"But would you be pleased if you learned that she'd been carrying on
with someone else?"
Roland admitted that he would not.
"Then why should you think you owe nothing to her?"
"It's different, my dear Ralph; it's quite different."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is. Boys can do things that girls can't. A flirtation means
very little to a boy; it means a good deal to a girl--at least it ought
to. If it doesn't, it means that she's had too much of it."
"But I don't see----" began Ralph.
"Come on, come on; don't let's go all over that again. We shall never
agree. Let me go my way and you can go yours. We are too old friends to
quarrel about a thing like this."
Most boys would have been annoyed by Ralph's attempt at interference,
but it took a great deal to ruffle Roland's lazy, equable good nature.
He did not believe in rows. He liked to keep things running smoothly.
He could never understand the people who were always wanting to stir up
trouble. He did not really care enough either way. His tolerance might
have been called indifference, but it possessed, at any rate, a genuine
charm. The other fellow always felt what a thundering good chap Roland
was--so good-tempered, such a gentleman, never harbouring a grievance.
People knew where they were with him; when he said a thing was over it
was over.
"All right," said Ralph grudgingly. "I don't know that it's quite the
game----"
"Don't worry. We're a long way from anything serious. A good deal's got
to happen before we're come to the age when we can't do what we like."
And they talked of other things.
CHAPTER IV
A KISS
April sat for a long while before the looking-glass wondering whether
to tie a blue or a white ribbon in her hair. She tried one and then the
other and paused irresolute. It was the evening of the Saundersons'
dance, to which for weeks she had been looking forward, and she was
desperately anxious to look pretty. It would be a big affair: ices
and claret-cup and a band, and Roland would be there. They had seen a
lot of each other during the holidays--nearly every day. Often they
had felt awkward in each other's company; there had been embarrassing
silences, when their eyes would meet suddenly and quickly turn away;
and then there would come an unexpected interlude of calm, harmonious
friendship, when they would talk openly and naturally to each other and
would sit afterwards for a long while silent, softened and tranquillised
by the presence of some unknown influence--moments of rare gentleness
and sympathy. April could not help feeling that they were on the edge
of something definite, some incident of avowal. She did not know what,
but she felt that something was about to happen. She was flustered and
expectant and eager to look pretty for Roland on this great evening.
She had chosen a very simple dress, a white muslin frock, that left
bare her arms and throat, and was trimmed with pale blue ribbon at the
neck and elbow; her stockings, too, were white, but her shoes and her
sash a vivid, unexpected scarlet. She turned round slowly before the
glass and smiled happily at her clear, fresh girlhood, tossing back
her head, so that her hair was shaken out over her shoulders. Surely
he would think her beautiful to-night. With eager fingers she tied the
blue ribbon in her hair, turned again slowly before the glass, smiled,
shook out her hair, and laughed happily. Yes, she would wear the blue--a
subdued, quiet colour, that faded naturally into the warm brown. She ran
downstairs for her family's approval, stood before her mother and turned
a slow circle.
"Well, mother?"
Mrs Curtis examined her critically.
"Of course, dear, I'm quite certain that you'll be the prettiest girl
there whatever you wear."
"What do you mean, mother?"
"Well, April dear, of course I know you think you know best, but that
white frock--it is so very simple."
"But simple things suit me, mother."
"I know they do, dear; you look sweet in anything; but at a big
dance like this, where there'll be so many smart people, they might
think--well, I don't know, dear, but it is very quiet, isn't it?"
The moment before April had been happy and excited, and now she was
crushed and humiliated. She sat down on the edge of a chair, gazing with
pathetic pity at her brilliant shoes.
"You've spoilt it all," she said.
"No, dear. I'm sure you'll be thankful to me when you get there. Now,
why don't you run upstairs and put on that nice mauve frock of yours?"
April shook her shoulders.
"I don't like mauve."
"Well then, dear, there's the green and yellow; you always look nice in
that."
It was a bright affair that her mother had seen at a sale in Brixton
and bought at once because it was so cheap. It had never really suited
April, whose delicate features needed a simple setting; but her mother
did not like to feel that she had made a mistake, and having persuaded
herself that the green and yellow was the right colour, and matched
her daughter's eyes, had insisted on April's wearing it as often as
possible.
"Yes, my dear, the green and yellow. I'm sure I'm right. Now hurry up;
the cab will be here in ten minutes."
April walked upstairs slowly. She hated that green and yellow; she
always had hated it. She took it down from the wardrobe and, holding
the ends of the sleeves, stretched out her arms on either side so that
the green and yellow dress covered her completely, and then she stood
looking at it in the glass.
How blatant, how decorative it was, with its bows and ribbons and
slashed sleeves. There were some girls whom it would suit--big girls
with high complexions and full figures. But it wasn't her dress, it
spoilt her. She let it slip from her fingers; it fell rustling to the
floor, and once again the glass reflected her in a plain white frock,
and once again she tossed back her head, and once again the slow
smile of satisfaction played across her lips. And as she stood there
with outstretched arms, for one inspired moment of revelation, during
which the beating of her heart was stilled, she saw how beautiful she
would one day be to the man for whom with such a gesture she would be
delivered to his love. A deep flush coloured her neck and face, a flush
of triumphant pride, of wakening womanhood. Then with a quick, impatient
movement of her scarlet shoes she kicked the yellow dress away from her.
Why should she wear it? She dressed to please herself and not her
mother. She knew best what suited her. What would happen if she
disobeyed her? Would anyone ever know? She could manage to slip out when
no one was looking. Annie would be sent to fetch her, but they would
come back after everyone had gone to bed.
She sat on the edge of her bed and toyed with the thought of rebellion.
It would be horribly exciting. It would be the naughtiest thing she had
done in her life. She had never yet disobeyed deliberately anyone who
had authority over her. She had lost her temper in the nursery; she had
been insolent to her nurses; she had pretended not to hear when she had
been called; but never this: never had she sat down and decided in cold
blood to disregard authority.
There was a knock at the door.
"Yes. Who's that?"
"It's only me--mother. Can I help you, dear?"
"No thank you, mother, I'm all right."
"Quite sure?"
"Quite."
April heard her mother slowly descend the stairs, then heaved a sigh of
half-proud, half-guilty relief. She was glad she had managed to get out
of it without actually telling a lie. She sat still and waited, till at
last she heard the crunch of a cab drawing up outside the house. She
wrapped herself tightly in her coat, tiptoed to the door, opened it and
listened. She could hear her mother's voice in the passage. Quietly she
stole out on to the landing, quietly ran downstairs and across the hall,
fumbled for the door handle, found it, turned it, and pulled it quickly
behind her. It was done; she was free. As she ran down the steps she
heard a window open behind her and her mother's voice:
"Who's that? What is it? Oh, you, April. You might have come to see me
before you went. A happy evening to you."
April could not trust herself to speak; she ran down the steps, jumped
into the cab and sank back into the corner of the cushioned seat. Her
breath came quickly and unevenly, her breasts heaved and fell. She could
have almost cried with excitement.
It had been worth it, though. She knew that beyond doubt a quarter of an
hour later, when she walked into the ballroom and saw the look of sudden
admiration that came into Roland's eyes when he saw her for the first
time across the room. He came straight over to her.
"How many dances may I have?" he asked.
"Well, there's No. 11."
"No. 11? Let me have a look at your card."
"No, of course you mustn't."
"Yes, of course. Why, I don't believe you have got one!"
"Yes, I have," she said, and held it up to him. In a second it was in
his hand, as indeed she had intended that it should be.
"Well, now," said Roland, "as far as I can see you've got only Nos. 6,
7, 14 and 15 engaged; that leaves fourteen for me."
"Well, you can have the four," she laughed.
In the end she gave him six. "And if I've any over you shall have them,"
she promised.
"Well you know there won't be," and their eyes met in a moment of quiet
intimacy.
As soon as he had gone other partners crowded round her. In a very short
while her programme was filled right up, the five extras as well. She
had left No. 17 vacant; it was the last waltz. She felt that she might
like Roland to have it, but was not sure. She didn't quite know why, but
she felt she would leave it open.
It was a splendid dance. As the evening passed, her face flushed and
her eyes brightened, and it was delightful to slip from the heat of the
ballroom on to the wide balcony and feel the cool of the air on her bare
arms. She danced once with Ralph, and as they sat out afterwards she
could almost feel the touch of his eyes on her. Poor Ralph; he was so
clumsy. How absurd it was of him to be in love with her. As if she could
ever care for him. She felt no pity. She accepted his admiration as a
queen accepts a subject's loyalty; it was the right due to her beauty,
to the eager flow of life that sustained her on this night of triumph.
And every dance with Roland seemed to bring her nearer to the wonderful
moment to which she had so long looked forward. When she was dancing
with Ralph, Roland's eyes would follow her all round the room, smiling
when they met hers. And when they danced together they seemed to share a
secret with one another, a secret still unrevealed.
Through the languid ecstasy of a waltz the words that he murmured into
her ear had no relation with their accepted sense. He was not repeating
a piece of trivial gossip, a pun, a story he had heard at school; he was
wooing her in their own way, in their own time. And afterwards as they
sat on the edge of the balcony, looking out over the roofs and lights
of London, she began to tell him about her dress and the trouble that
she had had with her mother. "She said I ought to wear a horrid thing
with yellow and green stripes that doesn't suit me in the least. And I
wouldn't. I stole out of the house when she wasn't looking."
"You look wonderful to-night," he said.
He leant forward and their hands touched; his little finger intertwined
itself round hers. She felt his warm breath upon her face.
"Do I?" she whispered. "It's all for you."
In another moment he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her,
and she would have responded naturally. They had reached that moment to
which the course of the courtship had tended, that point when a kiss is
involuntary, that point that can never come again. But just as his hands
stretched out to her the band struck up; he rested his hand on hers and
pressed it.
"We shall have to go," he whispered.
"Yes."
"But the next but one."
"No. 16."
But the magic of that one moment had passed; they had left behind
them the possibility of spontaneous action. They were no longer part
of the natural rhythm of their courtship. All through the next dance
he kept saying to himself: "I shall have to kiss her the next time. I
shall. I know I shall. I must pull myself together." He felt puzzled,
frightened and excited, so that when the time came he was both nervous
and self-conscious. The magic had gone, yet each felt that something
was expected of them. Roland tried to pull himself together; to remind
himself that if he didn't kiss her now she would never forgive him;
that there was nothing in it; that he had kissed Dolly a hundred times
and thought nothing of it. But it was not the same thing; that was
shallow and trivial; this was genuine; real emotion was at stake. He did
not know what to do. As they sat out after the dance he tried to make
a bet with himself, to say, "I'll count ten and then I'll do it." He
stretched out his hand to hers, and it lay in his limp and uninspired.
"April," he whispered, "April."
She turned her head from him. He leant forward, hesitated for a moment,
then kissed her awkwardly upon the neck. She did not move. He felt he
must do something. He put his arm round her, trying to turn her face to
his, but she pulled away from him. He tried to kiss her, and his chin
scratched the soft skin of her cheek, his nose struck hers, her mouth
half opened, and her teeth jarred against his lips. It was a failure, a
dismal failure.
She pushed him away angrily.
"Go away! go away!" she said. "What are you doing? What do you mean by
it? I hate you; go away!"
All the excitement of the evening turned into violent hatred; she was
half hysterical. She had been worked up to a point, and had been let
down. She was not angry with him because he had tried to kiss her, but
because he had chosen the wrong moment, because he had failed to move
her.
"But, April, I'm sorry, April."
"Oh, go away; leave me alone, leave me alone."
"But, April." He put his hand upon her arm, and she swung round upon him
fiercely.
"Didn't I tell you I wanted to be left alone. I don't know how you
dared. Do leave me."
She walked quickly past him into the ballroom, and seeing Ralph at
the far end of it went up and asked him, to that young gentleman's
exhilarated amazement, whether he was free for No. 17, and if he was
whether he would like to dance it with her. She wore a brave smile
through the rest of the evening and danced all her five extras.
But when she was home again, had climbed the silent stairs, and turning
up the light in her bedroom saw, lying on the floor, the discarded green
and yellow dress, she broke down, and flinging herself upon the bed
sobbed long and bitterly. She was not angry with Roland, nor her mother,
nor even with herself, but with life, with that cruel force that had
filled her with such eager boundless expectation, only in the end to
fling her down, to trample on her happiness, to mock her disenchantment.
Never as long as she lived would she forget the shame, the unspeakable
shame, and degradation of that evening.
CHAPTER V
A POTENTIAL DIPLOMAT
Roland returned to school with the uncomfortable feeling that he had
not made the most of his holidays. He had failed with April; he had not
been on the best of terms with Ralph; and he had found the last week or
so--after the Saundersons' dance--a little tedious. He was never sorry
to go back to school; on this occasion he was positively glad.
In many ways the Easter term was the best of the three; it was agreeably
short; there were the house matches, the steeplechases, the sports and
then, at the end of it, spring; those wonderful mornings at the end of
March when one woke to see the courts vivid with sunshine, the lindens
trembling on the verge of green; when one thought of the summer and
cricket and bathing and the long, cool evenings. And as Howard had now
left, there was nothing to molest his enjoyment of these good things.
He decided, after careful deliberation, to keep it up with Dolly. There
had been moments during the holidays when he had sworn to break with
her; it would be quite easy now that Howard had left. And often during
an afternoon in April's company the idea of embracing Dolly had been
repulsive to him. But he had been piqued by April's behaviour at the
dance, and his conduct was not ordered by a carefully-thought-out code
of morals. He responded to the atmosphere of the moment; his emotion,
while the moment that inspired it lasted, was sincere.
And so every Sunday afternoon he used to bicycle out towards Yeovil and
meet Dolly on the edge of a little wood. They would wheel their machines
inside and sit together in the shelter of the hedge. They did not talk
much; there was not much for them to discuss. But she would take off
her hat and lean her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her
as much as he wanted. She was not responsive, but then Roland hardly
expected it. His small experience of the one-sided romances of school
life had led him to believe that love was a thing of male desire and
gracious, womanly compliance. He never thought that anyone would want
to kiss him. He would look at his reflection in the glass and marvel at
the inelegance of his features--an ordinary face with ordinary eyes,
ordinary nose, ordinary mouth. Of his hair certainly he was proud; it
was a triumph. But he doubted whether Dolly appreciated the care with
which he had trained it to lie back from his forehead in one immaculate
wave. She had, indeed, asked him to give up brilliantine.
"It's so hard and smarmy," she complained; "I can't run my fingers
through it."
The one good point about him was certainly lost on Dolly. He wondered
whether April liked it. April and Dolly! It was hard to think of the
two together. What would April say if she were to hear about Dolly?
It was the theme Ralph was always driving at him like a nail, with
heavy, ponderous blows. An interesting point. What would April say?
He considered the question, not as a possible criticism of his own
conduct, but as the material for an intriguing, dramatic situation. It
would be hard to make her see the difference. "I'm a girl and she's a
girl and you want to kiss us both."
|
Tell. "William will stay with you, won't
you, William?"
"All right, father," said William.
"Well, mark my words," said Hedwig, "if something bad does not happen I
shall be surprised."
"Oh no," said Tell. "What can happen?"
And without further delay he set off with Walter for the town.
CHAPTER VI
In the meantime all kinds of things of which Tell had no suspicion had
been happening in the town. The fact that there were no newspapers in
Switzerland at that time often made him a little behindhand as regarded
the latest events. He had to depend, as a rule, on visits from his
friends, who would sit in his kitchen and tell him all about everything
that had been going on for the last few days. And, of course, when
there was anything very exciting happening in the town, nobody had time
to trudge up the hill to Tell's châlet. They all wanted to be in the
town enjoying the fun.
What had happened now was this. It was the chief amusement of the
Governor, Gessler (who, you will remember, was _not_ a nice man),
when he had a few moments to spare from the cares of governing, to sit
down and think out some new way of annoying the Swiss people. He was
one of those persons who
"only do it to annoy,
Because they know it teases."
What he liked chiefly was to forbid something. He would find out what
the people most enjoyed doing, and then he would send a herald to say
that he was very sorry, but it must stop. He found that this annoyed
the Swiss more than anything. But now he was rather puzzled what to do,
for he had forbidden everything he could think of. He had forbidden
dancing and singing, and playing on any sort of musical instrument, on
the ground that these things made such a noise, and disturbed people
who wanted to work. He had forbidden the eating of everything except
bread and the simplest sorts of meat, because he said that anything
else upset people, and made them unfit to do anything except sit still
and say how ill they were. And he had forbidden all sorts of games,
because he said they were a waste of time.
So that now, though he wanted dreadfully to forbid something else, he
could not think of anything.
Then he had an idea, and this was it:
He told his servants to cut a long pole. And they cut a very long pole.
Then he said to them, "Go into the hall and bring me one of my hats.
Not my best hat, which I wear on Sundays and on State occasions; nor
yet my second-best, which I wear every day; nor yet, again, the one I
wear when I am out hunting, for all these I need. Fetch me, rather, the
oldest of my hats." And they fetched him the very oldest of his hats.
Then he said, "Put it on top of the pole." And they put it right on top
of the pole. And, last of all, he said, "Go and set up the pole in the
middle of the meadow just outside the gates of the town." And they went
and set up the pole in the very middle of the meadow just outside the
gates of the town.
Then he sent his heralds out to north and south and east and west to
summon the people together, because he said he had something very
important and special to say to them. And the people came in tens, and
fifties, and hundreds, men, women, and children; and they stood waiting
in front of the Palace steps till Gessler the Governor should come out
and say something very important and special to them.
And punctually at eleven o'clock, Gessler, having finished a capital
breakfast, came out on to the top step and spoke to them.
"Ladies and gentlemen,"--he began. (A voice from the crowd: "Speak
up!")
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began again, in a louder voice, "if I could
catch the man who said 'Speak up!' I would have him bitten in the neck
by wild elephants. (Applause.) I have called you to this place to-day
to explain to you my reason for putting up a pole, on the top of which
is one of my caps, in the meadow just outside the city gates. It is
this: You all, I know, respect and love me." Here he paused for the
audience to cheer, but as they remained quite silent he went on: "You
would all, I know, like to come to my Palace every day and do reverence
to me. (A voice: 'No, no!') If I could catch the man who said 'No, no!'
I would have him stung on the soles of the feet by pink scorpions; and
if he was the same man who said 'Speak up!' a little while ago, the
number of scorpions should be doubled. (Loud applause.) As I was saying
before I was interrupted, I know you would like to come to my Palace
and do reverence to me there. But, as you are many and space is
limited, I am obliged to refuse you that pleasure. However, being
anxious not to disappoint you, I have set up my cap in the meadow, and
you may do reverence to _that_. In fact, you _must_. Everybody is
to look on that cap as if it were me. (A voice: 'It ain't so ugly as
you!') If I could catch the man who made that remark I would have him
tied up and teased by trained bluebottles. (Deafening applause.) In
fact, to put the matter briefly, if anybody crosses that meadow without
bowing down before that cap, my soldiers will arrest him, and I will
have him pecked on the nose by infuriated blackbirds. So there!
Soldiers, move that crowd on!"
And Gessler disappeared indoors again, just as a volley of eggs and
cabbages whistled through the air. And the soldiers began to hustle the
crowd down the various streets till the open space in front of the
Palace gates was quite cleared of them. All this happened the day
before Tell and Walter set out for the town.
CHAPTER VII
Having set up the pole and cap in the meadow, Gessler sent two of his
bodyguard, Friesshardt (I should think you would be safe in pronouncing
this Freeze-hard, but you had better ask somebody who knows) and
Leuthold, to keep watch there all day, and see that nobody passed by
without kneeling down before the pole and taking off his hat to it.
But the people, who prided themselves on being what they called
_üppen zie schnuffen_, or, as we should say, "up to snuff," and
equal to every occasion, had already seen a way out of the difficulty.
They knew that if they crossed the meadow they must bow down before the
pole, which they did not want to do, so it occurred to them that an
ingenious way of preventing this would be not to cross the meadow. So
they went the long way round, and the two soldiers spent a lonely day.
"What I sez," said Friesshardt, "is, wot's the use of us wasting our
time here?" (Friesshardt was not a very well-educated man, and he did
not speak good grammar.) "None of these here people ain't a-going to
bow down to that there hat. Of course they ain't. Why, I can remember
the time when this meadow was like a fair--everybody a-shoving and
a-jostling one another for elbow-room; and look at it now! It's a desert.
That's what it is, a desert. What's the good of us wasting of our time
here, I sez. That's what I sez.
"And they're artful, too, mind yer," he continued. "Why, only this
morning, I sez to myself, 'Friesshardt,' I sez, 'you just wait till
twelve o'clock,' I sez, ''cos that's when they leave the council-house,
and then they'll _have_ to cross the meadow. And then we'll see
what we _shall_ see,' I sez. Like that, I sez. Bitter-like, yer
know. 'We'll see,' I sez, 'what we _shall_ see.' So I waited, and
at twelve o'clock out they came, dozens of them, and began to cross the
meadow. 'And now,' sez I to myself, 'look out for larks.' But what
happened? Why, when they came to the pole, the priest stood in front of
it, and the sacristan rang the bell, and they all fell down on their
knees. But they were saying their prayers, not doing obeisance to the
hat. That's what _they_ were doing. Artful--that's what _they_ are!"
And Friesshardt kicked the foot of the pole viciously with his iron
boot.
"It's my belief," said Leuthold (Leuthold is the thin soldier you see
in the picture)--"it's my firm belief that they are laughing at us.
There! Listen to that!"
A voice made itself heard from behind a rock not far off.
"Where did you get that hat?" said the voice.
"There!" grumbled Leuthold; "they're always at it. Last time it was,
'Who's your hatter?' Why, we're the laughing-stock of the place. We're
like two rogues in a pillory. 'Tis rank disgrace for one who wears a
sword to stand as sentry o'er an empty hat. To make obeisance to a hat!
I' faith, such a command is downright foolery!"
"Well," said Friesshardt, "and why not bow before an empty hat? Thou
hast oft bow'd before an empty skull. Ha, ha! I was always one for a
joke, yer know."
"Here come some people," said Leuthold. "At last! And they're only the
rabble, after all. You don't catch any of the better sort of people
coming here."
A crowd was beginning to collect on the edge of the meadow. Its numbers
swelled every minute, until quite a hundred of the commoner sort must
have been gathered together. They stood pointing at the pole and
talking among themselves, but nobody made any movement to cross the
meadow.
At last somebody shouted "Yah!"
The soldiers took no notice.
Somebody else cried "Booh!"'
"Pass along there, pass along!" said the soldiers.
Cries of "Where did you get that hat?" began to come from the body of
the crowd. When the Swiss invented a catch-phrase they did not drop it
in a hurry.
"Where--did--you--get--that--HAT?" they shouted.
Friesshardt and Leuthold stood like two statues in armour, paying no
attention to the remarks of the rabble. This annoyed the rabble. They
began to be more personal.
"You in the second-hand lobster-tin," shouted one--he meant
Friesshardt, whose suit of armour, though no longer new, hardly
deserved this description--"who's your hatter?"
"Can't yer see," shouted a friend, when Friesshardt made no reply, "the
pore thing ain't alive? 'E's stuffed!"
Roars of laughter greeted this sally. Friesshardt, in spite of the fact
that he enjoyed a joke, turned pink.
"'E's blushing!" shrieked a voice.
Friesshardt turned purple.
Then things got still more exciting.
"'Ere," said a rough voice in the crowd impatiently, "wot's the good of
_torkin'_ to 'em? Gimme that 'ere egg, missus!"
And in another instant an egg flew across the meadow, and burst over
Leuthold's shoulder. The crowd howled with delight. This was something
_like_ fun, thought they, and the next moment eggs, cabbages,
cats, and missiles of every sort darkened the air. The two soldiers
raved and shouted, but did not dare to leave their post. At last, just
as the storm was at its height, it ceased, as if by magic. Everyone in
the crowd turned round, and, as he turned, jumped into the air and
waved his hat.
[Illustration: PLATE III]
A deafening cheer went up.
"Hurrah!" cried the mob; "here comes good old Tell! _Now_ there's
going to be a jolly row!"
CHAPTER VIII
Tell came striding along, Walter by his side, and his cross-bow over
his shoulder. He knew nothing about the hat having been placed on the
pole, and he was surprised to see such a large crowd gathered in the
meadow. He bowed to the crowd in his polite way, and the crowd gave
three cheers and one more, and he bowed again.
"Hullo!" said Walter suddenly; "look at that hat up there, father. On
the pole."
"What is the hat to us?" said Tell; and he began to walk across the
meadow with an air of great dignity, and Walter walked by his side,
trying to look just like him.
"Here! hi!" shouted the soldiers. "Stop! You haven't bowed down to the
cap."
[Illustration: PLATE IV]
Tell looked scornful, but said nothing. Walter looked still more
scornful.
"Ho, there!" shouted Friesshardt, standing in front of him. "I bid you
stand in the Emperor's name."
"My good fellow," said Tell, "please do not bother me. I am in a hurry.
I really have nothing for you."
"My orders is," said Friesshardt, "to stand in this 'ere meadow and to
see as how all them what passes through it does obeisance to that there
hat. Them's Governor's orders, them is. So now."
"My good fellow," said Tell, "let me pass. I shall get cross, I know I
shall."
Shouts of encouragement from the crowd, who were waiting patiently for
the trouble to begin.
"Go it, Tell!" they cried. "Don't stand talking to him. Hit him a
kick!"
Friesshardt became angrier every minute.
"My orders is," he said again, "to arrest them as don't bow down to the
hat, and for two pins, young feller, I'll arrest you. So which is it to
be? Either you bow down to that there hat or you come along of me."
Tell pushed him aside, and walked on with his chin in the air. Walter
went with him, with his chin in the air.
WHACK!
A howl of dismay went up from the crowd as they saw Friesshardt raise
his pike and bring it down with all his force on Tell's head. The sound
of the blow went echoing through the meadow and up the hills and down
the valleys.
[Illustration: PLATE V]
"Ow!" cried Tell.
"_Now_," thought the crowd, "things must begin to get exciting."
Tell's first idea was that one of the larger mountains in the
neighbourhood had fallen on top of him. Then he thought that there must
have been an earthquake. Then it gradually dawned upon him that he had
been hit by a mere common soldier with a pike. Then he _was_
angry.
"Look here!" he began.
"Look there!" said Friesshardt, pointing to the cap.
[Illustration: PLATE VI]
"You've hurt my head very much," said Tell. "Feel the bump. If I hadn't
happened to have a particularly hard head I don't know what might not
have happened;" and he raised his fist and hit Friesshardt; but as
Friesshardt was wearing a thick iron helmet the blow did not hurt him
very much.
But it had the effect of bringing the crowd to Tell's assistance. They
had been waiting all this time for him to begin the fighting, for
though they were very anxious to attack the soldiers, they did not like
to do so by themselves. They wanted a leader.
So when they saw Tell hit Friesshardt, they tucked up their sleeves,
grasped their sticks and cudgels more tightly, and began to run across
the meadow towards him.
Neither of the soldiers noticed this. Friesshardt was busy arguing with
Tell, and Leuthold was laughing at Friesshardt. So when the people came
swarming up with their sticks and cudgels they were taken by surprise.
But every soldier in the service of Gessler was as brave as a lion, and
Friesshardt and Leuthold were soon hitting back merrily, and making a
good many of the crowd wish that they had stayed at home. The two
soldiers were wearing armour, of course, so that it was difficult to
hurt them; but the crowd, who wore no armour, found that _they_
could get hurt very easily. Conrad Hunn, for instance, was attacking
Friesshardt, when the soldier happened to drop his pike. It fell on
Conrad's toe, and Conrad limped away, feeling that fighting was no fun
unless you had thick boots on.
And so for a time the soldiers had the best of the fight.
CHAPTER IX
For many minutes the fight raged furiously round the pole, and the
earth shook beneath the iron boots of Friesshardt and Leuthold as they
rushed about, striking out right and left with their fists and the
flats of their pikes. Seppi the cowboy (an ancestor, by the way, of
Buffalo Bill) went down before a tremendous blow by Friesshardt, and
Leuthold knocked Klaus von der Flue head over heels.
"What you _want_" said Arnold of Sewa, who had seen the beginning
of the fight from the window of his cottage and had hurried to join it,
and, as usual, to give advice to everybody--"what you want here is
guile. That's what you want--guile, cunning. Not brute force, mind you.
It's no good rushing at a man in armour and hitting him. He only hits
you back. You should employ guile. Thus. Observe."
He had said these words standing on the outskirts of the crowd. He now
grasped his cudgel and began to steal slowly towards Friesshardt, who
had just given Werni the huntsman such a hit with his pike that the
sound of it was still echoing in the mountains, and was now busily
engaged in disposing of Jost Weiler. Arnold of Sewa crept stealthily
behind him, and was just about to bring his cudgel down on his head,
when Leuthold, catching sight of him, saved his comrade by driving his
pike with all his force into Arnold's side. Arnold said afterwards that
it completely took his breath away. He rolled over, and after being
trodden on by everybody for some minutes, got up and limped back to his
cottage, where he went straight to bed, and did not get up for two
days.
All this time Tell had been standing a little way off with his arms
folded, looking on. While it was a quarrel simply between himself and
Friesshardt he did not mind fighting. But when the crowd joined in he
felt that it was not fair to help so many men attack one, however badly
that one might have behaved.
He now saw that the time had come to put an end to the disturbance. He
drew an arrow from his quiver, placed it in his crossbow, and pointed
it at the hat. Friesshardt, seeing what he intended to do, uttered a
shout of horror and rushed to stop him. But at that moment somebody in
the crowd hit him so hard with a spade that his helmet was knocked over
his eyes, and before he could raise it again the deed was done. Through
the cap and through the pole and out at the other side sped the arrow.
And the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Tell standing
beside him twirling his moustache, while all around the crowd danced
and shouted and threw their caps into the air with joy.
[Illustration: PLATE VII]
[Illustration: PLATE VIII]
"A mere trifle," said Tell modestly.
The crowd cheered again and again.
Friesshardt and Leuthold lay on the ground beside the pole, feeling
very sore and bruised, and thought that perhaps, on the whole, they had
better stay there. There was no knowing what the crowd might do after
this, if they began to fight again. So they lay on the ground and made
no attempt to interfere with the popular rejoicings. What they
_wanted_, as Arnold of Sewa might have said if he had been there,
was a few moments' complete rest. Leuthold's helmet had been hammered
with sticks until it was over his eyes and all out of shape, and
Friesshardt's was very little better. And they both felt just as if
they had been run over in the street by a horse and cart.
"Tell!" shouted the crowd. "Hurrah for Tell! Good old Tell!"
"Tell's the boy!" roared Ulric the smith. "Not another man in
Switzerland could have made that shot."
"No," shrieked everybody, "not another!"
"Speech!" cried someone from the edge of the crowd.
"Speech! Speech! Tell, speech!" Everybody took up the cry.
"No, no," said Tell, blushing.
"Go on, go on!" shouted the crowd.
"Oh, I couldn't," said Tell; "I don't know what to say."
"Anything will do. Speech! Speech!"
Ulric the smith and Ruodi the fisherman hoisted Tell on to their
shoulders, and, having coughed once or twice, he said:
"Gentlemen--"
Cheers from the crowd.
"Gentlemen," said Tell again, "this is the proudest moment of my life."
More cheers.
"I don't know what you want me to talk about. I have never made a
speech before. Excuse my emotion. This is the proudest moment of my
life. To-day is a great day for Switzerland. We have struck the first
blow of the revolution. Let us strike some more."
Shouts of "Hear, hear!" from the crowd, many of whom, misunderstanding
Tell's last remark, proceeded to hit Leuthold and Friesshardt, until
stopped by cries of "Order!" from Ulric the smith.
"Gentlemen," continued Tell, "the floodgates of revolution have been
opened. From this day they will stalk through the land burning to ashes
the slough of oppression which our tyrant Governor has erected in our
midst. I have only to add that this is the proudest moment of my life,
and----"
He was interrupted by a frightened voice.
"Look out, you chaps," said the voice; "here comes the Governor!"
Gessler, with a bodyguard of armed men, had entered the meadow, and was
galloping towards them.
CHAPTER X
Gessler came riding up on his brown horse, and the crowd melted away in
all directions, for there was no knowing what the Governor might not do
if he found them plotting. They were determined to rebel and to throw
off his tyrannous yoke, but they preferred to do it quietly and
comfortably, when he was nowhere near.
So they ran away to the edge of the meadow, and stood there in groups,
waiting to see what was going to happen. Not even Ulric the smith and
Ruodi the fisherman waited, though they knew quite well that Tell had
not nearly finished his speech. They set the orator down, and began to
walk away, trying to look as if they had been doing nothing in
particular, and were going to go on doing it--only somewhere else.
Tell was left standing alone in the middle of the meadow by the pole.
He scorned to run away like the others, but he did not at all like the
look of things. Gessler was a stern man, quick to punish any insult,
and there were two of his soldiers lying on the ground with their nice
armour all spoiled and dented, and his own cap on top of the pole had
an arrow right through the middle of it, and would never look the same
again, however much it might be patched. It seemed to Tell that there
was a bad time coming.
Gessler rode up, and reined in his horse.
"Now then, now then, now then!" he said, in his quick, abrupt way.
"What's this? what's this? what's this?"
(When a man repeats what he says three times, you can see that he is
not in a good temper.)
Friesshardt and Leuthold got up, saluted, and limped slowly towards
him. They halted beside his horse, and stood to attention. The tears
trickled down their cheeks.
"Come, come, come!" said Gessler; "tell me all about it."
[Illustration: PLATE IX]
And he patted Friesshardt on the head. Friesshardt bellowed.
Gessler beckoned to one of his courtiers.
"Have you a handkerchief?" he said.
"I have a handkerchief, your Excellency."
"Then dry this man's eyes."
The courtier did as he was bidden.
"_Now_," said Gessler, when the drying was done, and Friesshardt's
tears had ceased, "what has been happening here? I heard a cry of
'Help!' as I came up. Who cried 'Help!'?"
"Please, your lordship's noble Excellencyship," said Friesshardt, "it
was me, Friesshardt."
"You should say, 'It was I,'" said Gessler. "Proceed."
"Which I am a loyal servant of your Excellency's, and in your
Excellency's army, and seeing as how I was told to stand by this 'ere
pole and guard that there hat, I stood by this 'ere pole, and guarded
that there hat--all day, I did, your Excellency. And then up comes this
man here, and I says to him--'Bow down to the hat,' I says. 'Ho!' he
says to me--'ho, indeed!' and he passed on without so much as nodding.
So I takes my pike, and I taps him on the head to remind him, as you
may say, that there was something he was forgetting, and he ups and
hits me, he does. And then the crowd runs up with their sticks and hits
me and Leuthold cruel, your Excellency. And while we was a-fighting
with them, this here man I'm a-telling you about, your Excellency, he
outs with an arrow, puts it into his bow, and sends it through the hat,
and I don't see how you'll ever be able to wear it again. It's a waste
of a good hat, your Excellency--that's what it is. And then the people,
they puts me and Leuthold on the ground, and hoists this here man--Tell,
they call him--up on their shoulders, and he starts making a speech,
when up you comes, your Excellency. That's how it all was."
Gessler turned pale with rage, and glared fiercely at Tell, who stood
before him in the grasp of two of the bodyguard.
"Ah," he said, "Tell, is it? Good-day to you, Tell. I think we've met
before, Tell? Eh, Tell?"
"We have, your Excellency. It was in the ravine of Schächenthal," said
Tell firmly.
"Your memory is good, Tell. So is mine. I think you made a few remarks
to me on that occasion, Tell--a few chatty remarks? Eh, Tell?"
"Very possibly, your Excellency."
"You were hardly polite, Tell."
"If I offended you I am sorry."
"I am glad to hear it, Tell. I think you will be even sorrier before
long. So you've been ill-treating my soldiers, eh?"
"It was not I who touched them."
"Oh, so you didn't touch them? Ah! But you defied my power by refusing
to bow down to the hat. I set up that hat to prove the people's
loyalty. I am afraid you are not loyal, Tell."
"I was a little thoughtless, not disloyal. I passed the hat without
thinking."
"You should always think, Tell. It is very dangerous not to do so. And
I suppose that you shot your arrow through the hat without thinking?"
"I was a little carried away by excitement, your Excellency."
"Dear, dear! Carried away by excitement, were you? You must really be
more careful, Tell. One of these days you will be getting yourself into
trouble. But it seems to have been a very fine shot. You _are_ a
capital marksman, I believe?"
"Father's the best shot in all Switzerland," piped a youthful voice.
"He can hit an apple on a tree a hundred yards away. I've seen him.
Can't you, father?"
Walter, who had run away when the fighting began, had returned on
seeing his father in the hands of the soldiers.
Gessler turned a cold eye upon him.
"Who is this?" he asked.
CHAPTER XI
"It is my son Walter, your Excellency," said Tell.
"Your son? Indeed. This is very interesting. Have you any more
children?"
"I have one other boy."
"And which of them do you love the most, eh?"
"I love them both alike, your Excellency."
"Dear me! Quite a happy family. Now, listen to me, Tell. I know you are
fond of excitement, so I am going to try to give you a little. Your son
says that you can hit an apple on a tree a hundred yards away, and I am
sure you have every right to be very proud of such a feat.
Friesshardt!"
"Your Excellency?"
"Bring me an apple."
Friesshardt picked one up. Some apples had been thrown at him and
Leuthold earlier in the day, and there were several lying about.
"Which I'm afraid as how it's a little bruised, your Excellency," he
said, "having hit me on the helmet."
"Thank you. I do not require it for eating purposes," said Gessler.
"Now, Tell, I have here an apple--a simple apple, not over-ripe. I
should like to test that feat of yours. So take your bow--I see you
have it in your hand--and get ready to shoot. I am going to put this
apple on your son's head. He will be placed a hundred yards away from
you, and if you do not hit the apple with your first shot your life
shall pay forfeit."
[Illustration: PLATE X]
And he regarded Tell with a look of malicious triumph.
"Your Excellency, it cannot be!" cried Tell; "the thing is too
monstrous. Perhaps your Excellency is pleased to jest. You cannot bid a
father shoot an apple from off his son's head! Consider, your
Excellency!"
"You shall shoot the apple from off the head of this boy," said Gessler
sternly. "I do not jest. That is my will."
"Sooner would I die," said Tell.
"If you do not shoot you die with the boy. Come, come, Tell, why so
cautious? They always told me that you loved perilous enterprises, and
yet when I give you one you complain. I could understand anybody else
shrinking from the feat. But you! Hitting apples at a hundred yards is
child's play to you. And what does it matter where the apple is--whether
it is on a tree or on a boy's head? It is an apple just the same.
Proceed, Tell."
The crowd, seeing a discussion going on, had left the edge of the
meadow and clustered round to listen. A groan of dismay went up at the
Governor's words.
"Down on your knees, boy," whispered Rudolph der Harras to Walter--"down
on your knees, and beg his Excellency for your life."
"I won't!" said Walter stoutly.
"Come," said Gessler, "clear a path there--clear a path! Hurry
yourselves. I won't have this loitering. Look you, Tell: attend to me
for a moment. I find you in the middle of this meadow deliberately
defying my authority and making sport of my orders. I find you in the
act of stirring up discontent among my people with speeches. I might
have you executed without ceremony. But do I? No. Nobody shall say that
Hermann Gessler the Governor is not kind-hearted. I say to myself, 'I
will give this man one chance.' I place your fate in your own skilful
hands. How can a man complain of harsh treatment when he is made master
of his own fate? Besides, I don't ask you to do anything difficult. I
merely bid you perform what must be to you a simple shot. You boast of
your unerring aim. Now is the time to prove it. Clear the way there!"
Walter Fürst flung himself on his knees before the Governor.
"Your Highness," he cried, "none deny your power. Let it be mingled
with mercy. It is excellent, as an English poet will say in a few
hundred years, to have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous to
use it like a giant. Take the half of my possessions, but spare my
son-in-law."
But Walter Tell broke in impatiently, and bade his grandfather rise,
and not kneel to the tyrant.
"Where must I stand?" asked he. "I'm not afraid. Father can hit a bird
upon the wing."
"You see that lime-tree yonder," said Gessler to his soldiers; "take
the boy and bind him to it."
"I will not be bound!" cried Walter. "I am not afraid. I'll stand
still. I won't breathe. If you bind me I'll kick!"
"Let us bind your eyes, at least," said Rudolph der Harras.
"Do you think I fear to see father shoot?" said Walter. "I won't stir
an eyelash. Father, show the tyrant how you can shoot. He thinks you're
going to miss. Isn't he an old donkey!"
"Very well, young man," muttered Gessler, "we'll see who is laughing
five minutes from now." And once more he bade the crowd stand back and
leave a way clear for Tell to shoot.
CHAPTER XII
The crowd fell back, leaving a lane down which Walter walked, carrying
the apple. There was dead silence as he passed. Then the people began
to whisper excitedly to one another.
"Shall this be done before our eyes?" said Arnold of Melchthal to
Werner Stauffacher. "Of what use was it that we swore an oath to rebel
if we permit this? Let us rise and slay the tyrant."
Werner Stauffacher, prudent man, scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"We-e-ll," he said, "you see, the difficulty is that we are not armed
and the soldiers _are_. There is nothing I should enjoy more than
slaying the tyrant, only I have an idea that the tyrant would slay us.
You see my point?"
"Why were we so slow!" groaned Arnold. "We should have risen before,
and then this would never have happened. Who was it that advised us to
delay?"
"We-e-ll," said Stauffacher (who had himself advised delay), "I can't
quite remember at the moment, but I dare say you could find out by
looking up the minutes of our last meeting. I know the motion was
carried by a majority of two votes. See! Gessler grows impatient."
Gessler, who had been fidgeting on his horse for some time, now spoke
again, urging Tell to hurry.
"Begin!" he cried--"begin!"
"Immediately," replied Tell, fitting the arrow to the string.
Gessler began to mock him once more.
"You see now," he said, "the danger of carrying arms. I don't know if
you have ever noticed it, but arrows very often recoil on the man who
carries them. The only man who has any business to possess a weapon is
the ruler of a country--myself, for instance. A low, common fellow--if
you will excuse the description--like yourself only grows proud through
being armed, and so offends those above him. But, of course, it's no
business of mine. I am only telling you what I think about it.
Personally, I like to encourage my subjects to shoot; that is why I am
giving you such a splendid mark to shoot at. You see, Tell?"
Tell did not reply. He raised his bow and pointed it. There was a stir
of excitement in the crowd, more particularly in that part of the crowd
which stood on his right, for, his hand trembling for the first time in
his life, Tell had pointed his arrow, not at his son, but straight into
the heart of the crowd.
[Illustration: PLATE XI]
"Here! Hi! That's the wrong way! More to the left!" shouted the people
in a panic, while Gessler ro
|
s an hour. He has instruments for indicating the angle to which
his vessel rolls, and for showing him instantly her trim as she sits
upon the water. He has a dial that registers on deck, under his eye,
the number of miles his ship has made since any hour he chooses to time
her from. His chronometer may be accepted as among the most perfect
examples of human skill. Dampier and such as he wanted all these
adjuncts to their calling. But it cannot be disputed that they were the
better sailors for the very poverty of their equipment in this way.
It forced upon them faith in nothing but their own observation, so
that there never was a race of sailors who kept their eyes wider open
and examined more closely those points which have long since slided
into the dull prosaics of the deep. No one can follow them without
wonder and admiration. We find them in crafts of forty, twenty, even
ten tons—boats half-decked and undecked—exploring the frozen silence
of the North Pole, beating to the westward against the fierce surge
of the Horn, seeking land amidst the vast desolation of the southern
ocean, and making new history for their country upon the coast of
North America and in the waters of the Mozambique. Their lion-hearts
carry them all over the world, and they have nothing to help them but
the lead-line over the side and a quadrant big enough to serve as a
gallows. Nor was the ocean quite as it is now. In Dampier's time it
was still gloomy with mysteries, and there lingered many a dark and
terrifying superstition, whose origin was to be traced to those early
Portuguese and Spanish sailors who chanted a litany when they saw St.
Elmo's Fire glittering at the masthead, and exorcised the demon of
the waterspout by elevating their swords in the form of crosses. The
mermaid still rose in the tranquil blue waters alongside, and with
impassioned eyes and white and wooing arms courted the startled seaman
to share her coral pavilion at the bottom of the sea. The enchanted
island, steeped in the purple splendour of a radiance that owed nothing
of its glory to the heavens, was yet to be discovered by seeking. The
darkness of the storm was thronged with gigantic shadowy shapes of
fleeting spirits. Amid the tranquillity of the midnight calm, dim fiery
figures of undeterminable proportions floated in the black profound,
and voices as of human creatures could be heard out of the hush on the
deep syllabling the names of the listening and affrighted crew. It is
true that the Jack of Dampier's time was not so amazingly superstitious
as we find him in the pages of Purchas and Hackluyt. He was not quite
so young-eyed as the ancient mariner of the Elizabethan and preceding
ages. Nevertheless he was still exceedingly credulous, and he never
embarked on a voyage into distant parts without a mind prepared for
marvels of many sorts. Also let us remember the shadowiness of the
globe whose oceans he was to navigate, the vagueness of countries now
as well known to us as our own island home. Australia was rising upon
the gaze of the world like a new moon, the greater part of whose disk
lies in black shadow. Islands which now have their newspapers and
their hotels were uncharted, were less real than the white shoulders
of clouds dipping upon the sea-line. Of countries whose coast had been
sighted, but whose interiors were unknown, wild guesses at the wonders
within resulted in hair-stirring imaginations. These and more than
there is room to name are conditions of the early mariner's vocational
life, which we must take care to bear in mind as we accompany him
in his adventures, or certainly we shall fail to compass the full
significance of his magnificent resolution, his incomparable spirit,
and his admirable intrepidity.
CHAPTER II
1652-1681
DAMPIER'S EARLY LIFE—CAMPECHÉ—HE JOINS THE BUCCANEERS
There is an account of Dampier's early life written by himself in
the second volume of his Travels. I do not know that anything is to
be added to what he there tells us. A man should be accepted as an
authority on his own career when it comes to a question of dates and
adventures. The interest of this sailor's life really begins with his
own account of his first voyage round the world; and though he is a
very conspicuous figure in English maritime history, the position he
occupies scarcely demands the curious and minute inquiry into those
parts of his career on which he is silent that we should bestow on the
life of a great genius.
William Dampier was born at East Coker in the year 1652. His parents
intended him for a commercial life, but the idea of shopkeeping was
little likely to suit the genius of a lad who was a rover in heart
whilst he was still in petticoats; and on the death of his father and
mother his friends, finding him bent upon an ocean life, bound him
apprentice to the master of a ship belonging to Weymouth. This was in
or about the year 1669. With this captain he made a short voyage to
France, and afterwards proceeded to Newfoundland in the same ship,
being then, as he tells us, about eighteen years of age. The bitter
cold of Newfoundland proved too much for his seafaring resolutions,
and, procuring the cancellation of his indentures, he went home to his
friends. But the old instinct was not to be curbed. Being in London
some time after his return from the Newfoundland voyage, he heard of
an outward-bound East Indiaman named the _John and Martha_, the master
of which was one Earning. The idea of what he calls a “warm voyage”
suited him. He offered himself as a foremast hand and was accepted. The
voyage was to Bantam, and he was away rather longer than a year, during
which time he says he kept no journal, though he enlarged his knowledge
of navigation. The outbreak of the Dutch war seems to have determined
him to stay at home, and he spent the summer of the year 1672 at his
brother's house in Somersetshire. He soon grew weary of the shore,
and enlisted on board the _Royal Prince_, commanded by the famous Sir
Edward Spragge,[6] under whom he served during a part of the year 1673.
He fought in two engagements, and then falling sick a day or two before
the action in which Sir Edward lost his life (August 11th), he was sent
on board the hospital ship, whence he was removed to Harwich. Here he
lingered for a great while in suffering, and at last, to recover his
health, went to his brother's house. As he gained strength so did his
longing for the sea increase upon him. His inclination was soon to be
humoured, for there lived near his brother one Colonel Hellier, who,
taking a fancy to Dampier, offered him the management of a plantation
of his in Jamaica under a person named Whalley; for which place he
started in the _Content_ of London, Captain Kent master, he being then
twenty-two years old. Lest he should be kidnapped and sold as a servant
on his arrival, he agreed with Captain Kent to work his passage out as
a seaman. They sailed in the beginning of the year 1674, but the date
of their arrival at Jamaica is not given.
His life on that island is not of much interest. He lived with Whalley
for about six months, and then agreed with one Captain Heming to
manage his plantation on the north side of the island; but repenting
his resolution, he took passage on board a sloop bound to Port Royal.
He made several coasting voyages in this way, by which he tells us he
became intimately acquainted with all the ports and bays of Jamaica,
the products and manufactures of the island, and the like. In this
sort of life he spent six or seven months, and then shipped himself
aboard one Captain Hudsel, who was bound to the Bay of Campeché to
load logwood. They sailed from Port Royal in August 1675; their cargo
to purchase logwood was rum and sugar. There were about two hundred
and fifty men engaged in cutting the wood, and these fellows gladly
exchanged the timber for drink. They were nearly all Englishmen, and on
the vessel dropping anchor, numbers of them flocked aboard clamorous
for liquor. “We were but 6 Men and a Boy in the Ship,” says Dampier,
“and all little enough to entertain them: for besides what Rum we sold
by the Gallon or Ferkin, we sold it made into Punch, wherewith they
grew Frolicksom.” It was customary in those times to shoot off guns
when healths were drunk, but in Dampier's craft there was nothing but
small-arms, “and therefore,” he says, “the noise was not very great
at a distance, but on Board the Vessels we were loud enough till all
our Liquor was spent.” Dampier was well entertained by these fellows
ashore. They hospitably received him in their wretched huts, and
regaled him with pork and peas and beef and dough-boys. He thought
this logwood-cutting business so profitable, and the life so free and
pleasant, that he secretly made up his mind to return to Campeché
after his arrival at Jamaica. Having filled up with wood, they sailed
in the latter end of September, and not very long afterwards narrowly
escaped being wrecked on the Alacran Reef, a number of low, sandy
islands situated about twenty-five leagues from the coast of Yucatan.
The vessel was a ketch, the weather very dirty. Dampier was at the
helm, or whipstaff as the tiller was called, and describes the vessel
as plunging and labouring heavily: “Not going ahead,” he says, “but
tumbling like an egg-shell in the sea.” In spite of their being in
the midst of a dangerous navigation, the crew, finding the weather
improving, lay down upon the deck and fell asleep. The stout build of
the round-bowed craft saved her, otherwise it is highly improbable that
anything more would ever have been heard of William Dampier.
Young as he was, his powers of observation, the accuracy of his memory,
and what I may call the sagacity of his inquisitiveness, are forcibly
illustrated in this passage of his account of his early life. Even
while his little ship is bumping ashore, and all hands are running
about thinking their last moment arrived, Dampier is taking a careful
view of the sandy islands, observing the several depths of water,
remarking the various channels, and mentally noting the best places
in which to drop anchor. He has a hundred things to tell us about the
rats and sea-fowl he saw there, of the devotion of the booby to its
young, of the sharks, sword-fish, and “nurses,” of the seals, and
the Spaniard's way of making oil of their fat. In this little voyage
Dampier and his mates suffered a very great deal of hardship. They ran
short of provisions, and must have starved but for two barrels of beef
which had formed a portion of their cargo for purposes of trucking, but
which proved so rotten that nobody would buy them. Of this beef they
boiled every day two pieces; their peas were consumed and their flour
almost gone, and in order to swallow the beef they were forced to cut
it into small bits after it was cooked, and then to boil it afresh
in water thickened with a little flour. This savoury broth they ate
with spoons. Speaking of this trip Dampier says: “I think never any
Vessel before nor since made such traverses in coming out of the _Bay_
as we did; having first blundered over the _Alcrany Riff_, and then
visited those islands; from thence fell in among the _Colorado Shoals_,
afterwards made a trip to _Grand Caymanes_; and lastly visited _Pines_,
tho' to no purpose. In all these Rambles we got as much experience as
if we had been sent out on a design.”
They were thirteen weeks on their way, and eventually anchored at
Nigril. Here occurred an incident curiously illustrative of the customs
and habits of nautical men in the good old times. Their vessel was
visited by Captain Rawlings, commander of a small New England craft,
and one Mr. John Hooker, a logwood-cutter. These men were invited into
the cabin, and a great bowl of punch was brewed to regale them as
well as their entertainers. Dampier says there might be six quarts in
it. Mr. Hooker, being drunk to by Captain Rawlings, lifted the bowl
to his lips, and pausing a moment to say that he was under an oath
to drink but three draughts of strong liquor a day, he swallowed the
whole without a breath: “And so,” adds Dampier, “making himself drunk,
disappointed us of our expectations till we made another bowl.” Six
quarts equal twenty-four glasses. Probably no bigger drink than this is
on record! But those were days when men mixed gunpowder with brandy,
and honestly believed themselves the stouter-hearted for the dose.
On the vessel's arrival at Port Royal the crew were discharged.
Dampier, whose hankering was after the logwood trade, embarked as
passenger on board a vessel bound to Campeché, and sailed about the
middle of February 1676. He went fully provided for the toilsome
work—that is to say, with hatchets, axes, a kind of long knives which
he calls “macheats,” saws, wedges, materials for a house, or, as he
terms it, a pavilion to sleep in, a gun, ammunition, and so forth. His
account of the origin and growth of the business he had now entered
upon is interesting. The Spaniards had long known the value of the
logwood, and used to cut it down near a river about thirty miles from
Campeché, whence they loaded their ships with it. The English, after
possessing themselves of Jamaica, whilst cruising about in the Gulf,
frequently encountered many vessels freighted with this wood; but being
ignorant of the value of such cargoes, they either burnt or sent the
ships adrift, preserving only the nails and iron-work. At last one
Captain James, having captured a big vessel full of wood, navigated
her to England with the intention of fitting her out as a privateer. He
valued his prize's cargo so lightly that on the way home he consumed a
portion of it as fuel. On his arrival he, to his great surprise, was
offered a large sum for the remainder. This being noised about started
the trade amongst the English. Of course the Spaniards opposed the
cutting down of the trees, and sent soldiers to protect their property;
but the English speedily learnt to recognise the timber as it grew,
and, hunting for it elsewhere, met with large forests, and so without
regard to the Spaniards they settled down to the trade and did pretty
well at it. The work previous to the arrival of Dampier employed nearly
three hundred men who had originally been privateersmen and gained a
living by plundering the Spaniards, but who, on peace being made with
Spain, lost their occupation and were driven to logwood-cutting by
hunger. But their tastes as pirates remained tenacious, and perhaps by
way of keeping their hand in, they formed into little troops, attacked
and plundered the adjacent Indian towns, brought away the women and
sent the men to Jamaica to be sold as slaves. Dampier further informs
us that these privateersmen had not “forgot their old drinking bouts,”
but would “still spend thirty or forty pounds at a sitting on board
the ships that came hither from Jamaica, carousing and firing off guns
three and four days together.” Eventually their evil habits led to
their ruin, for the Spaniards finding them nearly continually drunk,
fell upon them one by one, seizing them chiefly in their huts, where
they lay stupefied with liquor, and carried them to prison or to a
servitude harder than slavery. Logwood was then worth fourteen or
fifteen pounds a ton. The toil must have been great, for some of the
trees were upwards of six feet round, and the labourer had to cut them
into logs small enough to enable a man to carry a bundle of them.
Dampier speaks also of the bloodwood which fetched thirty pounds a
ton, but he does not tell us that he dealt with it. He speedily found
employment amongst the logwood-cutters. On his arrival he met with six
men who had one hundred tons of the wood ready cut, but not yet removed
to the creek side. These fellows offered Dampier pay at the rate of a
ton of the wood per month to help them to transport what they had cut
to the water. The work was laborious. They had not only to transport
the heavy timber, but to make a road to enable them to convey it to the
place of shipment. They devoted five days a week to this work, and on
Saturdays employed themselves in killing cattle for food. During one of
these hunting excursions Dampier came very near to perishing through
losing his way. He started out alone with a musket on his shoulder,
intending to kill a bullock on his own account, and wandered so far
into the woods that he lost himself. After much roaming he sat down to
wait till the sun should decline, that he might know by the course it
took how to direct his steps. The wild pines appeased his craving for
drink, otherwise he must have perished of thirst. At sunset he started
afresh, but the night, coming down dark, forced him to stop. He lay on
the grass at some distance from the woods, in the hope that the breeze
of wind that was blowing would keep the mosquitoes from him; “but in
vain,” says he, “for in less than an Hour's time I was so persecuted,
that though I endeavoured to keep them off by fanning myself with
boughs and shifting my Quarters 3 or 4 times; yet still they haunted me
so that I could get no Sleep.” At daybreak he struck onwards, and after
walking a considerable distance, to his great joy saw a pole with a hat
upon it, and a little farther on another. These were to let him know
that his companions understood that he was lost, and that at sunrise
they would be out seeking him. So he sat down to wait for them; for
though by water the distance to the settlement was only nine miles, the
road by land was impracticable by reason of the dense growths coming
down to the very side of the creek where Dampier sat waiting. Within
half an hour after his arrival at the poles with the hats upon them,
“his Consorts came,” he says, “bringing every Man his Bottle of Water,
and his Gun, both to hunt for Game and to give me notice by Firing
that I might hear them; but I have known several Men lost in the like
manner and never heard of afterwards.” At the expiration of the month's
agreement he received his ton of logwood, and was made free of the
little colony of cutters. Some of the men, quitting the timber-cutting,
went over to Beef Island to kill bullocks for their hides, but Dampier
remained behind with a few others to cut more logwood. He worked
laboriously, but his career in this line of business was ended not
long afterwards by the most violent storm “that,” he says, “was ever
known in those Parts.” He has described this storm in his _Discourse
of Winds_. He there says: “The Flood still increased and ran faster
up the Creek than ever I saw it do in the greatest Spring Tide, which
was somewhat strange, because the wind was at South, which is right off
the Shore on this Coast. Neither did the Rain anything abate, and by 10
a Clock in the Morning the Banks of the Creeks were all overflowing.
About 12 at Noon we brought our Canao to the side of our Hut and
fastened it to the Stump of a Tree that stood by it; that being the
only refuge that we could now expect; for the Land a little way within
the Banks of the Creek is much lower than where we were: so that there
was no walking through the Woods because of the Water. Besides the
Trees were torn up by the Roots and tumbled so strangely across each
other that it was almost impossible to pass through them.” Their huts
were demolished, their provisions ruined. It was in vain to stay, so
the four men who formed Dampier's party embarked in their canoe and
rowed over to One-Bush-Key, about sixteen miles from the creek. There
had been four ships riding off that key when the storm began, but
only one remained, and from her they could obtain no refreshment of
any kind, though they were liberal in their offers of money. So they
steered away for Beef Island, and on approaching it observed a ship
blown ashore amongst the trees with her flag flying over the branches.
Her people were in her, and Dampier and his companions were kindly
received by them. Whilst on Beef Island he was nearly devoured by an
alligator. He and his comrades started to kill a bullock. In passing
through a small savannah they detected the presence of an alligator by
the strong, peculiar scent which the huge reptile throws upon the air,
and on a sudden Dampier stumbled against the beast and fell over it. He
shouted for help, but his comrades took to their heels. He succeeded
in regaining his legs, then stumbled and fell over the animal a second
time; “and a third time also,” he says, “expecting still when I fell
down to be devoured.” He contrived to escape at last, but he was so
terrified that he tells us he never cared for going through the water
again so long as he was in the Bay.
Much of his narrative here is devoted to accurate and well-written
descriptions of the character of the country, and of its animals,
reptiles, and the like. There is an amusing quaintness in some of his
little pictures, as, for instance: “The Squash is a four-footed Beast,
bigger than a Cat: Its Head is much like a Foxes; with short Ears and a
long Nose. It has pretty short Legs and sharp Claws; by which it will
run up trees like a Cat. The skin is covered with short, fine Yellowish
Hair. The flesh is good, sweet, wholesome Meat. We commonly skin and
roast it; and then we call it pig; and I think it eats as well. It
feeds on nothing but good Fruit; therefore we find them most among the
Sapadillo-Trees. This Creature never rambles very far: and being taken
young, will become as tame as a Dog; and be as roguish as a Monkey.”
The minuteness of his observation is exhibited in a high degree in his
account of the beasts, birds, and fish of Campeché and the district. He
uses no learned terms. A child might get to know more from him about
the thing he describes than from a dozen pages of modern writing on
the subject supplemented even by illustrations. It was wonderland to
him, as it had been to other plain and sagacious sailors before him.
His accounts remind us again and again of the exquisitely naïve but
admirably faithful descriptions of beasts and fish by the navigators
whose voyages are found in the collections of Hackluyt and Purchas.
It is not very long after he had quitted Campeché that we find him
associating with privateers, and becoming one of their number. He
writes of this in a half-apologetic manner, complaining of failure
through a violent storm and of a futile cruise lasting for several
months, and talks of having been driven at last to seek subsistence
by turning pirate. There is no hint in his previous narrative of any
leanings this way. Probably thoughts of the golden chances of the rover
might have been put into his head by chats with the logwood-cutters.
The Spaniard had long been the freebooter's quarry. His carracks and
galleons, laden almost to their ways with the treasure of New Spain,
had handsomely lined the pockets of the marauding rogues, and such
was the value of the booty that scores of them might have set up as
fine gentlemen in their own country on their shares but for their
trick of squandering in a night what they had taken months to gain at
the hazard of their lives. The temptation was too much for Dampier;
besides, he was already seasoned to hardships of even a severer kind
than was promised by a life of piracy. For, as we have seen, he had
out-weathered the bitter cold of Newfoundland, he had worked as a
common sailor before the mast, he had served against the Dutch, he had
knocked about in Mexican waters in a vessel as commodious and seaworthy
as a Thames barge, and he was now fresh from the severe discipline of
the logwood trade. His associates consisted of sixty men, who were
divided between two vessels. Their first step was to attack the fort of
Alvarado, in which enterprise they lost ten or eleven of their company.
The inhabitants, who had plenty of boats and canoes, carried away
their money and effects before the fort yielded, and as it was too dark
to pursue them, the buccaneers were satisfied to rest quietly during
the night. Next morning they were surprised by the sight of seven ships
which had been sent from Vera Cruz. They got under-weigh and cleared
for action. But they had no heart to fight; which is intelligible
enough when we learn that the Spanish admiral's ship mounted ten guns
and carried a hundred men; that another had four guns and eighty men;
the rest sixty or seventy men apiece, well armed, whilst the bulwarks
of the ships were protected with bulls' hides breast-high. Fortunately
for them, the Spaniards had no mind to fight either. Some shots were
exchanged, and presently the Spanish squadron edged away towards the
shore, “and we,” says Dampier, “glad of the deliverance, went away
to the eastward.” How long he remained with the pirates he does not
say. Apparently he could not find his account with them. He left
them to return to the logwood trade, at which he continued for about
twelve more months. He then tells us that he resolved to pay a visit
to England with a design of returning again to wood-cutting, which
no doubt was proving profitable to him, and accordingly set sail for
Jamaica in April 1678. After remaining for a short time at that island
he embarked for England, and arrived at the beginning of August.
He did not remain long at home. In the beginning of the year 1679 he
sailed for Jamaica in a vessel named the _Loyal Merchant_. He shipped
as a passenger, intending when he arrived at Jamaica to proceed to the
Bay of Campeché, and there pursue the employment of logwood-cutting.
But on his arrival at Port Royal in Jamaica in April 1679, after a
good deal of consideration, he made up his mind to delay or abandon
his wood-cutting scheme, for he tells us that he remained in that
island for the rest of the year in expectation of some other business.
Whatever his hopes were they could not have been greatly disappointed,
for we read of him as having, whilst in Jamaica, purchased a small
estate in Dorsetshire from a person whose title to it he was well
assured of. He was then, it now being about Christmas, 1679, about
to sail again for England, when a Mr. Hobby persuaded him to venture
on a short trading voyage to what was then termed the country of the
Mosquitoes, a little nation which he describes as composed of not
more than a hundred men inhabiting the mainland between Honduras and
Nicaragua. Dampier consented; he and Mr. Hobby set out, and presently
dropped anchor in a bay at the west end of Jamaica, where they found a
number of privateersmen, including Captains Coxon, Sawkins, and Sharp.
These men were maturing the scheme of an expedition of so tempting a
character that the whole of Mr. Hobby's men quitted him and went over
to the pirates. Dampier stayed with his companion for three or four
days, and then joined the pirates also. What became of Mr. Hobby he
does not say. There is here a shamefacedness in his avowal not hard to
distinguish. Perhaps as he sits writing this narrative he wonders at
the irresolution he exhibited, and his curious caprices of decision.
He starts for Jamaica to cut logwood at Campeché; on his arrival he
changes his mind and prepares for his return; he is then diverted from
his intention by Mr. Hobby, with whom he embarks on a well-considered
adventure, which he relinquishes to become pirate before his
associate's ship has fairly got away from Jamaica! It is these sudden
changes of front, however, and the unexpected turns of fortune which
they produced, which keeps Dampier's narrative sweet with fresh and
ever-flowing interest.
His adventures from the date of his leaving Mr. Hobby down to the month
of April 1681 he dismisses in a couple of pages. Ringrose, however, has
written very fully of the expedition in which Dampier apparently served
as a foremast hand, and to the pages of his work it is necessary to
turn to obtain the information which Dampier omits.[7] The fleet of the
privateers consisted of nine vessels; the largest of them, commanded
by Captain Harris, was of the burden of one hundred and fifty tons,
mounted twenty-five guns, and carried one hundred and seven men; whilst
the smallest, commanded by Captain Macket, was of fourteen tons, her
crew consisting of twenty men. They sailed on March 23rd, 1679, for the
province of Darien, their designs being, as Ringrose candidly admits,
to pillage and plunder in those parts. But they do not appear to have
arrived off the coast until April 1680, this being the date given by
Ringrose, who says that there they landed three hundred and thirty-one
men, leaving a party of sailors behind them to guard their ships. They
marched in companies; Captain Bartholomew Sharp's (in whose troop, I
take it, was Dampier) carried a red flag, with a bunch of white and
green ribands; Captain Richard Sawkins's company exhibited a red flag
striped with yellow; the third and fourth, commanded by Captain Peter
Harris, bore two cream-coloured flags; the fifth and sixth a red flag
each; and the seventh a red colour with yellow stripes, and a hand and
sword thereon by way of a device. “All or most of them,” adds Ringrose,
“were armed with Fuzee, Pistol, and Hanger.” This is a description that
brings the picture before us. We see these troops of sailors carrying
banners, dressed as merchant seamen always were, and still are, in
twenty different costumes, lurching along under the broiling equatorial
sun, through forests, rivers, and bogs, trusting to luck for a drink of
water, and with no better victuals than cakes of bread (four to a man),
called by Ringrose “dough-boys,” a name that survives to this day,
animated to the support of the most extraordinary fatigues, the most
venomous country, and the deadliest climate in the world, by dreams of
more gold than they would be able to carry away with them.
But the whole undertaking was a failure. They attacked and took the
town of Santa Maria, and found the place to consist of a few houses
built of cane, with not so much as the value of a single ducat anywhere
to be met with. Their disappointment was rendered the keener by the
news that three days before their arrival several hundred-weight of
gold had been sent away to Panama in one of those ships which were
commonly despatched two or three times a year from that city to convey
the treasure brought to Santa Maria from the mountains. Their ill-luck,
however, hardened them in their resolution to attack Panama. The
city was a sort of New Jerusalem to the imaginations of these men,
who thought of it as half-formed of storehouses filled to their roofs
with plate, jewels, and gold. They stayed two days at Santa Maria,
and then on April 17th, 1680, embarked in thirty-five canoes and a
periagua, and rowed down the river in quest of the South Sea, upon
which, as Ringrose puts it, Panama is seated. Their adventures were
many; their hardships and distresses such as rendered their energy and
fortitude phenomenal even amongst a community who were incomparably
gifted with these qualities. Ringrose, whose narrative I follow, was
wrecked in the river by the oversetting of his canoe, and came very
near to perishing along with a number of his comrades. He fell into
the hands of some Spaniards, with whom, as they understood neither
English nor French, whilst he was equally ignorant of their tongue,
he was obliged to converse in Latin!—a language in which, I suspect,
not many mariners of to-day could communicate their distresses. He
and his shipmates narrowly escaped torture and a miserable death, and
eventually recovering their canoe, they started afresh on their voyage,
and were fortunate enough next morning to fall in with the rest of the
buccaneers, who had anchored during the night in a deep bay.
Trifling as these incidents are, it is proper to relate them as
examples of the life and experiences of Dampier during this period of
his career. Unfortunately, until one opens his own books one does not
know where to look for him. In whose troop he marched, in whose canoe
he sat, in what special adventures he was concerned, whether he was
favoured for his intelligence above the others by the commanders of
the expedition, cannot be ascertained. When Ringrose wrote, Dampier
was still a mere privateersman, a foremast hand, a man without
individuality enough to arrest the attention of the sturdy, plain, and
honest historian of the voyage in which they both took part. Indeed,
there is no reason to suppose that Dampier at this time was regarded by
his fellows as better than the humblest of the shaggy, sun-blackened
men who, with fuzees on their shoulders and pistols in their girdles,
tramped in little troops through the swamps and creeks and over the
swelling lands of the Isthmus, or who in their deep and narrow canoes
floated silent and grim upon the hot and creeping river in search of
the unexpectant Don and his almost fabulous wealth.
Dampier introduces a curious story in connection with Panama and the
South Seas in his first volume. He says that when he was on board
Captain Coxon's ship, there being three or four privateers in company,
they captured a despatch boat bound to Cartagena from Porto Bello. They
opened many of the letters, and were struck by observing that several
of the merchants who wrote from Old Spain exhorted their correspondents
at Panama to bear in mind a certain prophecy that had been current
in Madrid and other centres for some months past, the tenor of which
was—_That there would be English privateers that year in the West
Indies, who would make such great discoveries as to open a door into
the South Seas_. This door, Dampier says, was the passage overland to
Darien through the country of the Indians, a people who had quarrelled
with the Spaniards and professed a friendship for the English. At all
events, these Indians had been for some time inviting the privateers
to march across their territory and fall upon the Spaniards in the
South Seas. Hence when the letters came into their hands they grew
disposed to entertain the Indians' proposal in good earnest, and
finally made those attempts to which I have referred in quoting from
the pages of Ringrose. The cause of the friendship between the English
buccaneers and the Darien Indians is a story of some interest. About
fifteen years before Dampier crossed the Isthmus a certain Captain
Wright, who was cruising in those waters, met with a young Indian lad
paddling about in a canoe. He took him aboard his ship, clothed him,
and, with the idea of making an Englishman of him, gave him the name of
John Gret. Some Mosquito Indians, however, begged the boy from Captain
Wright, who gave him to them. They carried him into their own country,
and by and by he
|
reinforced
by another factor, of which intending teachers should take note.
“Until recently,” reports the Committee, “when a new assistant-mistress
was engaged in a High School, the agreement then made arranged not
only for an initial salary, but also for a scale of annual or biennial
increment up to a certain maximum. The Committee learn with regret that
in many schools these agreements are no longer being made, and that new
mistresses are therefore obliged to trust for the future entirely to
the liberality of their councils.”
It will be seen therefore that the position of a High School mistress,
though fairly stable and moderately well remunerated as women’s
occupations go, does not present a brilliant prospect. Additional risk
arises from the recent establishment of schools, some of which belong
to the Church Schools Company, others to local companies, with lower
fees than those prevailing in the average High School. These tend
by their competition for pupils to reduce the profits of the better
schools, and therefore to lower teachers’ salaries. The evil is a
serious one, and it is much to be regretted that women, by accepting
posts in such schools, should countenance a movement fraught with
injury to their fellow-workers.
It is exceedingly doubtful whether the public schools for girls which
have sprung up all over the country with such rapidity of late years
have been formed upon a sound footing as regards payment of fees and
salaries.[4] Broadly speaking, the fees are too low to pay salaries
which will allow the recipients to live in any but a very careful
manner. If unhampered by claims of relations, teachers may secure the
necessaries, and, to some extent, the comforts of life; but they can
hardly allow themselves such recreation, change of scene, and general
liberality of living, in the wide sense of the term, as will enable
them to recuperate their stock of health, energy, and intellectual
brightness, so as to retain freshness in teaching and keep abreast of
the times. The right level of teaching cannot be maintained upon any
less terms; and so long as girls’ secondary schools are founded upon a
purely commercial basis, the standard which we have a right to demand
from those who have charge of the education given therein will seldom,
I fear, be reached. The organisation of secondary schools is, however,
too large a matter to be discussed here. The whole question, including
the claims of secondary schools upon the State for support, is rapidly
becoming an affair for national consideration. Legislation cannot be
long deferred, and the preliminary stage of discussion and debate has
already begun.
[4] The average fee in the Girls’ Public Day School Company’s
Schools is £12 12_s._ 0_d._ _per annum_, the same as that
charged by the City of London School for Boys, a richly-endowed
school, which has no dividends to pay, and is backed by the
richest Corporation in the world.
=Elementary Schools.=--The conditions under which employment can
be obtained in the elementary schools may be found in the official
publications of the Education Department, and the general character
of the work is also too well known to need description here.[5] More
women than men are employed in the elementary schools, the number of
certificated masters being 18,611, of mistresses 27,746. I append
tables of salaries drawn up in 1893, by the National Union of Teachers,
classified according to the denominations to which the schools belong.
It should be noted that the tables refer to certificated mistresses
only.
[5] Regulations as to certificates and examinations are
undergoing considerable change, and it is expedient therefore
for candidates to consult the latest publications.
AVERAGE SALARIES OF CERTIFICATED MISTRESSES.
+----------------------------------------+---------------------+--------+
| PRINCIPAL. | ADDITIONAL. | TOTAL. |
+----------------+-----------------------+---------------------+--------+
| |Average salaries, |Average salaries, |Average |
| Denominations |including all |including all |salaries|
| |professional |professional | |
| |sources of income |sources of income | |
| | +-------------+ +-------------+ |
| | |Number on | |Number on | |
| | |which | |which | |
| | |average | |average | |
| | |is taken | |is taken | |
| | | +------+ | +------+ |
| | | |Number| | |Number| |
| | | |pro- | | |pro- | |
| | | |vided | | |vided | |
| | | |with | | |with | |
| | | |house | | |house | |
+----------------+---------+------+------+-------+------+------+--------+
| | £ s. d.| | |£ s. d.| | | £ s. d.|
|Schools | | | | | | | |
|connected | | | | | | | |
|with National | | | | | | | |
|Society or | | | | | | | |
|Church of | | | | | | | |
|England | 72 3 1| 8,982|3,752 |48 15 1| 2,520| 150 |67 0 0|
| | | | | | | | |
|Wesleyan Schools| 83 14 10| 320| 3 |49 6 0| 220| 1 |69 14 3|
| | | | | | | | |
|Roman Catholic | | | | | | | |
|Schools | 64 17 6| 1,350| 304 |50 4 2| 477| 7 |61 0 11|
| | | | | | | | |
|British, | | | | | | | |
|Undenominational| | | | | | | |
|and other | | | | | | | |
|Schools | 78 3 0| 858| 167 |54 10 3| 533| 5 |69 1 11|
| | | | | | | | |
|Board Schools |110 2 6| 4,895| 512 |78 19 8| 7,591| 31 |91 3 10|
+----------------+---------+------+------+-------+------+------+--------+
|Total | 83 8 6|16,405|4,738 |69 6 7|11,341| 194 |77 13 3|
+----------------+---------+------+------+-------+------+------+--------+
NUMBER OF CERTIFICATED TEACHERS IN RECEIPT OF SALARIES OF CERTAIN
SPECIFIED AMOUNTS.
_MISTRESSES._
PRINCIPAL.
+-----------------+--------------------------------------------+
| |Under £40. |
| | +----------------------------------------+
| | |£40 and less than £45. |
| | | +------------------------------------+
| | | |£45 and less than £50. |
| | | | +--------------------------------+
| | | | |£50 and less than £75. |
| | | | | +--------------------------+
| | | | | |£75 and less than £100. |
| | | | | | +--------------------+
| | | | | | |£100 and less |
| Denominations. | | | | | |than £150. |
| | | | | | | +--------------+
| | | | | | | |£150 and less |
| | | | | | | |than £200. |
| | | | | | | | +----------+
| | | | | | | | |£200 and |
| | | | | | | | |over. |
| | | | | | | | | +------+
| | | | | | | | | |Total.|
+-----------------+---+---+---+-----+-----+-----+---+---+------+
|Schools connected| | | | | | | | | |
|with | | | | | | | | | |
|National Society | | | | | | | | | |
|or | | | | | | | | | |
|Church of England|203|320|397|4,626|2,303|1,037| 82| 14| 8,982|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Wesleyan Schools | 3| 8| 7| 150| 74| 58| 18| 2| 320|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Roman Catholic | | | | | | | | | |
|Schools | 16| 18| 29|1,013| 230| 43| 1| --| 1,350|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|British, | | | | | | | | | |
|Undenominational | | | | | | | | | |
|and other Schools| 18| 22| 28| 414| 217| 130| 23| 6| 858|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Board Schools | 35| 56| 93|1,269|1,140|1,296|524|482| 4,895|
+-----------------+---+---+---+-----+-----+-----+---+---+------+
| Total |275|424|554|7,472|3,984|2,564|648|504|16,405|
| |
| ADDITIONAL. |
+-----------------+---+---+---+-----+-----+-----+---+---+------+
|Schools connected| | | | | | | | | |
|with | | | | | | | | | |
|National Society | | | | | | | | | |
|or | | | | | | | | | |
|Church of England|405|483|395|1,152| 70| 15| --| --| 2,520|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Wesleyan Schools | 25| 45| 34| 107| 8| 1| --| --| 220|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Roman Catholic | | | | | | | | | |
|Schools | 46| 71| 51| 298| 8| 3| --| --| 477|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|British, | | | | | | | | | |
|Undenominational | | | | | | | | | |
|and other Schools| 41| 76| 76| 288| 41| 10| 1| --| 533|
| | | | | | | | | | |
|Board Schools |146|246|358|2,771|1,956|2,106| 8| --| 7,591|
+-----------------+---+---+---+-----+-----+-----+---+---+------+
|Total |663|921|914|4,616|2,083|2,135| 9| --|11,341|
+-----------------+---+---+---+-----+-----+-----+---+---+------+
These tables show a considerable difference between the salaries paid
in Board and in Voluntary Schools, the Board School average being £91
3_s._ 10_d._ against the highest Voluntary average of £69 14_s._ 3_d._
In rural districts also extra duties of an onerous nature, such as
teaching in the Sunday-school, playing the organ in church, getting up
village concerts, and performing parochial duties generally, are often
imposed by the clerical managers of Voluntary Schools. Small School
Boards also are not wholly guiltless in the matter. Particulars as to
these exactions may be learnt from the publications of the National
Union of Teachers, which is making a determined stand against their
imposition.
The highest salaries are given by the London School Board. Trained
assistants (female) begin at £85 a year, and head mistresses receive
from £200 to £300. Higher salaries are given for special work, and in
the large provincial centres also it may be said without inaccuracy
that the regulation scale is constantly broken in order to secure good
teachers of special subjects. In London pupil teachers’ schools the
salaries of assistant mistresses begin at £125 a year, rising by annual
increments of £5 to £150. Assistant masters in similar posts receive
£140 to £170 per annum. Salaries for both sexes are said to be rising
gradually throughout the country, and although a contrary movement has
recently been initiated in the London School Board, it is hardly likely
that it will be carried out to any great extent.
=Elementary _versus_ Secondary Schools.=--Hitherto elementary schools
have not commended themselves as a field of work for the class
of women who now form the staff of girls’ secondary schools. The
salaries offered outside London have not been high enough to tempt
them; holidays are short in comparison with High Schools (six weeks
in the year instead of thirteen); and, lastly, the conditions as to
training hitherto exacted have been practically prohibitive. Women
who have already received an expensive education are not inclined to
spend two or three years more in a denominational training college.
The relaxation of rules in favour of women who have passed certain
recognised examinations, and the opening of day training classes
in connection with recognised colleges, such as Owen’s College,
Manchester, and several of the local University Colleges, may do much
to open the elementary schools to a more cultured class of women. Such
women would soon obtain the headship of a school, and would then, under
a liberal Board, find a good field for the exercise of talent and
organising power. I fear, however, that the shortness of holidays may
still prove a serious obstacle.
=Domestic Subjects.=--Meanwhile a new field of work is being opened
by the inclusion of domestic subjects in the school course. A teacher
of cookery in elementary schools can earn from £80 to £100 a year in
a fairly agreeable manner, and private and visiting teachers often
earn more. Dressmaking and laundry work are also in great demand,
particularly in evening continuation schools; and if to these subjects
is added a knowledge of sick-nursing and elementary hygiene, the
combination forms an admirable stock-in-trade for a teacher. In some
towns School Boards are training their own teachers, probably with more
haste than thoroughness, to fill the posts for which such a sudden
demand has arisen. Instruction in domestic subjects is also being
carried on under the auspices of the County Councils, for there are few
among their number that have not devoted a share of the funds available
under the Technical Instruction Act, and in towns by the power of
levying a penny rate, to the furtherance of technical education, in
which domestic instruction for girls is almost always included. Thus,
throughout the length and breadth of the land, teachers of these
subjects are eagerly sought; and cookery schools, embryo technical
schools for women, and voluntary agencies, such as the National Health
Society, are busily employed in training teachers and sending them out
to different districts. The Liverpool School of Cookery is particularly
active in this direction.
The misfortune is that in these subjects there is no definite standard,
and each school trains after its own fashion. The money for technical
education was gained by a side wind, and the passing of the Act found
the country unprepared, no organised system of instruction or of
training for teachers being in existence. As experience is gradually
accumulated the different agencies at work will probably make
comparison of methods and adopt to some extent a common system and
standard. In this connection it should be mentioned that though women
have no place upon County Councils, they may be and are appointed upon
the local committees for carrying out the Councils’ schemes, and in
this way they are able to take an active share in educational work.
It cannot at present be foretold what shape this large enterprise
will eventually take, but it seems likely that for some time to
come the teaching of domestic subjects will form an important and
considerable opening for women. It is fortunate that it is so, since
many are thereby enabled to find congenial employment who have no
taste for the purely literary side of education. In time permanent
institutions for domestic instruction will probably be formed in the
large centres of population--indeed such a movement has already begun.
The superintendence of work at these centres, which will also embrace
outlying districts, must give rise to good appointments, and it is
well to bear in mind that these will certainly fall by preference to
women who besides technical knowledge have received a good general
education, and possess powers of organisation and management. Women
so qualified will probably be highly paid. The rank and file may not
impossibly find their earnings diminish as their numbers increase;
at present their services are at a scarcity value. In view of the
certain extension of this branch of teaching work it is worth while for
girls or their parents to consider whether (viewed as a wage-earning
instrument solely) a course at a school of domestic economy, requiring
at most two years, and costing a comparatively small sum (say £15 per
annum), is not more advantageous than three or four years at Oxford or
Cambridge, costing from £70 to £100 a year. In the ordinary branches of
teaching, as I have shown, a woman seldom earns more than £150 a year,
and teaching is almost the only breadwinning occupation followed by
women graduates. I know teachers of domestic economy who make as much
or more in the winter months, and have the summer free for either rest
or self-culture.
=Higher Teaching Posts.=--But few posts of higher teaching or
superintendence are open to women. Even those mentioned above are only
just beginning to take visible shape. Headships of High Schools are of
course important positions, and are often well paid. An initial salary
of £250 a year (sometimes, however, only £150) is offered, generally
with rooms, but not board; capitation fees, varying from 10_s._ to
30_s._ are usually added, but these do not begin until 100 pupils have
been entered. Thus in an unprosperous neighbourhood a mistress may have
all the trouble of organising and managing a school for £150 or £200 a
year; for it is precisely in these districts that the lowest initial
salaries are offered. In some few cases the income rises to £700 or
£800 a year. The headships of colleges and training colleges available
are of course very limited in number, and the same may be said of the
college lectureships at Oxford and Cambridge, with rooms in college.
These are not well paid, and are chiefly attractive for the pleasant
university life they afford. Few women are as yet engaged as University
Extension lecturers, though it is hard to see what impediment, beyond
the prejudice of sex, stands in the way of their employment.
=Religion and Philanthropy.=--Religion and Philanthropy have not
hitherto been reckoned among the avenues leading to remunerative
employment for women; but it is by no means certain that this will be
the case in the future. The Catholic Church has always provided careers
for women in connection with convents and sisterhoods, and institutions
formed upon their pattern are springing up in the Church of England
and even in the Dissenting churches. Since, however, the members are
merely supplied with board, lodging, and clothing, and are content
to find their reward in the satisfaction of their calling, there is
little further to be said about these occupations from the industrial
point of view. The feminine side of religious and philanthropic work,
however, is developing upon much broader lines than heretofore, and
though at present it partakes largely of the character of amateur work,
it can hardly fail in course of time to create remunerative and (if
the term may be allowed) professional occupations for women. To some
extent this is the case already. Even in the Established Church the
propriety of women preaching appears to be regarded to some extent as
an open question, and--with or without formal sanction--the innovation
seems destined to spread. Whatever else women preachers may lack
they at any rate seldom fail of a congregation, an item which no
church can afford to disregard. It can hardly be doubted that in this
field also the labourer will eventually be found worthy of her hire.
For example, philanthropic societies have usually a paid secretary,
besides, in many cases, visitors, lecturers, and propagandists. Most
of the religious bodies have now “Settlements” in the London slums,
with women’s branches. The resident manager is certainly paid in
some instances, and will no doubt soon be in all. Political work may
also in time afford occupation to a limited number of women. It is,
however, in purely religious work that we may expect to see the next
development of women’s activities. In almost all denominations women
are already at work preaching and exhorting, and the desirability of
giving formal sanction to their proceedings is being actively discussed
in Nonconformist churches.
=Law.=--Of the learned professions only one, that of medicine, is open
to women. A combination of law and ancient custom keeps women out of
the legal profession, and it is only in certain of its approaches,
such as conveyancing and accountants’ work, that they are free to
seek a livelihood. A summary of the case by Miss Eliza Orme LL.B.,
gives a clear idea of the situation. “Women can make wills and simple
agreements without qualification. Anything else (_i.e._ deeds) must
be _nominally_ done by a solicitor, and women can only be employed by
them as clerks. Women cannot go into court. If they do chamber practice
(_i.e._ settling difficult deeds for solicitors, or giving counsel’s
opinion), they can only do it through barristers as ‘devils,’ receiving
half fees. If women are to be solicitors the Act will need altering.
To be barristers they must be admitted by the benchers of one of the
four Inns (Inner and Middle Temple, Benchers’ Inn, and Gray’s Inn), and
if a woman applied, probably a joint council of all would sit.
“The Benchers might admit them as certificated conveyancers, which
would not allow them to plead in court; but men themselves have not
used their certificate for many years.
“The University of London law degree is open to women. It is a thorough
practical test, but not a legal qualification to practice.”
From this summary it will be seen that the door of the legal profession
is still fast closed. There is no difficulty however in a lady’s
practising as a conveyancer, and no reason therefore why more women
should not follow the example of Miss Orme in adopting the profession,
which is said to offer a fair prospect of remuneration. There is also
at least one lady accountant in London, and the audit of societies
and public companies, the preparation of balance-sheets and financial
statements, may be freely undertaken by women who are willing to train
for the work.
It should be added that legal work seems likely to become possible for
women in India. Miss Cornelia Sorabji, who recently passed in the law
schools at Oxford, is about to take up a Government appointment in her
own country, and will be occupied with attending to the legal interests
of Hindu women, who are unable to consult lawyers of the opposite sex.
It remains to be seen whether her example is capable of being followed
by others.
=Medicine.=--The profession of medicine has at last, after long
struggles, been thrown open to both sexes, and women doctors are
slowly taking their place in the ranks as recognised practitioners of
the healing art. Their presence will tend in an eminent degree to the
preservation of health as distinct from the cure of disease, at any
rate as far as women patients are concerned; since it is plain that
women, and especially girls, can be more readily induced to complain
of ailments in the initial and manageable stage if they are able
to consult a member of their own sex. This statement is sometimes
questioned, but as far as girls, at least, are concerned, I have no
doubt whatever of its correctness. And since the seeds of illness
are often laid in early life this point is of the very greatest
importance. It is not necessary here to recall the history of the
struggle for medical education, or to give details as to the places
of study open to women.[6] It is more important to enquire what rank
medical women are taking in their profession, and what appointments
they are able to obtain. Upon the first point it is still too soon
to pronounce an opinion. A medical man does not expect to make a
reputation within the time that the majority of women have as yet been
at work. There are about 170 medical women upon the register, and of
these only a dozen qualified before 1880. It is obviously too early,
and the ground covered is too small, to expect conspicuous results as
yet; and if a number of women are filling public posts in India, or
working at private practice in England with adequate success, they
and their friends have every reason to be content. In some respects it
is said to be easier for women to build up a practice than for men.
Dr. Jex-Blake remarks that “in point of fact women are continually
doing what men hardly ever attempt--viz., settling down in a strange
place with no professional introduction to practice by purchase or
otherwise; and if gifted with a moderate degree of patience, tact,
and other qualities needful in every successful practitioner, they do
manage to succeed in a way that certainly goes far to justify their
bold adventure.” It is usually estimated that five years are necessary
to put together a practice that will afford a livelihood. Whether the
standard of “livelihood” here taken is as high as that of man cannot be
exactly known; but it is certain that women who succeed in the medical
profession make much larger incomes than in most other callings.
The appointments which have recently become available are a great
help to medical women at the beginning of their career. A medical
man usually fills minor posts in hospitals, or acts as a _locum
tenens_ for a while before attempting to set up for himself; but
women have hitherto been obliged to take up practice as soon as their
qualification was gained. The New Hospital for Women in Euston Road,
officered entirely by women, now affords young doctors the means of
gaining experience, and a number of other posts are gradually becoming
available. Several medical women hold Government appointments as
physicians to the female staff of the Post-office; a lady officiates
as assistant resident medical officer in a workhouse hospital, another
in the Holloway Sanatorium, others in fever hospitals or as asylum
inspectors. A well-known surgeon in the provinces employs a lady as
an anæsthetist, and a country doctor in good practice has for some
time been in the habit of employing medical women as assistants. A few
middle class girls’ schools have engaged the services of a consulting
lady doctor, and it would be well if the example were more widely
followed; since, apart from cases of illness, there are many questions
of hygiene and school arrangements in which a properly-qualified woman
could give valuable advice.
[6] For the former see Dr. Sophia Jex-Blake’s _Medical Women_
and (_inter alia_) a pamphlet entitled _Women and Medicine_, by
Edith A. Huntley (Lewes: Farncombe and Co., Printers); for the
latter _The Englishwoman’s Year Book_, which gives a list of
medical schools open to women.
=Medical Women in India.=--An important field for medical women is
to be found in India. The Mahommedan races do not allow the presence
of a male physician in the zenana; and the Hindus, who have borrowed
from the conquering race many of their ideas and customs, are also
opposed to the practice. The Countess of Dufferin’s scheme for
supplying medical aid to the women of India--now too well known to
require explanation--was instituted in 1885, and has been warmly
supported by native princes, some of whom have founded hospitals on
their own account. At present thirteen women doctors are working
under the Dufferin Fund, besides assistant surgeons, and over 200
pupils are studying in Indian medical schools. The various missionary
societies also educate and support a number of medical missionaries
in India. It is possible that some day Government may include the
medical profession in the Civil Service, but for the present the work
has to be done by voluntary effort. Eventually too Indian women will
take over the medical care of their own sisters; but for some time to
come the field must continue to be largely occupied by Englishwomen.
Hindu and Mahommedan girls do not study medicine; the native students
in medical schools are drawn from the Parsees, Brahma Somaj (Veda
Hindus), and Eurasians. Englishwomen holding appointments in India are
allowed private practice as well, but the latter alone would never
yield a livelihood, since the natives who make use of the dispensaries
do not expect to pay a fee. If they receive medicine they do not
object to pay for it, and those who send for a lady doctor to attend
them in their houses are also ready to pay for her services; but only
the comparatively rich think of asking for a doctor’s visit. Ladies
employed by the association engage to work for five years in India,
and, besides a free passage out, receive a salary of 300 rupees a
month. Scholarships are attached to some of the women’s medical
schools, but the amount--£25 or £30 per annum during education--seems
very small in relation to the obligations undertaken, which, if not
fulfilled, involve the return of the money.
=Pharmacy.=--One or two ladies have adopted pharmacy as a profession;
and as means of training are now accessible, there seems no reason why
an occupation which is neither arduous nor disagreeable should not be
largely followed by women. Mrs. Clarke Keer has a dispensary in London,
and a few other ladies hold posts in connection with hospitals. It
has been suggested that the work should be taken up by the daughters
of medical men, whose position gives them special opportunities for
training.
=Dentistry.=--Another very suitable profession is dentistry, which
is largely followed by women in America, but only by a few in this
country. There should be excellent openings in this profession. A
dentist once observed to me, that with children a woman dentist would
have it all her own way, and would probably beat all the men, for
children were troublesome patients, and men did not know how to deal
with them.
=Midwifery.=--Women of education are being trained in increasing
numbers as midwives, and there is abundant opening in this direction
for useful and remunerative work. But at present the status of midwives
is uncertain, owing to the lax regulations respecting their practice
and qualifications. The whole profession is undergoing a change,
passing from the ranks of untrained, unskilled, and inefficient work
to that of a skilled profession. The registration of trained midwives
is being urgently demanded, and a Select Committee has reported in
favour of the examination and registration of all who practise as
midwives. The necessity for stricter regulations will be apparent
when it is stated that seven cases of childbirth out of ten in this
country take place without the presence of a medical man, and that the
women (mostly poor) who employ midwives have no means of ascertaining
their fitness for the duty. The Obstetrical Society, London, gives a
midwife’s certificate of acknowledged value, which should be obtained
by every lady intending to practise in midwifery. For those who wish
to undertake benevolent work among the poor, especially in country
districts, a knowledge of midwifery is highly desirable. The Midwives’
Institute in Buckingham Street, Strand, looks after the interests of
midwives, and arranges for their training.
=Nursing.=--The profession of nursing continues to attract numbers of
educated women into its ranks, and facilities for training are said
to be insufficient for the demand. (For details see _Englishwoman’s
Year Book_.) Considering the hardships involved in the profession
its continued popularity is surprising. The work of a trained
nurse, whether employed in a hospital or in private or district
work, is necessarily severe, and it is to be regretted that more
careful provision is not made for the comfort of so useful a class
of workers. Hours are long and holidays short, and work of the most
trying description is expected to be done year after year, with a mere
fraction of the rest and recreation which is considered necessary in
other and not more arduous professions. In Nursing Institutes and
Homes the dietary is often very poor, and in hospitals the state of
things is not much better. It is unfortunately impossible to repeat
in any detail the complaints made by nurses without indicating the
institutions to which they refer; but most persons with acquaintances
among hospital nurses know that abundant dissatisfaction exists in the
profession. Examples could of course be given of institutions that
are well managed in this respect, but they are, it is to be feared,
the exception rather than the rule. Boards of Management are under
constant pressure to increase their accommodation, and, funds being
seldom abundant, they are tempted to work with an insufficient staff.
The consequences are felt most severely by the more educated nurses.
It seems to be forgotten that the superior tact and skill which make
the cultured woman a better nurse than her uneducated colleague are
gained to some extent at the expense of toughness of fibre, and that
hours and dietary need modification accordingly. I am afraid that a
good deal of the mischief arises from mistaken notions as to what the
profession of nursing ought to be. Nurses are supposed to
|
things."
"Well," said her husband, "I don't think such a subject is very foreign
to your mind or Sophia's either."
"Sophy, let's you and I take your dad and throw him. We can do it," said
Mrs. Holbrooke.
Since the newly-married couple that caused so much interest in the
Holbrooke family had gone by, Sophia had laid down her novel, "The
Banker's Daughter," and was gazing dreamily out of the window. The young
lady being of a rather romantic turn of mind, had just been saying to
herself, "What a perfect day to be married. Will everything be as
beautiful on my wedding day, I wonder?"
"Well," said Mrs. Holbrooke, "whoever the lady may be, she has got a
good man and a lovely home."
"Yes," said her husband, "a good job was done when Charles Herne came
into the world."
"Don't talk so rough, James. I never saw a man like you in all my life,"
said his wife.
"The old man Herne had a long head on him when he sent Charles out into
the world to cut his own fodder," added Holbrooke, reflectively.
"Yes," said his wife, "those hired men of his wouldn't be acting like
gentlemen the way they are now if Charles had not gone out and rustled."
"Two years ago," he continued, "he devoted the entire proceeds from his
orchard for one year, after paying expenses, to fixing up the cottage
for his men. He had it painted and papered; had good carpets laid down
on the floors; large mirrors and pictures on the walls; put in two large
bathrooms with hot and cold water; a billiard table, lots of small
games, all the leading papers and magazines. Bought them a fine piano,
also an organ, and a lot of music, sacred and sentimental. He also
bought a fine matched team with a two-seated buggy, and said: 'Boys, I
want you to keep this team for your own riding out evenings, Saturday
afternoons and Sundays. Take care of it among yourselves, and I hope you
all may have many pleasant rides. There isn't a team in the country gets
more grooming than those colts, and not a man has been known to
overdrive them. I never see anything like it, those hired men at Herne's
live and act as if they were members of some gentlemen's club. They
always wash their hands in warm water in the winter, and are particular
about keeping their finger-nails clean. On Sundays to see those men
dressed up, you would think they had never seen dirt. You don't see
Herne's men on a Sunday morning spending their time in washing overalls,
shirts, and socks. Herne keeps a Chinaman to do that in the week day.
Why, if I was to go and offer one of those men a steady job at ten
dollars a month more than Herne pays, he would turn his nose up at me.
You can't get a man to leave; they stick to him closer than a brother.
He has ten standing applicants to fill the next vacancy he may have. And
did you ever see a place where men worked so orderly, harmoniously, and
thoroughly as they do on the Herne ranch? You don't see any of the trees
in his orchard barked through having careless, mad teamsters while
harrowing and cultivating. Herne's horses, harness, and machinery look
better and last more than twice as long, because the men take great
interest in caring for them. It's not all go out of pocket with Herne in
what he does for his men. Some pretty big returns come back."
"Yes," said Mrs. Holbrooke, "Lena Herne told me that her brother and
herself were sitting on the porch one evening, and she was talking to
Charles about the men and what he had done for them, when he said,
'Lena, I would not give up the love and respect which these men have for
me, and I for them, and the quiet, peaceful understanding that exists
between us, for all the ranches in the county.' She said that she and
her brother very often spent their evenings with the men in games,
singing and a general social time, and there are lots of young people in
the neighborhood that call on them to play croquet and lawn-tennis of a
Saturday afternoon or to spend a pleasant evening. Just think,"
continued Mrs. Holbrooke, "those men at Herne's only work five and a
half days in the week, and those days are short ones. I tell you,
Holbrooke, those men have a far better time than you do, though you own
a ranch and they don't; you are a slave compared to them."
"Some of the men say that Herne don't talk Christianity to them, but he
puts some mighty big Christian principles in practice," said her
husband.
It was as Sophia had mentally said, "A perfect day to be married on."
The newly married couple, as they journeyed from Roseland to Treelawn,
found the sun just warm enough to be pleasant, for it was in the early
part of March. The road was in fine condition, for there was neither mud
nor dust. A gentle breeze wafted the sweet scented odors from the
flower-decked fields, with their carpets of green. All nature seemed
smiling, for was it not its mating season? What was all the chattering
going on in the trees and the songs in the bushes, but the feathery
tribe making love to each other. It seemed as if on this day all Nature
was singing one grand anthem with a hallelujah chorus.
As the happy pair looked at the scene, they forgot for the moment their
own happiness in the contemplation of Nature's grandeur.
Before them rose the variegated hills of the Sierras, the sun bringing
out the brilliant coloring of the rocks; higher behind these the
glittering snow-covered peaks, and above all the matchless blue of the
heavens.
To them the world seemed indeed all joy and beauty, and a home together,
a paradise. And so they entered upon the new life.
CHAPTER IV.
JULIA HAMMOND.
The settlement in which Treelawn was located was called Orangeville, and
covered a large area of country. It had a general store--post-office,
church, school-house, hall, blacksmith-shop, and two saloons.
For reasons best known to himself, Charles Herne had kept his wedding a
secret from all his neighbors, and it was really more by intuition than
by actual knowledge that Mrs. Holbrooke came into possession of the
fact.
On the morning after the wedding, Sam Gilmore, like a good husband, had
quietly risen and dressed himself, leaving his spouse to finish her nap.
After seeing that the fire in the kitchen stove was burning brightly and
the tea-kettle set on, he went to the barn. After a short time he
returned to the house, and putting his head into the bedroom, said with
some excitement, "Sarah, I've got some news for you. Charles Herne has
got him a wife."
When Sarah Gilmore received that piece of astounding intelligence, the
mental shock seemed to produce paralysis, for the garment she was about
to put on remained suspended in the air as she exclaimed: "Well, I swan!
I thought he was married to his hired pets. How did you hear the news,
Sam?"
"Nettleton told me. He was over to see if I would let him have the bays
to-day."
"Did you let them go?" asked his wife.
"No, I told him I was going to use them on the ranch to-day," said Sam,
closing the door and going back to the barn.
As Sam went out of the bedroom door the paralysis went, too, for no
woman ever moved more quickly in putting on the rest of her garments
than did Sarah Gilmore that morning.
There was a very good breakfast waiting for Sam when he came in from the
barn, and above all Sarah had made him a plate of light, rich
batter-cakes, which he always relished very much. They were set a little
way into the oven with the door open, to keep warm, his good wife having
buttered and sugared them, all ready for Sam to pour rich cream over
them.
After breakfast, as Sam was on his way to the barn, he said to himself,
"My! Sarah is a fine cook. I would be willing to bet ten dollars she can
knock the spots out of Charles Herne's wife in cooking; and she is so
cheerful while getting up good meals, and don't make any fuss about it,
either."
Sam and the bays worked well that morning in doing a little light work.
Sarah lost no time in putting the breakfast dishes into the dish-pan,
but instead of washing them immediately, as was her way, she was seen
going over a well-beaten trail toward a house where smoke was coming out
of the chimney. When she opened the door, she found Mrs. Green just
wiping a mush-bowl which had been used at breakfast.
"Well, Carrie," said Sarah Gilmore to Mrs. Green, "what do you think has
happened? Charles Herne has come home with a bride."
"There, now, Sarah, you surprise me," said Mrs. Green.
"I guess every body is surprised," said Mrs. Gilmore.
After a few minutes' more conversation, she hurried back to wash her
dishes and get dinner.
When Sam came to dinner he found his wife in the best of spirits, with a
big dinner for him to enjoy. Sam's alimentive faculty being in a state
of great activity, he ate heartily, finishing up with two pieces of
Sarah's extra rich peach cobbler. After dinner Sam went to the
fire-place where he sat rocking himself, and soon was enjoying a smoke.
He had been smoking about five minutes when his wife said: "I really
like the smell of the tobacco you smoke, but if you were to smoke such
stinking stuff as Horace does, I would get up and leave you. But yours
does smell real sweet."
"Horace Green is too stingy to smoke good tobacco," said Sam, after
which remark he brought his hand to the side of his leg each time he let
the smoke curl out of his mouth, feeling well satisfied with himself and
all the world beside.
Did you ever have the experience of passing through a large barnyard,
and going from one end to the other with a lean, hungry hog after you,
yelling and squealing, trying to eat you up by snapping first at one of
your legs and then at the other? You kick at him with first one foot,
saying, "Sooy, sooy;" then you, with the other foot, kick backwards,
saying, "Sooy, sooy." And after going through this performance many,
many times, you reach the gate and shut it between yourself and the hog,
leaving him on the inside, amidst deafening noise made by his hungry
squeals. After you have left, he does his best to tear down the fence,
so strong are the pangs of hunger in him.
A few minutes after that you take him a pail of rich buttermilk, then a
large pail of fresh ripe figs, and two dozen ears of sweet corn. You go
out in that barnyard an hour afterwards and you don't hear any hog
noise. You don't see a hog even moving, for he is lying down in the
greatest state of quiet. He will let you do just what you have a mind to
do to him. You can scratch him and you will find him good-natured and he
seems to enjoy your attentions. He is in such a contented, happy state,
that you can roll him or do anything you wish to him.
So it is with some men. By making love to them through their stomachs,
you will find them in as happy a frame of mind as Sam Gilmore was as he
finished his pipe. His wife saw that he was taking his last puffs, so
she said, "Sam, can I have the bays to go over to the Henshaws' this
afternoon?"
"Well," replied Sam, "I was going to haul wood, but I guess I can let
that go. What time do you want them?"
"Two o'clock," said his wife.
Sarah said that Sam brought the bays around to the front door and was as
lively round her and the team as he was twenty years ago when she was a
maiden and he came courting her at her father's.
Talk about the diplomacy of Bismarck, d'Israeli, and the Russian
Ambassador in settling the Eastern question at the close of the
Russo-Turkish war; why there are women in Orangeville who can give them
pointers on diplomacy.
The bays thought that either a peddler or minister was driving them that
afternoon, they made so many short calls. There was one thing
certain--Sarah Gilmore was not to blame if the people of Orangeville did
not know Charles Herne was married.
When Green entered the house his wife said: "Horace, what do you think?
Charles Herne has brought home a bride."
"A what?" said her husband.
"A bride," said his wife. "May be it's so long since you saw a bride,
you have entirely forgotten how one looks. You had better hustle round
and pony up that seventy-five dollars you are owing him. He will need it
to buy silks, satins and laces for the bride."
"Hell's to pay," said Green.
Early the same morning Henry Storms entered the "Crow's Nest" saloon in
Orangeville, where two men were talking over the bar to the
saloon-keeper. Storms, walking up to where they were, saluted them by
saying: "Hell's broke loose."
"What's up now?" said one of the men.
"Why," said Storms, "Charles Herne has got a running mate."
"Drinks for four," called out another man.
When the drinks were ready four men raised their glasses, one saying,
"Drink hearty to Charles Herne and his partner."
At the conclusion of the toast four glasses of whiskey were emptied down
four men's throats.
A man went down from his house to the road where his mailbox was nailed
to a redwood post. The stage was just coming in.
"Any news?" asked the man of the stage-driver as he took his mail.
"News!" said the driver. "I should say there was. They tell me that
Charles Herne has been, and gone, and done it."
Saunders, the merchant of Orangeville, told his customers that day that
"Charles Herne had got spliced."
Tim Collins took a span of kicking mules to Pierce, the blacksmith, to
be shod.
"Well, Tim, I got some news for you," said Pierce.
"What is it?" said Tim.
"Charles Herne has got hitched up."
Now one could not discern any perceptible change in Charles Herne, if it
were true that he had done all the many and varied things which his
neighbors stated he had; such as "Brought home a brand-new wife," "Got
him a woman," "Got a bride," "Got a running mate," "Been, gone, and done
it," "Got spliced," "Got hitched up," and so on.
The waves of ether in the atmosphere of Orangeville were pregnant with
all these sayings and produced such an effect on a number of ladies as
to make them call at different times at the Treelawn home.
When some of the ladies had made a call and had seen Mrs. Herne, and
these ladies saw some others in Orangeville who had not seen Mrs. Herne,
conversation did not drag. And as for speculation. Why the amount of
speculative genius displayed by certain ladies of that locality would
eclipse all speculative talent of Kant, Spencer and Mill. Listen to some
of the inquiries: "Is she proud?" "Is she pretty?" "Has she much style
about her?" "Do you think they will get along well together?" "Is she
fond of children?" "Will they have any babies?" "Is she fond of dress?"
"Is she a society lady?" "Do you think she will get lonesome?" "Can she
do housework?" "Is she much account with a needle?" "Is she close and
saving?" "Is she extravagant?" "Do you think she will put her foot down
on Charles Herne furnishing his men with so many luxuries?" "Is she
happy?" "Is she a scold?" "Will she wear the breeches?" and numerous
other questions which, like problems concerning the Universe, will take
time to solve.
Clara Herne was very happy in her new home as the wife of Charles Herne.
She found her duties light and pleasant. Everything in the house and
about the house was order and system, no friction, all harmony. She
remarked to her husband one evening: "It pays to have good help. Every
one here takes an interest in what he has to do and does it the very
best he knows how, cheerfully and willingly."
She respected her husband exceedingly for the generous way in which he
treated his men, and she helped him to still further their comforts.
On retiring one night after they had both spent the evening with their
men, which they often did, she said to her husband: "How good it is to
have love and respect between employers and employed. Every one speaks
in such a kind way; so considerate for the feelings and interests of
each one."
"Yes," said her husband, "it makes life worth living to treat your hired
help not as if they were merely machines for the use of getting so much
work out of them, but to live and act towards them as if they were men.
Better still to realize the thought always, that they are our brothers."
Charles and Clara Herne were very happy as man and wife, because they
were a social unit. They were one in their domestic and social natures;
they were fond of going out to parties, suppers and dances, and enjoyed
entertaining company; they were strictly moral, though not religious,
and occasionally attended church.
One evening about a year after they had been married, they were sitting
in front of the open fire, interesting themselves in talking about some
of the people in Orangeville who were at the party they had attended the
evening previous.
"I think last night's party was one of the best we have attended," said
Mrs. Herne.
"Yes," said her husband, "the Hammonds are great entertainers. They
always make it interesting and pleasant for every one who comes."
"Of course, their daughter Julia has a tact for receiving company and
making delicacies for a party," added Clara. "What taste she displayed
in the arrangement of the table. Then she herself is personally a great
attraction to the young men. I consider her the belle of Orangeville.
Her age I think is about twenty-one."
"Yes, but she has a most unusual development for that age. She has such
a commanding form, so erect; there is something very fascinating about
her expression; and those black eyes of hers denote a powerful
magnetism. No wonder she attracts men so strongly."
"She seemed to pay more attention to that young Webber, I thought, than
to any one else. Certainly, she smiled very sweetly upon him."
"You don't know Julia," said Mr. Herne, decidedly. "She is like a cat,
as meek as Moses or as full of deviltry as Judas Iscariot. She is just
playing with Webber and he is too vain and foolish to see it. Why, Julia
Hammond would not marry Webber if he were the last man in Orangeville.
The man she wants is Ben West, and she scarcely spoke to him during the
evening; in fact, did not pay him as much attention as she would have
paid to the merest stranger. In most girls such an action would be the
result of shyness and the desire to avoid observation; in Julia, I think
it arises from an inborn, stubborn pride which prevents her from
yielding even to such an uncontrollable feeling. She has an iron will
and though she knows she must yield eventually, she holds herself
defiantly as long as she can."
"I don't blame her for wanting Ben West, for he is the finest looking
and most popular young man in Orangeville," said Clara.
"He is, indeed," replied her husband. "Almost any girl in Orangeville
would be glad to marry him, but Julia wants him and she will get him. He
has not lost his heart so far, but Julia has not played her cards yet.
She knows her power and loves to use it. She would do anything to gain
her end."
"Why, dear, you seem to be well posted on Julia's disposition," said his
wife.
"You see," he replied, "I have known her ever since she has lived in
Orangeville, which has been twelve years. And now I am going to tell you
something that will surprise you. I got it straight from Hammond
himself, and he and I are close friends, as I have helped him
financially out of some hard places. Several times he has made me a
confidant. Only one or two in Orangeville know what I am going to tell
you.
"It seems that about four years after Mr. and Mrs. Hammond were married,
Mrs. Hammond received a letter from her cousin, Mrs. Featherstone,
saying that Nat Harrison, a mutual friend, had been shot dead in a
dispute over a faro game. He was under the influence of liquor at the
time of the trouble. He left a wife and a girl baby eighteen months old,
without any means of support, the mother being incompetent to take care
of either herself or the child, and the letter asked would Mrs. Hammond
like to adopt the baby. If so, Mrs. Featherstone was coming to San Diego
in about a month's time and would bring the child (the Hammonds lived at
San Diego then). The mother would make her home with her aunt.
"Mrs. Hammond said, after reading the letter, 'Poor Annie Harrison. Only
think. I sat beside her at the graduating exercises of Nat Harrison's
class, and remember how pleased she was at the applause which greeted
the oration delivered by Nat, "American Commerce." So many
congratulated him on his talent and thought he would become a rising
member of the bar, and his voice would be heard in the halls of
legislation of the nation.
"'Annie looked so pretty and sweet that day, you could not have bought
her prospects in life for a million dollars. She thought she had a jewel
of a lover, poor thing, she was so innocent of the nature of men. She
knew nothing of the world, for her mother always treated her as a baby,
never teaching her any self-reliance, and had kept her as a hot-house
plant. She grew up with no higher ideal in life for herself than to be
some rich man's toy and pet, under marriage. She was more adapted to be
a flower in the "Garden of Eden" than to fight the battle of life in the
present state of society.'
"Nat Harrison had money and was doing well when he married Annie, but
being a man of strong passions and appetites, Annie's freshness and
bloom soon wilted. Then he sought other pastures for his carnal
pleasures, and with that came drinking and gambling. When his estate was
settled up after his death they found he was in debt.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hammond talked the matter over and decided to adopt the
child. They were both much pleased when they received the baby from Mrs.
Featherstone and saw what a fine child she was. They have loved her and
done everything that parents could do for a child of their own to make
her happy. Julia brought lots of sunshine into their home, and
everything went all right and they took a great deal of comfort with her
till she got to be about fourteen and then she seemed to become
stubborn, grew inattentive to her studies, seemed to care less for her
girl companions, but was always with the boys. All she appeared to care
for was to be in their company. She took less interest in things in the
house, did not care about helping her mother, and would have odd spells.
Sometimes she took a notion to do up the work, and it was then done
quickly and well. Then for quite a time it would be like pulling teeth
to get her to do anything. She has the ability if she would only use
it. The last four years she has given Mr. and Mrs. Hammond many an
anxious thought, and they have wished that Ben West or some other such
man would marry her. They see the older she grows the more the hot blood
of her father shows in her. Hammond told me last night at the party that
Julia was great on dress parade, but was not there when it came to doing
the common every day duties of life with no excitement."
"Why, Charles, the narrative concerning Julia's life is very
interesting. Some of the people around us would be just as good material
for a novel as those we read about in fiction."
CHAPTER V.
BEN WEST.
About a week after Mr. Herne had told his wife the history of Julia
Hammond, Mr. Hammond, on going to the store for some trifle, was saluted
by Saunders, the merchant, with, "Heard the news, Hammond?"
Hammond said: "No. What is it?"
"Why, Ben West is going to the Klondike," said Saunders.
"Going to the Klondike!" said Hammond. "Why, I don't see what he has to
go there for. He is the only child, his father owns a fine ranch, and he
is always getting big jobs on roads and ditches, making three to four
dollars a day, because he can go ahead and knows just what to do and how
to do it. He has great muscular strength and can lift about twice as
much as any ordinary man."
"Oh, he wants to make a stake," said Saunders. "He is ambitious."
Wescott spoke up and said: "Ben is a rustler; he will get there every
time."
Hammond said: "He has lots of vim and pluck; has got sand and backbone
to him."
"Yes, he is a hummer," said Saunders.
"I tell you he has got some ambition and grit," said Stearns,
admiringly.
It was not long before the news spread all over Orangeville, that Ben
West was going to the Klondike, and the abilities which he possessed as
a worker and money maker, and an all round good fellow were the theme of
conversation in many a household and on many a ranch.
When the news reached the ears of the young ladies of Orangeville, most
of them felt a shade of disappointment, because Ben had been good to
them.
Not having shown any decided preference for one, he devoted his
attentions to many, and having a good fast team he was able to give the
young ladies many a pleasant ride to dances, parties and church, so he
was a great favorite with them all.
Just previous to Ben West's leaving Orangeville, a great farewell supper
and dance was given him. The attendance was very large. The young ladies
appeared in their best toilets. Julia looked superb and was very
graceful in her deportment. This evening she "played her cards" with
evident success, and the result was that as Ben West went home the
feeling that had been flickering for some time had now broken out into a
flame that fired his blood. Julia did indeed know her power and how to
use it, and she intended that some one else should be restless and
disturbed as well as herself. So that night there were two persons in
Orangeville who tried to sleep but could not. Ben West realized that
night that he had become a willing slave. Sometimes the thought seemed
pleasant, then again it would be galling in the extreme.
A few of the boys went to Roseland to see Ben off, and they had a time
"all to themselves" as they called it in Roseland, the night previous to
his departure. Ben West left with the best wishes and prayers for good
luck following him from all his friends.
When a rising, popular young man leaves his home and neighborhood for
the purpose of making his fortune, he is full of great expectations, and
this thought is shared by all his friends. He departs with the best
wishes following him, for his companions say: "If a man can strike it
rich he can." There does not seem the least doubt in their minds
regarding his success, for they have unbounded confidence in him. Now
the young man leaving is exceedingly alive to the expressions and
sentiments of his friends, and he feels that he must succeed or die in
the attempt. His attachment to name and fame and his personal self is so
strong, and he is so susceptible and negative to the good opinion of
those around him, that he feels he will never want to come back and show
himself among his friends unless he has struck it rich, for he knows
there is nothing that succeeds like success.
Talk about the idolatry of the heathen! Is there any idolatry in the
world that is stronger than that which is found in the so-called
"Christian" world in the year 1900? Where do you find any greater
idolatry than that which is bestowed on money and on woman? There are
more devotees at these two shrines than are to be found worshipping the
Divine. Look at a young man fortunate in the financial world. The first
year in speculations he makes fifty thousand dollars. The second year he
is worth two hundred thousand dollars. The third year he has made half a
million. The fourth year he has become a millionaire. Now listen to the
eulogies and encomiums passed upon him. He is the lion of the hour, the
hero of the day, for he has won the victory that to win fifty thousand
other men had tried and failed. He has attained the great end for which
most men think they were born, money making. What a number of young
ladies see so many excellent qualities in the rising young millionaire,
the "Napoleon of Finance." Note how his faults are all glossed over by
their mammas, who are ready to act as if they had received a retaining
fee as his attorneys, so ready are they to defend him at all times to
their daughters and friends. It seems to matter little about his
intellectual gifts or moral character. His financial success covers a
multitude of sins and weaknesses. Should a young lady raise one or two
slight objections in regard to the young millionaire's character, her
mother says: "Why, dear, all young men must sow their wild oats. You
must not expect to find a pure young man. All young men are fast more or
less. It would be hard to find an unmarried man that is moral. After
they are married they get steady and settle down."
Should a young lady of moderate means marry a young man who has made a
million dollars, there is more rejoicing by the members of her family
than if she had become a saint or a great angel of light. She thinks she
has attained the great end of her existence in marrying a millionaire
and making for herself name and fame and family position.
Should the young millionaire be a little liberal to a few of his
friends, he becomes more to them than the Lord himself. Other young men,
seeing and knowing all this, are putting forth every effort and
straining every nerve to be successful financiers. They realize that the
power of money is so great to-day in the eyes of many, that unless they
are successful money getters, they are no good to themselves or their
friends. They parody the verse in Proverbs something like this: "With
all thy getting, get money; get it honestly if you can, _but get it
anyway_."
Such is the gospel that is acted out in the commercial world to-day. All
good intentions, all right convictions, all wise counsels of religious
teachers, are side-tracked and become as a dead letter if they stand in
the way to successful money making.
Ben West knew what the sentiment of the people of Orangeville was
towards himself, and it fired his ambition to think of the expressions
conveyed to him by his friends, and his heart was fired still more when
he thought of the possibility of possessing the fine form of Julia
Hammond. He made up his mind that he would be willing to endure all
hardships, that he would leave no stone unturned in order to be
successful; for he saw before him the chance of getting a fortune and
the praise, adoration and admiration of the people of Orangeville.
The form of Julia Hammond seemed to float before the eyes of his mind
day and night; and when he saw, in his imagination, that face with its
sparkling black eyes, and the finely poised head, with its wavy black
hair, her well-rounded bust, and the handsome figure, it made him feel
like removing a mountain of dirt or penetrating the bowels of the earth,
to get the shiny metal which was to open for him the gates of his
earthly paradise.
CHAPTER VI.
STELLA WHEELWRIGHT.
One afternoon two men were digging post-holes and setting in redwood
posts on the side of one of the main roads in Orangeville. Everything
had been exceedingly quiet, not a team was seen since dinner. Nothing in
the way of excitement had happened to relieve the monotony of their
work. They were interested and delighted when they heard a noise, and,
looking down the road, saw a vehicle coming, but it was not near enough
to tell whose it was. When it got a little nearer one of the men said:
"Why, Alfred, it is the old man Wheelwright and his girl Stella."
Alfred replied to James, the man who has just spoken: "Stella was to
school at San José, and her father has been to Roseland to meet the
train which arrived this morning and bring her home."
"How she has grown," remarked James, "since she went away. She has
improved in her looks very much."
"Yes," said Alfred, "I think she will make a fine woman, for she has a
bright, intelligent eye, and they say she is real smart in her studies,
away ahead of most of the girls round here. She seems so different to
them. She comes of good stock; her mother is the brightest and best
woman in Orangeville, and her father is a well-posted man."
"You must be kind of stuck on her and her folks," replied his companion.
"I don't go so much myself on girls who have their heads in books all
the time. What does a fellow want with such a girl as that? She may be
all right to be a school marm, or woman's rights talker, but I don't
want any of them. I say to hell with book women. Give me a girl like
Nance Slater. She is round and plump, don't care much for books or
papers, but is bright and laughing all the day. She is the girl to have
lots of fun with, and when it comes to making a man a good wife, why,
she is the best cook in Orangeville. I was over to Slater's on an errand
the other morning about ten o'clock, and Nance was looking as pretty as
a picture; her cheeks had the blush of the peach on them; her eyes were
sparkling bright, her lips red, and when she laughed, her teeth looked
like the best and whitest ivory you ever saw. She had on such a pretty,
light, calico wrapper, and a white apron with a bib, and was busy taking
out of the oven some mince pies and just putting in some apple pies. She
had a kettle of doughnuts a frying, and a whole lot of cookie paste
ready to cut out and bake. She said: 'James, you must sample my
doughnuts. Mother, give James a cup of coffee to go with them; there is
some hot on the stove.' Nance is a trump. She is straight goods. The
trouble with those Wheelwrights is they live awful close, and instead of
cooking good meals, spend their time in reading books. They starve in
the kitchen to sit in the parlor. The devil take the books, I say. I
wouldn't give a book girl barn room for all the good she would be to
me."
Alfred replied: "That's all right; every fellow to his own girl, I say.
It would not do for all to be after the same one. As for me, I like
Stella. She has some stability of character. There is something
interesting about a girl like that, and if she don't care about doing
all the cooking, why, I can help her, if she will only let me enjoy her
company."
The sun went down and the men went each to his own home, being content
in their mind that each man should have his own choice.
Stella was the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wheelwright, she being the
only child they ever had had. At the time she returned from school she
was sixteen and would have one year more in school. She was very
precocious, a thorough student, and would allow nothing to divert her
from her studies.
|
.
I have heard severe criticism on the part of Southerners regarding
the illustrious dead, but I often remember the olden story, in the
Holy Book, of similar criticism made by the enemies of Christ, and
I also read that “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man
lay down his life for his friends.”
So, in our homes, in our workshops, in the fields, in the churches
and schools, through the pages of history, and within our own
hearts, we will never forget the boys in blue who saved the Union,
and the glorious hero who laid down his life willingly and freely,
that the curse of slavery should be forever extinguished from
the bright, fair pages of our history. And while we strew bright
flowers over the graves of the departed heroes, we shall always
remember, with swelling heart and deep affection, the great work
accomplished by old John Brown of Ossawatomie.
Russell, Kansas. FRANK E. JEROME.
* * * * *
AT THE MONUMENT OF LINCOLN.
The General Association of Illinois, at its recent meeting in
Springfield, as it had done once before, went in a body to that
shrine of patriotism, the monument to Abraham Lincoln. That
patriotic song, now turned to a Christian psalm, “My country, ’tis
of thee,” was sung by the people, and a prayer of thanksgiving was
offered by Dr. G. S. F. Savage, who has now come to be one of the
veteran ministers of the State.
Words of welcome were offered by the Attorney-General of Illinois,
Mr. Geo. H. Hunt, and these were gracefully responded to by the
Moderator, Rev. W. F. Day. Addresses were also made by Rev. E. K.
Alden, D.D., Hon. Wm. H. Collins, and Rev. Jos. E. Roy.
At the former visit of this body, the Jubilee Singers were present
to voice the gratitude of the emancipated race.
The colored troops, after their muster-out, gave for the monument
more than $50,000, one-fourth of the whole.
The scroll held in the left hand of the bronze statue of Mr.
Lincoln bears on it, in large letters, the word “Emancipation,” and
the pen in his right hand indicates the signing of that talismanic
instrument, while the coat-of-arms, set into the pedestal,
represents the eagle as holding in his beak the broken chain of
slaves.
Of the 178,000 colored soldiers, 80,000 had, with their great
Liberator, laid down their lives for the life of the nation. And
so it seemed well that one who was identified with the work of
supplementing that edict of freedom should stand there to recount
their deeds of valor and to relate with what enthusiasm they
celebrate all over the South not only Emancipation Day and the
Fourth of July, but Decoration Day itself. Who in that Southland
shall be found to offer psalms and prayers, and scatter flowers
over the graves of the 321,369 soldiers buried in the eighty-two
national cemeteries there? As God would have it, the people are
found there, numbered by millions, who delight to render this
service of gratitude and of love—a people whose patriotism has
never been tarnished with a breath of disloyalty.
What shall be done for a people who have been so true to the
nation? Let them be confirmed in all the rights and emoluments of
our Christian citizenship.
* * * * *
THINGS TO BE REMEMBERED—NO. 2.
_The Want_: Nothing so nearly concerns the welfare of this land,
and of all lands, as the thorough merging and assimilating of all
the races here into one Christian commonwealth. This is needed
for the unity and strength of our own nation, and for an example
and influence upon the nations abroad. The despised races, in
particular, need to be thus fused and absorbed, in order that they
may be inoculated and empowered with the spirit of the Republic
to carry its freedom, its learning and light, to the lands in
darkness. They are part and parcel of our people, _fused or not_,
and the character of the nation will be affected by their presence
and influence. The measure with which we mete to them shall be
measured to us again. We are in a partnership which involves common
gains and common losses. What we put into them of intelligence,
piety and moral power, we put into the nation not only, but we put
into the mightiest of the unbaptized races of men. We have little
conception, indeed, of the immense inertia of the heathen races;
or how much sympathy, money and labor, will be needed to move them
into new lines of thought, or of moral action. But it is a work
to which we are specially called, and for which we have special
facilities. It may tax all our patience and charity, and then we
shall barely touch the necessities of the case. The churches, the
school-houses, the intelligence and the character that will be
needed for the uplift of these races, we have only begun to supply.
Indeed it is a question as to whether we have yet formed any
adequate idea of a work, _as for races_, in distinction from a work
which deals merely with individuals. But if we could bear in mind,
in dealing with the Chinaman, the Indian and the Negro, that it is
the races we are after, the turning of single souls to God would
not seem the small thing that it does. We should then comprehend,
perhaps, how much more favorable was a Christian land for the
conversion of men, and for the raising up of broad, intelligent,
and thoroughly equipped teachers and preachers for the benighted
and perishing, than were heathen lands. The activities of our daily
life, the forces of our liberty, learning, piety, government,
_must_ do immensely more for a man in America than the feeble
pulses of gospel life and light can do for him in China and Africa.
How much easier, then, the conversion of heathen under the blaze of
our Christian sky, and how much stronger and better men can we make
of them to undertake the salvation of their own lands!
The great want is the means—both men and money—to throw upon
the Pacific slopes, upon the Indian reservations, the Southern
savannas, a Christian force large enough to put these races under
thorough Christian culture. Anything less than this will fail of
the end. It is an opportunity to lay hold of the unsaved races,
such as is likely never to come again; which it would not only be
unwise to neglect, but deeply criminal not to improve. God sets
before us this open door, and not to enter in is to peril _their_
future as well as our own. A responsibility greater than this could
hardly be given to men, and an eye to see it and a soul to feel it
are what, beyond all things, our people need.
C. L. WOODWORTH
* * * * *
THE IMPRESSIONS OF TEN YEARS.
BY PRESIDENT PATTON OF HOWARD UNIVERSITY.
The present educational year completes the tenth of my connection
with Howard University, and thus with the work of educating the
Negro race. An “Abolitionist” since the spring of the year 1837,
I have ever felt a deep interest in the welfare of this oppressed
people, and the fact of their present freedom has only changed the
direction of my anxiety and effort. For I know that the brightness
of their future depends upon industry, education, morality and
religion. And to this end they must have Christian schools and
churches, and an industrial training in shop and store as well as
in garden and farm. My experience as president of an institution
which in its seven departments—industrial, normal, preparatory,
collegiate, legal, medical and theological—covers well the entire
range of instruction, except the primary branches, has given
opportunity to observe the capacity and the actual progress of the
Negro, and to study the wants of the race in this country.
The result is encouragement not uncoupled with anxiety. A great
work has been accomplished, beyond question—great in immediate
effect, though more so in its prospective bearing. It is rather a
great seed sowing than a great harvest. Thousands have been taught
the rudiments of knowledge, and a select few have received a higher
training. Some ambition has been roused in the masses, and a little
progress has been made in supplying them with more intelligent
leaders in church and in state. No doubt remains that the Negro
may be rendered capable of filling all the stations in life which
are occupied by white men. Ordinary acquirements are made with
creditable ease. The higher education can also be acquired by the
proper proportion of students, but this effort is only partially
successful as yet. Poor material is too commonly offered, not only
as to native talent, but especially as regards thorough drill in
primary studies and the commencement of genuine mental discipline.
With an imperfect drill in the lower schools, we can do no perfect
work in the higher branches, and we find it difficult to develop
and sustain in the mind the idea of a true scholarship, and of the
lofty aims of a liberal education. It is but slowly that such an
intellectual atmosphere can be made to pervade the colored colleges
of the South as is found in the white colleges of the New England
States. But the work must be pushed till such a result shall be
secured.
Progress always entails added labor and expense. What has been
already accomplished by the A. M. A. must not be lost, and the
vantage ground must be used to gain new results. When students
graduate, their places are more than occupied by others, who have
been moved by their example to seek for knowledge. As the spirit of
caste is overcome, and places of honor and profit begin to open to
colored men, fully qualified persons must be ready to embrace the
new opportunities. Every educated and earnest Christian minister
sent forth from our institutions will not only supply his immediate
church, but will probably organize in the outlying neighborhood one
or two others, requiring similar pastors in a short time. And he
will also inspire the uneducated preachers of that region to aim
at higher work, and to seek school privileges. It is a frequent
remark, that the theological department of Howard University has,
by direct and indirect influence, revolutionized the preaching in
the colored churches of all denominations in Washington, which
number about eighty, it is said. Thus the A. M. A. is a leaven
hidden in the Southern meal, and destined, with similar influences,
to leaven the entire mass.
And this ought to be appreciated by the intelligent
Congregationalists of the North, who will rejoice in two obvious
results of the operations of the A. M. A. One is, the gradual
increase of their own churches and educational institutions, which
are becoming respectable in number and great in influence; the
other is, the modifying effect upon other denominations, which are
thus inspired and toned up to our standard of education, morals and
religion. This is secured not only by our example and competition,
but also by the enlightening and liberalizing influence exerted
upon their own men, who, as teachers and preachers, have been
trained in our schools. These are not false to their own sects;
they labor faithfully and successfully in their respective charges,
but they have gained enlargement of view and a wider charity, and
they will be found always on the side of progress in thought and in
action, and ready for Christian co-operation.
The movement in progress in both political parties, to obliterate
the race-line at the polls, is significant in many respects. It
points to a decrease of prejudice, but it also renders imperative
increased efforts to furnish the Negroes with intelligent,
well-principled leaders, of their own race, to save them from being
made tools of by wily politicians among the whites, and by corrupt
vote-mongers among themselves. In a section so rapidly developing
as is the South, great changes may soon be expected. It is our
American Japan. Let us not be backward in supplying the formative
influences. The work of the American Missionary Association was
never more needed, or more certain to be successful, than at this
very moment.
* * * * *
THE SOUTH.
NOTES IN THE SADDLE.
BY FIELD-SUPERINTENDENT C. J. RYDER
A colored preacher of the old style stumblingly read for his
text, the following:—“Wine is a moccasin and strong drink is a
rattlesnake.” The sermon which followed was in keeping with the
text which he read. This is sound temperance sentiment even if
it is a little faulty as a rendering of Scripture. The question
is often asked:—What is the A. M. A. doing toward the grand
temperance upheaval of the South? This question has been put
to me recently:—“Is the A. M. A. keeping step to the march of
present reform, as it did in the great anti-slavery agitation?” An
unhesitating _yes_ can be given to this question. In the “Notes in
the Saddle,” for June, a few hints were given concerning the part
the representatives of the A. M. A. were taking in the temperance
movement in Texas. This was only a hint. It was intended as
such. Much more could have been said, and truthfully said; for
instance:—one pastor of an A. M. A. church is devoting a large
part of the summer to stumping the State in favor of the proposed
Temperance Amendment to the State Constitution. He goes out under
the commission of a committee of temperance workers appointed for
the special purpose of stirring up correct sentiments among the
people. The colored people are a large factor in the settlement
of this question in Texas. This pastor will do his utmost to lead
them to vote right. Other pastors and teachers are giving portions
of their time this summer to the same good work. In the South at
large every A. M. A. school is the center of pronounced temperance
agitation. “Bands of Hope” among the younger pupils and temperance
societies of various names among the older pupils are the universal
rule. The “Three Pledge” cards, including abstinence from tobacco,
intoxicants, and profane language, are signed by almost every
pupil in the A. M. A. schools. These pupils, when they go out as
teachers in the public schools, take these pledges with them, and
secure signatures from their pupils, and in this way carry the
work far beyond the limits of the enrollment of our own schools,
in this aggressive temperance agitation. Not a single pastor of an
A. M. A. church uses intoxicants or tobacco so far as my knowledge
goes. The example of these pastors, as well as their preaching,
is right and safe. In one community, the rigid rules adopted by
the Congregational Church concerning these indulgences, brought
the other colored churches into line first, and, finally, the
white church of the same community found it necessary to take this
radical position in order to maintain its hold upon the people.
Their wise method of reaching the people and securing a correct
public sentiment concerning this question, is made use of both by
pastors and by schools. Instruction in Coleman’s and Richardson’s
Manuals is provided for in the course of study. Honest, earnest,
and persistent Christian effort is put forth by the representatives
of the A. M. A. all along the line.
* * * * *
While walking down the streets of Florence, Ala., a few weeks ago,
a little white boy came trotting along at my side. We easily fell
into conversation. “How old are you?” I said. “Nine years old,” he
replied. “What Reader do you read in?” “I never read in no Reader.”
“Do you go to school?” “No, sir.” “Can’t you read?” “I can pick out
some words right smart.” This is the exact testimony of a Southern
white boy of the middle class of society to-day! A few rods farther
down the street of the same village, a little colored boy overtook
me. I invited conversation with him, with the following result:
“How old are you?” “Nine years old, Boss.” “Go to school?” “Oh,
yes, sir; been going to school for a long time.” “What Reader
are you in?” “The Second, sir.” “Can you read right along in the
Bible without any trouble?” “Yes, sir; I don’t have any trouble
in reading ’most anything.” This incident is true to the letter.
It is not very exceptional. The colored children are improving
faster than the white children in the South. If this state of
things continues very long, the Southern people will be obliged
to hire colored young men and women to teach their white schools.
Think of it! “In New York State 55 white men in a thousand, and in
Massachusetts 62 in each thousand, make their mark when they sign a
document,” says the New York _Post_, “while in Kansas only 31 in a
thousand, and in Nebraska only 30 in a thousand are so illiterate.
But in Kentucky 173 white men in a thousand cannot write their own
names!” The A. M. A. schools in the South are seeking to correct
this appalling state of things. They not only educate, but they
inspire also a desire for education in those reached by their
influences. It is unfortunate that these influences are mostly
confined to the colored people, but that is not because the whites
are excluded from our school privileges. “None are so blind as
those who will not see.” None are so hopelessly ignorant as those
who do not desire to learn.
* * * * *
ATLANTA UNIVERSITY.
The eighteenth anniversary of this institution has just passed. No
year in the history of the school, perhaps, has witnessed a broader
and better work than that of the year now closed.
The exercises incident to Commencement week were inaugurated with
the baccalaureate sermon, preached by Sec. Woodworth, of Boston,
Sabbath morning, May 22d, in the chapel of the University, packed
to the full with the students and their friends.
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were occupied with the usual
examinations of the Normal and College departments, in the presence
of the State Board of Examiners appointed by the Governor for that
purpose. Every opportunity was given and taken to test the students
in their thorough knowledge and mastery of the subjects reviewed;
and it is but simple justice to them and to their teachers to say
that they bore the test superbly. In addition to the ordinary
school work, there were exhibitions in handicraft of various
kinds. First came an exhibit in the principles and practice of
wood-working, including carpentry and turning, which would have
gratified the advocates of manual labor connected with our public
schools.
Next came an object lesson, by the Senior and Normal classes,
in nursing. They brought in, upon a stretcher, one of their own
number, and illustrated how different kinds of bandages should be
made and applied; how plasters and poultices should be mixed and
spread, and also how deftly and easily the clothing of the sick bed
could be changed and renewed without removing or disturbing the
patient.
Then came an exhibit in artistic and scientific cooking, by
the Senior Normal class. If the quality of the cooking were to
be judged by the rapidity with which the different articles
disappeared after reaching the hands of the committee, it must be
pronounced a great success.
And last, but not least, came a look at the farm, and an inspection
of the barn, the crops, and the stock. The conclusion was that the
whole establishment was a credit to the State, and worthy of the
study of all the farmers thereof.
At the close of the examination on Wednesday, P. M., the school
assembled in the chapel to listen to the report of the examiners on
what they had seen and heard. They had nothing but praise to bestow
on the literary work of the University; the evidences of hard and
accurate study; of clear, inspiring teaching, and of the scholarly
bearing and quiet, orderly spirit in all departments of the school.
They were specially gratified with the manual training given in
so many directions, and its promise of future value to the State.
One of them, who seemed to voice the feelings of the others, said:
“I believe that, take it all in all, Atlanta University is the
best-equipped school in the State of Georgia.”
Wednesday evening, Rev. A. D. Mayo, of Boston, delivered a very
able and quickening address, taking for his theme: “American brains
in American hands.”
Thursday was the great day of the feast, when five young men and
six young women delivered their orations or read their essays
from the Commencement stage. The services were held in the Second
Baptist Church, before an audience of twenty-five hundred people.
One of the examiners remarked at the close that he never before
witnessed, on such an occasion, such perfect order and decorum. And
of the orations and essays it is praise enough to say that not one
of them contained a weak or foolish thing.
It will interest the friends of Atlanta to learn that the
presidency, made vacant by the death of the lamented Ware, two
years since, was filled by the election of the Rev. Erastus
Blakeslee, of New Haven, Conn. Mr. Blakeslee was a classmate at
Yale College of Mr. Ware and of Prof. Bumstead, who has been acting
president during the past year; and it is believed he will enter
heartily into the spirit of the institution, and will bring to it
new enterprise and enthusiasm and power.
C. L. W.
* * * * *
CLOSING EXERCISES AT STRAIGHT.
A Young Men’s Christian Association has been organized during the
year, and the first of our closing exercises was a public meeting
of this association, conducted by its officers at Central Church.
Addresses were made by Prof. Olds and Rev. Dr. Berger, and a fair
audience was present. This was on the morning of Sunday, May 25,
and on the evening of the same day the Baccalaureate sermon was
preached by Dr. Berger. It was a grand sermon, and was listened to
with profound attention by a large audience.
On Monday evening the societies, the old “Sumner Literary
Association,” which is almost as old as the school itself; the
“Philomathian,” of later birth, but great usefulness; the “Band of
Mercy” and “Band of Hope,” united in a public anniversary meeting.
A programme, consisting of recitations, orations, reading of
essays, and debate, was presented, and a large audience testified
to its entire success.
The annual concert and exhibition came on Wednesday evening. The
young people were greeted by a full house, and money enough was
realized to nearly pay off the indebtedness on the printing outfit.
The music was conceded to be excellent, and all the exercises were
applauded.
Friday was Commencement. The exercises are held in the evening, as
most of those interested in the school being working people, many
who would desire to attend could not do so in the daytime. In New
Orleans, especially in summer time, audiences are not noted for
assembling early, but people have come to know that when Straight
University says 7 o’clock, that is the hour when exercises will
commence; and as soon as the doors were open, the crowd was ready
to go in. No such an audience ever before occupied that church. At
the opening of the doors nearly enough were there to fill the main
audience room, and soon galleries, aisles and doorways were packed.
It is estimated that a thousand people were present, and a great
number were unable to get in.
Formerly, on all gatherings of this kind, it was found necessary to
have a force of policemen present; but when getting my permit from
the Mayor, I was asked what policemen would be required, I ventured
to say “none,” and I am rejoiced to be able to say that during the
entire series of meetings no disturbance of any kind occurred. It
must be remembered, in order to give force to this, that Central
Church is situated in the very heart of the most densely populated
portion of the city.
It was a long programme, but so quiet and attentive was that dense
audience, that every word could be heard in any part of the room.
The exercises from the platform were such as we were proud of, and
the audience was not less a subject of pride.
Ten students were graduated, the largest number ever completing
the course in any year, and all their exercises were marked by
a simplicity and force quite in contrast to the floridity and
fluffiness often attributed, and sometimes with justice, to the
colored people. Some fine music by the choral and glee clubs, and
by individuals, gave variety to the exercises.
The diplomas were presented by Hon. Thomas J. Woodward,
vice-president of the board of trustees. A few remarks were made
by President Hitchcock and Secretary Chas. Shute, followed by
a neat and forcible impromptu address by Rev. A. E. P. Albert,
D.D., an alumnus of Straight; closing by singing “The Heavens are
Telling,” by the choral club, and benediction by Dr. Berger. Of
the graduating class, all but one will for the present engage in
teaching; several hope to return and take post-graduate courses.
All are working Christians.
R.C.H.
* * * * *
TWO EXAMPLES OF PERSEVERANCE.
The current talk concerning the Negro makes the entire race to
consist of improvident ne’er-do-wells, with no care for the
future and with no power of denying present gratification for
future good. Whatever of truth or falsehood this assertion may
contain, and probably it has much of both, very many instances of
perseverance come under our observation among our students in the
schools of the A. M. A.
A. H. is an orphan girl of about eighteen years, whose desire for
education brought her into our school a few months last year. By
hard work and careful saving through the summer, she earned enough
money to keep herself in school a year. At the close, however,
of the first month she brought her books to my desk, saying she
must leave school at once; and the poor girl broke down, and
began to cry. Little by little I learned the story: Her aunt had
been sick, and A. had given to her the earnings hoarded for the
year’s tuition. It was now impossible to get the money back, or
even enough to meet one month’s demands, and A. had resolved to go
out into the country, where she could earn a little by picking up
potatoes. By hard work she hoped to save enough to return again
at Christmas time. The next day it was my pleasure to send her
word that for the present she might remain in the school with
free tuition. On Monday she was again in her place, grateful and
studious, and kindly offering to give up her desk when the room
became full, and herself take a stool or a chair.
In one of our advanced classes there is a young man of nearly
thirty years, whose story is equally interesting. In the spring he
thought he should not be able to return to school this fall, for
lack of money. He went out, however, resolved never to spend an
idle day; he would work, even if wages were low. Whenever he failed
to secure better work, he went to the woods, splitting rails.
Days and days he worked there, through the heat, and found that,
by arduous labor, he could clear exactly thirty-five cents a day!
“I should have kept on,” said he, “had it been but twenty-five!”
The result of his summer’s work was that he found himself, at
school time, with more money saved than at any previous fall; and
now he is again at his place, studious and faithful, volunteering
even to work extra hours each day and Saturday, in the Industrial
department, for the sake of the practice with tools.
Instances might be multiplied, but these two are sufficient to show
the industry and the sacrifice of many of the scholars, and the
need in our schools for a fund to help such to secure the education
they desire.
A TEACHER.
* * * * *
THE INDIANS.
Mr. George W. Reed, of the last class of the Hartford Theological
Seminary, has been appointed by the American Missionary Association
a missionary to the Dakota Indians. He was ordained a minister of
the gospel of Christ, on Tuesday, May 17th, by a council called
by the Olivet Congregational Church of Springfield, Mass., at
Springfield. Mr. Reed is a member of the Olivet Church. The sermon
was preached by Prof. Llewellyn Pratt, of the Hartford Seminary.
Ordaining prayer by Rev. Wm. Thompson, D.D., also of the Hartford
Seminary. Right hand of fellowship by Rev. Michael Burnham, of
Springfield. Charge to the candidate by Secretary Powell.
By request, we publish a portion of the charge to the candidate:
I charge you to remember that the interest which this Council
expresses in Indian missions is in the line of our historic
development. Away back in the year 1644, the General Court of
Massachusetts ordained “that the County Courts in this jurisdiction
shall take care that the Indians in the several shires be
civilized, and the courts shall have power to take order from time
to time to have the Indians instructed in the knowledge of God.”
In 1646 John Elliot, a Congregational minister, was at work as
a missionary among the Indians. He translated his famous Indian
Bible, the first and for many years the only Bible printed in
America, gathered the Indians into communities by themselves,
and in 1647 had 14 Indian villages, with 1,400 praying Indians,
organized into 24 regular congregations, in charge of 24 native
pastors, and the discipline of the churches and the qualifications
of the ministers were fully up to the Puritan standard then
required. In 1743 Rev. Eleazar Wheelock, of Lebanon, Conn.,
another Congregational minister, took up the work where Elliot
had laid it down, and out of his missionary labors grew Dartmouth
College, an institution that stands to-day a proud monument of New
England Congregationalism’s early interest in the education and
evangelization of the Indian.
In 1810 the American Board came into existence, and in 1815
we find it adopting measures for carrying the gospel to the
Indians. So rapid did its work grow in that direction, that in
1830 three-fourths of all the church members in its missions were
Indians. In 1846 the American Missionary Association was formed,
and of the 30 missionaries who held its commission the first year,
11 were missionaries to the Indians. In 1883 the American Board,
deciding to prosecute its work exclusively in foreign lands, turned
over its Indian missions to the American Missionary Association. So
that you see what this Council has done to-night is in the line of
our historical development, and connects your life and work in an
unbroken line with the early history of Congregationalism in its
efforts to reach the Indians.
I charge you to remember that in your special mission, justice,
as a Christian principle to be observed in all our dealings with
our fellow men, must find in you a champion. This because of the
fearful wrongs that, in the name of religion, have been committed
against the people to whom you go.
In the person of the poor Indian, entitled to all his rights as a
man, Christ has been standing in the presence of the white man’s
civilization on this continent for upwards of three hundred
years, asking for justice, and it has not yet been accorded him.
A most shameful record is the history of the white man’s dealings
with the Indians, whether read in the conduct of individuals or
in the conduct of the Government. The white man, by reason of his
intelligence, his resources and his numerical superiority, had the
ability to cheat, rob, and overpower the Indian, and putting his
sense of justice out of sight, he has proceeded to cheat and rob
and overpower him. Between the years 1778 and 1871, the people of
the United States have made with the Indians 649 treaties, and the
majority of them they have violated. By these treaties nearly all
of the territory of the United States has been acquired—a territory
that by reason of its vastness is at present the home of 50,000,000
white men, prospectively to become the home of at least 150,000,000
more—a territory that by reason of its marvellous resources of
climate, soil and minerals, has produced a wealth already rivaling
that of the oldest nations, and promising in the not far distant
future to surpass them all. This territory has nearly all of it
been deeded by the Indians to the people of the United States, _on
condition_ that the Government should compensate them by money
annuities in cash payment, or their equivalent in food, clothing,
agricultural implements, and instruction in farming and trades;
by establishing and maintaining schools for the education of
their children, and rigidly excluding white intruders from their
reservations.
Well, we have got the territory, but what about the conditions?
The money agreed upon has not been paid; the rations stipulated
for have not been issued; the schools promised have not been
maintained, and white intruders upon the reservations have not
been excluded. From pillar to post these children of the forest
have been driven. As fast as the white man has wanted the Indian’s
land, a reason has been speedily found for violating the treaty
and consummating the robbery. The savage has been goaded to go
on the war path by white men’s villainy, and then the Government
has been obliged to go out and whip him into submission; and, as
a punishment for crime he never would have perpetrated had he not
been driven to it, move him elsewhere, and divide up his land among
his despoilers.
My brother, remember as you stand to preach the gospel among the
Indians it will be your precious privilege to show that the wrongs
and injustice they have suffered at the hands of the white man have
been inflicted in opposition to the teachings of Christianity and
in defiance of its commands.
I charge you to remember that your mission gives repeated emphasis
to the faith of the Christian church in the _redeemability_ of the
Indian. Lack of faith in this truth has been the cause of much
of the cruel indifference on the part of many good people—even
Christian people—to the wrongs that Indians have suffered, and
has occasioned lack of enthusiasm in the prosecution of Indian
missions. It has paralyzed endeavor, and prepared the way for the
indulgence of enmity. But notice this: No body of Christians have
ever put themselves on record as not believing in the Indian’s
redeemability. Stories of massacre and one-sided testimony, when
the Indian could not have a hearing, have led many Christians
by their opposition to Indian missions, unwittingly to array
themselves against the gospel. They did not think, in taking
up the cry, “There is no good Indian but a dead Indian,” “The
Indian cannot be civilized,” “The Indian should be exterminated,”
and other such falsehoods, that they were denying the Christian
faith and practically proclaiming that there was no salvation for
themselves nor for anyone else; yet that was precisely what they
were doing, for if the Indian cannot be redeemed, then no one can
be redeemed. If the gospel cannot save the lowest, then there is
no salvation for the highest. The Indian is a man, and Christ
tasted death for every man, and he is able to save to the uttermost
every man. That lowest savage, wretched and vile as he is, can be
redeemed, and in this redemption can be raised to highest manhood.
All culture and excellence of mind and heart are attainable to him
whose soul has felt the redeeming power of Christ’s salvation.
Why, then, after 300 years of the presence of Christianity on
this continent, have not the Indians been civilized? does any one
ask. Rather, when we think of the way that the Indians have been
treated, our surprise shall be that any of them have accepted
the gospel. And yet despite all of the difficulties, Dr. Jas. E.
Rhoades affirmed that there is no field of mission enterprise
which has yielded larger returns than that of our native tribes.
Indians have been reached by the gospel, and that, too, in a very
remarkable degree. The “five civilized tribes,” as they are called,
|
any way to venture more than a bow or a "Thank you."
At last common-sense settled the matter.
"Dora Johnston," thought I, "do not be a simpleton. Do you consider
yourself so much better than your fellow creatures that you hesitate at
returning a civil answer to a civil remark--meant kindly, too--because
you, forsooth, like the French gentleman who was entreated to save
another gentleman from drowning--'should have been most happy, but
have never been introduced.'--What, girl, is this your scorn of
conventionality--your grand habit of thinking and judging for
yourself--your noble independence of all the follies of society? Fie!
fie!"
To punish myself for my cowardice, I determined to turn round and look
at the gentleman.
The punishment was not severe. He had a good face, brown and dark: a
thin, spare, wiry figure, an air somewhat formal. His eyes were grave,
yet not without a lurking spirit of humour, which seemed to have clearly
penetrated, and been rather amused by, my foolish embarrassment and
ridiculous indecision. This vexed me for the moment: then I smiled--we
both smiled: and began to talk.
Of course, it would have been different had he been a young man; but he
was not. I should think he was nearly forty.
At this moment Mrs. Granton came up, with her usual pleased look when
she thinks other people are pleased with one another, and said in that
friendly manner that makes everybody else feel friendly together also:--
"A partner, I see. That's right, Miss Dora. You shall have a quadrille
in a minute, Doctor."
Doctor! I felt relieved. He might have been worse--perhaps, from his
beard, even a camp officer.
"Our friend takes things too much for granted," he said, smiling. "I
believe I must introduce myself. My name is Urquhart."
"Doctor Urquhart?"
"Yes."
Here the quadrille began to form, and I to button my gloves not
discontentedly. He said:--"I fear I am assuming a right on false
pretences, for I never danced, in my life. You do, I see. I must not
detain you from another partner." And, once again, my unknown friend,
who seemed to have such extreme penetration into my motives and
intentions, moved aside.
Of course I got no partner--I never do. When the doctor re-appeared,
I was unfeignedly glad to see him. He took no notice whatever of my
humiliating state of solitude, but sat down in one of the dancers'
vacated places, and resumed the thread of our conversation, as if it had
never been broken.
Often in a crowd, two people not much interested therein, fall upon
subjects perfectly extraneous, which at once make them feel interested
in these and in each other. Thus, it seems quite odd this morning to
think of the multiplicity of heterogeneous topics which Dr. Urquhart
discussed last night. I gained from him much various information. He
must have been a great traveller, and observer too; and for me, I marvel
now to recollect how freely I spoke my mind on many things which I
usually keep to myself, partly from shyness, partly because nobody here
at home cares one straw about them. Among others, came the universal
theme,--the war.
I said, I thought the three much laughed-at Quakers, who went to advise
peace to the Czar Nicholas, were much nearer the truth than many of
their mockers. War seemed to me so utterly opposed to Christianity that
I did not see how any Christian man could ever become a soldier.
At this, Doctor Urquhart leant his elbow on the arm of the sofa, and
looked me steadily in the face.
"Do you mean that a Christian man is not to defend his own life or
liberty, or that of others, under any circumstances?--or is he to wear
a red coat peacefully while peace lasts, and at his first battle throw
down his musket, shoulder his Testament, and walk away?"
These words, though of a freer tone than I was used to, were not spoken
in any irreverence. They puzzled me. I felt as if I had been playing
the oracle upon a subject whereon I had not the least grounds to form an
opinion at all. Yet I would not yield.
"Dr. Urquhart, if you recollect, I said '_become_ a soldier.' How, being
already a soldier, a Christian man should act, I am not wise enough to
judge. But I do think, other professions being open, for him to choose
voluntarily the profession of arms, and to receive wages for taking away
life, is at best a monstrous anomaly. Nay, however it may be glossed
over and refined away, surely, in face of the plain command, '_Thou
shall not kill_,' military glory seems little better than a picturesque
form of murder."
I spoke strongly--more strongly, perhaps, than a young woman, whose
opinions are more instincts and emotions than matured principles, ought
to speak. If so, Doctor Urquhart gave me a fitting rebuke by his total
silence.
Nor did he, for some time, even so much as look at me, but bent his head
down till I could only catch the fore-shortened profile of forehead,
nose, and curly beard. Certainly, though a moustache is mean, puppyish,
intolerable, and whiskers not much better, there is something fine and
manly in a regular Oriental beard.
Doctor Urquhart spoke at last.
"So, as I overheard you say to Mrs. Granton, you 'hate soldiers.' 'Hate'
is a strong word--for a Christian woman."
My own weapons turned upon me.
"Yes, I hate soldiers because my principles, instincts, observations,
confirm me in the justice of my dislike. In peace, they are idle,
useless, extravagant, cumberers of the country--the mere butterflies of
society. In war--you know what they are."
"Do I?" with a slight smile.
I grew rather angry.
"In truth, had I ever had a spark of military ardour, it would have
been quenched within the last year. I never see a thing--we'll not say
a man--with a red coat on, who does not make himself thoroughly
contempt--"
The word stuck in the middle. For lo! there passed slowly by, my sister
Lisabel; leaning on the arm of Captain Treherne, looking as I never
saw Lisabel look before. It suddenly rushed across me what might
happen--perhaps had happened. Suppose, in thus passionately venting my
prejudices, I should be tacitly condemning my--what an odd idea!--my
brother-in-law? Pride, if no better feeling, caused me to hesitate.
Doctor Urquart said, quietly enough, "I should tell you--indeed I ought
to have told you before--that I am myself in the army."
I am sure I looked--as I felt--like a downright fool. This comes, I
thought, of speaking one's mind, especially to strangers. Oh! should
I ever learn to hold my tongue, or gabble pretty harmless nonsense as
other girls? Why should I have talked seriously to this man at all? I
knew nothing of him, and had no business to be interested in him, or
even to have listened to him--my sister would say,--until he had been
"properly introduced;"--until I knew where he lived, and who were his
father and mother, and what was his profession, and how much income he
had a-year?
Still, I did feel interested, and could not help it. Something it seemed
that I was bound to say; I wished it to be civil, if possible.
"But you are Doctor Urquhart. An army-surgeon is scarcely like a
soldier: his business is to save life rather than to destroy it. Surely
_you_ never could have killed anybody?"
The moment I had put the question, I saw how childish and uncalled-for,
in fact, how actually impertinent it was. Covered with confusion, I drew
back, and looked another way. It was the greatest relief imaginable when
just then Lisabel saw me, and came up with Captain Treherne, all smiles,
to say, was it not the pleasantest party imaginable? and who had I been
dancing with?
"Nobody."
"Nay, I saw you myself, talking to some strange gentleman. Who was he? A
rather odd-looking person, and--"
"Hush, please. It was a Doctor Urquhart."
"Urquhart of ours?" cried young Treherne. "Why, he told me he should not
come, or should not stay ten minutes if he came. Much too solid for this
kind of thing--eh, you see? Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all
the world. Where is he?"
But the "best fellow in all the world" had entirely disappeared.
I enjoyed the rest of the evening extremely,--that is, pretty well. Not
altogether, now I come to think of it, for though I danced to my heart's
content, Captain Treherne seeming eager to bring up his whole regiment,
successively, for my patronage and Penelope's (N.B. _not_ Lisabel's),
whenever I caught a distant glimpse of Dr. Urquhart's brown beard,
conscience stung me for my folly and want of tact. Dear me! What a thing
it is that one can so seldom utter an honest opinion without offending
somebody.
Was he really offended? He must have seen that I did not mean any harm;
nor does he look like one of those touchy people who are always wincing
as if they trod on the tails of imaginary adders. Yet he made no
attempt to come and talk to me again; for which I was sorry; partly
because I would have liked to make him some amends, and partly because
he seemed the only man present worth talking to.
I do wonder more and more what my sisters can find in the young men
they dance and chatter with. To me they are inane, conceited, absolutely
unendurable. Yet there may be good in some of them. May? Nay, there
_must_ be good in every human being. Alas, me! Well might Dr. Urquhart
say last night that there are no judgments so harsh as those of the
erring, the inexperienced, and the young.
I ought to add, that when we were wearily waiting for our fly to draw up
to the hall-door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly appeared. Papa had Penelope on
his arm, Lisabel was whispering with Captain Treherne. Yes, depend upon
it, that young man will be my brother-in-law. I stood by myself in the
doorway, looking out on the pitch-dark night, when some one behind me
said:--
"Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies are never half careful
enough of your health. Allow me."
And with a grave professional air, my medical friend wrapped me closely
up in my shawl.
"A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There is nothing for warmth like a
good plaid," he said, with a smile, which, even had it not been for his
name, and a slight strengthening and broadening of his English, scarcely
amounting to an accent, would have pretty well showed what part of the
kingdom Dr. Urquhart came from. I was going, in my bluntness, to put the
direct question, but felt as if I had committed myself quite enough for
one night.
Just then was shouted out "Mr. Johnson's,"--(oh dear, shall we never
get the aristocratic 't' into our plebeian name!)--"carriage," and I was
hurried into the fly. Not by the Doctor, though; he stood like a bear on
the doorstep, and never attempted to stir.
That's all.
CHAPTER II. HIS STORY.
Hospital Memoranda, Sept. 21st.
--Private William Carter, æt. 24; admitted a week to-day. Gastric
fever--typhoid form--slight delirium--bad case. Asked me to write to
his mother--did not say where. _Mem_. to enquire among his division if
anything is known about his friends.
Corporal Thomas Hardman, æt. 50--Delirium tremens--mending. Knew him in
the Crimea, when he was a perfectly sober fellow, with constitution
of iron. "Trench work did it," he says, "and last winter's idleness."
_Mem_. to send for him after his discharge from hospital, and see what
can be done; also to see that decent body, his wife, after my rounds
tomorrow.
M. U.--Max Urquhart.--Max Urquhart, M.D., M.R.C.S.
--Who keeps scribbling his name up and down this page like a silly
school-boy, just for want of something to do.
Something to do! Never for these twenty years and more have I been so
totally without occupation.
What a place this camp is! worse than ours in the Crimea, by far. To-day
especially. Rain pouring, wind howling, mud ancle-deep; nothing on earth
for me to be, to do, or to suffer, except--yes! there is something to
suffer--Treherne's eternal flute.
Faith, I must be very hard up for occupation when I thus continue this
journal of my cases into a personal diary of the worst patient I have to
deal with--the most thankless, unsatisfactory, and unkindly. Physician,
heal thyself! But how?
I shall tear out this page,--or stay, I'll keep it as a remarkable
literary and psychological fact--and go on with my article on Gunshot
Wounds.
*****
In the which, two hours after, I find, I have written exactly ten lines.
These must be the sort of circumstances under which people commit
journals. For some do--and heartily as I have always contemned the
proceeding, as we are prone to contemn peculiarities and idiosyncrasies
quite foreign to our own,--I begin to-day dimly to understand the state
of mind in which such a thing might be possible.
"Diary of a Physician" shall I call it?--did not some one write a book
with that title? I picked it up on ship-board--a story-book or some such
thing--but I scarcely ever read what is called "light literature." I
have never had time. Besides, all fictions grow tame, compared to the
realities of daily life, the horrible episodes of crime, the pitiful
bits of hopeless misery that I meet with in my profession. Talk of
romance!--
Was I ever romantic? Once perhaps. Or at least I might have been.
My profession, truly there is nothing like it for me. Therein I find
incessant work, interest, hope. Daily do I thank heaven that I had
courage to seize on it and go through with it, in order--according to
the phrase I heard used last night--"to save life instead of destroying
it."
Poor little girl--she meant nothing--she had no idea what she was
saying.
Is it that which makes me so unsettled today?
Perhaps it would be wiser never to go into society. A hospital-ward is
far more natural to me than a ball-room. There, is work to be done,
pain to be alleviated, evil of all kinds to be met and overcome--here,
nothing but pleasure, nothing to do but to enjoy.
Yet some people can enjoy; and actually do so; I am sure that girl did.
Several times during the evening she looked quite happy. I do not often
see people looking happy.
Is suffering then our normal and natural state? Is to exist synonymous
with to endure? Can this be the law of a beneficent Providence?--or are
such results allowed--to happen in certain exceptional cases, utterly
irremediable and irretrievable--like--
What am I writing?--What am I daring to write?
*****
_Physician, heal thyself._ And surely that is one of a physician's first
duties. A disease struck inwards--the merest tyro knows how fatal is
treatment which results in that. It may be I have gone on the wrong
track altogether,--at least since my return to England.
The present only is a man's possession: the past is gone out of his
hand,--wholly, irrevocably. He may suffer from it, learn from it--in
degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to brood over it is utter madness.
Now, I have had many cases of insanity--both physical and moral, so
to speak; I call moral insanity that kind of disease which is
super-induced on comparatively healthy minds by dwelling incessantly on
one idea; the sort of disease which you find in women who have fallen
into melancholy from love-disappointments; or in men for overweening
ambition, hatred, or egotism--which latter, carried to a high pitch,
invariably becomes a kind of insanity. All these forms of monomania,
as distinguished from physical mania, disease of the structure of the
brain, I have studied with considerable interest and corresponding
success. My secret was simple enough; one which Nature herself often
tries and rarely fails in--the law of substitution; the slow eradication
of any fixed idea, by supplying others, under the influence of which the
original idea is, at all events temporarily, laid to sleep.
Why cannot I try this plan? why not do for myself what I have so many
times prescribed and done for others?
It was with some notion of the kind that I went to this ball--after
getting up a vague sort of curiosity in Treherne's anonymous beauty,
about whom he has so long been raving to me--boy-like. Ay, with all his
folly, the lad is an honest lad. I should not like him to come to any
harm.
The tall one must have been the lady, and the smaller, the plainer,
though the pleasanter to my mind, was no doubt her sister. And of course
her name too was _Johnson_.
What a name to startle a man so--to cause him to stand like a fool at
that hall-door, with his heart dead still, and all his nerves quivering!
To make him now, in the mere writing of it, pause and compel himself
into common sense by rational argument--by meeting the thing, be it
chimerical or not, face to face, as a man ought to do. Yet as cowardly,
in as base a paroxysm of terror, as if likewise face to face, in my hut
corner, stood--
Here I stopped. Shortly afterwards I was summoned to the hospital, where
I have been ever since. William Carter is dead. He will not want his
mother now. What a small matter life or death seems when one comes to
think of it. What an easy exchange!
Is it I who am writing thus, and on the same leaf which, closed up
in haste when I was fetched to the hospital, I have just had such an
anxious search for, that it might be instantly burnt. Yet, I find there
is nothing in it that I need have feared--nothing that could, in any
way, have signified to anybody, unless, perhaps, the writing of that one
name.
Shall I never get over this absurd folly--this absolute monomania?--when
there are hundreds of the same name to be met with every day--when,
after all, it is not exactly _the_ name!
Yet this is what it cost me. Let me write it down, that the confession
in plain English of such utter insanity may in degree have the same
effect as when I have sat down and desired a patient to recount to me,
one by one, each and all of his delusions, in order that, in the mere
telling of them, they might perhaps vanish.
I went away from that hall-door at once. Never asking--nor do I think
for my life I could ask, the simple question that would have set all
doubt at rest. I walked across country, up and down, along road or
woodland, I hardly knew whither, for miles--following the moon-rise. She
seemed to rise just as she did nineteen years ago--nineteen years, ten
months, all but two days--my arithmetic is correct, no fear! She lifted
herself like a ghost over those long level waves of moor, till she sat,
blood-red, upon the horizon, with a stare which there was nothing to
break, nothing to hide from--nothing between her and me, but the plain
and the sky--just as it was that night.
What am I writing? Is the old horror coming back again. It cannot. It
_must_ be kept at bay..
A knock--ah, I see; it is the sergeant of poor Carter's company. I must
return to daily work, and labour is life--to me.
CHAPTER III. HIS STORY.
Sept. 30th:--Not a case to set down to-day. This high moorland is your
best sanatorium. My "occupation's gone."
I have every satisfaction in that fact, or in the cause of it; which,
cynics might say, a member of my profession would easily manage to
prevent, were he a city physician instead of a regimental surgeon.
Still, idleness is insupportable to me. I have tried going about among
the few villages hard by, but their worst disease is one to which this
said regimental surgeon, with nothing but his pay, can apply but small
remedy--poverty.
To-day I have paced the long, straight lines of the camp; from the
hospital to the bridge, and back again to the hospital--have tried to
take a vivid interest in the loungers, the foot-ball players, and the
wretched, awkward squad turned out in never-ending parade. With each
hour of the quiet autumn afternoon have I watched the sentinel mount
the little stockaded hillock, and startle the camp with the old familiar
boom of the great Sebastopol bell. Then, I have shut my hut-door, taken
to my books, and studied till my head warned me to stop.
The evening post--but only business letters. I rarely have any other. I
have no one to write to me--no one to write to.
Sometimes I have been driven to wish I had; some one friend with whom
it would be possible to talk in pen and ink, on other matters than
business. Yet, _cui bono?_ To no friend should I or could I let out my
real self; the only thing in the letter that was truly and absolutely me
would be the great grim signature: "Max Urquhart."
Were it otherwise--were there any human being to whom I could lay open
my whole heart, trust with my whole history;--but no, that were utterly
impossible now.
No more of this.
No more, until the end. That end, which at once solves all difficulties,
every year brings nearer. Nearly forty, and a doctor's life is usually
shorter than most men's. I shall be an old man soon, even if there come
none of those sudden chances against which I have of course provided.
The end. How and in what manner it is to be done, I am not yet clear.
But it shall be done, before my death or after.
"Max Urquhart, M.D."
I go on signing my name mechanically, with those two business-like
letters after it, and thinking how odd it would be to sign it in any
other fashion. How strange,--did any one care to look at my signature
in any way except thus, with the two professional letters after it--a
common-place signature of business. Equally strange, perhaps, that such
a thought as this last should have entered my head, or that I should
have taken the trouble, and yielded to the weakness of writing it down.
It all springs from idleness--sheer idleness; the very same cause that
makes Treherne, whom I have known do duty cheerily for twenty-four hours
in the trenches, lounge, smoke, yawn, and play the flute. There--it
has stopped. I heard the postman rapping at his hut-door--the young
simpleton has got a letter.
Suppose, just to pass away the time, I, Max Urquhart, reduced to this
lowest ebb of inanity by a paternal government, which has stranded my
regiment here, high and dry, but as dreary as Noah on Ararat--were to
enliven my solitude, drive away blue devils, by manufacturing for myself
an imaginary correspondent? So be it.
To begin then at once in the received epistolary form:--
"My dear--"
My dear--what? "Sir?"--No--not for this once. I wanted a change.
"Madam?"--that is formal. Shall I invent a name?
When I think of it, how strange it would feel to me to be writing "my
dear" before any Christian name. Orphaned early, my only brother long
dead, drifting about from land to land till I have almost forgotten my
own, which has quite forgotten me--I had not considered it before, but
really I do not believe there is a human being living, whom I have a
right to call by his or her Christian name, or who would ever think of
calling me by mine. "Max,"--I have not heard the sound of it for years.
_Dear_, a pleasant adjective--my, a pronoun of possession, implying that
the being spoken of is one's very own,--one's sole, sacred, personal
property, as with natural selfishness one would wish to hold the thing
most precious. _My dear_;--a satisfactory total. I rather object to
"dearest" as a word implying comparison, and therefore never to be
used where comparison should not and could not exist. Witness, "dearest
mother," or "dearest wife," as if a man had a plurality of mothers and
wives, out of whom he chose the one he loved best. And, as a general
rule, I dislike all ultra expressions of affection set down in ink. I
once knew an honest gentleman--blessed with one of the tenderest hearts
that ever man had, and which in all his life was only given to one
woman; he, his wife told me, had never, even in their courtship days,
written to her otherwise than as "My dear Anne,"--ending merely with
"Yours faithfully," or "yours truly." Faithful--true--what could he
write, or she desire more?
If my pen wanders to lovers and sweethearts, and moralises over
simple sentences in this maundering way, blame not me, dear imaginary
correspondent, to whom no name shall be given at all--but blame my
friend,--as friends go in this world,--Captain Augustus Treherne.
Because, happily, that young fellow's life was saved at Balaclava,
does he intend to invest me with the responsibility of it, with all its
scrapes and follies, now and for evermore? Is my clean, sober hut to
be fumigated with tobacco and poisoned with brandy-and-water, that a
lovesick youth may unburden himself of his sentimental tale? Heaven
knows why I listen to it! Probably because telling me keeps the lad out
of mischief; also because he is honest, though an ass, and I always
had a greater leaning to fools than to knaves. But let me not pretend
reasons which make me out more generous than I really am, for the fellow
and his love-affair, bore me exceedingly sometimes, and would be quite
unendurable anywhere but in this dull camp. I do it from a certain
abstract pleasure which I have always taken in dissecting character,
constituting myself an amateur demonstrator of spiritual anatomy.
An amusing study is, not only the swain, but the goddess. For I found
her out, spelled her over satisfactorily, even in that one evening.
Treherne little guessed it--he took care never to introduce me--he
does not even mention her name, or suspect I know it. Vast precautions
against nothing! Does he fear lest Mentor should put in a claim to his
Eucharis? You know better, dear. Imaginary Correspondent.
Even were I among the list of "marrying men," this adorable she would
never be my choice, would never attract me for an instant. Little as
I know about women, I know enough to feel certain that there is a very
small residuum of depth, feeling, or originality, in that large handsome
physique of hers. Yet she looks good-natured, good-tempered; almost as
much so as Treherne himself.
"Speak o' the de'il," there he comes. Far away down the lines I can
catch his eternal "Donna é mobile,"--how I detest that song! No doubt
he has been taking to the post his answer to one of those
abominably-scented notes that he always drops out of his waistcoat by
the merest accident, and glances round to see if I am looking--which I
never am. What a young puppy it is! Yet it hangs after one kindly, like
a puppy; after me too, who am not the pleasantest fellow in the world.
And as it is but young, it _may_ mend, if it falls into no worse company
than the present.
I have known what it is to be without a friend when one is very
inexperienced, reckless, and young.
_Evening._
"To what base uses may we come at last."
It seems perfectly ridiculous to see the use this memorandum-book has
come to. Cases forsooth! The few pages of them may as well be torn out,
in favour of the new specimens of moral disease which I am driven to
study. For instance:--
No. 1--Better omit that.
No. 2--Augustus Treherne, æt. 22, intermittent fever, verging upon
yellow fever occasionally, as to-day. Pulse, very high, tongue, rather
foul, especially in speaking of Mr. Colin Granton. Countenance, pale,
inclining to livid. A very bad case altogether.
Patient enters, whistling like a steam-engine, as furious and as shrill,
with a corresponding puff of smoke. I point to the obnoxious vapour.
"Beg pardon, Doctor, I always forget. What a tyrant you are!"
"Very likely; but there is one thing I never will allow; smoking in my
hut. I did not, you know, even in the Crimea."
The lad sat down, sighing like a furnace.
"Heigho, Doctor, I wish I were you."
"Do you?"
"You always seem so uncommonly comfortable; never want a cigar or
anything to quiet your nerves and keep you in good humour. You never get
into a scrape of any sort; have neither a mother to lecture you, nor an
old governor to bully you."
"Stop there."
"I will then; you need not take me up so sharp. He's a trump, after
all. You know that, so I don't mind a word or two against him. Just read
there."
He threw over one of Sir William's ultraprosy moral essays--which no
doubt the worthy old gentleman flatters himself are, in another line,
the very copy of Lord Chesterfield's letters to his son. I might have
smiled at it had I been alone,--or laughed at it were I young enough to
sympathise with the modern system of transposing into "the Governor,"
the ancient reverend name of "Father."
"You see what an opinion he has of you. 'Pon my life, if I were not
the meekest fellow imaginable, always ready to be led by a straw into
Virtue's ways, I should have cut your acquaintance long ago. 'Invariably
follow the advice of Dr. Urquhart,'--'I wish, my dear son, that your
character more resembled that of your friend, Dr. Urquhart. I should
be more concerned about your many follies, were you not in the same
regiment as Dr. Urquhart. Dr. Urquhart is one of the wisest men I ever
knew,' and so on, and so on. What say you?"
I said nothing; and I now write down this, as I shall write anything of
the kind which enters into the plain relation of facts or conversations
which daily occur. God knows how vain such words are to me at the best
of times--mere sounding brass and tinkling cymbal--as the like must be
to most men well acquainted with themselves. At some times, and under
certain states of mind, they become to my ear the most refined and
exquisite torture that my bitterest enemy could desire to inflict. There
is no need, therefore, to apologise for them. Apologise to whom, indeed?
Having resolved to write this, it were folly to make it an imperfect
statement. A journal should be fresh, complete, and correct--the man's
entire life, or nothing. Since, if he sets it down at all, it
must necessarily be for his own sole benefit--it would be the most
contemptible form of egotistic humbug to arrange and modify it as if it
were meant for the eye of any other person.
Dear, unknown, imaginary eye--which never was and never will be--yet
which I like to fancy shining somewhere in the clouds, out of Jupiter,
Venus, or the Georgium Sidus, upon this solitary me--the foregoing
sentence bears no reference to you.
"Treherne," I said, "whatever good opinion your father is pleased
to hold as to my wisdom, I certainly do not share in one juvenile
folly--that, being a very well-meaning fellow on the whole, I take the
greatest pains to make myself out a scamp."
The youth coloured.
"That's me, of course."
"Wear the cap if it feels comfortable. And now, will you have some tea?"
"Anything--I feel as thirsty as when you found me dragging myself to the
brink of the Tchernaya. Hey, Doctor, it would have saved me a deal of
bother if you had never found me at all. Except that it would vex the
old governor to end the name and have the property all going to the
dogs,--that is, to Cousin Charteris; who would not care how soon I was
dead and buried."
"_Were_ dead and buried, if you please."
"Confound it, to stop a man about his grammar when he is in my state of
mind! Kept from his cigar, too! Doctor, you never were in love, or you
never were a smoker."
"How do you know?"
"Because you never could have given up the one or the other; a fellow
can't; 'tis an impossibility."
"Is it? I once smoked six cigars a day, for two years."
"Eh, what? And you never let that out before? You are so close!
Possibly, the other fact will peep out in time Mrs. Urquhart and
half-a-dozen brats may be living in some out-of-the-way nook--Cornwall,
or Jersey, or the centre of Salisbury Plain. Why, what?--nay, I beg your
pardon, Doctor."
What a horrible thing it is that by no physical effort, added to years
of mental self-control, can I so harden my nerves that certain words,
names, suggestions, shall not startle me--make me quiver as if under the
knife. Doubtless, Treherne will henceforth retain--so far as his easy
mind can retain anything--the idea that I have a wife and family hidden
somewhere! Ludicrous idea, if it were not connected with other ideas
from which, however, this one will serve to turn his mind.
To explain it away was of course impossible. I had only power to
slip from the subject with a laugh, and bring him back to the tobacco
question.
"Yes; I smoked six cigars a-day for at least two years."
"And gave it up? Wonderful!"
"Not very, when a man has a will of his own, and a few strong reasons to
back it."
"Out with them--not that they will benefit me however--I'm quite
incorrigible."
"Doubtless. First, I was a poor medical student, and six cigars per diem
cost fourteen shillings a-week,--thirty-(six) pounds, eight shillings,
a-year. A good sum to give for an artificial want--enough to have fed
and clothed a child."
"You're weak on the point of brats, Urquhart. Do you remember the little
Russ we picked up in the cellar at Sebastopol? I do believe you'd have
adopted and brought it home with you if it had not died."
Should I? But as Treherne said, it died.
"Secondly, thirty-(six) pounds, eight shillings per annum was a
good deal to give for a purely selfish enjoyment, annoying to almost
everybody except
|
astonishment even the most indifferent observer. It was long;
it was broad; it was deep; and, alas! it was high, I disrobed as best I
might, and stood before it, gazing despairingly up at its snowy summit.
Then, remembering my experience with the trunk, I approached at one
extreme, scaled the headboard, fell over into an absorbing sea of
feathers, and, at that very instant it seemed, the perplexing nature of
mortal affairs ceased to burden my mind.
CHAPTER II.
I BLOW THE HORN.
Morning dawned on my mission to Wallencamp. My wakening was not an
Enthusiastic one. Slowly my bewildered vision became fixed on an object
on the wall opposite, as the least fantastic amid a group of objects. It
was a sketch in water-colors of a woman in an expansive hoop and a skirt
of brilliant hue, flounced to the waist. She stood with a singularly
erect and dauntless front, over a grave on which was written "Consort." I
observed, with a childlike wonder, which concealed no latent vein of
criticism, the glowing carmine of her cheeks, the unmixed blue of her
pupilless eyes, from a point exactly in the centre of which a geometric
row of tears curved to the earth. A weeping willow--somewhat too green,
alas!--drooped with evident reluctance over the scene, but cast no shade
on its contrasting richness. The title of the piece was "_Bereavement_"
By some strange means, it served as the pole-star to my wandering
thoughts.
As I gazed and wondered my life took on again a definite form and
purpose. The events of the preceding day rose in gradual succession
before me, and I proceeded to descend from the heights I had scaled the
night before.
[Illustration: DAVID ROLLIN INSULTS LUTHER.]
I looked at my watch. It was eight o'clock, and school should begin at
nine. Yet the occasion witnessed no feverish display of haste on my part,
I saw that the difficulties which I was destined to endure in the
Performance of my toilet that morning called either for philosophy or
madness. I chose philosophy.
The portion of the Ark surrounding my bed was cut up into little
recesses, crannies, nooks,--used, presumably, for storing the different
pairs of animals in the trying events which preceded the Flood. In one of
these, I had a dim recollection of having secreted my clothes, in the
disordered condition of my brain the night before. So I cast desultory
glances about me for these articles on the way, having first set out on a
search for a looking-glass. In one dark recess I came into forcible
contact with a hanging-shelf of pies. I thought what a moment that would
have been for Grandpa Keeler and the little Keelers! but I had been
brought up on hygienic, as well as moral, principles, and moved away
without a sigh. In another sequestered nook, I paused with a sinful
mixture of curiosity and delight, before a Chinese idol standing alone on
a pedestal.
There was a strangeness and a newness about things at the Ark that began
to be exhilarating, I was reminded, in a negative sort of way, that I had
intended to begin my work on this new day with a prayer to the true God
for strength and assistance. I had found it necessary to make this
resolve because, although I had a "fixed habit of prayer," it was
reserved rather for occasions of special humiliation than resorted to as
an everyday indulgence; practically, I had well nigh dispensed with it
altogether.
However, I started back in an intently serious frame of mind to find my
couch. I lost my way, and stumbling against a swinging-door which opened
into a comparatively spacious apartment, what was my joy to discover my
trunk, with the portmanteau containing my keys on top of it.
I then proceeded to array myself with an absorbing ardor and devotion,
doing my hair before a hand-glass with rare resignation of spirit. I
began to feel more and more like an incorporated existence, and admitted
a sudden eagerness to join the Keeler family at breakfast.
I had no hesitation which direction to take, being guided by the sound of
voices and wafts of penetrating odors.
It was a fortunate direction, for I discovered on the way my lost apparel
artfully concealed under a small melodeon, and, strangely enough, I was
again brought face to face with my deserted couch and the weeping lady on
the wall. She held me a moment with the old fascination. As I put up my
glasses, I thought I detected in her face a hitherto unnoticed buoyancy
of expression and not having wholly escaped in my life from ideas of a
worldly nature, I reflected that, probably, her regretted consort had
left her with a sufficient number of thousands.
In this same connection, I was reminded that I, myself, had started out
on an independent career, and wondered if it would be unkind or undutiful
in me to start a private bank account of my own. I concluded that it
would not.
When I entered the little room where the Keeler family was assembled:--
"Why, here's our teacher!" exclaimed Grandma Keeler in accents of
delight, and came to meet me with outstretched arms. "We couldn't abear
to wake ye up, dearie," she went on, "knowin' ye was so tired this
mornin'; and there's plenty o' time--plenty o' time. My Casindana come
home!" she murmured, with a smile and a tremble of the lips, and a
far-away look, for the instant, in her gentle eyes.
In fact, the whole Keeler family received me with outstretched arms. If I
had been a long-lost child, or a friend known and loved in days gone by,
I could not have been more cordially and enthusiastically welcomed.
The best chair was set for me; glances of eager and inquiring interest
were bent upon me.
I accepted it all coolly, though not without a certain air of affability,
too, for I had a natural desire to make myself agreeable to people, when
it wasn't too much trouble; but I was quite firm, at this time, in the
conviction that there was little or no faith to be put in human nature.
On the whole I was much entertained and interested.
The two children came to climb into my lap, but this part of the
acquaintance did not progress very fast. I thought they must have been
struck by something in my eye (I was merely wondering abstractedly if
their heads were not out of proportion to the rest of their bodies), for
they paused, and Mrs. Philander called them away sharply.
Mrs. Philander was a frail little woman,--she could not have been over
thirty or thirty-two years old,--not pretty, though she had a very airy
and graceful way of comporting herself. Her eyes were large and dark,
with a strange, melancholy gleam in them.
I never knew the secrets of Mrs. Philanders heart. She had often a tired,
tense look about the mouth, and seemed often sorely discontent; but she
had the sweetest voice I ever heard. She was familiarly called Madeline.
Grandpa or Cap'n Keeler was over eighty years old. He had a tall,
powerful frame--at least, it spoke of great power in the past--and I
thought his eye must have been uncommonly dark and keen once.
From his manly irascibility of temperament, and his frequent would-be
authoritativeness of tone, one might have inferred, from a passing
glimpse, that Grandpa Keeler was something of a tyrant in the family; but
I soon learned that his sway was of an extremely vague and illusory
nature.
Grandma Keeler was twenty years his junior. She had not married him until
she was herself quite advanced in life, and had had one husband.
"To be sure," I heard her say once, "I ain't quite so far advanced as
husband, but, then, it don't make no difference how young the girl is,
you know."
She used to sit down and laugh--one of Grandma's "r'al good laughs" was
incompatible with a standing posture--until the tears rolled down her
cheeks, and she had to wipe them off with the corner of her apron.
She had been thrown from a wagon once--how often and thrillingly have I
heard dear Grandma Keeler relate the particulars of that accident! She
had broken at that time, I believe, nearly every bone in her body. Long
was the story of her fall, but longer still the tale of her recuperation.
In due course of time, she had grown together again; could now use all
her limbs, and was in superabundant flesh. There was an unnatural sort of
stiffness about her movements, however, her way of walking particularly.
She advanced but slowly, and allowed her weight to fall from one foot to
Another without any perceptible bend of any joint whatever.
I have stood at one end of a room and seen Grandma Keeler approaching
from the other, when it seemed as though she was not making any progress
at all, but merely going through with an odd sort of balancing process
in order to maintain her equilibrium.
As for Grandma Keeler's face, there was enough in it to make several
ordinary scrimped faces. Besides large physical proportions, there was
enough in it of generosity, enough of whole-heartedness, a world of
sympathy. The great catastrophe of her life had affected the muscles of
her face so that although she enunciated her words very distinctly, she
had a slow, automatic way of moving her lips.
The room where the breakfast-table was set was the same that I had
entered first, on my arrival at Wallencamp. It was low and small, but
capable, as I learned afterward, of holding any amount of things and
people without ever seeming crowded. There was a cooking-stove in it, and
many other articles of modest worth, so artlessly scattered about as to
present a scene of the wildest and richest profusion.
Art was not entirely wanting, however. There was a ray of it on the wall
behind the stove-pipe, the companion-piece to "Bereavement," entitled
"Joy," and represented my heroine of the bed-chamber, reclining on a
rustic bench in rather an unflounced and melancholy condition. In one
place there hung a yellow family register, which was kept faithfully
supplied from week to week with a wreath of fresh evergreens. It was
headed by a woodcut representing a funeral, Grandma Keeler said; but
Grandpa Keeler afterwards informed me, aside, with much solemnity, that
it was a "marriage ceremony." Near the foot of the list of births,
marriages and deaths, I saw "Casindana Keeler; died, aged twenty."
We sat down at the table. There was a brief altercation between Dinslow
and Grace, the little Keelers, in which impromptu missiles, such as
spoons and knives and small tin-cups, were hurled across the table with
unguided wrath, and both infants yelled furiously.
Grandma had nearly succeeded in quieting them, when Madeline remarked to
Grandpa Keeler, in her lively and flippant style:--
"Come, pa, say your piece."
"How am I going to say anything?" inquired Grandpa, wrathfully, "in such
a bedlam?"
"Thar', now, thar'!" said Grandma Keeler, in her soothing tone; "It's all
quiet now and time we was eatin' breakfast, so ask the blessin', pa, and
don't let's have no more words about it."
Whereupon the old sea-captain bowed his head, and, with a decided touch
of asperity still lingering in his voice, sped through the lines:--
"God bless the food which now we take;
May it do us good, for Jesus' sake."
"Now, Dinnie," said Grandma Keeler, beguilingly; but it was not until
after much coaxing and threatening, and the promise of a spoonful of
sugar when it was over, that Dinslow was induced to solicit the same
blessing, in the same poetical terms, and with an expedition still more
alarming.
Then Gracie, with tears not yet dried from the late conflict, lifted up
her voice in a rapture of miniature delight; "Dinnie says, 'gobble the
food'! Dinnie says, 'gobble the food!'"
"Didn't say 'gobble the food!'" exclaimed Dinslow, blacker than a little
thunder-cloud.
Madeline anticipated the rising storm, and stamped her foot and cried:
"_Will_ you be still?"
It was Grandma Keeler who quietly and adroitly restored peace to the
troubled waters.
The Wallencampers, including the Keeler family, were not accustomed to
speak of bread as a compact and staple article of food, but rather as one
of the hard means of sustaining existence represented by the term
"hunks." At the table, it was not "will you pass me the bread?" but--and
I shall never forget the sweet tunefulness of Madeline's tone in this
connection--"Will you hand me a hunk?"
The hunks were an unleavened mixture of flour and water, about the size
and consistency of an ordinary laborer's fist.
I was impressed, in first sitting down at the Keelers' table, with a
sense of my own ignorance as to the most familiar details of life, but
soon learned to speak confidently of "hunks," and "fortune stew," and
"slit herrin'," and "golden seal."
Fortune stew was a dish of small, round blue potatoes, served perfectly
whole in a milk gravy.
I cherish the memory of this dish as sacred, as well as that of all the
other dishes that ever appeared on the Wallencamp table. They were the
products of faithful and loving hands to which nature had given a
peculiar direction, perhaps, but which strove always to the best of their
ability.
Slit herrin' was a long-dried, deep-salted edition of the native alewife,
a fish in which Wallencamp abounded. They hung in massive tiers from the
roofs of the Wallencamp barns. The herrin' was cut open, and without
having been submitted to any mollifying process whatever, not one
assuaging touch of its native element, was laid flat in the spider, and
fried.
I saw the Keeler family, from the greatest to the least, partake of this
arid and rasping substance unblinkingly, and I partook also. The brine
rose to my eyes and coursed its way down my cheeks, and Grandma Keeler
said I was "homesick, poor thing!"
The golden seal, a "remedy for toothache, headache, sore-throat, sprains,
etc., etc.," was served in a diluted state with milk and sugar, and taken
as a beverage. The herrin' had destroyed my sense of taste; anything in a
liquid state was alike delectable to me, and while I drank, I had a sense
of having become somehow mysteriously connected with the book of
revelations. "We used to think," Grandma proceeded mildly to elucidate,
"that it had ought to be took externally, but husband, he was painin'
around one time, and nothin' didn't seem to do him no good, and so we
ventured some of it inside of him, and he didn't complain no more for a
great while afterwards." I appreciated the hidden meaning of these words
when I saw how sparingly Grandpa Keeler partook of the golden seal. "So
then we tried some of it ourselves, and ra'ly begun to like it, so we've
got into the habit of drinkin' it along through the winter, it's so
quietin', and may not be no special need of it, so far as we can see, but
then, it's allus well enough to be on the safe side, for there's no
knowin'," concluded Grandma, solemnly, "what disease may be a growin' up
inside of you."
"My brother invented on't," said Grandpa Keeler, looking up at me from
under his shaggy eyebrows with questionable pride. He went on more
glowingly, however; "There's a picter of my brother on every bottle,
teacher." (Madeline immediately ran from her chair, went into an
adjoining room, and brought out a bottle to show me.) "Ye see, he used to
wear them air long ringlets, though he was a powerful man, John was; but
his hair curled as pretty as a girl's. Oh, he was a great dandy, John
was; a great dandy." Grandpa Keeler straightened himself up and his eyes
brightened perceptibly.
"Never wore nothin' but the finest broadcloth; why, there's a pair of
black broadcloth pants o' his'n that you'll see, come Sunday, teacher!"
"Wall, thar', now, pa," said Grandma Keeler, reprovingly; "I wouldn't
tell everything."
"Le' me see," continued Grandpa; "I had eight brothers, teacher, yis,
yis, there was nine boys in all," nodding his head emphatically, and
proceeding to count on his fingers.
Grandma Keeler laid her knife and fork aside, as though she felt that the
occasion was an important one, and that she had a grave duty to perform
in regard to it.
"Thar' was Philemon, he comes first, that makes one, don't it? and there
was Doddridge--
"Sure he comes next, pa?" interposed Grandma; "for now you're namin' of
em, you might as well git 'em right."
"Yis, yis, ma," replied the old man, hastily. "Then there was Winfield
and John, they're all dead now, and Bartholomew, he was first mate in a
sailin' vessel; fine man, Bartholomew was, fine man; he----"
"Wall, thar' now," said Grandma; "you'll never git through namin' on 'em,
pa, if you stop to talk about 'em."
"Yis, yis," continued Grandpa, hopelessly confused, and showing dark
symptoms of smouldering wrath; "there was Bartholomew. That makes a,--le'
me see, Bartholomew,----"
"How many Bartholomews was there?" inquired Grandma, with pitiless
coolness of demeanor.
"Thar', now, ma, ye've put me all out!" cried Grandpa, taking refuge in
loud and desperate reproach; "I was gettin' along first-rate; why
couldn't ye a kept still and let me reckoned 'em through?"
"Yer musn't blame me, pa, 'cause yer can't carry yer own brothers in yer
head." There was a touch of gentle reproach in Grandma's calm voice.
"Why, there was my mother's cousin 'Statia, that was only second cousin
to me, and no relation at all, on my father's side, and she had thirteen
children, three of 'em was twins and one of 'em was thrins, and I could
name 'em all through, and tell you what year they was born, and what day,
and who vaccinated 'em. There was Amelia Day, she was born April ninth,
eighteen hundred and seventeen, Doctor Sweet vaccinated her, and it took
in five days." And so on Grandma went through the entire list, gradually
going more and more into particulars, but always coming out strong on the
main facts.
The effect could not have failed to deepen in Grandpa's bosom a
mortifying sense of his own incompetency.
When I got up from the Keelers' breakfast table there was something
choking me besides the herrin' and golden seal, and it was not
homesickness, either; but as I stepped out of Mrs. Philander's low door
into the light and air, all lesser impulses were forgotten in a glow and
thrill of exultation. I wondered if that far, intense blue was the
natural color of the Cape Cod sky in winter, and if its January sun
always showered down such rich and golden beams. There was no snow on the
ground; the fields presented an almost spring-like aspect, in contrast
with the swarthy green of the cedars. The river ran sparkling in
summer-fashion at the foot of "Eagle Hill." From the bay, the sea air
came up fresh and strong. I drank it with deep inspirations. At that
moment it seemed to me that I had indeed been born to perform a mission.
It was so hopeful to turn over an entire fresh leaf in the book of life,
and I was resolved to do it heroically, at any cost. I reflected, not
without a shade of annoyance, that I had forgotten to say my prayers,
after all. At the same time I had a sort of conviction that it wasn't so
unfortunate a remissness on my part as it would have been for some less
qualified by nature to take care of themselves.
I discovered the school-house at the end of the lane. The general air of
the Wallencamp houses was stranded and unsettled, as though, detained in
their present position for some brief and restless season, they dreamed
ever of unknown voyages yet to be made on the sea of life. They were very
poor, very old. Some of them were painted red in front, some of them had
only a red door, being otherwise quite brown and unadorned. There was one
exception,--Emily Gaskell's--that stood on the hill, and was painted all
over and had green blinds.
I heard a mighty rushing sound mingled with whoops and yells and the
terrible clamp of running feet, and was made aware that a detachment from
my flock was coming up the lane to meet me.
A girl, taller than I, with stooping shoulders and a piquant and
good-natured cast of features, seized my hand and swung it in childish
and confiding fashion. She had warts. I wondered, uneasily, if they would
be contagious through my gloves.
I was struck with the uncommon beauty of one sturdy little fellow. He was
barefooted (on Cape Cod, in January), and ragged enough to have satisfied
the most crazy devotee of the picturesque. His shapely head was set on
his shoulders in an exceedingly high-bred way, while its bad archangel
effect was intensified by rings of curling black hair and great,
seductive black eyes.
The children walked back, in comparative quiet, toward the school-house,
except this boy. To him care was evidently a thing unknown. He managed,
while keeping the distance undiminished between himself and me, to
perform a great variety of antics, in which, by way of an occasional
relief, his head was seen to rise above his heels.
Emily's wash had been left out to dry during the night. The wind had torn
various articles from the line and carried them down in the direction of
the lane fence.
My gymnastic-performing imp vanished through the bars. In an incredibly
short space of time he reappeared, clothed--but, alas! I cannot tell how
the imp was clothed, except to say that Emily being a tall, woman and the
imp but a well-grown boy of ten, the effect was strangely voluminous and
oriental.
This part of the lane was marked by some insignificant though very abrupt
depressions and elevations of the surface. Occasionally he of the
floating apparel was lost to sight; then he would appear all glorious on
some small height, while the mind was compelled to revert irreverently to
the picture of Moses on Mount Pisgah. He was the personification of
impudence, withal, looking back and showing his teeth in superlative
appreciation of his own sinfulness. He descended, and I looked to see him
arise again, but I saw him no more.
I had a faint and fleeting vision, afterwards, of an apostolic figure
flying back across the fields. It was so indistinct as to remain only
among the ephemera of my fancy.
In a fork of the roads, opposite the school-house, stood a house with a
red door. It was loaded, in summer, with honeysuckle vines. Aunt Lobelia
sat always at the window. Sometimes she had the asthma and sometimes she
sang. This morning her favorite refrain from the Moody and Sankey Hymnal
was wafted in loud accents up the lane:--
"Dar' to be a Danyell!
Dar' to be a Danyell!
Dar' to make it known!"
As I entered the school-house, the inspiring strains still followed me.
There was a large Franklin stove within, which exhibited the most
enormous draught power, emitting sparks and roaring in a manner frightful
to contemplate.
Aunt Patty, who acted the part of janitress of the school-house at night
and morning, had written on the blackboard in a large admonitory hand,
"No spitting on this floor, you ninnies!"
The bench, containing the water-pail, occupied the most central position
in the room. At one side of the bench hung a long-handled tin dipper; on
the other, another tin instrument, resembling an ear-trumpet, profoundly
exaggerated in size.
"That's what you've got to blow to call us in," exclaimed a small child,
with anticipative enlivenment.
I went to the door with the instrument.
"Dar' to be a Danyell!
Dar' to make it known."
The stirring measures came across from Aunt Lobelia's window. Then the
singer paused.
There were other faces at other windows. The countenances of the boys and
girls gathered about the door were ominously expressive. I lifted the
horn to my lips. I blew upon it what was intended for a cheerful and
exuberant call to duty, but to my chagrin it emitted no sound whatever. I
attempted a gentle, soul-stirring strain; it was as silent as the grave.
I seized it with both hands, and, oblivious to the hopeful derision
Gathering on the faces of those about me, I breathed into it all the
despair and anguish of my expiring breath. It gave forth a hollow,
soulless, and lugubrious squeak, utterly out of proportion to the vital
force expended, yet I felt that I had triumphed, and detected a new
expression of awe and admiration on the faces of my flock.
"I don't see how she done it," I heard one freckled-faced boy exclaim,
confidingly to another; "with a hull button in thar'!"
"Who put the button in the horn?" I inquired of the youngster afterwards,
quite in a pleasant tone, and with a smile on which I had learned to
depend for a particularly delusive effect; at the same time I put up my
glasses to impress him with a sense of awe.
"Simmy B.," he answered.
"And which is Simmy B.?" I questioned, glancing about the school-room.
"Oh, he ain't comin' in," gasped my informer; "he run over cross-lots
with Emily's clo's on."
I had planned not to confine my pupils to the ordinary method of imbibing
knowledge through the medium of text-books, but by means of lectures,
which should be interspersed with lively anecdotes and rich with the
fruitful products of my own experience, to teach them.
My first lecture was, quite appropriately, on the duty of close
application and faithful persistence in the acquisition of knowledge,
depicting the results that would inevitably accrue from the observance of
such a course, and here, glowing and dazzled by my theme, I even secretly
regretted that modesty forbade me to recommend to my pupils, as a
forcible illustration, one who occupied so conspicuous a position before
them.
My new method of instruction, though not appreciated, perhaps, in its
intrinsic design, was received, I could not but observe, with the most
unbounded favor.
After the first open-mouthed surprise had passed away from the
countenances of my audience, I was loudly importuned on all sides for
water. I was myself extravagantly thirsty. I requested all those who had
"slit herrin'" for breakfast to raise their hands.
Every hand was raised.
I gravely inquired if slit herrin' formed an ordinary or accustomed
repast in Wallencamp, and was unanimously assured in the affirmative.
After dwelling briefly on the gratitude that should fill our hearts in
view of the unnumbered blessings of Providence, I inaugurated a system by
which a pail of fresh water was to be drawn from one of the neighboring
wells, and impartially distributed among the occupants of the
school-room, once during each successive hour of the day. The water was
to be passed about in the tin dipper, in an orderly manner, by some
member of the flock, properly appointed to that office, either on account
of general excellence or some particular mark of good behavior; though I
afterwards found it advisable not to insist on any qualifications of this
sort, but to elect the water-bearers merely according to their respective
rank in age. This really proved to be one of the most lively and
interesting exercises of the school, was always cheerfully undertaken,
executed in the most complete and faithful manner, and never on any
account forgotten or omitted.
I drank, and continued my lecture, but the first look of attractive
surprise never came back to the faces of my audience. They sought
diversion in a variety of ways, acquitting themselves throughout with a
commendable degree of patience until they found it necessary gently to
admonish me that it was time for recess.
After recess, as the result of deep meditation, in which I had concluded
that the mind of the Wallencamp youth was not yet prepared for the
introduction of new and advanced methods, I examined my pupils
preparatory to giving them lessons and arranging them in classes, in
the ordinary way. I found that they could not read, but they could write
in a truly fluent and unconventional style; they could not commit
prosaical facts to memory, but they could sing songs containing any
number of irrelevant stanzas. They could not "cipher," but they had
witty and salient answers ready for any emergency. There seemed to be no
particular distinction among them in regard to the degree of literary
attainment, so I arranged them in classes, with an eye mainly to the
novel and picturesque in appearance.
They were a little disappointed at the turn in affairs, having evidently
anticipated much from the continuation of the lecture system, yet they
were disposed to look forward to school-life, in any case, as not without
its ameliorating conditions.
CHAPTER III.
THE BEAUX OF WALLENCAMP PERFORM A GRAVE DUTY.
"We have our r'al, good, comfortin' meal at night," Grandma Keeler had
said, and the thought was uppermost in my mind at the close of my first
day's labor in Wallencamp. I had taken a walk to the beach; a strong east
wind had come up, and the surf was rolling in magnificently; a wild
scene, from a wild shore, more awful then, in the gathering gloom. The
long rays of light streaming out of the windows of the Ark guided me back
across the fields. Within, all was warmth and cheer and festive
expectation. Grandma Keeler was in such spirits; a wave of mirthful
inspiration would strike her, she would sink into a chair, the tears
would roll down her cheeks, and she would shake with irrepressible
laughter. It was in one of her serious moments that she said to me:--
"Thar', teacher, I actually believe that I ain't made you acquainted with
my two tea-kettles." They stood side by side on the stove, one very tall
and lean, the other very short and plump. "This 'ere," said Grandma,
pointing to the short one; "is Rachel, and this 'ere," pointing to the
tall one, "is Abigail, and Abigail's a graceful creetur' to be sure,"
Grandma reflected admiringly; "but then Rachel has the most powerful
delivery!"
I was thus enabled to understand the allusions I had already heard to
Rachel's being "dry," or Abigail's being as "full as a tick," or _vice
versa_.
The table was neatly spread with a white cloth; there was an empty bowl
and a spoon at each individual's place. In the centre of the table stood
a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. Grandpa Keeler having asked the
blessing after the approved manner of the morning, there was a general
uprising and moving, bowl in hand, towards the cauldron of hulled corn on
the stove. This was lively, and there was a pleasurable excitement about
skimming the swollen kernels of corn out of the boiling, seething liquid
in which they were immersed. Eaten afterwards with milk and sugar and a
little salt, the compound became possessed of a truly "comforting"
nature.
I stood, for the second time, over the kettle with my eye-glasses
securely adjusted, very earnestly and thoughtfully occupied in wielding
the skimmer, when the door of the Ark suddenly opened and a mischievously
smiling young man appeared on the threshold. He was not a Wallencamper, I
saw at a glance. There was about him an unmistakable air of the great
world. He was fashionably dressed and rather good-looking, with a short
upper lip and a decided tinge of red in his hair. He stood staring at me
with such manifest appreciation of the situation in his laughing eyes,
that I felt a barbarous impulse to throw the skimmer of hot corn at him.
It was as though some flimsy product of an advanced civilization had come
in to sneer at the sacred customs of antiquity.
"I beg your pardon," the intruder began, addressing the Keeler family
with exceeding urbanity of voice and manner; "I fear that I have happened
in rather inopportunely, but I dared not of course transgress our
happy Arcadian laws by knocking at the door."
"Oh, Lordy, yis, yis, and the fewer words the better. You know our ways
by this time, fisherman," exclaimed Grandpa Keeler. "Come in! come in!
Nobody that calls me friend need knock at my door."
"Come in! come in, fisherman! Won't you set, fisherman?" hospitably
chimed in Grandma Keeler.
"Ah, thank you! may I consider your kind invitation deferred, merely,"
said the fisherman, suavely, "and excuse me if I introduce a little
matter of business with the Captain. We carelessly left our oars on the
banks yesterday, Captain Keeler, they were washed off, I have ordered
some more, but can't get them by to-morrow. I hear you have a pair laid
by, I should like to purchase."
"What, is it the old oars ye want?" interrupted Grandpa, "why, Lord a
massy! you know whar' they be, fisherman, alongside that old pile o'
rubbish on hither side o' the barn, and don't talk about purchasin'--take
'em and keep 'em as long as ye want, they ain't no account to me now."
"I am very much obliged to you, Captain," the fisherman said, "I am very
sorry to have interrupted this--a--"
"Why, no interruption, I'm sure," said Grandma Keeler, good-naturedly,
"we've kep' right along eatin'."
"Want a lantern to look for 'em eh?" inquired Grandpa Keeler, for the
fisherman lingered, hesitating, on the threshold.
"This is our teacher, fisherman," said Grandma, in her gentle,
tranquillizing tones, "and this 'ere is one of Emily's fishermen,
teacher, and may the Lord bless ye in yer acquaintance," she added with
simple fervor.
The fisherman saluted me with a bow which reflected great credit on his
former dancing-master. He murmured the polite formula in a low tone, at
the same time shooting another covertly laughing glance at me out of his
eyes. As the door closed behind him, "Ah, that's a sleek devil!" said
Grandpa Keeler, giving me a meaning glance from under his shaggy
eyebrows.
"Wall, thar' now, pa, I wouldn't blaspheme, not if I'd made the
professions you have," said Grandma, with grave reproval.
"A sleek dog," continued Grandpa Keeler; "tongue as smooth as butter, all
'how d' yer do!' and 'how d' yer do!' but I don't trust them fishermen
much, myself, teacher."
"Who are the fishermen?" I inquired.
"They board
|
--one of the few bursts of power which recall the Wagner of
"Die Walküre"--and the ineffably lovely peacefulness of the Good
Friday music. This indeed is an inspired page in the score; but it
was written twenty-five years before the drama was produced.
The final scene is a weak and diluted repetition of the second scene
of the first act. This time Parsifal unveils the Grail. The music
is necessarily built of the same materials. It does not achieve its
effect. Neither is the pictorial impression as deep. We have seen
it all before. The gorgeous, pealing brass passage at the second
entrance to the Grail hall is the most muscular thing in the whole
act, but it stands by itself. It seems to have no logical place in
the musical scheme.
The score of this drama is mostly a long, faint echo of Wagner's
greatest works. Siegfried vainly strives to animate this Parsifalian
puppet of renunciation with the blood of the Volsung woe. Cloudlike
shreds of "Tristan und Isolde" struggle to float sunset tints across
this pallid sky. All is copying, futile, without inspiration,
without newness,--a hotch-potch of the old marketable materials made
over with much constructive skill, but with commercial thrift and
inartistic insincerity. There is hardly a note of honest æsthetic
conviction in the whole thing. One is inclined to think that Wagner
did not believe in it himself.
These, then, are the conclusions gathered from performances in
a common opera-house of Wagner's religious, symbolical, ethical,
philosophical, and highly gilded summary of his artistic creed. When
this work is played in Baireuth, where churchly airs are assumed
and the people robe their spirits in sackcloth and ashes, the
impression is different. But now that "Parsifal" has come out into
the light of morning and faced the cold glare of the work-day world,
it must be measured by the artistic standards which are applied to
Wagner's other dramas. Weighed in the balance with "Tristan und
Isolde" or any of the "Ring" works, except perhaps "Rheingold," to
which it is artistically not a stranger, it must be found wanting.
Beside "Tannhäuser," which treats the same subject, it is a mass of
glittering artificialities. Wagner was wise in wishing that this
drama should be preserved for home consumption.
II.--ETHICS AND ÆSTHETICS
The cut nails of machine divinity may be driven in, but they
won't clinch.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,
_The Professor at the Breakfast Table_, Ch. IV.
There was no question that Gotham--wicked, wayward Gotham--was much
stirred up by this production. It was generally accepted as a kind
of religious ceremony, as to which no right-minded gentleman should
deliver himself of critical comment. Yet there were some picturesque
exceptions to the general state. A few ministers of the Gospel sprang
to the pulpit or the interviewer, and descanted in glowing terms on
the outrageous irreligion of the thing, or rather on the sacrilege of
the representation by "painted actors" of incidents in the life of
Christ. Of course these gentlemen had not taken the trouble to study
the work in the original, and some of them showed conclusively that
they were utterly ignorant of it.
But this chanced to be one of those cases in which the pulpit is not
immune. The ignorance of the reverend utterers of sweeping statements
was blithely exposed by some of the men whose business it has been
for many years to study the works of Wagner. Let us, then, in all
justice and humility, with due observance of the Grail adorers on the
one side and the objecting pulpit orators on the other, ask ourselves
how much of real Christianity is disclosed in "Parsifal." How much
more of German mystic philosophy, of mediævalism, of the teachings of
Siddartha, and lastly of pure paganism? What is this work, after all,
but a summary of the blind gropings of the imaginative Wagner after a
philosophy beyond his reach?
Why all this pother about the sacrilege of putting the Holy Grail on
the stage? Was there ever a Holy Grail? Is the green glass chalice
which now reposes peacefully in Genoa a holy vessel? Did the blood of
Christ ever sanctify it? Did Joseph of Arimathea catch the precious
drops in it; and was it really the vessel used at the Last Supper of
Jesus and his apostles?
The ceremony of the Last Supper is unquestionably represented in a
crude manner in Wagner's drama, where it is mixed with a pictorial
representation of the legendary tale that the Christians may make
objection with good ground. The place which the communion occupies in
the ceremonies of the Church is such that to see it made part of a
public theatrical performance, no matter how solemn, or how artistic,
or how honest in its purpose to treat holy things reverentially, must
be repugnant to every Christian mind.
As to this, nothing more need be said. Of the effect of the
representation on an audience there can be no doubt. It is impressive
in the highest degree. The emotions caused by the unveiling scene are
a tribute to the power of theatrical art. But let it be thoroughly
understood that the stage picture and the music are the most
influential elements. Taking that scene as a point of suggestion,
let us ask ourselves how much of real Christianity there is in
"Parsifal." Let us examine the ethics of the drama and probe its
philosophy.
The doctrine of enlightenment by pity, preached so insistently in
this drama, has no relation to Christianity. The religion of Jesus
Christ knows of but one enlightenment, that by faith. It is "he that
believeth," not he that pitieth. The enlightenment of faith enables
the Christian to conceive God. But what do we find in "Parsifal"?
A man has committed a mortal sin, in that he has fallen from that
state of personal chastity in which the servants of the Holy Grail
are required to live. The outward and visible sign of his fall is
an immediate physical (with accompanying spiritual) punishment,
inflicted by the impious hand of the Tempter himself.
Here Wagner follows the story as told by Chrétien des Troyes, and
not the version of Wolfram von Eschenbach. Chrétien made the spear
that with which Longinus pierced the side of the Saviour. Wolfram
made it simply a poisoned lance. Wagner accepted the sacred spear,
because he was always an eager searcher after ethical significance,
even when there was less virtue in it than there is in this one. The
wound of the sacred lance is more than physical; it is a mortal hurt
of the soul. Wagner tells us that for such a wound there can be but
one cure, a touch of the selfsame lance in the hands of one who has
successfully withstood the temptation to which the sufferer fell a
victim.
Very well. There is absolutely no authority for such a conclusion.
It is a bit of mediæval religious mysticism, an adaptation of the
fabulous miracles. Wagner, however, has a right to manufacture
miracles for a fabulous story. He has as much right to do it in
the tale of the Holy Grail as he had in the matter of Hagen's
wonder-working beverages in "Götterdämmerung."
But when he tells us that the reason for Parsifal's action is
enlightenment by pity, he goes still farther away from the dogmas
and doctrines of Christianity and moves through the philosophy of
Arthur Schopenhauer toward the religion of the Buddha. It is a grave
error to relegate to a secondary place the influence of Schopenhauer
on Wagner and to credit the poet-composer with a direct entry into
the teachings of the Gautama. We must bear in mind continually that
Wagner got from Schopenhauer two great doctrines, one artistic, and
the other ethical.
Schopenhauer propounded as the basis of his æsthetic system the
theorem that it is the business of art to represent to us the eternal
essence of things by means of prototypes. The conditions of time
and place, cause and tendency, must be cleared away, and the naked
Eternal Idea underneath disclosed. The discernment and revelation of
this Idea are the duty and privilege of art.
Wagner, then, sought to set forth his personages and their actions
as symbolical. They were to be visual embodiments of Eternal Ideas.
Amfortas is the sinner in the agony of his punishment. Parsifal
is the savior, the pure one who can redeem; Klingsor is the evil
one, and Kundry the unwilling slave of his power. If here we find
ourselves involved in some contradictions, let us be patient.
Wagner's logic is that of a poet and a musician. It will not stand
the test of the metaphysician.
But to resume. The ethical doctrine which the composer obtained from
Schopenhauer was more significant in its results. Schopenhauer's
philosophic system need not be set forth here. Suffice it to say that
ethically its only possible outcome was negative. The world is so bad
that the chief end of man should be to get out of it.
To reach the state of mind in which that end is the chief object,
one must rid himself of all desire and yearn to arrive at a complete
negation of the will to live. Recall "Tristan und Isolde." The first
step toward the negation of the will to live is perfect sympathy with
suffering. Then comes asceticism, which leads directly away from life
toward a condition of abstraction.
Here the thought touches the monasticism of the early Church and
avows a kinship with the Buddhistic doctrine. Withdrawal from the
world and safety by absorption into the universal unconsciousness
were the Buddhist's hope of peace. But neither Gautama nor
Schopenhauer had any definite, positive reason for this. Here the
early monk, who was looking out for the salvation of his own precious
soul and letting other people's souls take care of themselves, came
nearer to the ideals of Wagner as set forth in "Parsifal."
No, Schopenhauer did not teach Wagner the doctrine of "enlightenment
by pity," for with Schopenhauer pity was not enlightenment, but the
beginning of a personal abstraction. A man was sorry for others
because they were in the world, the very worst place a man could
inhabit. His sensuous nature made him like the things he found here
(such as flower-maidens, for example); and his duty was to mortify
the flesh, get rid of all his mortal appetites, live in asceticism,
and die as soon as possible. Wagner was fond of grafting his own
ideas on the philosophical systems of bigger men than himself. So
he invented this doctrine of enlightenment. How he worked out his
psychologic plan we shall see presently.
No doubt Wagner had his eye on Buddhism when he wrote "Parsifal."
It is history that he once contemplated a Buddhistic drama, called
"The Victors," in which he was to preach the doctrine of fleshly
renunciation and salvation through the mortification of desire. But
he abandoned the scheme. The story was Eastern, and he did some
delving in Oriental literature.
How the "Four Sublime Verities" of Gautama, the founder of the
Buddhistic religion, must have appealed to him! These were, first,
that pain exists; second, that the cause of pain is desire or
attachment; third, that pain can be ended by Nirvana; and fourth, how
to attain Nirvana.
The way to Nirvana is hard, much harder than the path to the
Christian Heaven, for the man must walk it without aid. There is no
vicarious sacrifice in the religion of Siddartha. You must walk the
wine-press alone, and drink of the dregs of life. All the best of the
Ten Commandments are found in the precepts of this religion. Added to
them are minor commands looking to complete abstraction.
For example, a Bhikshu (an order of monk) is forbidden to look at
or converse with a woman lest emotion should disturb the serene
indifference of his soul. He must not even save his mother if she is
drowning, except with a long stick reached toward her.
"To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark dock," seems to have been
the chief business of the founder. Thus is he always represented
cross-legged and contemplative, with eyes downcast, "cleaving with
the thunderbolt of science the mountain of ignorance," and perceiving
the illusory nature of all things. So he comes at last to that state
in which he breaks the bonds binding him to existence and enters into
the complete Nirvana.
In this religion pity is pre-eminent, for it is sympathy with
suffering. But it does not confine itself to human beings. Animals
are also to share our sympathies, and here we meet with the
foundation of Wagner's idea in "Parsifal" of the sacredness of the
life of dumb creatures in the realms of the Holy Grail. But now let
us see how Wagner works out his jumble of religious and philosophic
doctrines.
Parsifal is a pure fool. Weigh that, first of all. He knows nothing;
yet when he enters the flower-garden he compliments the women on
their beauty, and fails to understand what they want of him. O wise
young judge! this pure fool, who does not know what is the matter
with Amfortas, and therefore has no desire to aid him, must be
enlightened by pity. So Wagner sets Kundry to work to tell him the
story of his mother's sufferings, and she ends the narration by
printing a long kiss upon his lips. Wagner was fond of long kisses
set to music, and he used one in "Siegfried" as an awakener.
Now what happens? This salacious kiss of an unchaste woman, imprinted
on the lips of a youth who was, according to Wagner's delineation
of him, as innocent as a child of eight or ten, instantly opens
up to him the entire experience of Amfortas, and fills him with
pity and horror! That is, indeed, a miracle. And to make the
thing psychologically more absurd, Wagner shows us this "pure
fool" battling madly with the simultaneous working of these two
emotions. What has become of the enlightenment by pity? Plainly
the enlightenment comes first and the pity afterward! Furthermore,
Parsifal prays to the Redeemer for forgiveness for his failure to
understand the scene in the hall of the Grail. But, as H. E. Krehbiel
pertinently asked in an article in the "New York Tribune," what could
the boy have done when he had not yet got the sacred spear from
Klingsor?
What a hold, then, the Buddhistic ideas, toward which Wagner was
led by Schopenhauer, had taken upon him! The religion of the crucial
scene of the drama is not Christian at all. The outward and visible
signs of the scene are purely pagan, but the underlying philosophy
is Buddhistic. It is the final issue of the dreams which this master
visionary had in his mind when he planned "The Victors." The only
remnant of Christian story in this act is the reminiscence of the
drama which Wagner once planned relating to the Saviour.
In his "Jesus of Nazareth" he intended to show Mary of Magdala in
love with the Divine One. Wagner was no fool. Nor was he a madman, as
Nordau has tried to show. But he was first, last, and all the time a
theatrical thinker. His imagination dwelt in the show-house, and all
was grist that came to his mill. If he had thought the meditations of
the Creator good material for a music drama, he would have laid his
artistic hands upon the eternal throne itself.
Thus, he shrank not from grafting spectacular show, Schopenhauerian
ethics, and Buddhistic dogmas on the legend of the Holy Grail. As
a matter of absolute fact, the Christian elements in this drama
are almost wholly spectacular and in the nature of accessories. If
ministers of the Gospel desire to be shocked by "Parsifal,"--and
they have reason to be, if they look for it in the right place,--let
them consider the place which the Holy Grail and the ceremony of the
communion occupy in this play.
They are merely stage devices to heighten the picture of the
suffering of Amfortas, and to impress upon our minds the vital need
of the enlightenment of the pure fool. The processional of the Grail
is spectacle pure and simple. The eating of the Last Supper is
spectacle pure and simple. It has absolutely nothing to do with the
story of the drama.
The unveiling of the Grail is necessary because it shows how Amfortas
is made to suffer agony. But it is no assistance to such Christian
ethics as there are in this muddle. If Amfortas has an incurable
wound, which is merely the outward symbol of conscience, he ought not
to need the sight of the Grail to make him feel worse. The thought of
his unworthiness to be a member of the chaste brotherhood should be
enough.
The foot-washing incident is theatricalism of the crassest kind. Can
any one show that it has a direct connection with the development
of the story? The argument in its favor is that it shows Kundry
as a penitent, and establishes her in relations of atonement with
Parsifal. Quite unnecessary, for the significance of the second act
is that Parsifal, having resisted her tempting, is spiritually her
master and also her redeemer. The act of absolution is made possible
by his triumph over the flesh. He could have baptized her and bidden
her trust in the Lord without offering us a portrait of the Saviour
as represented in the seventh chapter of St. Luke:--
"And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when
she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house,
brought an alabaster box of ointment,
"And stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to
wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs
of her head, and kissed his feet and anointed them with the
ointment."
Wagner brings on the tears after the foot-washing, so that he can
show us how Kundry was released from the curse of laughter. Or was
the curse imposed solely that this theatrical picture might be
introduced?
The sacred spear has some connection with the story, but the weapon
is not an important feature of Christianity. There is even room for
doubt as to whether there ever was a sacred spear at all. The wound
certainly existed; but who can vouch for the preservation of the
spear as an object of reverence? So let us for the present dismiss
the profound religious basis of Richard Wagner's "Parsifal." Buddha
and Arthur Schopenhauer taught the dramatist more essentials than the
Holy Bible did. The foundations of the drama rest on the philosophy
of negation. The Christianity is merely ornamental, spectacular, and
delusive.
III.--THE NATIONAL RELIGIOUS DRAMA
I shall lay down a type of theological orthodoxy to which all
the divine legends in our city must conform.
PLATO, _Republic_ (_Grote's abstract_).
"Parsifal" is the supreme test of the outcome of Wagner's theory
that the modern theatre ought to bear the same relation to the life
of the people as the theatre of the Greeks did. All students of the
master's writings know that he preached this especially in those
years when his system had attained definite and detailed form in
his mind. In the Greek theatre he saw an art influence far-reaching
and mighty,--an influence which dominated because it dramatized the
artistic and religious ideals of a people. That he failed to discern
the identity of religion and art in the symbolical embodiments named
gods by the imaginative Greeks is another story.
Furthermore, he objected strenuously and rightly to any criticism of
his philosophic and artistic system based on the study of his early
works, which were written before his system was fully developed. In
the "Communication to My Friends" he says:--
"Certain critics who pretend to judge my art doings as a
connected whole have set about their task with this same
uncritical heedlessness and lack of feeling. Views on the
nature of art that I have proclaimed from a standpoint which
it took me years of evolution step by step to gain, they
seize on for the standard of their verdict, and point them
back upon those very compositions from which I started on the
natural path of evolution that led me to this standpoint.
"When for instance--not from the standpoint of abstract
æsthetics, but from that of practical artistic experience--I
denote the _Christian principle as hostile to or incapable of
art_, these critics point me out the contradiction in which
I stand toward my earlier dramatic works, which undoubtedly
are filled with a certain tincture of this principle so
inextricably blended with our modern evolution."
Excellent. The italics are not Wagner's. Let us, then, avoid falling
into the error of chaining Wagner to the beautiful Christianity
idealized by dramatic art, which he, unwise youth that he was, poured
into his "Tannhäuser," and confine ourselves to the full-fledged
"Parsifal," in which we are not, as he tells us, to regard the
Christianity as a vital art principle, but as one opposed to true
art. What does the man mean?
One thing is clear. Wagner did endeavor to theatricalize religions
and to parody in his feeble modern manner the theatre of the Greeks.
But if he failed (and who can doubt that he did after studying the
bloodless philosophy of the last product of his genius?), it was
because he was trying to do with calculating forethought what the
Greek did spontaneously, and because his religion supplied him
plentifully and unconsciously with the Schopenhauerian materials of
art; namely, Eternal Ideas represented by means of prototypes.
How came Wagner to fail in his puerile attempt to make a drama
out of a supposed incident in the life of Christ? Misled by the
similarity of his conception of the Saviour of mankind as a pure
human being resisting the seductions of a temptress in the person
of Mary Magdalen to his Tannhäuser battling with carnal passion
typified by Venus, or his Parsifal, remaining innocent through sheer
guilelessness, he set out to thrust into the glare of the footlights
the personality of Jesus. And then he found that the personality
was not merely human, nor the poetic embodiment of an idea, even an
Eternal Idea, but an everlasting miracle and mystery, a divinity
beyond the reach of his trap-doors, purple lights, and tenor tubas.
The story of Christ is tremendously dramatic, but it has eluded
every attempt at theatrical treatment. The thing done at Oberammergau
is not drama, but an old-fashioned mystery play. It is a moving
panorama. Pinero, Belasco, or even Ibsen would shrink from an attempt
to dramatize for the ordinary theatre the story of the Saviour. But
Wagner, blinded by his own ambition to make a show of all things,
to seize upon every suggestion of religion as material for music,
thought for a time that he could turn the Son of Man into a mime.
What a different art work was that of the Greek dramatist! How much
more direct and thornless was the path by which he reached the
theatrical representation of his gods and goddesses and the dramatic
relation of the fables in which they were the actors! With his stylus
in hand he sat at gaze upon a world of personated ideas, of symbols
in action. All was poetic and imaginative. All was the creation of
the human mind speculating upon the operation of unseen forces and
subtle passions. There was no almighty revelation to baffle him. The
infinite did not come and stand before him in an incomprehensible
mortalization of itself. What he had of the world beyond the skies
was the dreaming of his own kind.
What were Zeus and Hermes, Aphrodite and Hera, Artemis and Apollo,
Pallas and Poseidon, but personifications of ideas, those eternal
types which even the nugatory speculation of Schopenhauer postulated
as the materials of true art? When the Greek tragic dramatist was
not utilizing the gods, he employed the people of the mythologic
tales. When Phrynicus, in 511 B. C., wrote a tragedy on the capture
of Miletus, melting an audience to tears with the pathos of a
well-known contemporary event, he was fined a thousand drachmæ for
his ill-chosen subject.
When Wagner delved in the pagan mythology of the Northmen, he fell
upon metal like that of the Greeks. Nearly every personage in the
burg of Wallhal has a companion on Olympus. In the Eddas Wagner found
eternal types created by the human imagination by the same processes
as those of the Greeks. Hence the splendid humanity of his Wotan, his
Brünnhilde, his Fricka.
What had the Greek? The entire Grecian religion grew out of the
worship of the powers of nature. It recognized one power as the head
of all, Zeus, the god of heaven and light. "And God said, Let there
be light, and there was light." The Greek's notion of the beginning
of all things was the same as the Hebrew's. With Zeus abode in the
clear expanse of ether Hera, representing the eternal feminine
element in the divinity. The other gods were partly representatives
of the attributes of Zeus himself,--as Athene, knowledge, sprung
from his head; Apollo, beauty and purity; Hermes, who brings up the
treasures of fruitfulness from the depths of the earth; and Cora, the
child, now lost and now recovered by Hera, typifying the winter and
the summer. Poseidon and Hephæstus represented the elements, water
and fire. But why go farther with this catalogue? It is known to
every school-boy.
Together with these symbols the Greek dramatist had Hercules and
Prometheus, Paris and Orestes, Jason and Medea, and other earth-born
mythologic personages, the Siegfrieds and Gunthers and Sieglindes of
their mythologic world, demigods and heroes all, acting in fables of
wondrous poetic power, built on imaginative developments of ideals.
The Greek world knew these tales. The dramatist of the Æschylean
age was situated as Weber was when he put "Der Freischütz" before
Germany. He utilized the fairy tales of the people, and offering them
in a novel form made them eloquent with a new glory.
Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides were the masters of the Greek
tragedy; and their plays all deal with either mythologic or
legendary stories and personages. The ideas preached in the ethics
of their dramas were those of Greek morality. The gods and goddesses
introduced or referred to were the embodiments of Greek ideals.
Though the populace was not so able a doctrinaire as to know that
there was in truth but one deity, Zeus, of whom all the others were
but aids and expressions, it had the enormous advantage of intimate
acquaintance with the poetic attributes of the galaxy of gods. It was
a public ripe for its religious drama.
Now, when Richard Wagner set out to build up a modern theatre which
should have the same relation to the life of the people as the
theatre of the Greeks had to theirs, he started on the right path.
He took the legendary materials to be found in German literature. He
wrote with unerring judgment when he created his operatic version
of "The Flying Dutchman." The pity of it is that he did not compose
this work when he was at the period of the maturity of his genius.
We should have had something almost as splendid as "Tristan und
Isolde," for while the story is not so suggestive as the old legend
treated by Gottfried von Strassbourg, it is not far behind it. At any
rate, it is purely Teutonic in its character, though in its origin
it is Greek. For, of course, Vanderdecken is but a modern replica of
Ulysses. The Germans knew the story, for Heine had made it theirs.
Wagner wrote wisely and well in this drama.
In "Tannhäuser" again he found his materials in the vast
treasure-house of German literature and legend. Possibly this story
was known to fewer Germans than "The Flying Dutchman," but its
character was sympathetic to them and there was no mistaking the
force of its moral lesson. Yet the religious doctrines of this drama
are not essentially those of the Christian Church; they are those
of religion and morality in general. The idea of salvation through
love of a pure woman is the Goethean doctrine of the eternal womanly
leading us upward. It was not original with Wagner, but it was
beloved by him.
In "Lohengrin" we come nearer to the mystical thoughts of such a work
as "Parsifal," yet here humanity operates in the natural desire of
Elsa to reach into the secrets of her husband's heart and life, and
still more powerfully in the vengeful character of the sexless and
inexorable Ortrud.
In both of these splendid dramas of Wagner's genius we are
confronted at every step with the normal working of human passions,
and love throbs through both of them. In "Parsifal" we have no single
pulse of love. In "Parsifal" salvation is brought by ignorance and
miracle. In "Tannhäuser" it comes triumphantly through suffering,
repentance, and prayer. In "Parsifal" the sufferings of Amfortas are
relieved by the purity of another man. In "Tannhäuser" the misery
of the hero is assuaged by his own repentance and the holy love of
Elizabeth. The religion of "Tannhäuser" is human; that of "Parsifal"
is ceremonial, panoramic, abstract.
"Parsifal" is a dramatization of ceremonials. In the first and
third acts we behold the pageant of religious rites; in the second
the diorama of bacchanalian orgies. Externals are thrust upon us
constantly; the depths are hidden under a veil of scenic pretence
and musical delusion. The bulk of the music of the work is external
and descriptive. Little, indeed, is there of the tonal embodiment of
subjective ideas. Compare the three acts of "Parsifal" with the three
great emotional episodes of "Tristan und Isolde." What a stupendous
development the latter work shows of the tragedy of fatal passion!
In its first act the operation of a magical agency breaks down the
hitherto safe bonds of restraint and plunges two typical human beings
into the very vortex of flaming love. In the second act they rush
together and forget honor. The stroke of retribution falls; fate
deals her deadly blow. In the third act remorse, agony, death, and
the salvation of suffering souls by negation.
There is a drama which preaches no religious doctrine, which has no
dogma save the Buddhistic one of release from suffering by death, yet
which stands in closer relation to the life of the people than all of
Wagner's religious dramas, because it deals with world-thoughts.
When Wagner worked with the purely mythical and legendary tales of
the German people, he built dramas of national character and power.
When he undertook to turn into theatrical pageants the teachings of
Christianity, he failed utterly. The Greek succeeded because his
religion was one of symbols, of deifications of the powers of nature,
with its literature developed from tales of the fabulous doings of
gods and goddesses, tales embodying in imaginative form fundamental
facts of nature.
When Wagner sought his inspiration in the mythology of the North,
which was developed in precisely the same manner as the Greek
mythology, he found material of poetic and suggestive kind. But when,
by dramatizing Christian doctrine and history, he tried to bring
his national theatre into such relation to the life of the people
as the Greek dramatists brought theirs, he failed, for the simple
reason that at this point his entire theory as to the suitability of
mythical and legendary material to the use of the dramatist broke
down.
There is nothing mythological in the teachings of the Christian
religion, nor in the acts of its Founder or apostles. These
things stand apart from mythology and are differentiated from it
absolutely. They are not and could not have been the product of
human imagination, symbolizing human experience and speculation.
The profoundest philosophers of antiquity never hit upon the basic
doctrines of Christianity.
Beautiful as the teachings of Socrates are, they are essentially
human. The Sermon on the Mount sets up a system of ethics never
dreamed of by Aristotle or Plato. Only Buddha ever approached
Christ, and the outcome of the Hindu's entire system was not eternal
salvation and glory, but endless silence and the negation of death.
From this Wagner could not escape, even in his "Parsifal," for
Kundry, in the final scene, dies of what? Of a Buddhistic ethical
idea!
Wagner's greatest works are unquestionably those in which the
fundamental myths or legends were symbolical of human passions, of
the worldwide experience of mankind. "Tannhäuser," "Die Walküre,"
"Siegfried," "Götterdämmerung," and "Tristan und Isolde" are Wagner's
masterpieces of serious drama, not the saccharine "Lohengrin," nor
the tinselled ritual, "Parsifal." Are not those, with the matchless
comedy of manners, "Die Meistersinger," enough for one mind to have
created? Why should we believe it incumbent upon us to uphold all
that Wagner did?
We can say of him as Prentice said of Napoleon, "Grand, gloomy, and
peculiar, he sat a sceptred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his
own originality." Taking him by and large, as the sailors say, he
was the most striking figure in musical history. Why discredit him
by trying to show that "Parsifal," the feeble child of his artistic
senility, was filled with the vigor of his young Volsung or the
radiant power of his immortal song of love insatiate?
DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN
I.--A FUTILE GOD AND A POTENT DEVIL
The will
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
Left him at large to his own dark designs.
MILTON, _Paradise Lost_, Bk. I.
With every year the festival of the four dramas is celebrated in the
metropolis of the New World. Parsifalian orgies are new, and the wine
of the holy cup offers a novel intoxication to restless spirits ever
seeking fresh excitements. But your good, honest, old Wagnerite goes
yearly to gape in awestruck silence at the majesty of the "wildered"
Wotan, and to bask in the sunshine of Siegfried's radiant youth.
Whistle your Last Supper motive, you Monsalvationer, if you will, as
you crunch your lobster salad after the celebration, but we old-time
Wagnerites, who have hunted with the pack since first the "flight"
theme pulsated across the world, we shall trot home murmuring the
slumber motive and lay us down to pleasant dreams with a final sigh
of Fafner's "Lass't mich schlafen."
Perhaps this is a good time to review our impressions of that
wonderful creation of a strange genius, "Der Ring des Nibelungen."
Whatever else may be said of Wagner, it must always be admitted that
he was a genius. Something of the vanity of the child, the naïveté
that always dwells in the organization of the truly original artist,
is to be discerned in his every action, in his every utterance; and
it would be strange if it did not force itself upon our notice in his
works. There it discloses itself most frequently in a ludicrous error
of taking seriously things that can never be other than amusing to
the casual observer, and of missing the point of some of his own best
ideas.
Wagner has been much praised as a poet. Time was when the present
writer (who must be his own confessor), feeling the power and
beauty of the
|
65
18 Leconte's Sparrow, p. 65 (Mississippi Valley)
19 Lark Sparrow, p. 68 (Mississippi Valley)
20 Dickcissel, p. 80 (Mississippi Valley)
21 Harris's Sparrow, p. 69 (Mississippi Valley)
22 White-crowned Sparrow, p. 69
23 Indigo Bunting, male, p. 79
24 Indigo Bunting, female, p. 79
25 Rose-breasted Grosbeak, female, p. 78
26 Rose-breasted Grosbeak, male, p. 78
27 Scarlet Tanager, male, p. 80
28 Scarlet Tanager, p. 80
29 Warbling Vireo, p. 89
30 Philadelphia Vireo, p. 89
31 Worm-eating Warbler, p. 93
32 Orange-crowned Warbler, p. 96
33 Nashville Warbler, p. 96
34 Golden-winged Warbler, male, p. 95
35 Blue-winged Warbler, p. 94
36 Golden-winged Warbler, female, p. 95
37 Lawrence's Warbler, p. 95
38 Brewster's Warbler, p. 95
39 Parula Warbler, p. 97
[Illustration: CASE NO. 8. FIGS. 40-82]
CASE NO. 8. FIGS. 40-82
LATE SPRING MIGRANT LAND BIRDS OF THE EASTERN UNITED STATES
For times of arrival at other localities see remarks under Case No. 6.
40 Yellow Warbler, female, p. 99
41 Yellow Warbler, male, p. 99
42 Magnolia Warbler, p. 101
43 Chestnut-sided Warbler, male, p. 102
44 Chestnut-sided Warbler, female, p. 102
45 Kirtland's Warbler, p. 106
46 Cerulean Warbler, female, p. 102
47 Cerulean Warbler, male, p. 102
48 Prairie Warbler, p. 108
49 Chat, p. 113
50 Maryland Yellow-throat, male, p. 113
51 Maryland Yellow-throat, female, p. 113
52 Kentucky Warbler, p. 111
53 Canadian Warbler, p. 115
54 Hooded Warbler, male, p. 114
55 Hooded Warbler, female, p. 114
56 Northern Water-Thrush, p. 110
57 Redstart, female, p. 115
58 Redstart, male, p. 115
59 Olive-sided Flycatcher, p. 39
60 Acadian Flycatcher, p. 41
61 Yellow-bellied Flycatcher, p. 40
62 Alder Flycatcher, p. 41
63 Wood Pewee, p. 40
64 Tennessee Warbler, p. 97
65 Cape May Warbler, male, p. 98
66 Cape May Warbler, female, p. 98
67 Blackburnian Warbler, male, p. 104
68 Blackburnian Warbler, female, p. 104
69 Bay-breasted Warbler, male, p. 103
70 Bay-breasted Warbler, female, p. 103
71 Blackpoll Warbler, male, p. 103
72 Blackpoll Warbler, female, p. 103
71 Wilson's Warbler, female, p. 114
74 Wilson's Warbler, male, p. 114
75 Mourning Warbler, male, p. 112
76 Mourning Warbler, female, p. 112
77 Connecticut Warbler, male, p. 111
78 Connecticut Warbler, female, p. 111
79 Long-billed Marsh Wren, p. 122
80 Short-billed Marsh Wren, p. 121
81 Olive-backed Thrush, p. 131
82 Gray-cheeked Thrush, p. 130
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
A.V. Accidental Visitant. A bird found beyond the
limits of its usual range.
L. Length of a bird from the tip of its bill to the end
of its tail. Remember that living birds look
shorter than the measurements of specimens
given beyond.
P.R. Permanent Resident. A species which is found in
the same locality throughout the year. The Bob-white,
Ruffed Grouse, most Owls, and Hawks,
the Crow, Jays, Black-capped Chickadee and
the White-breasted Nuthatch are Permanent
Residents.
S.R. Summer Resident. A species which comes from
the South in the spring and, after nesting, returns
to its winter quarters.
T.V. Transient Visitant. A species which visits us in
the spring while en route to its more northern
nesting grounds, and in the fall when returning
to its winter home in the South. Most Transient
Visitants are found both in the spring and fall,
but some, like the Connecticut Warbler, are found
in the North Atlantic States only in the fall.
W.V. Winter Visitant. A species which comes from the
North to remain with us all, or part of the winter
and then return to the North. Winter Visitants
may arrive in September and remain until April,
or they may come later and only for a brief stay.
* * * * *
NOTE. Measurements are in inches.
Land Birds of the Eastern United States
GALLINACEOUS BIRDS. ORDER GALLINÆ
AMERICAN QUAIL. FAMILY ODONTOPHORIDÆ
BOB-WHITE
_Colinus virginianus virginianus. Case 1. Figs. 1, 2_
The black and white markings of the male are
respectively buff and brown in the female. In
flight the Bob-white, or Quail, suggests a
Meadowlark, but the tail is without white
feathers. L. 10.
_Range._ Eastern United States north to Minnesota
and Maine south to the Gulf. A Permanent Resident.
Severe winters and much shooting have made it rare
in the more northern parts of its range.
Washington, common P.R. Ossining, common P.R.
Cambridge, P.R. N. Ohio, not common P.R. Glen
Ellyn, rare P.R. SE. Minn., common P.R.
Except when nesting Bob-whites live in flocks or "coveys" usually
composed of the members of one family. Their song, heard in spring and
summer, is the clear, ringing two- or three-noted whistle which gives
them their common name. Their fall and winter notes, which sportsmen
term "scatter calls" are signals by which the members of a flock keep
within speaking distance of one another. "_Where_ are you?" "_Where_ are
you?" they seem to say. As with other protectively colored,
ground-inhabiting birds, Bob-whites do not take wing until one almost
steps upon them. Then, like a bursting bomb, the covey seems to explode,
its brown pieces flying in every direction. The nest is on the ground
and the 10-18 white, pear-shaped eggs are laid in May or June.
The Florida Bob-white (_C. v. floridanus_, Case 3, Figs. 1, 2), a
smaller darker race is resident in Florida, except in the northern part
of the state. It begins to nest in April.
GROUSE. FAMILY TETRAONIDÆ
CANADA SPRUCE PARTRIDGE
_Canachites canadensis canace_
The male is a grayish bird with a jet black throat
and breast, the former bordered with white; the
skin above the eye is red. The female is barred
with black and reddish brown with a black mottled
tail tipped with brown. L. 15.
_Range._ Northern parts of United States from New
Brunswick to Manitoba. Other races are found
throughout the wooded parts of Canada and Alaska.
An unsuspicious inhabitant of swampy coniferous forests. Now rare in the
United States. It nests on the ground in June, laying 9-16 eggs, buff,
lightly speckled with brown.
RUFFED GROUSE
_Bonasa umbellus umbellus. Case 1, Fig. 3_
The female resembles the male in color but has the
black neck-tufts smaller. The tail-feathers vary
from gray to bright rusty. L. 17.
_Range._ Eastern United States south in the
Alleghanies to Georgia. In the southern states the
Grouse is often called 'Pheasant.' A Permanent
Resident.
Washington, not common P.R. Ossining, common P.R.
Cambridge, P.R., formerly very common. N. Ohio,
rare P.R. Glen Ellyn, rare and local P.R.
On our western plains and prairies there is a Grouse which we call
Prairie Hen and we might well apply the name Wood Hen to this Grouse of
our forests. To flush a Grouse in the quiet of the woods always makes
the "heart jump." His whirring wings not only produce the roar which
accompanies his flight, but they are also responsible for the "drumming"
which constitutes the Grouse's song as sitting upright on some favorite
log, he rapidly beats the air with his wings.
The horny fringes which in winter border the toes of the Grouse, or
Partridge, as he is also called, form in effect snow-shoes which help to
support the bird on soft snow. At this season they also feed in trees on
buds and catkins, and they may roost in trees or seek a bed by plunging
into a snow-bank.
The nest, lined with leaves, is placed at the base of a tree or stump;
the 8-14 buffy eggs are laid in May.
The Canada Ruffed Grouse (_B. u. togata_), of northern New England and
northwards is grayer above and more distinctly barred below.
PRAIRIE CHICKEN
_Tympanuchus americanus_
The Prairie Hen has a rounded or nearly square
tail and a barred breast; in the Sharp-tailed
Grouse the tail is pointed, the breast with
V-shaped markings. L. 18.
_Range._ Central Plains region from Texas to
Manitoba, east to Indiana. Migratory at its
northern limits.
Glen Ellyn, P.R. local, S.E. Minn., P.R. much
decreased in numbers.
The Ruffed Grouse sounds his rolling, muffled drum-call in the seclusion
of the forest, but the Prairie Hen beats his loud _boom-ah-boom_ in the
open freedom of the plains. Hardy and strong of wing, he can cope with
winter storms and natural enemies, but against the combined assault of
man, dog, and gun, he cannot successfully contend.
About a dozen buff-olive eggs are laid on the ground in April or early
May.
HEATH HEN
_Tympanuchus cupido_
This is a close relative of the Prairie Hen, having the black neck-tuft
of less than ten feathers with pointed, not rounded, ends. It is now
found only on the Island of Martha's Vineyard, but formerly inhabited
plains or barrens, locally, from New Jersey to Massachusetts. It nests
in June.
TURKEYS. FAMILY MELEAGRIDÆ
WILD TURKEY
_Meleagris gallopavo silvestris_
The Wild Turkey was formerly found as far north as
Maine and Ontario but it is unknown now north of
central Pennsylvania. South of Maryland it is not
uncommon locally.
_Range._ Kansas and central Pennsylvania to the
Gulf coast, and northern Florida. Non-migratory.
Washington, rare P.R.
Our domestic Turkey is descended from the Mexican Wild Turkey and like
that race has the upper tail-coverts and tail tipped with whitish,
whereas in our eastern Wild Turkey these tips are chestnut. The nest is
on the ground and 10-14 eggs, pale cream-color finely speckled with
brownish, are laid in April.
The Florida Wild Turkey (_M. g. osceola_), of southern Florida, is
smaller and the white bars on the primaries are narrower and more
broken.
PIGEONS AND DOVES. ORDER COLUMBÆ
PIGEONS AND DOVES. FAMILY COLUMBIDÆ
MOURNING DOVE
_Zenaidura macroura carolinensis. Case 3, Fig. 3; Case 5, Fig. 11_
Except the southern little Ground Dove, this is
our only Dove. Its long, pointed tail and the
swift, darting flight are its field characters. It
is often mistaken for the Wild or Passenger
Pigeon, now extinct. The two birds differ in size
and in color, but size is a matter of distance,
and color, of comparison, so it seems probable
that as long as there is a possibility of seeing a
Passenger Pigeon, Mourning Doves will be mistaken
for them. L. 11¾. The Wild Pigeon is about five
inches longer.
_Range._ North America. In a railway journey from
the Atlantic to the Pacific one may expect to see
the Dove daily. Winters from Virginia southward,
migrating northward in March.
Washington, P.R., common, except in midwinter.
Ossining, common S.R., Mch. 3-Nov. 27; a few
winter. Cambridge, rather rare T.V., Apl. 8-June
18; Sept. 18-Nov. 15. N. Ohio, common S.R., Mch.
20-Oct. 25; rare W.V. Glen Ellyn, tolerably common
S.R., formerly common, Mch. 12-Oct. 21. S.E.
Minn., common S.R., Mch. 15-Dec. 25.
Doves are particularly common in the southern states where, ranked as
game-birds, they are shot in large numbers. The Wild Pigeon's note was
an explosive squawk; the Dove's is a soft, mournful _coo-oo-ah,
coo-o-o-coo-o-o-coo-o-o-_. During the winter, Doves are usually found in
small flocks but, unlike the Wild Pigeon, they nest in scattered pairs.
The nest is in a tree or on the ground. Two white eggs are laid in
April.
GROUND DOVE
_Chæmepelia passerina terrestris. Case 3, Fig. 4_
The female is duller than the male. L. 6¾.
_Range._ Tropical and subtemperate parts of the
Western Hemisphere. Our form is found in Florida
and on the coast region from North Carolina to
Texas.
Washington, accidental; two records, Sept., Oct.
This dainty, miniature Pigeon is common in southern gardens and old
fields. It runs gracefully before one, and when flushed rises with a
whirring flight but soon alights, usually on the ground. Its call is a
crooning _coo_. The nest is placed on the ground and in low trees and
bushes. Two white eggs are laid in March.
BIRDS OF PREY. ORDER RAPTORES
AMERICAN VULTURES. FAMILY CATHARTIDÆ
TURKEY VULTURE
_Cathartes aura septentrionalis. Case 3, Fig. 9_
Head red, plumage with a brownish cast. Young
birds have the head covered with brownish down. L.
30.
_Range._ Most of the Western Hemisphere in several
subspecies; in the eastern states north to
northern New Jersey and, locally, southern New
York. Migrating south from the northern part of
its range.
Washington, abundant P.R. Ossining, A.V.
Cambridge, casual, two records. N. Ohio, tolerably
common S.R., Mch. 5-Oct. 30. SE. Minn., common
S.R., Apl. 27.
The 'Turkey Buzzard' has a wider wing-stretch and is a better aviator
than the Black Vulture. It is more a bird of the country than the
last-named species which is the common Vulture of the streets in many
southern cities. Extremely graceful in the air, it is far from pleasing
when at rest. The two dull white, brown-marked eggs are laid on the
ground under logs, in crevices in rocks, etc., in March in Florida, in
April in Virginia.
BLACK VULTURE
_Catharista urubu urubu. Case 3, Fig. 10_
Head black, plumage without the brownish cast of
the Turkey Vulture.
_Range._ Eastern U.S., north to Virginia; an
abundant Permanent Resident. Washington, casual,
Mch., July, Dec.
The Vulture of southern cities; a frequenter of slaughter houses and
markets. In flight the under surfaces of the wing look silvery. It is by
no means so impressive a figure in the air as the Turkey Vulture. Two
pale bluish white eggs, generally with brown markings, are laid on the
ground under logs, bushes, palmettoes, etc., in March and April.
HAWKS, EAGLES, KITES, ETC. FAMILY BUTEONIDÆ
SWALLOW-TAILED KITE
_Elanoides forficatus forficatus_
The head and lower parts are white, the rest of
the plumage glossy black; the tail deeply forked.
L. 24.
_Range._ Florida to South Carolina, and up the
Mississippi Valley rarely to Saskatchewan; winters
south of the United States, returning in March.
Washington, three records, Aug.; Apl. SE. Minn.,
uncommon S.R., May 4.
Color, form, grace, and power of motion combine to make the flight of
the Swallow-tail an impressive demonstration of the bird's mastery of
the air. It feeds on lizards and small snakes which it captures when on
the wing from the branches of trees. The nest is placed in the upper
branches of tall trees, 2-3 eggs heavily marked with brown being laid in
Florida in April; in Iowa in June.
WHITE-TAILED KITE
_Elanus leucurus_
A gray bird with white underparts, rather short
white tail and black shoulders. L. 15½.
_Range._ Chiefly southwestern United States and
southward east to the lower Mississippi Valley.
This is a rare bird east of the Mississippi. It frequents open marshy
places and feeds upon small snakes, lizards, grasshoppers, etc., which
it captures on the ground. The nest is built in trees, and the 3-5 eggs,
heavily marked with brown, are laid in May.
MISSISSIPPI KITE
_Ictinia mississippiensis_
A slaty-blue bird with black tail and wings and
red eyes. L. 14.
_Range._ Southern United States, north to South
Carolina, and southern Indiana; winters chiefly
south of the United States and returns in April.
A low-flying hunter of insects, snakes and frogs. It migrates in loose
flocks sometimes near the earth, at others far above it. The nest is
placed in tall trees. The eggs are laid in May; they number 1-3, and are
dull white, occasionally with a bluish tinge.
EVERGLADE KITE
_Rostrhamus sociabilis_
A dark slate-colored bird with a white rump and a
rather slender hooked bill. The young are quite
different; black above, tipped with reddish brown,
below mottled and barred with black, reddish brown
and buff, but with the white rump-patch of the
adult. L. 18.
_Range._ Tropical America north to southern
Florida.
The Everglade Kite is found in marshes and about lakes and ponds hunting
for its favorite food of large snails, which it extracts from their
shells by means of its hooked bill. It is rarely seen north of southern
Florida. The nest is placed in bushes or among reeds. The 2-3 eggs,
which are heavily marked with brown, are laid in March.
MARSH HAWK
_Circus hudsonius. Case 3, Fig. 15_
The immature bird and adult female are dark brown
above, reddish brown below, but, in any plumage,
the species may be known by the white upper
tail-coverts which show clearly in flight. L.,
male, 19; female, 22.
_Range._ North America, wintering from New Jersey
southward; migrates northward in March.
Washington, common W.V., July-Apl. Ossining,
tolerably common S.R., Mch. 6-Oct. 30; a few
winter. Cambridge, common T.V., Mch. 20-Nov. 10,
one breeding record. N. Ohio, not common S.R.,
Mch. 5-Nov. 30. Glen Ellyn, S.R., several pairs,
Apl. 4-Nov. 6. SE. Minn., common S.R., Mch. 6-Nov.
1.
The Marsh Hawk quarters low over the fields turning sharply here and
there to follow the course of a meadow mouse in the grass forest below.
As a rule the bird is silent but in the mating season he repeats a
'screeching' note. The nest is made on the ground in the marshes; the
4-6 white eggs are laid in May.
SHARP-SHINNED HAWK
_Accipiter velox. Case 1, Figs. 11, 12; Case 3, Figs. 7, 8_
The sexes differ only in size, the female being
much the larger. There is a marked difference in
color between adult and immature birds, the latter
being more commonly seen. L. male, 11¼; female,
13½.
_Range._ North America; wintering from
Massachusetts southward.
Washington, common P.R. Ossining, common P.R.
Cambridge, common T.V., Apl. 3-May 11; Sept.
5-Oct. 25; rare S.R., uncommon W.V. N. Ohio, not
common P.R., a few winter. Glen Ellyn, not common
S.R., Mch. 19-Dec. 9. SE. Minn., common S.R., Mch.
28-Dec 28.
This small, bird-killing Hawk dashes recklessly after its victims,
following them through thick cover. It is less often seen in the open
than the Sparrow Hawk, which it resembles in size, but from which it may
be known by its different color, longer tail, and much shorter wings. It
nests in trees 15-40 feet from the ground. The eggs, 3-6 in number, are
bluish white or cream, marked with brown and are laid in May.
[Illustration: SHARP-SHINNED HAWK.
Note the Long Tail.]
COOPER'S HAWK
_Accipiter cooperi. Case 1, Figs. 9, 10_
A large edition of the Sharp-shinned Hawk, with
the tail more rounded, the adult with a darker
crown. L. male, 15½; female, 19.
_Range._ Nests throughout United States; winters
from southern New England southward.
Washington, common S.R., less common W.V.
Ossining, tolerably common P.R. Cambridge, common
T.V., not uncommon S.R., rare W.V., Apl. 10-Oct.
20. N. Ohio, not common, Mch. 20-Nov. 1; a few
winter. Glen Ellyn, local S.R., a few winter. SE.
Minn., common S.R., Mch. 3.
This is the real 'Chicken Hawk,' but it is less often seen and heard
than the soaring, screaming Buteos to which the name is usually applied.
It resembles the Sharp-shinned in habits but being larger may prey on
larger birds. The female may be easily distinguished from the
Sharp-shinned by her larger size, but the male is not appreciably larger
than a female Sharp-shin.
The nest is built in a tree 25-50 feet up. The bluish white, rarely
spotted eggs are laid in late April or early May.
GOSHAWK
_Astur atricapillus_
The adult is blue-gray above with a darker crown
and a white line over the eye. The underparts are
finely and beautifully marked with gray and white.
Young birds resemble the young of Cooper's Hawk,
but are much larger. L., male, 22; female, 24.
_Range._ North America, nests chiefly north of the
United States and winters southward, usually
rarely, as far as Virginia.
Washington, casual in winter. Ossining, rare W.V.,
Oct. 10-Jan. 14. Cambridge, irregular and uncommon
W.V. SE. Minn., W.R., Nov. 5-Apl. 4.
Like its smaller relatives the Sharp-shin and Cooper's Hawks, this
powerful raptor is a relentless hunter of birds. It is particularly
destructive to Ruffed Grouse. Fortunately it does not often visit us in
numbers. It nests in trees, laying 2-5 white eggs, rarely marked with
brownish, in April.
RED-TAILED HAWK
_Buteo borealis borealis. Case 1, Figs. 5, 6; Case 3, Fig. 13._
This, the largest of our common Hawks, is a
heavy-bodied bird with wings which when closed,
reach nearly to the end of the tail. The adult has
the tail bright reddish brown with a narrow black
band near the tip. The immature bird has the tail
rather inconspicuously barred with blackish, and a
broken band of blackish spots across the
underparts. L. male, 20; female, 23.
_Range._ Eastern North America, migrating only at
the northern limit of its range. There are several
races, Krider's Red-tail, a paler form inhabiting
the great Plains, and Harlan's Hawk, a darker form
with a mottled tail, the lower Mississippi Valley.
Washington, common W.V., rare S.R. Ossining,
common P.R., less common in winter. Cambridge,
rare T.V., locally W.V., Oct. 10-Apl. 20. N. Ohio,
common P.R. Glen Ellyn, P.R., not common, chiefly
T.V. SE. Minn., common S.R., Mch. 2.
The Red-tail resembles the Red-shoulder in general habits, but it is
more a bird of the fields, where it may be seen perched on the limb of a
dead tree or similar exposed situation. Its note, a long-drawn,
squealing whistle, is quite unlike that of the Red-shoulder. The
Red-tail feeds chiefly on mice and other small mammals. With the
Red-shoulder it is often called 'Chicken Hawk,' but does not deserve the
name. It nests in trees 30-70 feet up and in April lays 2-4 eggs, dull
white sparingly marked with brown.
RED-SHOULDERED HAWK
_Buteo lineatus lineatus. Case 1, Fig. 4; Case 3 Fig. 12_
[Illustration: RED-SHOULDERED HAWK. ADULT.
Note the Barred Tail.]
Seen from below the reddish brown underparts and
black and white barred tail will identify adults
of this species. Immature birds are streaked below
with blackish; the tail is dark grayish brown
indistinctly barred, but the shoulder is always
rusty, though this is not a marking one can see in
life. L., male. 18½; female, 20¼.
_Range._ Eastern North America from northern
Florida to Canada; resident except in the northern
part of its range.
Washington, common P.R. Ossining, common P.R.
Cambridge, common, Apl.-Nov., less common in
winter. N. Ohio, common P.R. Glen Ellyn, P.R.,
more common than the Red-tail; chiefly T.V.
A medium-sized, heavy-bodied Hawk with wings which, when closed, reach
well toward the tip of the tail. It lives both in the woods and open
places, and may be flushed from the border of a brook or seen soaring
high in the air. Its note, frequently uttered, as it swings in wide
circles, is a distinctive _Kèe-you, Kèe-you_, quite unlike the call of
any of our other Hawks. It is often well imitated by the Blue Jay. The
Red-shoulder feeds chiefly on mice and frogs. It nests in trees 30-60
feet up and, in April, lays 3-5 eggs, white marked with brown.
The Florida Red-shouldered Hawk (_Buteo lineatus alleni_), a smaller
form with grayer head and paler underparts, is a resident in Florida and
along the coast from South Carolina to Mexico. It nests in February.
BROAD-WINGED HAWK
_Buteo platypterus_
With a general resemblance to the Red-shouldered
Hawk, but smaller; no red on the bend of the wing,
or rusty in the primaries, only the outer three of
which are 'notched.' L., male, 15¾; female, 16¾.
_Range._ Eastern North America. Breeding from the
Gulf States to the St. Lawrence; winters from Ohio
and Delaware to S.A.; migrates northward in March.
Washington, uncommon P.R. Ossining, tolerably
common S.R., Mch. 15-Oct. 23. Cambridge, uncommon
T.V. in early fall, rare in spring and summer;
Apl. 25-Sept. 30. N. Ohio, not common P.R. Glen
Ellyn, not common S.R., Apl. 10-Oct. 4. SE. Minn.,
common S.R., Mch. 11.
A rather retiring, unwary Hawk which nests in thick woods and is less
often seen in the open than the Red-shoulder, but, when migrating,
hundreds pass high in the air, with other Hawks. Its call is a high,
thin, penetrating whistle. It nests in late April and early May, laying
2-4 whitish eggs marked with brown.
ROUGH-LEGGED HAWK
_Archibuteo lagopus sancti-johannis_
Legs feathered to the toes; basal half of tail
white; belly black. Some individuals are wholly
black. L., male, 21; female, 23.
_Range._ Breeds in northern Canada; usually rare
and irregular in the northern U.S., from November
to April.
Washington, rare and irregular W.V. Ossining,
casual. Cambridge, T.V., not common, Nov.-Dec.;
Mch.-Apl. N. Ohio, not common W.V., Nov. 20-Apl.
3. Glen Ellyn, quite common W.V., Oct. 12-Apl. 30.
SE. Minn., W.V., Oct. 15-Mch.
Frequents fields and marshes, where it hunts to and fro after mice,
which form its principal fare.
GOLDEN EAGLE
_Aquila chrysaetos_
With the Bald Eagle, largest of our raptorial
birds; with a general resemblance to the young of
that species, in which the head and tail are dark,
but with the legs feathered to the toes. L., male,
32½; female, 37½.
_Range._ Northern parts of the northern
Hemisphere; in the United States, rare east of the
Mississippi.
Washington, rare W.V., Ossining, A.V. Cambridge, 1
record. N. Ohio, rare W.V. SE. Minn., P.R.
The Golden Eagle is so rare in the eastern United States and its general
resemblance to a young Bald Eagle is so close, that only an experienced
ornithologist could convince me that he had seen a Golden Eagle east of
the Mississippi.
BALD EAGLE
_Haliæetus leucocephalus leucocephalus. Case 3, Fig. 11_
When immature the head and tail resemble the body
in color, and at this age the bird is sometimes
confused with the more western Golden Eagle. The
latter has the head browner and the legs feathered
to the toes. L., male, 33; female, 35½.
_Range._ North America but rare in the interior
and in California, migratory at the northern limit
of its range.
Washington, not common P.R. Ossining, common P.R.
Cambridge, of irregular occurrence at all seasons.
N. Ohio, tolerably common P.R. SE. Minn., P.R.,
becoming rare.
An adult Bald Eagle will at once be recognized by its white head and
tail; the immature birds by their large size. Eagles are usually found
near the water where fish may be obtained either on the shore or from
the Osprey. The call of the male is a human-like, loud, clear
_cac-cac-cac_; that of the female is said to be more harsh and often
broken. Eagles nest in tall trees and on cliffs, and lay two or three
dull white eggs, in Florida, in November and December; in Maine, in
April.
FALCONS, CARACARAS, ETC. FAMILY FALCONIDÆ
GYRFALCON
_Falco rusticolus gyrfalco_
A large Hawk with long, pointed wings, the upper
parts brown with numerous narrow, buffy bars or
margins, the tail evenly barred with grayish and
blackish, the underparts white lightly streaked
with black. L. 22.
_Range._ Arctic regions; south in winter rarely to
New York and Minnesota. The Gray Gyrfalcon (_F. r.
rusticolus_) a paler form, with a streaked crown,
the Black Gyrfalcon (_F. r. obsoletus_) a
slate-colored race, and the White Gyrfalcon (_F.
islandus_) are also rare winter visitants to the
northern United States.
These great Falcons are so rare in the United States that unless they
are seen by an experienced observer, under exceptionally favorable
conditions, authentic records of their visits can be based only on the
actual capture of specimens.
DUCK HAWK
_Falco peregrinus anatum_
The adult is slaty blue above; buff below marked
with black, and with black cheek-patches. Immature
birds are blackish above margined with rusty,
below deep rusty buff streaked with blackish. L.,
male, 16; female, 19.
_Range._ Northern Hemisphere, breeding south
locally to New Jersey and in Alleghanies to South
Carolina; winters from New Jersey southward.
Washington, rare and irregular W.V. Ossining,
casual. Cambridge, rare T.V., casual in winter,
SE. Minn., uncommon S.R., Apl. 4.
As the Peregrine of falconry we know of the Duck Hawk as a fearless,
dashing hunter of greater power of wing and talon. It nests in rocky
cliffs in April and from its eyrie darts upon passing Pigeons and other
|
gave a sharp
exclamation.
"What's the matter now?"
He rubbed his cheek, growling. A hoarse, childish voice from below,
which had in it some echo of Mona Fentriss's lyric and alluring tones,
served to answer the question:
"Where did I hit you, old Bobs?"
"It's the Scrub," said Dee.
"Don't you call me 'Bobs,' you young devil."
"Oh, _all_ right! _Doctor_ Bobs. Come down. I've got a fer-rightful
gash in my knee."
"Well, don't show it to the world. I'll be there immediately."
"If you want to be the family benefactor," said Mary Delia as he was
leaving, "marry Pat. Nobody else ever will."
"You're a liar!" came the hoarse voice from outside. There was a pause
as for consideration. "A stinkin' liar," it concluded with conviction.
"Pat!" called her mother.
"Oh, very well! But I bet I'm married before I'm Dee's age. And to a
better man than Jimmy James. He's a chaser."
"We've got to send that child away to school," said Mona Fentriss in
amused dismay as the door closed behind Osterhout. "She's growing up
any old way, and she seems to know everything that's going on.... Dee,
are you really going to marry Jimmy James?"
"I think so. Any objections?"
"Well, Ada Clare, you know."
"He's through with her."
"She's the kind that men don't get through with so readily. It's gone
pretty far."
"It's gone the limit probably. Well, I never thought Jimmy was
President of the Purity League, Mother."
"Do you really care for him, Dee?"
"Of course I do. I don't mean that he gives me an awful thrill. Nobody
does."
"Perhaps the right man would."
"Then I haven't seen him yet. Mother," she turned her cool regard upon
Mona, "tell me about it."
"About what?"
"The thrill. The real thrill. You know."
Mona's colour deepened. "You're a queer child, Dee. There are some
things a woman has to find out for herself."
"Or get some man to teach her," supplied the girl thoughtfully. "The
whole thing's mostly bluff, _I_ think. Men are queer things. I could
laugh my head off at Jimmy sometimes."
"That's a good safeguard."
"Yes; but I don't need it.... Mother, aren't we going to pull a big
party this spring?"
"Of course. And we ought to do it pretty soon, too."
"What makes you say that so queerly?"
"Nothing," answered Mona hastily. "I was just thinking."
For though she was up and about again, she knew that she was weakening
under the heart attacks which she endured with silent fortitude, due
partly to natural pride, partly to her belief that a complaining woman
lost all charm for those about her, winning only the poor substitute of
pity instead of admiration. Upon Dr. Osterhout she had imposed silence;
she was determined that her household should know nothing so long as
concealment was possible. In her way she was an unselfish woman.
She was quite aware that this would be the last of her parties in the
house on the knoll.
Pat's voice floated upward in tones of lamentation. "Oh, damn it, Bobs!
Go easy, can't you? That stuff's like fire."
"Patricia's fifteen," reflected the mother. "I'll enter her at the
Sisterhood School next fall."
CHAPTER III
The party was a Bingo. Before midnight that had been settled to the
satisfaction of everyone. The music, good at the outset, soon become
irresistible. (A drink all around every seven numbers was the Fentriss
prescription for the musicians; expensive but worth it.) The punch was
very special. Several of its masculine devotees had already faded,
and one girl had been quietly spirited to an upper room, there to be
disrobed and de-spirited. There was much drifting in and out of the
French windows to the darkness of the lawn, and plaintive inquiries for
missing partners were prevalent. Lovely, flushed, youthful, regnant in
her own special queendom, Mona Fentriss sat in the midst of a circle
of the older men, bandying stories with them in voices which were
discreetly lowered when any of the youngsters drew near. It was the top
of the time.
Upstairs in her remote bed Patricia sat with her pillows banked behind
her, her knees propping her chin, her angry eyes staring into the dark.
The strong rhythms of the music, barbaric, excitant, harshly sensuous,
throbbed upward, stirring her to dim and uninterpretable hungers.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" she whispered in shivering wrath.
She had been banished from even the earliest part of the festivities.
It was mean. It was rotten. It was stinkin' rotten. Why should she be
treated so? She wasn't a baby. She wouldn't stand it!
Leaping from bed she ran to her tumbled clothes, began feverishly to
put them on. In undergarments and stockings she crept across to Dee's
room, listened and entered. This was gross violation of the law of the
household. But Pat was desperate. Selecting a pink dinner dress rather
high-cut for Dee, she held it against her half-developed body, decided
that it would do, ran back with her booty to her own den. Putting it on
before the glass she became unpleasantly conscious of several pimples
on her face. She was always having pimples! The others never had them.
She wondered why, resentfully. Should she pick the one at the side of
her nose? Or would that only make it the more unsightly? She decided
for the heroic method, performed a clumsy operation with a pin, and
perceived at once that she must have some powder. This time it was
Connie's room that she invaded, and while she was about it she found
and added a touch of colour. It was by no means the height of artistry,
but Pat approved it as eminently satisfactory. She did not wholly
approve Dee's dress. There was too much of it in important spots. She
meditated padding, but did not know how it was done. Or--dared she go
back and get a scantier frock? Contemplating her boyish contours she
realised that it would not do.
"Flat like a board," she muttered disparagingly. "I'm bunched all in
the wrong places."
That the gown which fitted Dee's slender strength to perfection should
oppress Pat across her round little stomach, struck her as an unjust
infliction of fate, instead of the proper penalty of gluttony, which it
was. The maltreated pimple--another sign and symbol of her unrestrained
appetite--still bled a little and was obviously angry. She staunched
it impatiently. The others, she decided, would do as they were. Not
unskillfully she touched the area around them with little dabs of Mme.
Lablanche's Rose-skin.
"I'm going to have one dance," she decided, "if they send me to jail."
The back stairs and a side window gave her unobserved exit to the
odorous shelter of a syringa.
"I'll wait until I can catch Bobs," she ruminated. "He'll dance with
me--old bear! But first I'll do a little scouting."
She peeked into the big living room where most of the dancing was in
progress. As was invariably the rule at Holiday Knoll, men held the
superiority of numbers, and therefore, girls that of position. Every
girl had a partner. To the ungrown waif outside of fairyland the
dancers seemed ethereal beings, moving in a radiant and unattainable
world. How beautifully the girls were dressed! How attractive the men
looked!
"I wish I was pretty," mourned Pat. She thought forlornly of her
blotchy skin. "I never will be, though." Then she recalled the deep,
eager lustre of her eyes as seen in the glass, and how one of the
boys at school had once made awkward and admiring phrases about them.
She had not liked that particular boy, but she was grateful for the
phrases. Maybe if she paid more attention to herself she might come to
be attractive like her lovely mother. No; that was too much to hope;
never like her mother, nor like Constance, who was just then whirled by
in the arms of one of the New York guests, all aglow with languorous
triumph, easily the beauty of the party. Perhaps like Dee. Lots of men
were crazy about Dee. Would any man ever be crazy about her, wondered
Pat.... Wouldn't she look a smear if she did venture on the floor among
all those human flowers? She left her window to prowl further.
The glass door of the breakfast room gave her a view of the proceedings
within. Sprawled upon the tiles five of the youthful local element were
intent upon the dice which one of them had just rolled toward a central
heap of silver and bills.
"Seven! I lose again," said the thrower cheerily. "Who'll stand for
hiking the limit to a dollar?"
Opposite Pat's vantage point sprawled Selden Thorpe, son of the local
rector. Pat knew they had not much means and, marking the pale,
strained face of the boy, wished with misgivings that he wouldn't. The
misgivings vanished when she heard him say:
"I'm an easy hundred ahead so I can't kick. Let 'er go."
She stepped back into the darkness to round the conservatory wing and
brushed the mudguard of a lightless limousine. A girl's voice strained,
tremulous, and laughing lent caution to her retreating steps; but she
stopped within listening distance.
"Don't, Freddie! I'll have to go in if you----"
"Oh, come, Ada! Be a sport."
"Do behave yourself. Get me another drink."
"All right."
As the man stepped out, Pat shrank behind the car. She had recognized
the girl's voice as that of Ada Clare, who had the reputation of being
an indiscriminate "necker." Pat passed on. But that whisper from
within the limousine, with its defensive, nervous, eager, stimulated
effect, troubled the eavesdropper with strange, disturbing surmises.
She wanted, yet feared to return and wait until Fred Browning, a man of
thirty, well-liked in the neighbourhood, not the less perhaps because
of his reputation as a "goer," came back with the desired drink. What
would be the next step in the unseen drama? A little stir of fear drove
Pat onward. She stopped abruptly at the end of the conservatory as she
heard her mother's voice within.
"Oh, Sid, dear! I almost wish I hadn't told you."
Sid! That was Sidney Rathbone, a Baltimorean, much given to running
over for week-ends. To Pat's mind he was stricken in years, being
nearly forty, but the _most_ distinguished looking (thus her mentally
italicised characterisation) person she had ever seen and distantly
adored. Furthermore there was a quietly knightly devotion in his
attitude toward the beautiful Mrs. Fentriss which enlisted the
submerged romanticism of the child's mind. Now she hardly recognised
the usually smooth and gentle tones characteristic of him as he replied:
"My God, Mona! I can't believe it. I won't believe it."
"Poor boy! It's true, though."
"What does Osterhout know about it! He's no diagnostician. You must
come to Baltimore and see Finney or Earle----"
"It's no use."
What Rathbone next said the listener could not make out, but Mona
answered very gently:
"No, Sid, dear. Not again. That's all over. I couldn't now. You
understand." And then the man's broken voice:
"Yes; I understand, dearest. But----"
"Oh, Sid! Please don't cry. I can't bear it."
Pat blundered on into the darkness, rather appalled. What in the name
of bewilderment did _that_ mean? Mr. Rathbone crying! And her mother's
voice was so sad. Though she did not care much for her mother beyond a
lively admiration of her charm and beauty, Pat experienced a distinct
chill. It was followed by a surge of exultation; she was certainly
seeing life to-night! And then came the climax. A blithe voice at her
elbow said:
"Hello! Who are you?"
"Sh--sh-sh-sh!" she warned in startled sibilance.
"Shush goes if you say so. Not dancing?"
"No. They wouldn't let me," said Pat mournfully.
"Who wouldn't?"
"The family."
"Snoutrage," declared the stranger economically. "You're one of the
family, are you?"
"Yes. I'm the kid. I hate it."
"Cinderella; yes? The lovely but wicked sisters--they're peaches, too."
He spoke clearly but a little disjointedly. "But you're not rigged for
the part. You've got your regal rags on."
"They're not mine. They're my sister's. I sneaked 'em."
"Snappy child!" he laughed. "Let's have a look."
He moved closer to her. A wale of light fell across his face. He
was short and fair with a winsome, laughing mouth, and candid eyes.
Drooping her chin Pat studied him covertly and decided that he was a
winner. She herself was in the shadow; he could see little but contour.
But the rich hoarseness of the voice pleased him.
"I'm glad I found you," he murmured.
Thrilling to his tone, all that she could find to say was:
"Don't speak so loud."
Naturally he took this as an invitation, and, moving still closer, felt
for her hand in the darkness. Her fingers twined willingly within his.
Instead of alarming her, his touch gave her confidence.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked.
"Cooling off. The family brew's got quite a kick in it."
"Has it? Get me some."
"You're too young."
"Don't be hateful."
"What'll you give me for it?" he teased.
It was the first spur that her instinct of conscious seductiveness had
ever known. She replied instantly:
"Anything."
"You're on. Wait for me right there."
While he was gone, a long time as it seemed to her, she stood surging
with an exultant inner turmoil. A man and a girl passed close to her,
unseeing in the bar of light. The girl's eyes wore a strange, sleepy
expression as if the lids were almost too heavy to hold open. The
man's shoulder was pressed close upon her. They disappeared. Strange
scents of the night crept into Pat's brain; made her remember things
she had never known. The music, softened through intervening walls,
was pleading sensuously, urging upon her something mysterious and
desirable. She felt her nerves like strung wires already tingling with
electric forces but awaiting the supreme shock.
"Drink, pretty creature!" The gay, insinuating, mirthful voice was
close to her.
"You've only half filled it," she complained, taking the glass.
"Must have spilled some. In such a hurry to get back to you," he
explained. "There's plenty more where it came from if you like it."
"I don't," she gasped. The liquid, of which she had taken a generous
swallow, stung in her throat. She poured the rest out upon the ground.
"Here," she said holding out the glass to him.
His fingers met hers again. The glass fell and crunched beneath his
foot as he stepped to her. She was hardly cognisant of his arm drawing
her. Rather what she felt was some irresistible power compelling her
to itself. The face of the youth, still gay with laughter, drew down
upon hers, closer, closer, changed, seemed to become dimly luminous.
Her arms, without volition, crept upward to his shoulders. She was
incongruously and painfully conscious of something pressing into her
bosom, one of his pearl shirt-studs, and drew away from it slightly. He
bent his head after her. And then, as their lips met and merged--the
shock!
She went limp under it.
After a long, long minute in which were blended the pulsations of the
music, the undermining odours of the night, the look of the passing
girl's eyes (how heavy were her own now!), the memory of that broken
whisper overheard in the limousine, and the surge of the blood in her
veins, she heard him say:
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"I've got my car here."
She was silent, deeply, passively acquiescent to his will.
Misconstruing her speechlessness, he urged:
"Come on, sweetie! We'll take a fifty-mile-an-hour dip into the
landscape. The little boat can go some."
"I'll have to get a wrap."
"Take my coat."
His arm tightened, guiding her. She lifted a hungry face. He bent again
when a door opened shedding a broad ray of light upon them. Against the
glaring background moved Constance, a vision of witchery in her filmy
gown, followed by Emslie Selfridge.
"Pat!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
Before the confused girl could reply, her escort came briskly to her
rescue. "I caught it peeking behind a bush," he explained, "and it
wasn't a bur-gu-lar after all. So I'm taking it in to see what it is
and whether it can dance."
"It's my kid sister," said Constance. "Mother _will_ be pleased!"
"Are you going to tell her?" demanded Pat.
"I certainly am."
"Then I may as well have my dance before you find her," declared the
culprit calmly.
"The fourteenth, a foxy little trot; with Mr. Warren Graves," put in
her escort cheerily. He drew her arm through his own where it nestled
gratefully.
Armoured though he was in the careless self-confidence of youth, young
Mr. Graves winced as his partner stood revealed under the full glare of
the lights. She looked so awfully and awkwardly young! Her hair was so
awry, her gown so ill-fitted, her skin so splotchy. But there was magic
in the long, slanted, shy, trustful eyes looking into his own, and the
tingling excitation of her kiss was still in his blood. Moreover he had
had a steady succession of drinks.
"How old are you?" he asked in her ear as her cheek pressed close to
his.
"Seventeen," she lied glibly.
"Sub-deb stuff," he laughed. "I love 'em young. You can dance, too. Can
I have the next?"
"There won't be any next," said Pat tragically. "Here's Mother."
"Oh, Lord!" said Warren Graves. "Let me do the talking."
But no talking was called for. Mona Fentriss swept down upon her truant
daughter, caught her in a laughing embrace, slapped one hot cheek,
kissed the other, and delivered her verdict!
"Back to bed with you! Quick! How did you ever get out?"
"Can't I have just one more turn," pleaded Pat.
"Not a step. Where did this roost-robber"--she indicated Graves--"find
you?"
"I was looking on and wanting in," replied the dismal and thwarted Pat.
"Wait three years, until you're seventeen. Away!"
"Let me escort you to your--er--baby-carriage," said the youth with an
elaborate bow.
The feeble witticism, meant only to cover his own sense of being at
a loss, stabbed Pat. She averted her angry and tearful eyes as they
crossed the floor together.
"I hate you," she muttered.
"I'm crazy about you," he retorted close to her ear.
Instantly she was radiant again. "Good-night," she said softly and ran
up the stairs.
The turn of the landing hid her from view. But, after a moment's
struggle with herself against doubt, she stopped and leaned out over
the rail. There he stood with the blithe expectancy of his face
upturned. Queer looking, unkempt, ill-dressed she might be, and hardly
more than a child at that, but the glamour of her youth and her passion
held him.
"Don't forget me," he pleaded under his breath.
She nodded. Forget him! With the fervent assurance of the neophyte she
was sure that she never would, never could forget him and the moment
which he had deified for her. And herein her inexperience was a true
mentor. For, whatever else may pass from her crowded memories, a girl
does not forget her first kiss.
Pat had been mulcted of that dance which she had rebelliously promised
herself. But there was compensation in overflowing measure.
She had had her taste of life.
CHAPTER IV
Vagrant airs from the window of the small library playfully stirred
the bright tendrils on Constance Fentriss's neck. The girl was a
picture of unconscious grace and delight as she sat, with her great,
heavy-lashed eyes fixed in speculation, her curving lips a little drawn
down, her gracious, girlish figure relaxed in the deep chair. Across
the room Mary Delia was skimming hopefully the pages of _Town Topics_
for scandals about people she knew. She lifted her head and asked
carelessly:
"What doing, Con?"
"Figuring out a letter."
"Who to?" (Mary Delia's higher education, inclusive of "correct"
English, had cost something more than ten thousand dollars.)
"A certain party." This was formula, current in their set and deemed to
possess a mildly satiric flavour.
"Oh, verra well!" (Meaning "Don't tell if you don't want to.")
"It's to Warren Graves, if you want to know."
"Your Princeton paragon? Have you got something going there?"
"I'm going to give him hell."
"What for? I thought he was one of your best bets."
"For acting like a Mick Saturday night."
"What did he pull? A pickle?"
"A petting party with Pat."
"No! Did he?" Dee cast aside the professional organ of scandal in
favour of a more immediate interest. "How do you know?"
"Trapped 'em. He put up a good front. Acted like he expected to
get away with it." (Constance's school, also highly expensive, had
specialised in "finish of speech and manner.")
Dee laughed. "That bratling! He must have been lit."
"Emslie said so. He was with me when we walked into 'em."
"As per usual. What was _his_ view?"
"He said the Scrub ought to be spanked and sent to bed."
"Some job!" opined her sister. "She's starting in early. When did you
have your first real flutter, Con?"
"Not at that age," returned the elder. "And not with that kind of a
face."
Dee reflected shrewdly that Connie was a little sore over the young
man's defection. "It must have been dark for Graves to take her on,"
she agreed.
"It was, till we opened the door on 'em. They were clinched all right.
Dam' little fool!"
"Better go easy with the letter," advised Dee carelessly. "He'll think
it's green-eyed stuff."
"Not from what I'm going to give him. He tried the half-nelson on me
earlier in the evening and got turned down."
"Well, I had to tell him the strangle hold was barred, myself,"
remarked Dee. "He must have had a busy evening."
"Thinks he's a boa-constrictor, does he?" commented the beauty
viciously. "He'll think he's an apple-worm when he reads my few
well-chosen words."
"Cordially invited not to come back?"
"Something of that sort."
"That was a pretty husky punch, though," mused Dee. "Con, you don't
suppose he fed the Scrub any of it?"
"Yes, he did."
"Dirty work!" Lighting a cigarette Dee took a few puffs, but without
inhaling. "Going to tell Mona?" The two older girls habitually spoke of
their mother and sometimes to her by her given name.
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I think she'd laugh."
"Dad wouldn't."
"Dad's old. Mona's one of our kind. She's as modern as jazz."
"Dad may be old but it hasn't slowed him up so much, yet. He was the
life of the party."
"Oh, Dad's all right. I'm for him, myself. But he's all for Pat. There
might be fireworks if he knew she was starting in this early."
"There were never any about Mona."
"Meaning?"
"Well, Sid Rathbone. And Tom Merrill. And a few others."
"She doesn't interfere with his little amusements, either, if you come
to that. Have you noticed anything about her lately?"
"Yes. She looks like a ghost in the mornings."
"Bobs has been trying to get her to put on the brakes."
"Funny old Bobs! He's pippy on you, isn't he, Dee?"
"Me! I should say not. It's Mona."
"Can you blame him? With her war paint on she's got us both faded."
"Sometimes when I catch him looking at her with that poodle dog
expression of his, I wonder whether there's something really wrong with
her."
"Probably it's just the pace. What'll we be like at her age, if we last
that long?" Constance's soft mouth hardened as she seated herself at
the desk and scratched off the letter which she had been meditating.
"There!" she observed at the close. "That will tell Mr. Warren Graves
where he gets off."
"What about Pat? Someone ought to tell her where she gets off."
"I don't know why they keep her around anyway," said Constance
discontentedly. "She ought to have been sent away to school last year."
"God help the school! She'll give it an education."
"Going to the club to-night?" asked the elder after a pause.
"No."
"I thought you had a date with Jimmy James for all the Saturday dances."
"So did he," replied Dee calmly. "He was getting too proprietary. So I
turned him down."
"War is hell," observed her sister with apparent irrelevance.
"Besides, de Severin is coming over from Washington for an early round
of golf."
"So that's it. Paul de Severin could give me quite a thrill if he went
at it right."
"Not me. I've never seen the man that could, either. Something must
have been left out of my make-up when I was built."
"Sometimes I wish it had been left out of mine," said the beauty. "And
other times," she added gaily, "I don't. By the way, I'm likely to be
in pretty late. So don't let Dad lock me out, will you?"
"I thought they still pulled the midnight rule for the Saturday night
dances."
"So they do. But the Grants are having a small-and-early afterward.
Somebody slipped Will Grant a case of Bacardi." She sealed her letter
with a thump and tossed it into a silver-wicker basket.
"Keep your rum," said Dee with an effect of disdainful connoisseurship.
"It gets me nothing but perspiration and a bum eye next day! Not even
the right kind of kick.... So your Princeton laddie fed Pat some of the
party fluid. Did it make her sick?"
"No; it didn't make her sick," answered a resentful voice, all on one
level tone. Pat entered by the rear door.
"Been listening in?" inquired Constance amiably.
"I have not. Wouldn't waste my time," declared the infant of the
family. She cast an eye upon the journal which her sister had laid
aside. "What's in T.T. this week? Anything rich?"
"Rapidly growing to womanhood," observed Constance to Dee in a tone of
mock admiration.
"Talk-party, I suppose," said the intruder. "Don't let me interrupt."
She strolled purposelessly over to the desk, glanced in the letter box
and picked up the letter.
"What are you writing to Warren Graves about?" she demanded.
"Put that letter back," said Constance.
"I'm going to look," declared Pat uncertainly. Her statement was
followed by a yell of pain. The letter fell, inviolate, to the floor as
Dee, who had leapt upon her with the swiftness and precision of a young
panther, tortured her arms backward.
"If you try to kick I'll break you in two," muttered the athlete.
"Let go! I won't," wailed Pat, who knew and dreaded the other's
strength.
Released, she massaged her aching elbows. "Dirty you, though!" she
said, scowling at Constance. "Sneaking a letter off to him that way."
"I suppose you'd like to censor it," taunted the writer. "Well, if you
want to know what's in it, I told him just how old you are and what
kind of a silly little ass. I don't think he'll come back for any more
baby-kisses."
At this Pat grinned inwardly. Whatever else it may have been, that was
no baby-kiss that had passed between them. With her equanimity quite
restored she remarked:
"You lie."
"Tasty manners!" commented Dee.
"I don't know what you've got to say about it," said Pat venomously.
"I noticed a sedan with all the curtains pulled down just after you
disappeared from the house with Jimmy James." This was a random shot.
It went wide of the target.
"Cut it, Scrubby! Cut it!" admonished her sister calmly. "I don't put
on any snuggling sketches where everybody can see me."
"Don't call me Scrubby!" choked the girl.
"Look at yourself," suggested Constance, "and see what else you can
expect to be called. Did you brush your teeth this morning?"
"Oh, _mind_ your business."
"Then go and brush them now," said Mona's voice from the stairway in
its clear and singing cadence. Whatever Mona said took on the sound
and form of music. Pat's hoarse and unformed speech had an echo of the
same seductive sweetness. The mother entered, adjusting her hat. "I'm
lunching in town, kiddies. What's the row?"
Pat cast a sullenly appealing glance at Constance. In vain.
"The Scrub's been doing a hug with Warren Graves," announced the elder
sister.
"I have _not_."
Mona regarded the flaming face with amused pity. She did not take the
news seriously. "Did you like him, Bambina?" she asked with careless
sympathy.
A quick, half-suppressed sob answered and surprised her.
"He fed her up on the punch," began Constance. "And then----"
"A very enterprising young man," broke in Mrs. Fentriss. "I don't think
we'll urge him to repeat his visit, Connie."
"Exactly what I'm writing to tell him."
"Because I pinched him from you," declared Pat in a vicious undertone.
Constance laughed, but not without annoyance. "It's likely, isn't it!"
"I made him give me the punch," continued the accused one. "I hated it.
I only took one swallow. It wasn't his fault. He told me to go easy on
it."
The defence of her possession by the girl moved Mona; it was so
naïvely, primitively feminine. At the same time the look in the
childish eyes, dreamy, remembering, unconsciously sensuous, stirred
misgivings in the mother's mind. Conscious womanhood was perhaps
going to burst upon the child explosively; was already in process of
realisation, very likely. Mona recalled certain developments of her own
roused and startled emotions twenty years before. Could it be as long
ago as that? How vivid to her memory it still was!
"Never mind," she said in her equable tones. "I dare say the punch was
too strong. And the Graves boy had more than one swallow. _He_ didn't
hate it."
"I wrote to him," said Pat suddenly.
"_You_ did?" The three incredulous voices blended.
"Yes, I did. He wrote to me. He asked me to answer. He was terribly
sorry."
"Sorry for what?" asked Dee.
"For--for acting that way. He seemed to think he'd hurt my feelings or
something. I told him it was just as much my fault as his."
"Did you, little Pat?" Her mother leaned forward to look into the
queer, defiant, chivalrous little face. "Perhaps you're older than I
thought. But I shouldn't write any more, if I were you."
"I won't."
Mona went out, followed by her youngest. In the hallway, Pat gave her
mother a light, familiar, shy pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for standing
by me," she said awkwardly.
"Did I stand by you?" returned Mona. "I wonder if I stand by you
enough."
Inside the room, Dee mused with a thoughtful, frowning face.
"Think of the Scrub!" she muttered.
"What of her?" asked Constance.
"Feeling that way. Already." There was a hint of unconscious envy in
her manner. "About a man!" She sighed and shook her head incredulously.
"It gets me," she confessed.
"Don't you like to have a man you like kiss you?" inquired Constance
curiously.
Dee meditated. "I don't mind it," she answered. "But I'd rather run
down a long putt, any day."
To Dr. Robert Osterhout, whom she sought out after her return from
luncheon (with Stevens Selfridge) Mona detailed the conversation with
and about Pat.
"Yes; I know," said he.
"How could you know?"
"Pat told me about young Graves."
"What! The whole thing?"
"So far as I could judge, she didn't leave out much."
"Why did she tell you? Confession? Remorse?"
"Not in the least. She enjoyed the telling. She's very feminine, that
child. And very curious about herself."
"I hope to God she isn't developing my temperament," reflected the
downright Mona after a pause. "It would be a dismal joke if the ugly
duckling of the flock had that wished on her. Poor, pimply little
gnome."
"Ugly? I wouldn't be too sure. The fairy prince from Princeton seems to
have been quite captivated with her."
"And she with him."
"That, of course. It was a very awakening kiss for her."
"Does she realise----"
"She said, 'Bobs, it made me go weak all over. Is chloroform like
that?'"
"Diverting notion! What did you tell her?"
"I told her that it wasn't, precisely. Then she said, 'What does it
mean?' And I said that it might mean danger."
"She wouldn't understand that. I've never talked to her." Mona, like
many women of broad and easy attitude toward sex relations in so far as
went her own life, had a reticence in discussing them with other women.
"Yes; she would. Pat's over twelve, you know."
"Yes; _I_ know. But does she?"
"Perfectly."
"Why? She didn't say anything----"
"No; she didn't go into the physico-psycho-analysis of her emotions,
if that's what you mean, Mona. I shouldn't have let her. There's a
touch of the morbid in her, anyway. That's the Irish strain from her
father. But there's a lot of your saving grace, too--your most saving
grace."
"And what may that be?"
"The habit of facing facts squarely; even facts about oneself."
"Is that a gift or a detriment, Bob?"
"It's a saving grace, I tell you. Little Pat is going to look right
clean through the petty illusions of life, clear-eyed."
"But illusions are the bloom and happiness of life," said Mona
wistfully.
"To play with; not to trust in. Oh, she'll have her illusions about
others; she's begun already. She's a romantic, as you are not. But her
dreams about herself will all be subject to her own detached scrutiny.
If ever she comes to dream about a man----"
"Well? You're being very subtle and analytical, Doctor."
"--she'll make heaven or hell for him."
"Bob! Men aren't going to waste time over her with pretty Dee and
lovely Connie around."
"Aren't they! Ask young Graves. She'll make 'em dream. Wait and see."
"Just what I can't do," said Mona quietly. "Ah, I didn't mean to say
that, Bob," she added quickly, catching the contraction of pain that
altered his face. "Well," she mused, brushing her hair back from her
broad brow, "I can't quite see it in Pat myself. But
|
ery goe. _exit._[E2]
_Ofe._ Great God of heauen, what a quicke change is this?
The Courtier, Scholler, Souldier, all in him,
All dasht and splinterd thence, O woe is me,
To a seene what I haue seene, see what I see. _exit._
_King_ Loue? No, no, that's not the cause, _Enter King and_
Some deeper thing it is that troubles him. _Corambis._
_Cor._ Wel, something it is: my Lord, content you a while,
I will my selfe goe feele him; let me worke,
Ile try him euery way: see where he comes,
Send you those Gentlemen, let me alone
To finde the depth of this, away, be gone. _exit King._
Now my good Lord, do you know me? _Enter Hamlet._
_Ham._ Yea very well, y'are a fishmonger.
_Cor._ Not I my Lord.
_Ham._ Then sir, I would you were so honest a man,
For to be honest, as this age goes,
Is one man to be pickt out of tenne thousand.
_Cor._ What doe you reade my Lord?
_Ham._ Wordes, wordes.
_Cor._ What's the matter my Lord?
_Ham._ Betweene who?
_Car._ I meane the matter you reade my Lord.
_Ham._ Mary most vile heresie:
For here the Satyricall Satyre writes,
That olde men haue hollow eyes, weake backes,
Grey beardes, pittifull weake hammes, gowty legges,
All which sir, I most potently beleeue not:
For sir, your selfe shalbe olde as I am,
If like a Crabbe, you could goe backeward.
_Cor._ How pregnant his replies are, and full of wit:
Yet at first he tooke me for a fishmonger:
All this comes by loue, the vemencie of loue,
And when I was yong, I was very idle,
And suffered much extasie in loue, very neere this:
Will you walke out of the aire my Lord?
_Ham._ Into my graue. [E2v]
_Cor._ By the masse that's out of the aire indeed,
Very shrewd answers,
My lord I will take my leaue of you.
_Enter Gilderstone, and Rossencraft._
_Ham._ You can take nothing from me sir,
I will more willingly part with all,
Olde doating foole.
_Cor,_ You seeke Prince Hamlet, see, there he is. _exit._
_Gil._ Health to your Lordship.
_Ham._ What, Gilderstone, and Rossencraft,
Welcome kinde Schoole-fellowes to _Elsanoure_.
_Gil._ We thanke your Grace, and would be very glad
You were as when we were at _Wittenberg_.
_Ham._ I thanke you, but is this visitation free of
Your selues, or were you not sent for?
Tell me true, come, I know the good King and Queene
Sent for you, there is a kinde of confession in your eye:
Come, I know you were sent for.
_Gil._ What say you?
_Ham._ Nay then I see how the winde sits,
Come, you were sent for.
_Ross._ My lord, we were, and willingly if we might,
Know the cause and ground of your discontent.
_Ham._ Why I want preferment.
_Ross._ I thinke not so my lord.
_Ham._ Yes faith, this great world you see contents me not,
No nor the spangled heauens, nor earth, nor sea,
No nor Man that is so glorious a creature,
Contents not me, no nor woman too, though you laugh.
_Gil._ My lord, we laugh not at that.
_Ham._ Why did you laugh then,
When I said, Man did not content mee?
_Gil._ My Lord, we laughed when you said, Man did not
content you.
What entertainment the Players shall haue,
We boorded them a the way: they are comming to you. [E3]
_Ham._ Players, what Players be they?
_Ross._ My Lord, the Tragedians of the Citty,
Those that you tooke delight to see so often. (stie?
_Ham._ How comes it that they trauell? Do they grow re-
_Gil._ No my Lord, their reputation holds as it was wont.
_Ham._ How then?
_Gil._ Yfaith my Lord, noueltie carries it away,
For the principall publike audience that
Came to them, are turned to priuate playes,
And to the humour of children.
_Ham._ I doe not greatly wonder of it,
For those that would make mops and moes
At my vncle, when my father liued,
Now giue a hundred, two hundred pounds
For his picture: but they shall be welcome,
He that playes the King shall haue tribute of me,
The ventrous Knight shall vse his foyle and target,
The louer shall sigh gratis,
The clowne shall make them laugh (for't,
That are tickled in the lungs, or the blanke verse shall halt
And the Lady shall haue leaue to speake her minde freely.
_The Trumpets sound, Enter Corambis._
Do you see yonder great baby?
He is not yet out of his swadling clowts.
_Gil._ That may be, for they say an olde man
Is twice a childe. (Players,
_Ham._ Ile prophecie to you, hee comes to tell mee a the
You say true, a monday last, t'was so indeede.
_Cor._ My lord, I haue news to tell you.
_Ham._ My Lord, I haue news to tell you:
When _Rossios_ was an Actor in _Rome_.
_Cor._ The Actors are come hither, my lord.
_Ham._ Buz, buz.
_Cor._ The best Actors in Christendome,
Either for Comedy, Tragedy, Historie, Pastorall,
Pastorall, Historicall, Historicall, Comicall, [E3v]
Comicall historicall, Pastorall, Tragedy historicall:
_Seneca_ cannot be too heauy, nor _Plato_ too light:
For the law hath writ those are the onely men.
_Ha._ O _Iepha_ Iudge of _Israel_! what a treasure hadst thou?
_Cor._ Why what a treasure had he my lord?
_Ham._ Why one faire daughter, and no more,
The which he loued passing well.
_Cor._ A, stil harping a my daughter! well my Lord,
If you call me _Iepha_, I hane a daughter that
I loue passing well.
_Ham._ Nay that followes not.
_Cor._ What followes then my Lord?
_Ham._ Why by lot, or God wot, or as it came to passe,
And so it was, the first verse of the godly Ballet
Wil tel you all: for look you where my abridgement comes:
Welcome maisters, welcome all, _Enter players._
What my olde friend, thy face is vallanced
Since I saw thee last, com'st thou to beard me in _Denmarke_?
My yong lady and mistris, burlady but your (you were:
Ladiship is growne by the altitude of a chopine higher than
Pray God sir your voyce, like a peece of vncurrant
Golde, be not crack't in the ring: come on maisters,
Weele euen too't, like French Falconers,
Flie at any thing we see, come, a taste of your
Quallitie, a speech, a passionate speech.
_Players_ What speech my good lord?
_Ham._ I heard thee speake a speech once,
But it was neuer acted: or if it were,
Neuer aboue twice, for as I remember,
It pleased not the vulgar, it was cauiary
To the million: but to me
And others, that receiued it in the like kinde,
Cried in the toppe of their iudgements, an excellent play,
Set downe with as great modestie as cunning:
One said there was no sallets in the lines to make thê sauory,
But called it an honest methode, as wholesome as sweete. [E4]
Come, a speech in it I chiefly remember
Was _Æneas_ tale to _Dido_,
And then especially where he talkes of Princes slaughter,
If it liue in thy memory beginne at this line,
Let me see.
The rugged _Pyrrus_, like th'arganian beast:
No t'is not so, it begins with _Pirrus_:
O I haue it.
The rugged _Pirrus_, he whose sable armes,
Blacke as his purpose did the night resemble,
When he lay couched in the ominous horse,
Hath now his blacke and grimme complexion smeered
With Heraldry more dismall, head to foote,
Now is he totall guise, horridely tricked
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sonnes,
Back't and imparched in calagulate gore,
Rifted in earth and fire, olde grandsire _Pryam_ seekes:
So goe on. (accent.
_Cor._ Afore God, my Lord, well spoke, and with good
_Play._ Anone he finds him striking too short at Greeks,
His antike sword rebellious to this Arme,
Lies where it falles, vnable to resist.
_Pyrrus_ at _Pryam_ driues, but all in rage,
Strikes wide, but with the whiffe and winde
Of his fell sword, th' unnerued father falles.
_Cor._ Enough my friend, t'is too long.
_Ham._ It shall to the Barbers with your beard:
A pox, hee's for a Iigge, or a tale of bawdry,
Or else he sleepes, come on to _Hecuba_, come.
_Play._ But who O who had seene the mobled Queene?
_Cor._ Mobled Queene is good, faith very good.
_Play._ All in the alarum and feare of death rose vp,
And o're her weake and all ore-teeming loynes, a blancket
And a kercher on that head, where late the diademe stoode,
Who this had seene with tongue inuenom'd speech,
Would treason haue pronounced, [E4v]
For if the gods themselues had seene her then,
When she saw _Pirrus_ with malitious strokes,
Mincing her husbandes limbs,
It would haue made milch the burning eyes of heauen,
And passion in the gods.
_Cor._ Looke my lord if he hath not changde his colour,
And hath teares in his eyes: no more good heart, no more.
_Ham._ T'is well, t'is very well, I pray my lord,
Will you see the Players well bestowed,
I tell you they are the Chronicles
And briefe abstracts of the time,
After your death I can tell you,
You were better haue a bad Epiteeth,
Then their ill report while you liue.
_Cor._ My lord, I will vse them according to their deserts.
_Ham._ O farre better man, vse euery man after his deserts,
Then who should scape whipping?
Vse them after your owne honor and dignitie,
The lesse they deserue, the greater credit's yours.
_Cor._ Welcome my good fellowes. _exit._
_Ham._ Come hither maisters, can you not play the mur-
der of _Gonsago_?
_players_ Yes my Lord.
_Ham._ And could'st not thou for a neede study me
Some dozen or sixteene lines,
Which I would set downe and insert?
_players_ Yes very easily my good Lord.
_Ham._ T'is well, I thanke you: follow that lord:
And doe you heare sirs? take heede you mocke him not.
Gentlemen, for your kindnes I thanke you,
And for a time I would desire you leaue me.
_Gil._ Our loue and duetie is at your commaund.
_Exeunt all but Hamlet._
_Ham._ Why what a dunghill idiote slaue am I?
Why these Players here draw water from eyes:
For Hecuba, why what is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? [F1]
What would he do and if he had my losse?
His father murdred, and a Crowne bereft him,
He would turne all his teares to droppes of blood,
Amaze the standers by with his laments,
Strike more then wonder in the iudiciall eares,
Confound the ignorant, and make mute the wise,
Indeede his passion would be generall.
Yet I like to an asse and Iohn a Dreames,
Hauing my father murdred by a villaine,
Stand still, and let it passe, why sure I am a coward:
Who pluckes me by the beard, or twites my nose,
Giue's me the lie i'th throate downe to the lungs,
Sure I should take it, or else I haue no gall,
Or by this I should a fatted all the region kites
With this slaues offell, this damned villaine,
Treachcrous, bawdy, murderous villaine:
Why this is braue, that I the sonne of my deare father,
Should like a scalion, like a very drabbe
Thus raile in wordes. About my braine,
I haue heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play,
Hath, by the very cunning of the scene, confest a murder
Committed long before.
This spirit that I haue seene may be the Diuell,
And out of my weakenesse and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such men,
Doth seeke to damne me, I will haue sounder proofes,
The play's the thing,
Wherein I'le catch the conscience of the King. _exit._
_Enter the King, Queene, and Lordes._
_King_ Lordes, can you by no meanes finde
The cause of our sonne Hamlets lunacie?
You being so neere in loue, euen from his youth,
Me thinkes should gaine more than a stranger should.
_Gil._ My lord, we haue done all the best we could, [F1v]
To wring from him the cause of all his griefe,
But still he puts vs off, and by no meanes
Would make an answere to that we exposde.
_Ross._ Yet was he something more inclin'd to mirth
Before we left him, and I take it,
He hath giuen order for a play to night,
At which he craues your highnesse company.
_King_ With all our heart, it likes vs very well:
Gentlemen, seeke still to increase his mirth,
Spare for no cost, our coffers shall be open,
And we vnto your selues will still be thankefull.
_Both_ In all wee can, be sure you shall commaund.
_Queene_ Thankes gentlemen, and what the Queene of
May pleasure you, be sure you shall not want. (_Denmarke_
_Gil._ Weele once againe vnto the noble Prince.
_King_ Thanks to you both; Gertred you'l see this play.
_Queene_ My lord I will, and it ioyes me at the soule
He is incln'd to any kinde of mirth.
_Cor._ Madame, I pray be ruled by me:
And my good Soueraigne, giue me leaue to speake,
We cannot yet finde out the very ground
Of his distemperance, therefore
I holde it meete, if so it please you,
Else they shall not meete, and thus it is.
_King_ What i'st _Corambis_? (done,
_Cor._ Mary my good lord this, soone when the sports are
Madam, send you in haste to speake with him,
And I my selfe will stand behind the Arras,
There question you the cause of all his griefe,
And then in loue and nature vnto you, hee'le tell you all:
My Lord, how thinke you on't?
_King_ It likes vs well, Gerterd, what say you?
_Queene_ With all my heart, soone will I send for him.
_Cor._ My selfe will be that happy messenger,
Who hopes his griefe will be reueal'd to her. _exeunt omnes_
_Enter Hamlet and the Players_. [F2]
_Ham._ Pronounce me this spcech trippingly a the tongue
as I taught thee,
Mary and you mouth it, as a many of your players do
I'de rather heare a towne bull bellow,
Then such a fellow speake my lines.
Nor do not saw the aire thus with your hands,
But giue euerything his action with temperance. (fellow,
O it offends mee to the soule, to heare a rebellious periwig
To teare a passion in totters, into very ragges,
To split the eares of the ignorant, who for the (noises,
Most parte are capable or nothing but dumbe shewes and
I would haue such a fellow whipt, or o're doing, tarmagant
It out, Herodes Herod.
_players_ My Lorde, wee haue indifferently reformed that
among vs.
_Ham._ The better, the better, mend it all together:
There be fellowes that I haue seene play,
And heard others commend them, and that highly too,
That hauing neither the gate or Christian, Pagan,
Nor Turke, haue so strutted and bellowed,
That you would a thought, some of Natures journeymen
Had made men, and not made them well,
They imitated humanitie, so abhominable:
Take heede, auoyde it.
_players_ I warrant you my Lord.
_Ham._ And doe you heare? let not your Clowne speake
More then is set downe, there be of them I can tell you
That will laugh themselues, to set on some
Quantitie of barren spectators to laugh with them,
Albeit there is some necessary point in the Play
Then to be obserued: O t'is vile, and shewes
A pittifull ambition in the foole that vseth it.
And then you haue some agen, that keepes one sute
Of ieasts, as a man is knowne by one sute of
Apparell, and Gentlemen quotes his ieasts downe
In their tables, before they come to the play, as thus: [F2v]
Cannot you stay till I eate my porrige? and, you owe me
A quarters wages: and, my coate wants a cullison:
And, your beere is sowre: and, blabbering with his lips,
And thus keeping in his cinkapase of ieasts,
When, God knows, the warme Clowne cannot make a iest
Vnlesse by chance, as the blinde man catcheth a hare:
Maisters tell him of it.
_players_ We will my Lord.
_Ham._ Well, goe make you ready. _exeunt players._
_Horatio_. Heere my Lord.
_Ham._ _Horatio_, thou art euen as iust a man,
As e're my conuersation cop'd withall.
_Hor._ O my lord!
_Ham._ Nay why should I flatter thee?
Why should the poore be flattered?
What gaine should I receiue by flattering thee,
That nothing hath but thy good minde?
Let flattery sit on those time-pleasing tongs,
To glose with them that loues to heare their praise,
And not with such as thou _Horatio_.
There is a play to night, wherein one Sceane they haue
Comes very neere the murder of my father,
When thou shalt see that Act afoote,
Marke thou the King, doe but obserue his lookes,
For I mine eies will riuet to his face:
And if he doe not bleach, and change at that,
It is a dammed ghost that we haue seene.
_Horatio_, haue a care, obserue him well.
_Hor._ My lord, mine eies shall still be on his face,
And not the smallest alteration
That shall appeare in him, but I shall note it.
_Ham._ Harke, they come.
_Enter King, Queene, Corambis, and other Lords._ (a play?
_King_. How now son _Hamlet_, how fare you, shall we haue
_Ham_. Yfaith the Camelions dish, not capon cramm'd,
feede a the ayre. [F3]
I father: My lord, you playd in the Vniuersitie.
_Cor._ That I did my L: and I was counted a good actor.
_Ham_. What did you enact there?
_Cor._ My lord, I did act _Iulius Cæsar_, I was killed
in the Capitol, _Brutus_ killed me.
_Ham_. It was a brute parte of him,
To kill so capitall a calfe.
Come, be these Players ready?
_Queene_ Hamlet come sit downe by me.
_Ham._ No by my faith mother, heere's a mettle more at-
Lady will you giue me leaue, and so forth: (tractiue:
To lay my head in your lappe?
_Ofel._ No my Lord. (trary matters?
_Ham._ Vpon your lap, what do you thinke I meant con-
_Enter in Dumbe Shew, the King and the Queene, he sits
downe in an Arbor, she leaues him: Then enters Luci-
anus with poyson in a Viall, and powres it in his eares, and
goes away: Then the Queene commmeth and findes him
dead: and goes away with the other._
_Ofel._ What meanes this my Lord? _Enter the Prologue._
_Ham._ This is myching Mallico, that meanes my chiefe.
_Ofel._ What doth this meane my lord?
_Ham._ You shall heare anone, this fellow will tell you all.
_Ofel._ Will he tell vs what this shew meanes?
_Ham._ I, or any shew you'le shew him,
Be not afeard to shew, hee'le not be afeard to tell:
O, these Players cannot keepe counsell, thei'le tell all.
_Prol._ For vs, and for our Tragedie,
Here stowpiug to your clemencie,
We begge your hearing patiently.
_Ham._ Is't a prologue, or a poesie for a ring?
_Ofel._ T'is short, my Lord.
_Ham._ As womens loue.
_Enter the Duke and Dutchesse._
_Duke_ Full fortie yeares are past, their date is gone,
Since happy time ioyn'd both our hearts as one: [F3v]
And now the blood that fill'd my youthfull veines,
Runnes weakely in their pipes, and all the straines
Of musicke, which whilome pleasde mine eare,
Is now a burthen that Age cannot beare:
And therefore sweete Nature must pay his due,
To heauen must I, and leaue the earth with you.
_Dutchesse_ O say not so, lest that you kill my heart,
When death takes you, let life from me depart.
_Duke_ Content thy selfe, when ended is my date,
Thon maist (perchance) haue a more noble mate,
More wise, more youthfull, and one.
_Dutchesse_ O speake no more for then I am accurst,
None weds the second, but she kils the first:
A second time I kill my Lord that's dead,
When second husband kisses me in bed.
_Ham._ O wormewood, wormewood!
_Duke_ I doe beleeue you sweete, what now you speake,
But what we doe determine oft we breake,
For our demises stil are ouerthrowne,
Our thoughts are ours, their end's none of our owne:
So thinke you will no second husband wed,
But die thy thoughts, when thy first Lord is dead.
_Dutchesse_ Both here and there pursue me lasting strife,
If once a widdow, euer I be wife.
_Ham._ If she should breake now.
_Duke_ T'is deepely sworne, sweete leaue me here a while,
My spirites growe dull, and faine I would beguile the tedi-
ous time with sleepe.
_Dutchesse_ Sleepe rocke thy braine,
And neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine. _exit Lady_
_Ham._ Madam, how do you like this play?
_Queene_ The Lady protests too much.
_Ham._ O but shee'le keepe her word.
_King_ Haue you heard the argument, is there no offence
in it?
_Ham._ No offence in the world, poyson in iest, poison in [F4]
_King_ What do you call the name of the play? (iest.
_Ham._ Mouse-trap: mary how trapically: this play is
The image of a murder done in _guyana_, _Albertus_
Was the Dukes name, his wife _Baptista_,
Father, it is a knauish peece a worke: but what
A that, it toucheth not vs, you and I that haue free
Soules, let the galld iade wince, this is one
_Lucianus_ nephew to the King.
_Ofel._ Ya're as good as a _Chorus_ my lord.
_Ham._ I could interpret the loue you beare, if I sawe the
poopies dallying.
_Ofel._ Y'are very pleasant my lord.
_Ham._ Who I, your onlie jig-maker, why what shoulde
a man do but be merry? for looke how cheerefully my mother
lookes, my father died within these two houres.
_Ofel._ Nay, t'is twice two months, my Lord.
_Ham._ Two months, nay then let the diuell weare blacke,
For i'le haue a sute of Sables: Iesus, two months dead,
And not forgotten yet? nay then there's some
Likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie,
But by my faith hee must build churches then,
Or els hee must follow the olde Epitithe,
With hoh, with ho, the hobi-horse is forgot.
_Ofel._ Your iests are keene my Lord.
_Ham._ It would cost you a groning to take them off.
_Ofel._ Still better and worse.
_Ham._ So you must take your husband, begin. Murdred
Begin, a poxe, leaue thy damnable faces and begin,
Come, the croking rauen doth bellow for reuenge.
_Murd._ Thoughts blacke, hands apt, drugs fit, and time
Confederate season, else no creature seeing: (agreeing.
Thou mixture rancke, of midnight weedes collected,
With _Hecates_ bane thrise blasted, thrise infected,
Thy naturall magicke, and dire propertie,
One wholesome life vsurps immediately. _exit._
_Ham._ He poysons him for his estate. [F4v]
_King_ Lights, I will to bed.
_Cor._ The king rises, lights hoe.
_Exeunt King and Lordes._
_Ham._ What, frighted with false fires?
Then let the stricken deere goe weepe,
The Hart vngalled play,
For some must laugh, while some must weepe,
Thus runnes the world away.
_Hor._ The king is mooued my lord.
_Hor._ I _Horatio_, i'le take the Ghosts word
For more then all the coyne in _Denmarke_.
_Enter Rossencraft and Gilderstone._
_Ross._ Now my lord, how i'st with you?
_Ham._ And if the king like not the tragedy,
Why then belike he likes it not perdy.
_Ross._ We are very glad to see your grace so pleasant,
My good lord, let vs againe intreate (ture
To know of you the ground and cause of your distempera-
_Gil._ My lord, your mother craues to speake with you.
_Ham._ We shall obey, were she ten times our mother.
_Ross._ But my good Lord, shall I intreate thus much?
_Ham._ I pray will you play vpon this pipe?
_Ross._ Alas my lord I cannot.
_Ham._ Pray will you.
_Gil._ I haue no skill my Lord.
_Ham._ Why looke, it is a thing of nothing,
T'is but stopping of these holes,
And with a little breath from your lips,
It will giue most delicate musick.
_Gil._ But this cannot wee do my Lord.
_Ham._ Pray now, pray hartily, I beseech you.
_Ros._ My lord wee cannot. (me?
_Ham._ Why how vnworthy a thing would you make of
You would seeme to know my stops, you would play vpon [G1]
You would search the very inward part of my hart, mee,
And diue into the secreet of my soule.
Zownds do you thinke I am easier to be pla'yd
On, then a pipe? call mee what Instrument
You will, though you can frett mee, yet you can not
Play vpon mee, besides, to be demanded by a spunge.
_Ros._ How a spunge my Lord?
_Ham._ I sir, a spunge, that sokes vp the kings
Countenance, fauours, and rewardes, that makes
His liberalitie your store house: but such as you,
Do the king, in the end, best seruise;
For hee doth keep you as an Ape doth nuttes,
In the corner of his Iaw, first mouthes you,
Then swallowes you: so when hee hath need
Of you, t'is but squeesing of you,
And spunge, you shall be dry againe, you shall.
_Ros._ Wel my Lord wee'le take our leaue.
_Ham_ Farewell, farewell, God blesse you.
_Exit Rossencraft and Gilderstone._
_Enter Corambis_
_Cor._ My lord, the Queene would speake with you.
_Ham._ Do you see yonder clowd in the shape of a camell?
_Cor._ T'is like a camell in deed.
_Ham._ Now me thinkes it's like a weasel.
_Cor._ T'is back't like a weasell.
_Ham._ Or like a whale.
_Cor._ Very like a whale. _exit Coram._
_Ham._ Why then tell my mother i'le come by and by.
Good night Horatio.
_Hor._ Good night vnto your Lordship. _exit Horatio._
_Ham._ My mother she hath sent to speake with me:
O God, let ne're the heart of _Nero_ enter
This soft bosome.
Let me be cruell, not vnnaturall.
I will speake daggers, those sharpe wordes being spent, [G1v]
To doe her wrong my soule shall ne're consent. _exit._
_Enter the King_.
_King_. O that this wet that falles vpon my face
Would wash the crime cleere from my conscience!
When I looke vp to heauen, I see my trespasse,
The earth doth still crie out vpon my fact,
Pay me the murder of a brother and a king,
And the adulterous fault I haue committed:
O these are sinnes that art vnpardonable:
Why say thy sinnes were blacker then is ieat,
Yet may contrition make them as white as snowe:
I but still to perseuer in a sinne,
It is an act gainst the vniuerfall power,
Most wretched man, stoope, bend thee to thy prayer,
Aske grace of heauen to keepe thee from despaire.
_hee kneeles._ _enters Hamlet_
_Ham._ I so, come forth and worke thy last,
And thus hee dies: and so, am I reuenged:
No, not so: he tooke my father sleeping, his sins brim full,
And how his soule floode to the state of heauen
Who knowes, saue the immortall powres,
And shall I kill him now
When he is purging of his soule?
Making his way for heauen, this is a benefit,
And not reuenge: no, get thee vp agen, (drunke,
When hee's at game swaring, taking his carowse, drinking
Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed,
Or at some act that hath no relish
Of saluation in't, then trip him
That his heeles may kicke at heauen,
And fall as lowe as hel: my mother stayes,
This phisicke but prolongs they weary dayes. _exit Ham._
_King_. My wordes fly vp, my sinnes remaine below.
No King on earth is safe, if Gods his foe. _exit King._[G2]
_Enter Queene and Corambis._
_Cor._ Madame, I heare yong Hamlet comming,
I'le shrowde my selfe behinde the Arras. _exit Cor._
_Queene_ Do so my Lord.
_Ham._ Mother, mother, O are you here?
How i'st with you mother?
_Queene_ How i'st with you?
_Ham,_ I'le tell you, but first weele make all safe.
_Queene_ Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
_Ham._ Mother, you haue my father much offended.
_Queene_ How now boy?
_Ham._ How now mother! come here, sit downe, for you
shall heare me speake.
_Queene_ What wilt thou doe? thou wilt not murder me:
Helpe hoe.
_Cor._ Helpe for the Queene.
_Ham._ I a Rat, dead for a Duckat.
Rash intruding foole, farewell,
I tooke thee for thy better.
_Queene_ Hamlet, what hast thou done?
_Ham._ Not so much harme, good mother,
As to kill a king, and marry with his brother.
_Queene_ How! kill a king!
_Ham._ I a King: nay sit you downe, and ere you part,
If you be made of penitrable stuffe,
I'le make your eyes looke downe into your heart,
And see how horride there and blacke it shews. (words?
_Queene_ Hamlet, what mean'st thou by these killing
_Ham._ Why this I meane, see here, behold this picture,
It is the portraiture, of your deceased husband,
See here a face, to outface _Mars_ himselfe,
|
IZATION.--Civilization is the ocean of which the millions of
individuals are the rivers and torrents. These rivers and torrents swell
with those rains of money and home and fame and happiness, and then fall
and run almost dry, but the ocean of civilization has gathered up all these
waters, and holds them in sparkling beauty for all subsequent use.
Civilization is a fertile delta made by the drifting souls of men.
3. FAME.--The word "fame" never signifies simply notoriety. The meaning of
the direct term may be seen from its negation or opposite, for only the
meanest of men are called infamous. They are utterly without fame, utterly
nameless; but if fame implied only notoriety then infamous would possess no
marked significance. Fame is an undertaker that pays but little attention
to the living, but who bedizens the dead, furnishes out their funerals and
follows them to the grave.
4. LIFE-MOTIVE.--So in studying that life-motive which is called a "good
name," we must ask the large human race to tell us the high merit of this
spiritual longing. We must read the words of the sage, who said long
centuries ago that "a good name was rather chosen than great riches." Other
sages have said as much. Solon said that "He that will sell his good name
will sell the State." Socrates said, "Fame is the perfume of heroic deeds."
Our Shakspeare said, "He lives in fame who died in virtue's cause."
5. INFLUENCES OF OUR AGE.--Our age is deeply influenced by the motives
called property and home and pleasure, but it is a question whether the
generation in action to-day and the generation on the threshold of this
intense life are conscious fully of the worth of an honorable name.
6. BEAUTY OF CHARACTER.--We do not know whether with us all a good name is
less sweet than it was with our fathers, but this is painfully evident,
that our times do not sufficiently behold the beauty of character--their
sense does not {19} detect quickly enough or love deeply enough this aroma
of heroic deeds.
7. SELLING OUT THEIR REPUTATION.--It is amazing what multitudes there are
who are willing to sell out their reputation, and amazing at what a low
price they will make the painful exchange. Some king remarked that he would
not tell a lie for any reward less than an empire. It is not uncommon in
our world for a man to sell out all his honor and hopes for a score or a
half score of dollars.
8. PRISONS OVERFLOWING.--Our prisons are all full to overflowing of those
who took no thought of honor. They have not waited for an empire to be
offered them before they would violate the sacred rights of man, but many
of them have even murdered for a cause that would not have justified even
an exchange of words.
9. INTEGRITY THE PRIDE OF THE GOVERNMENT.--If integrity were made the pride
of the government, the love of it would soon spring up among the people. If
all fraudulent men should go straight to jail, pitilessly, and if all the
most rigid characters were sought out for all political and commercial
offices, there would soon come a popular honesty just as there has come a
love of reading or of art. It is with character as with any new
article--the difficulty lies in its first introduction.
10. A NEW VIRTUE.--May a new virtue come into favor, all our high rewards,
those from the ballot-box, those from employers, the rewards of society,
the rewards of the press, should be offered only to the worthy. A few years
of rewarding the worthy would result in a wonderful zeal in the young to
build up, not physical property, but mental and spiritual worth.
[Illustration: AN ARAB PRINCESS.]
11. BLESSING THE FAMILY GROUP.--No young man or young woman can by industry
and care reach an eminence in study or art or character, without blessing
the entire family group. We have all seen that the father and mother feel
that all life's care and labor were at last perfectly rewarded in the
success of their child. But had the child been reckless or indolent, all
this domestic joy--the joy of a large group--would have been blighted
forever.
12. AN HONORED CHILD.--There have been triumphs at old Rome, where victors
marched along with many a chariot, many an elephant, and many spoils of the
East; and in all times money has been lavished in the efforts of States to
tell their pleasure in the name of some general; but more numerous and
wide-spread and beyond expression, by chariot or cannon or drum, have been
those triumphal {20} hours, when some son or daughter has returned to the
parental hearth beautiful in the wreaths of some confessed excellence,
bearing a good name.
13. RICH CRIMINALS.--We looked at the utter wretchedness of the men who
threw away reputation, and would rather be rich criminals in exile than be
loved friends and persons at home.
14. AN EMPTY, OR AN EVIL NAME.--Young and old cannot afford to bear the
burden of an empty or an evil name. A good name is a motive of life. It is
a reason for that great encampment we call an existence. While you are
building the home of to-morrow, build up also that kind of soul that can
sleep sweetly on home's pillow, and can feel that God is not near as an
avenger of wrong, but as the Father not only of the verdure and the
seasons, but of you. Live a pure life and bear a good name, and your reward
will be sure and great.
* * * * *
{21}
The Mother's Influence.
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you,
Many a Summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.--_Elizabeth Akers Allen._
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.--_Coleridge._
There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's heart.--_Mrs. Hemans._
And all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears.--_Shakespeare._
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PRAYERFUL AND DEVOTED MOTHER.]
1. HER INFLUENCE.--It is true to nature, although it be expressed in a
figurative form, that a mother is both the morning and the evening star of
life. The light of her eye is always the first to rise, and often the last
to set upon man's day of trial. She wields a power more decisive far than
syllogisms in argument or courts of last appeal in authority.
2. HER LOVE.--Mother! ecstatic sound so twined round our hearts that they
must cease to throb ere we forget it; 'tis our first love; 'tis part of
religion. Nature has set the mother upon such a pinnacle that our infant
eyes and arms are first uplifted to it; we cling to it in manhood; we
almost worship it in old age.
3. HER TENDERNESS.--Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness
while living. How heedless are we in youth of all her anxieties and
kindness! But when she is dead and gone, when the cares and coldness of the
world come withering to our hearts, when we experience for ourselves how
hard it is to find true sympathy, how few to love us, how few will befriend
us in misfortune, then it is that we think of the mother we have lost.
4. HER CONTROLLING POWER.--The mother can take man's whole nature under her
control. She becomes what she has been called, "The Divinity of Infancy."
Her smile is its sunshine, her word its mildest law, until sin and the
world have steeled the heart.
{22} 5. THE LAST TIE.--The young man who has forsaken the advice and
influence of his mother has broken the last cable and severed the last tie
that binds him to an honorable and upright life. He has forsaken his best
friend, and every hope for his future welfare may be abandoned, for he is
lost forever. If he is faithless to mother, he will have but little respect
for wife and children.
6. HOME TIES.--The young man or young woman who love their home and love
their mother can be safely trusted under almost any and all circumstances,
and their life will not be a blank, for they seek what is good. Their
hearts will be ennobled, and God will bless them.
* * * * *
{23}
Home Power.
"The mill-streams that turn the clappers of the world arise in solitary
places."--HELPS.
"Lord! with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us. Then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws. They send us bound
To rules of reason."--GEORGE HERBERT.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HOME AMUSEMENT.]
1. SCHOOL OF CHARACTER.--Home is the first and most important school of
character. It is there that every human being receives his best moral
training, or his worst, for it is there that he imbibes those principles of
conduct which endure through manhood, and cease only with life.
2. HOME MAKES THE MAN.--It is a common saying, "Manners make the man;" and
there is a second, that "Mind makes the man;" but truer than either is a
third, that "Home makes the man." For the home-training includes not only
manners and mind, but character. It is mainly in the home that the heart is
opened, the habits are formed, the intellect is awakened, and character
moulded for good or for evil.
{24}
3. GOVERN SOCIETY.--From that source, be it pure or impure, issue the
principles and maxims that govern society. Law itself is but the reflex of
homes. The tiniest bits of opinion sown in the minds of children in private
life afterwards issue forth to the world, and become its public opinion;
for nations are gathered out of nurseries, and they who hold the
leading-strings of children may even exercise a greater power than those
who wield the reins of government.
4. THE CHILD IS FATHER OF THE MAN.--The child's character is the nucleus of
the man's; all after-education is but superposition; the form of the
crystal remains the same. Thus the saying of the poet holds true in a large
degree, "The child is father of the man;" or as Milton puts it, "The
childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day." Those impulses to
conduct which last the longest and are rooted the deepest, always have
their origin near our birth. It is then that the germs of virtues or vices,
of feelings or sentiments, are first implanted which determine the
character of life.
5. NURSERIES.--Thus homes, which are nurseries of children who grow up into
men and women, will be good or bad according to the power that governs
them. Where the spirit of love and duty pervades the home, where head and
heart bear rule wisely there, where the daily life is honest and virtuous,
where the government is sensible, kind, and loving, then may we expect from
such a home an issue of healthy, useful, and happy beings, capable as they
gain the requisite strength, of following the footsteps of their parents,
of walking uprightly, governing themselves wisely, and contributing to the
welfare of those about them.
6. IGNORANCE, COARSENESS, AND SELFISHNESS.--On the other hand, if
surrounded by ignorance, coarseness, and selfishness, they will
unconsciously assume the same character, and grow up to adult years rude,
uncultivated, and all the more dangerous to society if placed amidst the
manifold temptations of what is called civilized life. "Give your child to
be educated by a slave," said an ancient Greek, "and, instead of one slave,
you will then have two."
7. MATERNAL LOVE.--Maternal love is the visible providence of our race. Its
influence is constant and universal. It begins with the education of the
human being at the outstart of life, and is prolonged by virtue of the
powerful influence which every good mother exercises over her children
through life. When launched into the world, each to take part in its
labors, anxieties, and trials, they still turn {25} to their mother for
consolation, if not for counsel, in their time of trouble and difficulty.
The pure and good thoughts she has implanted in their minds when children
continue to grow up into good acts long after she is dead; and when there
is nothing but a memory of her left, her children rise up and call her
blessed.
8. WOMAN, ABOVE ALL OTHER EDUCATORS, educates humanly. Man is the brain,
but woman is the heart of humanity; he its judgment, she its feeling; he
its strength, she its grace, ornament, and solace. Even the understanding
of the best woman seems to work mainly through her affections. And thus,
though man may direct the intellect, woman cultivates the feelings, which
mainly determine the character. While he fills the memory, she occupies the
heart. She makes us love what he can make us only believe, and it is
chiefly through her that we are enabled to arrive at virtue.
9. THE POOREST DWELLING, presided over by a virtuous, thrifty, cheerful,
and cleanly woman, may thus be the abode of comfort, virtue, and happiness;
it may be the scene of every ennobling relation in family life; it may be
endeared to man by many delightful associations; furnishing a sanctuary for
the heart, a refuge from the storms of life, a sweet resting-place after
labor, a consolation in misfortune, a pride in prosperity, and a joy at all
times.
10. THE GOOD HOME IS THUS THE BEST OF SCHOOLS, not only in youth but in
age. There young and old best learn cheerfulness, patience, self-control,
and the spirit of service and of duty. The home is the true school of
courtesy, of which woman is always the best practical instructor. "Without
woman," says the Provencal proverb, "men were but ill-licked cubs."
Philanthropy radiates from the home as from a centre. "To love the little
platoon we belong to in society," said Burke, "is the germ of all public
affections." The wisest and best have not been ashamed to own it to be
their greatest joy and happiness to sit "behind the heads of children" in
the inviolable circle of home.
[Illustration]
{26}
To Young Women.
[Illustration: MEDITATION.]
1. TO BE A WOMAN, in the truest and highest sense of the word, is to be the
best thing beneath the skies. To be a woman is something more than to live
eighteen or twenty years; something more than to grow to the physical
stature of women; something more than to wear flounces, exhibit dry goods,
sport jewelry, catch the gaze of lewd-eyed men; {27} something more than to
be a belle, a wife, or a mother. Put all these qualifications together and
they do but little toward making a true woman.
2. BEAUTY AND STYLE are not the surest passports to womanhood--some of the
noblest specimens of womanhood that the world has ever seen have presented
the plainest and most unprepossessing appearance. A woman's worth is to be
estimated by the real goodness of her heart, the greatness of her soul, and
the purity and sweetness of her character; and a woman with a kindly
disposition and well-balanced temper is both lovely and attractive, be her
face ever so plain, and her figure ever so homely; she makes the best of
wives and the truest of mothers.
3. BEAUTY IS A DANGEROUS GIFT.--It is even so. Like wealth, it has ruined
its thousands. Thousands of the most beautiful women are destitute of
common sense and common humanity. No gift from heaven is so general and so
widely abused by woman as the gift of beauty. In about nine cases in ten it
makes her silly, senseless, thoughtless, giddy, vain, proud, frivolous,
selfish, low and mean. I think I have seen more girls spoiled by beauty
than by any other one thing. "She is beautiful, and she knows it," is as
much as to say that she is spoiled. A beautiful girl is very likely to
believe she was made to be looked at; and so she sets herself up for a show
at every window, in every door, on every corner of the street, in every
company at which opportunity offers for an exhibition of herself.
4. BEWARE OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN.--These facts have long since taught sensible
men to beware of beautiful women--to sound them carefully before they give
them their confidence. Beauty is shallow--only skin deep; fleeting--only
for a few years' reign; dangerous--tempting to vanity and lightness of
mind; deceitful--dazzling often to bewilder; weak--reigning only to ruin;
gross--leading often to sensual pleasure. And yet we say it need not be so.
Beauty is lovely and ought to be innocently possessed. It has charms which
ought to be used for good purposes. It is a delightful gift, which ought to
be received with gratitude and worn with grace and meekness. It should
always minister to inward beauty. Every woman of beautiful form and
features should cultivate a beautiful mind and heart.
5. RIVAL THE BOYS.--We want the girls to rival the boys in all that is
good, and refined, and ennobling. We want them to rival the boys, as they
well can, in learning, in understanding, in virtues; in all noble qualities
of mind and heart, but not in any of those things that have caused them,
justly or unjustly, to be described as savages. We want {28} the girls to
be gentle--not weak, but gentle, and kind and affectionate. We want to be
sure, that wherever a girl is, there should be a sweet, subduing and
harmonizing influence of purity, and truth, and love, pervading and
hallowing, from center to circumference, the entire circle in which she
moves. If the boys are savages, we want her to be their civilizer. We want
her to tame them, to subdue their ferocity, to soften their manners, and to
teach them all needful lessons of order, sobriety, and meekness, and
patience, and goodness.
6. KINDNESS.--Kindness is the ornament of man--it is the chief glory of
woman--it is, indeed, woman's true prerogative--her sceptre and her crown.
It is the sword with which she conquers, and the charm with which she
captivates.
7. ADMIRED AND BELOVED.--Young lady, would you be admired and beloved?
Would you be an ornament to your sex, and a blessing to your race?
Cultivate this heavenly virtue. Wealth may surround you with its
blandishments, and beauty, and learning, or talents, may give you admirers,
but love and kindness alone can captivate the heart. Whether you live in a
cottage or a palace, these graces can surround you with perpetual sunshine,
making you, and all around you, happy.
8. INWARD GRACE.--Seek ye then, fair daughters, the possession of that
inward grace, whose essence shall permeate and vitalize the affections,
adorn the countenance, make mellifluous the voice, and impart a hallowed
beauty even to your motions. Not merely that you may be loved, would I urge
this, but that you may, in truth, be lovely--that loveliness which fades
not with time, nor is marred or alienated by disease, but which neither
chance nor change can in any way despoil.
9. SILKEN ENTICEMENTS OF THE STRANGER.--We urge you, gentle maiden, to
beware of the silken enticements of the stranger, until your love is
confirmed by protracted acquaintance. Shun the idler, though his coffers
overflow with pelf. Avoid the irreverent--the scoffer of hallowed things;
and him who "looks upon the wine while it is red;" him too, "who hath a
high look and a proud heart," and who "privily slandereth his neighbor." Do
not heed the specious prattle about "first love," and so place,
irrevocably, the seal upon your future destiny, before you have sounded, in
silence and secrecy, the deep fountains of your own heart. Wait, rather,
until your own character and that of him who would woo you, is more fully
developed. Surely, if this "first love" cannot endure a short probation,
fortified by "the {29} pleasures of hope," how can it be expected to
survive years of intimacy, scenes of trial, distracting cares, wasting
sickness, and all the homely routine of practical life? Yet it is these
that constitute life, and the love that cannot abide them is false and must
die.
* * * * *
{30}
Influence of Female Character.
[Illustration: ROMAN LADIES.]
1. MORAL EFFECT.--It is in its moral effect on the mind and the heart of
man, that the influence of woman is most powerful and important. In the
diversity of tastes, habits, inclinations, and pursuits of the two sexes,
is found a most beneficent provision for controlling the force and
extravagance of human passion. The objects which most strongly seize and
stimulate the mind of man, rarely act at the same time and with equal power
on the mind of woman. She is naturally better, purer, and more chaste in
thought and language.
2. FEMALE CHARACTER.--But the influence of female character on the virtue
of men, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the violence of
human passion. To her is mainly committed the task of pouring into the
opening mind of infancy its first impressions of duty, and of stamping on
its susceptible heart the first image of its God. Who will not confess the
influence of a mother in forming the heart of a child? What man is there
who can not trace the origin of many of the best maxims of his life to the
lips of her who gave him birth? How wide, how lasting, how sacred is that
part of a woman's influence.
3. VIRTUE OF A COMMUNITY.--There is yet another mode, by which woman may
exert a powerful influence on the virtue of a community. It rests with her
in a pre-eminent degree, to give tone and elevation to the moral character
of the age, by deciding the degree of virtue that shall be necessary to
afford a passport to her society. If all the favor of woman were given only
to the good, if it were known that the charms and attractions of beauty,
and wisdom, and wit, were reserved only for the pure; if, in one word,
something of a similar rigor were exerted to exclude the profligate and
abandoned of society, as is shown to those who have fallen from
virtue,--how much would be done to re-enforce the motives to moral purity
among us, and impress on the minds of all a reverence for the sanctity and
obligations of virtue.
4. THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN ON THE MORAL SENTIMENTS.--The influence of woman
on the moral sentiments of society is intimately connected with her
influence on its religious character; for religion and a pure and elevated
morality must ever stand in the relation to each other of effect and cause.
The heart of a woman is formed for the abode of sacred truth; and for the
reasons alike honorable to her character and to that of society. From the
nature of humanity this must be so, or the race would soon degenerate, and
moral contagion eat out the heart of society. The purity of home is the
safeguard to American manhood.
* * * * *
{31}
Personal Purity.
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
These three alone lead life to sovereign power."--TENNYSON.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
1. WORDS OF THE GREAT TEACHER.--Mark the words of the Great Teacher: "If
thy right hand or foot cause thee to fall, cut it off and cast it from
thee. If thy right eye cause thee to fall, pluck it out. It is better for
thee to enter into life maimed and halt, than having two eyes to be cast
into hell-fire, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched."
2. A MELANCHOLY FACT.--It is a melancholy fact, in human experience, that
the noblest gifts which men possess are constantly prostituted to other
purposes than those for which they are designed. The most valuable and
useful organs of the body are those which are capable of the greatest
dishonor, abuse, and corruption. What a snare the wonderful organism of the
eye may become, when used to read corrupt books, or to look upon licentious
pictures, or vulgar theater scenes, or when used to meet the fascinating
gaze of the harlot! What an instrument for depraving the whole man may be
found in the matchless powers of the brain, the hand, the mouth, or the
tongue! What potent instruments may these become in accomplishing the ruin
of the whole being, for time and eternity! {32}
3. ABSTINENCE.--Some can testify with thankfulness that they never knew the
sins of gambling, drunkenness, fornication, or adultery. In all these cases
abstinence has been, and continues to be, liberty. Restraint is the noblest
freedom. No man can affirm that self-denial ever injured him; on the
contrary, self-restraint has been liberty, strength and blessing. Solemnly
ask young men to remember this when temptation and passion strive as a
floodtide to move them from the anchorage and peace of self-restraint.
Beware of the deceitful stream of temporary gratification, whose eddying
current drifts towards license, shame, disease and death. Remember how
quickly moral power declines, how rapidly the edge of the fatal maelstrom
is reached, how near the vortex, how terrible the penalty, how fearful the
sentence of everlasting punishment!
4. FRANK DISCUSSION.--The time has arrived for a full and frank discussion
of those things which affect the personal purity. Thousands are suffering
to-day from various weaknesses, the causes of which they have never
learned. Manly vigor is not increasing with that rapidity which a Christian
age demands. Means of dissipation are on the increase. It is high time,
therefore, that every lover of the race should call a halt, and inquire
into the condition of things. Excessive modesty on this subject is not
virtue. Timidity in presenting unpleasant but important truths has
permitted untold damage in every age.
5. MAN IS A CARELESS BEING.--He is very much inclined to sinful things. He
more often does that which is wrong than that which is right, because it is
easier, and, for the moment, perhaps, more satisfying to the flesh. The
Creator is often blamed for man's weaknesses and inconsistencies. This is
wrong. God did not intend that we should be mere machines, but free moral
agents. We are privileged to choose between good and evil. Hence, if we
perseveringly choose the latter, and make a miserable failure of life, we
should blame only ourselves.
6. THE PULPIT.--Would that every pulpit in the land might join hands with
the medical profession and cry out with no uncertain sound against the
mighty evils herein stigmatized! It would work a revolution for which
coming society could never cease to be grateful.
7. STRIVE TO ATTAIN A HIGHER LIFE.--Strive to attain unto a higher and
better life. Beware of all excesses, of whatever nature, and guard your
personal purity with sacred determination. Let every aspiration be upward,
and be strong in every good resolution. Seek the light, for in light there
is life, while in darkness there is decay and death. {33}
[Illustration: CONFIDENCE THAT SOMETIMES MAKES TROUBLE.]
* * * * *
{34}
How to Write All Kinds of Letters.
[Illustration]
1. From the President in his cabinet to the laborer in the street; from the
lady in her parlor to the servant in her kitchen; from the millionaire to
the beggar; from the emigrant to the settler; from every country and under
every combination of circumstances, letter writing in all its forms and
varieties is most important to the advancement, welfare and happiness of
the human family.
2. EDUCATION.---The art of conveying thought through the medium of written
language is so valuable and so necessary, a thorough knowledge of the
practice must be desirable to every one. For merely to write a good letter
requires the exercise of much of the education and talent of any writer.
3. A GOOD LETTER.--A good letter must be correct in every mechanical
detail, finished in style, interesting in substance, and intelligible in
construction. Few there are who do not need write them; yet a letter
perfect in detail is rarer than any other specimen of composition.
4. PENMANSHIP.--It is folly to suppose that the faculty for writing a good
hand is confined to any particular persons. There is no one who can write
at all, but what can write well, if only the necessary pains are practiced.
Practice makes perfect. Secure a few copy books and write an hour each day.
You will soon write a good hand. {35}
5. WRITE PLAINLY.--Every word of even the most trifling document should be
written in such clear characters that it would be impossible to mistake it
for another word, or the writer may find himself in the position of the
Eastern merchant who, writing to the Indies for five thousand mangoes,
received by the next vessel five hundred monkies, with a promise of more in
the next cargo.
6. HASTE.--Hurry is no excuse for bad writing, because any one of sense
knows that everything hurried is liable to be ruined. Dispatch may be
acquired, but hurry will ruin everything. If, however, you must write
slowly to write well, then be careful not to hurry at all, for the few
moments you will gain by rapid writing will never compensate you for the
disgrace of sending an ill-written letter.
7. NEATNESS.--Neatness is also of great importance. A fair white sheet with
handsomely written words will be more welcome to any reader than a blotted,
bedaubed page covered with erasures and dirt, even if the matter in each be
of equal value and interest. Erasures, blots, interlineations always spoil
the beauty of any letter.
8. BAD SPELLING.--When those who from faulty education, or forgetfulness
are doubtful about the correct spelling of any word, it is best to keep a
dictionary at hand, and refer to it upon such occasions. It is far better
to spend a few moments in seeking for a doubtful word, than to dispatch an
ill-spelled letter, and the search will probably impress the spelling upon
the mind for a future occasion.
9. CARELESSNESS.--Incorrect spelling will expose the most important or
interesting letter to the severest sarcasm and ridicule. However perfect in
all other respects, no epistle that is badly spelled will be regarded as
the work of an educated gentleman or lady. Carelessness will never be
considered, and to be ignorant of spelling is to expose an imperfect
education at once.
10. AN EXCELLENT PRACTICE.--After writing a letter, read it over carefully,
correct all the errors and re-write it. If you desire to become a good
letter writer, improve your penmanship, improve your language and grammar,
re-writing once or twice every letter that you have occasion to write,
whether on social or business subjects.
11. PUNCTUATION.--A good rule for punctuation is to punctuate where the
sense requires it, after writing a letter and reading it over carefully you
will see where the punctuation marks are required, you can readily
determine where the sense requires it, so that your letter will convey the
desired meaning. {36}
[Illustration]
12. CORRESPONDENCE.--There is no better school or better source for
self-improvement than a pleasant correspondence between friends. It is not
at all difficult to secure a good list of correspondents if desired. The
young people who take advantage of such opportunities for self-improvement
will be much more popular in the community and in society. Letter writing
cultivates the habit of study; it cultivates the mind, the heart, and
stimulates self-improvement in general.
13. FOLDING.--Another bad practice with those unaccustomed to corresponding
is to fold the sheet of writing in such a fantastic manner as to cause the
receiver much annoyance in opening it. To the sender it may appear a very
ingenious performance, but to the receiver it is only a source of vexation
and annoyance, and may prevent the communication receiving the attention it
would otherwise merit.
14. SIMPLE STYLE.--The style of letter writing should be simple and
unaffected, not raised on stilts and indulging in pedantic displays which
are mostly regarded as cloaks of ignorance. Repeated literary quotations,
involved sentences, long-sounding words and scraps of Latin, French and
other languages are, generally speaking, out of place, and should not be
indulged in.
15. THE RESULT.--A well written letter has opened the way to prosperity for
many a one, has led to many a happy marriage and constant friendship, and
has secured many a good service in time of need; for it is in some measure
a photograph of the writer, and may inspire love or hatred, regard or
aversion in the reader, just as the glimpse of a portrait often determine
us, in our estimate, of the worth of the person represented. Therefore, one
of the roads to fortune runs through the ink bottle, and if we want to
attain a certain end in love, friendship or business, we must trace out the
route correctly with the pen in our hand.
{37}
[Illustration]
HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER.
1. LOVE.--There is no greater or more profound reality than love. Why that
reality should be obscured by mere sentimentalism, with all its train of
absurdities is incomprehensible. There is no nobler possession than the
love of another. There is no higher gift from one human being to another
than love. The gift and the possession are true sanctifiers of life, and
should be worn as precious jewels without affectation and without
bashfulness. For this reason there is nothing to be ashamed of in a love
letter, provided it be sincere.
2. FORFEITS.--No man need consider that he forfeits dignity if he speaks
with his whole heart: no woman need fear she forfeits her womanly
attributes if she responds as her heart bids her respond. "Perfect love
casteth out fear" is as true now as when the maxim was first given to the
world.
3. TELLING THEIR LOVE.--The generality of the sex is love to be loved: how
are they to know the fact that they {38} are loved unless they are told? To
write a sensible love letter requires more talent than to solve, with your
pen, a profound problem in philosophy. Lovers must not then expect much
from each other's epistles.
4. CONFIDENTIAL.--Ladies and gentlemen who correspond with each other
should never be guilty of exposing any of the contents of any letters
written expressing confidence, attachment or love. The man who confides in
a lady and honors her with his confidence should be treated with perfect
security and respect, and those who delight in showing their confidential
letters to others are unworthy, heartless and unsafe companions.
5. RETURN OF LETTERS.--If letters were written under circumstances which no
longer exist and all confidential relations are at an end, then all letters
should be promptly returned.
6. HOW TO BEGIN A LOVE LETTER.--How to begin a love letter has been no
doubt the problem of lovers and suitors of all ages and nations. Fancy the
youth of Young America with lifted pen, thinking how he shall address his
beloved. Much depends upon this letter. What shall he say, and how shall he
say it, is the great question. Perseverance
|
exploration.
_New York: Longmans, Green & co., 1901. xvi, 420 pp. Illustrations.
Plates. Portrait. Map. 8^o._
~Desgodins~, C. H. La mission du Thibet de 1855 à 1870, comprenant
l'exposé des affaires religieuses, et divers documents sur ce pays,
accompagnée d'une carte du Thibet d'après les lettres de M. l'abbé
Desgodins, missionnaire apostolique. Par C.-H. Desgodins.
_Verdun: Ch. Laurent, 1872. (2), iv, 419 pp. Folded map. 8^o._
~Freshfield~, Douglas W. Round Kangchenjunga; a narrative of mountain
travel and exploration.
_London: E. Arnold, 1903. xvi, 373 pp. Plates. Maps. 4^o._
Includes some comment on the present political situation on
the Tibetan frontier and on the events that led up to it.
~Great Britain.~ _Foreign office._ East India (Tibet). Papers relating to
Tibet. Presented to both Houses of Parliament by command of His
Majesty.
_London: Printed for His Majesty's stationery office, 1904. x, [2]-314
pp. Folded map. F^o. [Cd. 1920.]_
Dates cover Oct. 21, 1889-Jan. 30, 1904.
~Hedin~, Sven Anders. Central Asia and Tibet towards the holy city of
Lassa.
_London: Hurst and Blackett, limited; New York: C. Scribner's sons,
1903. 2 vols. Illustrations. Plates. Portraits. Folded maps. 8^o._
"Translated by Mr. J. T. Bealby."--Pref.
~Landor~, Arnold Henry Savage. In the forbidden land; an account of a
journey into Tibet, capture by the Tibetan-Lamas and soldiers,
imprisonment, torture, and ultimate release. With the government
inquiry and report and other official documents.
_New York and London: Harper & bros., 1899, [pub. 1898]. 2 vols.
Illustrations. Plates. Portraits. Map. 8^o._
~Rijnhart~, Susie Carson. With the Tibetans in tent and temple; narrative
of four years' residence on the Tibetan border, and of a journey into
the far interior.
_Chicago, New York, [etc.]: F. H. Revell co., 1901. (4), 400 pp.
Plates. Portraits. Map. 8^o._
~Rockhill~, William Woodville. Diary of a journey through Mongolia and
Tibet in 1891 and 1892.
_Washington: Published by the Smithsonian Institution, 1894. xx, (2),
413 pp. Plates. Folded map. 8^o._
---- The land of the lamas; notes of a journey through China, Mongolia
and Tibet.
_New York: The Century co., 1891. viii, (2), 399 pp. Frontispiece.
Illustrations. Maps. 8^o._
~Sarachchandra D[=a]sa.~ Journey to Lhasa and central Tibet. Ed. by the Hon.
W. W. Rockhill.
_London: John Murray, 1902. x, (4), 285 pp. Illustrations. Plates.
Portrait. Maps. Plans. 8^o._
Published by the Royal geographical society.
~Wellby~, M. S. Through unknown Tibet.
_London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1898. xiv, 440 pp. Illustrations. Portraits.
Maps. 8^o._
"This handsome volume gives a plain, straightforward
narrative of the journey of Captain Wellby and Lieutenant
Malcolm across Tibet and Northern China, an account of the
geographical results of which was communicated to the [Royal
Geographical] Society, and will appear in the Journal. It is
well illustrated, and has a series of maps of the route on
the large scale of 16 miles to an inch."
TIBET: ARTICLES IN PERIODICALS
~1903.~ In the heart of the forbidden country; or, Lhasa revealed.
Archibald R. Colquhoun.
_Cornhill magazine, vol. 87 (Jan., 1903): 39-52._
~1904.~ Marco Polo and his followers in Central Asia. Archibald R.
Colquhoun.
_Quarterly review, vol. 199 (Apr., 1904): 553-575._
~1904.~ Central Asia and Tibet.
_Scottish geographical magazine, vol. 20 (Apr., 1904): 202-212._
~1904.~ Great Britain and Thibet: the Asian crisis. E. John Solano.
_Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, vol. 175 (May, 1904): 710-730._
~1904.~ The solution of the Tibetan problem. Alexandre Ular.
_Contemporary review, vol. 85 (May, 1904): 640-648._
~1904.~ Turkestan and a corner of Tibet. Oscar T. Crosby.
_Geographical journal, vol. 23 (June, 1904): 705-722._
~1904.~ The British mission to Tibet. Sir Walter Lawrence.
_North American review, vol. 178 (June, 1904): 869-881._
~1904.~ Tibet. Russia and England on the international chessboard. Edwin
Maxey.
_Arena, vol. 32 (July, 1904): 28-31._
~1904.~ The forbidden land: the march of civilization into Thibet. W. C.
Jameson Reid.
_Booklovers' magazine, vol. 4 (July, 1904): 17-28._
MANCHURIA
(Articles on Manchuria are likewise to be found in the United States
Consular Reports.)
~Colquhoun~, Archibald Ross. Overland to China.
_New York and London: Harper & brothers, 1900. xi, (1), 465 pp. Plates.
Folded maps. 8^o._
"The great Trans-Siberian-Manchurian railway," pp. 117-149.
"Manchuria," pp. 188-254.
~Dowding~, H. H. The Russian campaign in Manchuria, 1900. With a map.
(_In_ United service institution of India. Journal, vol. 30,
July, 1901, pp. 213-236. Simla.)
~Enselme~, Hippolyte Marie Joseph Antoine. À travers la Mandchourie; le
chemin de fer de l'Est chinois d'après la mission du capitaine H. de
Bouillane de Lacoste et du capitaine Enselme. Préface du comte G. du
Chaylard.
_Paris: J. Rueff, 1903. ix, 202 pp. Frontispiece. Illustrations. Plans.
Double map. 12^o._
~Fraser~, John Foster. The real Siberia, together with an account of a
dash through Manchuria.
_Cassell and company, London, [etc.], 1902. xvi, 279 pp. Plates.
Portrait. 12^o._
~Great Britain.~ _Foreign office._ China. No. 2 (1901). Despatch from His
Majesty's ambassador at St. Petersburgh respecting the Russo-Chinese
agreement as to Manchuria. Presented to both Houses of Parliament by
command of His Majesty. March 1901.
_London: Printed for His Majesty's stationery office, [1901]. 3 pp.
F^o. [Cd. 439.]_
---- ---- China. No. 2 (1904). Correspondence respecting the Russian
occupation of Manchuria and Newchwang. Presented to both Houses of
Parliament by command of His Majesty. February 1904.
_London: Printed for His Majesty's stationery office, [1904]. xi, (1),
98 pp. F^o. [Cd. 1936.]_
~Hosie~, Alexander. Manchuria: its people, resources and history.
_Methuen & co., London, 1901. xi, (1), 293 pp. Illustrations. Plates.
Map. 8^o._
~James~, Henry Evan Murchison. The Long White Mountain; or, A journey in
Manchuria, with some account of the history, people, administration and
religion of that country.
_London: Longmans, Green and co., 1888. xxiii, (1), 502 pp.
Illustrations. Plates. Map. 8^o._
~Parker~, Edward Harper. Russia's sphere of influence; or, A thousand
years of Manchuria.
(_In_ The Imperial and Asiatic quarterly review, 3d ser.,
vol. 9, Apr., 1900, pp. 287-313.)
~Raffalovich~, Arthur. Description de la Mandchourie.
(_In_ Société de géographie commerciale de Paris. Bulletin,
vol. 19, pp. 822-830. Paris, 1897. 8^o.)
An analysis of the work on Manchuria, issued by the Russian
Ministry of Finance.
~Ross~, John. Mission methods in Manchuria.
_Edinburgh: Anderson & Ferrier, 1903. 252 pp. 8^o._
~Turley~, Robert T. Through the Hun Kiang gorges; or, Notes on a tour in
"No mans land," Manchuria. With map.
(_In_ The Geographical journal, vol. 14, Sept., 1899, pp.
292-302.)
Descriptive notes on this map by G. F. Browne are given in
the Geographical journal, June, 1900.
~Weale~, B. L. P. Manchu and Muscovite. Letters from Manchuria written
during autumn of 1903. Historical sketch entitled 'Prologue to the
crisis.'
_New York: The Macmillan company, 1904. 572 pp. 8^o._
~Whigham~, H. J. Manchuria and Korea.
_London: Isbister and company, 1904. (6), 245 pp. Plates. Map. 8^o._
"Mr. Whigham's description of the growth of Dalny, the
commercial terminus of the Siberian railway, which bids fair
before long to become a second San Francisco, of the huge
army which has already been distributed throughout
Manchuria, and of the various arrangements in progress for
the elimination of Chinese jurisdiction, shows clearly
enough that Russia has committed herself too deeply to her
gigantic scheme of territorial and commercial expansion ever
to retrace her steps.... Mr. Whigham has much to say upon
economic and trade matters in the Far East that merits
careful attention. As a critic of British policy he is
somewhat of a firebrand and does not seem to make sufficient
allowance for the wide issues that have to be considered in
dealing with a very complex question."--_Saturday Review,
May 7, 1904, p. 594._
~Younghusband~, Francis Edward. Among the Celestials. A narrative of
travels in Manchuria, across the Gobi desert, through the Himalayas to
India. Abridged from "The heart of a continent."
_London: John Murray, 1898. vii, (5), 261 pp. Plates. Folded map. 8^o._
---- The heart of a continent: a narrative of travels in Manchuria,
across the Gobi desert, through the Himalayas, the Pamirs, and Chitral,
1884-1894.
_London: John Murray, 1896. xvii, (3), 409 pp. Plates. Portrait. Maps.
8^o._
~Zabel~, Rudolf. Durch die Mandschurei und Sibirien. Reisen und Studien.
2. durch ein Personal-und Sachregister verm. Auflage.
_Leipzig: G. Wigand, 1903. xii, 324 pp. Illustrations. Portrait. 8^o._
"Nachweis einiger Werke über Sibirien": pp. 312-314.
MANCHURIA: ARTICLES IN PERIODICALS
~1898.~ The Russians and Manchuria. E. H. Parker.
_China review, vol. 23 (1898): 143-153._
~1899.~ The Manchurian railway.
_Engineering, vol. 68 (Sept. 1, 1899): 273._
~1900.~ Railways, rivers, and strategic towns in Manchuria.
_National geographic magazine, vol. 11 (Aug., 1900): 326-327._
~1901.~ Micawberism in Manchuria. E. J. Dillon.
_Contemporary review, vol. 79 (May, 1901): 649-663._
~1901.~ The Russians in Manchuria. Petr A. Kropotkin.
_Forum, vol. 31 (May, 1901): 267-274._
~1901.~ Trade-routes in Manchuria. John Ross.
_Scottish geographical magazine, vol. 17 (June, 1901): 303-310._
~1901.~ Manchuria in transformation. Archibald R. Colquhoun.
_Monthly review, vol. 5 (Oct., 1901): 58-72._
~1902.~ Muscovite designs on Manchuria. L. Miner.
_North American review, vol. 174 (Mar., 1902): 315-328._
~1902.~ Some facts about Port Arthur. By Sniper.
_United service magazine, vol. 146 (Apr. 1902): 13-22._
~1903.~ Die wirtschaftlichen Verhältnisse der Mandschurei. v. Kleist.
_Asien, vol. 2 (Jan., 1903): 65-66._
~1903.~ Russian rights in Mantchuria. George Frederick Wright.
_Nation, vol. 76 (May 21, 1903): 411-413._
~1903.~ Japan and Manchuria.
_Speaker, n. s., vol. 8 (May 2, 1903): 111-112._
~1903.~ Russia in Manchuria.
_Spectator, vol. 90 (May 16, 1903): 768._
~1903.~ American interests in Manchuria.
_American exporter, vol. 52 (June, 1903): 34._
~1903.~ Eastern Siberia and Manchuria. George Frederick Wright.
_Chautauquan, vol. 37 (June, 1903): 245-262._
~1903.~ Russia and Manchuria. E. J. Dillon.
_Contemporary review, vol. 83 (June, 1903): 884-894._
~1903.~ The mischief in Manchuria. Wirt Gerrare.
_Fortnightly review, n. s., vol. 73 (June, 1903): 1051-1059._
~1903.~ Conquest by bank and railways, with examples from Russia in
Manchuria. Alfred Stead.
_Nineteenth century and after, vol. 53 (June, 1903): 936-949._
~1903.~ The Manchurian outlook.
_American exporter, vol. 52 (July, 1903): 9._
~1903.~ Our Manchurian trade. American pioneer [Sergey Friede] talks of
Russia's performances and intentions in that region.
_American exporter, vol. 52 (July, 1903): 15._
~1903.~ Russia and Manchuria.
_American monthly review of reviews, vol. 28 (July, 1903): 87-88._
~1903.~ The reopened door.
_Nation, vol. 77 (July 23, 1903): 65-66._
~1903.~ The Chinese eastern (Manchurian) railway. Alfred Stead.
_Page's magazine, vol. 3 (July, 1903): 21-28._
~1903.~ Russia, Manchuria and Mongolia. Alexandre Ular.
_Contemporary review, vol. 84 (Aug., 1903): 189-208._
~1903.~ The Manchurian peril. E. R. Thompson.
_New liberal review, vol. 6 (Aug., 1903): 72-81._
~1903.~ Au Japon et en Mandchourie. Souvenirs de l'an dernier. Paul
Labbé.
_Questions diplomatiques et coloniales, vol. 16 (Aug. 1, 1903):
198-220._
~1903.~ Transsibérien-Transmandchourien. André Brisse.
_Revue de géographie, 27e année (Aug., 1903): 97-111; (Sept., 1903):
215-228._
~1903.~ Mandchourie et Corée. Robert de Caix.
_Comité de l'Asie française. Bulletin mensuel, 3. année (Sept., 1903):
362-363._
~1903.~ The Russification of Manchuria. Alexander Hume Ford.
_Era magazine, vol. 12 (Sept., 1903): 199-210._
~1904.~ Les Russes en Mandchourie. B. de Zenzinoff.
_À travers le monde, vol. 10 (Feb. 13, 1904): 49-52._
~1904.~ En Mandchourie: les Khoungouses. Francis Mury.
_Correspondant, vol. 214 (Mar. 25, 1904): 1009-1024._
~1904.~ The political and commercial situation in Manchuria. H. Fulford
Bush.
_Empire review, vol. 7 (Mar., 1904): 97-108._
~1904.~ British interests in Manchuria.
_Magazine of commerce, vol. 4 (Mar., 1904): 176._
~1904.~ Russian development of Manchuria. Henry B. Miller.
_National geographic magazine, vol. 15 (Mar., 1904): 113-127._
~1904.~ Lumbering in Manchuria. Henry B. Miller.
_National geographic magazine, vol. 15 (Mar., 1904): 131-132._
~1904.~ La Mandchourie. Paul Barré.
_Revue française de l'étranger et des colonies et exploration, vol. 29
(Mar., 1904): 155-165._
~1904.~ Conditions in Manchuria. Henry B. Miller.
_Scientific American supplement, vol. 57 (Mar. 12, 1904): 23574-23575._
~1904.~ Russia's work in Manchuria. Sergei Iulitch Witte.
_Harper's weekly, vol. 48 (Apr. 9, 1904): 544-545._
~1904.~ A visit to the Yalu region and Central Manchuria. Robert T.
Turley.
_Royal geographical society. Journal, vol. 23 (Apr., 1904): 473-481._
~1904.~ Russia in Manchuria,--a Russian statement [by M. Khoritz].
_American monthly review of reviews, vol. 29 (May, 1904): 602-604._
~1904.~ Populations de la Mandchourie et de la Corée. Francis Mury.
_Revue de géographie, vol. 54 (May 1, 1904): 134-143._
~1904.~ Notes on Manchuria. Henry B. Miller.
_National geographic magazine, vol. 15 (June, 1904): 261-262._
~1904.~ Manchuria. James W. Davidson.
_Century magazine, vol. 68 (July, 1904): 398-411._
JAPAN
~Anderson~, William. The pictorial arts of Japan. With a brief historical
sketch of the associated arts and some remarks upon the pictorial art
of the Chinese and Koreans.
_Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & co., 1886. xx, 276, (16) pp. Plates. F^o._
~Bacon~, Alice Mabel. Japanese girls & women. Rev. and enl. ed., with
illustrations by Keish[=u] Takenouchi.
_Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1902. xiv, 337,
(1) pp. Plates (partly colored). 8^o._
---- A Japanese interior.
_Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1893. xix, (1),
267 pp. 12^o._
~Bishop~, Isabella L. Bird. Unbeaten tracks in Japan; an account of
travels on horseback in the interior, including visits to the
aborigines of Yezo and the shrines of Nikkô and Isé.
_New York: G. P. Putnam's sons, 1881. 2 vols. Frontispieces. Map. 8^o._
~Brinkley~, Frank. The art of Japan.
_Boston: J. B. Millet co., [1901]. 2 vols. Illustrations (partly
colored). F^o._
CONTENTS: vol. 1. Pictorial art.--vol. 2. Applied art.
---- Japan; its history, arts and literature. [Library ed.]
_Boston and Tokyo: J. B. Millet co., [1901-1902]. 8 vols. Plates
(partly colored). 8^o. (Oriental series.)_
"Captain Brinkley, who is qualified for the task by a
residence of more than thirty years in Japan, and by a
knowledge of its people and politics almost unique among
Englishmen, has opportunely given us the most beautiful,
fascinating, and authoritative work on that country, and its
vast, unwieldy neighbour of China, which has yet been
written in English." _Spectator, May 7, 1904, p. 733._
----, _ed._ Japan; described and illustrated by the Japanese; written
by eminent Japanese authorities and scholars.
_Boston: J. B. Millet company, [1897-1898]. v, 382 pp. Illustrations.
Colored plates. F^o._
---- Japan; described and illustrated by the Japanese; written by
eminent Japanese authorities and scholars; with an essay on Japanese
art by Kakuzo Okakura.
_Boston: J. B. Millet company, [^{c}1897-1898]. 10 vols. Colored
illustrations. Colored plates. F^o._
~Browne~, George Waldo. Japan; the place and the people; with an
introduction by the Hon. Kogoro Takahira.
_Boston: D. Estes & company, [1904]. 438 pp. Illustrations. Plates
(partly colored). Map. 8^o._
Published in 1901 in his "The Far East and the new America,"
vol. 2 (in part) and vol. 3.
~Brownell~, Clarence Ludlow. The heart of Japan; glimpses of life and
nature far from the travellers' track in the land of the rising sun.
_New York: McClure, Phillips & co., 1903. (8), 307 pp. Plates. 12^o._
Published in 1902 by Methuen & co., London.
~Chamberlain~, Basil Hall. Things Japanese; being notes on various
subjects connected with Japan for the use of travellers and others. 4th
ed., rev. & enl.
_London: J. Murray; Yokohama: [etc.], Kelly & Walsh, 1902. vi, (2), 545
pp. Folded map. 8^o._
Notes arranged by subject, alphabetically.
~Chamberlain~, Basil Hall, and W. B. ~Mason~. A handbook for travellers in
Japan, including the whole empire from Yezo to Formosa. 7th ed., rev.
_London: J. Murray; [etc., etc.], 1903. ix, (1), 586, (2) pp.
Illustrations. Folded plates. Maps (partly folded). Plans (partly
folded). 12^o._
~Conder~, Josiah. Domestic architecture in Japan.
(_In_ Royal institute of British architects. Transactions,
n. s., vol. 3, pp. 103-127. Illustrations. Plates. Plans.
London. 1887. 4^o.)
~Curtis~, William Eleroy. The Yankees of the East; sketches of modern
Japan.
_New York: Stone & Kimball, 1896. 2 vols. Plates. Portraits. 12^o._
~Dennys~, Nicholas B., _ed._ The treaty ports of China and Japan. A
complete guide to the open ports of those countries, together with
Peking, Yedo, Hongkong, and Macao. Forming a guide book & vade mecum
for travellers, merchants, and residents in general.
_London: Trübner and co., 1867. viii, (2), 668, (2), xlviii, (2), 26
pp. Maps. Plans. 8^o._
~Diósy~, Arthur. The new Far East. With illustrations from special
designs by Kubota Beisen, of Tokyo, and a reproduction of a cartoon
designed by H. M. the German Emperor and a specially-drawn map. 3d ed.
_London: Cassell and co., 1900. xx, 374 pp. Plates. Maps. 8^o._
"This is a brilliantly written history of New Japan,
containing much instructive information on the affairs of
the Far East."
~Dumolard~, Henry. Le Japon politique, économique, et social.
_Paris: A. Colin, 1903. viii, 342, (2) pp. 12^o._
Appendice.--I. Constitution japonaise du 11 février 1889.
II. Projet de loi ouvrière: pp. 331-342.
~Fraser~, Mary Crawford. Letters from Japan. A record of modern life in
the island empire.
_New York & London: The Macmillan company, 1899. 2 vols. Illustrations.
8^o._
~Great Britain.~ _Foreign office._ Report on the railways of Japan (with
plans). Presented to both Houses of Parliament by command of Her
Majesty, March, 1896. (2), 29 pp. Plates. Folded maps. Diagram. 8^o.
(_In_ Great Britain. Foreign office. Diplomatic and consular
reports. 1896. Miscellaneous series, no. 390.)
~Griffis~, William Elliot. Matthew Calbraith Perry, a typical American
naval officer.
_Boston: Cupples and Hurd, 1887. xvi, 459 pp. Frontispiece (portrait).
Illustrations. 12^o._
Japan, pp. 270-374.
---- The Mikado's empire. 10th ed., with six supplementary chapters,
including history to beginning of 1903.
_New York and London: Harper & brothers, 1904. 2 vols. Illustrations.
Plates. Portraits. Map. 8^o._
CONTENTS: v. 1. Book I. History of Japan from 660 B. C. to
1872 A. D.--v. 2. Book II. Personal experiences,
observations, and studies in Japan. 1870-1875. Book III.
Supplementary chapters, including history to the beginning
of 1903.
~Gulick~, Sidney Lewis. Evolution of the Japanese, social and psychic.
_New York, London [etc.]: F. H. Revell company, [1903]. vi, 457 pp.
8^o._
~Hearn~, Lafcadio. Glimpses of unfamiliar Japan.
_Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1894. 2 vols.
8^o._
----"Out of the East;" reveries and studies in new Japan.
_Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1895. (6), 341 pp.
12^o._
~Helmolt~, H. F. The world's history, a survey of man's record. Vol. II.
Oceania, Eastern Asia, and the Indian ocean.
_London: William Heinemann, 1904. x, (2), 642 pp. Plates (partly
colored). Portraits. Facsimile. Maps. 4^o._
Japan, pp. 1-56.
~Hertslet~, _Sir_ Edward. Treaties and tariffs regulating the trade
between Great Britain and foreign nations: and extracts of treaties
between foreign powers, containing most-favoured-nation clauses
applicable to Great Britain. Japan. In force on the 1st April, 1879.
_London: Butterworths, 1879. iv, 288, (1) pp. 8^o._
~Inagaki~, Manjiro. Japan and the Pacific, and a Japanese view of the
Eastern question.
_New York: Scribner and Welford, 1890. 265 pp. Maps. 8^o._
~Jane~, Frederick T. The imperial Japanese navy.
_London: W. Thacker & co., 1904. xv, (1), 410 pp. Plates. Portraits.
Map. 4^o._
~Koch~, W. Japan. Geschichte nach japanischen Quellen und ethnographische
Skizzen.
_Dresden: Verlag von Wilhelm Baensch, 1904. (4), v, (3), 410 pp. Folded
sheet. 8^o._
~Lowell~, Percival. The soul of the Far East [Japan].
_Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & co., 1888. 226 pp. 16^o._
~Mitford~, Algernon Bertram Freeman. Tales of old Japan.
_London and New York: Macmillan and co., 1893. xii, 383 pp. Plates.
12^o._
CONTENTS: The forty-seven rônins.--The loves of Gompachi and
Komurasaki.--Kazuma's revenge.--A story of the Otokodaté of
Yedo.--The wonderful adventures of Funakoshi Jiuyémon.--The
Eta maiden and the Hatamoto.--Fairy tales.--The ghost of
Sakura.--How Tajima Shumé was tormented by a devil of his
own creation.--Concerning certain superstitions.--Japanese
sermons.--Appendices: An account of the Hara-Kiri. The
marriage ceremony. The birth and rearing of children.
Funeral rites.
~Morris~, J. Advance Japan: a nation thoroughly in earnest.
_London: W. H. Allen & co., 1895. xix, (1), 443 pp. Plates (woodcuts).
8^o._
---- What will Japan do? A forecast.
_London: Lawrence and Bullen, 1898. xii, 190 pp. Folded map. 12^o._
~Morse~, Edward S. Japanese homes and their surroundings. With
illustrations by the author.
_Boston: Ticknor and company, 1886. xxxiii, (1), 372 pp. Illustrations.
4^o._
~Murray~, David. The story of Japan.
_New York: G. P. Putnam's sons; London: T. F. Unwin, 1894. x, 431 pp.
Illustrations. Plates. Maps. 12^o. (The story of the nations, v. 38.)_
~Norman~, Henry. The real Japan. Studies of contemporary Japanese
manners, morals, administration, and politics. 2d ed.
_London: T. F. Unwin, 1892. 364 pp. Plates. 8^o._
~Okakura~, Kakasu. The ideals of the East, with special reference to the
art of Japan.
_London: J. Murray, 1903. xxii, 244 pp. 12^o._
~Papinot~, E. Dictionnaire japonais-français des noms principaux de
l'histoire et de la géographie du Japon; suivi de 17 appendices sur les
empereurs, sh[=o]gun, neng[=o], sectes bouddhistes, provinces, départements,
mesures, etc.
_Hongkong: Impr. de Nazareth, 1899. vii, 297 pp. 12^o._
~Perry~, Matthew Calbraith. The Americans in Japan: an abridgement of the
government narrative by Robert Tomes.
_New York & London: D. Appleton & co., 1857. viii, 415 pp.
Frontispiece. Illustrations. 12^o._
---- Narrative of the expedition of an American squadron to the China
seas and Japan, performed in the years 1852, 1853, and 1854, under the
command of Commodore M. C. Perry, United States navy, by order of the
government of the United States, comp. from the original notes and
journals of Commodore Perry and his officers, at his request, and under
his supervision, by Francis L. Hawks.
_New York, London: D. Appleton & company, 1857. xvii, (1), 537 pp.
Illustrations. Plates. Portraits. Maps (partly folded). Folded
fascsimiles. 8^o._
---- Narrative of the expedition of an American squadron... comp....
by F. L. Hawks.
_New York: D. Appleton and co.; London: Trübner & co., 1857. vii, 624
pp. Illustrations. Plates. Maps. 4^o._
This ed. contains only the material in v. 1 of the
government ed.
~Ransome~, Stafford. Japan in transition: a comparative study of the
progress, policy, and methods of the Japanese since their war with
China.
_New York: Harper & brothers, 1899. (2), xv, (1), 261 pp. Plates.
Portraits. Maps. 8^o._
~Rein~, Johann Justus. The industries of Japan. Together with an account
of its agriculture, forestry, arts, and commerce. From Travels and
researches undertaken at the cost of the Prussian government.
_London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1889. xii, 570 pp. Illustrations. Plates
(partly colored). Maps. 8^o._
A translation of v. 2 of his "Japan, nach Reisen und
Studien," published in 1886.
---- Japan: travels and researches undertaken at the cost of the
Prussian government. Translated from the German.
_New York: A. C. Armstrong and son, 1884. x, (2), 543 pp. Plates
(partly phototype). Maps (partly folded). Plans. 8^o._
~Scherer~, James Augustin Brown. Japan today.
_Philadelphia and London: J. B. Lippincott company, 1904. 323 pp.
Plates. 12^o._
The author was for many years a teacher of English at Saga,
Japan.
~Singleton~, Esther, _ed. and tr._ Japan as seen and described by famous
writers.
_New York: Dodd, Mead and company, 1904. xii, 372 pp. Plates. 8^o._
CONTENTS: Pt. 1. The country and the race.--Pt. 2. History
and religion.--Pt.
|
any importance in the Province of Quebec to the east, if we except
the thriving village of Matane. It is chiefly remarkable for its
ecclesiastical and educational institutions. There is another
peculiarity; the largeness of the family in many households. It is no
uncommon matter to find a family of from fifteen to twenty children.
Not long ago I heard of a case of a family of eighteen, and there was
a question of an orphan to be taken, for whose nurture nothing was to
be paid, its parents having died under circumstances of privation and
poverty. “Let it come and take its chance with our children,” said this
excellent French Canadian mother, and it was so resolved.
Travellers to Europe, like ourselves, have their letters and telegrams
directed to Rimouski in case of more or less last words being
necessary. I was very glad to find good news in those I received. I
went to the station to meet the train for the south. There I found more
fishermen bound for the Restigouche, New Yorkers, who now come yearly
to our waters, a class who do not fish for the pot, but are sportsmen.
Among them were Mr. Dean Sage and Mr. Worden, with a party of friends.
At 10 o’clock p.m., the mail train having arrived, we took the tender
for the steamer, which lay off in the stream. Sir Alex. Galt was on
the train, on his way back from Halifax, where he had taken part in
a public banquet given to his successor as High Commissioner for
Canada in London; Sir Charles Tupper. I was in hopes that he, too, was
starting for England, but to my disappointment he continued his journey
to Montreal.
We reach the wharf on the branch railway, where the tender is lying.
The arrangements are not quite perfect. The wharf itself is of unusual
length, but it only reaches shallow water at low tide. In consequence
the capacity of the tender is limited, and, although strongly built, it
rolls disagreeably in rough weather, to the discomfort of passengers
who are indifferent sailors.
We embarked on the “Parisian,” and at once found our way to the cabins
allotted to us. A friend had previously consoled us by saying that
they were the worst in the ship. They were directly under the scuppers
used for pouring the ashes overboard, the disagreeable noise of which
operation we were expecting to hear every hour in the night. We did
not, however, experience much inconvenience on this score, as for the
greater part of the voyage, our cabin was on the windward side, which
is never used at sea for the discharge of refuse.
The passenger list placed in our hands contained several familiar
names. There were Canadian Cabinet Ministers and Montreal merchants,
with their wives and families, and there were friends whom we expected
to meet, some of them we found in the saloon before retiring for the
night.
Trips by ocean steamers have much the same features, and, while
the changes and vicissitudes of fog, rain and fine weather are all
important in the little floating community, they have little concern
for the outer world. To sufferers from sea-sickness, an ocean trip is a
terror. Medical men say, in a general way, that the infliction should
be welcomed, for it brings health, but I have seen those prostrated by
it who have been so depressed that I can not but think that if this
theory be true the improvement to health will be dearly purchased by
the penalty. Such, however, are the exceptions. With most people one
or two days’ depression is generally the extent of the infliction.
Personally I cannot complain. Nature has made me an excellent sailor.
With no remarkable appetite, I have never missed a meal on board ship,
nor ever found the call to dinner unwelcome.
Our first morning commenced with fog, but it cleared away as we coasted
along the somewhat bold shore of Gaspé in smooth water. There is always
divine service on these vessels on Sunday. The Church of England form
is as a rule adhered to, which is read by the captain or doctor if no
clergyman be present. If a clergyman be found among the passengers he
is generally invited to conduct divine service, and any Protestant form
is admitted. On the present occasion the Rev. C. Hall, Presbyterian
minister of Brooklyn, N. Y., officiated. The service was simple and
appropriate, and the sermon admirable. The day turned out fine, and the
water so smooth that in the afternoon every passenger was on deck. Our
course being to the south of the Island of Newfoundland, we passed the
Magdalen Islands and the Bird Rocks, and we think of the vast number of
ships which have ploughed these waters on their way to and from Quebec
and Montreal. It is now fifty years since “The Royal William” steamed
homewards on the same course we are now following. Much interest begins
to centre in “The Royal William.” It is claimed that she was one of the
pioneers of steamers, if not the very first steamer which crossed the
Atlantic under steam the whole distance. She was built in Canada. She
left Quebec on the 18th August, 1833, coaled at Pictou, in Nova Scotia,
and arrived at Gravesend on the 11th September. She did not return to
Canada, as she was sold by her owners to the Spanish Government. Her
model is preserved by the Historical Society of Quebec. Some of these
particulars I had from the lips of one of the officers of “The Royal
William,” who died a quarter of a century ago.
There is but one counter claim to the distinction. A ship named the
“Savannah” crossed the Atlantic from the port of that name in the
Southern United States to Liverpool in 1819. She had machinery for
propulsion of a somewhat rude description, which seemed to be attached
as an auxiliary power to be used when the wind failed. There is nothing
to show that it was continuously employed. I have recently heard from
a friend in Savannah on the subject, and I quote from his letter: “She
was 18 days on the voyage. She resembled very much in mould an old
United States war frigate. The hull was surmounted with a stack and
three masts--fore, main and mizzen--and was provided with side wheels
of a primitive pattern, left wholly exposed to view, and so arranged
that they could at any time be unshipped and the vessel navigated by
sails only.”
On Monday before 2 a.m. we pass out of the Gulf by the Strait of St.
Paul into the open Atlantic, and still the water continues perfectly
smooth. There is a slight fog, which passes away, and we behold nothing
but the world of waters around us. The moon appears, and we have an
evening on deck long to be remembered. Everything stands out clear and
distinct, but the shadows are dark and heavy. The moon casts its line
of rippling light across the waves, and the ship glides onward, almost
weird-like in its motion.
One of the pleasures, as well as penalties, of travelling is to be
asked to make one at whist. It is a pleasure to take part in a single
rubber if played without stakes, but to one indifferent to cards, who
does not want to win his friend’s money or lose his own, to join such a
party is often no little of a sacrifice. Your reply when asked to play
may take the conventional form, “With pleasure,” and in a way you feel
pleasure, for you like to oblige people you care for, and you may be
in an extra genial mood; but how often I have wished some other victim
could have been found at such times. On this occasion I left the deck
when I would have willingly remained, and took my seat at the card
table.
The fog returned, and the ship went at half speed for the night. When
next day came there was no fog, but there was some little rocking,
which, to me, during the previous night, was but a pleasant incentive
to sleep, for I did not once hear the fog whistle in its periodic
roar--no pleasant sound--nor was I sensible of the dreaded rattling of
the ashes emptied overboard, a nightly and unavoidable duty, and by no
means a musical lullaby.
I find that several ladies are absent from breakfast this morning. A
breeze springs up; a sail is hoisted; and occasionally we have fog, and
now and then a cold blast, with alternations of damp and moist air.
Such is the general experience in crossing the Banks. As one passenger
remarked, “It is hungry weather.” The breakfast in most cases had been
sparing, an enforced necessity in some instances, but the general
feeling is one of being ravenous for lunch. The day passes pleasantly,
possibly idly, and in the evening the whist table has its votaries. We
leave the fog behind us, but the next day is cloudy. There is a light
wind, and the sea is a little disturbed. Most of the passengers keep
the deck. We fancy we see a whale. There is too much cloud for the
moon to penetrate, so the passengers generally leave the deck to enjoy
themselves quietly in the saloon. We have a bright midsummer day this
21st June after a glorious morning, and we advance eastward with all
sail set. The spirits of all on board seem to rise, the sky is so blue,
and the sea so bright. There is but slight motion, with which, most of
the passengers are becoming familiar.
We are now half way across. We begin to calculate when we shall arrive,
and what trains we shall take at Liverpool. I have many times crossed
the Atlantic, but I never could understand the restlessness with
which so many look for the termination of the voyage. If there were
some urgent necessity for immediate action on the part of those who
are travelling this impatience could be accounted for. The majority,
however, are tourists for pleasure or for health, and, as for business
or professional men, I never could see how a few hours one way or the
other could influence their operations. To some the voyage is simply
imprisonment; the condition of being at sea is a penalty they pay at
the sacrifice of health and comfort. These are the exceptions. There
are a large number who feel as I do, and for my part, while it would be
affectation to profess to be fond of storm and tempest, a sea voyage
in ordinary fine weather is one of the most pleasurable experiences of
my life. I have good digestion and good spirits, and I am satisfied
with the pleasant change from a life on shore. I can generally read,
and I can always remain on deck, and I always have a certain feeling
of regret when I think that the voyage is soon coming to an end. We
are all well cared for, we form pleasant associations, and anyone who
can study human nature finds no little opportunity for doing so on
shipboard.
Our library, it is true, is somewhat limited, but it has a few good
books. I was somewhat struck on reading during this voyage almost
the last words of the celebrated Mary Somerville, who, after a most
distinguished career in science, died eleven years ago at Naples. These
words appear more striking to me when read on board ship. “The blue
peter has long been flying at my foremast, and, now that I am in my
92nd year, I may soon expect the signal for sailing.”
We discuss our progress on all occasions. There is a general
thankfulness as we advance. Towards evening the motion of the ship has
increased, but we can all walk the deck. On the following day we put
on more canvas, for the breeze has increased and is more favorable,
and our progress is much greater. There is now considerable motion,
but we have all got familiar with it, and, as sailors say, we have our
sea-legs. The wind is at north-west; the day clear and bright, with a
warm-looking sky, speckled with fleecy clouds. The decks are dry. We
appear to be achieving wonders in speed, and we are entering into all
sorts of calculations as to what extent we shall make up the seven
hours’ detention by fog on the Banks of Newfoundland. Our run yesterday
was 342 miles in 23½ hours. Reckoning by observed time, we lose half an
hour daily by the advance made easterly. During the afternoon we have
a fair breeze, with all sail set, followed by the same pleasant and
agreeable evening. The passengers talk of leaving with much readiness.
Well is it said that much of the pleasure of life is retrospective. “We
are approaching land” is now the cry, and we commence early the next
morning calculating when we shall reach Moville. Saturday afternoon
is delightful. Bright gleams of sunshine appear in the intervals of
occasional showers. In the evening there is a concert with readings
from eight to ten. The collection is for the “Sailors’ Orphanage” at
Liverpool. On account of the concert our lights are allowed to burn
until midnight, and many of us remain on deck nearly to that hour. The
moon is three-quarters full; we have all sail set, and we can see the
reflected light of the sun in the northern sky at midnight. To me
there is a strange fascination in a scene of this character, with all
its accompaniments. There is a movement in the sea and a freshness in
the air which give a tingle to the blood, and we seem to walk up and
down the deck with an elasticity we cannot explain to ourselves.
Next morning was Sunday. I was on deck half an hour before breakfast.
The land on the west coast of Ireland was in sight. The morning was
most fair, and it seemed to give additional zest to the excitement
produced by the approaching termination of the voyage. We learn that
we shall be at Moville at 2 o’clock. We have again divine worship. A
Methodist minister read the Church of England service and delivered an
admirable sermon. We reach Moville, and find we have been seven days
and ten hours making the run from Rimouski. I took the opportunity
here to send a cablegram home; it consisted of one word, but that word
contained a page of family meaning.
We passed the Giant’s Causeway, at which the passengers intently
looked. We could also see Islay and the Mull of Kintyre.
In the evening we have a second service. Our eloquent friend from
Brooklyn satisfied us so well the previous Sunday that we begged of him
to give us another sermon. He complied with our wishes, and with equal
success.
It is our last night on board; to-morrow we are to separate. Many
of us on this voyage have met for the first time, and in all human
probability few of us will again come side by side. There is always
a feeling of sadness in thinking you do something for the last time.
I can fancy even a convict leaving his cell where he has passed some
years pausing upon the threshold while a rush of the old recollections,
the long, sad hours cheered by gleams of hope, crowd upon him, when he
will feel some strange sentiment of regret that it is the last time he
looks upon the place. The feeling may last but a second, but it is an
impulse of our nature which is uncontrollable.
On board ship, with a certainty of gaining port to-morrow, the last
hours are passed in packing up and preparing to leave, and a feeling of
regret creeps in that now so many pleasant associations are to end, and
in spite of yourself some of the good qualities of those who are set
down as disagreeable people come to the surface in your memory. Some
few friendships are formed at sea which are perpetuated, but generally
the pleasantest of our relations terminate with the voyage. It is too
often the case, as in the voyage of life, that those we have learned to
esteem are seen no more.
We had to lose no time in order to pass the troublesome bar at the
mouth of Liverpool harbour. With vessels of the draught of the American
steamers it can only be crossed at high water. The officers generally
calculate what can be done from the hour they leave Moville, and
regulate their speed accordingly, so as to approach it at the right
moment.
No one knows better than the occupants of the cabin corresponding with
our own on the opposite side of the vessel that a great many tons of
ashes have been thrown overboard during the voyage: we all know that
a large volume of smoke has passed out of the funnel, a proof of the
great weight of fuel which has been expended in keeping the screw
revolving. The draught of the ship is consequently considerably less
than when we left the St. Lawrence.
There is now no fog; the weather is fine; there is everything to
encourage the attempt to run in, and it proves successful. On this
occasion, had we been twenty minutes later, we should have had to
remain outside until another tide. The lights of Galloway and the
Isle of Man were passed before the most of us retired last night. We
all awoke early; at a quarter to five we had crossed the bar; the
“Parisian” was in the Mersey; the tender came alongside the ship, and
very soon afterwards I stood again on English ground.
CHAPTER III.
_ENGLAND._
Willie Gordon--Custom House Annoyances--Cable Telegram--Post
Office Annoyances--London--Spurgeon’s Tabernacle--An Ancestral
Home--English and United States Hotels--English Reserve--A
Railway Accident--The Land’s End--A Deaf Guest.
As I stood on the landing stage at Liverpool awaiting patiently and
with resignation for the Customs officers to allow the removal of our
luggage, a host of recollections ran through my mind. My thoughts went
back twenty years to another occasion when I landed from an ocean
steamer at an hour equally early. My memory has been aided by one of
those works which appear so frequently from the New York press, so
fertile in this species of encyclopædiac literature, endeavouring to
embrace in a few pages the truths learned only by a life’s experience.
The small volume tells you what not to do, and it sententiously sets
forth its philosophy in a series of paragraphs. There are ninety-five
pages of this philanthropic effort, with about four hundred negative
injunctions. The title of the book is “Don’t.” The injunction that
struck my eye most forcibly may be taken as no bad type of the teaching
of the book. It runs, “Don’t” is the first word of every sentence.
“Don’t go with your boots unpolished, but don’t have the polishing done
in the public highways.” These words met my eye as I was engaged in
these pages, and they brought back the feelings which passed through my
mind on the morning I left the “Parisian.”
My thoughts reverted to my visit to the Mother Country after eighteen
years’ absence; the first made by me since I left home in 1845. I was
a passenger on the “United Kingdom,” due at Glasgow. She had passed
up the Clyde during the night, and arrived opposite the Broomielaw in
the early morning. The night previous the passengers were in the best
of humour, and the stewards had been kept up late attending to us. We
were all in high spirits, and without exception delighted at returning
to Scotland. I was particularly impatient to get ashore, to touch the
sacred ground of my native land. I arose that morning one of the first
of the passengers, before the stewards were visible. The ship was
in the stream off the Broomielaw. A boat came to the side. I jumped
into her and went ashore. I strolled along the quay. My foot was not
literally on “my native heath,” but I enjoyed intensely the pleasure we
all feel in revisiting our native shores, and in being near the scenes
from which we have been long absent. Everything seemed so fresh and
charming. I had no definite purpose in my wandering, but I was at home;
it was Scotland. In my semi-reverie I was interrupted by a young voice
in the purest Clydesdale Doric saying “hae yer butes brushed?” I looked
down mechanically at my feet, and found that the cabin bootblack of our
vessel had neglected this duty, probably owing to the irregular hours
of the last night on board. Moreover, it was the first word addressed
to myself, and I should have felt bound to accept the offer if it had
been unnecessary in the fullest sense. I commenced conversation with
the boy. He was very young. I summoned to my aid my best Scotch for the
occasion. His name was Willie Gordon, and he told me his widowed mother
was a washerwoman, that he had a number of brothers and sisters younger
than himself, that his earnings amounted to about half a crown a week,
and that between him and his mother they managed to earn ten shillings
in that time. “And how do you live, Willie?” “Reel weel,” replied the
boy, with the cheeriest of voices. “And now, Willie,” I said, when
I had paid him his fee, “it is many years since I have been here. I
want to see the places of greatest interest in Glasgow.” “Ou, sir,”
he promptly said, “ye shuld gang ta see Corbett’s eatin hoose.” “Do
you know the way there?” I asked. “Fine, sir. I ken the way vary weel.
I’ll gang wi ye tae the door,” and his face looked even happier than
before. I accepted his guidance, and, if my recollection is correct,
the place was in Jamaica street. The boy walked by my side carrying his
brushes and box, and chatted gaily of himself and his life. Apparently
no prince could be happier. We reached the renowned establishment he
had named. It was a species of home which a benevolent citizen had
instituted, on the same principle on which the coffee taverns are now
established: to furnish an early hot cup of tea or coffee to men going
to work, to offer some other refreshment than whiskey and beer, to give
a meal at cost price with all the comfort possible with cleanliness
good cheer and airy rooms, warm in winter. After some hesitation, and
persuasion on my part, Willie shyly entered with me. The _menu_ was on
the wall. Porridge and milk one penny, large cup of coffee one penny,
bread and butter, thick, one penny, eggs and toast one penny, &c.,
&c.; everything, one penny. I cannot say that I give a precise account
of what appeared, but it was essentially as I describe it. We were a
little early even for that establishment, so Willie and I sat down.
The buxom matron gave us some account of the place and its doings. The
Duke of Argyle had dined with her a few days before. She told us the
establishment was well patronized and prosperous. The time soon came
for our order, for we were the first to be served. I set forth what I
required for myself, and that was no light breakfast, as I had a sea
appetite, sharpened by the early morning walk. I directed the attendant
to bring the same order in double proportions for the boy, so that we
had a splendid _déjeuner_. My little companion was in ecstasies. Never
was hospitality bestowed on a more grateful recipient. He would not
leave me, and he seemed bound to make a morning of it, and from time to
time graciously volunteered, “I’ll tak ye ony gait, Sir.” His customers
were forgotten, but I trust he did not suffer from his devotion to
me, for I did my best to remedy his neglect of professional duty. He
followed me from place to place, carrying the implements of his day’s
work, and he seemed anxious to do something for the trifling kindness I
had shown him and the few pence I had paid for his breakfast. But I was
more than compensated by the pleasure I myself received. I listened to
all he said with fresh interest, for he was open, earnest, honest and
simple-minded. He was deeply attached to his mother, and was evidently
proud to be able to add to her slender earnings, which were just enough
to keep her and her family from want. He certainly seemed determined
to do all in his power to make her comfortable. He never lost sight of
me till I left by the eleven o’clock train, and my last remembrance,
on my departure from Glasgow on that occasion as the train moved out,
was seeing Willie waving his brushes and boot-box enthusiastically in
the air. I often wonder what Willie’s fate is. He appeared to me to be
of the material to succeed in life. In Canada he certainly would have
worked his way up. I never heard of him again, but I certainly shall
not be greatly astonished to hear of Sir William Gordon, distinguished
Lord Provost of Glasgow.
One of the nuisances of travelling throughout the world is the ordeal
of passing the Custom House. Frequently the traveller from Canada
thinks the infliction at Liverpool is pushed a little further than is
requisite. What can we smuggle from Canada? I know quite well that
there is generally a very loose conscience as to the contents of a
lady’s trunk, considered under the aspect of its fiscal obligations,
but surely some form of declaration might be drawn up by means of which
honourable men and women would be spared this grievous and irritating
delay. Apart from the delay, it is no agreeable matter to open out your
carefully packed portmanteau. To ladies it is particularly offensive to
have their dresses turned over and the contents of their trunks handled
by strangers. Canadians, while crossing their own frontier, find the
Custom House officers of the United States, as a rule, particularly
courteous, and, on giving a straightforward declaration that they have
nothing dutiable, they are generally allowed to pass at once. Liverpool
may not be alone in strictly exacting all that the law allows, but is
this course at all necessary or wise? It cannot increase the revenue,
for the additional expense of collection must more than absorb the
trifling receipts. And one is not kindly impressed with this reception,
especially when we feel that it is totally unnecessary. We cross the
ocean from Canada with peculiar feelings of pride and sentiment to
visit our Mother Land, and it is somewhat of a severe wrench to be
treated as foreigners by the Customs authorities on our arrival; I will
not say uncivilly or wrongfully, but as if we were adventurers going
to England on some plundering tour. It is certainly no petty annoyance
to Canadians, when they make their entry into a land they are taught
to call “home,” to have their sense of common honesty thus challenged
at the threshold. Anything which is brought from Canada can only be
some trifling present, such as Indian work, to some relative in the Old
Country; and if, possibly, a few pounds be lost to the exchequer, it is
made up a thousandfold by the good will arising from being courteously
treated on the first landing on English soil. Would it not suffice if
every ordinary passenger were required to make a declaration in some
such form as the following?: “I am a Canadian subject. I declare upon
my honour that my baggage contains nothing whatever for sale. I have
with me my personal effects for my own use only.” Or it may be added,
“I have a few gifts for old friends, of little or no commercial value.”
Perhaps some British statesman might not think these suggestions
beneath his notice. Let him send a competent agent to examine and
report upon this subject. He will probably discover that the whole
nuisance can be swept away without inflicting the slightest injury
on the national exchequer. It would form no discreditable sentence
in a statesman’s epitaph to read that “he did away with the needless
and offensive restrictions imposed on British subjects from the outer
empire visiting the Imperial centre.”
Having at last passed the Custom House, I drove to Rock Ferry, one
of the most pleasant suburbs of Liverpool, to visit a family I was
acquainted with, and with them I passed a most enjoyable day. The
greeting I received was most cordial and gratifying. In the afternoon I
started for London, leaving my daughter behind me, and I found myself
once more whirling through the green meadows and cultivated fields
of England. I was alone, but I did not feel solitary. How charming
everything looked! The air was fresh with passing showers, and the
rain played for some quarter of an hour on the landscape only to make
it look fresher and fairer, and, when the sun came out, more full of
poetry. Why, we are at Harrow-on-the-Hill! Has time gone so quickly?
There is so much to think about, so many fresh scenes to gaze upon, and
so many events seem to crowd into the hours that the traveller, in his
bewilderment, loses count of time.
I am again in London, at Batt’s hotel, Dover street, and I walk to the
Empire Club to learn if there are any letters for me. I am disappointed
to find there is no cablegram. I despatched one from Moville, and one
word in reply would have told me if all was well. I recollect well the
depression I experienced at the time at not receiving news. It was an
inexplicable feeling; not exactly one of impatience or disappointment,
but rather of keen anxiety. “Why should there be silence,” I murmur,
when everything points to the necessity for a reply.
Next day my business took me to the city, and I returned as rapidly
as I could. In the afternoon, to relieve my suspense, I went to the
Geological Society’s rooms, and mechanically looked over the books
and specimens. I wandered into the rooms of the Royal Society, and
found before me the well known features of Mary Somerville as they
are preserved in her bust. I then strolled into the parks and down to
the Club, and still no cablegram. These facts are of no interest to
any but the writer, but possibly they may suggest, not simply to the
transmitter of telegrams but to the officials who pass them through
their hands, how much often depends upon their care and attention,
and that there is something more required than simply receiving
and recording a message. There is the duty of seeing to its proper
delivery, and it was precisely on this ground that my trouble took its
root.
I was three days in London when I received a telegram from Mr. George
Stephen, President of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company, stating
that he was desirous that I should proceed to British Columbia as soon
as possible. It was my acceptance of this proposition which has led
to the production of these pages, but at that hour I felt that Mr.
Stephen’s communication only increased my bewilderment. My telegraphic
address was properly registered at the General Post Office in London,
and it had been used over and over again during my annual visits to
England. The cablegram I had just received bore the registered address,
and yet I had received no message from my family in Halifax. I have
often sent cablegrams, and never more than twenty-four hours elapsed
before receiving a reply. Consequently I again telegraphed, plainly
stating my anxiety, and then wandered out to call on some friends.
Later in the evening I at last found an answer, and, in order that it
might not again miscarry, the sender put on my address five additional
words, held as quite unnecessary, at two shillings each, making ten
shillings extra to pay. On my return to Canada I learned that no less
than three cablegrams had been sent to me, each one of which remains
to this day undelivered. Two of the despatches were sent before,
one subsequently to, the message last mentioned. All were properly
addressed. I felt it a public duty to write to the Secretary of the
Post Office Department in London, but no satisfactory explanation has
yet been given. Life is a mass of trifles, as a rule. The exceptions
are our griefs and our sufferings, our triumphs and joys; the latter,
as a French writer says, “counting by minutes, the former by epochs.”
I passed three particularly unpleasant days during this period, my own
personal affair, of course, and one in which the world may seem to have
no interest. But the public has really a deep interest in having a more
perfect system of Atlantic telegraphy than we now possess, and the
facts I have described, have their moral. At least it is to be hoped
that the authorities may remember that anyone separated by the ocean
from his correspondents is not content that telegrams should be delayed
for days, and still less content not to have them delivered at all.
I was a month in England, chiefly in London, remaining until the 26th
of July. I must say that when in London I often thought of, although
I can not fully endorse, the words of that enthusiastic Londoner who
held that it was the “best place in the world for nine months in the
year, and he did not know a better for the other three.” In London you
can gratify nearly every taste, and although it always takes money
to secure the necessaries and luxuries of life, especially in great
cities, still, if one can content himself with living modestly, it
does not require a wonderfully large income to enjoy the legitimate
excitements and amusements of London. In this respect it is a marked
contrast to New York, where, generally speaking, a large income must be
at your command for even a moderate degree of respectable comfort.
In London, to those who cannot afford a carriage, there is a cab, and
those who have no such aspirations as a “hansom” can take the omnibus.
It is not necessary to go to the orchestra stalls to see a performance,
nor are you obliged to pay six guineas per week for your lodgings or
one pound for your dinner. The reading room of the British Museum is
open to every respectable, well-ordered person. You can look at some of
the best pictures in the world for nothing, and, if you are a student
of history and literature, there are localities within the ancient
boundaries of the city which you cannot regard without emotion. You
have two of the noblest cathedrals in the world; Westminster Abbey,
with its six centuries of history, and with its tombs and monuments,
setting forth tangibly the evidences of the past national life. Then
you have Wren’s classical masterpiece St. Paul’s, one of the most
perfect and commanding edifices ever erected anywhere. Its interior has
never been completed. Will it ever be so? Yet, as Wren’s epitaph tells
us, if you wish to see his monument “look around you.”
Again, in London, by way of recreation, you have public parks,
river-side resorts, and by the river itself and underground railway you
can easily reach many pleasant haunts about the suburbs. Indeed, by
the aid of the steamboat or rail you can take the most charming outings
any person can desire to have. London may be said to be inexhaustible.
As one of the directors of the Hudson Bay Company I had often to
visit the city, and some very pleasant relationships grew out of my
attendance at the various board meetings. I was constantly meeting
Canadians, and certainly we hold together in a peculiar way when away
from the Dominion. It is a strong link we are all bound by, and yet we
would find it hard to explain why. Even men who are not particularly
civil to one another in Canada will cross each other’s path with
pleasure when from home, and intimacies never anticipated are formed,
and associations entered upon once thought impossible.
One of my visits was to Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. The name is familiar to
everyone, and as I had been many times in London without hearing this
celebrated preacher, I was anxious not to return to Canada without
making the attempt. I was told to be in good time, and, acting on the
suggestion, I obtained a good seat, and formed, I should suppose, one
of four thousand people. Just in front of me, strange to say, I beheld
a familiar form, which I recollected last to have seen at Queen’s
College convocation, Kingston: the Premier of Ontario! Mr. Oliver Mowat
was the gentleman who was seated two pews in front of me. He was the
last person I expected to meet in such a place, as I did not even
know he was in England. He was the only one in that vast assemblage I
recognized. Spurgeon is, undoubtedly, worthy of his great reputation,
and on this particular Sunday his sermon was forcible, marked by
rare good sense, and perfectly adapted to his auditory. I felt fully
rewarded for my effort to be present. When the service was over I had
a few words with Mr. Mowat, but our interview was but short, for I had
an engagement, and it was necessary for me to hurry to the Waterloo
Station to take the train for Guildford, in order to reach ----
|
At this time the
Maritime Provinces were not keenly interested in either of these
projects, while the province of Quebec was secretly opposed to the
acquisition of the Territory, fearing that it would cost money to
acquire and govern it, but principally because many of the French
Canadians dreaded the growing strength in the Dominion of English
speaking people, and the consequent relative diminution of their
proportionate influence on the administration of affairs. The Hudson's
Bay Company were also dissatisfied at the prospect of the loss of the
great monopoly they had enjoyed for nearly two hundred years. They
continued the policy they had early adopted, of doing all possible
to create the belief that the territory was a barren, inhospitable,
frozen region, unfit for habitation, and only suitable to form a
great preserve for fur-bearing animals. This general belief as to the
uselessness of the country, and its remoteness and inaccessibility,
which prevented any full information being gained as to its real
capabilities, also had the effect of making many people doubtful as to
its value and careless as to its acquisition. As an illustration of
the ignorance and false impressions of the value of the country, it is
interesting to recall that when, in 1857, an agitation was set on foot
looking to the absorption of the North-West Territories, very strong
opposition came from a large portion of the Canadian Press. Some wrote
simply in the interests of the Hudson's Bay Company. Some wrote what
they really believed to be true. Now that Manitoba No. 1 hard wheat has
a fame all over the world, as the best and most valuable wheat that is
grown, it is interesting to read the opinion of the Montreal Transcript
in 1857 that the climate of the North-West "is altogether unfavourable
to the growth of grain" and that the summer is so short as to make it
difficult to "mature even a small potato or a cabbage."
The Government, under the far-seeing leadership of Sir John Macdonald,
were negotiating in 1868 for the purchase of the Hudson's Bay Company's
rights, and they sent Sir George Cartier and the Hon. Wm. Macdougall
to England to carry on the negotiations. Mr. Macdougall was a man of
great force of character, an able debater and a keen Canadian. We knew
he would do all that man could do to secure the territory for Canada,
and as far as the arrangements in the old country were concerned he was
successful.
In anticipation of the incorporation of the territory in the Dominion,
and partly to assist the Red River Settlement by giving employment to
the people, the Canadian Government sent up some officials and began
building a road from Fort Garry, now Winnipeg, to the north-west
angle of the Lake of the Woods. This was in the autumn of 1868. Mr.
Macdougall appointed Charles Mair to the position of paymaster of this
party, and at once we saw the opportunity of doing some good work
towards helping on the acquisition of the territory. We felt that
the country was misunderstood, and it was arranged, through the Hon.
George Brown, the proprietor and editor of the Toronto _Globe_, who
had for many years been strongly in favour of securing the North-West,
that Mair was to write letters to the _Globe_ on every available
opportunity, giving a true account of the capabilities of the territory
as to the soil, products, climate, and suitability for settlement.
Mair soon formed a most favourable opinion, and became convinced that a
populous agricultural community could be maintained, and that in time
to come a large and productive addition would be made to the farming
resources of Canada. He pictured the country in glowing terms, and
practically preached that a crusade of Ontario men should move out and
open up and cultivate its magnificent prairies. His letters attracted a
great deal of attention, and were copied very extensively in the Press
of Upper Canada and the Maritime Provinces. They were filled with the
Canadian national spirit, and had a great effect in awakening the minds
of the people to the importance of the acquisition of the country.
Reports of his letters got back to Fort Garry, and caused much hostile
feeling in the minds of the Hudson's Bay officials, and the French
half-breeds and their clergy. The feeling on one occasion almost led to
actual violence.
Six years before this, in 1862, John C. Schultz (afterwards Sir John
Schultz, K.C.M.G., Lieutenant-Governor of Manitoba) had arrived in Fort
Garry. He was then a young doctor only twenty-two years of age. He
at once engaged in the practice of his profession, as well as in the
business of buying and selling furs, and trading with the Indians and
inhabitants. He was born at Amherstburg, and had grown up and been
educated in the country where Brock and Tecumseh had performed their
greatest exploit in defence of Canada. He was a loyal and patriotic
Canadian. He had been persecuted by Hudson's Bay officials. Once he
was put in prison by them, but was soon taken out by a mob of the
inhabitants. Mair soon became attached to Schultz. They were about the
same age, and possessed in common a keen love for the land of their
birth. Mair told him of the work of our little party, and he expressed
his sympathy and desire to assist. In March, 1869, Schultz came down
to Montreal on business, and when passing through Toronto brought me
a letter of introduction from Mair, who had written to me once or
twice before, speaking in the highest terms of Schultz, and predicting
(truthfully) that in the future he would be the leading man in the
North-West, and he advised that he should be enrolled in our little
organisation. Haliburton happened to be in Toronto at the time and I
introduced Schultz to him and to W. A. Foster, and we warmly welcomed
him into our ranks. He was the sixth member. Soon afterwards we began
quietly making recruits, considering very carefully each name as
suggested.
Schultz went back to Fort Garry. The negotiations for the acquisition
of the Hudson's Bay Territory were brought to a successful termination,
and it was arranged that it should be taken over on the 1st December,
1869. Mr. Macdougall was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of the
Territory, and with a small staff of officials he started for Fort
Garry.
During this time Haliburton had been lecturing in Ontario and Quebec
on the question of "interprovincial trade," showing that it should be
strongly encouraged, and would be a most efficient means for creating
a feeling of unity among the various provinces. He also delivered a
very able lecture on "The Men of the North," showing their power and
influence on history, and pointing out that the Canadians would be the
"Northmen of the New World," and in this way he endeavoured to arouse
the pride of Canadians in their country, and to create a feeling of
confidence in its future. This was all in the line of our common desire
to foster a national spirit, which formerly, in the Canadian sense, had
not existed.
CHAPTER III
THE RED RIVER REBELLION
During this year, 1869, when the negotiations in England had been
agreed upon, the Canadian Government had sent out a surveying
expedition under Lieut.-Colonel Dennis. This officer had taken a
prominent part in the affair of the Fenian Raid at Fort Erie three
years before, with no advantage to the country and considerable
discredit to himself. His party began surveying the land where a hardy
population of half-breeds had their farms and homes, and where they had
been settled for generations. Naturally great alarm and indignation
were aroused. The road that was being built from Winnipeg to the Lake
of the Woods also added considerably to their anxiety.
The Hudson's Bay officials were mainly covertly hostile. The French
priests also viewed an irruption of strangers with strong aversion, and
everything tended to incite an uprising against the establishment of
the new Government. When Lieut.-Governor Macdougall arrived at Pembina
and crossed the boundary line, he was stopped by an armed force of
French half breeds, and turned back out of the country. He waited till
the 1st December, when his commission was to have come into force, and
then appointed Lieut.-Colonel Dennis as Lieutenant and Conservator
of the Peace, and sent him to Fort Garry to endeavour to organise a
sufficient force among the loyal population to put down the rebellion,
and re-establish the Queen's authority.
When Lieut.-Colonel Dennis reached Fort Garry, he went straight to Dr.
Schultz' house where Mair was staying at the time, and showed them
his commission. Schultz, who was an able man of great courage and
strength of character, as well as sound judgment, said at once that
the commission was all that was wanted, and that he would organise a
force of the surveyors, Canadian roadmen, etc., who were principally
Ontario men, and that they could easily seize the Fort that night by
surprise, as there were only a few of the insurgents in it, and those
not anticipating the slightest difficulty. This was the wisest and
best course, for had the Fort been seized, it would have dominated the
settlement and established a rallying point for the loyal, who formed
fifty per cent. of the population.
Colonel Dennis would not agree to this. On the contrary he advised Dr.
Schultz to organise all the men he could at the Fort Garry Settlement,
while he himself would go down to the Stone Fort, and raise the loyal
Scotch half breeds of the lower Settlements. This decision at once
shut off all possibility of success. Riel, the rebel leader, had ample
opportunity not only to fill Fort Garry with French half breeds, but it
enabled him to cut off and besiege Dr. Schultz and the Canadians who
had gathered at his house for protection.
When matters had got to this point Colonel Dennis lost heart, abandoned
his levies at the Stone Fort in the night, leaving an order for them to
disperse and return to their homes. He escaped to the United States by
making a wide _détour_. Schultz and his party had to surrender and were
put into prison. Mair, Dr. Lynch, and Thomas Scott were among these
prisoners.
When the news of these doings came to Ontario there was a good deal
of dissatisfaction, but the distance was so great, and the news so
scanty, and so lacking in details, that the public generally were
not at first much interested. The Canada First group were of course
keenly aroused by the imprisonment and dangerous position of Mair
and Schultz, and at that time matters looked very serious to those
of us who were so keenly anxious for the acquisition of the Hudson's
Bay Territory. Lieut.-Governor Macdougall had been driven out, his
deputy had disappeared after his futile and ill-managed attempt to
put down the insurrection, Mair and Schultz and the loyal men were in
prison, Riel had established his government firmly, and had a large
armed force and the possession of the most important stronghold in
the country. An unbroken wilderness of hundreds of miles separated
the district from Canada, and made a military expedition a difficult
and tedious operation. These difficulties, however, we knew were not
the most dangerous. There were many influences working against the
true interests of Canada, and it is hard for the present generation to
appreciate the gravity of the situation.
In the first place the people of Ontario were indifferent, they did
not at first seem to feel or understand the great importance of the
question, and this indifference was the greatest source of anxiety to
us in the councils of our party. By this time Foster and I had gained
a number of recruits. Dr. Canniff, J. D. Edgar, Richard Grahame, Hugh
Scott, Thomas Walmsley, George Kingsmill, Joseph E. McDougall, and
George M. Rae had all joined the executive committee, and we had a
number of other adherents ready and willing to assist. Foster and
I were constantly conferring and discussing the difficulties, and
meetings of the committee were often called to decide upon the best
action to adopt.
Governor Macdougall had returned humiliated and baffled, blaming the
Hon. Joseph Howe for having fed the dissatisfaction at Fort Garry. This
charge has not been supported by any evidence, and such evidence as
there is conveys a very different impression.
Governor McTavish of the Hudson's Bay Company was believed to be in
collusion with Riel, and willing to thwart the aims of Canada. Mr.
Macdougall states in his pamphlet of _Letters to Joseph Howe_, that in
September 1868 every member of the Government, except Mr. Tilley and
himself, was either indifferent or hostile to the acquisition of the
Territories. He also charges the French Catholic priests as being very
hostile to Canada, and says that from the moment he was met with armed
resistance, until his return to Canada, the policy of the Government
was consistent in one direction, namely, to abandon the country.
Dr. George Bryce in his _Remarkable History of the Hudson's Bay
Company_ points out the serious condition of affairs at this time. The
Company's Governor, McTavish, was ill, the government by the Company
moribund, and the action of the Canadian authorities in sending up an
irritating expedition of surveyors and roadmakers was most impolitic.
The influence of mercantile interests in St. Paul was also keenly
against Canada, and a number of settlers from the United States helped
to foment trouble and encourage a change of allegiance. Dr. Bryce
states that there was a large sum of money "available in St. Paul for
the purpose of securing a hold by the Americans on the fertile plains
of Rupert's Land." Dr. Bryce sums up the dangers as follows: "Can a
more terrible combination be imagined than this? A decrepit Government
with the executive officer sick; a rebellious and chronically
dissatisfied Metis element; a government at Ottawa far removed by
distance, committing with unvarying regularity blunder after blunder;
a greedy and foreign cabal planning to seize the country; and a secret
Jesuitical plot to keep the Governor from action and to incite the
fiery Metis to revolt."
The Canada First organisation was at this time a strictly secret one,
its strength, its aims, even its existence being unknown outside of
the ranks of the members. The committee were fully aware of all these
difficulties, and felt that the people generally were not impressed
with the importance of the issues and were ignorant of the facts. The
idea had been quietly circulated through the Government organs that the
troubles had been caused mainly through the indiscreet and aggressive
spirit shown by the Canadians at Fort Garry, and much aggravated
through the ill-advised and hasty conduct of Lieut.-Governor Macdougall.
The result was that there was little or no sympathy with any of those
who had been cast into prison, except among the ranks of the little
Canada First group, who understood the question better, and had been
directly affected through the imprisonment of two of their leading
members.
The news came down in the early spring of 1870 that Schultz and Mair
had escaped, and soon afterwards came the information that Thomas
Scott, a loyal Ontario man, an Orangeman, had been cruelly put to death
by the Rebel Government. Up to this time it had been found difficult to
excite any interest in Ontario in the fact that a number of Canadians
had been thrown into prison. Foster and I, who had been consulting
almost daily, were much depressed at the apathy of the public, but when
we heard that Schultz and Mair, as well as Dr. Lynch, were all on the
way to Ontario, and that Scott had been murdered, it was seen at once
that there was an opportunity, by giving a public reception to the
loyal refugees, to draw attention to the matter, and by denouncing the
murder of Scott, to arouse the indignation of the people, and foment
a public opinion that would force the Government to send up an armed
expedition to restore order.
George Kingsmill, the editor of the Toronto _Daily Telegraph_, at that
time was one of our committee, and on Foster's suggestion the paper was
printed in mourning with "turned rules" as a mark of respect to the
memory of the murdered Scott, and Foster, who had already contributed
able articles to the _Westminster Review_ in April and October 1865,
began a series of articles which were published by Kingsmill as
editorials, which at once attracted attention. It was like putting a
match to tinder. Foster was accustomed to discuss these articles with
me, and to read them to me in manuscript, and I was delighted with
the vigour and intense national spirit which breathed in them all.
He met the arguments of the official Press with vehement appeals to
the patriotism of his fellow countrymen. The Government organs were
endeavouring to quiet public opinion, and suggestions were freely
made that the loyal Canadians who had taken up arms on behalf of the
Queen's authority in obedience to Governor Macdougall's proclamation
had been indiscreet, and had brought upon themselves the imprisonment
and hardships they had suffered.
Mair and Schultz had escaped from prison about the same time. Schultz
went to the Lower Red River which was settled by loyal English-speaking
half breeds, and Mair to Portage la Prairie, where there was also a
loyal settlement. They each began to organise an armed force to attack
Fort Garry and release their comrades, who were still in prison there.
They made a junction at Headingly, and had scaling ladders and other
preparations for attacking Fort Garry. Schultz brought up about six
hundred men, and Mair with the Portage la Prairie contingent, under
command of Major Charles Boulton, had about sixty men. Riel became
alarmed, opened a parley with the loyalists, and agreed to deliver up
the prisoners, and pledge himself to leave the loyalist settlements
alone if he was not attacked. The prisoners were released and Mair went
back to Portage la Prairie, and Schultz to the Selkirk settlement.
Almost immediately Schultz left for Canada with Joseph Monkman, by way
of Rainy River to Duluth, while Mair, accompanied by J. J. Setter,
started on the long march on snow shoes with dog sleighs over four
hundred miles of the then uninhabited waste of Minnesota to St. Paul.
This was in the winter, and the journey in both cases was made on snow
shoes and with dog sleighs. Mair arrived in St. Paul a few days before
Schultz.
We heard of their arrival at St. Paul by telegraph, and our committee
called a meeting to consider the question of a reception to the
refugees. This meeting was not called by advertisement, so much did
we dread the indifference of the public and the danger of our efforts
being a failure. It was decided that we should invite a number to come
privately, being careful to choose only those whom we considered would
be sympathetic. This private meeting took place on the 2nd April, 1870.
I was delayed, and did not arrive at the meeting until two or three
speeches had been made. The late John Macnab, the County Attorney, was
speaking when I came in; to my astonishment he was averse to taking
any action whatever until further information had been obtained. His
argument was that very little information had been received from Fort
Garry, and that it would be wiser to wait until the refugees had gone
to Ottawa, and had laid their case before the Government, and the
Government had expressed their views on the matter, that these men
might have been indiscreet, &c. Not knowing that previous speakers had
spoken on the same line I sat listening to this, getting more angry
every minute. When he sat down I was thoroughly aroused. I knew such
a policy as that meant handing over the loyal men to the mercies of a
hostile element. I jumped up at once, and in vehement tones denounced
the speaker. I said that these refugees had risked their lives in
obedience to a proclamation in the Queen's name, calling upon them to
take up arms on her behalf; that there were only a few Ontario men,
seventy in number, in that remote and inaccessible region, surrounded
by half savages, besieged until supplies gave out. When abandoned by
the officer who had appealed to them to take up arms, they were obliged
to surrender, and suffered for long months in prison. I said these
Canadians did this for Canada, and were we at home to be critical as
to their method of proving their devotion to our country? I went on to
say that they had escaped and were coming to their own province to tell
of their wrongs, to ask assistance to relieve the intolerable condition
of their comrades in the Red River Settlement, and I asked, Is there
any Ontario man who will not hold out a hand of welcome to these
men? Any man who hesitates is no true Canadian. I repudiate him as a
countryman of mine. Are we to talk about indiscretion when men have
risked their lives? We have too little of that indiscretion nowadays
and should hail it with enthusiasm. I soon had the whole meeting with
me.
When I sat down James D. Edgar, afterwards Sir J. D. Edgar, moved that
we should ask the Mayor to call a public meeting. This was at once
agreed to, and a requisition made out and signed, and the Mayor was
waited upon, and asked to call a meeting for the 6th. This was agreed
to, Mr. Macnab coming to me and saying I was right, and that he would
do all he could to help, which he loyally did.
From the 2nd until the 6th we were busily engaged in asking our friends
to attend the meeting. The Mayor and Corporation were requested to make
the refugees the guests of the City during their stay in Toronto, and
quarters were taken for them at the Queen's Hotel. Foster's articles
in the _Telegraph_ were beginning to have their influence, and when
Schultz, Lynch, Monkman, and Dreever arrived at the station on the
evening of the 6th April, a crowd of about one thousand people met them
and escorted them to the Queen's. The meeting was to be held in the St.
Lawrence Hall that evening, but when we arrived there with the party,
we found the hall crowded and nearly ten thousand people outside. The
meeting was therefore adjourned to the Market Square, and the speakers
stood on the roof of the porch of the old City Hall.
The resolutions carried covered three points. Firstly, a welcome
to the refugees, and an endorsation of their action in fearlessly,
and at the sacrifice of their liberty and property, resisting the
usurpation of power by the murderer Riel; secondly, advocating the
adoption of decisive measures to suppress the revolt, and to afford
speedy protection to the loyal subjects in the North-West, and thirdly,
declaring that "It would be a gross injustice to the loyal inhabitants
of Red River, humiliating to our national honour, and contrary to all
British traditions for our Government to receive, negotiate, or treat
with the emissaries of those who have robbed, imprisoned, and murdered
loyal Canadians, whose only fault was zeal for British institutions,
whose only crime was devotion to the old flag." This last resolution,
which was carried with great enthusiasm, was moved by Capt. James
Bennett and seconded by myself.
Foster and I had long conferences with Schultz, Mair, and Lynch that
evening and next day, and it was decided that I should go to Ottawa
with the party, to assist them in furthering their views before the
Government. In the meantime Dr. Canniff and other members of the party
had sent word to friends at Cobourg, Belleville, Prescott, etc., to
organise demonstrations of welcome to the loyalists at the different
points.
A large number of our friends and sympathisers gathered at the Union
Station to see the party off to Ottawa, and received them with loud
cheers. Mr. Andrew Fleming then moved, seconded by Mr. T. H. O'Neil,
the following resolution, written by Foster, which was unanimously
carried:
That we, the citizens of Toronto, in parting with our Red River
guests, beg to reiterate our full recognition of their devotion to,
and sufferings in, the cause of Canada, to emphatically endorse
their manly conduct through troubles sufficient to try the stoutest
heart, and to assure the loyal people of Canada that no minion of the
murderer Riel, no representative of a conspiracy which concentrates
in itself everything a Briton detests, shall be allowed to pass this
platform (should he get so far) to lay insulting proposals at the foot
of a throne which knows how to protect its subjects, and has the means
and never lacks for will to do it.
At Cobourg, where the train stopped for twenty minutes, we were met by
the municipal authorities of the town, and a great crowd of citizens,
who received the party with warm enthusiasm, and with the heartiest
expressions of approval. This occurred about one o'clock in the
morning. The same thing was repeated at Belleville about three or four
a.m., and it was considered advisable for Mr. Mair and Mr. Setter to
stay over there to address a great public meeting to be held the next
day. At Prescott, also, the warmest welcome was given by the citizens.
Public feeling was aroused, and we then knew that we would have Ontario
at our backs.
On our arrival in Ottawa we found that the Government were not at all
friendly to the loyal men, and were not desirous of doing anything
that we had been advocating. The first urgent matter was the expected
arrival of Richot and Scott, the rebel emissaries, who were on the
way down from St. Paul. I went to see Sir John A. Macdonald at the
earliest moment. I had been one of his supporters, and had worked
hard for him and the party for the previous eight or nine years--in
fact since I had been old enough to take an active part in politics;
and he knew me well. I asked him at once if he intended to receive
Richot and Scott, in view of the fact that since Sir John had invited
Riel to send down representatives, Thomas Scott had been murdered. To
my astonishment he said he would have to receive them. I urged him
vehemently not to do so, to send someone to meet them and to advise
them to return. I told him he had a copy of their Bill of Rights and
knew exactly what they wanted, and I said he could make a most liberal
settlement of the difficulties and give them everything that was
reasonable, and so weaken Riel by taking away the grievances that gave
him his strength. That then a relief expedition could be sent up, and
the leading rebels finding their followers leaving them, would decamp,
and the trouble would be over. I pointed out to him that the meetings
being held all over Ontario should strengthen his hands, and those
of the British section of the Cabinet, and that the French Canadians
should be satisfied if full justice was done to the half-breeds, and
should not humiliate our national honour. Sir John did not seem able to
answer my arguments, and only repeated that he could not help himself,
and that the British Government were favourable to their reception. I
think Sir Stafford Northcote was at the time in Ottawa representing the
Home Government, or the Hudson's Bay Company.
Finding that Sir John was determined to receive them I said, "Well, Sir
John, I have always supported you, but from the day that you receive
Richot and Scott, you must look upon me as a strong and vigorous
opponent." He patted me on the shoulder and said, "Oh, no, you will
not oppose me, you must never do that." I replied, "I am very sorry,
Sir John. I never thought for a moment that you would humiliate us.
I thought when I helped to get up that great meeting in Toronto, and
carefully arranged that no hostile resolutions should be brought up
against you, that I was doing the best possible work for you; but
I seconded a very strong resolution and made a very decided speech
before ten thousand of my fellow citizens, and now I am committed, and
will have to take my stand." Feeling much disheartened I left him,
and worked against him, and did not support him again, until many
years afterwards, when the leaders of the party I had been attached to
foolishly began to coquette with commercial union, and some even with
veiled treason, while Sir John came out boldly for the Empire, and on
the side of loyalty, under the well-known cry, "A British subject I was
born, a British subject I will die."
After reporting to Schultz and Lynch we considered carefully the
situation, and as Lynch had been especially requested by his fellow
prisoners in Fort Garry to represent their views in Ontario, it was
decided that he, on behalf of the loyal element of Fort Garry, should
put their case before his Excellency the Governor-General himself,
and ask for redress and protection. After careful discussion, I
drafted a formal protest, which Lynch wrote out and signed, and we
went together to the Government House and delivered it there to one of
his Excellency's staff. Copies of this were given to the Press, and
attracted considerable attention. This protest was as follows:
RUSSELL'S HOTEL, OTTAWA
_12th April, 1870_.
MAY IT PLEASE YOUR EXCELLENCY,
Representing the loyal inhabitants of Red River both natives and
Canadians, and having heard with feelings of profound regret that your
Excellency's Government have it in consideration to receive and hear
the so-called delegates from Red River, I beg most humbly to approach
Your Excellency in order to lay before Your Excellency a statement of
the circumstances under which these men were appointed in order that
they may not be received or recognised as the true representatives of
the people of Red River.
These so-called delegates, Father Richot and Mr. Scott, were both
among the first organisers and promoters of the outbreak, and have
been supporters and associates of Mr. Riel and his faction from that
time to the present.
When the delegates were appointed at the convention the undersigned,
as well as some fifty others of the loyal people, were in prison on
account of having obeyed the Queen's proclamation issued by Governor
Macdougall. Riel had possession of the Fort, and most of the arms, and
a reign of terror existed throughout the whole settlement.
When the question came up in the convention, Riel took upon himself to
nominate Father Richot and Mr. Scott, and the convention, unable to
resist, overawed by an armed force, tacitly acquiesced.
Some time after their nomination a rising took place to release the
prisoners, and seven hundred men gathered in opposition to Riel's
government, and, having obtained the release of their prisoners,
and declared that they would not recognise Riel's authority, they
separated.
In the name and on behalf of the loyal people of Red River, comprising
about two-thirds of the whole population, I most humbly but firmly
enter the strongest protest against the reception of Father Richot
and Mr. Scott, as representing the inhabitants of Red River, as they
are simply the delegates of an armed minority.
I have also the honour to request that Your Excellency will be pleased
to direct that, in the event of an audience being granted to these
so-called delegates, that I may be confronted with them and given an
opportunity of refuting any false representations, and of expressing
at the same time the views and wishes of the loyal portion of the
inhabitants.
I have also the honour of informing Your Excellency that Thomas Scott,
one of our loyal subjects, has been cruelly murdered by Mr. Riel and
his associates, and that these so-called delegates were present at the
time of the murder, and are now here as the representatives before
Your Excellency of the council which confirmed the sentence.
I have also the honour to inform Your Excellency, that should Your
Excellency deem it advisable, I am prepared to provide the most ample
evidence to confirm the accuracy and truth of all the statements I
have here made.
I have the honour to be
Your Excellency's most humble and obedient servant,
JAMES LYNCH.
I believe this was cabled by his Excellency to the Home Government.
In the meantime Foster and our friends in Toronto were active in the
endeavour to prevent the reception of Richot and Scott. A brother of
the murdered Scott happened to be in Toronto, and on his application
a warrant was issued by Alexander Macnabb, the Police Magistrate
of Toronto, for the arrest of the two delegates, on the charge of
aiding and abetting in the murder. This warrant was sent to the Chief
of Police of Ottawa, with a request to have it executed, and the
prisoners sent to Toronto. Foster wrote to me and asked me to see the
Chief of Police and press the matter. When I saw the Chief he denied
having received it. I took him with me to the Post Office, and we asked
for the letter containing it. The officials denied having it. I said
at once that there was some underhand work, and that we would give the
information to the Press, and that it would arouse great indignation.
I was requested to be patient until further search could be made. It
was soon found, and I went before the Ottawa Police Magistrate, and
proved the warrant, as I knew Mr. Macnabb's signature. Then the men
were arrested. We discovered afterwards that the warrant had been taken
immediately on its arrival to Sir John A. Macdonald, and by him handed
to John Hillyard Cameron, Q.C., then a member of the House of Commons,
and a very prominent barrister, in order that he should devise some
method of meeting it. This was the cause of the Chief of Police denying
that he had received it. Mr. Scott, the complainant, came down to
Ottawa, and as we feared Mr. McNabb had no jurisdiction in the case, a
new information was sworn out in Ottawa before the Police Magistrate of
that City.
Richot and Scott were discharged on the Toronto warrant, and then
arrested on the new warrant. The case was adjourned for some days, but
it was impossible to get any definite evidence, as the loyal refugees
had been in prison, and knew nothing of what had happened except from
the popular report. Richot and Scott were therefore discharged, and
were received by the Government, and many concessions granted to the
rebels.
CHAPTER IV
THE RED RIVER EXPEDITION
During the spring of 1870 there had been an agitation in favour of
sending an expedition of troops to the Red River Settlement, to restore
the Queen's authority, to protect the loyal people still there, and
to give security to the exiles who desired to return to their homes.
The Canada First group had taken an active part in this agitation, and
had urged strongly that Colonel Wolseley (now Field-Marshal Viscount
Wolseley) should be sent in command. We knew that under his directions
the expedition would be successfully conducted, and that not only would
he have no sympathy with the enemy, but that he would not be a party
to any dishonest methods or underhand plotting. He had commanded the
camp of cadets at La Prairie in 1865, and had gained the confidence of
them all; afterwards at the camp at Thorold in August and September,
1866, he had nearly all the Ontario battalions of militia pass under
his command, so that there was no man in Canada who stood out more
prominently in the eyes of the people.
Popular opinion fixed upon Colonel Wolseley with unanimity for
the command, and the Government, although very anxious to send
Colonel Robertson Ross, Adjutant-General, could not stem the tide,
particularly as the Mother Country was sending a third of the
expedition and paying a share of the cost, and General Lindsay, who
commanded the Imperial forces in Canada, was fully aware of Colonel
Wolseley's high qualifications and fitness for the position.
The expedition was soon organised under Colonel Wolseley's skilful
leadership, and he started for Port Arthur from Toronto on the 21st
May, 1870. The Hon. George Brown had asked me to go up with the
expedition as correspondent for the _Globe_, and Colonel Wolseley had
urged me strongly to accept the offer and go with him. I should have
liked immensely to have taken part in the expedition, but we were
doubtful of the good faith of the Government, on account of the great
influence of Sir George Cartier and the French Canadian party, and
the decided feeling which they had shown in favour of the rebels. We
feared very much that there would be intrigues to betray or delay the
expedition. I was confident that Colonel Wolseley's real
|
only has the total tonnage
increased to this enormous extent, but an immense advance has been made
in increasing the size of vessels. The reason for this is, that it has
been found that where speed is required, along with large cargo and
passenger accommodation, a vessel of large dimensions is necessary, and
will give what is required with the least proportionate first cost as
well as working cost. Up to the present time the Inman line possessed,
in the City of Berlin, of 5,491 tons, the vessel of largest tonnage in
existence. Now, however, the Berlin is surpassed by the City of Rome by
nearly 3,000 tons, and the latter is less, by 200 tons, than the Servia,
of the Cunard line. It will be observed, too, that while there is not
much difference between the three vessels in point of length, the depth
of the Alaska and the City of Rome, respectively, is only 38 feet and 37
feet, that of the Servia is nearly 45 feet as compared with that of the
Great Eastern of 60 feet. This makes the Servia, proportionately, the
deepest ship of all. All three vessels are built of steel. This metal
was chosen not only because of its greater strength as against iron,
but also because it is more ductile and the advantage of less weight is
gained, as will be seen when it is mentioned that the Servia, if built
of iron, would have weighed 620 tons more than she does of steel, and
would have entailed the drawback of a corresponding increase in draught
of water. As regards rig, the three vessels have each a different style.
The Cunard Company have adhered to their special rig--three masts, bark
rigged--believing it to be more ship shape than the practice of fitting
up masts according to the length of the ship. On these masts there is a
good spread of canvas to assist in propelling the ship. The City of Rome
is rigged with four masts; and here the handsome full-ship rig of the
Inman line has been adhered to, with the addition of the fore and aft
rigged jigger mast, rendered necessary by the enormous length of the
vessel. It will be seen that the distinctive type of the Inman line
has not been departed from in respect to the old fashioned but still
handsome profile, with clipper bow, figurehead, and bowsprit--which
latter makes the Rome's length over all 600 feet. For the figurehead
has been chosen a full length figure of one of the Roman Cæsars, in the
imperial purple. Altogether, the City of Rome is the most imposing and
beautiful sight that can be seen on the water. The Alaska has also four
masts, but only two crossed.
The length of the City of Rome, as compared with breadth, insures long
and easy lines for the high speed required; and the depth of hold being
only 37 feet, as compared with the beam of 52 feet, insures great
stability and the consequent comfort of the passengers. A point calling
for special notice is the large number of separate compartments formed
by water tight bulkheads, each extending to the main deck. The largest
of these compartments is only about 60 feet long; and, supposing that
from collision or some other cause, one of these was filled with water,
the trim of the vessel would not be materially affected. With a view to
giving still further safety in the event of collision or stranding, the
boilers are arranged in two boiler rooms, entirely separated from each
other by means of a water tight iron bulkhead. This reduces what, in
nearly all full-powered steamships, is a vast single compartment, into
two of moderate size, 60 feet in length; and in the event of either
boiler room being flooded, it still leaves the vessel with half her
boiler power available, giving a speed of from thirteen to fourteen
knots per hour. The vessel's decks are of iron, covered with teak
planking; while the whole of the deck houses, with turtle decks and
other erections on the upper deck, are of iron, to stand the strains
of an Atlantic winter. Steam is supplied by eight cylindrical tubular
boilers, fired from both ends, each of the boilers being 19 feet long
and having 14 feet mean diameter. There are in all forty eight furnaces.
The internal arrangements are of the finest description. There are two
smoking rooms, and in the after deckhouse is a deck saloon for ladies,
which is fitted up in the most elegant manner, and will prevent the
necessity of going below in showery weather. At the sides of the
hurricane deck are carried twelve life boats, one of which is fitted as
a steam launch. The upper saloon or drawing-room is 100 feet long, the
height between decks being 9 feet. The grand dining-saloon is 52 feet
long, 52 feet wide, and 9 feet high, or 17 feet in the way of the large
opening to the drawing-room above. This opening is surmounted by a
skylight, and forms a very effective and elegant relief to the otherwise
flat and heavy ceiling. There are three large and fourteen small dining
tables, the large tables being arranged longitudinally in the central
part of the saloon, and the small tables at right angles on the sides.
Each diner has his own revolving arm chair, and accommodation is
provided for 250 persons at once. A large American organ is fixed at the
fore end of the room, and opening off through double spring doors at the
foot of the grand staircase is a handsome American luncheon bar, with
the usual fittings. On each side of the vessel, from the saloon to the
after end of the engine room, are placed staterooms providing for 300
passengers. The arrangements for steerage passengers are of a superior
description. The berths are arranged in single tiers or half rooms, not
double, as is usually the custom, each being separated by a passage,
and having a large side light, thus adding greatly to the light,
ventilation, and comfort of the steerage passengers, and necessitating
the advantage of a smaller number of persons in each room. The City
of Rome is the first of the two due here; she sails from Liverpool on
October 13.
In the Servia the machinery consists of three cylinder compound surface
condensing engines, one cylinder being 72 inches, and two 100 inches in
diameter, with a stroke of piston of 6 feet 6 inches. There are seven
boilers and thirty-nine furnaces. Practically the Servia is a five
decker, as she is built with four decks--of steel, covered with yellow
pine--and a promenade reserved for passengers. There is a music room on
the upper deck, which is 50 feet by 22 feet, and which is handsomely
fitted up with polished wood panelings. For the convenience of the
passengers there are no less than four different entrances from the
upper deck to the cabins. The saloon is 74 feet by 49 feet, with sitting
accommodations for 350 persons, while the clear height under the beams
is 8 feet 6 inches. The sides are all in fancy woods, with beautifully
polished inlaid panels, and all the upholstery of the saloon is of
morocco leather. For two-thirds of its entire length the lower deck is
fitted up with first class staterooms. The ship is divided into nine
water-tight bulkheads, and she is built according to the Admiralty
requirements for war purposes. There are in all twelve boats equipped
as life-boats. The Servia possesses a peculiarity which will add to her
safety, namely, a double bottom, or inner skin. Thus, were she to
ground on rocks, she would be perfectly safe, so long as the inner skin
remained intact. Steam is used for heating the cabins and saloons, and
by this means the temperature can be properly adjusted in all weathers.
In every part of the vessel the most advanced scientific improvements
have been adopted. The Servia leaves Liverpool on October 22.
The Alaska, whose owners, it is understood, are determined to make her
beat all afloat in speed, does not sail until November 5, and therefore
it is premature to say anything about her interior equipments. She is
the sister of the celebrated Arizona, and was built by the well-known
firm of Elder & Co., on the Clyde.
* * * * *
IMPROVED ROAD LOCOMOTIVE.
Several attempts have been made to connect the leading wheels of a
traction engine with the driving wheels, so as to make drivers of all of
them, and thus increase the tractive power of the engine, and to afford
greater facilities for getting along soft ground or out of holes. The
wheels with continuous railway and India-rubber tires have been employed
to gain the required adhesion, but these wheels have been too costly,
and the attempts to couple driving and leading wheels have failed. The
arrangement for making the leading wheels into drivers, illustrated
on page 4825, has been recently brought out by the Durham and North
Yorkshire Steam Cultivation Company, Ripon, the design being by Messrs.
Johnson and Phillips. The invention consists in mounting the leading
axle in a ball and long socket, the socket being rotated in fixed
bearings. The ball having but limited range of motion in the socket, is
driven round with it, but is free to move in azimuth for steering.
This engine has now been in use more than twelve months in traction
and thrashing work, and, we are informed, with complete success. The
illustrations represent a 7-horse power, with a cylinder 8 in. diameter
by 12 in. stroke, and steam jacketed. The shafts and axles are of
Bowling iron. The boiler contains 140 ft. of heating surface, and is
made entirely of Bowling iron, with the longitudinal seams welded. The
gearing is fitted with two speeds arranged to travel at 1½ and 3 miles
per hour, and the front or hind road wheels can be put out of gear when
not required. The hind driving wheels are 5 ft. 6 in. diameter, and the
front wheels 5 ft.; weight of engine 8 tons.--_The Engineer._
[Illustration: IMPROVED ROAD LOCOMOTIVE]
[Illustration: IMPROVED ROAD LOCOMOTIVE]
* * * * *
AMERICAN MILLING METHODS.
[Footnote 1: A paper read before the meeting of the Pennsylvania State
Millers Association at Pittsburgh, Pa., by Albert Hoppin, Editor of the
_Northwestern Miller_.]
By ALBERT HOPPIN.
To speak of the wonderful strides which the art of milling has taken
during the past decade has become exceedingly trite. This progress,
patent to the most casual observer, is a marked example of the power
inherent in man to overcome natural obstacles. Had the climatic
conditions of the Northwest allowed the raising of as good winter wheat
as that raised in winter wheat sections generally, I doubt if we should
hear so much to-day of new processes and gradual reduction systems. So
long as the great bulk of our supply of breadstuffs came from the winter
wheat fields, progress was very slow; the mills of 1860, and I may even
say of 1870, being but little in advance, so far as processes were
concerned, of those built half a century earlier. The reason for this
lack of progress may be found in the ease with which winter wheat could
be made into good, white, merchantable flour. That this flour was
inferior to the flour turned out by winter wheat mills now is proven by
the old recipe for telling good flour from that which was bad, viz.: To
throw a handful against the side of the barrel, if it stuck there it was
good, the color being of a yellowish cast. What good winter wheat patent
to-day will do this? Still the old time winter wheat flour was the best
there was, and it had no competitor. The settling up of the Northwest
which could not produce winter wheat at all, but which did produce a
most superior article of hard spring wheat, was a new factor in the
milling problem. The first mills built in the spring wheat States tried
to make flour on the old system and made a most lamentable failure of
it. I can remember when the farmer in Wisconsin, who liked a good loaf
of bread, thought it necessary to raise a little patch of winter wheat
for his own use. He oftener failed than succeeded, and most frequently
gave it up as a bad job. Spring wheat was hard, with a very tender,
brittle bran. If ground fine enough to make a good yield a good share
of the bran went into the flour, making it dark and specky. If not
so finely ground the flour was whiter, but the large percentage of
middlings made the yield per bushel ruinously small. These middlings
contained the choicest part of the flour producing part of the berry,
but owing to the dirt, germ, and other impurities mixed with them, it
was impossible to regrind them except for a low grade flour. Merchant
milling of spring wheat was impossible wherever the flour came in
competition with winter wheat flours. At Minneapolis, where the millers
had an almost unlimited water power, and wheat at the lowest price,
merchant milling was almost given up as impracticable. It was certainly
unprofitable. To the apparently insurmountable obstacles in the way of
milling spring wheat successfully, we may ascribe the progress of modern
milling. Had it been as easy to raise good winter wheat in Wisconsin and
Minnesota as in Pennsylvania and Ohio, or as easy to make white flour
from spring as from winter wheat, we should not have heard of purifiers
and roller mills for years to come.
The first step in advance was the introduction of a machine to purify
middlings. It was found that the flour made from these purified
middlings was whiter than the flour from the first grinding and brought
a better price than even winter wheat flours. Then the aim was to make
as many middlings as possible. To do this and still clean the bran so
as to make a reasonable yield the dress of the burrs was more carefully
attended to, the old fashioned cracks were left out, the faces and
furrows made smooth, true, and uniform, self-adjusting drivers
introduced, and the driving gear better fitted. Spring wheat patents
rapidly rose to the first place in the market, and winter wheat millers
waked up to find their vantage ground occupied by their hitherto
contemned rivals. To their credit it may be said that they have not
been slow in taking up the gauntlet, and through the competition of the
millers of the two climatically divided sections of this country with
each other and among themselves the onward march of milling progress has
been constantly accelerated. Where it will end no man can tell, and
the chief anxiety of every progressive miller, whether he lives in
Pennsylvania or Minnesota, is not to be left behind in the race.
The millers of the more Eastern winter wheat States have a two-fold
question to solve. First, how to make a flour as good as can be found in
the market, and second, how to meet Western competition, which, through
cheap raw material and discriminating freight rates, is making serious
inroads upon the local markets. Whether the latter trouble can be
remedied by legislature, either State or national, or not, remains to be
proven by actual trial. That you can solve the first part of the problem
satisfactorily to yourselves depends upon your readiness to adopt new
ideas and the means you have at hand to carry them out. It is manifestly
impossible to make as good a flour out of soft starchy wheat as out of
that which is harder and more glutinous. It is equally impossible for
the small mill poorly provided with machinery to cope successfully
with the large merchant mill fully equipped with every appliance that
American ingenuity can suggest and money can buy. I believe, however,
that a mill of moderate size can make flour equally as good as the large
mill, though, perhaps, not as economically in regard to yield and cost
of manufacture.
The different methods of milling at present in use may be generally
divided into three distinct processes, which, for want of any better
names, I will distinguish as old style, new process, and gradual
reduction. Perhaps the German division of low milling, half high
milling, and high milling is better. Old style milling was that in
general use in this country up to 1870, and which is still followed in
the great majority of small custom or grist mills. It is very simple,
consisting of grinding the wheat as fine as possible at the first
grinding, and separating the meal into flour, superfine or extra,
middlings, shorts, and bran. Given a pair of millstones and reel long
enough, and the wheat could be made into flour by passing through the
two. Because spring wheat was so poorly adapted to this crude process,
it had to be improved and elaborated, resulting in the new process.
At first this merely consisted of purifying and regrinding the middlings
made in the old way. In its perfected state it may be said to be halfway
between the old style and gradual reduction, and is in use now in many
mills. In it mill stones are used to make the reductions which are only
two in number, in the first of which the aim of the miller is to make as
many middlings as he can while cleaning the bran reasonably well, and
in the second to make the purified middlings into flour. In the most
advanced mills which use the new process, the bran is reground and the
tailings from the coarse middlings, containing germ and large middlings
with pieces of bran attached, are crushed between two rolls. These
can hardly be counted as reductions, as they are simply the finishing
touches, put on to aid in working the stuff up clean and to permit of
a little higher grinding at first. Regarding both old style and new
process milling, you are already posted. Gradual reduction is newer,
much more extensive, and merits a much more thorough explanation. Before
entering upon this I will call your attention to one or two points which
every miller should understand.
The two essential qualities of a good marketable flour are color and
strength. It should be sharply granular and not feel flat and soft to
the touch. A wheat which has an abundance of starch, but is poor in
gluten, cannot make a strong flour. This is the trouble with all soft
wheats, both winter and spring. A wheat which is rich in gluten is hard,
and in the case of our hard Minnesota wheat has a very tender bran.
It is comparatively easy to make a strong flour, but it requires very
careful milling to make a flour of good color from it. Probably the
wheat which combines the most desirable qualities for flour-making
purposes is the red Mediterranean, which has plenty of gluten and a
tough bran, though claimed by some to have a little too much coloring
matter, while the body of the berry is white. By poor milling a good
wheat can be made into flour deficient both in strength and color, and
by careful milling a wheat naturally deficient in strength may be made
into flour having all the strength there was in the wheat originally and
of good color. Good milling is indispensable, no matter what the quality
of the wheat may be.
The idea of gradual reduction milling was borrowed by our millers from
the Hungarian mills. There is, however, this difference between the
Hungarian system and gradual reduction, as applied in this country, that
in the former, when fully carried out, the products of the different
breaks are kept separate to the end, and a large number of different
grades of flour made, while in the system, as applied in this country,
the separations are combined at different stages and usually only three
different grades of flour made, viz.: patent, baker's, or as it is
termed in Minnesota, clear flour, and low grade or red dog. In the
largest mills the patent is often subdivided into first and second, and
they may make different grades of baker's flour, these mills approaching
much nearer to the Hungarian system, though modifying it to American
methods and machinery. In mills of from three to five hundred barrels
daily capacity, it is hardly possible or profitable to go to this
subdivision of grades, owing to the excessive amount of machinery
necessary to handling the stuff in its different stages of completion.
The Hungarian system has, therefore, been greatly modified by American
millers and milling engineers to adapt it to the requirements of mills
of average capacity. This modified Hungarian system we call gradual
reduction. It can be profitably employed in any mill large enough to run
at all on merchant work. So far it has not been found practicable to use
it in mills of less than one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and
fifty barrels capacity in twenty-four hours, and it is better to have
the mill of at least double this capacity.
Gradual reduction, as its name implies, consists in reducing the
wheat to flour, shorts, and bran, by several successive operations or
reductions technically called breaks, the process going on gradually,
each break leaving the material a little finer than the preceding one.
Usually five reductions or breaks are made, though six or seven may be
used. The larger the number of breaks the more complicated the system
becomes, and it is preferable to keep it as simple as possible, for even
at its simplest it requires a good, wide-awake thinking miller to handle
it successfully. When it is thoroughly and systematically carried out in
the mill it is without question as much in advance of the new process as
that is ahead of the old style of milling.
In order that I may convey to you as clear an idea of gradual milling
reduction as possible, I will give as fully as possible the programme of
a mill of one hundred and fifty barrels maximum daily capacity designed
to work on mixed hard and soft spring wheat, and which probably will
come much nearer to meeting the conditions under which you have to mill
than any other I have found readily obtainable. I have chosen a mill of
this size, first, because following out the programme of a larger one
would require too much time and too great a repetition of details and
not give you any clearer idea of the main principles involved, and
secondly, because I thought it would come nearer meeting the average
requirements of the members of your association. Your worthy secretary
cautioned me that I must remember that I was going to talk to winter
wheat millers. The main principles and methods of gradual reduction are
the same, whether applied to spring or winter wheat; the details may
have to be varied to suit the varying conditions under which different
mills are operated. For this programme I am indebted to Mr. James Pye,
of Minneapolis, who is rapidly gaining an enviable and well deserved
reputation as a milling engineer, and one who has given much study to
the practical planning and working of gradual reduction mills.
And right here let me say that no miller should undertake to build
a gradual reduction mill, or to change over his mill to the gradual
reduction system, until he has consulted with some good milling engineer
(the term millwright means very little nowadays), and obtained from him
a programme which shall fit the size of the mill, the stock upon which
it has to work, and the grade of flour which it is to make. This
programme is to the miller what a chart is to the sailor. It shows him
the course he must pursue, how the stuff must be handled, and where it
must go. Without it he will be "going it blind," or at best only feeling
his way in the dark. A gradual reduction mill, to be successful, must
have a well-defined system, and to have this system, the miller must
have a definite plan to work by. But to go on with my programme.
The wheat is first cleaned as thoroughly as possible to remove all
extraneous impurities. In the cleaning operations care should be taken
to scratch or abrade the bran as little as possible, for this reason:
The outer coating of the bran is hard and more or less friable. Wherever
it is scratched a portion is liable to become finely comminuted in the
subsequent reductions, so finely that it is impossible to separate it
from the flour by bolting, and consequently the grade of the latter is
lowered. The ultimate purpose of the miller being to separate the flour
portion of the berry from dirt, germ, and bran it is important that he
does not at any stage of the process get any dirt or fine bran speck or
dust mixed in with his flour, for if he does he cannot get rid of it
again. So it must be borne in mind that at all stages of flouring, any
abrasion or comminution of the bran is to be avoided as far as possible.
After the wheat is cleaned, it is by the first break or reduction split
or cut open, in order to liberate the germ and crease impurities. As
whatever of dirt is liberated by this break becomes mixed in with the
flour, it is desirable to keep the amount of the latter as small as
possible. Indeed, in all the reductions the object is to make as little
flour and as many middlings as possible, for the reason that the latter
can be purified, while the former cannot, at least by any means at
present in use. After the first break the cracked wheat goes to a
scalping reel covered with No. 22 wire cloth. The flour, middlings,
etc., go through the cloth, and the cracked wheat goes over the tail of
the reel to the second machine, which breaks it still finer. After this
break the flour and middlings are scalped out on a reel covered with
No. 22 wire cloth. The tailings go to the third machine, and are still
further reduced, then through a reel covered with No. 24 wire cloth. The
tailings go to the fourth machine, which makes them still finer, then
through a fourth scalping reel the same as the third. The tailings from
this reel are mostly bran with some middlings adhering, and go to the
fifth machine, which cleans the bran. From this break the material
passes to a reel covered with bolting cloth varying in fineness from No.
10 at the head to No. 00 at the tail. What goes over the tail of this
reel is sent to the bran bin, and that which goes through next to the
tail of the reel, goes to the shorts bin. The middlings from this reel
go to a middlings purifier, which I will call No. 1, or bran middlings
purifier. The flour which comes from this reel is sent to the chop reel
covered at the head with say No. 9, with about No. 5 in the middle and
No 0 at the tail. You will remember that after each reduction the flour
and middlings were taken out by the scalping reels. This chop, as it is
now called, also goes to the same reel I have just mentioned. The
coarse middlings which go over the tail of this reel go to a middlings
purifier, which I will designate as No. 2. These go through the No. 0
cloth at the tail of the reel purifier No. 3; those which go through No.
5 cloth got to purifier No. 4; while all that goes through the No. 9
cloth at the head of the reel is dropped to a second reel clothed with
Nos. 13 to 15 cloth with two feet of No. 10 at the tail. The flour from
this reel goes to the baker's flour packer; that which drops through the
No. 10 is sent to the middlings stone, while that which goes over the
tail of the reel goes to purifier No. 4. We have now disposed of all the
immediate products of the first five breaks, tracing them successively
to the bran and shorts bins, to the baker's flour packer and to the
middlings purifiers, a very small portion going to the middlings stone
without going through the purifiers.
The middlings are handled as follows in the purifiers. From the No. 1
machine, which takes the middlings from the fifth break, the tailings go
to the shorts bin, the middlings which are sufficiently well purified go
to the middlings stone, while those from near the tail of the machine
which contain a little germ and bran specks go to the second germ rolls,
these being a pair of smooth rolls which flatten out the germ and crush
the middlings, loosening adhering particles from the bran specks. From
the second germ rolls the material goes to a reel, where it is separated
into flour which goes into the baker's grade, fine middlings which are
returned to the second germ rolls at once, some still coarser which go
to a pair of finely corrugated iron rolls for red dog, and what goes
over the tail of the reel goes to the shorts bin. The No. 2 purifier
takes the coarse middlings from the tail of the first or chop reel as
already stated. The tailings from this machine go to the shorts bin,
some few middlings from next the tail of the machine are returned to the
head of the same machine, while the remainder are sent to the first germ
rolls. The reason for returning is more to enable the miller to keep a
regular feed on the purifiers than otherwise. The No. 3 purifier takes
the middlings from the 0 cloth on the chop reel. From purifier No. 3
they drop to purifier No. 5. A small portion that are not sufficiently
well purified are returned to the head of No. 3, while those from the
head of the machine, which are well purified, are sent to the middlings
stones. The remainder, which contain a great deal of the germ, are taken
to the first germ rolls, in passing which they are crushed lightly to
flatten the germ without making any more flour than necessary. The No. 4
purifier takes the middlings from No. 2 and also from No. 5 cloth on
the chop reel and from the No. 10 on the tail of the baker's reel. The
middlings from the head of this machine go to the middlings stones, and
the remainder to purifier No. 6. The tailings from Nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6
go to the red dog rolls. A small portion not sufficiently well purified
are returned from No. 6 to the head of No. 4, while the cleaned
middlings go to the middlings stones.
The portions of the material which have not been traced either to the
baker's flour or the bran and shorts bins are the middlings which have
gone to the middlings stones, the germy middlings which have gone to the
first germ rolls, and the tailings from purifiers Nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6,
and some little stuff not quite poor enough for shorts from the reel
following the second germ rolls. Taking these _seriatim_: the middlings
after passing through the middlings stones, go to the first patent reel
covered with eleven feet of No. 13 and four feet of No. 8. The flour
from the head of the reel goes to the patent packer, that from the
remainder of the reel is dropped to another reel, while the tailings go
to the No. 4 purifier. The lower patent reel is clothed with No. 14 and
two feet of No. 10 cloth; from the head of the reel the flour goes to
the patent packer, the remainder that passes through the No. 10 cloth
which will not do to go into the patent, being returned to the middlings
stones, while the tailings are sent to the No. 4 purifier.
The germ middlings, after being slightly crushed as before stated, are
sent to a reel covered with five feet of No. 13 cloth, five feet of No.
14, and the balance with cloth varying in coarseness from No. 7 to No.
00. The flour from this reel goes into the patent, the tailings to the
red dog rolls, the middlings from next the tail of the reel which still
contain some germ to the second germ rolls, while the middlings which
are free from germ go to the middlings stones.
The tailings from purifiers 3, 4, 5, and 6, the material from the reel
following the second germ rolls, which is too good for shorts, but not
good enough to be returned into middlings again, and the tailings from
the reel following the first germ rolls are sent to the red dog rolls,
which, as I have stated, are finely corrugated. Following these rolls is
the red dog reel. The flour goes to the red dog bin, the tailings to
the shorts bin, while some stuff intermediate between the two, not fine
enough for the flour but too good for shorts, is returned to the red dog
rolls.
This finishes the programme. I have not given it as one which is exactly
suited to winter wheat milling. However, as I said before, the general
principles are the same in either winter or wheat gradual reduction
mills, and the various systems of gradual reduction, although they
differ in many points, and although there are probably no two engineers
who would agree as to all the details of a programme, the main ideas
are essentially the same. The system has been well described as one of
gradual and continued purification. In the programme above given the
idea was to fit up a mill which should do a maximum amount of work of
good quality with a minimum amount of expenditure and machinery. In a
larger mill or even in a mill of the same capacity where money was not
an object, the various separations would probably be handled a little
differently, the flour and middlings from the first and fifth breaks
being handled together, and those from the second, third, and fourth
breaks being also handled together. The reason for this separation being
that the flour from the first and fifth breaks contain, the first a
great deal of crease dirt, and the fifth more bran dust than that from
the other breaks, the result being a lower grade of flour. The object
all along being to keep the amount of flour with which dirt can get
mixed as small as possible, and not to lower the grade of any part of
the product by mixing it with that which is inferior, always bearing in
mind that the aim is to make as many middlings as possible, for they can
be purified while the flour can not, and that whenever any dirt is once
eliminated it should be kept out afterwards. This leads me to say that
if a miller thinks the adoption of rolls or reduction machines is all
there is of the system, he is very much mistaken. If anything, more of
the success of the mill depends upon the careful handling of the stuff
after the breaks are made, and here the miller who is in earnest to
master the gradual reduction system will find his greatest opportunities
for study and improvement. A few years back it was an axiom of the trade
that the condition of the millstone was the key to successful
milling. This was true because the subsequent process of bolting was
comparatively simple. Now the mere making of the breaks is a small
matter compared with the complex separations which come after. In
the foregoing programme we had five breaks or successive reductions.
Although this is better than a smaller number, I will here say that
it is not absolutely essential, for very good work is done with four
breaks. The mill for which this programme was made, including the
building, cost about $15,000, and is designed to make about sixty per
cent. of patent, thirty-five per cent. of baker's, and five per cent.
of low grade, results which are in advance of many larger and more
pretentious mills.
One difficulty in the way of adapting the gradual reduction system to
mills of very small capacity is that the various machines require to be
loaded to a certain degree in order to work at their best. It is only a
matter of short time when our milling inventors will design machinery
especially for small mills; in fact they are now doing it, and every
day brings it more within the power of the small miller to improve his
manner of milling. To show what can be done in this direction I will
briefly describe a mill of about ninety barrels maximum capacity per
twenty-four hours, which is as small as can be profitably worked. I will
premise this description by saying it is designed with a view to the
greatest economy of cost, the best trade of work, and to reduce the
amount of machinery and the handling of the stuff as much as possible.
This latter point is of much importance in any mill, either large or
small, no matter upon what system it is operated, for it takes power to
run elevators and conveyors, and especially in elevating and conveying
middlings, especially those made from winter wheat, their quality is
inured and a loss incurred, by the unavoidable amount of flour made by
|
moist
cigar. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and Clancy noticed that the noisily
striped shirt he wore, although there was an ornate monogram upon the
left sleeve, was of a flimsy and cheap grade of silk.
"Welcome to our city, chicken!" was his greeting. "Sit down and take a
load off your feet."
His huge chest, padded with fat, shook with merriment at his own
witticism.
"Is this Mr. Beiner?" asked Clancy. From her face and voice she kept
disgust.
"Not to you, dearie," said the man. "I'm 'Morris' to my friends, and
that's what you and I are goin' to be, eh?"
She colored, hating herself for that too easy flow of blood to cheek and
throat.
"Why--why--that's very kind of you," she stammered.
Beiner waved his cigar grandiloquently.
"Bein' kind to pretty fillies is the best thing I do. What can I do for
you?"
"Mademoiselle"--Clancy painfully articulated each syllable of the French
word according to the best pronunciation taught in the Zenith High
School--"Fanchon DeLisle gave me a card to you."
Beiner nodded.
"Oh, yes. How is Fanchon? How'd you happen to meet her?"
"In my home town in Maine," answered Clancy. "She was ill with the
'flu,' and we got right well acquainted. She told me that you'd get me
into the movies."
Beiner eyed her appraisingly.
"Well, I've done stranger things than that," he chuckled. "What's your
name, dearie?"
Clancy had read quite a bit of New York, of Broadway. Also, she had had
an experience in the free-and-easy familiarity of Broadway's folk last
night. Although she colored again at the "dearie," she did not resent it
in speech.
"Florine Ladue," she replied.
Beiner laughed.
"What's that? Spanish for Maggie Smith? It's all right, kid. Don't get
mad. I'm a great joker, I am. Florine Ladue you say it is, and Florine
Ladue it'll be. Well, Florine, what makes you want to go into the
movies?"
Clancy looked bewildered.
"Why--why does any one want to do anything?"
"God knows!" said Beiner. "Especially if the 'any one' is a young,
pretty girl. But still, people do want to do something, and I'm one guy
that helps some of 'em do it. Ever been in the movies at all?" Clancy
shook her head. "Done any acting?"
"I played in 'The Rivals' at the high-school graduation," she confessed.
"Well, we'll keep that a dark secret," said Beiner. "You're an amachoor,
eh? And Fanchon DeLisle gave you a card to me."
"Here it is," said Clancy. She produced the card from her pocketbook and
handed it to the agent. Her fingers shook.
Beiner took the card, glanced at it carelessly, and dropped it upon his
desk.
"From the country, eh? Ingénue, eh?" He pronounced it "anjenoo." He
tapped his stubby, broken-nailed fingers upon the edge of his desk.
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if I could place you," he said. "I know a
couple companies that are hot after a real anjenoo. That's nice skin you
have. Turn round."
Clancy stifled an impulse to laugh hysterically. Tears were very close.
To be appraised by this gross man---- Nevertheless, she turned slowly
round, feeling the man's coarse eyes roving up and down the lines of her
figure.
"You got the looks, and you got the shape," said Beiner. "You ain't too
big, and you ain't too small. 'Course, I can't tell how you'll
photograph. Only a test will show. Still----" He picked up the desk
telephone and asked for a number.
"Hildebloom there? This is Beiner talking. Say, Frank, you wanted an
anjenoo, didn't you? I got a girl here in the office now that might
do.... Yes; she's a peach. Fresh stuff, too. Just in from the country,
with the bloom all on.... Bring her around? At six? You made a date,
feller."
He hung up the receiver and turned to the furiously blushing Clancy.
"You're lucky, kid. Frank Hildebloom, studio manager for Rosebush
Pictures, asked me to keep my eyes open for some new girls. He's a queer
bug, Frank. He don't want professionals. He wants amateurs. Claims most
of the professionals have learned so many tricks that it's impossible to
unlearn them. I'll take you over to him. Come back here at five."
Somehow or other, Clancy found herself outside the office, found
herself in the elevator, in the street down-stairs. She'd expected much;
she had come to New York with every confidence of achieving a great
success. But doubts linger unbidden in the hearts of the most hopeful,
the most ambitious, the most confident. To have those recreant doubts
scattered on the very first day! Of course she'd photograph well. Hadn't
she always taken good pictures? Of course, moving pictures were
different; still---- She wished that there were some one whom she knew
intimately--to whom she could go and pour out the excitement that was
welling within her. What an angel Fanchon DeLisle had been! Poor
Fanchon--a soubrette in a cheap burlesque company! But she, Clancy
Deane--she was forgetting. She, Florine Ladue, would "do something" for
Fanchon DeLisle, who had set her feet upon the path to fortune.
She didn't know what she'd do, but she'd do something. She beheld a
vision, in which Fanchon DeLisle embraced her with tears, thanked her.
She endowed a school for film-acting in Zenith, Maine.
She walked through Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue. She boarded a
passing 'bus and rode up-town. She did not know the names of the hotels
she passed, the great mansions, but--famous actresses were received
everywhere, had social position equal to the best. In a year or so, she
would ride up the avenue in her own limousine. At Grant's Tomb, she left
the 'bus. She walked along Riverside Drive, marveling at the Palisades.
Hunger attacked her, and she lunched at Claremont, thrilling with
excitement, and careless of prices upon the menu. She was going into
the movies! What did a couple of dollars more or less matter to her?
Still moving in a glowing haze, out of which her name in brilliant
electric lights thrust itself, she returned in mid-afternoon to the
Napoli. Carefully she bathed herself. As meticulously as though she were
going to her wedding, she dressed herself in fresh linen, in her best
pair of silk stockings. She buttoned herself into her prettiest waist,
brushed the last speck of lint from her blue suit, adjusted her hat to
the most fascinatingly coquettish angle, and set forth for the
Heberworth Building.
At its doorway, she stepped aside just in time to avoid being knocked
down by a man leaving the building in great haste. The man turned to
apologize. He wore a bandage across one eye, and his hat was pulled down
over his face. Nevertheless, that mop of dark hair rendered him
recognizable anywhere. It was Zenda!
For a moment, she feared recognition. But the movie director was
thinking of other things than pretty girls. Her hat shielded her face,
too. With a muttered, "Beg pardon," Zenda moved on.
He had not seen her--this time. But another time? For years to come, she
was to be in a business where, necessarily, she must come into contact
with a person so eminent in that business as Zenda. Then, once again,
common sense reasserted itself. She had done nothing wrong. She could
prove her lack of knowledge of the character of Fay Marston and her
husband. Her pretty face was defiant as she entered the Heberworth
Building.
IV
It was an excited Beiner that threw open the door when she knocked at
his office a moment later. The cigar stuck between his thick lips was
unlighted; his silk shirt, although it was cold outside, with a hint of
snow in the tangy atmosphere, and there was none too much heat in the
Heberworth Building, clung to his chest, and perspiration stained it.
"Come in," he said hoarsely. He stood aside, holding the handle of the
door. He closed it as Clancy entered, and she heard the click of the
latch.
She wheeled like a flash.
"Unlock it!" she commanded.
Beiner waved a fat hand carelessly.
"We got to talk business, kid. We don't want any interruption. You ain't
afraid of me, are you?"
Clancy's heaving breast slowed down. She was not afraid of Beiner; she
had never seen any one, man or woman, in her brief life, of whom she was
afraid. Further, to allay her alarm, Beiner sat down in his swivel
chair. She sat down herself, in a chair nearer the locked door.
"Quite a kidder, ain't you, Florine?" asked Beiner.
"I don't understand you," she replied.
He grinned, a touch of nervousness in the parting of the thick lips.
Then he closed them, rolling his wet cigar about in his mouth.
"Well, you will pretty soon," he said. "Anjenoo, eh? I gotta hand it to
you, Florine. You had _me_ fooled. Amachoor, eh? Played in 'The Rivals'
once?" He took the cigar from his mouth and shook it at her. "Naughty,
naughty, Florine, not to play fair with old papa Beiner!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Oh, no; of course not. Little Florine, fresh from Maine, doesn't know a
soul on Broadway. Of course not! She gets a letter from Fanny DeLisle to
old papa Beiner, and wants a job in the movies, bless her dear, sweet
heart! Only"--and his voice lost its mocking tones and became
reproachful--"was that the square way to treat her friend Morris?"
"I came here," said Clancy coldly, "to keep a business engagement, not
to answer puzzles. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Now, be nice; be nice," said the agent. "I ain't mad, Florine. Didn't
Fanny DeLisle tell you I was a good old scout?"
"She said that you were a very competent agent," said Clancy.
"Oh, did she, now?" Beiner sneered. "Well, wasn't that sweet of old
Fanny? She didn't happen to say that anybody that tried to trim old
Morris was liable to get their hair cut, did she?"
All fear had left Clancy now. She was exasperated.
"Why don't you talk plain English?" she demanded.
"Oh, you'd like it better that way, would you?" Beiner threw his cigar
upon the floor and ground his heel upon it. "'Plain English,' eh? All
right; you'll get it. Why did Ike Weber send you here?"
Clancy's breath sucked in audibly. Her face, that had been colored with
nervous indignation, whitened.
"'Ike Weber?'" she murmured.
Beiner laughed harshly.
"Now, nix on the rube stuff, Florine. I got your number, kid. Paul Zenda
just left my office. He wants to know where Weber is. He told me about
the jam last night. And he mentioned that there was a little girl at his
house that answered to the name of Florine. I got him to describe that
little girl."
"Did you tell him," gasped Clancy, "that I was coming here this
afternoon?"
"You understand me better, don't you?" sneered Beiner. "Oh, you and
me'll get along together fine, Florine, if you got the good sense you
look like you have. Did I tell Zenda that I knew you? Well, look me
over, Florine. Do I look like a guy that was just cuttin' his first
teeth? Of course I didn't tell him anything. I let him tell me. It's a
grand rule, Florine--let the other guy spill what's on _his_ chest.
'Course, there's exceptions to that rule, like just now. I'm spillin'
what I know to you, and willin' to wait for you to tell me what I want
to know. Suppose I put my cards right down where you can see 'em,
Florine?"
She could only stare at him dumbly. Zenda was a big man in the picture
industry. He'd been robbed and beaten. Last night, he'd seemed to her
the sort of man who, for all his dreaminess, would not easily forget a
friend or a foe. He was important enough to ruin Clancy's picture career
before it began.
Beiner took her silence for acquiescence.
"Zenda gets trimmed last night in a stud game. He's been gettin' trimmed
for a long time, but he ain't really wise to the scheme. But last night
his wife watches close. She gets hep to what Ike Weber is doin'. There's
a grand row, and Zenda gets slugged, and Weber takes a lickin', too. But
they ain't got any real evidence on Weber. Not enough to have him
pinched, anyway, even if Zenda decides to go that far. But Zenda wants
his money back." Beiner chuckled. "I don't blame him. A hundred thousand
is a wad of kale, even in these days. So he comes to me.
"Some time ago I had a little run-in with Ike Weber. I happen to know a
lot about Ike. For instance, that his brokerage business is a stall. He
ain't got any business that he couldn't close out in ten minutes. Well,
Ike and I have a little row. It don't matter what it's all about. But I
drop a hint to Paul Zenda that it wouldn't do any harm for him to be
careful who he plays stud with. Paul is mighty curious; but I don't tell
him any more than that. Why should I? There was nothing in it for me.
But Paul remembers last night what I'd told him--he'd been suspicious
for quite a while of Weber--and to-day he hot-foots it to me. So now,
you see, Florine, how you and me can do a little business."
"How?" asked Clancy.
"Oh, drop it!" snapped Beiner. "Quit the milk-maid stuff! You're a wise
little girl, or you wouldn't be trailin' round with Ike Weber.
Now--where's Ike? And why did Ike send you to me?"
Clancy shook her head vehemently.
"I don't know him. I never met him until last night. I don't know
anything at all about him."
Beiner stared at her. For many years, he had dealt with actresses. He
knew feigned indignation when he heard it. He believed Clancy. Still,
even though he believed, he wanted proof.
"How'd you meet him?" he asked.
Clancy told him about her arrival in New York, her meeting with Fay
Marston, and what had followed, even to Fay's late visit and her
statement that she was married to Weber and was leaving town.
"And that's every single thing I know about them," she said. Her voice
shook. The tears stood in her eyes. "I ran away because I was
frightened, and I'm going right to Mr. Zenda and explain to him."
For a moment, Beiner did not speak. He took a cigar from the open case
on his desk and lighted it. He rolled it round in his mouth until
one-half its stubby length was wet. Then, from the corner of his mouth,
he spoke.
"Why do that, kid? Why tell Zenda that Fay Marston practically confessed
to you?"
"So that Mr. Zenda won't think that--that I'm dishonest!" cried Clancy.
"Aw, fudge! Everybody's dishonest, more or less. And every one else
suspects them, even though they don't know anything against them. What
do you care what Zenda thinks?"
"What do I care?" Clancy was amazed.
"Sure. What do you care? Zenda can't do anything to you."
"He can keep me out of pictures, can't he?" cried Clancy.
Beiner shrugged.
"Oh, maybe for a week or two, a few people would be down on you,
but--what did you come to New York for, Florine, to make friends or
money?"
"What has that to do with it?" she asked.
Beiner leaned over toward her.
"A whole lot, Florine. I could 'a' told Zenda a whole lot about Ike
Weber to-day. I could 'a' told him a couple things that would 'a' put
Ike behind the bars. 'Smatter of fact, I could 'a' told him of a trick
that Ike done in Joliet. But what's the good? The good to me, I mean.
Ike knows that I put the flea in Zenda's ear that led to his wife
spottin' Ike's little game. If he's got sense, he knows it, for I saw
that my hint to Zenda reached Ike. Well, Ike will be reachin' round to
get hold of me. Why, I thought, when Zenda described you and mentioned
your first name, that Ike had sent you to me. Because Ike knows what I
could tell Zenda would be enough to give Zenda a hold on Ike that'd get
back that hundred thousand. But why be nasty? That's what I ask myself."
His face took on an expression of shrewd good humor, of benevolence,
almost. "You're just a chicken, Florine, a flapper from the mud roads
and the middle-of-the-day dinner. And a hick chicken don't have it any
too soft in New York at the best of it. I don't suppose that your
bank-roll would make a mosquito strain its larynx, eh? Well, Florine,
take a tip from old papa Beiner, that's been watchin' them come and
watchin' them go for twenty-five years along Broadway.
"Why, Florine, I've seen them come to this town all hopped up with
ambition and talent and everything, and where do they land? Look the
list over, kid. Where are your stars of twenty years ago, of ten years
ago, of five, when you come right down to it? Darned few of them here
to-day, eh? You know why? Well, I'll tell you. Because they weren't
wise, Florine.
"Lord, don't I know 'em! First or last, old papa Morris has got 'em
jobs. And I've heard their little tales. I know what pulled 'em back to
where they started from. It was because they didn't realize that friends
grow cold and enemies die, and that the only friend or enemy that
amounts to a darn is yourself.
"I've seen girls worry because somebody loved 'em; and I've seen 'em
worry because somebody didn't love 'em. And those girls, most of them,
are mindin' the baby to-day, with a husband clerkin' it down-town, too
poor to afford a nurse-girl. But the girls that look out for the kale,
that never asked, 'What?' but always, 'How much?'--those are the girls
that amount to something.
"Here's you--crazy to run right off to Paul Zenda and tell him that
you're a good little girl and don't know a darned thing about Ike Weber.
Well, suppose you do that. What happens? Zenda hears your little story,
decides you're tellin' the truth, and forgets all about you. Your bein'
a nice, honest little fool don't buy you no silk stockings, kid, and I'm
here to tell you so.
"Now, suppose you don't run to Zenda. Sooner or later, he runs into you.
He bawls you out. Because you've kept away from him, he suspects that
you stood in with Ike. Maybe he tries to get you blacklisted at a few
studios. _All_ right. Let's suppose he does. Six months from now,
Zenda's makin' a picture out on the Coast, or in Europe, maybe. A
director wants a girl of your type. I send him you. He remembers that
Zenda's got it in for you, but--Zenda's away. And he hires you. Take it
from me, Florine, he'll hire you. Get me?"
Her brows knitted, she had heard him through.
"I've heard you, but I don't understand. You talk about being sensible,
but--why _shouldn't_ I go to Mr. Zenda?"
"Because there's no money in it. And there's a bunch in not going to
him," said Beiner.
"Who's going to give it to me?" demanded Clancy.
"Weber."
"He's left town."
Beiner guffawed.
"Maybe that fat blonde of his thought so last night. She had a scare in
her all right. But Ike ain't a rube. He knows Zenda's got no proof.
He'll lie low for a few days, but--that's all. He'll pay you well--to
keep quiet."
"Pay me?" gasped Clancy.
"Surest thing! Same as he'll be round to see me in a day or so, to shut
my mouth. I know too much. Listen: By this time, Ike has pumped Fay
Marston. He knows that she, all excited, blew the game to you. My God,
what a sucker a man is to get married! And if he _must_ do it, why does
he marry a Broadway doll that can't keep her face closed? Oh, well, it
don't matter to us, does it, Florine? What matters is that Ike will be
slippin' you a nice big roll of money, and you should worry whether you
go to work to-day or to-morrow or next month. I'll be gettin' mine, all
right, too. So now you see, don't you?"
[Illustration]
Clancy rose slowly to her feet.
"Yes," she said deliberately; "I see. I see that you--why, you're no
better than a _thief_! Unlock that door and let me out!"
Beiner stared at her. His fat face reddened, and the veins stood out on
his forehead.
"So _that's_ the way you take it, eh? Now then, you little simp, you
listen to me!"
He put his cigar down upon the edge of his desk, an edge scarred by
countless cigars and cigarettes of the past. Heavily he rose. Clancy
backed toward the door.
"If you touch me," she cried, "I'll----"
She had not dreamed that one so fat could move so quickly. Beiner's arms
were round her before the scream that she was about to give could leave
her lips. A fat palm, oily, greasy with perspiration, was clapped across
her mouth.
"Now, don't be a little fool," he whispered harshly. "Why, Florine, I'm
givin' you wise advice. I've done nothin' to you. You don't want to go
to Zenda and tell him that Fay Marston admitted Ike was a crook, do you?
Because then the game will be blown, and Ike won't see his way to slip
me my share. You wouldn't be mean to old papa Beiner that wants to see
all little girls get along, would you? How about it, Florine?"
He drew her closer to him as he spoke. Clancy, staring into his eyes,
saw something new spring into being there. It was something that,
mercifully, she had been spared seeing ever before. Fear overwhelmed
her, made her limp in Beiner's clasp. The agent chuckled hoarsely.
"What a sweet kiddie you are, Florine! Say, I think you and me are goin'
to be swell little pals, Florine. How about giving old papa Beiner a
little kiss, just to show you didn't mean what you just said?"
Her limpness deceived him. His grasp loosened as he bent his thick neck
to bring his gross mouth nearer hers. Clancy's strength came back to
her. Her body tautened. Every ounce of strength that she possessed she
put into a desperate effort for freedom. She broke clear, and whisked
across the room.
"If you come near me, I'll scream," she said.
Beiner glared at her.
"All right," he said thickly. "Scream, you little devil! I'll give you
something to scream about!"
He leaped for her, but she knew now how fast he could move. Swiftly she
stepped to one side, and, as she did so, she seized a chair, the one on
which she had been sitting, and thrust it toward the man. The chair-leg
jammed between his knees and unbalanced him. His own momentum carried
him forward and to one side. He grasped at the edge of the desk for
support. But his hand slipped. Twisting, trying desperately to right
himself, he pitched forward. His head struck upon the iron radiator
beside his desk. He lay quite still.
For a moment, her mouth open, prepared to scream, Clancy stared down at
the man. As the seconds passed and Beiner failed to move, she became
alarmed. Then his huge chest lifted in a sigh. He was not killed, then.
She came near to him, and saw that a bruise, already swollen, marked
the top of his bald skull. She knew little of such injuries, but even
her amateur knowledge was sufficient to convince her that the man was
not seriously hurt. In a moment, he would revive. She knelt beside him.
She knew that he had put the door-key in his trousers pocket. She had
noticed the key-ring and chain. But her strength had deserted her. She
was trembling, almost physically ill. She could not turn the gross body
over.
She heard footsteps outside, heard some one knock on the door. Bent
over, trying not to breathe, lest she be heard outside, she stared at
the door. The person outside shook the knob, pounded on the door. Then
she heard a muttered exclamation, and footsteps sounded, retreating,
down the hall.
Beiner groaned; he moved. She straightened up, frightened. There had
been something in his eyes that appalled her. He would not be more
merciful when he recovered. She crossed the tiny office to the couch.
Outside the wide window was the fire-escape. It was her only way of
escape, and she took it.
She opened the window and stepped upon the couch. A sort of court,
hemmed in by office-buildings, faced her. She stepped through the window
upon the iron grating-like landing of the fire-escape. The sheer drop
beneath her feet alarmed her. She hesitated. Why hadn't she called to
whoever had knocked upon the door and got him to break it down? Why had
she been afraid of the possible scandal? Last night, she had fled from
Zenda's through fear of scandal, and her fear had brought her into
unpleasant complications. Now she had done the same thing, practically,
again.
But it was too late to worry. Beiner would revive any moment. She
descended the fire-escape. Luck was with her. On the next landing was a
window that opened, not into an office but into a hallway. And the latch
was unfastened. In a moment, Clancy had climbed through the window and
was ringing the elevator-bell. No one was in the hall. Her entrance
through the window was not challenged.
V
Clancy woke clear-brained. She knew exactly what she was to do. Last
night, after eating dinner in her room, she had tried to get Zenda on
the telephone. Not finding his number in the book, she had endeavored to
obtain it from "Information," only to learn that "it is a private wire,
and we can't tell it to you." So, disappointed, she went to bed.
Her resolution had not changed over-night. She'd made a little idiot of
herself in running away from the Zenda apartment night before last. But
now that she found herself involved in a mass of nasty intrigue, she
would do the sensible thing, tell the truth, and let the consequences be
what they might.
Consequences? She mustn't be absurd. Innocently she had become entangled
in something, but a few words would straighten the matter out. Of
course, she would incur the enmity of Ike Weber, but what difference did
that make? And Morris Beiner--she hoped, with a pardonable viciousness,
that his head would ache for a week. The nasty beast!
In the tub, she scrubbed herself harshly, as though to remove from
herself any possible lingering taint of contact with Beiner. A little
later, she descended to the Napoli dining-room and ordered breakfast. It
was as substantial as yesterday's. Exciting though yesterday had been,
Clancy had not yet reached the age where we pay for yesterday's
deviation from the normal with to-day's lack of appetite.
As at her previous breakfast, she had the dining-room to herself. Madame
Napoli waddled beamingly over to her and offered her a morning paper.
Clancy thanked her and put it aside until she should have finished her
omelet. But, finally, the keen edge of her appetite blunted, she picked
up the paper. It was a sheet devoted to matters theatrical, so that the
article which struck her eye was accorded greater space in this
newspaper than in any other in the city.
For a moment, Clancy's eyes were blurred as the import of the words of a
head-line sunk into her understanding. It was impossible for her to hold
the paper steadily enough to read. She gulped her second cup of coffee,
put a bill on the table, and, without waiting for her change, left the
room. Madame Napoli uttered some pleasant word, and Clancy managed to
stammer something in reply.
Up in her room, she locked the door and lay down upon the bed. Five
minutes, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she stayed there. Then she
sat up and looked at the paper. She read:
THEATRICAL MAN FOUND SLAIN
MORRIS BEINER STABBED TO DEATH IN OWN OFFICE
Morris Beiner, an old-time manager, more recently a theatrical
agent, was killed in his office some time yesterday afternoon under
mysterious circumstances. He was stabbed with a paper-knife, one
that has been identified as belonging to the dead man.
The discovery was made by Lemuel Burkan, the watchman of the
Heberworth Building, in which Beiner had his office. According to
Burkan's statement, he has been in the habit of answering
telephone calls for many of the tenants during their temporary
absences. Last evening, at six-thirty, while making his first
night-round of the building, Burkan heard the telephone ringing in
Beiner's office. Although the light was on, the telephone was
unanswered. Burkan unlocked the door to answer the call and take
the message. He found Beiner lying upon the floor, the paper-knife
driven into his chest.
Burkan did not lose his head, but answered the call. Frank
Hildebloom, of the Rosebush Film Company, was on the wire. On
being informed of the tragedy by the watchman, Hildebloom
immediately came over to the dead man's office. To the police, who
were immediately summoned by Burkan, Hildebloom stated that Beiner
had telephoned him in the morning, stating that he wished to make
an engagement for a young actress to make a film-test. Hildebloom
was telephoning because the engagement was overdue and he could
wait no longer. An old friend of the murdered man, he was overcome
by the tragedy.
The police, investigating the murder, learned from the janitor of
the adjoining building, the Bellwood, that he had seen a young
woman emerge from a window on the fifth floor of the Heberworth
Building at shortly before six o'clock yesterday. She had
descended by the fire-escape to the fourth floor and climbed
through a window there. The janitor, who is named Fred Garbey,
said that, while the incident was unusual, he'd thought little of
it. He gave a description of the young woman to the police, who
express confidence in their ability to find her, and believe that
she must be the same woman for whom Beiner had made the engagement
with Hildebloom.
None of the dead man's friends who could be reached last night
could advance any reason for the killing. Beiner was apparently
rather popular in the profession, having a wide acquaintance.
There followed a brief _résumé_ of the dead man's career, but Clancy did
not read it. She dropped the paper and again stared at the ceiling.
_She_ was the woman who had fled by the fire-escape from Beiner's
office, for whom the engagement had been made with Hildebloom! And the
police were looking for her!
Beiner had been murdered! She had not killed him, but--who had? And
would the police believe her story? She'd heard of third degrees. Would
they believe her? Her whole story--if she admitted having been in
Beiner's office, she must admit her method of egress. That descent by
the fire-escape would have to be explained. She would have to tell the
police that Beiner had seized her, had held her. Having admitted that
much to the police, would they believe the rest of her story?
She shook her head. Of course they wouldn't! Beiner had been killed with
his own paper-knife. The police would believe that she had picked it up
and used it in self-defense.
She became unnaturally calm. Of course, she was a girl; her story might
win her acquittal, even though a jury were convinced that she was a
murderess. She knew of dozens of cases that had filled the newspapers
wherein women had been set free by sentimental juries.
But the disgrace! The waiting in jail! Some one else had entered
Beiner's office, had, perhaps, found him still unconscious, and killed
him. But would that some one come forward and admit his or her guilt to
free Clancy Deane?
She laughed harshly at the mere thought. Everything pointed to her,
Clancy Deane, as the murderess. Why, even at this very moment, the
police might be down-stairs, making inquiries of Madame Napoli about
her!
She leaped from the bed. She stared out the window at the tall buildings
in Times Square. How harsh and forbidding they were! Yesterday they had
been different, had suggested romance, because in them were people who,
like herself, had come to New York to conquer it.
But to-day these stone walls suggested the stone walls of jails. Jails!
She turned from the window, overwhelmed by the desire for instant
flight. She must get away! In a veritable frenzy of fear, she began to
pack her valise.
Midway in the packing, she paused. The physical labor of opening
drawers, of taking dresses from the closet, had helped to clear her
brain. And it was a straight-thinking brain, most of the time. It became
keener now. She sat down on the floor and began to marshal the facts.
Only one person in the world knew that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane
were the same girl. That person was Fanchon DeLisle, and probably by
this time Fanchon DeLisle had forgotten the card of introduction.
Morris Beiner had not mentioned to Hildebloom the name of Florine Ladue.
Hildebloom could not tell the police to search for the bearer of that
name. Fay Marston knew who Florine Ladue was, but Fay Marston didn't
know that Florine had been intending to call on Morris Beiner. Nor did
Madame Napoli or her daughter. Zenda and the members of his party had
never heard Florine's last name, and while the discovery of that card of
|
the previous and permanent features of distinction investing the mail
itself, which features at that time lay--1st, in velocity
unprecedented; 2dly, in the power and beauty of the horses: 3dly, in
the official connection with the government of a great nation; and,
4thly, in the function, almost a consecrated function, of publishing
and diffusing through the land the great political events, and
especially the great battles during a conflict of unparalleled
grandeur. These honorary distinctions are all described
circumstantially in the FIRST or introductory section ("The Glory of
Motion"). The three first were distinctions maintained at all times;
but the fourth and grandest belonged exclusively to the war with
Napoleon; and this it was which most naturally introduced Waterloo into
the dream. Waterloo, I understood, was the particular feature of the
"Dream-Fugue" which my censors were least able to account for. Yet
surely Waterloo, which, in common with every other great battle, it had
been our special privilege to publish over all the land, most naturally
entered the Dream under the license of our privilege. If not--if there
be anything amiss--let the Dream be responsible. The Dream is a law to
itself; and as well quarrel with a rainbow for showing, or for
_not_ showing, a secondary arch. So far as I know, every element
in the shifting movements of the Dream derived itself either primarily
from the incidents of the actual scene, or from secondary features
associated with the mail. For example, the cathedral aisle derived
itself from the mimic combination of features which grouped themselves
together at the point of approaching collision, namely, an arrow-like
section of the road, six hundred yards long, under the solemn lights
described, with lofty trees meeting overhead in arches. The guard's
horn, again--a humble instrument in itself--was yet glorified as the
organ of publication for so many great national events. And the
incident of the Dying Trumpeter, who rises from a marble bas-relief,
and carries a marble trumpet to his marble lips for the purpose of
warning the female infant, was doubtless secretly suggested by my own
imperfect effort to seize the guard's horn, and to blow a warning
blast. But the Dream knows best; and the Dream, I say again, is the
responsible party.
4. "The Spanish Nun." [Footnote: Published in "Narrative and
Miscellaneous Essays."]--There are some narratives, which, though pure
fictions from first to last, counterfeit so vividly the air of grave
realities, that, if deliberately offered for such, they would for a
time impose upon everybody. In the opposite scale there are other
narratives, which, whilst rigorously true, move amongst characters and
scenes so remote from our ordinary experience, and through, a state of
society so favorable to an adventurous cast of incidents, that they
would everywhere pass for romances, if severed from the documents which
attest their fidelity to facts. In the former class stand the admirable
novels of De Foe; and, on a lower range, within the same category, the
inimitable "Vicar of Wakefield;" upon which last novel, without at all
designing it, I once became the author of the following instructive
experiment. I had given a copy of this little novel to a beautiful girl
of seventeen, the daughter of a statesman in Westmoreland, not
designing any deception (nor so much as any concealment) with respect
to the fictitious character of the incidents and of the actors in that
famous tale. Mere accident it was that had intercepted those
explanations as to the extent of fiction in these points which in this
case it would have been so natural to make. Indeed, considering the
exquisite verisimilitude of the work meeting with such absolute
inexperience in the reader, it was almost a duty to have made them.
This duty, however, something had caused me to forget; and when next I
saw the young mountaineer, I forgot that I _had_ forgotten it.
Consequently, at first I was perplexed by the unfaltering gravity with
which my fair young friend spoke of Dr. Primrose, of Sophia and her
sister, of Squire Thornhill, &c., as real and probably living
personages, who could sue and be sued. It appeared that this artless
young rustic, who had never heard of novels and romances as a bare
possibility amongst all the shameless devices of London swindlers, had
read with religious fidelity every word of this tale, so thoroughly
life-like, surrendering her perfect faith and her loving sympathy to
the different persons in the tale, and the natural distresses in which
they are involved, without suspecting, for a moment, that by so much as
a breathing of exaggeration or of embellishment the pure gospel truth
of the narrative could have been sullied. She listened, in a kind of
breathless stupor, to my frank explanation--that not part only, but the
whole, of this natural tale was a pure invention. Scorn and indignation
flashed from her eyes. She regarded herself as one who had been hoaxed
and swindled; begged me to take back the book; and never again, to the
end of her life, could endure to look into the book, or to be reminded
of that criminal imposture which Dr. Oliver Goldsmith had practised
upon her youthful credulity.
In that case, a book altogether fabulous, and not meaning to offer
itself for anything else, had been read as genuine history. Here, on
the other hand, the adventures of the Spanish Nun, which in every
detail of time and place have since been sifted and authenticated,
stood a good chance at one period of being classed as the most lawless
of romances. It is, indeed, undeniable, and this arises as a natural
result from the bold, adventurous character of the heroine, and from
the unsettled state of society at that period in Spanish America, that
a reader the most credulous would at times be startled with doubts upon
what seems so unvarying a tenor of danger and lawless violence. But, on
the other hand, it is also undeniable that a reader the most
obstinately sceptical would be equally startled in the very opposite
direction, on remarking that the incidents are far from being such as a
romance-writer would have been likely to invent; since, if striking,
tragic, and even appalling, they are at times repulsive. And it seems
evident that, once putting himself to the cost of a wholesale fiction,
the writer would have used his privilege more freely for his own
advantage. Whereas the author of these memoirs clearly writes under the
coercion and restraint of a _notorious reality_, that would not
suffer him to ignore or to modify the leading facts. Then, as to the
objection that few people or none have an experience presenting such
uniformity of perilous adventure, a little closer attention shows that
the experience in this case is _not_ uniform; and so far otherwise,
that a period of several years in Kate's South American life is
confessedly suppressed; and on no other ground whatever than that
this long parenthesis is _not_ adventurous, not essentially
differing from the monotonous character of ordinary Spanish life.
Suppose the case, therefore, that Kate's memoirs had been thrown upon
the world with no vouchers for their authenticity beyond such internal
presumptions as would have occurred to thoughtful readers, when
reviewing the entire succession of incidents, I am of opinion that the
person best qualified by legal experience to judge of evidence would
finally have pronounced a favorable award; since it is easy to
understand that in a world so vast as the Peru, the Mexico, the Chili,
of Spaniards during the first quarter of the seventeenth century, and
under the slender modification of Indian manners as yet effected by the
Papal Christianization of those countries, and in the neighborhood of a
river-system so awful, of a mountain-system so unheard-of in Europe,
there would probably, by blind, unconscious sympathy, grow up a
tendency to lawless and gigantesque ideals of adventurous life; under
which, united with the duelling code of Europe, many things would
become trivial and commonplace experiences that to us home-bred English
("_qui musas colimus severiores_") seem monstrous and revolting.
Left, therefore, to itself, _my_ belief is, that the story of the
Military Nun would have prevailed finally against the demurs of the
sceptics. However, in the mean time, all such demurs were suddenly and
_officially_ silenced forever. Soon after the publication of Kate's
memoirs, in what you may call an early stage of her _literary_
career, though two centuries after her _personal_ career had closed, a
regular controversy arose upon the degree of credit due to these
extraordinary confessions (such they may be called) of the poor
conscience-haunted nun. Whether these in Kate's original MS.
were entitled "Autobiographic Sketches," or "Selections Grave and
Gay," from the military experiences of a Nun, or possibly "The
Confessions of a Biscayan Fire-Eater," is more than I know. No matter:
confessions they were; and confessions that, when at length published,
were absolutely mobbed and hustled by a gang of misbelieving (that is,
_miscreant_) critics. And this fact is most remarkable, that the
person who originally headed the incredulous party, namely, Senor de
Ferrer, a learned Castilian, was the very same who finally
authenticated, by _documentary_ evidence, the extraordinary
narrative in those parts which had most of all invited scepticism. The
progress of the dispute threw the decision at length upon the archives
of the Spanish Marine. Those for the southern ports of Spain had been
transferred, I believe, from Cadiz and St. Lucar to Seville; chiefly,
perhaps, through the confusions incident to the two French invasions of
Spain in our own day [1st, that under Napoleon; 2dly, that under the
Due d'Angoulême]. Amongst these archives, subsequently amongst those of
Cuzco, in South America; 3dly, amongst the records of some royal courts
in Madrid; 4thly, by collateral proof from the Papal Chancery; 5thly,
from Barcelona--have been drawn together ample attestations of all the
incidents recorded by Kate. The elopement from St. Sebastian's, the
doubling of Cape Horn, the shipwreck on the coast of Peru, the rescue
of the royal banner from the Indians of Chili, the fatal duel in the
dark, the astonishing passage of the Andes, the tragical scenes at
Tucuman and Cuzco, the return to Spain in obedience to a royal and a
papal summons, the visit to Rome and the interview with the Pope--
finally, the return to South America, and the mysterious disappearance
at Vera Cruz, upon which no light was ever thrown--all these capital
heads of the narrative have been established beyond the reach of
scepticism: and, in consequence, the story was soon after adopted as
historically established, and was reported at length by journals of the
highest credit in Spain and Germany, and by a Parisian journal so
cautious and so distinguished for its ability as the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_.
I must not leave the impression upon my readers that this complex body
of documentary evidences has been searched and appraised by myself.
Frankly I acknowledge that, on the sole occasion when any opportunity
offered itself for such a labor, I shrank from it as too fatiguing--and
also as superfluous; since, if the proofs had satisfied the compatriots
of Catalina, who came to the investigation with hostile feelings of
partisanship, and not dissembling their incredulity,--armed also (and
in Mr. de Ferrer's case conspicuously armed) with the appropriate
learning for giving effect to this incredulity,--it could not become a
stranger to suppose himself qualified for disturbing a judgment that
had been so deliberately delivered. Such a tribunal of native Spaniards
being satisfied, there was no further opening for demur. The
ratification of poor Kate's memoirs is now therefore to be understood
as absolute, and without reserve.
This being stated,--namely, such an attestation from competent
authorities to the truth of Kate's narrative as may save all readers
from my fair Westmoreland friend's disaster,--it remains to give such
an answer, as without further research _can_ be given, to a
question pretty sure of arising in all reflective readers' thoughts--
namely, does there anywhere survive a portrait of Kate? I answer--and
it would be both mortifying and perplexing if I could _not_--
_Yes_. One such portrait there is confessedly; and seven years ago
this was to be found at Aix-la-Chapelle, in the collection of Herr
Sempeller. The name of the artist I am not able to report; neither can
I say whether Herr Sempeller's collection still remains intact, and
remains at Aix-la-Chapelle.
But inevitably to most readers who review the circumstances of a case
so extraordinary, it will occur that beyond a doubt _many_ portraits
of the adventurous nun must have been executed. To have affronted
the wrath of the Inquisition, and to have survived such an audacity,
would of itself be enough to found a title for the martial nun
to a national interest. It is true that Kate had not taken the
veil; she had stopped short of the deadliest crime known to the
Inquisition; but still her transgressions were such as to require a
special indulgence; and this indulgence was granted by a Pope to the
intercession of a king--the greatest then reigning. It was a favor that
could not have been asked by any greater man in this world, nor granted
by any less. Had no other distinction settled upon Kate, this would
have been enough to fix the gaze of her own nation. But her whole life
constituted Kate's supreme distinction. There can be no doubt,
therefore, that, from the year 1624 (that is, the last year of our
James I.), she became the object of an admiration in her own country
that was almost idolatrous. And this admiration was not of a kind that
rested upon any partisan-schism amongst her countrymen. So long as it
was kept alive by her bodily presence amongst them, it was an
admiration equally aristocratic and popular,--shared alike by the rich
and the poor, by the lofty and the humble. Great, therefore, would be
the demand for her portrait. There is a tradition that Velasquez, who
had in 1623 executed a portrait of Charles I. (then Prince of Wales),
was amongst those who in the three or four following years ministered
to this demand. It is believed, also, that, in travelling from Genoa
and Florence to Rome, she sat to various artists, in order to meet the
interest about herself already rising amongst the cardinals and other
dignitaries of the Romish church. It is probable, therefore, that
numerous pictures of Kate are yet lurking both in Spain and Italy, but
not known as such. For, as the public consideration granted to her had
grown out of merits and qualities purely personal, and was kept alive
by no local or family memorials rooted in the land, or surviving
herself, it was inevitable that, as soon as she herself died, all
identification of her portraits would perish: and the portraits would
thenceforwards be confounded with the similar memorials, past all
numbering, which every year accumulates as the wrecks from household
remembrances of generations that are passing or passed, that are fading
or faded, that are dying or buried. It is well, therefore, amongst so
many irrecoverable ruins, that, in the portrait at Aix-la-Chapelle, we
still possess one undoubted representation (and therefore in some
degree a means for identifying _other_ representations) of a
female so memorably adorned by nature; gifted with capacities so
unparalleled both of doing and suffering; who lived a life so stormy,
and perished by a fate so unsearchably mysterious.
THE ORPHAN HEIRESS
I.
VISIT TO LAXTON.
My route, after parting from Lord Westport at Birmingham, lay, as I
have mentioned in the "Autobiographic Sketches," through Stamford to
Laxton, the Northamptonshire seat of Lord Carbery. From Stamford, which
I had reached by some intolerable old coach, such as in those days too
commonly abused the patience and long-suffering of Young England, I
took a post-chaise to Laxton. The distance was but nine miles, and the
postilion drove well, so that I could not really have been long upon
the road; and yet, from gloomy rumination upon the unhappy destination
which I believed myself approaching within three or four months, never
had I weathered a journey that seemed to me so long and dreary. As I
alighted on the steps at Laxton, the first dinner-bell rang; and I was
hurrying to my toilet, when my sister Mary, who had met me in the
portico, begged me first of all to come into Lady Carbery's [Footnote:
Lady Carbery.--"To me, individually, she was the one sole friend that
ever I could regard as entirely fulfilling the offices of an honest
friendship. She had known me from infancy; when I was in my first year
of life, she, an orphan and a great heiress, was in her tenth or
eleventh."--See closing pages of "_Autobiographic Sketches_."]
dressing-room, her ladyship having something special to communicate,
which related (as I understood her) to one Simon. "What Simon? Simon
Peter?"--O, no, you irreverend boy, no Simon at all with an S, but
Cymon with a C,--Dryden's Cymon,--
"That whistled as he went for want of thought.'"
This one indication was a key to the whole explanation that followed.
The sole visitors, it seemed, at that time to Laxton, beside my sister
and myself, were Lord and Lady Massey. They were understood to be
domesticated at Laxton for a very long stay. In reality, my own private
construction of the case (though unauthorized by anything ever hinted
to me by Lady Carbery) was, that Lord Massey might probably be under
some cloud of pecuniary embarrassments, such as suggested prudentially
an absence from Ireland. Meantime, what was it that made him an object
of peculiar interest to Lady Carbery? It was the singular revolution
which, in one whom all his friends looked upon as sold to
constitutional torpor, suddenly, and beyond all hope, had kindled a new
and nobler life. Occupied originally by no shadow of any earthly
interest, killed by _ennui_, all at once Lord Massey had fallen
passionately in love with a fair young countrywoman, well connected,
but bringing him no fortune (I report only from hearsay), and endowing
him simply with the priceless blessing of her own womanly charms, her
delightful society, and her sweet, Irish style of innocent gayety. No
transformation that ever legends or romances had reported was more
memorable. Lapse of time (for Lord Massey had now been married three or
four years), and deep seclusion from general society, had done nothing,
apparently, to lower the tone of his happiness. The expression of this
happiness was noiseless and unobtrusive; no marks were there of vulgar
uxoriousness--nothing that could provoke the sneer of the worldling;
but not the less so entirely had the society of his young wife created
a new principle of life within him, and evoked some nature hitherto
slumbering, and which, no doubt, would else have continued to slumber
till his death, that, at moments when he believed himself unobserved,
he still wore the aspect of an impassioned lover.
"He beheld
A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought for _him_.
Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring
Her chamber window did surpass in glory
The portals of the dawn."
And in no case was it more literally realized, as daily almost I
witnessed, that
"All Paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him."
[Footnote: Wordsworth's "Vandracour and Julia."]
For never did the drawing-room door open, and suddenly disclose the
beautiful figure of Lady Massey, than a mighty cloud seemed to roll
away from the young Irishman's brow. At this time it happened, and
indeed it often happened, that Lord Carbery was absent in Ireland. It
was probable, therefore, that during the long couple of hours through
which the custom of those times bound a man to the dinner-table after
the disappearance of the ladies, his time would hang heavily on his
hands. To me, therefore, Lady Carbery looked, having first put me in
possession of the case, for assistance to her hospitality, under the
difficulties I have stated. She thoroughly loved Lady Massey, as,
indeed, nobody could help doing; and for _her_ sake, had there
been no separate interest surrounding the young lord, it would have
been most painful to her that through Lord Carbery's absence a periodic
tedium should oppress her guest at that precise season of the day which
traditionally dedicated itself to genial enjoyment. Glad, therefore,
was she that an ally had come at last to Laxton, who might arm her
purposes of hospitality with some powers of self-fulfilment. And yet,
for a service of that nature, could she reasonably rely upon me? Odious
is the hobble-de-hoy to the mature young man. Generally speaking, that
cannot be denied. But in me, though naturally the shyest of human
beings, intense commerce with men of every rank, from the highest to
the lowest, had availed to dissipate all arrears of _mauvaise
honte_; I could talk upon innumerable subjects; and, as the readiest
means of entering immediately upon business, I was fresh from Ireland,
knew multitudes of those whom Lord Massey either knew or felt an
interest in, and, at that happy period of life, found it easy, with
three or four glasses of wine, to call back the golden spirits which
were now so often deserting me. Renovated, meantime, by a hot bath, I
was ready at the second summons of the dinner-bell, and descended a new
creature to the drawing-room. Here I was presented to the noble lord
and his wife. Lord Massey was in figure shortish, but broad and stout,
and wore an amiable expression of face. That I could execute Lady
Carbery's commission, I felt satisfied at once. And, accordingly, when
the ladies had retired from the dining-room, I found an easy opening,
in various circumstances connected with the Laxton stables, for
introducing naturally a picturesque and contrasting sketch of the stud
and the stables at Westport. The stables and everything connected with
the stables at Laxton were magnificent; in fact, far out of symmetry
with the house, which, at that time, was elegant and comfortable, but
not splendid. As usual in English establishments, all the appointments
were complete, and carried to the same point of exquisite finish. The
stud of hunters was first-rate and extensive; and the whole scene, at
closing the stables for the night, was so splendidly arranged and
illuminated, that Lady Carbery would take all her visitors once or
twice a week to admire it. On the other hand, at Westport you might
fancy yourself overlooking the establishment of some Albanian Pacha.
Crowds of irregular helpers and grooms, many of them totally
unrecognized by Lord Altamont, some half countenanced by this or that
upper servant, some doubtfully tolerated, some _not_ tolerated,
but nevertheless slipping in by postern doors when the enemy had
withdrawn, made up a strange mob as regarded the human element in this
establishment. And Dean Browne regularly asserted that five out of six
amongst these helpers he himself could swear to as active boys from
Vinegar Hill. Trivial enough, meantime, in our eyes, was any little
matter of rebellion that they might have upon their consciences. High
treason we willingly winked at. But what we could _not_ wink at
was the systematic treason which they committed against our comfort,
namely, by teaching our horses all imaginable tricks, and training them
up in the way along which they should _not_ go, so that when they
were old they were very little likely to depart from it. Such a set of
restive, hard-mouthed wretches as Lord Westport and I daily had to
bestride, no tongue could describe. There was a cousin of Lord
Westport's, subsequently created Lord Oranmore, distinguished for his
horsemanship, and always splendidly mounted from his father's stables
at Castle M'Garret, to whom our stormy contests with ruined tempers and
vicious habits yielded a regular comedy of fun; and, in order to
improve it, he would sometimes bribe Lord Westport's treacherous groom
into misleading us, when floundering amongst bogs, into the interior
labyrinths of these morasses. Deep, however, as the morass, was this
man's remorse when, on leaving Westport, I gave him the heavy golden
perquisite, which my mother (unaware of the tricks he had practised
upon me) had by letter instructed me to give. He was a mere savage boy
from the central bogs of Connaught, and, to the great amusement of Lord
Westport, he persisted in calling me "your majesty" for the rest of
that day; and by all other means open to him he expressed his
penitence. But the dean insisted that, no matter for his penitence in
the matter of the bogs, he had certainly carried a pike at Vinegar
Hill; and probably had stolen a pair of boots at Furnes, when he kindly
made a call at the Deanery, in passing through that place to the field
of battle. It is always a pleasure to see the engineer of mischief
"hoist with his own petard;" [Footnote: "Hamlet," but also "Ovid:"--
"Lex nec justior ulla est, **Quam necis artifices arte perire sua."]
and it happened that the horses assigned to draw a post-chariot
carrying Lord Westport, myself, and the dean, on our return journey to
Dublin, were a pair utterly ruined by a certain under-postilion, named
Moran. This particular ruin did Mr. Moran boast to have contributed as
his separate contribution to the general ruinations of the stables. And
the particular object was, that _his_ horses, and consequently
himself, might be left in genial laziness. But, as Nemesis would have
it, Mr. Moran was the charioteer specially appointed to this particular
service. We were to return by easy journeys of twenty-five miles a day,
or even less; since every such interval brought us to the house of some
hospitable family, connected by friendship or by blood with Lord
Altamont. Fervently had Lord Westport pleaded with his father for an
allowance of four horses; not at all with any foolish view to fleeting
aristocratic splendor, but simply to the luxury of rapid motion. But
Lord Altamont was firm in resisting this petition at that time. The
remote consequence was, that by way of redressing the violated
equilibrium to our feelings, we subscribed throughout Wales to extort
six horses from the astonished innkeepers, most of whom declined the
requisition, and would furnish only four, on the plea that the leaders
would only embarrass the other horses; but one at Bangor, from whom we
coolly requested eight, recoiled from our demand as from a sort of
miniature treason. How so? Because in this island he had always
understood eight horses to be consecrated to royal use. Not at all, we
assured him; Pickford, the great carrier, always horsed his wagons with
eight. And the law knew of no distinction between wagon and post-
chaise, coach-horse or cart-horse. However, we could not compass this
point of the eight horses, the double _quadriga_, in one single
instance; but the true reason we surmised to be, not the pretended
puritanism of loyalty to the house of Guelph, but the running short of
the innkeeper's funds. If he had to meet a daily average call for
twenty-four horses, then it might well happen that our draft upon him
for eight horses at one pull would bankrupt him for a whole day.
But I am anticipating. Returning to Ireland and Mr. Moran, the vicious
driver of vicious horses, the immediate consequence to _him_ of
this unexpected limitation to a pair of horses was, that all his
knavery in one hour recoiled upon himself. The horses whom he had
himself trained to vice and restiveness, in the hope that thus his own
services and theirs might be less in request, now became the very curse
of his life. Every morning, duly as an attempt was made to put them in
motion, they began to back, and no arts, gentle or harsh, would for a
moment avail to coax or to coërce them into the counter direction.
Could retrogression by any metaphysics have been translated into
progress, we excelled in that; it was our _forte_; we could have
backed to the North Pole. That might be the way to glory, or at least
to distinction--_sic itur ad astra_; unfortunately, it was not the
way to Dublin. Consequently, on _every_ day of our journey--and
the days were ten--not once, but always, we had the same deadly
conflict to repeat; and this being always unavailing, found its
solution uniformly in the following ultimate resource. Two large-boned
horses, usually taken from the plough, were harnessed on as leaders. By
main force they hauled our wicked wheelers into the right direction,
and forced them, by pure physical superiority, into working. We
furnished a joyous and comic spectacle to every town and village
through which we passed. The whole community, men and children, came
out to assist at our departure; and all alike were diverted, but not
the less irritated, by the demoniac obstinacy of the brutes, who seemed
under the immediate inspiration of the fiend. Everybody was anxious to
share in the scourging which was administered to them right and left;
and once propelled into a gallop (or such a gallop as our Brobdignagian
leaders could accomplish), they were forced into keeping it up. But,
without rehearsing all the details of the case, it may be readily
conceived that the amount of trouble distributed amongst our whole
party was enormous. Once or twice the friends at whose houses we slept
were able to assist us. But generally they either had no horses, or
none of the commanding power demanded. Often, again, it happened, as
our route was very circuitous, that no inns lay in our neighborhood;
or, if there _were_ inns, the horses proved to be of too slight a
build. At Ballinasloe, and again at Athlone, half the town came out to
help us; and, having no suitable horses, thirty or forty men, with
shouts of laughter, pulled at ropes fastened to our pole and splinter-
bar, and compelled the snorting demons into a flying gallop. But,
naturally, a couple of miles saw this resource exhausted. Then came the
necessity of "drawing the covers," as the dean called it; that is,
hunting amongst the adjacent farmers for powerful cattle. This labor
(O, Jupiter, thanks be for _that_!) fell upon Mr. Moran. And
sometimes it would happen that the horses, which it had cost him three
or four hours to find, could be spared only for four or five miles.
Such a journey can rarely have been accomplished. Our zigzag course had
prolonged it into from two hundred and thirty to two hundred and fifty
miles; and it is literally true that, of this entire distance from
Westport House to Sackville-street, Dublin, not one furlong had been
performed under the spontaneous impulse of our own horses. Their
diabolic resistance continued to the last. And one may venture to hope
that the sense of final subjugation to man must have proved penally
bitter to the horses. But, meantime, it vexes one that such wretches
should be fed with good old hay and oats; as well littered down also in
their stalls as a prebendary; and by many a stranger, ignorant of their
true character, should have been patted and caressed. Let us hope that
a fate, to which more than once they were nearly forcing _us_,
namely, regress over a precipice, may ultimately have been their own.
Once I saw such another case dramatically carried through to its
natural crisis in the Liverpool Mail. It was on the stage leading into
Lichfield; there was no conspiracy, as in our Irish case; one horse
only out of the four was the criminal; and, according to the queen's
bench (Denman, C. J.), there is no conspiracy competent to one agent;
but he was even more signally under a demoniac possession of mutinous
resistance to man. The case was really a memorable one. If ever there
was a distinct proclamation of rebellion against man, it was made by
that brutal horse; and I, therefore, being a passenger on the box, took
a note of the case; and on a proper occasion I may be induced to
publish it, unless some Houynhm should whinny against me a chancery
injunction.
From these wild, Tartar-like stables of Connaught, how vast was the
transition to that perfection of elegance, and of adaptation between
means and ends, that reigned from centre to circumference through the
stables at Laxton! _I_, as it happened, could report to Lord Massey
their earlier condition; he to me could report their immediate
changes. I won him easily to an interest in my own Irish experiences,
so fresh, and in parts so grotesque, wilder also by much in Connaught
than in Lord Massey's county of Limerick; whilst he (without affecting
any delight in the hunting systems of Northamptonshire and
Leicestershire) yet took pleasure in explaining to me those
characteristic features of the English midland hunting as centralized
at Melton, which even then gave to it the supreme rank for brilliancy
and unity of effect amongst all varieties of the chase. [Footnote: If
mere names were allowed to dazzle the judgment, how magnificent to a
gallant young Englishman of twenty seems at first the _tiger-
hunting_ of India, which yet (when examined searchingly) turns out
the meanest and most _cowardly_ mode of hunting known to human
experience. _Buffalo-hunting_ is much more dignified as regards
the courageous exposure of the hunter; but, from all accounts, its
excitement is too momentary and evanescent; one rifle-shot, and the
crisis is past. Besides that, the generous and honest character of the
buffalo disturbs the cordiality of the sport. The very opposite reason
disturbs the interest of _lion-hunting, especially at the Cape. The
lion is everywhere a cowardly wretch, unless when sublimed into courage
by famine; but, in southern Africa, he is the most currish of enemies.
Those who fancied so much adventurousness in the lion conflicts of Mr.
Gordon Cumming appear never to have read the missionary travels of Mr.
Moffat. The poor missionary, without any arms whatever, came to think
lightly of half a dozen lions seen drinking through the twilight at the
very same pond or river as himself. Nobody can have any wish to
undervalue the adventurous gallantry of Mr. G. Cumming. But, in the
single case of the Cape lion, there is an unintentional advantage taken
from the traditional name of lion, as though the Cape lion were such as
that which ranges the torrid zone.]
Horses had formed the natural and introductory topic of conversation
between us. What we severally knew of Ireland, though in different
quarters,--what we both knew of Laxton, the barbaric splendor, and the
civilized splendor,--had naturally an interest for us both in their
contrasts
|
’s Mountain” seemed singularly
appropriate.
It was nearly three in the morning when I arrived at Stockton, and, as
there was nothing to be gained by going ashore, I remained on board
the boat, determined to get the full benefit of a morning nap. It
seemed to me that I had just closed my eyes, when I was awakened by the
yelling of the roustabouts and stage agents on the wharf. I had barely
time to dress, hustle ashore and hurriedly swallow a cup of coffee,
before my stage was ready to start, and I was off for Jacksonville--the
particular town of Tuolumne county that I had determined to favor with
my medical skill and fortune-hunting ambition.
There was nothing pleasant about that stage ride--it was memorable
only for its inconveniences and its motley load pf passengers. A hot,
dusty, bumping journey in the old time California stage makes pretty
reading as Bret Harte has described it but I am free to say that the
reality was not so enjoyable. The red dust of the California stage road
gets into a fellow’s system so deeply that his ideas are likely to be
of a practical or even profane sort, even though he be normally quite
sentimental.
Picturesque, however, the ride certainly was. Several red-shirted,
rough-bearded miners, lent just the right touch of local color, while
the imitation frontiersman--of whom I was the type--was sufficiently
well represented to afford a suitable foil for the genuine article, as
typified by my brawny-chested, be-pistoled, unkempt fellow passengers.
In one corner of the stage was a little chap who was evidently what we
would call a dude nowadays. This young gentleman had done his level
best to put a bold front on matters, by rigging himself out like a
cowboy. The result was somewhat ludicrous, as may be imagined. Nor
was the poor little idiot by any means unconscious of his features of
incongruity--he realized most keenly the absurdity of his position and
the fact that he was being guyed. The miners, however, seemed to enjoy
the situation immensely.
“Say, pardner,” said one tawny-bearded giant, leaning toward the
innocent, and startling him so that his eye glasses nearly dropped off
his nose--“Gimme a pull at yer pistol, wont ye?”
“Ah, beg pawdon, sir, what did you say?” stammered the dude.
“W’y I s’posed you could understan’ th’ English langwidge,” replied the
miner, “but seein’ ez how ye don’t, I’ll translate her to ye. I asked
ye ter give me a pull at yer whisky bottle.”
“Ah, really,” said the innocent, “I’d be chawmed, you know, doncher
know, but I don’t carry the article. In fact, sir, I nevah drink.”
“Ye don’t say so? Well, I want ter know!” answered the miner. “Now, see
hyar, sonny, seein’ ez how you aint got no whisky, jest gimme a chaw uv
terbacker an’ we’ll call it squar’.”
“I--aw--I’m sorry to say that I don’t use tobacco, sir.”
“Sho! g’long, young feller! Is--that--so? How the h--l d’ye keep a
goin’? Whut d’ye do fer excitement--p’raps ye plays poker, eh?” said
the stalwart son of the pick.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the tenderfoot in dismay, “I nevah play cards!”
“Ye don’t tell me!” replied the miner. “Well, well, well! By the way,
young feller; be keerful not ter lose ’em--ye mout need ’em ter git
home with.”
“Need what, sir?” asked the victim.
“Yer wings!”--and the miners broke out in a huge guffaw that bade fair
to dislocate a wheel of the stage, and impelled the driver to look
anxiously and inquiringly at his passengers.
The tenderfoot collapsed and remained in a state of complete
innocuousness until he arrived at his destination, which, fortunately
for his sensitive organization, happened to be the first town where we
changed horses. As he minced gingerly away toward the hotel, the miners
winked at each other most prodigiously. Happening to catch the big
fellow’s eye, by a happy inspiration I was impelled to wink also. This
at once established me on a friendly footing with my rough companions,
and, as I happened to have a bottle of fairly good liquor with me,
the rest of the way into the regard of those simple miners was easily
traversed.
During the conversation that naturally followed the unconventional
formation of our acquaintance, the big-bearded fellow, who appeared
to be the leader of the little party of miners, following the blunt
fashion of the country, suddenly remarked:
“By the way, stranger, whut might yer name be, an’ whut part uv the
diggin’s might yer be headin’ fer?”
“Well,” I replied smilingly, “it is about time we introduced ourselves,
isn’t, it? My name is William Weymouth, recently of Kentucky, a doctor
by profession, and bound for Jacksonville, where I contemplate digging
gold when the weather will permit, and practicing medicine when it will
not.”
“A doctor, an’ bound fer Jacksonville, eh? Well, Doc,” said my new
acquaintance, reaching out his grimy paw with a cordiality that could
not be mistaken, “I’m d--d glad ter know ye! Jacksonville is our town,
an’ a h--l uv a good town she is at that, y’u bet! We’re jest gittin’
back from Frisco, an’ doin’ it on tick, too. We’ve been doin’ the sport
racket down yonder, an’ I reckon the sports hev done us, eh, pards?”
His “pards” having acquiesced, my brawny friend cut off a huge chew of
“nigger heel,” stowed it away in his capacious cheek, and after a few
preliminary expectorations that resembled geysers, continued:
“If it hadn’t been fer ole Tom McDougal up thar on the box, we’d a
took Walker’s line back ter our claims”--and the big miner glanced
gratefully in the direction of the generous Mr. McDougal.
“And now that I have found that you are to be my fellow townsmen,” I
said pleasantly, “permit me to remind you that the introduction has
been one-sided. What are your names, may I ask?”
The miner winked at his companions, laughed a little deep down in his
huge red beard, and replied:
“D--d if I didn’t fergit that ther was two sides to the interdoocin’
bizness. Ye see, stranger, we aint payin’ much attention ter feller’s
handles in the mines. Most enny ole thing’ll do fer a name. That’s why
we sometimes fergits our manners. This yere gang is purty well supplied
with names, but ye mightn’t hev sich good luck ev’ry time, ’specially
in Tuolumne county, eh, pards?”
His “pards” having again nodded and winked their approval, my brawny
friend proceeded with his introductions.
“I’m called in the diggin’s by sev’ral names an’ y’u kin do like the
rest uv my fren’s--take yer pick. I’m mostly known as Big Brown, tho’
some folks calls me Big Sandy. When I was in the states, I b’lieve
they used to call me Daniel W. Brown, but I wouldn’t swar to it. This
feller nex’ ter me hyar, is the hon’able Mr. Dixie,’ or Snub-nose Dixie
fer short, who aint never hed much ter say about his other name, if he
ever had enny, eh, Dixie? That lantern-jawed cuss a settin’ long side
uv y’u, is Deacon Jersey, utherwise an’ more favor’bly known ez Link
Spears. We calls him Deacon, cuz he never was inside of a church in his
hull life. He’s the only genooine deacon this side of the Sierras. Thar
aint none uv the hypercrit’ erbout him, neither, I kin tell ye. Ye’ll
find us fellers’ tastes kinder runs erlike, f’r instance,”--and Big
Brown looked longingly in the direction of my “pistol” pocket.
“In the matter of thirst,” I suggested.
“Right y’u air, Doc! I kin see yer goin ter be a valooable addition to
our diggin’s. We need a doctor ez kin tell whut’s the matter with a
feller ’thout cuttin’ him wide open. Ye see, we likes ter keep our own
han’s in, an’ don’t calkerlate ter leave much of the cuttin’ ter the
doctor--ennyhow, ’till we’ve had our little innin’s, eh, boys?”
Once again the boys agreed, with, I thought, just a slight suspicion
of gratified vanity in their expressions.
It was a long weary way to Jacksonville, but my time was well spent.
Thanks to the kindness and garrulity of my new-found yet none the
less sincere, friends, and the confidence engendered by my rapidly
diminishing supply of stimulants, I found myself, by the time I arrived
at my destination, fairly well acquainted with the town, its ways and
its citizens.
Jacksonville, at the time I landed in the then thriving place, was
one of the most noted mining centers in the placer country. Its
location was most picturesque. Nestled among the foot-hills of the
glorious Sierras on the banks of the Tuolumne river, and peopled by as
cosmopolitan and heterogeneous a population as was ever gathered within
the confines of one small town, my new home was attractive because of
its novelty, if nothing more.
Ages and ages of alternately falling and receding waters, centuries
of snow and enormous rainfalls, had washed down from the mountains
into the valley of the Tuolumne, those auriferous particles, the great
abundance of which had made Jacksonville spring into busy life and
thriving prosperity, almost in a single day.
But the very elements which had laid the alluring foundation of the
valley’s wealth, were even then conspiring to avenge the rifling of
the rich deposits of the valley by the irreverent hands of the modern
Argonauts.
The Tuolumne river was a variable stream. During the dry season, it was
but a thin, disjointed, silvery ribbon, across which one could walk
dry-shod, in places. But in the early spring, the little stream at
which the wayfarer was wont to laugh, and in whose bed the eager miner
delved with impunity and profit, took revenge upon the disturbers of
its ancient course. It became a raging torrent, resistlessly carrying
all before it and sometimes severely punishing for his temerity the
unwary miner who had pitched his tent or built his rude cabin too near
the river bank. But all the revenge which the Tuolumne had taken in
all the years since the settlement of the valley, was as nothing to
that which was yet to come. That vale of thrift, industry and smiling
prosperity was destined to become a valley of death, destruction,
desolation and ruin.
But were not Pompeii and Herculaneum, and in later days, our own San
Francisco, joyful and unsuspecting to the last? And why should the
people of Tuolumne dread a danger of which familiarity and fancied
security had made them forgetful, or possibly even contemptuous. The
average citizen of Jacksonville could calmly face death in a material
form, and why should he concern himself with that which passed by upon
the other side with each succeeding spring?
By no means the least attractive feature of Jacksonville was the rugged
self-confidence and honesty of the majority of its people. Even the
Chinese, who composed a large part of the population, seemed to be a
better variety of the almond-eyed heathen than I had supposed could
possibly exist. The hair-triggered sensibility and powder-and-ball
ethics of the dominant race seemed to be most effective civilizers.
I am far from claiming that Jacksonville presented an ideal state of
civilization, but this I do say, in justice to my old town; life and
property were safer there than they are to-day in many more pretentious
communities, that claim to rank as centers from which civilization
radiates like the rays of a star. A sense of personal responsibility
made the French the politest nation on the face of the earth; it was
the foundation upon which the spirit of the “Old South” was builded
firmer than a rock; it was the soul that beat back the furious waves of
shot and shell that so often hailed upon the southern chivalry on many
a hard fought field. A similar spirit of self-assertion and personal
responsibility pervaded the Tuolumne valley, and raised its average
moral standard to a height far beyond that of many a metropolis of a
more vicious and effete civilization.
Warm-hearted, impulsive, honest, courageous, fiery-tempered,
quick-triggered Argonauts of the Tuolumne valley--a health to those
of you who still live, and peace to those who have laid down the pick
and pan forever and have inspected their sluice-boxes for the last
time! When the final “clean-up” comes, may the “find” be full of
nuggets--“sixteen dollars to the ounce.”
There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted
with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was
afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There
may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it
had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame
structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the
old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot,
Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while
its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only
other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since
his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in
the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’
“festive” rack were not to be consoled--they “quit him cold” and went
over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless
cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d--d
scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.[A] My fellow
citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive,
with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their
stomachs.
[A] Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon--if he be still living.--Author.
The material comforts of the Tuolumne House aside, there was never a
cheerier, heartier, pluckier boniface than George Keyse. He was to
the manner born, and could take a gun or a knife away from an excited
boarder quite as gracefully and quickly as he could, if necessary, turn
his own flapjacks.
Mr. Keyse had an invaluable assistant in one Dave Smuggins, who
officiated alternately as barkeeper, porter and hotel clerk. Smuggins
was a well-bred man, and, it was said, was originally educated for the
ministry. The only evidence at hand, however, was certain oratorical
propensities that overcame him and made him forget his real position
when he awakened the boarders early o’ mornings. I can hear him
now, as he stood at the top of the stairway, yelling in stentorian
tones--“Arouse all ye sleepers, an’ listen to the purty little airly
birds singin’ praises tew the Lord! D--n yer bloody eyes! Git up!”
saying which the modern psalmist discreetly went below and took his
position behind the bar, ready to dispense “eye-openers” to the early
caller.
Jacksonville proved to be not only a pleasant place of residence but
an excellent field for my professional work. The climate was almost
germ-proof, and it was a real pleasure to practice the semi-military
surgery characteristic of my field of labor. Primary union was my
speciality in those days, and I used to get results the memory of
which sometimes makes me blush for those I occasionally get with our
modern aseptic and antiseptic methods. No matter how much my patients
might shoot or carve each other, any fellow who had life enough left in
him to crawl or be carried off the field of battle, usually got well.
Beyond accompanying an occasional prospecting party, largely for
recreation but partly in my professional capacity, I did but little in
the way of mining. My practice gave me plenty to do, and was lucrative
enough as practices go, so I soon settled down to as routine a life as
my curious and lively surroundings would permit.
I was sitting in that portion of the Tuolumne House yclept by courtesy
“the office,” quite late one evening, listening to the quaint talk of
my miner friends and marvelling on the quantity of fluid the human body
could lose by way of expectoration and still live, when I was recalled
to a realization of the fact that I was a practitioner of medicine, by
a voice at the hotel door.
“Say, Doc, kin I see y’u a minute?”
Looking up I saw standing in the doorway one of the boys, who was
familiarly known as Toppy, his States’ name being Ike Dexter. Toppy
motioned for me to come out on the porch, and impressed by his gravity
of manner and earnestness of gesticulation, I hastened to comply.
“What is it, Toppy?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “thar’s one uv my friends whut’s bin an’ got hisself
hurt, an’ I want y’u ter come an’ fix him up. He’s a very parti’cler
friend, an’ I’d like ter hev yer do yer best on him. Ye needn’t say
nuthin’ ter the boys about it, jes’ now, Doc.”
“Very well, Toppy, I’ll go with you, but what kind of an accident has
befallen your friend?” I asked.
“Oh, I dunno ez ye could jes’ call it a accident, Doc. It’s jest a
little shootin’ scrape, that’s all, an’ I reckon ye’d better take some
’stracters erlong.”
In accordance with the honest miner’s suggestion I did take some bullet
extractors with me.
“Ye see, Doc,” said Toppy, by way of preparatory explanation of the
case I was about to see, “this yere friend of mine hez bin down in
’Frisco fer a spell, an’ might hev staid thar a good while longer,
only some feller picked a row with him. Thar wuz a duel, an’ duels
ain’t so pop’lar down ’Frisco way ez they useter wuz, ’specially when
somebody gits hurt. A real bad accident happened ter th’ uther feller,
an’ he passed in his checks. Jim--that’s my friend--got a ball in his
thigh, whut stuck thar, and ez he didn’t hev much time to hunt fer a
doctor, he jest come up hyar, whar its kinder quiet like, an’ we thort
we’d hev y’u sorter look arter the thing. Ye see, Jim won’t keer to git
’round much fer a few weeks--not ’till that little accident gits blowed
over”--and Toppy’s eyes gleamed humorously.
My friend led me down to the river bank, and pushing aside a clump of
willows revealed a small, rudely constructed row-boat.
“Ah!” I said, as I took my seat in the somewhat insecure-looking and
cranky little craft, “It is evident that you have taken your friend to
your own cabin.”
Toppy, as I well knew, had the only abode on the opposite bank of
the river, where, high up on the hillside, in full though somewhat
distant view of the little town, he had built a small but neat cabin,
which nestled in the bosom of the hill, looking not unlike a child’s
playhouse as seen from the town proper.
“Yep,” replied the miner, “thar’s whar he is. It aint best ter depen’
too much on pop’larity, ye know, Doc, an’ Jim’ll be a little safer over
thar than in town. Nobody goes ter my place--less’n I invite ’em,” and
Toppy grinned sardonically.
I recalled the fate of a poor devil who did go to his cabin without an
invitation--from Toppy--in the early days of his housekeeping on the
hillside, when a more or less charming little Mexican half-breed damsel
was said to have presided over Toppy’s domestic affairs.
Being averse to the discussion of other people’s family matters, I had
never conversed with my miner friend on that delicate subject. To tell
the truth, there seemed to be very little encouragement for gossip in
Jacksonville--town-talk was too direct a cut to the little collection
of white head-boards that decorated a small plateau just outside the
town. All my information on such subjects, was therefore derived from
more subtle and less dangerous airy rumor.
The river was quite low, and a few vigorous pulls from Toppy’s stalwart
arms brought us to the opposite shore, from which I could see, far up
the hillside, the gleaming white walls of the miner’s rude little home,
where lay my prospective patient.
Toppy was notoriously careless in his personal grooming, but the
little half-breed had evidently inspired a coat of whitewash for the
cabin, that endured longer than the sentiment with which its owner
had inspired that swarthy little traitress. Possibly that gleaming
white cabin was her monument--who knows? The river ran dangerously
and temptingly near, considering how short a time it takes to fall a
few hundred feet down a steep and rocky hillside, and rumor whispered
that Pepita--well, no one knew where she was, and women were not so
plentiful in the Tuolumne valley that hiding was easy.
But the Tuolumne kept its secret well, if secret there was. Its
quick-sands told no tales. They could hide the precious gold of the
river bottom; why not a mouldering skeleton?
On entering Toppy’s cabin, completely winded after my climb up the hill
that constituted his front yard, I found my new patient lying on a cot
in the middle of the room. He turned inquiringly toward the door as
his host and I entered, and what was my amazement to see reflected in
the dim light of the candle with which the cabin was illuminated, the
features of the handsome unknown of the San Francisco gambling-house,
whose adventure with the unfortunate young southerner I have already
related. The recognition was evidently mutual, but I fancied that
my patient looked at me with an expression slightly suggestive of
annoyance.
Toppy’s introduction was laconic, and as characteristic as was he
himself:
“Doc, this is Jim--Jim, this yer’s Doc Weymouth, an’ he’s all right,
y’u bet, ’specially on bullets an’ sich things.”
I was used to California customs, hence the cognomen, “Jim” was
sufficiently comprehensive and perfectly satisfactory to me, and after
the brief introduction that my miner friend gave me, I proceeded to
investigate the case.
As Toppy had already informed me of the circumstances that led to the
reception of my patient’s wound, I made no inquiry in that direction. I
found also, that Toppy was correct as to the location of the injury--as
he had said, the ball had entered his friend’s thigh.
The wound had been inflicted several days before I saw my patient, and
would probably have healed promptly enough if it had not been for the
weary ride he had taken immediately after the shooting---he had come
to Jacksonville on horse back. The result of the necessary movement in
the saddle, together with the hot sun and dust of the roads, had been
to produce considerable inflammation of the injured part. I presume
that nowadays the surgeon would seek for no other cause than germ
infection for such a condition as followed the wound which my patient
had received--but at that time things were different; the various
sources of irritation to which he had been exposed were a reasonable
explanation of the state in which I found his wound.
The wound was merely muscular, neither important vessels nor bone
having been injured, and, much to my gratification, I almost
immediately succeeded in finding and extracting the ball.
[Illustration: “JIM WAS BOUNDING TOWARD THE OPEN DOOR, LEAVING HIS
INSULTER LYING UPON THE FLOOR WITH A CLEAN CUT IN HIS CHEST”]
Jim, as I will now call him, stood my manipulations and the cutting
necessary for the extraction of the bullet without the slightest
indication that such operations were not an every-day experience with
him. This was not without its effect upon Toppy, who looked upon his
heroic friend with all the pride and tenderness imaginable.
When I was first introduced to the wounded man, he had merely nodded
his head in greeting. He did not speak thereafter, until I had finished
dressing the wound, Toppy meanwhile answering all necessary questions.
It seemed to me, also, that my patient rather avoided scrutiny of his
countenance. He either averted his face or shaded it with his hand,
under the pretense that the flickering light of the candle which Toppy
held for me affected his eyes, during the entire time of my surgical
attention.
I gave this circumstance hardly a second thought; nothing seemed more
natural than that my patient should desire to conceal any little
involuntary expression of suffering that might have disturbed his
features during my exceedingly painful manipulations. I was struck,
however, by his conduct as I was preparing to leave.
“Doctor,” he said, “I am very sorry that my old friend, Toppy, insisted
upon calling you to-night. I could have stood the racket till morning,
and your rest was much more important than my worthless existence. I
appreciate your kindness, sir, and wish that I could reciprocate in
some more fitting manner than by mere financial compensation. However
that’s the best I can do now;” saying which, my patient reached beneath
the rude mattress upon which he was lying, drew out a bag of gold, and
without further ceremony handed it to me.
“I wish it might have been more, doctor,” said Jim, “but I came
away from ’Frisco in a deuce of a hurry, and without heeling myself
properly. However, I have divided evenly with you, and I believe such a
rate of compensation is usually considered fair by professional men,”
and he smiled somewhat mischievously, his black eyes twinkling with
humor.
My heart warmed toward my patient, I knew not why. It certainly was
not because of his liberality, for that was common enough in that
rude mining town, where the people were so crude as to believe that a
physician’s services should be liberally compensated. I kept no books
in those days, my patients were so wild and uncivilized that I did not
find it necessary.
“I will see you again to-morrow, sir,” I said, as I nodded in
recognition of the liberal fee that my interesting patient had given
me, and extended my hand to bid him good-morning--for it was then long
past midnight.
“Oh, no,” replied Jim, hastily, “it will probably not be necessary, and
my friend, Toppy, here, who is an exceptionally good nurse, can give me
all the attention I require. Be assured, sir, that you shall be called
in again if anything unfavorable arises. There’s something healing in
the California air. The bullet is out and as I can rest quietly in
Toppy’s cabin, there will be no further trouble, I am sure. I have been
there before, Doctor,” and he smiled grimly.
“Very well then,” I said, “if you insist on assuming the responsibility
of your own case, I suppose I have no right to protest. Remember your
promise, however, and call me at the slightest intimation of trouble.
I will learn how you are, from time to time, through Toppy, and if I
should at any time hear an unfavorable report, I might be discourteous
enough to call without an invitation.”
“I think we understand each other, Doctor,” replied Jim, “and now I
believe I’ll take a nap; sleep has been a scarce commodity with me for
a few days past.”
As I left the cabin I could not rid myself of the impression that
there was something strangely familiar about my patient. My first
acquaintance with him was certainly the night of the affair at the
Palace in San Francisco, and yet, he impressed me differently from what
might have been expected in meeting an entire stranger. I had an ill
defined impression that Jim had been a factor in my life before. But
when, and where? My mind was a blank upon this point, nor was I likely
to become enlightened, considering the lack of encouragement with which
inquiries into the personal histories of the early California citizen
were usually met.
When we arrived at the bank of the river on our return to the town,
Toppy safely secured his little boat to the overhanging willows
and insisted on escorting me back to the hotel. Although this was
unnecessary, I was very glad to have the kind-hearted fellow’s company,
the more especially as I desired to learn something of my new and
interesting patient.
Arriving at the Tuolumne House, I said--“Toppy, you have furnished me
the opportunity of losing my sleep, and I propose to get even. It is
almost daylight, and we may as well make a full night of it. I want
to know more of your friend Jim. I don’t know why, but he greatly
interests me. Not but that I am always interested in my patients, but
my feeling toward your friend is rather a peculiar one. Suppose we
find a quiet seat somewhere and talk a little about him?”
Toppy acquiesced, and having declined the cigar I proffered him, in
favor of a stubby black pipe that he produced and lighted, we seated
ourselves upon an old stump, a little way from the hotel.
“Well, Doc, I don’t s’pose it’s ness’ary fer me ter tell y’u that
Jim’s my best friend. He’s the best I ever hed, since--well, since I
come from the States. I’ve got good reasons fer likin’ him, ez you’ll
obsarve.
“I fust met Jim at Angel’s Camp, about three years ago. I was
prospectin’ round in Calaveras county, an’ used ter make my
headquarters at Angel’s.
“I used ter booze a lot in them days--mor’n I do now, Doc. I guess
my hide was stretchier then, an’ used ter hold more. I was allus a
leetle bit excitable when I was drunk, an’ everlastin’ly gittin’ inter
trouble. That’s how I fell in with Jim.
“I happened to be raisin’ partickler h--l round town one night, an’
drifted inter Ned Griffiths place. I’d been thar lots uv times, an’ ez
everybody in Angel’s knowed me, an’ I was purty poplar, I’d never hed
no trouble, till this night I’m tellin’ y’u about.
“It jest happened that a crowd uv fellers hed come down from Murphy’s
camp ter have a little fun on ther own account, an’ it was jes’ my d--d
luck ter run agin the gang ’bout the time they was beginnin’ ter feel
ther oats purty lively, an’ of course, I hed ter git into a muss with
’em.
“Ez I didn’t hev no friends in the place at the time, an’ folks don’t
mix in other fellers’ rows much in the diggin’s, I was buckin’ agin a
dead tough game. Ez luck’d hev it, I happened ter git mixed up with
the toughest cuss in the crowd--Three Fingered Jack, a feller what’ll
ornyment a tree yit, y’u see if he don’t![B]
[B] And ornament the gallows tree he did, several years later.
Author.
“I got my gun out, all right, but the d--d thing was outer fix, an’ if
it hadn’t been, I was too bilin’ drunk ter hit a cow at three paces.
“Well, Jack jest played with me with his knife, kinder carvin’ me up on
the installment plan, ye know. He’d socked a few purty good sized holes
inter my ole carkiss, an’ was gittin’ ready ter finish up the job in
good shape, when Jim come in an’ took a han’ in the game with his own
little bowie.
“I was too full er booze ter ’preciate the show, but they do say ez how
Jim did a purty neat job. Jack got well arter a while, but he didn’t
act very sosherble with the folks at Angel’s enny more.”
“When I found out how Jim had saved my life, y’u kin bet I didn’t
lose no time a looking him up an’ squarin’ myself. I’d heard er Jim
afore, an’ I knowed he was a gambler by perfession, but he played a
game that night, that made a big winnin’ fer yores trooly, an’ I’ve
jest bin layin’ fer a chance ter do him a good turn ever since. He may
be a gambler, but he plays a squar’ game--an’ poker at that--that’s
why they call him ‘Poker Jim.’ He’s a gentleman born an’ bred, that’s
dead sartin, an’ he’s got more eddication an’ squar’ness than a hull
lot er people whut never gambled in ther lives. When Poker Jim makes a
promise, it’s kept. If he shud borrer a thousan’ dollars uv me--an’ he
could hev it too, if I hed it, you bet! an’ he shud say, ‘Lookee hyar,
Toppy, I’ll give this back to yer nex’ Monday et five o’clock,’ an’
he wasn’t on han’ with the stuff, w’y, then I’d know that suthin had
happened to him. Poker Jim’ll keep enny promise that he makes, if he’s
alive when the time fer squar’in things comes.”
“You have excellent reasons for loyalty to your friend Jim,” I said.
“He certainly deserves your friendship and respect, no matter what his
occupation may be. I have met him before, and under circumstances that
proved him to be a truly noble character. But tell me, Toppy, how does
it happen that you and Jim drifted apart?”
“Well, ye see, Doc, ’twas this way. The folks up at Angel’s got so
virtoous arter a while, that gamblers was too rich fer ’em, an’ they
ordered all the gams ter vamoose. Jim got ketched in the round-up ’long
with the rest, an’ hed ter git out ’twixt the light uv two days. He
couldn’t lick ’em all, less’n they’d come on one at a time, so he jest
played git up an’ git with t’other sports. He went to Frisco ter play
higher stakes than Angel’s Camp could put up, an’ I came down hyar.
Ye see, I wasn’t none too pop’lar, on account er standin’ up fer Jim,
an’ ez I don’t gin’rally fergit ter say my say, I got inter a little
argyment with one uv the prominent citizens uv Angel’s one day. I was
sober on that erkasyun an’, well--I come down ter Jacksonville fer my
health. I writ ter Jim ez soon ez I got hyar, an’ told him whar I was,
an’ ez soon ez he got inter trouble he knowed whar ter find a fren’
whut’ll stan’ by him ez long ez ther’s a shot in ther locker--savvy?”
“Well,” I said, “
|
a spy, also, for
these several governments, and had won an international reputation, and
become almost everything that a beautiful woman should not be.
But the continent of Europe, and the British Isles, had grown too
hot for her. She came to America—and almost the first person she
encountered after leaving the steamer that brought her here, was
Bare-Faced Jimmy. And this happened within the year that followed upon
his supposed death.
“Two souls with but a single thought,” although by no means a
sentimental one, might well have applied to them; the single thought
being their desire to victimize the rest of mankind.
“Let’s strike up a partnership, Juno,” Jimmy had said to her.
“Together, with your craftiness and my skill, nothing can stop us.
Let’s strike up a partnership;” and she had replied:
“Very good, Jimmy; but a minister, not a lawyer, shall draw the
contract.”
And so they were married—strangely enough, under their right names, too.
Jimmy had more than twenty thousand dollars cached away in a secret
hiding place; Juno possessed half as much more. The marriage occurred
in the late fall, and they went South, to one of the Florida beaches,
where they secured a villa, and where they passed what was really a
honeymoon.
When issuing from their cottage door one morning, they had found the
insensible form of a man upon their doorstep.
One may be a crook, a burglar, and all that, and still possess much
kindness of heart; two may be so, and these two were.
Together they carried their unconscious burden inside the cottage,
summoned the one servant who waited upon their wants, and attended to
the stricken man.
They did not ask where he came from, nor how it happened that he had
fallen upon their doorstep in his present condition; and he could not
have informed them, then, if the questions had been asked.
But they ministered to him; they kept him there and cared for him,
making no inquiries concerning him, since by doing so they would have
attracted attention to themselves, which was the one great thing they
desired to avoid.
But the stricken man had arrived at the end of his journey. He had
fallen upon their doorstep to die, and die he did, after three weeks,
easily, painlessly, composedly, and tenderly cared for until the last,
by these two bits of flotsam.
And there had been some hours of clearness of vision, of return to
memory, before death claimed its prize. He had told them his name, and
all about himself—and also that nowhere in the world did there remain
one person who was nearly enough related to him to care whether he
lived or died; that he was the last of his race, in the direct line,
and that he bore an old and honored name upon which there had never
been a blemish, save that one which poverty imposes.
Ledger Dinwiddie died in the spare bedroom of that cottage inhabited by
these two products of the underworld, cared for during his last hours
by two as uncompromising crooks and rogues as ever lived to prey upon
mankind.
And so, Ledger Dinwiddie did not die, but lived on again in the
person of Bare-Faced Jimmy, who adopted the name and the lineage of
his uninvited guest, and who went forth, presently, to assume all the
prerogatives which the possession of that name could bestow upon him.
CHAPTER II.
BACK FROM THE DEAD.
“It was four years ago, wasn’t it, Chick, when Bare-Faced Jimmy kept us
guessing? You remember Jimmy Duryea, don’t you?” asked Nick Carter of
his first assistant, as he lighted a cigar immediately after breakfast,
one Monday morning.
“Remember him? I should say I do!” replied Chick, as he selected a
cigar from the box on the table. “Bare-Faced Jimmy! The mere mention of
that name, Nick, calls up a great many recollections. And that reminds
me; I wonder what has become of Nan Nightingale. I have not seen a line
about her in any of the papers lately. Has she left the stage?”
“I saw her last evening, at church or, rather, just as we were coming
out of church,” replied the detective. “That was why I asked the
question.”
“You saw Nan?”
“Yes; and talked with her.”
“And her husband—Smathers was his name, wasn’t it—did you see him, too?”
“No. Smathers—The Man of Many Faces, as he called himself on the
vaudeville stage—is dead. He died about a year and a half ago, Nan told
me. Jimmy Duryea was her first husband, you know. She got a divorce
from him when he was sent to prison, and afterward married Smathers.
Smathers has been dead more than a year, and Nan thinks that Jimmy is
still alive.”
“Jimmy Duryea alive? Impossible.”
“That is what I told her; but she insists that she saw him—or his
ghost.”
“Then it must have been his ghost, Nick. Jimmy has been dead four
years. He died soon after you took him off that island in the Sound,
near South Norwalk, didn’t he?”
“That was the supposition. That has always been my belief. Do you
remember that last stunt of his, Chick?”
“The time he passed himself off as Paran Maxwell, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I think we all have cause to remember that incident. Bare-Faced Jimmy
was a remarkable chap, Nick, take it all in all.”
“He certainly was. There was a great deal of good in Jimmy. You
remember there was a time when I thought he had entirely reformed. Then
he made that disappearing act of his from the steamship, and bobbed up,
long afterward, on that island. It would be strange if he should appear
again, after four years, wouldn’t it?”
“It certainly would; but stranger things than that have happened in our
experiences, Nick.”
“Yes. But, somehow, I can’t believe that Jimmy Duryea is alive, now;
although Nan is positive about it.”
“Tell me what she said. Tell me about your talk with her. I always
liked Nan; and it is a cinch that she _could_ sing. You gave her the
right name when you called her Nightingale.”
“Yes. Even Pettis said that.”
“Why did she give up the stage?”
“She didn’t tell me that. I was coming out of the church when some one
touched me on the arm, and turning about I saw that it was Nan. Of
course I was glad to see her, and I said so.”
“Naturally. She is a sort of protégée of yours, you know. It was
through you, Nick, that she quit being a crook and became an honest
woman.”
“Softly, Chick. Nan was never really a crook, you know. When she was
Jimmy Duryea’s wife he did force her into assisting him in some of his
crooked work; but she never had any heart in it. She hasn’t left the
stage permanently—only temporarily. She said she desired a rest for a
season, and that she had saved up enough money to take it. I guess that
is her only reason for not being on the boards at present.”
“But what about Jimmy?”
“It is rather an odd sort of story, but I will tell it to you just as
she told it to me and see what you think about it, Chick.”
“All right.”
“During her career on the stage these last four years, Nan has made
some splendid acquaintances. I am not referring to people in the
‘profession’ so much as to society people. Nan has become a welcome
guest at many an exclusive house, and among the members of the most
conservative set.”
“I’m not surprised at that. She is a beautiful woman—there is not
another one on the stage who can hold a candle to her, if it comes down
to that.”
“You’re right. She is a lady, through and through—to the manner born,
so to speak.”
“Sure. And by the way, isn’t that what Jimmy used to say to
himself—that he was ‘born, bred, and raised a gentleman’?”
“Yes. And it was true, too.”
“Go ahead about Nan, Nick.”
“Well, it was at the solicitation of some of her society friends that
she decided to take a rest for one season. She has saved up a lot of
money, as nearly as I can make out, and was invited on a yachting
cruise with some of her friends. After that she became the guest of
Mrs. Theodore Remsen—and that is where she is staying now.”
“She did get into the ‘upper ten,’ didn’t she?”
“Sure. There isn’t a more exclusive house in the city, or at Newport or
Lenox, than the Theodore Remsen’s.”
“I know. Well?”
“Perhaps you know that the Remsens also own a fine residence that
fronts on the Hudson River, eh? Not far from Fishkill?”
“I didn’t know it; but that makes no difference. What about it?”
“That is where they are staying just now; and Nan is there with them.
She is to be their guest until spring. I believe there is a whole
season of pleasure mapped out for Nan, and she is to be made quite the
lioness—and all that.”
“I understand. But what has all that got to do with——”
“I am coming to that, Chick. That is what brings me to the rather
remarkable tale that Nan told me.”
“I see.”
“To let you in on the ground floor of the story at once, a burglar
got into the house up the river, a few nights ago. Nan surprised the
burglar at work, made him give up his booty, agreed to say nothing
about it to the members of the household, and let him go. But, it
appears, that instead of relinquishing his booty and going away empty
handed, he only gave up what was in sight, and actually got away with
a diamond necklace and some other jewels that belonged to Mrs. Remsen,
and to some of her guests. Nan says that what was actually stolen
represented close to forty thousand dollars.”
“Jimmy always was discriminating, when it came to a selection of
jewels,” said Chick, with a slow smile.
“Right again. But because of the disappearance of those jewels, Nan
finds herself in a perplexity. Now, I’ll tell you the story just as it
is.”
“All right.”
“It happened last Thursday night. Nan had not been feeling up to the
mark that day. She had kept herself rather to herself, since morning.
During the day Mrs. Remsen told Nan that she was expecting another
guest that evening—a gentleman from the South, named Dinwiddie; Ledger
Dinwiddie, to be exact.”
“Rather a high-sounding title, that; eh?”
“Yes. Well, Nan didn’t go down to dinner that evening, so she did
not meet the guest, when he arrived. She retired early—that is, she
arranged herself in comfortable attire, and kept to her own room,
where she passed the time in reading. About eleven o’clock, she tried
to compose herself to sleep, but after an hour of vain effort in that
line, she decided that it was of no use, and sought another book. There
did not happen to be one handy which interested her, and so, garbed in
a wrapper, she descended the stairs to the library.”
“It sounds like a chapter out of a book, Nick.”
“It does, for a fact; but you haven’t got the real thing, yet.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“She had bed slippers on her feet, which made no sound as she walked.
She crossed the lower hall, after descending the stairs, and stepped
into the library, reaching around the jamb of the doorway, as she did
so, to switch on the electric lights—and she did it so quickly that she
failed to notice that there was a single light already burning in the
room.”
“More and more like a novel, Nick.”
“Yes. When she snapped on the lights, a man who had been seated at
the table in the middle of the room sprang to his feet—and she found
herself looking into the muzzle of a revolver.”
“Well, it wasn’t the first time that Nan has done that. It might have
scared most women half to death; but Nan——”
“I rather think that she was more surprised and startled by the
appearance of the man himself than by the weapon he held in his hand,”
said the detective, interrupting. “The man was Jimmy Duryea; Bare-Faced
Jimmy; at least she says it was—and is.”
“And—_is_?”
“Yes. I’m coming to that.”
“All right.”
“The room was, of course, in a blaze of light. In the man who
confronted her, Nan saw the face and features of Jimmy Duryea. On the
table where he had been seated was a confused heap of the spoil he had
stolen, and was engaged in sorting when Nan interrupted him.”
“And she was looking into the muzzle of a gun,” commented Chick.
“Yes. But it wasn’t that which startled her. It was the face and
appearance of the man; of a man whom she supposed to have been dead
four years, at least; of the man whom she had once married, and whom
she had tenderly loved, until she discovered that he was a crook, when
she deserted him and got a divorce.”
“What did she do?”
“What would nine out of ten women do, under like circumstances?”
retorted the detective.
“Let out a yell, I suppose.”
“Nan cried out his name. ‘Jimmy!’ she exclaimed; and he dropped the gun
to the floor, and called back, ‘Nan!’”
“Tableau!” said Chick.
“Precisely,” said Nick Carter.
CHAPTER III.
JIMMY DURYEA’S DARING.
Chick chuckled softly to himself as he imagined the scene in the
library that Nick Carter had just described to him.
“Hold on a minute, Nick,” he said. “Let me get the chronology of those
two straight in my mind. Jimmy, according to his own story, told to us
four years ago, was, originally, a born aristocrat, the second or third
son of somebody-or-other, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He would never tell who he was; but it is certain that he is well
born.”
“So was Nan; and both were English, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Scapegrace Jimmy went to South Africa to finish the sowing of his
wild oats, and Nan went there as governess to the children of the
South African consul. They met there, and were married. Jimmy was a
burglar and a thief, and Nan didn’t suspect it until long after the
two had come to this country. Then she found it out, and for a time he
compelled her to assist him in his crooked work. Then he got caught,
and was sent away, to Sing Sing, and Nan got a divorce. Later, she
married Smathers, the man of many faces, and an actor. Then Jimmy got
out of prison, thought Nan had peached on him, threatened vengeance,
and all that, and intended to kill her, until it happened that you
showed him that Nan was not the one who had betrayed him. She wanted to
reform, and did so, and Jimmy agreed to let her alone. Then Jimmy got
caught, was sent back to England to answer charges against him there,
escaped, returned here, and supposedly died on an island in Long Island
Sound. That was four years ago. Almost two years ago, Smathers died—I
suppose he is really dead, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, there is no doubt of that, Chick.”
“And now Nan discovers her former husband, robbing a house where she is
a respected guest, and——”
“And that isn’t all of it; not by a long shot.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Well, it was a tableau for a moment, after the mutual discovery
in that library. There was a half mask on the table, which Jimmy
had removed while he was sorting the spoil. He always was a cool
proposition, you remember.”
“Yes. That is how he got his name of Bare-Faced Jimmy.”
“He didn’t lose his presence of mind, just then, either. He stooped
and picked up the gun from the floor, dropped it into one of his
pockets—and sat down again upon the chair where he had been seated
when she interrupted him.”
“Just like him.”
“The rest of the story I will tell just as Nan told it to me.”
“All right.”
“She said: ‘For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Until that instant
it had never occurred to me that Jimmy was alive. I had not a doubt
that he was dead. But there he was, as natural as ever, as handsome as
ever, as cool and self-contained as ever, and just as daring as he used
to be in the old days.’
“‘Sit down, Nan,’ he said to her; and she sat down.
“‘I thought you were dead,’ she told him, and he laughed in his
pleasant way, and replied that he was as good as an army of dead men.
Then she pointed at the jewels on the table, and at the other things
that he had gotten together.
“‘At your old tricks?’ she asked him, and he nodded.
“‘Can’t keep away from it, Nan,’ he told her. ‘It is in my blood, I
guess. But what are you doing here? Are you up to the old game, too?’
“Then she told him all about herself, and they talked together for
quite a while. The upshot of it was that Jimmy agreed to take the risk
of returning all the things to the rooms from which he had taken them,
and she promised to wait where she was, until he had done so.”
“That was like Jimmy. Think of the nerve of the fellow, in going back
to the rooms he had robbed, to return the jewels to the places where he
had found them.”
“That is just the point, Chick; he didn’t.”
“Oh; I see.”
“He replaced a few of the things, but many of them he still kept. He
told her, when he came back, that he had returned them, and it wasn’t
till the following day that she discovered his deception.”
“I think it is rather remarkable that she trusted him to do it at all.”
“Jimmy could always make Nan believe that the moon was made of green
cheese. Well, she promised him that she would say nothing of having
found a man in the library, and much less would she mention to any
living person who that man really was. So they parted. Nan returned to
her room, and retired. Jimmy, presumably, left the house by the way he
had entered it.”
“But he didn’t do that, either, eh?”
“No. He didn’t do that, either.”
“What did he do?”
“He sat opposite Nan, at the breakfast table, the following morning,
and was introduced to her by their hostess as Mr. Ledger Dinwiddie.”
“Gee!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Say, Nick, if I had heard this story without names being mentioned,
I’d have said that Jimmy Duryea would have done that very thing if he
were alive.”
“So would I.”
“What did Nan do, when the introduction took place?”
“What could she do? Nothing more than acknowledge the introduction. She
couldn’t tell the story of what had happened during the night, with
much more credit to herself, than he could have done so; and, besides,
just then she supposed that all the stolen property had been returned.
It wasn’t till later in the day—some time in the afternoon—that she
knew the truth.”
“And then?”
“Then she laid for Jimmy. But he knew that, and avoided her, of course.
Finally, she went directly to him, and asked him to walk with her to
the stables, and he couldn’t very well refuse to do that. Halfway to
the stables, they found a secluded spot, and there she stopped him and
told him that unless he returned all the stolen property before the
following morning, she would denounce him, no matter what might happen
to her.”
“And he made another promise, I suppose?”
“Sure.”
“And kept it in about the same manner?”
“In precisely the same manner.”
“That brings the time to Saturday morning, doesn’t it? The thing
happened Thursday night.”
“Yes.”
“What then?”
“Saturday, she went for him again. He told her that there had been no
opportunity to replace the stolen jewels the preceding night, but that
he would do it that night—Saturday night. Yesterday morning she did not
see him at all, but she learned that the jewels had not been returned.
Mrs. Remsen asked her to take a motor ride, and she had to go. They
came to the city, and decided to remain till to-day—and that is how Nan
happened to be at church last night, when I met her.”
“She was alone last night? Mrs. Remsen wasn’t with her?”
“No; she was alone. Nan had been chewing on the thing all day. She
didn’t know what to do. She said that she had decided to telephone to
me, after church, when she discovered that I was among the members of
the congregation.”
“In the meantime I suppose she hasn’t said a word to anybody but you.”
“Not a word.”
“What have you advised her to do?”
“I haven’t advised her—yet. What I did do was to promise to become one
of the invited guests at ‘The Birches,’ as they call the Remsen place
on the Hudson.”
“I see. So you are going up there, eh?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In a couple of hours. I’m going to take the car, and drive there—and
you are going with me. Danny will do the driving.”
“Oho! I see! Do you know the Remsens?”
“No. I never met either of them; or any of the family; but Nan said
she could fix that part of it all right. Nan was to tell Mrs. Remsen,
this morning, that she met an old friend at church, who is to motor out
their way to-day, and that she invited him to stop at The Birches. That
is all there is to that.”
“You intend to get Jimmy off to one side, and—what?”
“I haven’t decided that point, as yet. You see, there is another
complication in the affair. Mrs. Remsen is Theodore Remsen’s second
wife. There are two stepchildren at The Birches, a son and a
daughter—and Ledger Dinwiddie is supposed to be the future husband of
Lenore Remsen. You see, Jimmy Duryea has an assured position at the
house, and in the family. He thinks, now, that Nan dare not denounce
him, because of the effect that such a denouncement would have upon
herself; but with me on the ground——”
“I see. What do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know, Chick, until I get on the ground. It is a queer case
all around. Nan is for compelling Jimmy to give up the plunder, and
to disappear, without doing anything to him at all. She believes that
I am the only person who can accomplish that with him—and, under the
circumstances, she is about right, Chick.”
“Yes.”
“So I promised her that I would go there this afternoon. She and Mrs.
Remsen—who is a beautiful woman of about Nan’s age—were to return this
morning; they are probably halfway there by this time.”
“And you want me with you.”
“Why, yes. I thought you’d like it. Jimmy will realize what he is up
against when he sees both of us there.”
“He certainly ought to.”
“I don’t know just what attitude Jimmy will take. You know as well
as I do that he never plans a thing of this sort without doing it
thoroughly. He is doubtless prepared at every turn, and he may have the
bareface to defy me.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”
“Nor me, either, Chick.”
“Then what?”
“Oh, we won’t cross any bridges till we get to them.”
“How soon will we start, Nick?”
“In an hour or two.”
CHAPTER IV.
THROWING THE GAUNTLET.
“The Birches,” one of the summer residences of Theodore Remsen,
multimillionaire, financier, Wall Street wizard, and one of the
recognized powers in the moneyed world, stood, and still stands, a
prominent landmark at the location already described.
It stands upon a high bluff overlooking the Hudson, and is approached
from the main highway by a winding, macadamized road, which, from the
lodge gate to the mansion, is more than a mile in length, and shaded on
either side by a double row of white birches; hence its name.
The lawn, directly in front of the house, is laid out in tennis courts,
and there Nick Carter and Chick discovered nearly all the guests of
the house assembled, when they drove beneath the porte-cochère at four
o’clock that Monday afternoon.
Nancy Nightingale had evidently been watching for their arrival, for as
Nick stepped down from the car and gave Danny a few directions, he saw
her approaching. He went forward to meet her, followed by Chick.
As the detective moved toward her he cast his eyes rapidly over the
assembled people—there was a score of them, all told—and thought he
saw Jimmy Duryea among them, engaged in an animated conversation with
a group of which he appeared to be the centre. But the man’s back was
turned, and Nick could not be certain.
Nan, in an outing gown and coat of white flannel, with her black hair
and sparkling eyes, looked more beautiful than ever as she approached
the two detectives, and her smile of greeting was warmth itself.
She conducted them directly toward the place where Mrs. Remsen was
seated, and presented them. She added, after she had done so:
“I told Mrs. Remsen that I had invited you to stop here to call upon
us, and now she insists that you shall join our party for as long a
time as you can remain.”
After that, with Nan on his arm, Nick passed from group to group on
the lawn, acknowledging introductions here and there as he went along.
Chick remained with the group that had formed around the hostess.
Presently Nick and his companion approached that particular group
of which the man who called himself Ledger Dinwiddie, and whom Nan
believed to be Jimmy Duryea, formed one part.
Nan purposely left the introduction to him, for the last of that
particular group; and then she said:
“Mr. Dinwiddie, this is an old friend of mine—Mr. Carter;” and Duryea
turned about lazily, as if he had not noticed the arrival of a stranger
till that moment.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Carter,” he said imperturbably, and with just
the faintest trace of a smile on his handsome features; and then he
turned back again to the companion with whom he had been talking, and
who happened to be the daughter of the house, Miss Lenore Remsen, who
was not more than two years younger than her beautiful stepmother.
There was not the slightest trace of recognition in the eyes of Jimmy
Duryea when he acknowledged that introduction, although he must have
known Nick Carter at once—and he could not have prepared for the sudden
appearance of the detective there, unless he had guessed that Nan might
communicate with the detective while she was in the city.
Nick was equally reticent. It was no part of his present purpose to
force matters; at least he did not intend to do so until the proper
moment should arrive; but he did desire to get the gentleman cracksman
into conversation, to see how far the assurance of the man would carry
him.
Presently he found an opportunity.
It was when Duryea turned to make some general remark to those near
him, and Nick chose to reply directly to it.
“I quite agree with you, Mr. Dinwiddie,” he said. “Stolen jewels are
difficult things to trace. That is the subject you were discussing, I
believe?”
“Yes,” said Nan, before Duryea could reply. “A most remarkable thing
happened here, during the night of last Thursday. A necklace, and other
jewels, disappeared most mysteriously from the rooms of the owners.
But—shhh—we have all agreed to keep very still about it, for the
present.”
Duryea laughed softly.
“Perhaps, Miss Nightingale,” he said, “this gentleman will be able to
make some valuable suggestions in regard to those missing jewels. He
has a namesake in New York who is said to be one of the smartest of
living detectives. Isn’t that so, Carter? Eh?”
“Quite so,” replied Nick, looking him directly in the eye. “Only the
gentleman to whom you refer is not a namesake. I happen to be the
person mentioned myself.”
Duryea’s brows went upward in well-feigned surprise; a chorus of
exclamations arose from every side; Nan bit her lips, for she had not
intended that Nick should announce himself quite in that manner.
Lenore Remsen turned at once to the detective, and exclaimed:
“Really, Mr. Carter, are you the detective?”
“Yes, Miss Remsen, I really am.”
“Oh, I am so glad. Then you can assist us to recover our jewels.”
“I can try, if it is your wish that I should do so,” replied Nick
calmly. “Were you a victim of the robberies, Miss Remsen?”
“Yes, indeed. It was my diamond necklace that was the most valuable
thing taken. I must admit that I was very careless about it that night.
Instead of putting it away, as usual, I merely dropped it into my jewel
box. In the morning it was gone. Don’t you think, Mr. Carter, that it
is remarkable how a burglar could get into the house, and go through
the rooms as that one did, without leaving a trace of any sort behind
him?”
“It does seem so; yes.”
“There wasn’t a trace. Not one; anywhere.”
“Was no one in the house suspected?” asked Nick quietly.
“No one in the——Oh, you mean one of the servants, of course. No;
really. The staff of servants that we have in this house are, all of
them, old retainers; every one of them has been a long time with us.
You know this is the one place which we really call home. We always
speak of ‘coming home,’ when we come here. Oh, no, indeed, we could not
suspect one of the servants.”
“What is your opinion on the subject, Mr. Dinwiddie?” asked the
detective, turning fairly toward Duryea.
The latter smiled, showing his white and even teeth; he twirled his
mustache for a moment before he replied, and when he did so it was with
deliberation.
“Really,” he said, “you know I am not an authority, Mr. Carter—such
as yourself, for example. Still—er—I think I have an opinion,
nevertheless. We are all apt to form opinions in such cases, don’t you
think, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes. What is yours? You interest me.”
“Do I? Really! You confess yourself to be the great and only Nick
Carter, and then do me the honor to care for my opinion!”
“In the hope that it might prove to be an expert one—yes,” replied the
detective.
“Expert? Oh, dear, no; not at all expert. Just an opinion.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I shall shock all the ladies present—and some who are not immediately
present in this group—when I mention it.”
“Nevertheless——”
“Oh, nevertheless, I shall not hesitate—even at the risk of giving
offense. I should venture it as my opinion that the thief in this
instance is a woman, whether she happens to be a servant—or one of the
guests. There! Have I shocked all of you?”
He laughed easily when he asked the question, as if to take away the
sting of it, and he turned his speaking eyes from one to another of the
group until he had gone the rounds—and, somehow, he managed to create
the impression that he was merely indulging in a joke at their expense.
But there was an uneasy laugh around him, nevertheless.
Lenore Remsen started to her feet, and exclaimed:
“I think that was horrid of you, Ledger! Horrid! The idea of saying
such a thing! We shall all be looking askance at each other, from now
on. What do you think about it, Miss Nightingale?”
“I should sooner incline to the opinion that the thief was a man, and
a guest,” was the deliberate reply; and she added, not without intent,
for she was angry, seeing exactly what Duryea had intended to convey to
her: “One of the lately arrived guests, at that.”
Lenore clapped her hands.
“That is where you get it back, Ledger,” she exclaimed. “But, really,
that was horrid of you, to say such a thing.”
“Who are the lately arrived guests, Miss Nightingale?” asked the
detective, without turning his head; and she replied, without
hesitation:
“Mr. Dinwiddie is himself the most lately arrived one.”
Duryea laughed aloud.
“Good!” he said. “That is right, too. I arrived that very evening.
Now, I wonder if it could have been me? I used to walk in my sleep
when I was a child, although I don’t remember that I had the habit of
purloining necklaces when I did so. But, then, one never can tell.”
“Indeed one cannot,” retorted Nan. And then, assuming the air of one
who was joking, she added: “I should advise a close inspection into
your past record, Mr. Dinwiddie, if it is true that you formerly were
in the habit of prowling about houses in the night.”
“Gladly!” he exclaimed, joining in the general laugh that followed.
“Will you give us the benefit of searching yours, also, Miss
Nightingale?”
A slow flush stole into the cheeks and brow of Nan Nightingale, but she
was equal to the occasion. She replied:
“It will not be necessary that you should search. Fortunately there is
one who has known me many years. Mr. Carter can supply all particulars
that may be required.”
“I am afraid,” said Duryea, “that what was intended as a joke all
around has taken a serious turn. Let us drop it before we begin to
indulge in personalities. Nevertheless, Miss Nightingale, it is well to
have a person so renowned as Nick Carter to vouch for one. I only wish
that he could perform the same service for me.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Dinwiddie, I might be able to do that, also,” replied
Nick quietly. “It is my profession to know something about a great many
people who do not suppose that I know them at all. However, as you say,
the conversation is taking too serious a turn. I will propose a game of
tennis with you, Mr. Dinwiddie; what do you say?”
“Gladly. Come along. Singles?”
“Yes. Singles. There is a vacant court.”
“All right. You’re on. But I warn you, Mr. Carter, I am considered an
expert.”
“So much the better. I think I just suggested that about you in quite
another line, did I not?”
CHAPTER V.
THE GHOST OF JIMMY.
The game of tennis was over.
There were indications of a shower, and the spectators had scampered
toward the wide verandas for shelter, so that Nick Carter and the
so-called Ledger Dinwiddie stood alone near one end of the net. It was
the opportunity which Nick wanted.
“Well, Jimmy, this is a bolder game than usual, that you are playing,
isn’t it?” he asked smilingly.
Duryea raised his eyes to the detective’s without a trace of resentment
in them, and also without a vestige of surprise visible. He also raised
his brows interrogatively.
“Now, I wonder where in the world you hit upon that name?” he said,
in reply, and his expression denoted nothing more nor less than
wonderment. “That is what my dear old dad used to call me, Jimmy! James
Ledger Dinwiddie is my full name. How’d you hit upon the Jimmy part of
it?”
“Oh, come, Jimmy, don’t try to play it out with me. You know it won’t
work. You are Jimmy Duryea, all right—and the climate of The Birches
isn’t good for you, just now.”
“What the blazes do you mean?” was the indignant ejaculation; and then:
“I say, we’ll get caught in that shower, old chap. Come along!”
He seized his racket from the ground and started toward the house; but
he had not taken two steps before Nick Carter seized him by the arm and
propelled him toward a summerhouse that was near at hand.
“This place will shelter us, Jimmy,” he said coldly. “You come along
with me. If you attempt to resist, I shall take you there anyhow, so if
you don
|
ices of theatrical people at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.
It is the latest creation in behalf of the wealthy tourist who visits
Southern California.
In this huge pile, which somewhat resembles a great depot, in depth of
its long corridors and maze of shops and stands, a scene of merriment
occurred that has not been rivalled in the history of winter tropics.
The affair was stopped, it is understood, by order of the hotel
management, when word freely was passed that by some hook or crook booze
was to be had on an upper floor. Just how booze might get into a great
hotel and gradually cause the dance to become rather flushed may have
been a problem that puzzled and nettled those responsible for the good
name of the house so far as Uncle Sam is concerned. At any event the
fiddlers left and the impression went about that the hotel people weren’t
going to stand for the party getting rough.
Into the main dining-room, before the evening was well started, two of
our leading male comedians strode, both with an ill-concealed bottle
protruding from the usual pocket. One of these comedians is a heavy
gentleman and a jolly one. The other is gaining fame as a comedian
because he never is known to smile.
Just what was in the bottles cannot be proved, but the incident caused
some words of criticism from other members of the movie colony, who
figured the boys were “putting it on” a little too strong in view of
the assemblage present, ever ready to declare that the “movies” are
impossible.
But these two cheerful individuals, at the worst, were only mistaken if
they really intended to show off or be funny or daring. Many a person
present would have been glad to join them, in consideration of their hip
pocket protrusion. Yet the occasion, the time, the place, and so on, made
it seem a bit garish.
But what about the rouge-soaked males in feminine attire, and displaying
toe to hip extremes, garbed in lace tights, whose every movement, look
and word indicated absence of the masculine instinct as they pranked and
tripped about the ballroom floor, mingling with dainty women and stalwart
males who moved uneasily away as the queer folk swung simpering and
smirking among them?
Take the two merry boys with the bottles in the main dining-room, a
little wild, perhaps, and making somewhat of a show—but, withal, regular
men taking a lark as they found it—maybe somewhat “lit up,” but exuding
rough masculinity in their uncouth playfulness. To be censured?
One regular he-man, or a party of them, invaded under ordinary
circumstances by queer-acting customers, would make short shift of “sissy
simps” and abide by the consequences—there being small reason to fear
consequences. But a public gathering is different.
By the way, Mildred Harris (Charlie’s used-to-be) led the Grand March
with Earl Williams. It is remembered that Williams recently, after his
marriage, paid a certain lady a sum (reputed to be $40,000) as a result
of a friendship which existed prior to the picture star’s entrance into
matrimony.
They are getting to be very businesslike, these ladies. They give, but
demand payment at times. But if Earl Williams parted with $40,000, his
partner in the dance, fair Mildred, was rejoicing in a little sum of
$200,000 or so, which is the amount Charles is said to have settled upon
her when they parted at the ways.
Bookkeeping on the leaders of the Grand March, it would appear that Earl
and Mildred, between them, were $160,000 ahead of the matrimonial deal,
figuring Earl’s loss of $40,000 and Mildred’s winnings of two hundred
grand.
Mary and Doug did not mingle with the ballroom dancers to any extent.
They are largely home folks and only drop in on occasions at a party, and
then usually beat it in jigtime for the fireside.
One of our best-known young newspaper scribes had half the house betting
that he was dancing with Edna Purviance, garbed in Turkish emblems. But
when she doffed her mask it was not Edna at all, but a charming youngster
of the pictures but not well known to fame.
Since Edna has been resurrected in all her beauty for Chaplin’s new
picture, “The Kid,” the former friendship between her and Chaplin has
been rehashed where the gossip-mongers meet for Wednesday night meeting.
Another pleasing sight was the return of Lucille Carlisle, until recently
Larry Semon’s leading lady. Rumor hath it that Lucille and Larry waged a
young war about something, as children will. But the soaring young funny
man of filmdom and his fair partner were turtle doves who found no one to
dance with but themselves.
A false report went out that Bull Montana attended the ball costumed like
an ape. This is untrue, for two reasons. One is that Bull wasn’t present,
and the other that he needs no costume when imitations of a gorilla are
in order. Bull’s face has become his fortune and he is proud of it.
* * * * *
A girl may not let you kiss her, but the chances are she appreciates your
wanting to.
_Whiz Bang Filosophy_
Prohibition is morality on a jag.
* * * * *
A good woman is chaste—so is good whiskey.
* * * * *
Virtue, although often lost, is seldom advertised for.
* * * * *
After man came woman and she has been after him ever since.
* * * * *
A woman who can love but once is pretty badly stuck on herself.
* * * * *
It may be peculiar, but a horse can eat best without a bit in his mouth.
* * * * *
Man is made of dust; along comes the water wagon of fate and his name is
mud.
* * * * *
Before a man marries, he swears to love; after marriage, he loves to
swear.
* * * * *
Human nature shows to better advantage at a dog fight than at a prayer
meeting.
* * * * *
Love is blind. Perhaps that accounts for some of the bad shots he has
made.
* * * * *
Blessed is the man that is born of little furniture, for it shall be
easier to move.
* * * * *
Most women are both good and true; in fact, most of them are too good to
be true.
* * * * *
You can never judge the length of a woman’s tongue by the size of her
mouth.
* * * * *
Love has been called miserable happiness. Not so, it is what makes
happiness miserable.
* * * * *
He is a mean father who has his whiskers shaved off because the baby
likes to pull them.
* * * * *
Some women kiss their pet dogs in preference to their husbands. Some men
are born lucky.
* * * * *
The girl who wishes she had been born a boy will never make a good
wife—she will want to wear the pants.
* * * * *
A pretty woman with brains usually sends some man to the devil. If she
hasn’t brains, she goes there herself.
* * * * *
Some men promise to stop smoking after marriage without exacting a
similar promise from the girl.
* * * * *
If Mother Eve had been as wise as some of her daughters, what a fool
she’d have made of that snake.
* * * * *
A man will promise a woman or a baby anything to keep them quiet.
Sometimes he delivers the goods in the case of the baby.
* * * * *
All of us believe in law and order, of course, but a surprisingly large
number of people like to see a policeman get whipped.
* * * * *
Of course polygamy is dreadful, but an Oriental wife can come within four
or five guesses of knowing where her husband spends his evenings.
* * * * *
The wise virgins of olden days kept their lamps trimmed and burning;
those of the present day keep the gas turned low, and they manage to trim
as many suckers as their predecessors.
* * * * *
Blessed is the man that is born for woman. He hath a short life and
little joy. He springeth up in the morning like a huckleberry bush and is
crushed to earth at night by a mother-in-law.
* * * * *
Life’s Hard Course
_This bit of filosophy is as old as the hills, but like good
liquor and fruits of human thought, it grows more rich and
mellow with age. Its quaintness is its virtue, and so here it
is again._
Man comes into this world without his consent, and leaves it against his
will. During his stay on earth his time is spent in one continual round
of contraries and misunderstandings.
In his infancy, he’s an angel; in his boyhood, he’s a devil, and in
his manhood, he is everything from a lizard up. In his duties, he’s a
damphool.
If he raises a family, he’s a chump. If he raises a check, he’s a crook.
If he is a poor man, he is a poor manager and has no sense. If he is
rich, he is dishonest but considered smart. If he is in politics he is a
grafter and a thief. If he is out of politics, you cannot place him as he
is an undesirable citizen. If he donates to foreign missions, he does it
for show; if he doesn’t, he is stingy and a tightwad.
When he comes into the world, they all want to kiss him; before he leaves
it, they all want to kick him.
If he dies young, there was a great future before him. If he lives to
a ripe, old age, he is only in the way, just living to save funeral
expenses. So Life is just one damn thing after another.
* * * * *
Everything has gone down except paper and envelopes. They are stationery.
_Adventures of Sven_
Dere Uncle Billy: Since Ay writing you las time Ay bane having swell
time acting in moving pictures. Las week Ay working in Sex picture in
Hollywood Studyo and we got one big scene where leading man be banker
faller and git fresh with hired girl while him’s wife bane gone out to
week-end party. Ayskol be butler with short tail coat and gold buttons
made of brass. When somebody kome in Ayskol stand by door and take him’s
card on pie-plate. Director he say, “Sven, when banker git fresh you skol
yump in an’ poke him’s nose yust like real life with plenty pep.” Banker
git fresh alright an’ you bet Ay show Director Ay am dam gude actor. Ay
poke leading man so he don’t wake up till half past sax an’ dey don’t
finish scene till next week. Leading man he git sore on me an’ try to git
me fired but Ayskol told him if he enta shut up Ay poke him ’gain so he
keep still an’ Ay don’t lose may Yob.
Week behind las’ Ay playing in cave-man picture with whiskers glued on
may face so Ay look like Smith Bros. on cough drop box. They got real
elephant from Universal City an’ glue whiskers all over him too, so he
skol be a baskardon. We go out in woods with a lot of other animals an’
monkey ’round all day yumping in and out hole in hill some fallers dig
for cave.
Ay meet rich woman that say she skol star me yust so soon her husband go
to Seattle. She gat big lemonzine an’ diamonds an’ she shake her shimmy
when she walking. She bane gude skout all right, you bat my life, an’ she
say Ay gat fine fizzic. She like strong faller an’ she like me be strong
for her. Ay bat your life Ay gitting new suit from Foreman Clark an’ silk
shirt with blue stripe. She standing in gude with assistant Director an’
git me gude Yobs right long. Ay meet four more Swedes here in pictures
an’ they take me to place one night they call wild party an’ Ay drink
some coctaila made out of prune yuice and Skloan’s Liniment. When Ay got
more news Ay skol let you know right off. Moving picture game bane gude
bet for faller with plenty pep.
Goodby,
SVENS PETERSON.
Post Chips: If you see may brother Olaf tole him Ay say bootleg business
bane pretty gude out here yust now an’ if he want to kom out Ay skol git
him in on ground floor.—S. P.
* * * * *
What a Pity, Poor Kitty!
There was a young man from the city,
Who met what he thought was a kitty;
He gave it a pat,
Said, “Nice little cat!”
And they buried his clothes out of pity.
_Venezuela’s Abominations_
_As full of dynamite and fusel oil as ever, Reverend Morrill
returns to Minnesota this month brimful of information on
the South and Central American countries, which for the past
three months he had been touring for the Whiz Bang, and here’s
his first report. Incidentally, Reverend Morrill’s home in
Minneapolis is broken into by burglars nearly every time he
goes away on a Whiz Bang jaunt, and last fall he lost $3,000
worth of choice red-eye. This last trip he left a note: “Dear
Boys: You won’t find any booze or Liberty Bonds, but some
good books, especially this Bible, which says, ‘Thou shalt
not steal.’ God forgive you—I do. G. L. Morrill.” Whether or
not the note was responsible is undetermined, but nothing was
missing this time._
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL
Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.
“Easy is the descent to hell”—except by way of Venezuela, at whose
ports of entry one suffers so many inconveniences in the form of
passport visés, custom fees, red-tape, delay and insolence, that if
the Devil wishes to sustain his reputation of a conductor of luxurious
pleasure-tours to the infernal regions, he should immediately get rid of
his disagreeable officials there. At La Guayra, custom authorities rob
the traveler of time, money and patience. These sun-burnt bandits would
steal the pennies from the eyes of their dead father, and body-snatch
their dead grandmother to sell her entrails for sausage-casings. The
visitor should be on his guard, too, lest the city’s dark-eyed daughters
of delight steal away his heart.
La Guayra señoritas, like the scenery, are wild, beautiful and romantic,
though there are many wizened witches, rheumatic, mustachioed and
flea-bitten, who make one sea-sick on land. The local enchantresses
give the stranger a good (bad) time—as well as a choice assortment of
undesirable souvenirs. It is a pestiferous port where the laudable
profession of prostitution is much practised. These moral lepers are much
more dangerous than the physical ones in the big asylum in the outskirts.
Gay girls throw kisses to the tenderfoot as he walks the streets—a most
sanitary and microbeless pastime.
Here I entered a girls’ school where the young misses were learning much
and not missing anything, for as a practical object-lesson in physiology
a naked little boy had strolled in from the street and was roaming about
the room. Some of the citizens are quite devout and show their gratitude
to God for his numerous blessings. I passed a saloon bearing the
inscription, “Gracios a Dios” (Thanks to God). Thus do the simple-minded
people obey the Scriptural command, “In everything give thanks.”
A few minutes’ train ride takes you to Maiquitia, where there is a
popular shrine and a more popular brewery. At the other end of the town
lies Macuto, where, if lucky, you may “clean up” yourself in a sea-bath,
or a pile of filthy lucre at the roulette table.
As our vessel steamed away from La Guayra, I thought what a magnificent
city it was—from the stern of a ship.
In Valencia I read a placard in a church admonishing the men not to wink
at the girls during service. The town had just been ravaged by a fever
called “Economica,” because it was said the people caught it in the
morning, languished in the afternoon and died at night.
At the Hotel Los Baños, Puerto Cabello, one goes in swimming _au
naturel_. Many modest maidens are only clad in a blush, making a _tableau
vivant_. Verily, as the guide-book saith, “The natural beauties of
the place are charming.” The harbor is deep; so is the despair of the
political prisoners who I saw working in rags. One poor fellow was
toiling away stark naked among the breakers and sharp rocks. It is
reported that the victims are beaten in the early morning, during the
call of the reveille, to cover up their cries.
Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, lies at a 3,000-foot “hell”evation
above the sea. It is the “Paris of South America” with its churches,
parks, public buildings, Pantheon, palace and promenades. The
nerve-center of the city is Plaza Bolivar, with an equestrian statue of
the hero who stood for liberty, and around which congregate people who
stand for everything. Certain “Carac”teristics make this a viva “city”
and lubri “city.” The climate is cool, but tempered by the “melting”
glance of the _bonita muchachas_, whose smiles would ripen peaches on a
wall.
The dapper younkers of Caracas pursue their studies at the University,
and the señoritas on the highway. Their “curriculum” also includes the
race-track, bull-ring, roulette-wheel (as omnipresent as the Victoria
coach-wheel), and art works, imported from Paris and Barcelona, as
vile and vivid as the paintings of Parrhasius. Even picture portraits
of Beethoven and Wagner are made by grouping together nude portions of
female figures.
Lottery-tickets are not the only things sold in town. Mothers come
to the Plaza with their daughters for sale. Wantons from the suburb
lupanars solicit under shadows of the trees, and their “Hist! hist!” is
as familiar as the sibilant call of the _filles publiques_ in Paris, who
figure so frequently in the tales of De Kock, Sue and Maupassant.
At “Madame Gaby’s” mansion of shame I found a girl scarcely 12 years old.
How shocking! But one expects to be shocked in a city that is subject to
earthquakes. Not only pedestrians, but pederasts, i. e., “maricos” or
“fairies,” haunt the streets and parks of Caracas. Powdered and painted,
they promenade with mincing gait and ogling glance, marching to the music
of the band and making “overtures” to the bystanders. The police know of
this disgusting depravity, and of the hordel resorts “for men only,” but
wink at it. This is as rank and rotten as anything I ever saw in Algiers,
or the Cairo “fish-market,” where men were dressed as women.
In old Egypt the Temples of Isis were centers of disgusting filth.
In ancient Greece, even among her greatest orators and philosophers,
“Socratic love” was proverbial and portrayed on the stage in the plays of
Aristophanes, although the Athenians officially punished it with death.
Livy, in his History of Rome, castigates this heresy of love. The Ganymed
pervert, Geiton, is the hero of Petronius’ sinister novel, “Satyricon.”
Martial’s epigrams and Juvenal’s satires flay this moral decadence. Out
from Naples I visited the island of Capri, where the Roman goat Emperor,
Tiberius, hired companies of catamites for his entertainment. Domitan
forbade the practice while Christianity did much to suppress it. The
student of history knows the infamous lives of Russian rulers and of
Henry III, of France, in the seventeenth century. St. Paul scored the
Romans for this sin—what an epistle could he indite against the Caracas
“maricos” who amuse, instead of disgust, the Caraquenians, who seem to
believe with Baudelaire that “_La Débauche et la Mort sont deux amiables
filles_” (Debauch and Death are two amiable girls).
The worst spot in Venezuela is the despot dictator, President Gomez. His
authority is absolute, with the accent on the “loot.” He takes what he
wants; a man’s personal property, wife or daughter. Dark stories make
him a modern Bluebeard. He is a moral and physical leper. Rumor says
that he sacrifices children and drinks their blood to cure his maladies.
Gomez is the government; the legislative, executive and judicial branches
consisting of the cockpit, race-track and palace harem. He has panderers
who scour the country to procure beautiful women for him. His personal
and public character is so putrid, that many of the inhabitants would
like to elect him president of a Guano island, with a salary in Guano. In
the land of Bolivar, the Liberator, Gomez muzzles the press, suppresses
free speech, maintains an army of spies, and has imprisoned some of the
best and brainiest men of Venezuela in horrible dungeons for the crime of
loving liberty. The following would seem to be his daily prayer:
“My Father which art in Hell, powerful be thy name.
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in Venezuela as it is in
Hell.
Give me my daily bread, booze, and beef, whether everybody else
starves or not.
And forgive me my debts, but not as I forgive my debtors.
And tempt me not into revolutions with my neighbors, and
deliver me from the evil of any defeat; for thine and mine is
the kingdom, and the power, and glory, forever. Amen.”
Coffee, cacao, cane, cattle, corn and illegitimate children are the
principal products of the country. At one time the official census for
three years in Caracas gave legitimate births as 3,848, and illegitimate
as 3,753. The ratio is even worse in the country districts. A Venezuela
bachelor who hasn’t a half-dozen mistresses, has lost caste and is
looked down on; a married man is expected to run two or three home
establishments. Love is free, but drugs are costly. A friend of mine in
the interior had a dear motherly lady come to him and offer her three
daughters for five dollars a week.
’Tis said Alexander the Great wanted to destroy the antique town of
Lamsachus because of its Priapus worship and obscene rites. Caracas was
overturned by an earthquake in 1812, when 12,000 people perished. If that
was a visitation of God’s wrath on account of its wickedness, another
punishment is due, for it is in the class of the “Cities of the Plain”—
_“Cities of hell, with foul desires demented,_
_And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented.”_
* * * * *
Why Sergeants Are Liked
For a miserable hour the new squad had been drilled by the sergeant, and
then this army product remarked sweetly to the men:
“When I was a child I had a set of wooden soldiers. There was a poor
little boy in the neighborhood and after I had been to Sunday school one
day and listened to a talk on the beauties of charity I was softened
enough to give them to him. Then I wanted them back and cried, but my
mother said:
“‘Don’t cry, Bertie, some day you will get your wooden soldiers back.’
“And believe me, you lob-sided, mutton-headed, goofus-brained set of
certified rolling-pins, that day has come.”
* * * * *
Parley Vouz?
Several officers were seated around the mess table in France. One
serious-minded major was in habit of taking a French girl out to lunch
two or three times per week and taking a French lesson afterward.
“How much do you figure your French lessons have cost you to date?”
queried one of his companions, winking around the board.
“Roughly?” asked the major.
“No, respectably.”
* * * * *
Shocking!
My brother Roscoe, who is a captain in the Air Service, tells the
following:
Officers in a garrison school were studying “Small Problems for
Infantry.” Turning to the large-sized map on the wall, the major
instructor called upon one officer, Jones by name.
“Jones,” said he, “your battalion is camped here at cross-roads 435
(indicating on map). It is enemy country and you are told to cross this
cornfield toward farmhouse half-mile distant for the purpose of bringing
in the farmer or somebody who might furnish information of the movements
of the enemy. It is in September, the corn is cut but not shocked, and
as you make your way across the field you suddenly ran into two young
ladies. What do you do?”
“I-I-I-I don’t know,” falteringly replied the second looey. “I didn’t get
time to study the lesson today. But, did I understand you to say that the
corn had not been shocked?”
_Questions and Answers_
=To Captain Billy= (thru channels)—It is requested that the Captain give
his expert advice on the following subjects: (a) Girl in question insists
on wearing filmy Georgette waists, which are just about as efficient as
chicken wire as far as concealment is concerned. There is no objection on
my part to looking through them, but do not desire others to have same
advantage. (b) Passing along our main drag the other day, observed squab
with brilliant green stockings. Promptly remembered General Order No. 2,
and followed it out to best of my ability, when another one hove in sight
with red, white and blue effect on limbs. Puzzled to know which color to
pay attention to in case it happens again.—=Gerry Ed.=
Indorsements in reply—(a) Would suggest that you drape your girl in
question in heavier attire. (b) You did perfectly right in observing
both sets of stockings, as your general orders are: “To walk my post in
a military manner, observing everything that takes place within sight or
hearing.”
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—What is most like a hen stealing?—=Dismal Dan.=
A Cock Robin, I s’pose.
* * * * *
=Dear Bill=—Who is the lightweight champion of America?—=Private Stock.=
My coal dealer.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—What is a husband?—=Will B. Schmellie.=
Husbands are very useful things to have about the house. Caught young
they make useful pets and can be taught to do a number of tricks. Some
husbands are domesticated and stay at home in the evenings. I knew one
who used to spend every evening at home. He suffered with gout. Others
stay out late and then, having good friends, they get carried straight
in. The duty of a husband is to touch the cash register and look
pleasant, and so he spent his time trying to live round a seven by six
family on a two by three salary. Very few husbands ever live any longer
than is absolutely necessary.
* * * * *
=dEAR WhiZ bAng Bil=—my name is OLE. My brother GUS he go away 7 yeres
ago to work in Minnesoty milkking cows. Ay skol lak to know if your hired
man is my brother GUS, as you SaY in yure magazeen that your hired man
GUS has strong feet.—=Ole Skolstad.=
No, Ole, my hired man is not your brother. He says that all hired men
have a bad odor about their pedals, due, he says, to the brand of snuff
they snoose.
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper Bill=—Do you like Popcorn Balls?—=Sig. R. Liter.=
I don’t know; I never was to one.
* * * * *
=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—What’s the extreme penalty for bigamy?—=Ophelia
Anckel.=
Two mothers-in-law.
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—My husband stays out every night and he always says he
sits up with Jack, but he won’t tell me his friend’s last name. Can you
advise me?—=Grace Gravydisch.=
Your husband probably is attending Jack Pot.
* * * * *
=Dear Farmer Bill=—As you are living on a farm, perhaps you may be able
to give me the correct definition of a filly.—=Cobb Webb.=
A filly, my dear sir, is a lady horse that has never had a honeymoon.
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—I’ve heard the expression, “The Evening Wore On,” and will
you please tell me what it wore?—=E. Normous Nutt.=
Must have been wearing The Close of the Day.
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—What would you recommend as a good hair tonic?—=Rundown
Ike.=
Wine of Pepsin, but I didn’t think they used it on their hair any more.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Bill=—How may I become popular as an aesthetic
dancer?—=Miss Fitt.=
Simply shiver and shake and look wicked.
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—Why is a sailor usually referred to as an “Old Salt”?—=Cap
Pistol.=
After saltpeter, which is used so much in the navy as an ingredient in
the manufacture of high explosive shells.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Billy=—What is a Peruvian Phump?—=G. Howie Pants.=
An animal found only in the Arctic Circle, and having two or more speeds.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Bill=—What’s the difference between a model woman and a
woman model?—=Krazy Kookoo.=
A model woman is a bare possibility, while a woman model is a naked fact.
* * * * *
=Dear Professor Bill=—What range of mountains did Napoleon cross, what
year, and what mode of travel?—=Hyley Shocked.=
I am not much of an historian but I think it was in 1492 that Napoleon
crossed the Rockies in a canoe.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Bill=—I have lived in the city all my life but have decided
to become a farmer. Can you tell me whether or not macaroni is a
profitable crop to grow?—=Carse E. Noma.=
They don’t grow macaroni any more, they make it. Just take a big long
hole and put dough around it. I have been told that in some foreign
countries they use this hole for vermicelli.
_Limber Kicks_
Gabriel’s Trump
The young man led for a heart,
The maid for a diamond played,
The old man came down with a club,
And the sexton used a spade.
* * * * *
It wasn’t the folly of Willie and Molly
Nor the heat of the sun or the sands,
That made Willie silly, and Molly so jolly,
’Twas the Whiz Bangs they had in their hands.
* * * * *
Forgetful Maiden
“Here’s to the girl who is mine—all mine;
She drinks and she bets,
And she smokes cigarettes,
And, sometimes, I’m told,
She goes out, and forgets
That she’s mine—all mine.”
* * * * *
Quick, Mama, the Handkerchief
_The little boy had quite a cold—_
_The weather it was hot;_
_I said, “Is that sweat on your lip?”_
_He said, “No, sir, it’s not.”_
_Whiz Bang Editorials_
“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”
Less than two short years ago the Whiz Bang was founded, upon my return
from the army, on the Whiz Bang Farm, hoping in so doing that the
veterans and their friends of Robbinsdale and vicinity would be supplied
with samples of the pep and ginger we had in the army and navy and marine
corps. In our opening number, we expressed a faint hope for “big time”
sometime, and that we could follow in the footsteps of the Cherry Sisters
of vaudeville.
Our hopes and aspirations have been more than fulfilled. In twenty
months, without the aid of advertising or circulation campaigns, and
without a single subscription agent in the field, we have grown from
3,500 circulation in October, 1919, to more than 300,000 guaranteed
paid circulation with this issue, May, 1921. America surely has given
us a grand reception, and we are grateful. Next month we are planning
on letting our Canadian neighbors get our bundle of farm filosophy, and
as quickly as newsdealers can be communicated with, we will open up new
territory.
Here’s thanks to you, folks, one and all. And we want you to consider
yourself as associate editors. If you have a story, or a joke, or a
question for Captain Billy to answer, or a verse, or prose, or a catchy
saying—send it in.
And as a grand finale, so to speak, the Whiz Bang will stay in the fight
for the rights of all mankind to enjoy that liberty—the full measure of
our personal and national liberty—for which we bucked the bean line in
khaki and blue in the recent war. We will stand firmly opposed to any
invasion of our inherent rights to the pursuit of happiness, health and
prosperity.
* * * * *
The rôle of the drum is anything but hum-drum. The ear-drum recognizes
the sound of a drum whether the instrument is side, snare, brass or
kettle. In travel I have seen and heard drums big and little, round,
cylindrical, high and low, loud and soft, wild and weird; played by
head, hand and foot—played fast and slow in life and death, peace and
war—played by savage and by civilized man in the desert or orchestra hall.
Savages, whose natural argument was a blow on the head to beat out their
enemies’ brains, naturally fell into a percussion style of music and
invented the drum, often the sole as well as the chief musical instrument.
The drum figures in this world from religion to ragtime—from the
Salvation Army to the jazz band.
Deborah’s timbrel was a sort of drum. The old tom-tom at an Indian
snake-charming doubtless had its counterpart in Egypt in 1600 B. C., and
one listens to that same noise in modern Cairo. The dull sound that
waked my dreams in the Alhambra was from a drum the Moor had brought from
the East after a crusade.
Music is a universal language, and the despised, unmusical drum has a
polyglot tongue. All other musical instruments have their speech of
sentiment, love and emotion, but the voice of the drum knows the eloquent
language of
|
the direct
gift of Hindus, whether Brahmans or Buddhists, and much the same may be
said of Tibet, whence the wilder Mongols took as much Indian
civilization as they could stomach. In Java and other Malay countries
this Indian culture has been superseded by Islam, yet even in Java the
alphabet and to a large extent the customs of the people are still
Indian.
In the countries mentioned Indian influence has been dominant until the
present day, or at least until the advent of Islam. In another large
area comprising China, Japan, Korea, and Annam it appears as a layer
superimposed on Chinese culture, yet not a mere veneer. In these regions
Chinese ethics, literature and art form the major part of intellectual
life and have an outward and visible sign in the Chinese written
characters which have not been ousted by an Indian alphabet[3]. But in
all, especially in Japan, the influence of Buddhism has been profound
and penetrating. None of these lands can be justly described as Buddhist
in the same sense as Burma or Siam but Buddhism gave them a creed
acceptable in different forms to superstitious, emotional and
metaphysical minds: it provided subjects and models for art, especially
for painting, and entered into popular life, thought and language.
But what are Hinduism and Buddhism? What do they teach about gods and
men and the destinies of the soul? What ideals do they hold up and is
their teaching of value or at least of interest for Europe? I will not
at once answer these questions by general statements, because such names
as Hinduism and Buddhism have different meanings in different countries
and ages, but will rather begin by briefly reviewing the development of
the two religions. I hope that the reader will forgive me if in doing so
I repeat much that is to be found in the body of this work.
One general observation about India may be made at the outset. Here more
than in any other country the national mind finds its favourite
occupation and full expression in religion. This quality is geographical
rather than racial, for it is possessed by Dravidians as much as by
Aryans. From the Raja to the peasant most Hindus have an interest in
theology and often a passion for it. Few works of art or literature are
purely secular: the intellectual and aesthetic efforts of India, long,
continuous and distinguished as they are, are monotonous inasmuch as
they are almost all the expression of some religious phase. But the
religion itself is extraordinarily full and varied. The love of
discussion and speculation creates considerable variety in practice and
almost unlimited variety in creed and theory. There are few dogmas known
to the theologies of the world which are not held by some of India's
multitudinous sects[4] and it is perhaps impossible to make a single
general statement about Hinduism, to which some sects would not prove an
exception. Any such statements in this book must be understood as
referring merely to the great majority of Hindus.
As a form of life and thought Hinduism is definite and unmistakeable. In
whatever shape it presents itself it can be recognized at once. But it
is so vast and multitudinous that only an encyclopedia could describe it
and no formula can summarize it. Essayists flounder among conflicting
propositions such as that sectarianism is the essence of Hinduism or
that no educated Hindu belongs to a sect. Either can easily be proved,
for it may be said of Hinduism, as it has been said of zoology, that you
can prove anything if you merely collect facts which support your theory
and not those which conflict with it. Hence many distinguished writers
err by overestimating the phase which specially interests them. For one
the religious life of India is fundamentally monotheistic and Vishnuite:
for another philosophic Sivaism is its crown and quintessence: a third
maintains with equal truth that all forms of Hinduism are tantric. All
these views are tenable because though Hindu life may be cut up into
castes and sects, Hindu creeds are not mutually exclusive and repellent.
They attract and colour one another.
2. _Origin and Growth of Hinduism_
The earliest product of Indian literature, the Rig Veda, contains the
songs of the Aryan invaders who were beginning to make a home in India.
Though no longer nomads, they had little local sentiment. No cities had
arisen comparable with Babylon or Thebes and we hear little of ancient
kingdoms or dynasties. Many of the gods who occupied so much of their
thoughts were personifications of natural forces such as the sun, wind
and fire, worshipped without temples or images and hence more indefinite
in form, habitation and attributes than the deities of Assyria or Egypt.
The idea of a struggle between good and evil was not prominent. In
Persia, where the original pantheon was almost the same as that of the
Veda, this idea produced monotheism: the minor deities became angels and
the chief deity a Lord of hosts who wages a successful struggle against
an independent but still inferior spirit of evil. But in India the
Spirits of Good and Evil are not thus personified. The world is regarded
less as a battlefield of principles than as a theatre for the display of
natural forces. No one god assumes lordship over the others but all are
seen to be interchangeable--mere names and aspects of something which is
greater than any god.
Indian religion is commonly regarded as the offspring of an Aryan
religion, brought into India by invaders from the north and modified by
contact with Dravidian civilization. The materials at our disposal
hardly permit us to take any other point of view, for the literature of
the Vedic Aryans is relatively ancient and full and we have no
information about the old Dravidians comparable with it. But were our
knowledge less one-sided, we might see that it would be more correct to
describe Indian religion as Dravidian religion stimulated and modified
by the ideas of Aryan invaders. For the greatest deities of Hinduism,
Siva, Krishna, Râma, Durgâ and some of its most essential doctrines such
as metempsychosis and divine incarnations, are either totally unknown to
the Veda or obscurely adumbrated in it. The chief characteristics of
mature Indian religion are characteristics of an area, not of a race,
and they are not the characteristics of religion in Persia, Greece or
other Aryan lands[5].
Some writers explain Indian religion as the worship of nature spirits,
others as the veneration of the dead. But it is a mistake to see in the
religion of any large area only one origin or impulse. The principles
which in a learned form are championed to-day by various professors
represent thoughts which were creative in early times. In ancient India
there were some whose minds turned to their ancestors and dead friends
while others saw divinity in the wonders of storm, spring and harvest.
Krishna is in the main a product of hero worship, but Siva has no such
historical basis. He personifies the powers of birth and death, of
change, decay and rebirth--in fact all that we include in the prosaic
word nature. Assuredly both these lines of thought--the worship of nature
and of the dead--and perhaps many others existed in ancient India.
By the time of the Upanishads, that is about 600 B.C., we trace three
clear currents in Indian religion which have persisted until the present
day. The first is ritual. This became extraordinarily complicated but
retained its primitive and magical character. The object of an ancient
Indian sacrifice was partly to please the gods but still more to coerce
them by certain acts and formulae[6]. Secondly all Hindus lay stress on
asceticism and self-mortification, as a means of purifying the soul and
obtaining supernatural powers. They have a conviction that every man who
is in earnest about religion and even every student of philosophy must
follow a discipline at least to the extent of observing chastity and
eating only to support life. Severer austerities give clearer insight
into divine mysteries and control over the forces of nature. Europeans
are apt to condemn eastern asceticism as a waste of life but it has had
an important moral effect. The weakness of Hinduism, though not of
Buddhism, is that ethics have so small a place in its fundamental
conceptions. Its deities are not identified with the moral law and the
saint is above that law. But this dangerous doctrine is corrected by the
dogma, which is also a popular conviction, that a saint must be a
passionless ascetic. In India no religious teacher can expect a hearing
unless he begins by renouncing the world.
Thirdly, the deepest conviction of Hindus in all ages is that salvation
and happiness are attainable by knowledge. The corresponding phrases in
Sanskrit are perhaps less purely intellectual than our word and contain
some idea of effort and emotion. He who knows God attains to God, nay he
is God. Rites and self-denial are but necessary preliminaries to such
knowledge: he who possesses it stands above them. It is inconceivable to
the Hindus that he should care for the things of the world but he cares
equally little for creeds and ceremonies. Hence, side by side with
irksome codes, complicated ritual and elaborate theology, we find the
conviction that all these things are but vanity and weariness, fetters
to be shaken off by the free in spirit. Nor do those who hold such views
correspond to the anti-clerical and radical parties of Europe. The
ascetic sitting in the temple court often holds that the rites performed
around him are spiritually useless and the gods of the shrine mere
fanciful presentments of that which cannot be depicted or described.
Rather later, but still before the Christian era, another idea makes
itself prominent in Indian religion, namely faith or devotion to a
particular deity. This idea, which needs no explanation, is pushed on
the one hand to every extreme of theory and practice: on the other it
rarely abolishes altogether the belief in ritualism, asceticism and
knowledge.
Any attempt to describe Hinduism as one whole leads to startling
contrasts. The same religion enjoins self-mortification and orgies:
commands human sacrifices and yet counts it a sin to eat meat or crush
an insect: has more priests, rites and images than ancient Egypt or
medieval Rome and yet out does Quakers in rejecting all externals. These
singular features are connected with the ascendancy of the Brahman
caste. The Brahmans are an interesting social phenomenon without exact
parallel elsewhere. They are not, like the Catholic or Moslem clergy, a
priesthood pledged to support certain doctrines but an intellectual,
hereditary aristocracy who claim to direct the thought of India whatever
forms it may take. All who admit this claim and accord a nominal
recognition to the authority of the Veda are within the spacious fold or
menagerie. Neither the devil-worshipping aboriginee nor the atheistic
philosopher is excommunicated, though neither may be relished by average
orthodoxy.
Though Hinduism has no one creed, yet there are at least two doctrines
held by nearly all who call themselves Hindus. One may be described as
polytheistic pantheism. Most Hindus are apparently polytheists, that is
to say they venerate the images of several deities or spirits, yet most
are monotheists in the sense that they address their worship to one god.
But this monotheism has almost always a pantheistic tinge. The Hindu
does not say the gods of the heathen are but idols, but it is the Lord
who made the heavens: he says, My Lord (Râma, Krishna or whoever it may
be) is all the other gods. Some schools would prefer to say that no
human language applied to the Godhead can be correct and that all ideas
of a personal ruler of the world are at best but relative truths. This
ultimate ineffable Godhead is called Brahman[7].
The second doctrine is commonly known as metempsychosis, the
transmigration of souls or reincarnation, the last name being the most
correct. In detail the doctrine assumes various forms since different
views are held about the relation of soul to body. But the essence of
all is the same, namely that a life does not begin at birth or end at
death but is a link in an infinite series of lives, each of which is
conditioned and determined by the acts done in previous existences
(karma). Animal, human and divine (or at least angelic) existences may
all be links in the chain. A man's deeds, if good, may exalt him to the
heavens, if evil may degrade him to life as a beast. Since all lives,
even in heaven, must come to an end, happiness is not to be sought in
heaven or on earth. The common aspiration of the religious Indian is for
deliverance, that is release from the round of births and repose in some
changeless state called by such names as union with Brahman, nirvana and
many others.
3. _The Buddha_
As observed above, the Brahmans claim to direct the religious life and
thought of India and apart from Mohammedanism may be said to have
achieved their ambition, though at the price of tolerating much that the
majority would wish to suppress. But in earlier ages their influence was
less extensive and there were other currents of religious activity, some
hostile and some simply independent. The most formidable of these found
expression in Jainism and Buddhism both of which arose in Bihar in the
sixth century[8] B.C. This century was a time of intellectual ferment in
many countries. In China it produced Lao-tz[u] and Confucius: in Greece,
Parmenides, Empedocles, and the sophists were only a little later. In
all these regions we have the same phenomenon of restless, wandering
teachers, ready to give advice on politics, religion or philosophy, to
any one who would hear them.
At that time the influence of the Brahmans had hardly permeated Bihar,
though predominant to the west of it, and speculation there followed
lines different from those laid down in the Upanishads, but of some
antiquity, for we know that there were Buddhas before Gotama and that
Mahâvîra, the founder of Jainism, reformed the doctrine of an older
teacher called Parsva.
In Gotama's youth Bihar was full of wandering philosophers who appear to
have been atheistic and disposed to uphold the boldest paradoxes,
intellectual and moral. There must however have been constructive
elements in their doctrine, for they believed in reincarnation and the
periodic appearance of superhuman teachers and in the advantage of
following an ascetic discipline. They probably belonged chiefly to the
warrior caste as did Gotama, the Buddha known to history. The Pitakas
represent him as differing in details from contemporary teachers but as
rediscovering the truth taught by his predecessors. They imply that the
world is so constituted that there is only one way to emancipation and
that from time to time superior minds see this and announce it to
others. Still Buddhism does not in practice use such formulae as living
in harmony with the laws of nature.
Indian literature is notoriously concerned with ideas rather than facts
but the vigorous personality of the Buddha has impressed on it a
portrait more distinct than that left by any other teacher or king. His
work had a double effect. Firstly it influenced all departments of Hindu
religion and thought, even those nominally opposed to it. Secondly it
spread not only Buddhism in the strict sense but Indian art and
literature beyond the confines of India. The expansion of Hindu culture
owes much to the doctrine that the Good Law should be preached to all
nations.
The teaching of Gotama was essentially practical. This statement may
seem paradoxical to the reader who has some acquaintance with the
Buddhist scriptures and he will exclaim that of all religious books they
are the least practical and least popular: they set up an anti-social
ideal and are mainly occupied with psychological theories. But the
Buddha addressed a public such as we now find it hard even to imagine.
In those days the intellectual classes of India felt the ordinary
activities of life to be unsatisfying: they thought it natural to
renounce the world and mortify the flesh: divergent systems of ritual,
theology and self-denial promised happiness but all agreed in thinking
it normal as well as laudable that a man should devote his life to
meditation and study. Compared with this frame of mind the teaching of
the Buddha is not unsocial, unpractical and mysterious but human,
business-like and clear. We are inclined to see in the monastic life
which he recommended little but a useless sacrifice but it is evident
that in the opinion of his contemporaries his disciples had an easy
time, and that he had no intention of prescribing any cramped or
unnatural existence. He accepted the current conviction that those who
devote themselves to the things of the mind and spirit should be
released from worldly ties and abstain from luxury but he meant his
monks to live a life of sustained intellectual activity for themselves
and of benevolence for others. His teaching is formulated in severe and
technical phraseology, yet the substance of it is so simple that many
have criticized it as too obvious and jejune to be the basis of a
religion. But when he first enunciated his theses some two thousand five
hundred years ago, they were not obvious but revolutionary and little
less than paradoxical.
The principal of these propositions are as follows. The existence of
everything depends on a cause: hence if the cause of evil or suffering
can be detected and removed, evil itself will be removed. That cause is
lust and craving for pleasure[9]. Hence all sacrificial and sacramental
religions are irrelevant, for the cure which they propose has nothing to
do with the disease. The cause of evil or suffering is removed by
purifying the heart and by following the moral law which sets high value
on sympathy and social duties, but an equally high value on the
cultivation of individual character. But training and cultivation imply
the possibility of change. Hence it is a fatal mistake in the religious
life to hold a view common in India which regards the essence of man as
something unchangeable and happy in itself, if it can only be isolated
from physical trammels. On the contrary the happy mind is something to
be built up by good thoughts, good words and good deeds. In its origin
the Buddha's celebrated doctrine that there is no permanent self in
persons or things is not a speculative proposition, nor a sentimental
lament over the transitoriness of the world, but a basis for religion
and morals. You will never be happy unless you realize that you can make
and remake your own soul.
These simple principles and the absence of all dogmas as to God or
Brahman distinguish the teaching of Gotama from most Indian systems, but
he accepted the usual Indian beliefs about Karma and rebirth and with
them the usual conclusion that release from the series of rebirths is
the _summum bonum_. This deliverance he called saintship (_arahattam_)
or nirvana of which I shall say something below. In early Buddhism it is
primarily a state of happiness to be attained in this life and the
Buddha persistently refused to explain what is the nature of a saint
after death. The question is unprofitable and perhaps he would have
said, had he spoken our language, unmeaning. Later generations did not
hesitate to discuss the problem but the Buddha's own teaching is simply
that a man can attain before death to a blessed state in which he has
nothing to fear from either death or rebirth.
The Buddha attacked both the ritual and the philosophy of the Brahmans.
After his time the sacrificial system, though it did not die, never
regained its old prestige and he profoundly affected the history of
Indian metaphysics. It may be justly said that most of his philosophic
as distinguished from his practical teaching was common property before
his time, but he transmuted common ideas and gave them a currency and
significance which they did not possess before. But he was less
destructive as a religious and social reformer than many have supposed.
He did not deny the existence nor forbid the worship of the popular
gods, but such worship is not Buddhism and the gods are merely angels
who may be willing to help good Buddhists but are in no wise guides to
religion, since they need instruction themselves. And though he denied
that the Brahmans were superior by birth to others, he did not preach
against caste, partly because it then existed only in a rudimentary
form. But he taught that the road to salvation was one and open to all
who were able to walk in it[10], whether Hindus or foreigners. All may
not have the necessary qualifications of intellect and character to
become monks but all can be good laymen, for whom the religious life
means the observance of morality combined with such simple exercises as
reading the scriptures. It is clear that this lay Buddhism had much to
do with the spread of the faith. The elemental simplicity of its
principles--namely that religion is open to all and identical with
morality--made a clean sweep of Brahmanic theology and sacrifices and put
in its place something like Confucianism. But the innate Indian love for
philosophizing and ritual caused generation after generation to add more
and more supplements to the Master's teaching and it is only outside
India that it has been preserved in any purity.
4. _Asoka_
Gotama spent his life in preaching and by his personal exertions spread
his doctrines over Bihar and Oudh but for two centuries after his death
we know little of the history of Buddhism. In the reign of Asoka
(273-232 B.C.) its fortunes suddenly changed, for this great Emperor
whose dominions comprised nearly all India made it the state religion
and also engraved on rocks and pillars a long series of edicts recording
his opinions and aspirations. Buddhism is often criticized as a gloomy
and unpractical creed, suited at best to stoical and scholarly recluses.
But these are certainly not its characteristics when it first appears in
political history, just as they are not its characteristics in Burma or
Japan to-day. Both by precept and example Asoka was an ardent exponent
of the strenuous life. In his first edict he lays down the principle
"Let small and great exert themselves" and in subsequent inscriptions he
continually harps upon the necessity of energy and exertion. The Law or
Religion (Dhamma) which his edicts enjoin is merely human and civic
virtue, except that it makes respect for animal life an integral part of
morality. In one passage he summarizes it as "Little impiety, many good
deeds, compassion, liberality, truthfulness and purity." He makes no
reference to a supreme deity, but insists on the reality and importance
of the future life. Though he does not use the word _Karma_ this is
clearly the conception which dominates his philosophy: those who do good
are happy in this world and the next but those who fail in their duty
win neither heaven nor the royal favour. The king's creed is remarkable
in India for its great simplicity. He deprecates superstitious
ceremonies and says nothing of Nirvana but dwells on morality as
necessary to happiness in this life and others. This is not the whole of
Gotama's teaching but two centuries after his death a powerful and
enlightened Buddhist gives it as the gist of Buddhism for laymen.
Asoka wished to make Buddhism the creed not only of India but of the
world as known to him and he boasts that he extended his "conquests of
religion" to the Hellenistic kingdoms of the west. If the missions which
he despatched thither reached their destination, there is little
evidence that they bore any fruit, but the conversion of Ceylon and some
districts in the Himalayas seems directly due to his initiative.
5. _Extension of Buddhism and Hinduism beyond India_
This is perhaps a convenient place to review the extension of Buddhism
and Hinduism outside India. To do so at this point implies of course an
anticipation of chronology, but to delay the survey might blind the
reader to the fact that from the time of Asoka onward India was engaged
not only in creating but also in exporting new varieties of religious
thought.
The countries which have received Indian culture fall into two classes:
first those to which it came as a result of religious missions or of
peaceful international intercourse, and second those where it was
established after conquest or at least colonization. In the first class
the religion introduced was Buddhism. If, as in Tibet, it seems to us
mixed with Hinduism, yet it was a mixture which at the date of its
introduction passed in India for Buddhism. But in the second and smaller
class including Java, Camboja and Champa the immigrants brought with
them both Hinduism and Buddhism. The two systems were often declared to
be the same but the result was Hinduism mixed with some Buddhism, not
_vice versâ_.
The countries of the first class comprise Ceylon, Burma and Siam,
Central Asia, Nepal, China with Annam, Korea and Japan, Tibet with
Mongolia. The Buddhism of the first three countries[11] is a real unity
or in European language a church, for though they have no common
hierarchy they use the same sacred language, Pali, and have the same
canon. Burma and Siam have repeatedly recognized Ceylon as a sort of
metropolitan see and on the other hand when religion in Ceylon fell on
evil days the clergy were recruited from Burma and Siam. In the other
countries Buddhism presents greater differences and divisions. It had no
one sacred language and in different regions used either Sanskrit texts
or translations into Chinese, Tibetan, Mongolian and the languages of
Central Asia.
1. Ceylon. There is no reason to doubt that Buddhism was introduced
under the auspices of Asoka. Though the invasions and settlements of
Tamils have brought Hinduism into Ceylon, yet none of the later and
mixed forms of Buddhism, in spite of some attempts to gain a footing,
ever flourished there on a large scale. Sinhalese Buddhism had probably
a closer connection with southern India than the legend suggests and
Conjevaram was long a Buddhist centre which kept up intercourse with
both Ceylon and Burma.
2. Burma. The early history of Burmese Buddhism is obscure and its
origin probably complex, since at many different periods it may have
received teachers from both India and China. The present dominant type
(identical with the Buddhism of Ceylon) existed before the sixth
century[12] and tradition ascribes its introduction both to the labours
of Buddhaghosa and to the missionaries of Asoka. There was probably a
connection between Pegu and Conjevaram. In the eleventh century Burmese
Buddhism had become extremely corrupt except in Pegu but King Anawrata
conquered Pegu and spread a purer form throughout his dominions.
3. Siam. The Thai race, who starting from somewhere in the Chinese
province of Yünnan began to settle in what is now called Siam about the
beginning of the twelfth century, probably brought with them some form
of Buddhism. About 1300 the possessions of Râma Komhëng, King of Siam,
included Pegu and Pali Buddhism prevailed among his subjects. Somewhat
later, in 1361, a high ecclesiastic was summoned from Ceylon to arrange
the affairs of the church but not, it would seem, to introduce any new
doctrine. Pegu was the centre from which Pali Buddhism spread to upper
Burma in the eleventh century and it probably performed the same service
for Siam later. The modern Buddhism of Camboja is simply Siamese
Buddhism which filtered into the country from about 1250 onwards. The
older Buddhism of Camboja, for which see below, was quite different.
At the courts of Siam and Camboja, as formerly in Burma, there are
Brahmans who perform state ceremonies and act as astrologers. Though
they have little to do with the religion of the people, their presence
explains the predominance of Indian rather than Chinese influence in
these countries.
4. Tradition says that Indian colonists settled in Khotan during the
reign of Asoka, but no precise date can at present be fixed for the
introduction of Buddhism into the Tarim basin and other regions commonly
called Central Asia. But it must have been flourishing there about the
time of the Christian era, since it spread thence to China not later
than the middle of the first century. There were two schools
representing two distinct currents from India. First the Sarvâstivâdin
school, prevalent in Badakshan, Kashgar and Kucha, secondly the Mahâyâna
in Khotan and Yarkand. The spread of the former was no doubt connected
with the growth of the Kushan Empire but may be anterior to the
conversion of Kanishka, for though he gave a great impetus to the
propagation of the faith, it is probable that, like most royal converts,
he favoured an already popular religion. The Mahâyâna subsequently won
much territory from the other school.
5. As in other countries, so in China Buddhism entered by more than one
road. It came first by land from Central Asia. The official date for its
introduction by this route is 62 A.D. but it was probably known within
the Chinese frontier before that time, though not recognized by the
state. Secondly when Buddhism was established, there arose a desire for
accurate knowledge of the true Indian doctrine. Chinese pilgrims went to
India and Indian teachers came to China. After the fourth century many
of these religious journeys were made by sea and it was thus that
Bodhidharma landed at Canton in 520[13]. A third stream of Buddhism,
namely Lamaism, came into China from Tibet under the Mongol dynasty
(1280). Khubilai considered this the best religion for his Mongols and
numerous Lamaist temples and convents were established and still exist
in northern China. Lamaism has not perhaps been a great religious or
intellectual force there, but its political importance was considerable,
for the Ming and Manchu dynasties who wished to assert their rule over
the Tibetans and Mongols by peaceful methods, consistently strove to win
the goodwill of the Lamaist clergy.
The Buddhism of Korea, Japan and Annam is directly derived from the
earlier forms of Chinese Buddhism but was not affected by the later
influx of Lamaism. Buddhism passed from China into Korea in the fourth
century and thence to Japan in the sixth. In the latter country it was
stimulated by frequent contact with China and the repeated introduction
of new Chinese sects but was not appreciably influenced by direct
intercourse with Hindus or other foreign Buddhists. In the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries Japanese Buddhism showed great vitality,
transforming old sects and creating new ones.
In the south, Chinese Buddhism spread into Annam rather late: according
to native tradition in the tenth century. This region was a battlefield
of two cultures. Chinese influence descending southwards from Canton
proved predominant and, after the triumph of Annam over Champa, extended
to the borders of Camboja. But so long as the kingdom of Champa existed,
Indian culture and Hinduism maintained themselves at least as far north
as Hué.
6. The Buddhism of Tibet is a late and startling transformation of
Gotama's teaching, but the transformation is due rather to the change
and degeneration of that teaching in Bengal than to the admixture of
Tibetan ideas. Such admixture however was not absent and a series of
reformers endeavoured to bring the church back to what they considered
the true standard. The first introduction is said to have occurred in
630 but probably the arrival of Padma Sambhava from India in 747 marks
the real foundation of the Lamaist church. It was reformed by the Hindu
Atîsa in 1038 and again by the Tibetan Tsong-kha-pa about 1400.
The Grand Lama is the head of the church as reorganized by Tsong-kha-pa.
In Tibet the priesthood attained to temporal power comparable with the
Papacy. The disintegration of the government divided the whole land into
small principalities and among these the great monasteries were as
important as any temporal lord. The abbots of the Sakya monastery were
the practical rulers of Tibet for seventy years (1270-1340). Another
period of disintegration followed but after 1630 the Grand Lamas of
Lhasa were able to claim and maintain a similar position.
Mongolian Buddhism is a branch of Lamaism distinguished by no special
doctrines. The Mongols were partially converted in the time of Khubilai
and a second time and more thoroughly in 1570 by the third Grand Lama.
7. Nepal exhibits another phase of degeneration. In Tibet Indian
Buddhism passed into the hands of a vigorous national priesthood and was
not exposed to the assimilative influence of Hinduism. In Nepal it had
not the same defence. It probably existed there since the time of Asoka
and underwent the same phases of decay and corruption as in Bengal. But
whereas the last great monasteries in Bengal were shattered by the
Mohammedan invasion of 1193, the secluded valley of Nepal was protected
against such violence and Buddhism continued to exist there in name. It
has preserved a good deal of Sanskrit Buddhist literature but has become
little more than a sect of Hinduism.
Nepal ought perhaps to be classed in our second division, that is those
countries where Indian culture was introduced not by missionaries but by
the settlement of Indian conquerors or immigrants. To this class belong
the Hindu civilizations of Indo-China and the Archipelago. In all of
these Hinduism and Mahayanist Buddhism are found mixed together,
Hinduism being the stronger element. The earliest Sanskrit inscription
in these regions is that of Vochan in Champa which is apparently
Buddhist. It is not later than the third century and refers to an
earlier king, so that an Indian dynasty probably existed there about
150-200 A.D. Though the presence of Indian culture is beyond dispute, it
is not clear whether the Chams were civilized in Champa by Hindu
invaders or whether they were hinduized Malays who invaded Champa from
elsewhere.
8. In Camboja a Hindu dynasty was founded by invaders and the Brahmans
who accompanied them established a counterpart to it in a powerful
hierarchy, Sanskrit becoming the language of religion. It is clear that
these invaders came ultimately from India but they may have halted in
Java or the Malay Peninsula for an unknown period. The Brahmanic
hierarchy began to fail about the fourteenth century and was supplanted
by Siamese Buddhism. Before that time the state religion of both Champa
and Camboja was the worship of Siva, especially in the form called
Mukhalinga. Mahayanist Buddhism, tending to identify Buddha with Siva,
also existed but enjoyed less of the royal patronage.
9. Religious conditions were similar in Java but politically there was
this difference, that there was no one continuous and paramount kingdom.
A considerable number of Hindus must have settled in the island to
produce such an effect on its language and architecture but the rulers
of the states known to us were hinduized Javanese rather than true
Hindus and the language of literature and of most inscriptions was Old
Javanese, not Sanskrit, though most of the works written in it were
translations or adaptations of Sanskrit originals. As in Camboja,
Sivaism and Buddhism both flourished without mutual hostility and there
was less difference in the status of the two creeds.
In all these countries religion seems to have been connected with
politics more closely than in India. The chief shrine was a national
cathedral, the living king was semi-divine and dead kings were
represented by statues bearing the attributes of their favourite gods.
6. _New Forms of Buddhism_
In the three or four centuries following Asoka a surprising change came
over Indian Buddhism, but though the facts are clear it is hard to
connect them with dates and persons. But the change was clearly
posterior to Asoka for though his edicts show a spirit of wide charity
it is not crystallized in the form of certain doctrines which
subsequently became prominent.
The first of these holds up as the moral ideal not personal perfection
or individual salvation but the happiness of all living creatures. The
good man who strives for this should boldly aspire to become a Buddha in
some future birth and such aspirants are called Bodhisattvas. Secondly
Buddhas and some Bodhisattvas come to be considered as supernatural
beings and practically deities. The human life of Gotama, though not
denied, is regarded as the manifestation of a cosmic force which also
reveals itself in countless other Buddhas who are not merely his
predecessors or destined successors but the rulers of paradises in other
worlds. Faith in a Buddha, especially in Amitâbha, can secure rebirth in
his paradise. The great Bodhisattvas, such as Avalokita and Mañjusrî,
are splendid angels of mercy and knowledge who are theoretically
distinguished from Buddhas because they have indefinitely postponed
their entry into nir
|
various writers, each equally secure in his own opinion. Extensive
practice alone can show the most easy and effectual cure. Fumigating
with tobacco is decidedly the most efficacious, and in the power of any
to perform. Take a small circular furnace, made of sheet iron, diameter
at top twelve inches, and at bottom eight; depth one foot, having a
grating in it to reach within three inches of the bottom, which will
leave space for the air to pass, and where the ashes will fall and be
kept in safety, having a handle like a pail to carry it with. This, or
any thing similar, being ready, put in it a few embers of ignited
charcoal; take it into the centre of the house, and put on the coals a
quantity of moist tobacco stems. If they attempt to blaze or flame,
sprinkle a little water over them; and as they consume, continue to add
tobacco until the house is entirely full of smoke, observing always to
do it in still, cloudy weather, or in the evening. If it is windy, the
smoke is carried off without having half the effect, and requires more
tobacco. The house must be closely shut up. There are several plants
whose foliage is of a soft downy nature, such as _Helitròpiums_,
_Callacárpas_, _Sálvias_, and many of the _Lantànas_, _Víncas_, with
several others, that cannot stand, without danger, strong fumigation.
These should be put low down in the house, or under the stage. These
fumigations will have to be repeated frequently, the time for which will
easily be perceived; and, when required, ought not to be delayed.
Several species and varieties of the same genus, _Aphis_, can be
destroyed in the like manner.
_Acaris tellurius_, or red spider, is caused by a dry atmosphere, and
its havoc generally is obvious before it is arrested. With its
proboscis, it wounds the fine capillary vessels; and if the leaves are
fine, they will appear as if probed with a needle, and yellowish around
the wound. If they have farther progressed in their destructive work,
the leaves will prematurely decay. On this appearance, turn up the leaf,
and you will see them running about with incredible swiftness. Their
body is of a blood colour, and their feet, eight in number, light red.
When very numerous, they work thick webs on the under side of the leaf,
and frequently all over it, forming a mass of half dead plants, decayed
leaves, and thousands of spiders. The most effectual remedy is a
thorough syringing with water, and profusely under the foliage. This
being done every evening, will subdue and eventually banish them. Had
the house been syringed two or three times per week, these intruders
would not have appeared. It is said by some writers, that watering only
reduces them to a temporary state of inaction, and will not destroy
them. Laying aside the many prescribed nostrums, we assert that the pure
element is the most effectual cure, as well as the most easy to be
obtained.
_Thrips_, order _Hemiptera_, are insects so minute as scarcely to be
perceptible to the naked eye. They generally lurk close to the veins of
the leaves of plants, and frequently attack esculents. When viewed
through a glass, they are seen, when touched, to skip with great
agility. The larva is of a high brown, or reddish colour. The thrip has
four wings, and walks with its body turned upwards. It frequently
attacks the extremities of tender shoots, or young leaves, which become
shrivelled, brown, and will rub to dust easily between the thumb and
finger. When any leaves or shoots are perceived to be so, if you do not
observe the green fly, expect the thrips. They may be destroyed by a
fumigation of tobacco, in the same manner as the green fly. By the
simple and expeditious method of fumigation, these insects and several
others may be destroyed effectually at any time they appear.
_Cocus hesperidus_, or mealy bug, has appeared in the Hot-houses about
Philadelphia within these few years, and, if not instantly destroyed,
increases rapidly. It is of a white dusty colour, when broken, of a
brownish red, generally covered with down, under which it deposits its
eggs; and they, in a few months, come forth in great numbers. The cocus
generally is of a dormant nature, but, in warm weather, they may be seen
moving rapidly up the stems of the plants. Fumigating has no observable
effect on these insects; therefore, as soon as they appear, recourse
must be had to other means. The liquid made from the following receipt,
is death to any of the _Cocus_ tribe: Take two pounds of strong soap,
one pound flour of sulphur, one pound of leaf tobacco, one and a half
ounce of nux vomica, with a table spoonful of turpentine, which boil in
four gallons of river water to three; then set aside to cool. When
boiling, stir it well with a stick, continuing to do so until it is
reduced as above. In this liquor immerse the whole plant, drawing it to
and fro gently, that the liquor may penetrate every where.
This done, lay the plant on its side, until it begin to dry, then
syringe well with clean water, and put it in its respective station.
Where a collection of plants is free from any insects of the kind, every
plant that is introduced, ought to be minutely scrutinized, that the
unclean may be kept from the clean: the above insect will feed almost on
any plant, but indulges on _Crássulas_, any of the bristly _Cáctus_,
_Gardènias_, and in fact whatever is in the way.
_Cocus--------_, or brown scaly insect, is frequently found on many
plants, but we never could perceive that it does any other material
injury, than dirtying them. We have always observed, that it is found in
winter to abound most in those situations which are most excluded from
air; therefore is of less importance than the other species, which eat
and corrode the leaves of tender plants. A washing with strong soap suds
will destroy them, or the above liquid will do it more effectually. Tie
a piece of sponge on the end of a small stick, and scrub every leaf,
stem, and crevice. Fumigating destroys the larvæ of this species.
_Cocus--------_, or small white scaly insect, which generally infests
_Cycas revolùta_ and _circinàlis_, the varieties of _Nèrium oleánder_,
_Oleas_, and several species of _Acacias_, may be destroyed by washing
as above with a sponge, and a strong decoction of tobacco, using the
liquid about the warmth of 100°. Being thus heated, it irritates the
insect, when, by easing itself from its bed, the fluid passes under it,
and causes immediate death. If it is not thus irritated, it adheres so
closely to the foliage, that it will keep you at defiance. The under,
or dark side of the leaves is its residence; and we have observed a
plant in a house where there was only light on one side, with the dark
side literally covered, while the light side was clean. So much for
having houses with plenty of light. The effects of this insect are of a
corroding nature, extracting all the juices from the leaf under it, even
straining to the other side; and where they have got to the extremity,
the foliage is completely yellow, and of a decayed appearance.
_Cocus--------_, or turtle insect. We have never observed this insect
arrive to any extent, but think that the _Datura arborea_ is most
infested with it. It is the largest of any genus known amongst us, and
very like a turtle in miniature. On lifting it from the wood, to which
it generally adheres, there appear to be hundreds of eggs under it, but
fumigating completely destroys the larvæ. In our opinion this turtle
insect is no other than the old female of the brown scaly insect, which
swells to a large size before depositing its eggs. We have frequently
observed the insect dead in this enlarged state, and question if this is
the last stage of its transmigration. The male insect is winged, and
very active in its movements.
OF SHIFTING PLANTS.
At this period of the season very little is required to grow
_Calceolàrias_ to perfection. They require a few months of the
Hot-house, and if the directions given last month were followed up, some
of these will have advanced a little in growth. The herbaceous kinds,
when grown about one inch high, ought to be divided, and put into four
inch pots, sprinkled gently, and kept in the shade until they begin to
grow; after which, keep them near the glass, to prevent them from
becoming spindly and drawn. Their farther treatment will be observed as
they require. This is a beautiful genus of plants, flowering very
profusely all summer, and some of them early in spring.
_Alstr[oe]merias_, about the beginning or middle of the month, will have
made their appearance above ground. When shot about one inch, turn them
out, and carefully shake them clear of earth; and if required, divide
the crowns, and put them in as small pots as possible, taking care not
to break any of the strong fleshy roots. (For Soil, see Table.) To
flower these plants well, they require to be frequently shifted, during
their active stage of growth, which must be duly observed. The most of
the species of this genus will more than repay the attention, by their
abundantly and beautifully spotted flowers. _A. flósmartìna_, _A.
Pelegrìna_, _A. pulchélla_, and _A. atrópurpurea_, are the most
splendid. The former flowers very freely. All natives of South America.
Where bulbous roots, such as _Hyacinths_, _Jonquils_, _Narcissus_,
_Ixias_, _Lachenàllas_, &c. are required to be early in flower, they
may, about the beginning or end of the month, be put in the front of the
Hot-house, giving very little water until they begin to grow; then water
freely, and tie up the flower stems as they advance.
OF CLEANSING PLANTS, HOUSE, &c.
This subject ought to be kept constantly in view. However correct every
thing may be executed, without that adorning beauty, cleanliness, all
will appear only half done. Therefore let all the dead leaves be picked
off every day, and with dust and other litter swept out of the house,
and when necessary, the house washed, which will be at least once a
week. That the foliage of the plants may always appear fresh, syringe
them in the evening, twice or three times per week; (when the weather is
very cold, do it in the morning.) At present this will in a great
measure keep down the insects, and will prove a bane to the red spider.
A hand engine is certainly the best. Milne's patent hand engine
surpasses any that we have used. Nevertheless a hand syringe is very
effectual. Some of these engines are powerful, throwing the water above
forty feet. Read's patent of London is excellent. At the store of D. &
C. Landreth, Phila., there is a very good kind, which answers admirably
in small houses. Tie up neatly with stakes, and threads of Russia mat,
all the straggling growing plants; let the stakes be proportionate to
the plants, and never longer, except they are climbing sorts. Do not tie
the branches in bundles, but singly and neatly, imitating nature as much
as possible. If any of the plants are affected with the _Cocus_ insect,
let them be cleaned according to the plan already mentioned, taking
particular care also in washing the stakes to which they had been
previously tied, and burning all the old tyings, which contain the
larvæ of the insect in many instances, especially of _Cocus hesperidus_.
It is premised, when any of these things are done, that they will be
well done, and not half doing, and always doing. Cleanliness, in every
respect, promotes a pure air, which is congenial to vegetation, and
will, with other attention, always ensure a healthful and vigorous
appearance in the house.
Green-House.
_JANUARY._
This compartment requires particular attention, in order to preserve the
plants in good health, and carry them through this precarious season of
the year. A little air must be admitted at all convenient times. An hour
or two at mid-day will be of the utmost importance in drying up damp,
and clearing off stagnated air, which is a harbour for every corruption.
The top sashes being let down, or turned a few inches, in mild days
(that is, when it is not high and cutting winds) from ten or eleven
o'clock to two or three, according to the intensity of the frost, will
renovate the interior air of the house, and harden the plants. When the
weather will permit, let the front sashes be opened about one inch or
more. An assiduous, experienced hand will never omit an opportunity.
With regard to fire heat, the temperature must be regulated to suit the
nature of the plants in a general sense; so let the mercury, or spirits
of wine, of Fahrenheit's thermometer, be from 34° to 43°; if it begins
to fall, give a little fire heat. No doubt we have seen the thermometer
much lower in the Green-house, than the above, even as low as 24°,
without any immediate injury; but it was in an extensive collection,
where the most hardy of the plants were selected into one house. Many
boast how little fire they give their Green-house, and how cold it is
kept, not observing the miserable state of their plants,--inexperience
causing them to think, that the least fire heat will make them grow, and
would rather look on naked stems than healthy plants. The above
temperature will not, in exotics, cause premature vegetation, but will
cause the plants to retain the foliage requisite to vegetative nature. A
high temperature is not necessary for the generality of Green-house
plants; on the contrary, it might very much injure them.
OF WATERING.
In this month very little is requisite, and must be given with great
caution. Few plants will require much, and some hardly any; but all must
be attended to, and have their wants supplied. Some will need it twice,
some once a week, and some in two weeks, according to their shrubby and
woody nature. Herbaceous and deciduous plants will seldom need water.
Perhaps, from the throwing of the foliage, to the commencement of
vegetation, three or four times will be sufficient. Particular attention
should be paid to the state of health and of growth, in which the plants
respectively are, in the application of water; otherwise much mischief
may be done, and many entirely ruined.
Green-house plants, being now in an absolutely inactive state, require
little more water than merely to keep the earth about their roots from
becoming perfectly dry, by occasionally applying a very small quantity
at the root; and, if done with a watering pot, as described under this
head in the Hot-house of this month, very little will be spilt in the
house to increase dampness, which, if it does appear, by any of the
leaves of the plants becoming musty, they must be instantly picked off;
and, if it increases, give a little fire and air. Succulent plants will
not need any water during this month, unless omitted in December.
CAMELLIA JAPONICA.
This magnificent and attractive flower, with all its splendid varieties,
will, about this time, begin to open its beautiful flowers. But for this
admired genus of plants, our Green-houses, at this season, would be void
of allurement. It is, in this country, subject to mildew and red spider,
and more especially in the city, which appears to be from the nature of
the air. The effects of mildew on these plants, if not prevented, would
prove fatal; as, from appearance, many have died by it in our city. If
it has reached a great extent, the leaves are brownish, having the
appearance of being decayed, or scorched with the sun. In taking hold of
the leaf, it feels soft, and altogether seems to have lost its nutritive
substance; and, when the young foliage expands, it becomes covered with
dark brown spots, and finally very much disfigured; and, when in this
state, it is attacked by red spider, and, ultimately, death ensues.
If any of the plants are affected as above described, take a sponge, and
wash every leaf minutely with soft water, and syringe them with water
three or four times a week, which will clean them. All the young foliage
will be healthy, and that which has been affected will fall off.
However, prevention is better than cure; and if the _Camellias_ are
properly syringed every evening during summer, and once or twice a week
during winter, they will never be subject to the ravages of mildew or of
red spider.
Tie up any of the flowers that are expanded to stakes, in case of
accident; and, in syringing, observe not to let any water fall on the
flowers, as it causes premature decay, and change of colour.
The mildew first appears like small particles of very fine flour, around
the under edge of the leaves, and visible to the naked eye; so that,
syringing, sponging, &c. under the leaf is most requisite; but, as the
mildew extends, both sides of the leaves are covered with these white
particles.
OF ORANGES, LEMONS, &c.
As there will perhaps be more leisure in the Green-house this month than
in any other during the winter, it is presumed that there will not be a
moment lost. If any of the trees are infested with insects, these, being
now in their inactive state, may be more easily destroyed than at any
other time. It is the brown scaly insect that generally infests them.
For treatment, see _Hothouse, January_. The plant, or tree, after being
washed, before it becomes dry, will require to be syringed with water,
otherwise the dust will adhere to the glutinous particles of the soap.
Set the plant in an airy situation to dry, in case of damp. There are
several others subject to this insect, such as _Myrtles_, _Oleas_,
_Oleanders_, &c. which treat in the same manner. Be careful that these
trees are not over watered; if the soil is moist, it is sufficient.
OF CAPE BULBS, &c.
If there are any out of the ground, it is time that the whole were
potted, such as _Lachenàlia_, _Wachendórfia_, _Eùcomis_, _Ixia_,
_Gladìolus_, with several others. Keep them in the shade until they
begin to grow; then put them on shelves near the light. Those that are
growing must be kept in front of the house, to prevent them being weak.
_Wachendórfia_ has a beautiful large red tuber root; and, as the new
root descends, give it a pot about six or seven inches.
OF HYACINTHS AND OTHER BULBOUS ROOTS.
All these roots must be carefully examined. In case slugs or snails are
preying upon the embryo of the flower, some of those that are farthest
advanced, may be put for a few weeks in the Hot-house. It will greatly
accelerate their flowering, but they must be brought out again before
the florets expand, and carefully tied up, leaving room for the increase
and extension of the flower stem. Give them plenty of water, and if
saucers can be placed under them to retain it, it will be of advantage.
Change the water every week on those that are in glasses, and keep all
the growing bulbs near the light. _Narcissus_, _Jonquils_, &c. may be
similarly treated.
Flower Garden.
_JANUARY._
If the covering of the beds of choice bulbs, herbaceous plants, or
tender shrubs, has been neglected last month, let it be done forthwith.
The season is now precarious, and delays are dangerous. For particular
directions, see _December_. Any bulbous roots that have been kept out of
the ground, should be planted immediately, according to directions in
_October_. Some writers have recommended keeping some of the bulbs until
this month, in order to have a continued succession. Experience will
prove the inefficacy of the plan, and will satisfactorily show that the
difference is almost imperceptible, while the flowers are very inferior
and much degenerated; and in place of having "a long continued
succession of bloom," there appear, along with your finest specimens,
very imperfect flowers, calculated to discourage the admirers of these
"gaudy" decoratives of our flower gardens. Whereas every art employed
should be to the advancement and perfection of nature.
OF FRAMING, &c.
The plants and roots that are in frames, should be protected with straw
mats, and the frame surrounded with litter, or leaves, or what is more
advisable, banked with earth--the former being a harbour for mice and
other vermin. For full directions, see _December_. Under this head the
plants, such as _Auriculas_, _Polyanthus_, _Daisies_, _Carnations_,
_Pinks_, _Gentianellas_, _Campanula pyramidalis_, _Double rocket_,
_Double stock_, _or Stockgillys_, _Double Wall-flower_, _Anemone_,
_Ranunculus_, &c. as previously enumerated as frame plants, will require
very little water, and be sure to give none while they are in a frozen
state. If snow should cover them, the plants will keep in a fine state
under it, so never remove snow from covering cold frames, even suppose
it should lay for months,--nature will operate here herself.
All the above plants except _Anemone_ and _Ranunculus_ are kept in
perfection in the Green-house; but where neither this nor framing can be
obtained, they will, in most winters, keep tolerably, if well covered
with litter--the roughest from the stable, straw or hay, or such like,
using means to secure it from being blown over the whole garden.
OF PRUNING AND PREPARING FOR SPRING.
It is not advisable to carry on a general pruning in this month, in
whatever state the weather may be. The severest frosts generally are yet
to come, and too frequently in this operation, what is done now has to
be repeated on the opening of spring, causing at that time work to a
disadvantage; because, if pruning, when done just now, is accomplished
judiciously, whatever more on the same bush is requisite to be done in
spring, from the effects of frost, will be injudicious. Hence it is far
preferable to delay it until the frost is over, when all can be done to
advantage.
There are, undoubtedly, some shrubs that may be pruned any time, from
the end of November to the first of March, such as _Hibíscus syrìacus_
(_Althea_), and all its varieties, except the _Double White_, which is
in some instances entirely killed by our severe winter, and certainly,
for precaution, would be the better of some simple protection.
In many seasons, the beginning of this month is open, and admits of the
operation of digging, which if it is not all done as advised last month,
ought not to be delayed. The fruits of it will appear in the mellowed
state of your soil in spring.
If there is any spare time, straight sticks or stakes may be prepared
for summer. Tie them up in neat bundles, which will be of great service
during the hurried period of the year. An opportunity of this kind
should always be laid hold of; the beneficial results will in season be
displayed.
=ROOMS.=
_JANUARY._
Plants that are kept in rooms generally are such as require a medium
temperature, say 40°. Sitting rooms or parlours, about this season, are,
for the most part, heated from 55° to 65°, and very seldom has the air
any admittance into these apartments, thus keeping the temperature from
15° to 25° higher than the nature of the plants requires, and excluding
that fresh air which is requisite to support a forced vegetative
principle. Therefore, as far as practicable, let the plants be kept in a
room adjoining to one where there is fire heat, and the intervening door
can be opened when desirable. They will admit sometimes of being as low
as 33°.
If they be constantly kept where there is fire, let the window be
opened some inches; two or three time a day, for a few minutes, thereby
making the air of the apartment more congenial, both for animal and
vegetable nature.
WATERING, &c.
There are very few plants killed for want of water, during winter. All
that is necessary is merely to keep the soil in a moist state, that is,
do not let it get so dry that you can divide the particles of earth, nor
so wet that they could be beat to clay. The frequency of watering can be
best regulated by the person doing it, as it depends entirely upon the
size of the pot or jar in proportion to the plant, whether it is too
little or too large, and the situation it stands in, whether moist or
arid. Never allow any quantity of water to stand in the flats or
saucers. This is too frequently practised with plants in general. Such
as _Cálla Æthiòpica_, or African Lily, will do well, as water is its
element, (like _Sagittària_ in this country;) and the _Hydrángea
horténsis_, when in a growing state, will do admirably under such
treatment. Many plants may do well for some time, but it being so
contrary to their nature, causes premature decay; a f[oe]tid stagnation
takes place at the root, the foliage becomes yellow, and the plant
stunted; and in the winter season, death will ensue.
OF CAMELLIA JAPONICA.
In rooms the buds of Camellias will be well swelled, and on the Double
White and Double Variegated sorts, perhaps they will be full blown.
While in that state the temperature should not be below 34°; if lower
they will not expand so well, and the expanded petals will soon become
yellow and decay. If they are where there is fire heat, they must have
plenty of air admitted to them every favourable opportunity, or the
consequence will be, that all the buds will turn dark brown, and fall
off. It is generally the case, in the treatment of these beautiful
plants in rooms, that through too much intended care they are entirely
destroyed. In the city, they do not agree with confined air, and they
cannot get too much of pure air, if they are kept from frost or cutting
winds. To sponge frequently will greatly promote the health of the
plants, and add to the beauty of their foliage, as it prevents the
attacks of mildew. In this season they do not require much water at
root, which may be observed in the slight absorption by the soil. See
this subject under the head of _Watering_.
When the flowers are expanded, and droop, tie them up neatly, so that
the flower may be shown to every advantage.
OF INSECTS, &c.
Insects of various kinds will be appearing on your plants. For method of
destruction see _Hot-house_, _January_. It will not be agreeable to
fumigate the room or rooms, or even to have the smell of tobacco near
the house from this cause.
Many ingredients have been compounded, and prescriptions recommended,
for the destruction of these nefarious pests. Many of them are
altogether ineffectual. Of receipts specified in works of this kind, not
a few of them (though eagerly sought for) by men of extensive practice,
have been rejected. We shall give the most simple, and in part effective
receipt for the destruction of the Green fly.
Take a large tub of soft water, (if the day is frosty, it had better be
done in the house,) invert the plant, holding the hand, or tying a piece
of cloth, or any thing of the kind, over the soil in the pot, put all
the branches in the water, keeping the pot in the hand, drawing it to
and fro a few times; take it out, and shake it. If any insects remain,
take a small fine brush, and brush them off, giving another dip, which
will clean them for the present. As soon as they appear again, repeat
the process--for nothing that we have found out, or heard of, can
totally extirpate them.
OF BULBOUS ROOTS IN GENERAL.
If you have retained any of the _Cape bulbs_ from the last planting, let
them be put in, in the early part of the month. For method, see
_September_. Those that are growing must be kept very near the light,
that is, close to the window, or they will not flourish to your
satisfaction. The fall-flowering oxalis may be kept on the stage, or any
other place, to give room to those that are to flower.
_Hyacinths_, _Jonquils_, _Narcissus_, _Tulips_, &c. will keep very well
in a room where fire heat is constantly kept, providing that they are
close to the window. A succession of these, as before observed, may
beautify the drawing room from February to April, by having a reserved
stock, in a cold situation, and taking a few of them every week into the
warmest apartment.
Wherever any of the bulbs are growing, and in the interior of the room,
remove them close to the light, observing to turn the pots or glasses
frequently to prevent them from growing to one side, and giving them
support as soon as the stems droop, or the head becomes pendant. The
saucers under the Hyacinth and Narcissus especially may stand with
water, and observe to change the water in the glasses, as already
mentioned.
Every one that has any taste or refinement in their floral undertakings,
will delight in seeing the plants in perfection; to have them so, they
must be divested of every leaf that has the appearance of decaying--let
this always be attended to.
=Hot-House.=
_FEBRUARY_.
In the early part of this month the weather generally is very cold and
changeable in the middle states, and strict attention, with the greatest
caution, will require to be paid to the management of the Hot-house.
Most of the tropical plants commence an active state of vegetation; and
if checked by temperature or otherwise, they will not recover until
midsummer. The thermometer may be kept two or three degrees higher with
fire heat than last month; the sun will be more powerful, and this will,
in a great degree, increase the vigour of the plants. Air may be
admitted when the thermometer rises to 75° or 80°, not allowing it to
rise higher than the latter. In giving air, let it be done by the top
sashes. It is improper to give it in any way to cause a current, for the
external air is very cold, although the sun is more powerful. An inch or
two on a few of the sashes, as has been previously observed, will be
effectual in keeping the temperature low enough, except the weather is
very mild.
With regard to firing, what was said last month may suffice for this.
Always recollect that it is preferable to keep out the cold than to put
it out. It will frequently happen in the time of intense frost, that
the weather is dull. In such cases fire in a small degree is requisite
all day.
Heavy snows ought never to be allowed to remain on the shutters while
they are on the house. If the snow lies on the sashes one day, the
internal heat will dissolve some of it; night coming on will freeze it
to the wood work, when it will become a solid mass, and too frequently
cannot be separated without much damage. If allowed to remain on for two
days, the plants are very much weakened, and the foliage discoloured.
Therefore let the snow be cleared off instantly, that no inconvenience
may take place.
It will be observed that plants absorb more water this month than last.
The quantity given will require to be increased, according to the
increase of vegetation and the advancement of the season; but never give
it until the soil begins to get dry, and then in such proportion as will
reach the bottom of the pot. After the sun has got on the house in the
morning is the best time to water, observing all the directions given in
January.
OF INSECTS, &c.
Perhaps sufficient observations were given under this head last month;
but the importance of keeping these disagreeable visitors out of the
house, constrains us to make a few more remarks, and perhaps it may be
necessary every month. Man cannot be too frequently guarded against his
foes, more especially when they are summoning all their forces, and no
profession has more than that of the Horticulturist. Let a strict
examination be made about the end of the month for the Red spider; they
will be in operation some weeks before their depredations are observed
on the foliage. The under side of the leaf is their resort in the first
instance, and on such plants as have been already mentioned.
Observe daily the young shoots, in case the Green fly becomes numerous.
They give the foliage a very disagreeable appearance, and with most
people it is intolerable, before their career is arrested. It also takes
a stronger fumigation, which has frequently to be repeated the following
day to the same degree, much to the injury of many of the plants, and
adding to the disagreeableness of the continued vapour in the house.
OF SHIFTING PLANTS.
The _Calceolàrias_ that were put in small pots about the beginning or
middle of last month, will, if they have done well, require, about the
end of this, to be put in pots a size larger.
If any of _Lilìum longiflòrum_, _Speciòsum_, or _Japónicum_, are wanted
to flower early, and were put in the Hot-house in December, without
dividing, those that are to flower will have pushed their flower stems,
and can be separated from those that will not flower, and put singly
into pots; the two former into five or six inch pots, while the latter
require six or seven inch pots. Of those that do not flower, three or
four can be put into one pot.
About the end of the month, some of the plants of _Eurcúma_, _Amómum_,
_Kæmpféria_, _Glóbba_, _Phrynium_, _Cánna_, _Zíngiber_, _Hedychium_, and
others that are on the dry shelf, will be offering to grow. Let them be
taken out of their pots, some of their weakest shoots or tubers taken
off, and the strong ones repotted: give gentle waterings until they grow
freely, then give an abundance.
_Dionæa mucípula_, or Venus fly trap, grows best in the Hot-house, and
will, about the end of the month, stand in need of being repotted. This
plant is very seldom grown in any degree of perfection, having been
always considered a delicate plant in collections. The operator has
never had courage to treat it according to its nature in a cultivated
state. If it is taken out of the pot, just when beginning to grow
afresh, and divested of all the soil, leaving only a few of the young
roots, (it is a bulb, and will receive no injury by so doing,) put it in
new soil; when potted, place the pot in a saucer with one inch of water
in it, giving always a fresh supply, when necessary. A shady and moist
situation is best adapted to it; this being repeated every year, it will
grow, flower, and seed in perfection.
_Gesnérias_, if in small pots, give larger as they advance in growth.
This genus requires to be well attended to make them flower well. _
|
should repeat
Their visit to his calm retreat,
Away from Chitrakúta's hill
Fared Ráma ever onward till
Beneath the shady trees he stood
Of Dandaká's primeval wood,
Virádha, giant fiend, he slew,
And then Agastya's friendship knew.
Counselled by him he gained the sword
And bow of Indra, heavenly lord:
A pair of quivers too, that bore
Of arrows an exhaustless store.
While there he dwelt in greenwood shade
The trembling hermits sought his aid,
And bade him with his sword and bow
Destroy the fiends who worked them woe:
To come like Indra strong and brave,
A guardian God to help and save.
And Ráma's falchion left its trace
Deep cut on Súrpanakhá's face:
A hideous giantess who came
Burning for him with lawless flame.
Their sister's cries the giants heard.
And vengeance in each bosom stirred:
The monster of the triple head.
And Dúshan to the contest sped.
But they and myriad fiends beside
Beneath the might of Ráma died.
When Rávan, dreaded warrior, knew
The slaughter of his giant crew:
Rávan, the king, whose name of fear
Earth, hell, and heaven all shook to hear:
He bade the fiend Márícha aid
The vengeful plot his fury laid.
In vain the wise Márícha tried
To turn him from his course aside:
Not Rávan's self, he said, might hope
With Ráma and his strength to cope.
Impelled by fate and blind with rage
He came to Ráma's hermitage.
There, by Márícha's magic art,
He wiled the princely youths apart,
The vulture(31) slew, and bore away
The wife of Ráma as his prey.
The son of Raghu(32) came and found
Jatáyu slain upon the ground.
He rushed within his leafy cot;
He sought his wife, but found her not.
Then, then the hero's senses failed;
In mad despair he wept and wailed.
Upon the pile that bird he laid,
And still in quest of Sítá strayed.
A hideous giant then he saw,
Kabandha named, a shape of awe.
The monstrous fiend he smote and slew,
And in the flame the body threw;
When straight from out the funeral flame
In lovely form Kabandha came,
And bade him seek in his distress
A wise and holy hermitess.
By counsel of this saintly dame
To Pampá's pleasant flood he came,
And there the steadfast friendship won
Of Hanumán the Wind-God's son.
Counselled by him he told his grief
To great Sugríva, Vánar chief,
Who, knowing all the tale, before
The sacred flame alliance swore.
Sugríva to his new-found friend
Told his own story to the end:
His hate of Báli for the wrong
And insult he had borne so long.
And Ráma lent a willing ear
And promised to allay his fear.
Sugríva warned him of the might
Of Báli, matchless in the fight,
And, credence for his tale to gain,
Showed the huge fiend(33) by Báli slain.
The prostrate corse of mountain size
Seemed nothing in the hero's eyes;
He lightly kicked it, as it lay,
And cast it twenty leagues(34) away.
To prove his might his arrows through
Seven palms in line, uninjured, flew.
He cleft a mighty hill apart,
And down to hell he hurled his dart.
Then high Sugríva's spirit rose,
Assured of conquest o'er his foes.
With his new champion by his side
To vast Kishkindhá's cave he hied.
Then, summoned by his awful shout,
King Báli came in fury out,
First comforted his trembling wife,
Then sought Sugríva in the strife.
One shaft from Ráma's deadly bow
The monarch in the dust laid low.
Then Ráma bade Sugríva reign
In place of royal Báli slain.
Then speedy envoys hurried forth
Eastward and westward, south and north,
Commanded by the grateful king
Tidings of Ráma's spouse to bring.
Then by Sampáti's counsel led,
Brave Hanumán, who mocked at dread,
Sprang at one wild tremendous leap
Two hundred leagues across the deep.
To Lanká's(35) town he urged his way,
Where Rávan held his royal sway.
There pensive 'neath Asoka(36) boughs
He found poor Sítá, Ráma's spouse.
He gave the hapless girl a ring,
A token from her lord and king.
A pledge from her fair hand he bore;
Then battered down the garden door.
Five captains of the host he slew,
Seven sons of councillors o'erthrew;
Crushed youthful Aksha on the field,
Then to his captors chose to yield.
Soon from their bonds his limbs were free,
But honouring the high decree
Which Brahmá(37) had pronounced of yore,
He calmly all their insults bore.
The town he burnt with hostile flame,
And spoke again with Ráma's dame,
Then swiftly back to Ráma flew
With tidings of the interview.
Then with Sugríva for his guide,
Came Ráma to the ocean side.
He smote the sea with shafts as bright
As sunbeams in their summer height,
And quick appeared the Rivers' King(38)
Obedient to the summoning.
A bridge was thrown by Nala o'er
The narrow sea from shore to shore.(39)
They crossed to Lanká's golden town,
Where Ráma's hand smote Rávan down.
Vibhishan there was left to reign
Over his brother's wide domain.
To meet her husband Sítá came;
But Ráma, stung with ire and shame,
With bitter words his wife addressed
Before the crowd that round her pressed.
But Sítá, touched with noble ire,
Gave her fair body to the fire.
Then straight the God of Wind appeared,
And words from heaven her honour cleared.
And Ráma clasped his wife again,
Uninjured, pure from spot and stain,
Obedient to the Lord of Fire
And the high mandate of his sire.
Led by the Lord who rules the sky,
The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh,
And honoured him with worthy meed,
Rejoicing in each glorious deed.
His task achieved, his foe removed,
He triumphed, by the Gods approved.
By grace of Heaven he raised to life
The chieftains slain in mortal strife;
Then in the magic chariot through
The clouds to Nandigráma flew.
Met by his faithful brothers there,
He loosed his votive coil of hair:
Thence fair Ayodhyá's town he gained,
And o'er his father's kingdom reigned.
Disease or famine ne'er oppressed
His happy people, richly blest
With all the joys of ample wealth,
Of sweet content and perfect health.
No widow mourned her well-loved mate,
No sire his son's untimely fate.
They feared not storm or robber's hand;
No fire or flood laid waste the land:
The Golden Age(40) had come again
To bless the days of Ráma's reign.
From him, the great and glorious king,
Shall many a princely scion spring.
And he shall rule, beloved by men,
Ten thousand years and hundreds ten,(41)
And when his life on earth is past
To Brahmá's world shall go at last."
Whoe'er this noble poem reads
That tells the tale of Ráma's deeds,
Good as the Scriptures, he shall be
From every sin and blemish free.
Whoever reads the saving strain,
With all his kin the heavens shall gain.
Bráhmans who read shall gather hence
The highest praise for eloquence.
The warrior, o'er the land shall reign,
The merchant, luck in trade obtain;
And Súdras listening(42) ne'er shall fail
To reap advantage from the tale.(43)
Canto II. Brahmá's Visit
Válmíki, graceful speaker, heard,
To highest admiration stirred.
To him whose fame the tale rehearsed
He paid his mental worship first;
Then with his pupil humbly bent
Before the saint most eloquent.
Thus honoured and dismissed the seer
Departed to his heavenly sphere.
Then from his cot Válmíki hied
To Tamasá's(44) sequestered side,
Not far remote from Gangá's tide.
He stood and saw the ripples roll
Pellucid o'er a pebbly shoal.
To Bharadvája(45) by his side
He turned in ecstasy, and cried:
"See, pupil dear, this lovely sight,
The smooth-floored shallow, pure and bright,
With not a speck or shade to mar,
And clear as good men's bosoms are.
Here on the brink thy pitcher lay,
And bring my zone of bark, I pray.
Here will I bathe: the rill has not,
To lave the limbs, a fairer spot.
Do quickly as I bid, nor waste
The precious time; away, and haste."
Obedient to his master's hest
Quick from the cot he brought the vest;
The hermit took it from his hand,
And tightened round his waist the band;
Then duly dipped and bathed him there,
And muttered low his secret prayer.
To spirits and to Gods he made
Libation of the stream, and strayed
Viewing the forest deep and wide
That spread its shade on every side.
Close by the bank he saw a pair
Of curlews sporting fearless there.
But suddenly with evil mind
An outcast fowler stole behind,
And, with an aim too sure and true,
The male bird near the hermit slew.
The wretched hen in wild despair
With fluttering pinions beat the air,
And shrieked a long and bitter cry
When low on earth she saw him lie,
Her loved companion, quivering, dead,
His dear wings with his lifeblood red;
And for her golden crested mate
She mourned, and was disconsolate.
The hermit saw the slaughtered bird,
And all his heart with ruth was stirred.
The fowler's impious deed distressed
His gentle sympathetic breast,
And while the curlew's sad cries rang
Within his ears, the hermit sang:
"No fame be thine for endless time,
Because, base outcast, of thy crime,
Whose cruel hand was fain to slay
One of this gentle pair at play!"
E'en as he spoke his bosom wrought
And laboured with the wondering thought
What was the speech his ready tongue
Had uttered when his heart was wrung.
He pondered long upon the speech,
Recalled the words and measured each,
And thus exclaimed the saintly guide
To Bharadvája by his side:
"With equal lines of even feet,
With rhythm and time and tone complete,
The measured form of words I spoke
In shock of grief be termed a sloke."(46)
And Bharadvája, nothing slow
His faithful love and zeal to show,
Answered those words of wisdom, "Be
The name, my lord, as pleases thee."
As rules prescribe the hermit took
Some lustral water from the brook.
But still on this his constant thought
Kept brooding, as his home he sought;
While Bharadvája paced behind,
A pupil sage of lowly mind,
And in his hand a pitcher bore
With pure fresh water brimming o'er.
Soon as they reached their calm retreat
The holy hermit took his seat;
His mind from worldly cares recalled,
And mused in deepest thought enthralled.
Then glorious Brahmá,(47) Lord Most High,
Creator of the earth and sky,
The four-faced God, to meet the sage
Came to Válmíki's hermitage.
Soon as the mighty God he saw,
Up sprang the saint in wondering awe.
Mute, with clasped hands, his head he bent,
And stood before him reverent.
His honoured guest he greeted well,
Who bade him of his welfare tell;
Gave water for his blessed feet,
Brought offerings,(48) and prepared a seat.
In honoured place the God Most High
Sate down, and bade the saint sit nigh.
There sate before Válmíki's eyes
The Father of the earth and skies;
But still the hermit's thoughts were bent
On one thing only, all intent
On that poor curlew's mournful fate
Lamenting for her slaughtered mate;
And still his lips, in absent mood,
The verse that told his grief, renewed:
"Woe to the fowler's impious hand
That did the deed that folly planned;
That could to needless death devote
The curlew of the tuneful throat!"
The heavenly Father smiled in glee,
And said, "O best of hermits, see,
A verse, unconscious, thou hast made;
No longer be the task delayed.
Seek not to trace, with labour vain,
The unpremeditated strain.
The tuneful lines thy lips rehearsed
Spontaneous from thy bosom burst.
Then come, O best of seers, relate
The life of Ráma good and great,
The tale that saintly Nárad told,
In all its glorious length unfold.
Of all the deeds his arm has done
Upon this earth, omit not one,
And thus the noble life record
Of that wise, brave, and virtuous lord.
His every act to day displayed,
His secret life to none betrayed:
How Lakshman, how the giants fought;
With high emprise and hidden thought:
And all that Janak's child(49) befell
Where all could see, where none could tell.
The whole of this shall truly be
Made known, O best of saints, to thee.
In all thy poem, through my grace,
No word of falsehood shall have place.
Begin the story, and rehearse
The tale divine in charming verse.
As long as in this firm-set land
The streams shall flow, the mountains stand,
So long throughout the world, be sure,
The great Rámáyan shall endure.(50)
While the Rámáyan's ancient strain
Shall glorious in the earth remain,
To higher spheres shalt thou arise
And dwell with me above the skies."
He spoke, and vanished into air,
And left Válmíki wondering there.
The pupils of the holy man,
Moved by their love of him, began
To chant that verse, and ever more
They marvelled as they sang it o'er:
"Behold, the four-lined balanced rime,
Repeated over many a time,
In words that from the hermit broke
In shock of grief, becomes a sloke."
This measure now Válmíki chose
Wherein his story to compose.
In hundreds of such verses, sweet
With equal lines and even feet,
The saintly poet, lofty-souled,
The glorious deeds of Ráma told.
Canto III. The Argument.
The hermit thus with watchful heed
Received the poem's pregnant seed,
And looked with eager thought around
If fuller knowledge might be found.
His lips with water first bedewed,(51)
He sate, in reverent attitude
On holy grass,(52) the points all bent
Together toward the orient;(53)
And thus in meditation he
Entered the path of poesy.
Then clearly, through his virtue's might,
All lay discovered to his sight,
Whate'er befell, through all their life,
Ráma, his brother, and his wife:
And Dasaratha and each queen
At every time, in every scene:
His people too, of every sort;
The nobles of his princely court:
Whate'er was said, whate'er decreed,
Each time they sate each plan and deed:
For holy thought and fervent rite
Had so refined his keener sight
That by his sanctity his view
The present, past, and future knew,
And he with mental eye could grasp,
Like fruit within his fingers clasp,
The life of Ráma, great and good,
Roaming with Sítá in the wood.
He told, with secret-piercing eyes,
The tale of Ráma's high emprise,
Each listening ear that shall entice,
A sea of pearls of highest price.
Thus good Válmíki, sage divine,
Rehearsed the tale of Raghu's line,
As Nárad, heavenly saint, before
Had traced the story's outline o'er.
He sang of Ráma's princely birth,
His kindness and heroic worth;
His love for all, his patient youth,
His gentleness and constant truth,
And many a tale and legend old
By holy Visvámitra told.
How Janak's child he wooed and won,
And broke the bow that bent to none.
How he with every virtue fraught
His namesake Ráma(54) met and fought.
The choice of Ráma for the throne;
The malice by Kaikeyí shown,
Whose evil counsel marred the plan
And drove him forth a banisht man.
How the king grieved and groaned, and cried,
And swooned away and pining died.
The subjects' woe when thus bereft;
And how the following crowds he left:
With Guha talked, and firmly stern
Ordered his driver to return.
How Gangá's farther shore he gained;
By Bharadvája entertained,
By whose advice he journeyed still
And came to Chitrakúta's hill.
How there he dwelt and built a cot;
How Bharat journeyed to the spot;
His earnest supplication made;
Drink-offerings to their father paid;
The sandals given by Ráma's hand,
As emblems of his right, to stand:
How from his presence Bharat went
And years in Nandigráma spent.
How Ráma entered Dandak wood
And in Sutíkhna's presence stood.
The favour Anasúyá showed,
The wondrous balsam she bestowed.
How Sarabhanga's dwelling-place
They sought; saw Indra face to face;
The meeting with Agastya gained;
The heavenly bow from him obtained.
How Ráma with Virádha met;
Their home in Panchavata set.
How Súrpanakhá underwent
The mockery and disfigurement.
Of Trisirá's and Khara's fall,
Of Rávan roused at vengeance call,
Márícha doomed, without escape;
The fair Videhan(55) lady's rape.
How Ráma wept and raved in vain,
And how the Vulture-king was slain.
How Ráma fierce Kabandha slew;
Then to the side of Pampá drew,
Met Hanumán, and her whose vows
Were kept beneath the greenwood boughs.
How Raghu's son, the lofty-souled,
On Pampá's bank wept uncontrolled,
Then journeyed, Rishyamúk to reach,
And of Sugríva then had speech.
The friendship made, which both had sought:
How Báli and Sugríva fought.
How Báli in the strife was slain,
And how Sugríva came to reign.
The treaty, Tára's wild lament;
The rainy nights in watching spent.
The wrath of Raghu's lion son;
The gathering of the hosts in one.
The sending of the spies about,
And all the regions pointed out.
The ring by Ráma's hand bestowed;
The cave wherein the bear abode.
The fast proposed, their lives to end;
Sampati gained to be their friend.
The scaling of the hill, the leap
Of Hanumán across the deep.
Ocean's command that bade them seek
Maináka of the lofty peak.
The death of Sinhiká, the sight
Of Lanká with her palace bright
How Hanumán stole in at eve;
His plan the giants to deceive.
How through the square he made his way
To chambers where the women lay,
Within the Asoka garden came
And there found Ráma's captive dame.
His colloquy with her he sought,
And giving of the ring he brought.
How Sítá gave a gem o'erjoyed;
How Hanumán the grove destroyed.
How giantesses trembling fled,
And servant fiends were smitten dead.
How Hanumán was seized; their ire
When Lanká blazed with hostile fire.
His leap across the sea once more;
The eating of the honey store.
How Ráma he consoled, and how
He showed the gem from Sítá's brow.
With Ocean, Ráma's interview;
The bridge that Nala o'er it threw.
The crossing, and the sitting down
At night round Lanká's royal town.
The treaty with Vibhíshan made:
The plan for Rávan's slaughter laid.
How Kumbhakarna in his pride
And Meghanáda fought and died.
How Rávan in the fight was slain,
And captive Sítá brought again.
Vibhíshan set upon the throne;
The flying chariot Pushpak shown.
How Brahmá and the Gods appeared,
And Sítá's doubted honour cleared.
How in the flying car they rode
To Bharadvája's cabin abode.
The Wind-God's son sent on afar;
How Bharat met the flying car.
How Ráma then was king ordained;
The legions their discharge obtained.
How Ráma cast his queen away;
How grew the people's love each day.
Thus did the saint Válmíki tell
Whate'er in Ráma's life befell,
And in the closing verses all
That yet to come will once befall.
Canto IV. The Rhapsodists.
When to the end the tale was brought,
Rose in the sage's mind the thought;
"Now who throughout this earth will go,
And tell it forth that all may know?"
As thus he mused with anxious breast,
Behold, in hermit's raiment dressed,
Kusá and Lava(56) came to greet
Their master and embrace his feet.
The twins he saw, that princely pair
Sweet-voiced, who dwelt beside him there
None for the task could be more fit,
For skilled were they in Holy Writ;
And so the great Rámáyan, fraught
With lore divine, to these he taught:
The lay whose verses sweet and clear
Take with delight the listening ear,
That tell of Sítá's noble life
And Rávan's fall in battle strife.
Great joy to all who hear they bring,
Sweet to recite and sweet to sing.
For music's sevenfold notes are there,
And triple measure,(57) wrought with care
With melody and tone and time,
And flavours(58) that enhance the rime;
Heroic might has ample place,
And loathing of the false and base,
With anger, mirth, and terror, blent
With tenderness, surprise, content.
When, half the hermit's grace to gain,
And half because they loved the strain,
The youth within their hearts had stored
The poem that his lips outpoured,
Válmíki kissed them on the head,
As at his feet they bowed, and said;
"Recite ye this heroic song
In tranquil shades where sages throng:
Recite it where the good resort,
In lowly home and royal court."
The hermit ceased. The tuneful pair,
Like heavenly minstrels sweet and fair,
In music's art divinely skilled,
Their saintly master's word fulfilled.
Like Ráma's self, from whom they came,
They showed their sire in face and frame,
As though from some fair sculptured stone
Two selfsame images had grown.
Sometimes the pair rose up to sing,
Surrounded by a holy ring,
Where seated on the grass had met
Full many a musing anchoret.
Then tears bedimmed those gentle eyes,
As transport took them and surprise,
And as they listened every one
Cried in delight, Well done! Well done!
Those sages versed in holy lore
Praised the sweet minstrels more and more:
And wondered at the singers' skill,
And the bard's verses sweeter still,
Which laid so clear before the eye
The glorious deeds of days gone by.
Thus by the virtuous hermits praised,
Inspirited their voice they raised.
Pleased with the song this holy man
Would give the youths a water-can;
One gave a fair ascetic dress,
Or sweet fruit from the wilderness.
One saint a black-deer's hide would bring,
And one a sacrificial string:
One, a clay pitcher from his hoard,
And one, a twisted munja cord.(59)
One in his joy an axe would find,
One braid, their plaited locks to bind.
One gave a sacrificial cup,
One rope to tie their fagots up;
While fuel at their feet was laid,
Or hermit's stool of fig-tree made.
All gave, or if they gave not, none
Forgot at least a benison.
Some saints, delighted with their lays,
Would promise health and length of days;
Others with surest words would add
Some boon to make their spirit glad.
In such degree of honour then
That song was held by holy men:
That living song which life can give,
By which shall many a minstrel live.
In seat of kings, in crowded hall,
They sang the poem, praised of all.
And Ráma chanced to hear their lay,
While he the votive steed(60) would slay,
And sent fit messengers to bring
The minstrel pair before the king.
They came, and found the monarch high
Enthroned in gold, his brothers nigh;
While many a minister below,
And noble, sate in lengthened row.
The youthful pair awhile he viewed
Graceful in modest attitude,
And then in words like these addressed
His brother Lakshman and the rest:
"Come, listen to the wondrous strain
Recited by these godlike twain,
Sweet singers of a story fraught
With melody and lofty thought."
The pair, with voices sweet and strong,
Rolled the full tide of noble song,
With tone and accent deftly blent
To suit the changing argument.
Mid that assembly loud and clear
Rang forth that lay so sweet to hear,
That universal rapture stole
Through each man's frame and heart and soul.
"These minstrels, blest with every sign
That marks a high and princely line,
In holy shades who dwell,
Enshrined in Saint Válmíki's lay,
A monument to live for aye,
My deeds in song shall tell."
Thus Ráma spoke: their breasts were fired,
And the great tale, as if inspired,
The youths began to sing,
While every heart with transport swelled,
And mute and rapt attention held
The concourse and the king.
Canto V. Ayodhyá.
"Ikshváku's sons from days of old
Were ever brave and mighty-souled.
The land their arms had made their own
Was bounded by the sea alone.
Their holy works have won them praise,
Through countless years, from Manu's days.
Their ancient sire was Sagar, he
Whose high command dug out the sea:(61)
With sixty thousand sons to throng
Around him as he marched along.
From them this glorious tale proceeds:
The great Rámáyan tells their deeds.
This noble song whose lines contain
Lessons of duty, love, and gain,
We two will now at length recite,
While good men listen with delight.
On Sarjú's(62) bank, of ample size,
The happy realm of Kosal lies,
With fertile length of fair champaign
And flocks and herds and wealth of grain.
There, famous in her old renown,
Ayodhyá(63) stands, the royal town,
In bygone ages built and planned
By sainted Manu's(64) princely hand.
Imperial seat! her walls extend
Twelve measured leagues from end to end,
And three in width from side to side,
With square and palace beautified.
Her gates at even distance stand;
Her ample roads are wisely planned.
Right glorious is her royal street
Where streams allay the dust and heat.
On level ground in even row
Her houses rise in goodly show:
Terrace and palace, arch and gate
The queenly city decorate.
High are her ramparts, strong and vast,
By ways at even distance passed,
With circling moat, both deep and wide,
And store of weapons fortified.
King Dasaratha, lofty-souled,
That city guarded and controlled,
With towering Sál trees belted round,(65)
And many a grove and pleasure ground,
As royal Indra, throned on high,
Rules his fair city in the sky.(66)
She seems a painted city, fair
With chess-board line and even square.(67)
And cool boughs shade the lovely lake
Where weary men their thirst may slake.
There gilded chariots gleam and shine,
And stately piles the Gods enshrine.
There gay sleek people ever throng
To festival and dance and song.
A mine is she of gems and sheen,
The darling home of Fortune's Queen.
With noblest sort of drink and meat,
The fairest rice and golden wheat,
And fragrant with the chaplet's scent
With holy oil and incense blent.
With many an elephant and steed,
And wains for draught and cars for speed.
With envoys sent by distant kings,
And merchants with their precious things
With banners o'er her roofs that play,
And weapons that a hundred slay;(68)
All warlike engines framed by man,
And every class of artisan.
A city rich beyond compare
With bards and minstrels gathered there,
And men and damsels who entrance
The soul with play and song and dance.
In every street is heard the lute,
The drum, the tabret, and the flute,
The Veda chanted soft and low,
The ringing of the archer's bow;
With bands of godlike heroes skilled
In every warlike weapon, filled,
And kept by warriors from the foe,
As Nágas guard their home below.(69)
There wisest Bráhmans evermore
The flame of worship feed,
And versed in all the Vedas' lore,
Their lives of virtue lead.
Truthful and pure, they freely give;
They keep each sense controlled,
And in their holy fervour live
Like the great saints of old.
Canto VI. The King.
There reigned a king of name revered,
To country and to town endeared,
Great Dasaratha, good and sage,
Well read in Scripture's holy page:
Upon his kingdom's weal intent,
Mighty and brave and provident;
The pride of old Ikshváku's seed
For lofty thought and righteous deed.
Peer of the saints, for virtues famed,
For foes subdued and passions tamed:
A rival in his wealth untold
Of Indra and the Lord of Gold.
Like Manu first of kings, he reigned,
And worthily his state maintained.
For firm and just and ever true
Love, duty, gain he kept in view,
And ruled his city rich and free,
Like Indra's Amarávatí.
And worthy of so fair a place
There dwelt a just and happy race
With troops of children blest.
Each man contented sought no more,
Nor longed with envy for the store
By richer friends possessed.
For poverty was there unknown,
And each man counted as his own
Kine, steeds, and gold, and grain.
All dressed in raiment bright and clean,
And every townsman might be seen
With earrings, wreath, or chain.
None deigned to feed on broken fare,
And none was false or stingy there.
A piece of gold, the smallest pay,
Was earned by labour for a day.
On every arm were bracelets worn,
And none was faithless or forsworn,
A braggart or unkind.
None lived upon another's wealth,
None pined with dread or broken health,
Or dark disease of mind.
High-souled were all. The slanderous word,
The boastful lie, were never heard.
Each man was constant to his vows,
And lived devoted to his spouse.
No other love his fancy knew,
And she was tender, kind, and true.
Her dames were fair of form and face,
With charm of wit and gentle grace,
With modest raiment simply neat,
And winning manners soft and sweet.
The twice-born sages, whose delight
Was Scripture's page and holy rite,
Their calm and settled course pursued,
Nor sought the menial multitude.
In many a Scripture each was versed,
And each the flame of worship nursed,
And gave with lavish hand.
Each paid to Heaven the offerings due,
And none was godless or untrue
In all that holy band.
To Bráhmans, as the laws ordain,
The Warrior caste were ever fain
The reverence due to pay;
And these the Vaisyas' peaceful crowd,
Who trade and toil for gain, were proud
To honour and obey;
And all were by the Súdras(70) served,
Who never from their duty swerved,
Their proper worship all addressed
To Bráhman, spirits, God, and guest.
Pure and unmixt their rites remained,
Their race's honour ne'er was stained.(71)
Cheered by his grandsons, sons, and wife,
Each passed a long and happy life.
Thus was that famous city held
By one who all his race excelled,
Blest in his gentle reign,
As the whole land aforetime swayed
By Manu, prince of men, obeyed
Her king from main to main.
And heroes kept her, strong and brave,
As lions guard their mountain cave:
Fierce as devouring flame they burned,
And fought till death, but never turned.
Horses had she of noblest breed,
Like Indra's for their form and speed,
From Váhlí's(72) hills and Sindhu's(73) sand,
Vanáyu(74) and Kámboja's land.(75)
Her noble elephants had strayed
Through Vindhyan and Himálayan shade,
Gigantic in their bulk and height,
Yet gentle in their matchless might.
They rivalled well the world-spread fame
Of the great stock from which they came,
Of Váman, vast of size,
Of Mahápadma's glorious line,
Thine, Anjan, and, Airávat, thine.(76)
Upholders of the skies.
With those, enrolled in fourfold class,
Who all their mighty kin surpass,
Whom men Matangas name,
And Mrigas spotted black and white,
And Bhadras of unwearied might,
And Mandras hard to tame.(77)
Thus, worthy of the name she bore,(78)
Ayodhyá for a league or more
Cast a bright glory round,
Where Dasaratha wise and great
Governed his fair ancestral state,
With every virtue crowned.
Like Indra in the skies he reigned
In that good town whose wall contained
High domes and turrets proud,
With gates and arcs of triumph decked,
And sturdy barriers to protect
Her gay and countless crowd.
Canto VII. The Ministers.
Two sages, holy saints, had he,
His ministers and priests to be:
Vasishtha, faithful to advise,
And Vámadeva, Scripture-wise.
Eight other lords around him stood,
All skilled to counsel, wise and good:
Jayanta, Vijay, Dhrishti bold
In fight, affairs of war controlled:
Siddhárth and Arthasádhak true
Watched o'er expense and revenue,
And Dharmapál and wise Asok
Of right and law and justice spoke.
With these the sage Sumantra, skilled
To urge the car, high station filled.
All these in knowledge duly trained
Each passion and each sense restrained:
With modest manners, nobly bred
Each plan and nod and look they read,
Upon their neighbours' good intent,
Most active and benevolent:
As sit the Vasus(79) round their king,
They sate around him counselling.
They ne'er in virtue's loftier pride
Another's lowly gifts decried.
In fair and seemly garb arrayed,
No weak uncertain plans they made.
Well skilled in business, fair and just,
They gained the people's love and trust,
And thus without oppression stored
The swelling treasury of their lord.
Bound in sweet friendship each to each,
They spoke kind thoughts in gentle speech.
They looked alike with equal eye
On every caste, on low and high.
Devoted to their king, they sought,
Ere his tongue spoke, to learn his thought,
And knew, as each occasion rose,
To hide their counsel or disclose.
In foreign lands or in their own
Whatever passed, to them was known.
By secret spies they timely knew
What men were doing or would do.
Skilled in the grounds of war and peace
They saw the monarch's state increase,
Watching his weal with conquering eye
That never let occasion by,
While nature lent her aid to bless
Their labours with unbought success.
Never for anger, lust, or gain,
Would they their lips with falsehood stain.
Inclined to mercy they could scan
The weakness and the strength of man.
They fairly judged both high and low,
And ne'er would wrong a guiltless foe;
Yet if a fault were proved, each one
Would punish e'en his own dear son.
But there and in the kingdom's bound
No thief or man impure was found:
None of loose life or evil fame,
No tempter of another's dame.
Content
|
for their individual liberty, the enemy's efforts have been
fruitless.
Even during the gloomy days of the retreat from Mons and Charleroi
the union of the two Armies remained unimpaired. While one of them,
overwhelmed by numbers, found itself compelled to retire, the other,
without any proper understanding of the reason, and with no thought
for anything but the maintenance of the connection, complied at once
with the manoeuvre, though not without exacting a heavy toll from its
enemies.
A few days later the victory of the Marne was to reward these mutual
sacrifices for the common cause.
A cloud had passed. Others followed. Again and again the enemy, furious
at the perfect understanding which existed between his opponents and
dreading what the consequences of it might be to himself, determined
to make an end of it. The two battles of Ypres were the fruit of this
resolution, to shatter the unity of the French and British Armies.
For one moment they believed that they had succeeded.
This was on the 24th April, 1915, when, by the use of asphyxiating gas,
till then unknown to us, they had driven in one corner of the Ypres
salient. We know that it was the gallantry of the Canadians that saved
the day and closed the opening breach.
Since then the chain has never been weakened. Nay, in the North it has
never been so much as stretched.
This, however, has not been the case with the connection between the
British Army and the main body of the Armies of France. The continual
addition of new units to the British forces was bound to cause frequent
changes, here, in the geographical distribution of the adjoining
troops. Can France ever forget the day when she learned that silently,
without a hitch, and under the very noses of the Germans, the British
front had suddenly been extended from Loos to the Somme? A mother who
meets, after years, the son whom she has last seen as a child, must
feel a surprise not unlike that with which France discovered that
the Armies of her Allies had become so large. Who knows but that we
may soon be again delighted in the same way? I say "delighted," not
"surprised," for our Allies have taught us to forget to be astonished
by anything they may do.
And so, every time that the British front is extended, this elasticity
of the fusion of the Armies is to be observed.
It is clear that these rearrangements can in no way affect its
solidity, since it is this very fusion which has made possible not only
the terrific offensive of the 1st July last, but also its uninterrupted
prosecution.
Only a very happy combination of circumstances could have brought about
this miracle--for it is one--which to explain is to show that it must
last as long as the war shall go on.
First of all, it is due to the perfect understanding which exists
between the General Staffs of the two Allied Armies. It is, indeed,
an achievement to set men of different races, if of equal courage,
side by side. But this is not enough. Much more need is there of a
unity of command which shall see that the best use is made of all
this determination, brought together from sources so widely sundered,
so that the utmost measure of mutual support and cohesion may result
from the efforts of units which, though they work alongside of one
another, are strangers. Now it is this very thing which is evident
in the combined operations of the British and French Armies, at all
times and particularly since the opening of the offensive in Picardy.
The Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig, and General Foch--whom one
may perhaps describe as the keystone of the combination--have shown
themselves, in this connection, to be as good psychologists as they are
tacticians.
The troops of neither nation--and this should be made very clear--have
in any case experienced the smallest embarrassment in following out
the commands of their leaders. Whenever either English or French have
been able to give one another any kind of support, they have done it
faithfully and readily. The "fusion" is not a thing of maps; it is not
to be found in this place or that; it is a spiritual verity.
Living side by side, dying under one another's eyes, English and
French are acquiring a mutual respect and confidence which cannot fail
to strengthen their fighting power.
[Illustration: 5. GENERAL BIRDWOOD TALKING TO A GROUP OF BIG
AUSTRALIANS.]
"After all the proofs of their resolution and intrepidity," wrote
Field-Marshal French in a report, of June, 1915, upon the gas attacks,
"which our valiant Allies have given throughout the campaign, it is
quite unnecessary for me to dwell upon this incident, and I will only
express my firm conviction that if there are any troops on earth who
could have held their trenches in the face of an attack as treacherous
as it was unforeseen, it is the French divisions that would have done
it."
Which is the more admirable--the General who speaks of his Allies in
such generous terms, or the soldiers who inspired such words?
CHAPTER II.
HOW THE AUSTRALIAN CONTINGENT VOTED IN FRANCE IN FACE OF THE ENEMY.
8th December, 1916.
What Frenchman has not met, at least once, in Paris or some other of
our large towns, one of these stout lads who wear the uniform and carry
the equipment of the British soldier, but are to be distinguished from
him by that khaki-coloured, broad-brimmed felt hat, which the Boers
have immortalised?
Of a height generally above that of the average Frenchman, with broad
shoulders, an alert glance, a free and easy air; a skin that is often
tanned; a horseman from boyhood, slow to tire, reckless in battles and
of a hot temper--such is the Australian soldier, one of the world's
foremost fighting men.
His courage, which the enemy regards with a peculiar distaste, has
earned him heavy fighting everywhere throughout the war. Let us recall,
shortly, some of his chief performances.
The first division sent by Australia to the assistance of the Mother
Country towards the end of 1914 was employed on the defences of Egypt
and the Suez Canal. These sterling horsemen did splendid work in this
field of operations, and for four months lived in the desert, exposed
to continual attack.
Next, the Australian troops, augmented by certain units of New
Zealanders, disembarked on the Gallipoli Peninsula at the left of their
English comrades. Hardly were they on shore before they began a series
of battles which never stopped for a week. They held, at very great
cost, the bit of ground which had been taken from the Turks, and during
four months two divisions of them lived, Heaven knows how, on a space
of less than a third of an acre.
Then came the Evacuation of Gallipoli. The Australians returned to
Egypt, there to rest between December, 1915, and the 1st of April,
1916, on which day they made their appearance on the Western front.
Since that time the Australians have fought on French soil.
They have to thank their splendid reputation that they are always to
be found wherever the most glory is to be won. It was they who took
Pozières, during the Somme offensive, and the farm at Mouquet, and
measured their strength, throughout those epic days, against that of
the Prussian Guard.
Such is the Army which, quite recently, has held its Elections under
the very guns of the Germans.
For this Army, whose valour is already almost legendary, is also
among the most democratic Armies of the world. No one is more jealous
of his independence than the Australian. If he loves and admires his
comrades-in-arms, the French _poilus_, it is, no doubt, because, having
long misunderstood them, after the fashion of strangers towards all
things French, he cannot to-day find words enough to do justice to
their military qualities and their unselfish courage. But it is also,
and, above all, because his heart goes out naturally to the French
people under arms, to this democracy which in so many ways resembles
his own country, Australia the Free. Like the French soldier, the
Australian loves his fun; like him, he is light-hearted, always
singing. And each of them glories in the knowledge that beneath his
soldier's uniform is a citizen and an elector of a noble country.
These reflections will help us to understand why the Australian
Government has been led to hold a referendum of its Expeditionary Force
in France.
As you know, the people of Australia were concerned with the business
of deciding for or against the introduction of compulsory military
service into their country. Mr. Hughes, the Premier of New South Wales,
who did France the honour to visit it at the beginning of this year,
was the originator of this referendum. The result, for reasons which
I will presently mention, was a majority against conscription for
Australia.
To enable the Australian contingent to vote was the simplest thing
in the world. Voting booths were prepared at Contay, a small village
between the Ancre and the Somme, close to the firing-line. As fast as
the sections left the trenches to go back into billets, each officer,
non-commissioned officer and man was given two voting papers. On one
the word "Yes" was printed; on the other, "No." The voting lasted a
month--the time between reliefs--at the end of which period about
100,000 papers had been collected in the ballot-boxes at Contay. It is
strange that the majority of the Australian contingent voted against
compulsory service for Australia.
Why?
Let no one imagine that it was because these heroes have become
opponents of the war; nor is it even because they think that their
country has done enough.
They have voted against compulsory service, first of all, for a reason
of a general nature, which applies to the whole of this body of
Australian electors--namely, because the Australians have a horror of
all moral compulsion and a burning love of liberty. These soldiers have
also been influenced by another objection: they fear lest to introduce
a professional Army into Australia may be to infect their nation with a
spirit of militarism which is not at all to their taste.
And the proof that the negative result of the referendum has in no
way weakened the determination of Australia to pursue the war to a
victorious end and in complete accord with the Mother Country, is
that, on the one hand, the Australian contingent persists, after, as
before, recording its vote, in splendidly performing its duty at the
front; and that, on the other hand, Australia continues to send to the
battlefields of Europe thousands of fresh volunteers.
Hurrah for Liberty! Down with the Boches! In this motto the quality of
the Australian troops is perfectly expressed. This quality one meets
with again in the war song, the species of _Marseillaise_, which the
Australians sing to-day when they are on the march in France.
Here are its words in full:
AUSTRALIA WILL BE THERE.
_1st Verse._
You've heard about the Emden
That was cruising all around,
Sinking British shipping
Where'er it could be found,
Till one bright Sunday morning
The Sydney came in sight--
The Emden said good night.
_Chorus._
Rally round the banner of your country,
Rally round the banner of your King.
On land or sea,
Wherever you be,
Keep your eye on Germany.
For England, home and beauty,
Have no cause to fear.
Should old acquaintance be forgot?
No, No--No, No, No.
Australia will be there,
Australia will be there.
_2nd Verse._
With Kitchener in our Army
And French in our cavalry fine,
You bet those German bandsmen
Are in for a lively time.
And there's Winston Churchill
To guide our Navy grand;
With this fine lot we'll make it hot
For the poor old Fatherland.
_Chorus._
_3rd Verse._
We don't forget South Africa
When England was at war;
Australian Light Horsemen, my boys,
Were always to the fore.
Archie Norris and Billy Cook
Have now all kissed the Book.
_Chorus._
CHAPTER III.
BOELCKE'S LAND OF PROMISE.
On the 28th of October, six Halberstadters and Aviatiks attacked two
English aviators in the neighbourhood of Pozières. During the fight six
fresh enemy machines came to the assistance of their friends. At the
end of five minutes of furious fighting two German machines collided.
Pieces of the machines fell, and one of them descended toward the East.
The fight lasted 15 minutes, at the end of which time all the enemy
machines were driven off.
It is probable that it was during this fight that Captain Boelcke was
killed. It was, in fact, at this date that the German wireless stated
that Boelcke had been killed owing to a collision in the air.
In a letter which he wrote to a friend a few days before his tragic and
still unaccountable death, Boelcke, the best-known and most successful
of the German aviators, said:
"The Somme front is a positive land of promise. The sky is filled with
English airmen."
Boelcke expressed, under the guise of a kind of sporting
self-congratulation, the astonishment of his fellows at the way in
which the British flying service had developed.
A large number of documents found upon German prisoners give evidence
of a no less striking kind upon the same point.
"Our air service," says one of them, "practically ceased to exist
during the Battle of the Somme. At times the sky seemed black with
enemy machines."
Another says:
"We are so inferior to our opponents in our air service that when
hostile machines fly over our own lines we have no recourse but to hide
ourselves in the earth. Now and then a few of our machines attempt to
go up, but it is only a drop in the bucket."
[Illustration: 6. A BRITISH AEROPLANE.]
Finally, for one must not pursue this subject too far, a General Order
has been issued to the German Army to the effect that when troops are
marching they must halt and take cover whenever a British machine
is known to be in their vicinity; for the English are in the habit
of flying sufficiently low over the invaded territory to use their
machine-guns against moving troops and convoys.
To this evidence from enemy sources I may perhaps add my own. I assert,
then, as definitely as it is possible to do it, that one of my most
agreeable surprises, during my visit to the British front, was the
discovery of the great numbers and unceasing activity of the British
aeroplanes. Whether I was in the firing-line or behind it, my attention
was being constantly drawn to the movements of the British air service.
On the 15th of September the total number of hours during which flying
was carried on upon the British front was 1,300. Reckoning that each
aviator flies, on an average, for two hours, it is possible to form an
idea of the number of machines which were in the air on that day.
During the last Battle of the Ancre the British planes of every kind,
for bombing, fighting and directing the gunfire, seemed always to be
over the German lines; and on one fairly still day I was able to count
as many as 30 of them in the air at once, and this on a comparatively
narrow sector.
Behind the lines I went to see numerous aviation camps, instruction
camps, depôts of munitions, etc. They were like so many beehives,
models of organisation, order and method. The pilots, the observers,
the mechanics, everyone, seen at close quarters, gave me an impression
of a very unusual power and intelligence, and inspired me with the same
confidence with which their own mastery of the air has so long filled
them, ever since, indeed, they wrested it from the enemy.
Perhaps it may not be labour lost if, in order to get a right
understanding of the present very satisfactory and praiseworthy
position, we review shortly the history of British military aviation
since the beginning of the war.
England had not wished for war, nor had she prepared for it, and while
aviation seemed to her a marvellous achievement of the human brain, she
was far from thinking that she was bound to make use of it in order to
injure mankind. This is why her military air service, like her whole
Army, was in no more than an embryonic condition when she found herself
faced with the grim reality of this war.
Far more than the exigencies of the campaign on the continent, it was
the repeated raids of the Zeppelins over England which caused her to
devote herself to the development of her aviation.
The undertaking bristled with difficulties. We should be wrong, were we
in France, to suppose that we are the only people the story of whose
aviation has been marked by crises. Our Allies, though their practical
nature is proverbial among us, were forced to experiment and grope
their way for a long time before they could arrive at a solution of the
many knotty problems of aerial defence.
A complete lack of any central authority, a division or responsibility
between the various staffs, nobody to decide as to how machines should
be employed or how built, waste of every kind--the English have
experienced all these troubles. But how admirably they have surmounted
them! The proof is that now the only resource of the Germans is a
servile imitation.
This spirit of imitation among the Germans has shown itself most
markedly in these last weeks, during the process of the Battle of the
Ancre. The Germans set out by collecting a large number of aeroplanes
on a very narrow front. Then they began to show some signs of taking
the initiative with a daring to which we were little accustomed.
Did they really hope to wrest the mastery of the air from the English?
I do not know. In any case their attempt began badly; for when, 40 in
number, they met 30 of the British machines, they could discover no
better way of saving themselves than by flight, after a quarter of
their number had been put out of action.
It was about this time that General von Groener, a man of energy and
resolution, called upon the German aeroplane factories to increase
their output; and that Mr. Lloyd George in England, while giving
publicity to this new effort of Germany, exhorted his fellow-countrymen
not to allow themselves to be overtaken by their enemy.
Boelcke may rest in peace. His land of promise can only grow greater
and breed birds more rapidly.
After this, what need one say more of the technical skill and the often
heroic courage of the British aviator?
The French and British airmen form, indeed, one great family of heroes,
and our men have, in King George's Army, cousins who are as like them
as brothers.
At this point I will do no more than offer for your consideration a
document and a story.
The document is a letter, sent from Germany to his friends by an
English aviator, Lieutenant Tudor-Hart, on the 25th of this July. I
should blame myself were I to alter one word of it.
"I was," he writes, "with Captain Webb at between 12,000 and 15,000
feet above the German lines, when we saw eight German machines coming
towards us from the South-west. They were higher than we were, and we
went towards them to attack them. Two of them passed about 300 yards
above our heads. I opened fire on one and they replied together.
"I signed to Webb to turn so that I might fire at the other machine,
behind us; but he made a spurt forward with the machine. I looked
round to see what had happened, but Webb pointed to his stomach and
fell forward upon the controls. I fancy he must have died almost
immediately. His last thought had been to save the machine.
"It at once began to swing in the direction of the German lines, and I
was compelled to return to my machine-gun, in order to fire on a plane
which was getting too close. The other machines never stopped firing at
us. My only hope was to make for our lines, but I could not manage to
push Webb out of the pilot's seat, and I was obliged to manoeuvre above
the hood.
"I had to fire so often that it became impossible for me to guide the
machine. At last, constantly under fire, I planed down towards a field
near by and tried to land. I saw a number of men with rifles, and I
thought that I might be killed before being able to set the machine on
fire.
"One wing having struck the earth, the machine was smashed, and I was
thrown out. I got off with one side paralysed, one ankle and one rib
broken. I was very well treated, and the German flying men behaved
towards me like sportsmen and gentlemen."
It is in this way that the paladins of this war both conduct and
express themselves.
And now for the story.
There was once in England a rich man who interested himself in Art and
Politics. His name was Lord Lucas. Life had always smiled upon him, and
he had returned her smile. Had he wished it, he might have spent his
life in slippered ease and lived from day to day without a care.
Choosing, rather, to become a soldier, he joined the Expeditionary
Forces during the South African War. He was wounded and lost a leg, but
this in no way deterred him from being of service to his country.
When the European War broke out, Lord Lucas was the Minister for
Agriculture in the Asquith Cabinet.
He felt shame to be engaged in such a vapid business as Politics now
appeared, and he resigned. Next we find him volunteering for the
British air service. In spite of his artificial leg, he went through
his training, was hurt, got cured, and returned to his work and never
rested until he had flown over the German lines. One day Lord Lucas,
millionaire, artist, ex-Cabinet Minister, and, above all, soldier,
failed to return to his squadron. The Boches alone know whether he is
dead or a prisoner.
The man who told me the story of this splendid life was the best friend
of Lord Lucas, and he was worthy to be it. I asked this soldier, a peer
himself and himself wounded, if in England, as in France, commissions
in the air service were much sought after. In reply, he pointed to two
great birds, and said: "We admire them, Monsieur, as you do, and, like
you, we envy them."
CHAPTER IV.
THE SQUARE JAW.[A]
[A] Of the two articles which follow, the first ("The Square Jaw")
was written on the 9th of December, during the crisis caused by the
successive resignations of Mr. Lloyd George and Mr. Asquith.
The second ("The Moral of the British Armies") was written on the 19th
of the same month, the day after Germany made her official offer of
peace.
The British soldier does not concern himself with Politics. It is not
in his character to do so; moreover, any such conduct is against the
rules of his profession. And so, since discipline "is the first weapon
of Armies," the British soldier respects it above everything else.
The Englishman has a passion and a profound respect for method.
Method requires that Politics should be the business of Ministers and
Politicians, and that war should be carried on by soldiers. Method,
says the Englishman, demands that everyone should stick to his own work
and his own place. Without this, anarchy must ensue. Now there cannot
well be anything less anarchical than the British Army.
It is their order and discipline which most powerfully and most quickly
impress the Frenchman who is permitted to live for a time among the
Armies of England. These qualities, let me hasten to add, are also the
least superficial, and thus afford the surest test of the value of
these Armies.
Observe that it is not by collecting together a body of indifferent
natures, passive temperaments and personalities more or less
irresponsible, that this order and discipline have been infused into
the British Army. The level of capacity of this Army is, moreover, by
no means a low one; for it is one of the most intelligent Armies in
Europe or in the whole world. The common soldier is not of one class,
to the exclusion of all others. He does not represent one section only
of British opinion. His corporate mind is therefore in no way a limited
one.
As a volunteer, he thronged into England, at the beginning of the war,
from every quarter of the globe, and by this voluntary act at once
proclaimed his intelligence. To-day, as a conscript, he represents,
more than ever before, the completeness of his country's will.
As for the officers, who differ from our own in their essentially
aristocratic character, in them we see the direct expression of all
those qualities of brain and heart which distinguish the leading
elements of British society.
And so, if this army does not concern itself with Politics, if it is
thoroughly disciplined, if it contents itself with "making war," it is
because it prefers to do these things.
It is, moreover, excellently informed of everything which happens
outside itself, whether in England or elsewhere, and in this respect
differs considerably from the German Army which lies beyond its
trenches. A Boche prisoner, recently taken, owned that neither the
newspapers of his country nor any letters ever reached the German
troops in the front lines. As each day comes, its history is told to
our enemies by word of mouth only; that is to say, after the fashion
which best suits their rulers.
Among the English there is very little heard or said about peace, or
about the objects for which they are fighting; but they read, and they
read continually. The soldier follows the course of events as well in
his letters as in his newspaper.
And in what does his knowledge consist? What does he know?
He knows that the Army to which he belongs owes much to that French
Army which he admires so deeply, and by whose side he is proud to fight
for the interests which their natures share. He knows that to the
British Army is secured, from now onwards, one of the chief factors of
invincible and victorious strength--numbers. He knows approximately
the number of his effectives, and he would gladly, by crying it aloud,
shake the confidence of the enemy and confirm that of his friends.
He knows also that the second factor of his strength--material--while
it is already considerable and probably equal to that which his
opponents possess--does not represent a quarter of what the coming year
will produce. He knows, from having done it again and again since July,
that not only can he resist the enemy, but defeat him; and he awaits
confidently the hour of triumph.
Hence his firm, his unshakable determination to obtain victory on
his own terms; hence, also, it follows that no thought or hope of a
premature peace ever disturbs his mind.
And if no one else remained to fight, he would go on, for--he says it
himself, and one cannot but believe him--he has "a square jaw."
It is important, in the present condition of affairs, that the French
public should make no mistake as to the opinions of the British soldier
concerning the war and its sure conclusion.
About this no one can be under any delusion. Everywhere on the British
front there is but one opinion--that the war must be carried through to
the end; that is to say, till the inevitable victory of the Allies has
come to pass; and that it would be a crime against the Homeland, the
Allies and those comrades who have fallen, to listen to proposals for
a peace which would be consistent with neither the intentions nor the
interests of England and her Allies.
During my visit of two months I have seen the larger part of the
British front from the Somme to the Yser. Everywhere I have met with
the same spirit of determination. This state of mind may be explained
in various ways; the perfect confidence which the British Army feels in
its Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig, "the lucky," as the soldiers
call him; the regular growth in the numbers of the effectives, which,
though I may not disclose these figures, exceed the estimates of them
usually made in France; the tremendous development of material and in
the output of munitions; the magnificent successes gained on the Somme
and the Ancre, which have given rise to the certainty of being able to
defeat an enemy formerly said to be invincible; etc., etc.
Without doubt, the war goes slowly. Tommy admits it, but he begs you to
observe--and justly--that on every occasion when his infantry has come
to grips with the Germans it has invariably beaten them.
"Besides," he thinks, "perhaps it is not absolutely essential, in
order to win the war and place England and her Allies in a position
to dictate their own terms, that our Armies should hurl themselves
forward in one final and costly advance over the shattered lines of the
Germans." The British soldier is fond of comparing the Western battle
front to an immense boxing ring, of which the complex systems of barbed
wire which stretch from the North Sea to Belfort form the ropes. The
war, on the West, has been fought within these limits since the Marne.
It is possible that it will see no change of position up to the end.
[Illustration: 7. CANADIANS FRESH FROM THE TRENCHES.]
But, as in a boxing match, it is not necessary, in order to win,
to drive one's opponent over the ropes and out of the ring; in the
same way it may happen that the German Army is "knocked out" in the
positions where it is fighting to-day.
That, at least, is the opinion of the British soldier.
It is, indeed, no more than a paraphrase of that dictum, pronounced
not long ago by General Nogi, and as true of the ring as it is of war:
"Complete victory is to him who can last a quarter of an hour longer
than the other fellow."
Tommy has no intention--no more than has his friend the _poilu_--of
playing the part of "the other fellow."
CHAPTER V.
THE RELIEF.
The scene is an old trench of the French first line. It is midday. It
is raining. It goes on raining. It has always rained. The sector is
fairly quiet, and has been for an hour or so. Tommy sees a chance to
write a letter.
Here in his dug-out--a miserable shelter which oozes water
everywhere--squatted on the straw that becomes filth the moment it
is thrown down, he is telling his friends in Scotland all his small
sorrows and hopes; he is wishing them "A Happy New Year."
Suddenly his pen falters; the writer considers, stops writing, and,
addressing the second-lieutenant as he goes by: "Beg pardon, sir," he
asks, "may I say that they have moved out?"
"Certainly not," says the lieutenant, apparently horrified by such
a question. "It is absolutely forbidden to say anything about this
business. Do you understand, all of you?"
"But--but," someone ventures to say, "everyone in England knows
about it already. The papers..." and they show the lieutenant some
newspapers which have come that morning. The officer takes them,
glances at them, smiles, and says: "Oh, these journalists!"
On the front page of the paper a striking photograph is exhibited,
showing an incident of the taking over by the British of the French
front. Underneath is the following description:
"Tommy takes over the French trenches. French soldiers looking on at
the arrival of British troops who are relieving them. This important
operation took place at the front, at Christmas-time, silently,
secretly and with complete success. The enemy, who was in many places
no more than a few yards distant, never had any suspicion of this
change, which has greatly extended the British lines and eased the
strain which our gallant Allies have endured upon the Western front.
"This military manoeuvre affords the best reply to the manoeuvres of
Germany in the direction of peace."
And so Tommy continues his letter in some such fashion as this:
"Now that the thing is done, I may tell you that we have left the
sector of ---- in order to come down farther South, where we have
relieved the French. It has been a fine chance to see our brave Allies
at work, and I am tremendously proud to have taken their place in the
lines.
"The thing has been done very well, although it wanted a lot of care
and was very dangerous. You can imagine that if the Boches had had any
notion of what we were at, they would not have failed to do their level
best to stop us or make it difficult for us; for it must make them
very savage to see our 'contemptible little Army' always extending its
flanks, without wearing thin anywhere, and so setting free first-rate
troops for the French to use elsewhere.
"We came among the Frenchmen on Christmas Day.
"The roads were all as busy as on the day before the offensive on the
Ancre in front of Beaumont-Hamel. We never stopped meeting French
troops and wagons, which were going back towards the railway.
"We exchanged civilities with the _poilus_ which neither they nor we
understood the least bit. But I may tell you that it was pretty clear
to me that they were not sorry to be giving up their places to us.
"On the 25th of December, after supper, we left our last camp and
marched through the night for many hours, till we came to this French
trench where I am writing to you now.
"The _poilus_ were at their posts. It'll be a long time before I forget
that sight.
"Although they were far dirtier and more tired than were we, the
French, as they themselves say, 'had the smile.' If we had been allowed
to make any noise, we should have cheered them. But we were only 38
yards from the Boche line.
"The officers and the non-commissioned officers gave the orders in
whispers. They had interpreters to help them.
"As for me, I was at once told off to do sentry in the place of a great
French chap, with a beard, who was a good 15 years older than I.
"As I understood a bit of French, I was able to make out most of what
he said to me.
"'Good evening, my lad,' says he. 'You're a good fellow to come and
let me out of this. Shake hands, won't you?'--I didn't understand
everything; French is so difficult--and he added: 'And now, young 'un,
open your eyes and keep them skinned.'
"Then he gave me a great deal of very sound advice, showing me in which
directions I must keep a good look-out, and telling me to have a care
of a blackguardly German machine-gun which never has done sweeping
their parapet.
"When he had finished with this he took his rifle out of the loophole,
and I put mine there in its place. And that's how the big relief was
carried out on Christmas night."
At this point Tommy was forced to interrupt his long letter, for the
Germans had at last got news of the relief and were attacking the
sector. In vain.
Next day Tommy finished thus:
"My _poilu_ was right. This corner can hardly be called a quiet one,
and Fritz is a bad boy, there's no doubt about it. Thanks for your
Christmas parcel. The pudding was A1. Good-bye.
"TOMMY."
PART III.
THE ARMIES OF THE NORTH.
Flat calm on both sides of the Ancre; calm--or something like it--on
the Somme. Let us take advantage of this apparent truce to get into
rather closer touch with the British Army.
By this eight-day tour (though it has seemed, while we have been making
it, a kind of intermezzo between two acts of the offensive) we had
intended, particularly, to demonstrate to ourselves, by our study of
the events and those who have enacted them, the dauntless determination
with which our Allies, not satisfied to defend the heroic heritage
which these battlefields of 1915 have bequeathed to them, now prepare
for the future.
In telling these experiences, one has to play the Censor over oneself.
And so we may say nothing of the most important things of all.
Everywhere throughout this countryside mighty Armies, in the most
perfect secrecy, are doing their business, scattering, with prodigal
hand, the seed of future victory. And the harvest will surely be
gathered. And if, at this time of heart-breaking uncertainty, our
journey enables us to do no more than declare that
|
rch. Anz._ = _Archäologischer Anzeiger, Beiblatt zum Jahrbuch des
Archäologischen Instituts_ (Berlin).
_Arch. Ztg._ = _Archäologische Zeitung_ (Berlin).
_Athen. Mitth._ = _Mittheilungen des K. deutschen Archäologischen
Instituts in Athen._
Baumeister, _Denkmäler_ = Baumeister’s _Denkmäler des Klassischen
Altertums_.
_B. C. H._ = _Bulletin de Correspondence Hellénique_ (Athens).
_Compte Rendu_ = _Compte Rendu de la Commission impériale archéologique_
(St. Petersburg).
_C. I. A._ = _Corpus Inscriptionum Atticarum._
_Élite Céram._ = _Élite des monuments céramographiques_, Lenormant et De
Witte.
F.-W. = Friederichs-Wolters, _Die Gipsabgüsse antiker Bildwerke_.
Furtwängler, _Masterpieces_ = Furtwängler, _Masterpieces of Greek
Sculpture_.
Gerhard, _Auserl. Vasen._ = Gerhard, _Auserlesen griechische
Vasenbilder_.
Helbig, _Wandgemälde_ = Helbig, _Wandgemälde der vom Vesuv verschütteten
Städte Campaniens_.
Inghirami, _Vasi fitt._ = Inghirami, _Pitture di vasi fittili_.
_Jahrbuch_ = _Jahrbuch des K. deutschen Archäologischen Instituts_
(Berlin).
_J. H. S._ = _Journal of Hellenic Studies_ (London).
_Mon. d. Inst._ = _Monumenti inediti pubblicati dall’ Instituto di
Corrispondenza archeologica_ (Rome).
Nauck, _Fragmenta_ = Nauck, _Fragmenta tragicorum graecorum._ 2 ed.
Overbeck, _Bildwerke_ = Overbeck, _Die Bildwerke zum thebischen und
troischen Heldenkreis_.
Overbeck, _Schriftquellen_ = Overbeck, _Die antiken Schriftquellen zur
Geschichte der bildenden Künste bei den Griechen_.
Reinach-Millin, _Peintures_ = Reinach, _Peintures de Vases
Reinach-Millingen, _Peintures_ antiques recueillies par Millin
(1808) et Millingen (1813)._
Vogel, _Scen. eur. Trag._ = Vogel, _Scenen euripideischer Tragödien in
griechischen Vasengemälden_.
GREEK TRAGEDY IN THE LIGHT OF VASE PAINTINGS
CHAPTER I
THE INFLUENCE OF GREEK TRAGEDY UPON ANCIENT ART OUTSIDE OF THE VASES
§ 1. INTRODUCTORY.
Painting as a fine art has never been developed to any great degree of
perfection independent of literature. The two are, in a sense,
handmaids, each inspiring the other and assisting it to solve new
problems. A great literature is, furthermore, a necessary precursor of
great achievements in art, since the latter is the more dependent of the
two, and seeks its inspiration from the poet. This may not be clear to
one who looks about at painting in this age of eclecticism, and
endeavours to satisfy himself that literature and art are thus related,
and that the former is required to give the initial impetus to the
latter. The principle can, however, be made plain by going back nearer
the fountain spring of modern literary and artistic development. One
should turn to the Italian Renaissance of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries—to the period when Dante became the teacher and guide of
artistic notions—in order to observe the full meaning and force of the
supremacy of literature. There, where for the first time in the modern
world a great genius fashioned the thought of more than a century, one
can study easily the power of the poet over the artist. The influence of
Dante upon artistic notions from Giotto down to the present has, indeed,
been incalculably great. No painter of the _quattrocento_, at least,
worked in any other than the Dantesque spirit; whether consciously or
unconsciously, he was under the spell of the father of Italian letters.
Dante’s Hell and Paradise became the Hell and Paradise of Signorelli and
Michel Angelo. Botticelli, Flaxman, Doré, and many others left their
canvasses and frescoes to interpret the hidden secrets of the _Divina
Commedia_. The great Christian Epic which Cornelius developed through
many years of study and contemplation of Dante, and which he considered
the crowning work of his life, is told in the altar fresco of the
Ludwig’s Church in Munich. Yet this is but one of the many monumental
works of this century which owes its existence to this poet. Delacroix’s
‘Barque of Dante,’ exhibited in the Paris _Salon_ of 1822, has been
called the first real painting of the century. When one turns to England
there is Rossetti, with ‘Beatrice and Dante,’ ‘Dante’s Dream,’ and
several other famous paintings that witness again to the influence of
the Italian poet. But one may remark that Dante’s position in the
history of human progress is unique. This is true. The world has not
known another whose authority was so absolute or whose philosophy
appeared so final. The influence of poets of less power has been
correspondingly smaller. The principle, however, remains true. The poet
ventures where the boldest artist has not gone and prepares, as it were,
the way for him.
The closest parallel to Dante’s influence upon the trend of artistic
notions must be looked for in ancient Greece; Homer must be named with
Dante. The Homeric poetry has exercised a power which the _Divina
Commedia_ has scarcely surpassed; the thousand and more streams of
influence which rose in the Greek epic literature went out in every
direction to water the fields of art and letters in Greece and Rome, and
flowed on again after Petrarch’s time, and are to-day mighty forces.
Events and incidents of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ have taken so
permanent a place in modern art that one hardly stops to think that this
or that is from Homer. But this company of persons which the world calls
Homer was not the only vital force that shaped men’s thoughts and
furnished the artist with fresh inspiration. The tragic poets are to be
named with Homer. Had Aischylean, Sophoklean, and Euripidean elements
not entered into ancient and modern works of art the world would never
have known some of its most beautiful monuments. This is not, however,
the place to linger over the influence of the Greek epic and tragic
literature in modern times, interesting though this would be. It is in
ancient times, when there was still among the people a peculiar interest
in the mythic legends, that the contact of poet and artist is most
apparent; it is with the three Greek tragedians that we have to do at
present, and some traces of their work may be pointed out in the various
classes of monuments before the vase paintings are examined.
§ 2. TRAGIC INFLUENCES IN SCULPTURE.
1. _Greek Sculpture._
One does not expect the sculptor’s notions to be largely shaped by a
definite situation in literature, as he has little to do with
illustration; his art is too severe and confined to reproduce the
dramatic and pathetic with great success. There is accordingly little
direct influence of the Greek tragic literature over ancient sculpture
except on the sarcophagi. Of the monuments belonging to the fifth
century B.C., which owe their existence indirectly to the drama, three
reliefs occupy the foremost place. These are the well-known Orpheus[1],
Peliades[2], and Peirithoös[3] reliefs, all of which belong close to the
time of the Parthenon frieze. Reisch has made it clear that these works
were conceived and carried out in the spirit of the tragic drama[4].
They are claimed, indeed, as dedicatory offerings in memory of
particular tragic exhibitions, but no attempt is made to name any poet
or tragedy with which they were connected. Whether one is correct in
holding these reliefs as ἀναθήματα, certain it is that in every
particular they breathe forth the spirit of tragedy. The triple group in
each has been pointed out as corresponding to the three actors. This,
however, is an outer sign that might serve to indicate their origin. The
relation of the figures to each other—the conflict of soul which one may
observe—the pathos that pervades the groups—these are so unlike anything
that occurs on the earlier monuments that a person involuntarily asks
himself whence the artists received their motives. Tragedy provides the
answer. The parting scene between Alkestis and Admetos which Euripides
describes so beautifully belongs to the same decade as does the Orpheus
relief. This touching episode may well have been the incentive to some
such work as the parting between Orpheus and Eurydike. In all three
instances the sculptor was at any rate occupied with the problems which
concerned the tragic poet, and he reproduced true echoes of dramatic
situations.
Related to these reliefs is another class of monuments which grew out of
the tragic performances. From the middle of the fifth century B.C.[5]
till at least the close of the third century B.C.[6] it was customary
for the successful choregos to dedicate the tripod that the state had
given him as a prize. The magnificence and elaborateness accompanying
this ceremony can be learned from the still extant Lysikrates monument
upon which the tripod once stood and on the intercolumniations of which
tripods in relief are represented. A street in Athens was given over to
the exposition of these prizes. Pausanias states that they were of
bronze and stood on temples[7]. More important still for us in this
connexion is the fact that together with the tripod, probably under the
kettle, it was the custom to set up a figure of a satyr or Dionysos or
Nike[8]. This practice does not appear to have been older than the time
of Praxiteles. So it is that one learns of his famous satyr which
Pausanias mentions in connexion with one of the tripods[9]. The Greek of
this passage does not admit of a satisfactory interpretation, and it is
not possible therefore to determine what the attitude of the figure was.
It is probable that the statue which was thus intimately associated with
the Dionysiac performances was the περιβόητος satyr of Praxiteles,
existing in so many copies and known throughout English literature as
the ‘Marble Faun.’ One can easily understand that this class of choregic
monuments was alone of great importance, and that through this channel
the tragic performances worked a wide influence over sculpture. There
was a vast number of statues in bronze and marble that thus arose from
the exigencies of the theatre. Along with these works may be classed the
numerous pieces of sculpture that were put up as decorations for the
theatre. Such were the εἰκόνες mentioned by Pausanias as being in the
Dionysiac theatre at Athens. The periegete names the statues of
Aischylos, Sophokles, Euripides, and Menander[10].
A large number of reliefs that represent Dionysos receiving the worship
of mortals, or advancing in a train of satyrs before a man lying on a
couch, makes up another class of sculpture, which probably owed its
origin to the drama. On the Peiraieus[11] relief three persons carrying
tragic masks advance before the god who reclines upon a _kline_. The
work may possibly be dated as early as the close of the fifth century
B.C.[12] It is at any rate an early example of the influence of the
tragic muse upon sculpture. The so-called Ikarios reliefs illustrating
Dionysos’ first appearance in Attica, and the consequent origin of
tragedy, may not refer to Ikarios at all, but are nevertheless to be
linked to tragedy in some way, as the masks clearly show[13]. They may
have been purely decorative work, or were perhaps offerings of actors.
It remains to speak of a few monuments which seem to have been more
directly under the influence of particular tragedies. One hears, for
example, that the sculptor Seilanion made a ‘Dying Iokaste.’[14] This
notion would appear to have been borrowed from some play. One may think
of the _Oedipus Tyrannus_ of Sophokles or the _Phoinissai_ of Euripides.
Of far greater importance is the relief on one of the columns from
Ephesos which is known to every one[15]. The most satisfactory
interpretation of this work so far offered explains the scene as
Alkestis being delivered from Death. The heroine, rescued from Thanatos
by Hermes, is being conducted to the upper world again. Unfortunately
there is no agreement among archaeologists on this explanation[16].
Until a better one is brought forward, however, this important monument
may be held as evidence for the influence exerted by Euripides’ handling
of this popular myth. The _Alkestis_ is known to have been exceptionally
well received.
If tragic influences are only possibly at hand in the fragment from
Ephesos, the excavations at Pergamon have brought to light extensive
remains of reliefs that were inspired by Attic tragedy. The Telephos
frieze, now in Berlin, is directly associated with the drama. The mythic
founder of Pergamon had a long and varied career, which was told in
dramatic form by both Sophokles and Euripides. The suggestions for the
reliefs in question came from the _Auge_ and _Telephos_ of the latter,
and the _Mysoi_ of the former[17]. In these fragments one can see
distinctly the high esteem in which the Attic drama was held at the
court of the Attalidai. I know of no Greek sculpture which comes so near
being an illustration of tragedy as does this frieze.
Another work of monumental greatness belonging to about the same period
and exhibiting unmistakable signs of tragic influence is the Farnese
Bull in the National Museum in Naples[18]. This colossal group, which
represents Dirke being tied to a rampant bull by Amphion and Zethos, the
sons of Antiope, is characterized by a passion and violence that are
late products in Greek sculpture. Such motives made their appearance
first in the fourth century B.C. Niobe and her children are the earliest
representation on a grand scale of these elements that are so akin to
the drama. Such compositions were first possible with Praxiteles and
Skopas who broke away from the traditions of the Pheidian age. The
generation that saw a new type of Dionysos and of Aphrodite, and could
appreciate the frenzied maenad of Skopas, had been prepared for these
new motives very largely through the theatre. The drama had not a little
to do with impressing the artist and his public with the importance of
delineating the human feelings. In the case of the Niobe group one would
not attempt to point out any special influence of the _Niobe_ of
Aischylos or Sophokles, and still there is little doubt in my own mind
that the sculptor was more or less influenced by the tragic literature.
May not Praxiteles or Skopas, each of whom shares the credit of the
Niobe group, have been led to the pathetic look upon the mother’s face
by the lines of one of these lost plays? This new tendency in sculpture
reached its highest expression in the Laokoön and the Farnese Bull. The
latter can be traced to the influence of Euripides’ _Antiope_, which
appears to have been the source of all Dirke monuments in ancient art;
there is no dissenting voice as to Euripides’ right to occupy the
honourable position thus assigned[19] him. Reference has already been
made to the Laokoön[20] as representing the culmination of tragedy in
marble. The view held by Lessing and many others that Virgil was the
sculptors’ authority has been abandoned long since. The Pergamon altar
frieze has enabled us to fix the date of the Laokoön with approximate
correctness. It is surely some centuries older than the _Aeneid_ and
stands therefore in a possible relation to the _Laokoön_ of Sophokles.
Yet here again opinions vary widely. Sophokles’ play is lost, and the
few remaining fragments are not enough to enable one to make a
satisfactory reconstruction. The story came down from the epic
literature, and, like so many incidents in the fall of Troy, needed no
further popularization in order to appeal to the artist. That Sophokles’
tragedy, however, was wholly without any influence on the Rhodian
sculptors who so tragically and realistically represented Apollo’s
vengeance on his priest seems to me highly improbable. Such a conception
as found expression in this masterpiece of sculpture may well have
sprung from the masterpiece in poetry which was at hand in Sophokles’
_Laokoön_[21].
2. _The Etruscan Ash-urns._
The reliefs on the Etruscan and Roman sarcophagi carry us to Italian
soil and furnish us with a much larger field for pursuing our subject
than could be found in Greek sculpture. Of all the Italian races with
whom the Greeks came into contact, the Etrurians were by far the most
advanced in civilization; and during the centuries of active commercial
relations between the two peoples this nation, whose origin is the
puzzle of historians, and whose language is the _crux_ of philologists,
came more under the influence of Greek literature and art than any of
the Latin races that remained unhellenized. They have left abundant
evidence of these hellenizing influences. In various classes of
monuments which may still be studied—urns, mirrors, cistae,
tomb-paintings, and vases—one discovers Greek mythology and poetry. The
national mythology of the Etruscans is so much of an exception in their
art, and the Greek is so universally adopted, that one is at a loss to
account for the strange fact. On hundreds of Etruscan monuments one sees
the workings of Greek poetry, which found its way into Etruria before
Livius Andronicus produced the first tragedy in Rome 240 B.C. That the
Greek drama was introduced for the most part directly and not through
the medium of the early Latin tragedians, is shown by the fact that the
latter flourished in the second and first centuries B.C., while the urns
exhibiting tragic subjects are, for the most part, from the third
century B.C. Some may, indeed, date from the fourth century. Roman
tragedy can not be said to have really become at all a matter of general
interest before Ennius went to Rome in 204 B.C. He died 169 B.C., and
one should not think that the influence of these Latin adaptations and
translations of Greek plays took an immediate hold upon the neighbouring
Etruscans. Such elements percolate gradually into the various strata of
national life, to say nothing of the time required to reach a foreign
people whose language and customs are so different. But the _summus
epicus poeta_[22] was not the most popular or most prolific pilferer of
Greek plays. His tragedies numbered only about twenty. _In Accio
circaque eum Romana tragoedia est_[23]; and the probable truth of this
statement is well attested by the list of fifty plays that have come
down to us under Accius’ name. This poet, however, was born 170 B.C. and
first exhibited tragedies in 140 B.C. It is therefore very doubtful
whether one can rightly speak of the influence of Latin tragedy upon the
Etruscan artists. One dare not, at any rate, bring the ash-urns too far
into the second century B.C., as Brunn and those immediately under his
teaching formerly did. More recent investigations have proved the
chronological impossibility of interpreting these reliefs with the help
of Ennius, Accius, and Pacuvius.
Without taking time and space to review the arguments on which the
interpretations of the reliefs are based it will be enough for my
purpose to simply add a list of the scenes which one may reasonably
refer to Greek tragedy. Examining the first volume of Brunn’s _I rilievi
delle urne etrusche_, which is devoted to urns with scenes from the
Trojan Cycle, one learns that those presenting a version of the stories
ascribable to the tragic poets exceed those that are based on the
_Iliad_, _Odyssey_, and other epics. The representation of Paris’ return
to his Trojan home is, with one exception[24], the most frequent. The
thirty-four reliefs were referred, even in the time of the former late
dating, to Euripides’ Ἀλέξανδρος[25]. The fate of Telephos was,
according to Aristotle, a common subject for a tragedy[26]. We have
already met the story on the Pergamon frieze, and it is very frequent on
the Etruscan urns. Telephos grasps the young Orestes and threatens his
life on the altar after the manner of the drama. It may be the influence
of Aischylos or Euripides, but if one judges from the comparative
popularity of these poets in this period he would be inclined to assign
the first place to the latter[27]. The offering of Iphigeneia occurs on
twenty-six urns, nearly all of which were found in the vicinity of
Perugia[28]. It was again unquestionably Greek tragedy that was the
incentive for these scenes. Aischylos, Sophokles, and Euripides may all
share the credit of having furnished the literary source. A smaller
series of urns representing Odysseus’ adventure in taking Philoktetes
from Lemnos is also to be placed under the influence of the fifth
century tragedy[29]. The δόλιος Ὀδυσσεύς is seen playing his part as
cleverly as he does in the extant play of Sophokles. The attitude of
Philoktetes standing before Neoptolemos, having in two cases the arrow
in his hand, corresponds well to the character drawn by this poet. The
injured chieftain displays his courage and scoffs at the thought of
being carried away by the detested Odysseus. The murder of Aigisthos and
Klytaimestra represented on seventeen urns has been shown by Schlie to
be essentially Euripidean[30]. The arrival of Orestes and Pylades at the
precinct of the Tauric Artemis is possibly the subject of three
reliefs[31]. This would also take one directly to Euripides[32]. The
following are published in the second volume of the _Urne etrusche_ by
Körte. Medeia escapes on her dragon-chariot, driving over the bodies of
her children[33]—an echo of the great tragedy that exercised so wide an
influence in other fields of art[34]. The punishment of Dirke on four
reliefs is based without question on the _Antiope_ of Euripides[35]. The
blinding of Oedipus at the hands of Laios’ sons seems to have been an
invention of the same poet and is recognized in another relief[36]. The
Theban fratricide and the assault on the city were both much-prized
subjects[37]. Körte points out many features common to the numerous
reliefs and the _Phoinissai_ of Euripides[38]. The death of Alkmene is
represented on five urns which one would associate with the _Alkmene_ of
the same poet[39]. Euripides’ Κρῆτες is traceable on seven reliefs,
showing the legend of Daidalos and Pasiphaë[40]. Theseus’ fight with the
Minotaur occurs four times and reminds us of Euripides’ _Theseus_[41].
The death of Hippolytos on eight reliefs does not present any essential
variation from the extant Greek tragedy[42]. Perseus and Andromeda are
met with likewise and emphasize the wide popularity of Euripides’
play[43]. The famous legend of Oinomaos’ death and Pelops’ triumph
occurs on thirty-one urns[44]. It can be shown that these were inspired
by one or more of the lost tragedies that dealt with the subject[45].
The Μελέαγρος of Euripides appears to have been the source of at least
three of the many reliefs representing the Kalydonian Hunt[46]. To this
long list of urns based on Euripidean tragedies one must still add seven
that were probably inspired by this poet’s Μελανίππη ἡ σοψή and three
more that follow his Μελανίππη ἡ δεσμῶτις[47].
More than two-thirds of the more than four hundred Etruscan urns
examined are decorated with sculpture based on Greek tragedy, and in
nearly all instances the drama was Euripidean. Such are the instructive
facts regarding this important class of monuments.
3. _Roman Sarcophagi._
Under the expression ‘Roman sarcophagi’ one understands those of the
first and second centuries A.D. unless the expression is further
qualified. Sarcophagi from the time of the Republic are very rare and
they are withal modest in their workmanship. The florid decorations of
the time of the Empire, and especially of the period just noted, are
often of secondary interest, but the reliefs on the sarcophagi are for
the most part of prime importance, as furnishing reminiscences of lost
tragedies and ancient paintings of great renown. The majority are copies
of very ordinary merit, while now and then a sarcophagus relief is not
unworthy a Greek artist of the fourth century B.C.
It is a commonly known fact that long before the Laokoön, or the Farnese
Bull, or the Apollo Belvidere was unearthed in the sixteenth and
fifteenth centuries—long before the classical antiquities of Rome,
Florence, and Naples had attracted students and lovers of art—the
sculptures of these sarcophagi, scattered about in cathedrals and
palaces, had begun to teach the Italian artist what the human figure
really is, and what composition and decoration should be. The
Renaissance artist first learned the charm and simplicity of the ancient
costume from these marbles and perceived how vastly superior this was to
the heavy, conventional church-dress that concealed the outlines of the
form and rendered grace and beauty impossible. The study of the antique,
we have reason to believe, was in the early Renaissance largely a study
of these Roman sarcophagi.
There is no need of going into detail. It will be enough to hint at the
most important monuments of this class that stand under the influence of
Greek tragedy. Whether they are a direct product of the Greek plays or
are founded on the Latin translations, or whether they represent copies
of Greek paintings based on Greek tragedy—this is for the present
purpose all one and the same. It is not necessary to determine whence
the incentive came. The important fact for one to grasp first is, that a
surprisingly large number of the reliefs owe their existence to the
tragic drama, and that these sculptures should be brought into one’s
study of the tragic poets[48].
The series of reliefs illustrating Euripides’ _Alkestis_ is of prime
importance for one who wishes to see in art a scene worthy of the
poet[49]. The touching farewell of Alkestis as she reclines upon her
death-bed is in each instance the centre of the groups on the long side.
Around her gathers the whole family. The children draw up close to their
mother’s side. Her parents are also present, and this lends more
interest to the sight, for they could scarcely be absent although the
poet does not mention them in this connexion. The last words of
Alkestis, and Admetos’ reply, form the real charm of the play. All else
falls far behind these speeches, and following one of the gems in Greek
literature the artist could afford to assign his illustration the first
place on the reliefs. Arranged on either side are the other incidents of
the drama, following the poet with considerable faithfulness. In this
connexion should be mentioned the relief in Florence, also based upon
the same source[50].
The Hippolytos sarcophagi are, so far as I know, the most numerous of
those that are dependent upon tragedy. If we possess more than a score,
either entire or in fragments, after the destructive elements have been
at work on them since antiquity, there is reason to believe that many
times this number were once in existence. Copies were made in large
numbers, and many a Roman was laid to rest behind the tragedy in marble
which in the _Hippolytos_ of Euripides has continued with some
interruptions to move the sympathies of the civilized world for more
than two thousand years. The reliefs are in the main faithful
illustrations of Euripides. One or two situations are foreign to him,
and these would suggest the influence of a Roman poet. It is unnecessary
to do more here than to refer to the following chapter, where the whole
question finds a further discussion[51].
‘The Orestes myth appears upon the sarcophagi exclusively in the form
given to it by the Attic drama. The first part—the slaying of Aigisthos
and Klytaimestra—follows the _Oresteia_ of Aischylos. The second
part—the meeting of Iphigeneia and Orestes and the rape of the Tauric
idol—is based upon the _Iphigeneia in Tauris_ of Euripides.’[52] One
exception only is noted and this appears to represent the influence of a
later play which handled the subject of the _Oresteia_[53]. The scenes
on the other sarcophagi are indeed illustrations of Aischylos. In each
case the final moment of the _Choephoroi_, when the Furies rush in upon
the murderer, guilty of a mother’s blood, is chosen for the middle
group. Right and left from this the succeeding events are arranged. The
right end scene invariably represents Orestes as he is about to escape
from the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi and go to Athens. He picks his
way with circumspection over the sleeping Furies, and one is led up to
the triumphal verdict of the _Eumenides_[54]. Robert has shown very
clearly the relation of these sculptures to Aischylos’ words, and it is
enough to refer to his discussion.
The Iphigeneia-Orestes sarcophagi breathe from first to last the spirit
of Euripides. A study of them is scarcely less instructive than a
reading of the play. Step by step the story is unfolded. Orestes and
Pylades are taken captives and stand before the priestess, whose
dreadful office is made more horrible by the remains of human sacrifices
that are fastened up around the sanctuary; the recognition scene with
the letter follows. Then Iphigeneia appears with the idol in her arms,
and asks Thoas’ permission to go and purify it in the sea. The two
Greeks stand bound, ready to follow her, and last of all comes the
_mêlée_ at the ship. One after another of the barbarians is laid low by
the strong arms of Orestes and Pylades. Iphigeneia is placed safely
aboard with the image, and one sees the beginning of the homeward
journey that closed the history of the house of Atreus[55].
The Euripidean _Medeia_ is discussed at length in another place, and I
have pointed out there the part that the sarcophagi occupy in art
representations of the tragedy[56]. The two extremes of touching
tenderness and violent passion, which no one ever combined more
successfully in one character than did Euripides in his Medeia, come
prominently to the foreground in these reliefs. I know of no monuments
of ancient art that grasp the spirit of a Greek tragedy more effectually
than the Medeia sarcophagi. The strange and secret power of the
sorceress hovers over and pervades the whole. The dreadful vengeance
exacted by the slighted queen is shown in the most graphic manner.
Standing before the Berlin replica, which is the best preserved and most
beautiful of all the sculptures, one cannot but feel that he is face to
face with a marvellous illustration of the great tragedy. The marble all
but breathes; the dragons of Medeia’s chariot may be heard to hiss.
A small number of other monuments of this class belongs to the ‘Seven
against Thebes,’ and, as in the case of the Etruscan urns, the
_Phoinissai_ of Euripides is the main source of the illustrations.
Perhaps Seneca’s _Phoenissae_ also entered into the work. Robert
conjectures that Euripides’ _Oedipus_ may have furnished suggestions for
parts of the scenes[57].
The _Philoktetes_ of Sophokles is illustrated on one relief very much in
the manner of the Etruscan urns already referred to. The wounded
Philoktetes stands at the mouth of the cave and speaks to Neoptolemos on
the right. Odysseus keeps safely out of sight on the left[58].
The story of Pasiphaë’s unholy love is told on a fragment of a
sarcophagus in the Louvre[59]; Daidalos and his cunning work play the
leading part. The ultimate literary authority was Euripides’ Κρῆτες. The
latter may not have been used directly, as the myth enjoyed after this
play a continuous popularity. The relief on one end represents a fruit
offering, and as this would agree with the vegetarian vow of the chorus,
Robert prefers to recognize a direct connexion with Euripides[60].
Mention may be made lastly of the Meleager sarcophagi, which, like the
Etruscan urns, have much in common with Euripides’ Μελέαγρος[61].
§ 3. THE INFLUENCE OF TRAGEDY ON PAINTING.
Our knowledge of Greek painting is entirely literary. No vestige of this
art has survived that one may study the real monuments. The wall
paintings of Pompeii and Herculaneum are, however, a sort of recompense
for this loss, and with these and the assistance of Pliny and a few
other writers one can get some notion of certain masterpieces of ancient
painting. But the records are at the most very scant, and the student
has, after all, to allow his imagination to fill in many gaps.
1. _On Greek Painting._
The first probable point of contact between tragedy and painting is in
the time of Polygnotos. The series of paintings mentioned by Pausanias
as being in the Propylaia _may_ be brought under the name of the great
painter, since it is expressly stated that two of the ten were from his
hand[62]. Among the subjects were Odysseus fetching Philoktetes from
Lemnos; Orestes slaying Aigisthos; Polyxena on the point of being
sacrificed at Achilles’ tomb. The question arises, have these works any
connexion with the drama? If Polygnotos was the author of all the
paintings, the period of his activity excludes both Sophoklean and
Euripidean influence in the Philoktetes scene. The _Philoktetes_ of
Sophokles is known to have been produced in 409 B.C., and the same play
by Euripides appeared in the trilogy with the _Medeia_ in 431 B.C. This
leaves Aischylos’ tragedy, which could have served Polyg
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not much of anything, indeed, save the vague and splendid
dreams--the variable, impossible, and inconsistent speculations of
youth; but she had the gift, and with the gift she had the sweet
spontaneous impulse which made it a delight. They were proud of her at
home. Mr and Mrs Atheling, with the tenderest exultation, rejoiced over
Marian, who was pretty, and Agnes, who was clever; yet, loving these two
still more than they admired them, they by no means realised the fact
that the one had beauty and the other genius of a rare and unusual kind.
We are even obliged to confess that at times their mother had
compunctions, and doubted whether Agnes, a poor man’s daughter, and like
to be a poor man’s wife, ought to be permitted so much time over that
overflowing blotting-book. Mrs Atheling, when her own ambition and pride
in her child did not move her otherwise, pondered much whether it would
not be wiser to teach the girls dress-making or some other practical
occupation, “for they may not marry; and if anything should happen to
William or me!--as of course we are growing old, and will not live for
ever,” she said to herself in her tender and anxious heart. But the
girls had not yet learned dress-making, in spite of Mrs Atheling’s
fears; and though Marian could “cut out” as well as her mother, and
Agnes, more humble, worked with her needle to the universal admiration,
no speculations as to “setting them up in business” had entered the
parental brain. So Agnes continued at the side-table, sometimes writing
very rapidly and badly, sometimes copying out with the most elaborate
care and delicacy--copying out even a second time, if by accident or
misfortune a single blot came upon the well-beloved page. This
occupation alternated with all manner of domestic occupations. The young
writer was as far from being an abstracted personage as it is possible
to conceive; and from the momentous matter of the household finances to
the dressing of the doll, and the childish play of Bell and Beau,
nothing came amiss to the incipient author. With this sweet stream of
common life around her, you may be sure her genius did her very little
harm.
And when all the domestic affairs were over--when Mr Atheling had
finished his newspaper, and Mrs Atheling put aside her work-basket, and
Mr Foggo was out of the way--then Papa was wont to look over his
shoulder to his eldest child. “You may read some of your nonsense, if
you like, Agnes,” said the household head; and it was Agnes’s custom
upon this invitation, though not without a due degree of coyness, to
gather up her papers, draw her chair into the corner, and read what she
had written. Before Agnes began, Mrs Atheling invariably stretched out
her hand for her work-basket, and was invariably rebuked by her husband;
but Marian’s white hands rustled on unreproved, and Charlie sat still at
his grammar. It was popularly reported in the family that Charlie kept
on steadily learning his verbs even while he listened to Agnes’s story.
He said so himself, who was the best authority; but we by no means
pledge ourselves to the truth of the statement.
And so the young romance was read: there was some criticism, but more
approval; and in reality none of them knew what to think of it, any more
than the youthful author did. They were too closely concerned to be cool
judges, and, full of interest and admiration as they were, could not
quite overcome the oddness and novelty of the idea that “our Agnes”
might possibly one day be famous, and write for the world. Mr Atheling
himself, who was most inclined to be critical, had the strangest
confusion of feelings upon this subject, marvelling much within himself
whether “the child” really had this singular endowment, or if it was
only their own partial judgment which magnified her powers. The family
father could come to no satisfactory conclusion upon the subject, but
still smiled at himself, and wondered, when his daughter’s story
brought tears to his eyes, or sympathy or indignation to his heart. It
moved _him_ without dispute,--it moved Mamma there, hastily rubbing out
the moisture from the corner of her eyes. Even Charlie was disturbed
over his grammar. “Yes,” said Mr Atheling, “but then you see she belongs
to us; and though all this certainly never could have come into _my_
head, yet it is natural I should sympathise with it; but it is a very
different thing when you think of the world.”
So it was, as different a thing as possible; for the world had no
anxious love to sharpen _its_ criticism--did not care a straw whether
the young writer was eloquent or nonsensical; and just in proportion to
its indifference was like to be the leniency of its judgment. These good
people did not think of that; they made wonderful account of their own
partiality, but never reckoned upon that hypercritical eye of love which
will not be content with a questionable excellence; and so they pondered
and marvelled with an excitement half amusing and half solemn. What
would other people think?--what would be the judgment of the world?
As for Agnes, she was as much amused as the rest at the thought of being
“an author,” and laughed, with her bright eyes running over, at this
grand anticipation; for she was too young and too inexperienced to see
more than a delightful novelty and unusualness in her possible fame. In
the mean time she was more interested in what she was about than in the
result of it, and pleased herself with the turn of her pretty sentences,
and the admirable orderliness of her manuscript; for she was only a
girl.
CHAPTER IV.
MARIAN.
Marian Atheling had as little choice in respect to her particular
endowment as her sister had; less, indeed, for it cost her nothing--not
an hour’s thought or a moment’s exertion. She could not help shining
forth so fair and sweet upon the sober background of this family life;
she could not help charming every stranger who looked into her sweet
eyes. She was of no particular “style” of beauty, so far as we are
aware; she was even of no distinct complexion of loveliness, but wavered
with the sweetest shade of uncertainty between dark and fair, tall and
little. For hers was not the beauty of genius--it was not exalted and
heroical expression--it was not tragic force or eloquence of features;
it was something less distinct and more subtle even than these. Hair
that caught the sunshine, and brightened under its glow; eyes which
laughed a sweet response of light before the fair eyelids fell over them
in that sweet inconsistent mingling of frankness and shyness which is
the very charm of girlhood; cheeks as soft and bloomy and fragrant as
any flower,--these seemed but the appropriate language in which alone
this innocent, radiant, beautiful youth could find fit expression. For
beauty of expression belonged to Marian as well as more obvious
beauties; there was an entire sweet harmony between the language and the
sentiment of nature upon this occasion. The face would have been
beautiful still, had its possessor been a fool or discontented; as it
was, being only the lovely exponent of a heart as pure, happy, and
serene as heart could be, the face was perfect. Criticism had nothing to
do with an effect so sudden and magical: this young face shone and
brightened like a sunbeam, touching the hearts of those it beamed upon.
Mere admiration was scarcely the sentiment with which people looked at
her; it was pure tenderness, pleasure, unexpected delight, which made
the chance passengers in the street smile as they passed her by. Their
hearts warmed to this fair thing of God’s making--they “blessed her
unaware.” Eighteen years old, and possessed of this rare gift, Marian
still did not know what rude admiration was, though she went out day by
day alone and undefended, and would not have faltered at going anywhere,
if her mother bade or necessity called. _She_ knew nothing of those
stares and impertinent annoyances which fastidious ladies sometimes
complained of, and of which she had read in books. Marian asserted
roundly, and with unhesitating confidence, that “it was complete
nonsense”--“it was not true;” and went upon her mother’s errands through
all the Islingtonian streets as safely as any heroine ever went through
ambuscades and prisons. She believed in lovers and knights of romance
vaguely, but fervently,--believed even, we confess, in the melodramatic
men who carry off fair ladies, and also in disguised princes and Lords
of Burleigh; but knew nothing whatever, in her own most innocent and
limited experience, of any love but the love of home. And Marian had
heard of bad men and bad women,--nay, _knew_, in Agnes’s story, the most
impossible and short-sighted of villains--a true rascal of romance,
whose snares were made on purpose for discovery,--but had no more fear
of such than she had of lions or tigers, the Gunpowder Plot, or the
Spanish Inquisition. Safe as among her lawful vassals, this young girl
went and came--safe as in a citadel, dwelt in her father’s house,
untempted, untroubled, in the most complete and thorough security. So
far as she had come upon the sunny and flowery way of her young life,
her beauty had been no gift of peril to Marian, and she had no fear of
what was to come.
And no one is to suppose that Mrs Atheling’s small means were strained
to do honour to, or “set off,” her pretty daughter. These good people,
though they loved much to see their children happy and well esteemed,
had no idea of any such unnecessary efforts; and Marian shone out of her
brown merino frock, and her little pink rosebuds, as sweetly as ever
shone a princess in the purple and pall of her high estate. Mrs Atheling
thought Marian “would look well in anything,” in the pride of her heart,
as she pinched the bit of white lace round Marian’s neck when Mr Foggo
and Miss Willsie were coming to tea. It was indeed the general opinion
of the household, and that other people shared it was sufficiently
proved by the fact that Miss Willsie herself begged for a pattern of
that very little collar, which was so becoming. Marian gave the pattern
with the greatest alacrity, yet protested that Miss Willsie had many
collars a great deal prettier--which indeed was very true.
And Marian was her mother’s zealous assistant in all household
occupations--not more willing, but with more execution and practical
power than Agnes, who, by dint of a hasty anxiety for perfection, made
an intolerable amount of blunders. Marian was more matter-of-fact, and
knew better what she could do; she was constantly busy, morning and
night, keeping always in hand some morsel of fancy-work, with which to
occupy herself at irregular times after the ordinary work was over.
Agnes also had bits of fancy-work in hand; but the difference herein
between the two sisters was this, that Marian finished _her_ pretty
things, while Agnes’s uncompleted enterprises were always turning up in
some old drawer or work-table, and were never brought to a conclusion.
Marian made collars for her mother, frills for Bell and Beau, and a very
fine purse for Charlie; which Charlie, having nothing to put in the
same, rejected disdainfully: but it was a very rare thing indeed for
Agnes to come to an end of any such labour. With Marian, too, lay the
honour of far superior accuracy and precision in the important
particular of “cutting out.” These differences furthered the appropriate
division of labour, and the household work made happy progress under
their united hands.
To this we have only to add, that Marian Atheling was merry without
being witty, and intelligent without being clever. She, too, was a good
girl; but she also had her faults: she was sometimes saucy, very often
self-willed, yet had fortunately thus far shown a sensible perception of
cases which were beyond her own power of settling. She had the greatest
interest in Agnes’s story-telling, but was extremely impatient to know
the end before the beginning, which the hapless young author was not
always in circumstances to tell; and Marian made countless suggestions,
interfering arbitrarily and vexatiously with the providence of fiction,
and desiring all sorts of impossible rewards and punishments. But
Marian’s was no quiet or superficial criticism: how she burned with
indignation at that poor unbelievable villain!--how she triumphed when
all the good people put him down!--with what entire and fervid interest
she entered into everybody’s fortune! It was worth while being present
at one of these family readings, if only to see the flutter and tumult
of sympathies which greeted the tale.
And we will not deny that Marian had possibly a far-off idea that she
was pretty--an idea just so indistinct and distant as to cause a
momentary blush and sparkle--a momentary flutter, half of pleasure and
half of shame, when it chanced to glide across her young unburdened
heart; but of her beauty and its influence this innocent girl had
honestly no conception. Everybody smiled upon her everywhere. Even Mr
Foggo’s grave and saturnine countenance slowly brightened when her sweet
face shone upon him. Marian did not suppose that these smiles had
anything to do with her; she went upon her way with a joyous young
belief in the goodness of everybody, except the aforesaid impossible
people, who were unspeakably black, beyond anything that ever was
painted, to the simple imagination of Marian. She had no great
principle of abstract benevolence to make her charitable; she was
strongly in favour of the instant and overwhelming punishment of all
these imaginary criminals; but for the rest of the world, Marian looked
them all in the face, frank and shy and sweet, with her beautiful eyes.
She was content to offer that small right hand of kindliest fellowship,
guileless and unsuspecting, to them all.
CHAPTER V.
CHARLIE.
This big boy was about as far from being handsome as any ordinary
imagination could conceive: his large loose limbs, his big features, his
swarthy complexion, though they were rather uglier in their present
development than they were likely to be when their possessor was
full-grown and a man, could never, by any chance, gain him the moderate
credit of good looks. He was not handsome emphatically, and yet there
never was a more expressive face: that great furrowed brow of his went
up in ripples and waves of laughter when the young gentleman was so
minded, and descended in rolls of cloud when there was occasion for such
a change. His mouth was not a pretty mouth: the soft curve of Cupid’s
bow, the proud Napoleonic curl, were as different as you could suppose
from the indomitable and graceless upper-lip of Charlie Atheling. Yet
when that obstinate feature came down in fixed and steady
impenetrability, a more emphatic expression never sat on the haughtiest
curve of Greece. He was a tolerably good boy, but he had his foible.
Charlie, we are grieved to say, was obstinate--marvellously obstinate,
unpersuadable, and beyond the reach of reasoning. If anything could have
made this propensity justifiable--as nothing could possibly make it more
provoking--it was, that the big boy was very often in the right. Time
after time, by force of circumstances, everybody else was driven to give
in to him: whether it really was by means of astute and secret
calculation of all the chances of the question, nobody could tell; but
every one knew how often Charlie’s opinion was confirmed by the course
of events, and how very seldom his odd penetration was deceived. This,
as a natural consequence, made everybody very hot and very resentful who
happened to disagree with Charlie, and caused a great amount of
jubilation and triumph in the house on those occasions, unfrequent as
they were, when his boyish infallibility was proved in the wrong.
Yet Charlie was not clever. The household could come to no satisfactory
conclusion upon this subject. He did not get on with his moderate
studies either quicker or better than any ordinary boy of his years. He
had no special turn for literature either, though he did not disdain
_Peter Simple_ and _Midshipman Easy_. These renowned productions of
genius held the highest place at present in that remote corner of
Charlie’s interest which was reserved for the fine arts; but we are
obliged to confess that this big boy had wonderfully bad taste in
general, and could not at all appreciate the higher excellences of art.
Besides all this, no inducement whatever could tempt Charlie to the
writing of the briefest letter, or to any exercise of his powers of
composition, if any such powers belonged to him. No, he could not be
clever--and yet----
They did not quite like to give up the question, the mother and sisters.
They indulged in the loftiest flights of ambition for him, as
heaven-aspiring, and built on as slender a foundation, as any bean-stalk
of romance. They endeavoured greatly, with much anxiety and care, to
make him clever, and to make him ambitious, after their own model; but
this obstinate and self-willed individual was not to be coerced. So far
as this matter went, Charlie had a certain affectionate contempt for
them all, with their feminine fancies and imaginations. He said only
“Stuff!” when he listened to the grand projects of the girls, and to
Agnes’s flush of enthusiastic confidence touching that whole unconquered
world which was open to “a man!” Charlie hitched his great shoulders,
frowned down upon her with all the furrows of his brow, laughed aloud,
and went off to his grammar. This same grammar he worked at with his
usual obstinate steadiness. He had not a morsel of liking for “his
studies;” but he “went in” at them doggedly, just as he might have
broken stones or hewed wood, had that been a needful process. Nobody
ever does know the secret of anybody else’s character till life and time
have evolved the same; so it is not wonderful that these good people
were a little puzzled about Charlie, and did not quite know how to
dispose of their obstinate big boy.
Charlie himself, however, we are glad to say, was sometimes moved to
take his sisters into his confidence. _They_ knew that some ambition did
stir within that Titanic boyish frame. They were in the secret of the
great discussion which was at present going on in the breast of Charlie,
whose whole thoughts, to tell the truth, were employed about the
momentous question--What he was to be? There was not a very wide choice
in his power. He was not seduced by the red coat and the black coat,
like the ass of the problem. The syrens of wealth and fame did not sing
in his ears, to tempt him to one course or another. He had two homely
possibilities before him--a this, and a that. He had a stout intention
to be _something_, and no such ignoble sentiment as content found place
in Charlie’s heart; wherefore long, animated, and doubtful was the
self-controversy. Do not smile, good youth, at Charlie’s two
chances--they are small in comparison of yours, but they were the only
chances visible to him; the one was the merchant’s office over which Mr
Atheling presided--head clerk, with his two hundred pounds a-year; the
other was, grandiloquently--by the girls, not by Charlie--called the
law; meaning thereby, however, only the solicitor’s office, the lawful
empire and domain of Mr Foggo. Between these two legitimate and likely
regions for making a fortune, the lad wavered with a most doubtful and
inquiring mind. His introduction to each was equally good; for Mr
Atheling was confidential and trusted, and Mr Foggo, as a mysterious
rumour went, was not only most entirely trusted and confidential, but
even in secret a partner in the concern. Wherefore long and painful were
the ruminations of Charlie, and marvellous the balance which he made of
precedent and example. Let nobody suppose, however, that this question
was discussed in idleness. Charlie all this time was actually in the
office of Messrs Cash, Ledger, and Co., his father’s employers. He was
there on a probationary and experimental footing, but he was very far
from making up his mind to remain. It was an extremely difficult
argument, although carried on solely in the deep invisible caverns of
the young aspirant’s mind.
The same question, however, was also current in the family, and remained
undecided by the household parliament. With much less intense and
personal earnestness, “everybody” went over the for and against, and
contrasted the different chances. Charlie listened, but made no sign.
When he had made up his own mind, the young gentleman proposed to
himself to signify his decision publicly, and win over this committee of
the whole house to his view of the question. In the mean time he
reserved what he had to say; but so far, it is certain that Mr Foggo
appeared more tempting than Mr Atheling. The family father had been
twenty or thirty years at this business of his, and his income was two
hundred pounds--“that would not do for me,” said Charlie; whereas Mr
Foggo’s income, position, and circumstances were alike a mystery, and
might be anything. This had considerable influence in the argument, but
was not conclusive; for successful merchants were indisputably more
numerous than successful lawyers, and Charlie was not aware how high a
lawyer who was only an attorney could reach, and had his doubts upon the
subject. In the mean time, however, pending the settlement of this
momentous question, Charlie worked at two grammars instead of one, and
put all his force to his study. Force was the only word which could
express the characteristic power of this boy, if even _that_ can give a
sufficient idea of it. He had no love for his French or for his Latin,
yet learned his verbs with a manful obstinacy worthy all honour; and it
is not easy to define what was the special gift of Charlie. It was not a
describable thing, separate from his character, like beauty or like
genius--it _was_ his character, intimate and not to be distinguished
from himself.
CHAPTER VI.
PAPA AND MAMMA.
The father of this family, as we have already said, was a clerk in a
merchant’s office, with a salary of two hundred pounds a-year. He was a
man of fifty, with very moderate abilities, but character
unimpeachable--a perfect type of his class--steadily marching on in his
common routine--doing all his duties without pretension--somewhat given
to laying down the law in respect to business--and holding a very grand
opinion of the importance of commerce in general, and of the marvellous
undertakings of London in particular. Yet this good man was not entirely
circumscribed by his “office.” He had that native spring of life and
healthfulness in him which belongs to those who have been born in, and
never have forgotten, the country. The country, most expressive of
titles!--he had always kept in his recollection the fragrance of the
ploughed soil, the rustle of the growing grass; so, though he lived in
Islington, and had his office in the City, he was not a Cockney--a
happy and most enviable distinction. His wife, too, was country born and
country bred; and two ancestral houses, humble enough, yet standing
always among the trees and fields, belonged to the imagination of their
children. This was a great matter--for the roses on her grandmother’s
cottage-wall bloomed perpetually in the fancy of Agnes; and Marian and
Charlie knew the wood where Papa once went a-nutting, as well as--though
with a more ideal perception than, Papa himself had known it. Even
little Bell and Beau knew of a store of secret primroses blooming for
ever on a fairy bank, where their mother long ago, in the days of her
distant far-off childhood, had seen them blow, and taken them into her
heart. Happy primroses, that never faded! for all the children of this
house had dreamed and gathered them in handfuls, yet there they were for
ever. It was strange how this link of connection with the far-off rural
life refined the fancy of these children; it gave them a region of
romance, into which they could escape at all times. They did not know
its coarser features, and they found refuge in it from the native
vulgarity of their own surroundings. Happy effect to all imaginative
people, of some ideal and unknown land.
The history of the family was a very common one. Two-and-twenty years
ago, William Atheling and Mary Ellis had ventured to marry, having only
a very small income, limited prospects, and all the indescribable hopes
and chances of youth. Then had come the children, joy, toil, and
lamentation--then the way of life had opened up upon them, step by step;
and they had fainted, and found it weary, yet, helpless and patient, had
toiled on. They never had a chance, these good people, of running away
from their fate. If such a desperate thought ever came to them, it must
have been dismissed at once, being hopeless; and they stood at their
post under the heavy but needful compulsion of ordinary duties, living
through many a heartbreak, bearing many a bereavement--voiceless souls,
uttering no outcry except to the ear of God. Now they had lived through
their day of visitation. God had removed the cloud from their heads and
the terror from their heart: their own youth was over, but the youth of
their children, full of hopes and possibilities still brighter than
their own had been, rejoiced these patient hearts; and the warm little
hands of the twin babies, children of their old age, led them along with
delight and hopefulness upon their own unwearying way. Such was the
family story; it was a story of life, very full, almost overflowing with
the greatest and first emotions of humanity, but it was not what people
call eventful. The private record, like the family register, brimmed
over with those first makings and foundations of history, births and
deaths; but few vicissitudes of fortune, little success and little
calamity, fell upon the head of the good man whose highest prosperity
was this two hundred pounds a-year. And so now they reckoned themselves
in very comfortable circumstances, and were disturbed by nothing but
hopes and doubts about the prospects of the children--hopes full of
brightness present and visible, doubts that were almost as good as hope.
There was but one circumstance of romance in the simple chronicle. Long
ago--the children did not exactly know when, or how, or in what
manner--Mr Atheling did somebody an extraordinary and mysterious
benefit. Papa was sometimes moved to tell them of it in a general way,
sheltering himself under vague and wide descriptions. The story was of a
young man, handsome, gay, and extravagant, of rank far superior to Mr
Atheling’s--of how he fell into dissipation, and was tempted to
crime--and how at the very crisis “I happened to be in the way, and got
hold of him, and showed him the real state of the case; how I heard what
he was going to do, and of course would betray him; and how, even if he
could do it, it would be certain ruin, disgrace, and misery. That was
the whole matter,” said Mr Atheling--and his affectionate audience
listened with awe and a mysterious interest, very eager to know
something more definite of the whole matter than this concise account of
it, yet knowing that all interrogation was vain. It was popularly
suspected that Mamma knew the full particulars of this bit of romance,
but Mamma was as impervious to questions as the other head of the house.
There was also a second fytte to this story, telling how Mr Atheling
himself undertook the venture of revealing his hapless hero’s
misfortunes to the said hero’s elder brother, a very grand and exalted
personage; how the great man, shocked, and in terror for the family
honour, immediately delivered the culprit, and sent him abroad. “Then he
offered me money,” said Mr Atheling quietly. This was the climax of the
tale, at which everybody was expected to be indignant; and very
indignant, accordingly, everybody was.
Yet there was a wonderful excitement in the thought that this hero of
Papa’s adventure was now, as Papa intimated, a man of note in the
world--that they themselves unwittingly read his name in the papers
sometimes, and that other people spoke of him to Mr Atheling as a public
character, little dreaming of the early connection between them. How
strange it was!--but no entreaty and no persecution could prevail upon
Papa to disclose his name. “Suppose we should meet him some time!”
exclaimed Agnes, whose imagination sometimes fired with the thought of
reaching that delightful world of society where people always spoke of
books, and genius was the highest nobility--a world often met with in
novels. “If you did,” said Mr Atheling, “it will be all the better for
you to know nothing about this,” and so the controversy always ended;
for in this matter at least, firm as the most scrupulous old knight of
romance, Papa stood on his honour.
As for the good and tender mother of this house, she had no story to
tell. The girls, it is true, knew about _her_ girlish companions very
nearly as well as if these, now most sober and middle-aged personages,
had been playmates of their own; they knew the names of the pigeons in
the old dovecote, the history of the old dog, the number of the apples
on the great apple-tree; also they had a kindly recollection of one old
lover of Mamma’s, concerning whom they were shy to ask further than she
was pleased to reveal. But all Mrs Atheling’s history was since her
marriage: she had been but a young girl with an untouched heart before
that grand event, which introduced her, in her own person, to the
unquiet ways of life; and her recollections chiefly turned upon the
times “when we lived in---- Street,”--“when we took that new house in
the terrace,”--“when we came to Bellevue.” This Bellevue residence was a
great point in the eyes of Mrs Atheling. She herself had always kept her
original weakness for gentility, and to live in a street where there was
no straight line of commonplace houses, but only villas, detached and
semi-detached, and where every house had a name to itself, was no small
step in advance--particularly as the house was really cheap, really
large, as such houses go, and had only the slight disadvantage of being
out of repair. Mrs Atheling lamed her most serviceable finger with
attempts at carpentry, and knocked her own knuckles with misdirected
hammering, yet succeeded in various shifts that answered very well, and
produced that grand _chef-d’œuvre_ of paperhanging which made more
amusement than any professional decoration ever made, and was just as
comfortable. So the good mother was extremely well pleased with her
house. She was not above the ambition of calling it either Atheling
Lodge, or Hawthorn Cottage, but it was very hard to make a family
decision upon the prettiest name; so the house of the Athelings, with
its eccentric garden, its active occupants, and its cheery
parlour-window, was still only Number Ten, Bellevue.
And there in the summer sunshine, and in the wintry dawning, at eight
o’clock, Mr Atheling took his seat at the table, said grace, and
breakfasted; from thence at nine to a moment, well brushed and buttoned,
the good man went upon his daily warfare to the City. There all the day
long the pretty twins played, the mother exercised her careful
housewifery, the sweet face of Marian shone like a sunbeam, and the
fancies of Agnes wove themselves into separate and real life. All the
day long the sun shone in at the parlour window upon a thrifty and
well-worn carpet, which all his efforts could not spoil, and dazzled the
eyes of Bell and Beau, and troubled the heart of Mamma finding out spots
of dust, and suspicions of cobwebs which had escaped her own detection.
And when the day was done, and richer people were thinking of dinner,
once more, punctual to a moment, came the well-known step on the gravel,
and the well-known summons at the door; for at six o’clock Mr Atheling
came home to his cheerful tea-table, as contented and respectable a
householder, as happy a father, as was in England. And after tea came
the newspaper and Mr Foggo; and after Mr Foggo came the readings of
Agnes; and so the family said good-night, and slept and rested, to rise
again on the next morning to just such another day. Nothing interrupted
this happy uniformity; nothing broke in upon the calm and kindly usage
of these familiar hours. Mrs Atheling had a mighty deal of thinking to
do, by reason of her small income; now and then the girls were obliged
to consent to be disappointed of some favourite project of their
own--and sometimes even Papa, in a wilful fit of self-denial, refused
himself for a few nights his favourite newspaper; but these were but
passing shadows upon the general content. Through all these long winter
evenings, the one lighted window of this family room brightened the
gloomy gentility of Bellevue, and imparted something of heart and
kindness to the dull and mossy suburban street. They “kept no company,”
as the neighbours said. That was not so much the fault of the Athelings,
as the simple fact that there was little company to keep; but they
warmed the old heart of old Mr Foggo, and kept that singular personage
on speaking terms with humanity; and day by day, and night by night,
lived their frank life before their little world, a family life of love,
activity, and cheerfulness, as bright to look at as their happy open
parlour-window among the closed-up retirements of this genteel little
street.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST WORK.
“Now,” said Agnes, throwing down her pen with a cry of triumph--“now,
look here, everybody--it is done at last.”
And, indeed, there it was upon the fair and legible page, in Agnes’s
best and clearest handwriting, “The End.” She had written it with
girlish delight, and importance worthy the occasion; and with admiring
eyes Mamma and Marian looked upon the momentous words--The End! So now
it was no longer in progress, to be smiled and wondered over, but an
actual thing, accomplished and complete, out of anybody’s power to check
or to alter. The three came together to look at it with a little awe. It
was actually finished--out of hand--an entire and single production. The
last chapter was to be read in the family committee to-night--and then?
They held their breath in sudden excitement. What was to be done with
the Book, which could be smiled at no longer? That momentous question
would have to be settled to-night.
So they piled it up solemnly, sheet by sheet, upon the side-table. Such
a manuscript! Happy the printer into whose fortunate hands fell this
unparalleled _copy_! And we are grieved to confess that, for the whole
afternoon thereafter, Agnes Atheling was about as idle as it is possible
even for a happy girl to be. No one but a girl could have attained to
such a delightful eminence of doing nothing! She was somewhat unsettled,
we admit, and quite uncontrollable,--dancing about everywhere, making
her presence known by involuntary outbursts of singing and sweet
laughter; but sterner lips than Mamma’s would have hesitated to rebuke
that fresh and spontaneous delight. It was not so much that she was glad
to be done, or was relieved by the conclusion of her self-appointed
labour.
|
nursery; for this is the age when many a child's temper is ruined, and
the inclination of the twig wrongly bent, through sheer _want of
resource and idea_, on the part of nurses and mothers.
But it is to the next age--from three years old and upwards--that the
Kindergarten becomes the desideratum, if not a necessity. The isolated
home, made into a flower-vase by the application of the principles set
forth in the Gifts above mentioned, may do for babies. But every mother
and nurse knows how hard it is to meet the demands of a child too young
to be taught to read, but whose opening intelligence and irrepressible
bodily activity are so hard to be met by an adult, however genial and
active. Children generally take the temper of their whole lives from
this period of their existence. Then "the twig is bent," either towards
that habit of self-defence which is an ever-renewing cause of
selfishness, or to the sun of love-in-exercise, which is the exhaustless
source of goodness and beauty.[A]
The indispensable thing now is a sufficient society of children. It is
only in the society of equals that the social instinct can be gratified,
and come into equilibrium with the instinct of self-preservation.
Self-love, and love of others, are equally natural; and before reason is
developed, and the proper spiritual life begins, sweet and beautiful
childhood may bloom out and imparadise our mortal life. Let us only give
the social instinct of children its fair chance. For this purpose, a few
will not do. The children of one family are not enough, and do not come
along fast enough. A large company should be gathered out of many
families. It will be found that the little things are at once taken out
of themselves, and become interested in each other. In the variety,
affinities develop themselves very prettily, and the rough points of
rampant individualities wear off. We have seen a highly-gifted child,
who, at home, was--to use a vulgar, but expressive word--pesky and
odious, with the exacting demands of a powerful, but untrained mind and
heart, become "sweet as roses" spontaneously, amidst the rebound of a
large, well-ordered, and carefully watched child-society. Anxious
mothers have brought us children, with a thousand deprecations and
explanations of their characters, as if they thought we were going to
find them little monsters, which their motherly hearts were persuaded
they were not, though they behaved like little sanchos at home,--and,
behold, they were as harmonious, from the very beginning, as if they had
undergone the subduing influence of a lifetime. We are quite sure that
children begin with loving others quite as intensely as they love
themselves,--forgetting themselves in their love of others,--if they
only have as fair a chance of being benevolent and self-sacrificing as
of being selfish. Sympathy is as much a natural instinct as self-love,
and no more or less innocent, in a moral point of view. Either principle
alone makes an ugly and depraved form of natural character. Balanced,
they give the element of happiness, and the conditions of spiritual
goodness and truth,--making children fit temples for the Holy Ghost to
dwell in.
A Kindergarten, then, is children in society,--a commonwealth or
republic of children,--whose laws are all part and parcel of the Higher
Law alone. It may be contrasted, in every particular, with the
old-fashioned school, which is an absolute monarchy, where the children
are subjected to a lower expediency, having for its prime end quietness,
or such order as has "reigned in Warsaw" since 1831.
But let us not be misunderstood. We are not of those who think that
children, in any condition whatever, will inevitably develop into beauty
and goodness. Human nature tends to revolve in a vicious circle, around
the idiosyncrasy; and children must have over them, in the person of a
wise and careful teacher, a power which shall deal with them as God
deals with the mature, presenting the claims of sympathy and truth
whenever they presumptuously or unconsciously fall into selfishness. We
have the best conditions of moral culture in a company large enough for
the exacting disposition of the solitary child to be balanced by the
claims made by others on the common stock of enjoyment,--there being a
reasonable oversight of older persons, wide-awake to anticipate,
prevent, and adjust the rival pretensions which must always arise where
there are finite beings with infinite desires, while Reason, whose
proper object is God, is yet undeveloped.
Let the teacher always take for granted that the law of love is quick
within, whatever are appearances, and the better self will generally
respond. In proportion as the child is young and unsophisticated, will
be the certainty of the response to a teacher of simple faith:
"There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them,--who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth.
"And blest are they who in the main
This faith even now do entertain,
Live in the spirit of this creed,
Yet find another strength, according to their need."
That "other strength" is to be found in recognition of the Eternal laws
of order, and reverent application of them to human action. But children
must receive this from the Kindergartner, who shall give them such help
in embodying their ever-springing fancies as shall prevent "the weight
of chance desires," and issue in a tangible success, by entering into
and carrying forward their total, spontaneous activity, without
destroying its childishness.
One of the most important exercises for children in the Kindergarten is
block building. A box of eight little cubes is so managed that it will
unfold in the child's mind the law of symmetry, by means of series of
forms which the children are led to make in a way rather difficult to
describe here. So quick are the fancies of children, that the blocks
will serve also as symbols of every thing in Nature and imagination. We
have seen an ingenious teacher assemble a class of children around her
large table, to each of whom she had given the blocks. The first thing
was to count them, a great process of arithmetic to most of them. Then
she made something and explained it. It was perhaps a light-house,--and
some blocks would represent rocks near it to be avoided, and ships
sailing in the ocean; or perhaps it was a hen-coop, with chickens
inside, and a fox prowling about outside, and a boy who was going to
catch the fox and save the fowls. Then she told each child to make
something, and when it was done hold up a hand. The first one she asked
to explain, and then went round the class. If one began to speak before
another had ended, she would hold up her finger and say,--"It is not
your turn." In the course of the winter, she taught, over these blocks,
a great deal about the habits of animals. She studied natural history in
order to be perfectly accurate in her symbolic representation of the
habitation of each animal, and their enemies were also represented by
blocks. The children imitated these; and when they drew upon their
imaginations for facts, and made fantastic creations, she would
say,--"Those, I think, were fairy hens" (or whatever); for it was her
principle to accept everything, and thus tempt out their invention. The
great value of this exercise is to get them into the habit of
representing something they have thought by an outward symbol. The
explanations they are always eager to give, teach them to express
themselves in words. Full scope is given to invention, whether in the
direction of possibilities or of the impossibilities in which children's
imaginations revel,--in either case the child being trained to the habit
of embodiment of its thought.
Froebel thought it very desirable to have a garden where the children
could cultivate flowers. He had one which he divided into lots for the
several children, reserving a portion for his own share in which they
could assist him. He thought it the happiest mode of calling their
attention to the invisible God, whose power must be waited upon, after
the conditions for growth are carefully arranged according to _laws_
which they must observe. Where a garden is impossible, a flower-pot with
a plant in it, for each child to take care of, would do very well.
But the best way to cultivate a sense of the presence of God is to draw
the attention to the conscience, which is very active in children, and
which seems to them (as we all can testify from our own remembrance)
another than themselves, and yet themselves. We have heard a person say,
that in her childhood she was puzzled to know which was herself, the
voice of her inclination or of her conscience, for they were palpably
two; and what a joyous thing it was when she was first convinced that
one was the Spirit of God, whom unlucky teaching had previously embodied
in a form of terror on a distant judgment-seat. Children are consecrated
as soon as they get the spiritual idea, and it may be so presented that
it shall make them happy as well as true. But the adult who enters into
such conversation with a child must be careful not to shock and profane,
instead of nurturing the soul. It is possible to avoid both discouraging
and flattering views, and to give the most tender and elevating
associations.
But children require not only an alternation of physical and mental
amusements, but some instruction to be passively received. They delight
in stories, and a wise teacher can make this subservient to the highest
uses by reading beautiful creations of the imagination. Not only such
household-stories as "Sanford and Merton," Mrs. Farrar's "Robinson
Crusoe," and Salzmann's "Elements of Morality," but symbolization like
the heroes of Asgard, the legends of the Middle Ages, classic and
chivalric tales, the legend of Saint George, and "Pilgrim's Progress,"
can in the mouth of a skilful reader be made subservient to moral
culture. The reading sessions should not exceed ten or fifteen minutes.
Anything of the nature of scientific teaching should be done by
presenting _objects_ for examination and investigation.[B] Flowers and
insects, shells, etc., are easily handled. The observations should be
drawn out of the children, not made to them, except as corrections of
their mistakes. Experiments with the prism, and in crystallization and
transformation, are useful and desirable to awaken taste for the
sciences of Nature. In short, the Kindergarten should give the
beginnings of everything. "What is well begun is half done."
We must say a word about the locality and circumstances of a
Kindergarten. There is published in Lausanne, France, a newspaper
devoted to the interests of this mode of education, in whose early
numbers is described a Kindergarten which seems to be of the nature of a
boarding-school; at least, the children are there all day. Each child
has a garden, and there is one besides where they work in common. There
are accommodations for keeping animals, and miniature tools to do
mechanical labor of various kinds. In short, it is a child's world. But
in this country, especially in New England, parents would not consent to
be so much separated from their children, and a few hours of
Kindergarten in the early part of the day will serve an excellent
purpose,--using up the effervescent activity of children, who may
healthily be left to themselves the rest of the time, to play or rest,
comparatively unwatched.
Two rooms are indispensable, if there is any variety of age. It is
desirable that one should be sequestrated to the quiet employments. A
pianoforte is desirable, to lead the singing, and accompany the plays,
gymnastics, frequent marchings, and dancing, when that is taught,--which
it should be. But a hand-organ which plays fourteen tunes will help to
supply the want of a piano, and a guitar in the hands of a ready teacher
will do better than nothing.
Sometimes a genial mother and daughters might have a Kindergarten, and
devote themselves and the house to it, especially if they live in one of
our beautiful country-towns or cities. The habit, in the city of New
York, of sending children to school in an omnibus, hired to go round the
city and pick them up, suggests the possibility of a Kindergarten in one
of those beautiful residences up in town, where there is a garden before
or behind the house. It is impossible to keep Kindergarten _by the way_.
It must be the main business of those who undertake it; for it is
necessary that every individual child should be borne, as it were, on
the heart of the _gardeners_, in order that it be _inspired_ with order,
truth, and goodness. To develop a child from within outwards, we must
plunge ourselves into its peculiarity of imagination and feeling. No one
person could possibly endure such absorption of life in labor
unrelieved, and consequently two or three should unite in the
undertaking in order to be able to relieve each other from the enormous
strain on life. The compensations are, however, great. The charm of the
various individuality, and of the refreshing presence of conscience yet
unprofaned, is greater than can be found elsewhere in this work-day
world. Those were not idle words which came from the lips of Wisdom
Incarnate:--"Their angels do always behold the face of my Father:" "Of
such is the kingdom of heaven."
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Frœbel's Building Blocks are in a Series of six, each one to be
introduced after the previous one has been in a measure exhausted. But
there is a specific way in which they are to be used, and exact
directions for this are to be found in Mrs. KRAUS-BŒLTE'S _Kindergarden
Guide_.
[B] Calkin's _Object Lessons_ will give hints.
CHAPTER II.
ROOMS, ETC.
I HAVE made an article, which I published in the "Atlantic Monthly" of
November, 1862, my first chapter, because I cannot, in any better way,
answer the general question,--What is a Kindergarten? I will now proceed
to make a Guide for the conduct of a Kindergarten; in which I shall
freely make use of what Madame Rongé has said in her "English
Kindergarten," and Madame Marienholtz in her "Jardin des Enfans;" but I
shall not confine myself to them, for an American Kindergarten
necessarily has its peculiarities.
In the first place, we must think of the accommodations. These are not
to be in the open air, as has been supposed by many, through
misapprehension of the use of the word Kindergarten. But it is desirable
that there should be a good play-ground attached to the rooms; and
Froebel thought it of very important religious influence that every
child should have earth to cultivate, if it were only a foot square.
Two rooms are indispensable, and if possible there should be three, all
of good size, with good light and air: one room for music and plays,
gymnastics, dancing, &c.; another for the quieter mechanical
employments,--pricking, weaving, sewing, moulding, folding,
paper-cutting, sticklaying, and block-building; and still another for
drawing, writing, object-teaching, and learning to read. It is desirable
that every child should have a box, if not a little desk, in order to
learn to keep things in order. When this cannot be done, the teachers
must so arrange matters, as to have everything ready for every change;
that no time may be lost and no confusion arise. In my own Kindergarten,
I arrange beforehand the chairs in the play-room in a solid square, into
which the children march at the commencement of the exercises. Sitting
in them, they sing their morning prayer or hymn, hear the reading, and
take a singing lesson on the scale. Then they rise, and, taking up their
chairs, march into the other room for their reading lessons, which are
always in two classes, sometimes in three. They bring their chairs back
again for luncheon, and then take them out for another lesson; for in
this room they have gymnastics, dancing, and the play, and need a clear
space for all. They come back with their chairs, at the close of the
exercises, to sing songs together before they disperse. Two of my rooms
are carpeted. The other is smooth-floored for dancing, playing, and
gymnastics. And, for the convenience of the gymnastics, it is well to
paint, at convenient distances, _little feet in the first position_, as
Dr. Dio Lewis has done in his gymnastic hall.
When Kindergarten accommodations can be built expressly, I would suggest
that there should be a house with glass walls and partitions, at least
above the wainscoting; and that the wainscoting should be rather high
and painted black, so that every child might have a piece of the
blackboard; for it is easier for a child to draw with a chalk on a
blackboard than with a slate and pencil.
A house of glass, on the plan of the crystal palace, would be no more
expensive than if built of brick. It would secure the light and
sunshine, and make it easy for the superintendent to overlook the whole.
It should be equably warmed throughout. My own Kindergarten is not in a
glass house, but is the lower floor of a house which has three rooms,
with a hall between two of the rooms; a large china closet which I use
for the children's dressing, as well as to store many things; and beyond
the third room, a bathing room, with every convenience. Rooms, hall,
closet, and bathing room have all an east-south aspect, and are amply
lighted. The room between the china closet and bathing room is longer
than it is wide, and has blackboard painted on three sides of it, so
that each child has a piece of blackboard.
It is possible to keep a Kindergarten in two rooms, but not possible to
keep it in one, if it is of any desirable size, or there is any variety
of age in the children. A large play-ground and some garden is
desirable. I am so fortunate as to have these in my house in Boston.
The tables for the children to sit at should be low; and it is a good
plan to have them painted in squares of an inch; chequered, or ruled by
lines, so that they may be able always to set their blocks down with
perfect accuracy.
One of the rooms it would be well to provide with _flat_ box-desks, in
which can be kept all the materials which each child uses,--slates and
pencils, blocks, sticks, weaving and sewing materials,--and the children
should be required to keep these in order.
In my own Kindergarten I provide all the materials for their work and
instruction, thus securing uniformity; and it is better to do so always,
and to charge a price covering the expense. It should be understood,
from the first, that Kindergarten education is not cheap.
As a Kindergarten requires several persons to keep it properly, a genial
family, consisting of a mother and daughters, of various
accomplishments, might devote their whole house to it, preparing for the
writing and drawing one large room with blackboards all round, whose
area could be used for the playing, gymnastics, and dancing.
When this new culture shall be appreciated for its whole worth, it will
not be deemed extravagant for a whole family thus to devote their house,
as well as their time, to make a Kindergarten the temporary home of a
large company of children.
CHAPTER III.
MUSIC.
THE first requisite to the Kindergarten is Music. The voice of melody
commands the will of the child, or rather disarms the caprice, which is
the principle of disorder. Two hymns are given in this Guide with which
to commence school,--one being the Lord's Prayer, set to cheerful music.
But there should be regular scale singing, and if conducted by a teacher
of tact, a ten minutes lesson may be given every day, and the interest
be kept undiminished. The first lesson should be preceded by the
teacher's drawing on the blackboard a ladder of eight steps, and then
saying to the pupils, "Now listen to my voice, and see how it goes up
these steps." She then sings the eight notes very clearly, pointing to
each step of the ladder; and runs her voice, with equal distinctness,
down the descending scale. The children can then be asked to accompany
the teacher in going up and down the ladder, singing the numbers 1, 2,
3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, instead of _do_, _re_, _mi_. There will doubtless be
enough discords to be palpable to all ears, and these can be spoken of
by the teacher, and a proposition made that every one who thinks he can
go up and down the ladder alone, shall hold up a hand. Some may be able
to do so, but a majority will fail. Some will not try at all.
The teacher can then say, "Now I am going to teach you all to do
it,--one step at a time. Let us all sing _one_." The piano is struck,
and teacher and pupils all sing _one_. "Now let us go up a step,--one,
two." Let this be repeated several times. Then stop, and say, "Now I am
going to strike one of these notes and see if you know it." Strike two,
and ask, "What is that, 1 or 2?" There may be difference of opinion; in
which case, ask all to "hold up their hands who think it is 2, and then
all who think it is 1." Tell which is right, and say, "Now let us all
sing 2." Then say, "Now let us go down that step,--2, 1; and now up
again,--1, 2; now all hold up their hands who can sing 1, 2, 1?" Select
one after another to sing it alone with the piano, and after each has
tried, let all sing with the teacher 1, 2, 1, before another is asked to
sing it. Then let all sing 1, 1, 1; 2, 2, 2; 1, 1, 1. Go on in this way
till all the eight notes are learned. They will be able to tell these
notes, when struck upon the piano, much sooner than they will be able to
strike them with their voices. And other exercises, every day calling
upon them to name notes struck,--at first one note, afterwards
combinations of notes.
The following exercises were given in my Kindergarten in one year, which
resulted in nearly all the children being able to sing them alone, and
tell any notes struck.
1st.--1 2 1; 1 1, 2 2, 1 1; 1 1 1 1, 2 2 2 2, 1 1 1 1 2 1 2, &c.
2d.--1 2 3, 3 2 1; 1 3 3 1, 1 2 1, 2 3 2, 3 2 1.
3d.--1 2 3 4 5, 5 4 3 2 1. 1 3 5, 5 3 1, 1 5 5 1.
4th.--1 2 3 4 5 6; 6 5 4 3 2 1; 1 6, 6 1; 1 3 5 6.
5th.--1 2 3 4 5 6 7, 7 6 5 4 3 2 1; 1 3 5 8, 8 5 3 1.
6th.--1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8, 8 7 5 6 4 3 2 1; 1 3 5 8.
This exercise can be varied by repeating each note one two, three, or
four times.
7th.--1 1 2, 2 2 3, 3 3 4, 4 4 5, 5 5 6, 7 7 8, 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1.
8th.--1 1 2, 3 3 4, 5 5 6, 7 7 8; 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1.
9th.--1 2, 1 2 1; 2 3, 2 3 2; 3 4, 3 4 3; 4 5, 4 5 6; 5 6, 5 6 7; 6 7, 6
7 8; 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
10th.--1 1, 2 2, 1; 2 2, 3 3, 2; 3 3, 4 4, 3; 4 4, 5 5, 4; &c.
11th.--1 3; 2 4; 3 5; 4 6; 5 7; 6 8; 8, 6; 7, 5; 6, 4; 5, 3; 4, 2; 3,
1.
12th.--1 3 5 8, 8 5 3 1; 1 4 6 8, 8 6 4 1; 1 8 8 1.
13th.--1 1, 3 3; 5 5, 8 8; 8 8, 7 7, 6 6, 5 5, 4 4, 3 3, 2 2, 1 1.
14th.--1 2 3 2 1; 2 3 4 3 2; 3 4 5 4 3; 4 5 6 5 4; 5 6 7 6 5; 6 7 8 7 6;
7 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1.
15th.--1 2 1 2 3 3; 2 3 2 3 4 4; 3 4 3 4 5 5; 4 5 4 5 6 6; 5 6 5 6 7 7;
6 7 6 7 8 8; 8 8 8 8; 7 7 7 7; 6 6 6 6; 5 5 5 5; 4 4 4 4; 3 3 3 3; 2 2 2
2; l l l l; 1 8; 8 1.
Besides these ten minutes on the scale, (which should not occur next to
singing the hymn, but after some other exercise has intervened,) it is
an excellent plan to let the Kindergarten close with singing songs by
rote. The words should be simple, such as "The Cat and the Sparrow," and
other pretty melodies to be found in the Pestalozzian Singing Book and
the many compilations prepared for children. For it is well for the
child not to go out of the natural octave, and to have the words of
songs adapted to the childish capacity. Besides this singing, the
piano-forte should be used to play marches, as the children go from one
room to another to their different exercises. "Order is Heaven's first
law," and music is the heavenly voice of order, which disposes to
gentleness and regularity of motion. As all the exercises change every
quarter of an hour at least, this brings the marching to music as often;
and it will last one or two minutes, sometimes longer. The children get
accustomed to rise at the sound of the piano, and it will be easy to
make them silent during the music, especially if it is hinted to them
that _soldiers_ always march in silence. Besides this, the piano is
necessary for the gymnastics, and for the fanciful plays, which are
always to be accompanied by descriptive songs.
A few songs and plays are given in this Guide which, if taken in turn,
will recur not oftener than once in ten days. We subjoin a description
of the plays.
I will finish this chapter by a translation from a notice of
"Enseignement Musical, d'aprés Froebel, par Fred. Stern, prix, 2
francs: En vente à Bruxelles, rue de Vienne, 16, et à Paris, rue Fossés
St. Victor, 35." "A man to be complete, should be master of linear and
musical expression. Most of our education aims only to give him lingual
expression; and drawing and music are considered accomplishments merely!
The divine art which enables us to reproduce the human figure
illuminated with the expression of the spirit, a mere accomplishment![C]
Music, the melodious expression of our most intimate thoughts, the
colored reflection of the heart,--a mere accomplishment!
"Life is sad, monotonous, earthy, without the arts. If a woman of the
middle and higher classes especially, does not daily realize the higher
life by knowledge of truth and love of beauty, what shall save her from
the frivolity and _ennui_ that gnaws away the heart, tarnishes the soul,
and brings misfortune to the fireside? Every woman should be an artist,
and make artists of her children, if she would do a woman's whole duty.
Especially should the mother teach her children to _improvise_ music,
which can be done by pursuing this method.
"He commences by the study of the three sounds constituting the major
triad, and, as in the model gamut, _or gamut of do_, there are three
similar triads, three perfect major chords, do-mi-sol, fa-la-do, and
sol-si-re, we begin naturally with the central chord, do-mi-sol, which
we name the master chord; for, in the model gamut of do, it is around
this, as around a centre, that the two other triads balance themselves,
the lower fifth, fa-la-do, and the higher fifth, sol-si-re. We can show
the unity of plan between these three established notes, in all the
possible changes. We thus introduce a fine variety into the exercises,
which permits the repetition of the same sounds and intervals, without
causing fatigue or weariness to the child.
"Scarcely have our pupils learned to sing or to repeat alone, at will,
the three sounds do-mi-sol, when we have them mark them with pencils on
the staff (key of sol); only as in the unity of tone there are yet the
two other perfect chords, fa-la-do and sol-si-re, we let them write the
three notes of the central chord with a red pencil, and reserve the
three sounds of the chord on the left, (the lower or subdominant,) to be
written with a yellow pencil, and the chord on the right, (higher or
dominant,) with a blue pencil. On the other hand, for the appellative
chords (dissonant,) made by the combination of the chord sol-si-re, with
one, two, and even three notes of the chord fa-la-do, we use green
pencils (mixture of blue and yellow). For we would keep the theory in
mind by visible signs, which act most powerfully upon the minds of
children.
"Then we pass to perfect minor chords, and terminate this first branch
of our method by the study of the gamut.
"Our pupil knows as yet only a single tone,--the tone of _do_, which we
designate by the name of model tone;--but all musicians are aware that
to know well one tone, is to know them all, since they are all
calculated on the model tone with which we began. The second part of our
method will treat of the other tones, but it will prove no serious
difficulty to our pupil.
"We have carefully avoided scientific terms, though doubtless, by a
learned terminology, we should have struck superficial minds more. But
we address ourselves to the serious, who know that it is better to know
a thing in itself, (in what constitutes it essentially,) without knowing
its technology, than to know obscure terms and be ignorant of the thing.
"Later, we shall initiate our pupil into the language generally adopted
by all treatises on harmony. We wish that one day he may be a
distinguished harmonist, knowing musical grammar at the foundation. It
is strange that the study of grammar, so vigorously recommended for all
other languages, is so entirely neglected in respect to musical
language. The study of harmony seems to be reserved exclusively to
artists; and even among them, only the few who are occupied with
composing devote themselves to it with any profoundness. It is to this
culpable negligence that we must attribute the difficulties of musical
education. Where is the intelligent musician who would dare to deny the
happy results inseparable from the most profound study of music? The
scholar would necessarily have to give much less time to know the art in
the best manner, which is now accessible only to remarkable persons of
strong will. The grammatical study of music should begin at the same
time as all other studies, and soon music would become the language of
all, instead of being reserved exclusively to the privileged.
"Doubtless great reforms will be necessary to arrive at this result, and
the spirit of routine which unhappily reigns everywhere will render such
reforms difficult.
"However, we found great hopes on the inevitable development of the
method of Froebel, for the principles he lays down are of general
application."...
I am myself so profoundly impressed with the importance of little
children's beginning music in this manner, that, having found a teacher
who is capable of it, I intend, another year, to have extra hours for
those who will commence instrumental music, in my own Kindergarten; so
that each child can have a lesson _every day_, and only play under the
eye of the teacher until quite expert.
I do not cast out these pages about instrumental
music; but I will say, for the comfort of those
Kindergartners, who cannot command an instrument, that
in German Kindergartens I never found one. All the
plays were done to vocal singing, unaccompanied.
FOOTNOTE:
[C] There is no excuse for its being so considered in Boston, now that
Dr. Rimmer, the remarkable sculptor of the Falling Gladiator, has
founded the true method of teaching to draw the human figure. It is
indeed a method which it is not probable any person of less profound
knowledge of the human figure than himself, (a practical surgeon as well
as artist,) together with genius less bold and original, can conduct as
he does; unless he shall train such teachers.
CHAPTER IV.
PLAYS, GYMNASTICS, AND DANCING.
IN playing THE PIGEON-HOUSE, the teacher, who should always play with
the children, takes three quarters of the number, and forms them into a
circle, while the other quarter remains in the middle, to represent the
pigeons.
The circle is the pigeon-house, and sings the song, beginning with the
words:
"We open the pigeon-house again,"
while, standing still, they all hold up their joined hands, so as to let
all the pigeons out at the word "open;" and, as the circle goes round
singing,
"And let all the happy flutterers free,
They fly o'er the fields and grassy plain.
Delighted with glorious liberty,"
the pigeons run round, waving their hands up and down to imitate flying.
At the word "return," in the line
"And when they return from their joyous flight,"
the joined hands of those in circle are lifted up again, and the pigeons
go in. Then the pigeon-house closes round them, bowing their heads, and
singing,
|
; the circle representing God, the Universal Soul. India is the
birthplace of all religions—the Eden—the conjugal circle of soul. The
soul is everything to a true Hindoo. Some priests in India almost starve
in order to develope the soul.
“One dark night Sizuna and I were praying in our lovely little home near
the temple, which was surrounded on all sides with grapes, fruit, lovely
birds and flowers, and was near the temple, when at midnight we heard an
awful cry in the darkness, ‘The waters! The waters!’ A great cyclone
arose and rolled the sea over those four lovely isles, and a population
of 340,000 to 350,000 people were drowned, only those being saved who
had climbed to the tops of the highest trees. Did you ever hear of such
an awful cyclone? I pray God you may never see what we saw that awful
black night of sorrow. For hours I held Sizuna on the housetop. I kissed
her cold, pale lips and soon saw she was dead. Cold and fear had killed
her while she lay in my arms. I gave up, broken hearted, and sank in the
waters. When I came to the top again, two tall, lovely angels with light
around their beautiful heads held me firmly out of the waters. They
floated me gently and lovingly to a tall tree. There I clung until the
waters receded into the sea. Every day since that sad night my twin
soul, Sizuna has been with me. I see her and hear her talk the same as
she did before the flood. I have always been true to this one sweet
soul—my only love—I never can love another.”
After the sad story Prince Cresto and Princess Mara moved slowly up the
isle and shook hands and shed tears of sympathy over his sad fate. Terah
asked them to dry their eyes and be happy, for he could see his bride
with them now just as lovely, young and happy as our beautiful Kezia was
this moment. The Prince and stately Mara moved down to the door, and all
the guests started for home, where a great feast was all ready for them.
Prince Cresto saw a tribe of enemies below. He closed the massive doors
and kept the great crowd inside.
“My poor brothers and sisters, keep close to me as you can, for a wicked
tribe is here to kill us. I have a secret gold mine near here that in
some unknown way they have discovered. That casket of jewels with the
others we all have in our possession, will hire us a ship at Mandavee.
Rich Jews own many big ships there and will do anything for money. I
will direct you to a secret door in the rear where we all can escape.”
They all followed the prince to the door. The Doctor dashed away from
his folks to save the poor patients. Kezia ran after him, crying,
saying, “I will die with you! I would rather die than ever be parted
from you.”
Pootana’s spy saw him and drew his bright new sword on the Doctor. The
Doctor quickly caught his wrist and broke his arm in the struggle. Then
ran the blade through the wicked black heart of the Indian.
“Come quickly, Kezia dear, we must get to the Springs at once. Darling
child, why didn’t you fly with father and mother, where you would be
safe from all danger? My wife, my love, forgive me for not going with
you while I could escape. I see it is wicked King Pootana and his fierce
tribe, who worship the goddess Kali, otherwise known as Devi or Durga,
the Hindu goddess of destruction, and consort of Siva.”
Persus took the spy’s new sword and ran to the head of the army, he and
his men killing one-third of the enemy’s men. Devi whispered to Pootana
to kill Persus and steal Kezia. King Pootana saw the lovely bride in the
distance and sent his men to capture her. She was caught and carried to
their king, fainting as they took her. Persus fought like mad. Pootana’s
men outnumbered his ten to one. Pootana took lovely Kezia for his own
bride. This cruel, ugly, black Indian held the fair Egyptian bride in
his arms, then told Persus he had won a sweet, handsome, white bride as
well as his father’s gold. Persus was permitted to kiss Kezia good-bye.
As the young husband held his bride in his arms, he quickly reached for
his dagger—he always carried one,—and plunged it in Kezia’s soft white
breast. She fell forward and died in her husband’s arms without a
pain—there was a wonderful poison on the dagger that killed instantly.
Doctor Persus had discovered this strange poison in a flower of the
forest. The king reached for the dagger—not knowing it was poisoned—and
the Doctor thrust it through his heart, the black king died at his feet.
The revengeful black god Siva and his Hindu goddess Kali now influenced
the minds of the rest of the king’s tribe to take the Doctor prisoner.
The men obeyed Siva, also carried all the gold and jewels they could
find in his home away. Later the tribe marched with Persus to Mandavee.
The men gave the Prince of Mandavee part of the gold and jewels to put
our poor Doctor in a narrow cell half filled with dirty water from the
Arabian sea,—this was against the laws of India, all men had a right to
protect their family and property. Our poor, good, innocent Doctor was
taken a prisoner on his own land trying to protect his wife. Our forlorn
Doctor was cold, ill and hungry; slaves would abuse him shamefully when
he would ask for food and water. Later Terah, the priest, came to the
prison; he had walked all the way disguised as a slave. They cast him in
the same cell, or little dungeon, and then told the poor Hindu to starve
to death with his master, not knowing he was a priest of high caste.
Terah took from his breast a bag of dates and nuts and bottle of wine.
Persus ate and drank a little, and handed it back to the dear, kind
priest.
“Persus, child, my guardian angel showed me clairvoyantly I would soon
be with my twin-soul. I will tell you the vision as I, an old man, saw
it. As I lingered a moment by the altar of roses, I saw my own long lost
bride in all her pure white robes, her lovely flowers and long white
lace veil, standing by my side, with her beautiful pink and white arms
full of pure fragrant lillies. My bride pictured me on a bier near the
altar. She scattered all her sweet flowers on my shrouded, then held up
a wonderful jeweled crown over a pure gold cross; then again showed me
clairvoyantly, a big sheet of black samite on which was written in white
letters showing plainly on the black, ‘Go quickly to Mandavee!’ The
letters vanished, then I saw, on the black sheet, yourself, on the right
hand of you I saw your Kezia in her bridal robes beckoning me to come to
you. I saw my own wife put her arms around your bride and smile. I knew
at once they were together on the astral plane. Doctor, did she die
peacefully?”
“Yes, dear father, I killed her without a pain. The Bloody Black King
took her for his own. I implored to just let me kiss her good bye. To my
surprise he did. I killed them both rather than see her live a life of
shame and constant misery. I could not live and know that she would be
his slave, then in her old age be killed by inches.”
“You did right to kill them both; for God made man to protect woman, if
it is just—in your case it was, it was just!
“Persus, my child, I came here eagerly to save your life. In three days
I will die, for it is my time to go. I heard a voice tell me so. They
told me the same again and again. I know it is true. As soon as I am
dead your band will put you in a deep trance. They will think we are
both dead and put us in one big bag, then throw us together into the
Arabian sea. You may have my cross and gold. Your angels will take you
out of this trance while in the sea; an old fisherman by the seashore
will take you to his home, if you make the sign of the cross; then press
his hand three times, firmly.”
The Doctor waited three days and every hour was heaven to them both;
they learned so much together. Our dear old seer died just the hour he
said he would. Persus got his money, dagger and clothes. Then a little
later he heard footsteps in the hall and at the same time felt himself
sinking into a trance. He found the old fisherman by the seashore Persus
went home with him. Many weary days he spent with the good old seaman
recovering from the sickness of the dungeon. Then he went back to the
noble Prince of Mandavee and proved his innocence. The good prince of
Mandavee took his tribe up the hills of Araville. Persus recaptured his
father’s rich mineral possession and gave the prince half of all he had.
The Doctor became a famous author, and died a priest in the very temple
where he was married. Many hundred years have passed and still his books
are read all over the world. The story of Persus has taught the world
that many innocent souls have been cast into prison for the sake of
their money, then shamefully abused. It is a terrible, cowardly crime to
abuse a person deprived of their liberty. If we wrong or abuse others,
God will punish us severely later. How beautiful it is to treat humanity
lovingly and tenderly at all times. Prince Cresto, with his wife and
daughter, met the remainder of his own tribe that escaped from Lytton
Springs. The Black King had killed most of Prince Cresto’s men. After
experiencing great difficulties we managed to get to Mandavee, then
hired a big ship and set out to sea. That night the ship sailed
slowly—sailed away from all that was dear to them. They left sunny old
India with broken hearts. Their lives would never be safe there after
they discovered the gold mine. Big fish eat up the little ones on the
hills of India; one king robs the other. There is no such thing as the
equality of man there. After a long voyage they rested a few months at
the Philippines. They formed classes and taught their religion. Most of
the natives believed the same as they did. Later they bought the old
ship from the cold-hearted Jew. One man owned as much of the boat as the
other did; they were all one family and shared alike. Poor Princess Mara
and Sita had charge of the casket, and all the valuable jewels, only
half of the jewels had been sold. They left the Jew and his crew on the
island and set sail again. The old ship seemed like home then for it was
their very own. In a few weeks they came to a narrow neck of land,—that
which joins the two Americas,—which was pierced by a narrow strait of
water. The two massive rocks that towered above them on either side as
they passed through made them feel how infinite God was and how finite
man. Scarcely had they passed through safely when a sound deafened them;
a noise like a peal of thunder rent the air. The ship trembled like an
aspen leaf from prow to stern. They looked back. The mighty rocks had
clashed together and filled the strait of water with rocks and gravel.
They bowed their heads and thanked God for His love and protection. They
sailed on to the Gulf of Mexico and entered the harbor of New Orleans.
It was so low there, they left and sailed up the Mississippi river, then
up the Escawtawpa. Here they sailed into a raft of logs; the old boat
was wrecked, every person sank in an awful storm, excepting two young
slaves of the tribe. They have handed this story down from one tribe to
another—from father to son to this day.
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[Illustration: chapter headpiece]
CHAPTER VI.
“And God will make divinely real
The highest forms of their ideal.”—Chapin.
Ruth was a lovely, tall, dark-eyed, Southern girl. Her family and most
intimate friends called her Dolly. She had heavy, light brown, long,
curly hair, that hung below her waist in six perfect curls. Doll was
very slender and graceful, her mouth a perfect cupid’s bow, her head
well poised, and small. Her most charming feature was her large,
wonderful, soft brown eyes. Everyone loved those lovely eyes. The soul
seemed to express her thoughts, and yearnings through those eyes. Ruth
was a lovely Christian and inherited her mother’s sweet, cheerful, sunny
disposition. She also was an exquisite violinist, and could paint,
sketch and cook. Our heroine is just sweet sixteen. Ruth is sitting by a
big window watching an awful southern storm rising from the Gulf of
Mexico. She and her young companion, Cathy de Bathe had been dear
friends and schoolmates. The girls were now visiting Ruth’s grand
parents in Mississippi. It had been raining for days in Escawtawpa,—a
small country town on the Escawtawpa river. The Indians and darkies
called this strange river haunted; this is a fact too. Every night weird
music came from the river bed. The ghostly musicians had chosen the
large hollow reeds for their musical instruments. It sounded as if they
were practicing the scales on a golden, magical, flute. This weird music
would often end at sunrise in a low, sad funeral dirge. People came from
all over the world and hired darkies to row them out at night to hear
and investigate these strange magical sounds. The music became more
weird and much louder about midnight. Ruth and Cathy often wondered if
the river was truly haunted.
One calm, beautiful night, while she was sleeping soundly, Ruth dreamed
her soul was transported to another world. She dreamed this beautiful
world was Mars. It was a world of love and romance instead of war. The
dream seemed real as life. At first she was surprised to find herself
carried as if by magic so quickly and safely through space to this
lovely new world,—it seemed like a lover’s paradise. This strange new
world was the world of the soul. Ruth wondered how she came there. As
she looked around she saw a tall, dark, handsome young stranger, who
spoke, smiled, and bowed to poor little surprised Ruth. He was very
courteous and gently told her that once, he was an ancient Indian
prince. He said an old Indian living near her grandfather’s home would
tell her the same truth, and this would prove that all he said was true,
and no dream at all. “Remember, Ruth, many dreams are true and real—soul
facts. A wicked Black King drove us away from India many years ago and
captured my son with his lovely bride, and took all our wealth except a
few jewels. Mara was then my princess yet did not belong to me, and is
now happy with her twin soul. They are now wealthy and live in Neptune.
We made a mistake then, as many do now in marrying the person not
intended for us. In India we taught the immortality of the soul. This
wicked and powerful King Pootana did not believe in the Communion of
Saints or would not permit it to be taught, if he could help it. We
taught one God, one love, one wife; he had many wives in those days. He
killed good priests. His soul now suffers in Purgatory, and will for
some time. My tribe and myself were drowned in a terrible storm on the
river Escawtawpa.”
“O! Prince Cresto, an old negro we call Aunt Mary told grandma this same
story. She said it was all true, but we all laughed at her. Is it a real
fact?”
“Yes, child. I can remember the storm, and the rain pouring down on us,
how terrible it seems now. The old raft sank slowly down, down, to our
death. On that very spot where our ship sank these magical reeds grew.
In love and immortal sympathy and pity they sway, they sing their sad
doleful hymns. These musical sounds are the sobs and groans of a great
tribe mourning for their Prince and loved ones.”
“I have often dreamed of you, Prince Cresto, and now I see you face to
face. Are you truly alive?”
“Yes, I am a real live man; asking you if you would like to visit some
of the scenes and wonderful sights in Mars, would you, Ruth?”
“I would love to!”
Cresto (they have no titles in Mars) sent a mental wireless message, and
soon a boy came with a lovely little airship called “The Golden
Butterfly.”
“Oh! how lovely! We are sailing far above the Martians,” Ruth cried. The
air was pure and bracing, the ride very exhilarating. They descended
slowly—for Ruth was afraid to descend; the lovely little airship
alighted in a public park. Many little children were playing here. She
saw lovers strolling down the walks in perfect peace and happiness.
There were lovely beds of flowers everywhere. They soon came to a
beautiful blue lake. On this lake they saw pretty, tiny boats with large
white swans, beautifully carved, in front. These little boats, at a
distance, looked like graceful, white swans; couples that row in these
boats seemed to be lovers.
“O! Cresto, what perfect little love-boats!”
“Ruth, the couples in the boats are soul-mates, they have been married
for years, and will always be lovers.”
The longer they had lived together the more devoted they seemed. Many
were swimming; all seemed very fond of the water. Cresto took her to the
immense bath house, hired suits; they went into the plunge first, then
to the lake outside. No one called him Prince Cresto over there. No one
can take a title or any money to another planet. They are all brothers
and sisters, all one big family, all humble and Christlike, yet they
seem to have plenty to live on. They are very busy and happy; they all
play as much as they work, and study. Ruth could swim well and
gracefully on earth, so it did not take her long to swim there.
“Ruth, when we learn to swim or dance well on earth, we can do the same
on any planet. If we can learn to sing and become great musicians on
earth we never forget it. We begin here just where we left off on earth.
We never go backward, but forward—unless we are punished for some sin.”
“Cresto, I wish we could go and visit other places of amusement?”
They walked on and on, each spot seemed a garden of Eden. They often saw
lovely angels—always two together.
“Ruth, these couples are spirit mates. I suppose they look strange to
you, for they do not fight or get divorces here; they are contented and
are industrious.”
Ruth soon learned that they carried on their daily conversation by
thought transference. They also talk the same as we do and sing the same
as we do when together, when parted they use thought transference—for
husbands go to work there and wives attend to the home as on earth.
“If our loved ones visit another planet we can send them messages
quickly, by thought transference. This can be done on earth or anywhere.
Ruth, thought transference is only reading another’s thoughts and
answering mentally.”
“Cresto, what a wonderful fairyland Mars is! I hear beautiful music
everywhere, everyone singing in perfect love and harmony, their sweet,
dear voices are soft, tender and melodious. Oh, I am in a magic world of
love, music and beauty. Mars is a world of love and peace instead of
war.”
“We think too much of our lives and sweethearts to ever go to war. War
is a sin. All trouble could be settled by arbitration on earth. We only
fight to protect dying souls on your planet. This is a mental fight to
protect our loved ones from enemies. Ruth, my dear child, can you guess
who I am? After seeing all you have just seen?”
“No, Cresto, I can not!”
“You are only a child, but so highly educated you can understand, you
are my other half, my twin-soul, my very own. I have watched over you
and protected you since your birth. Darling, I would not have been
parted from you so long, if I had not married poor Princess Mara for her
wealth and caste. I have suffered a thousandfold for my ignorance,
selfishness, and sin. It is a sin to marry without love. All true
marriages must be founded on love and honor. Love without honor and
respect is only misery. Ruth, my darling child, do you trust me now?”
“Yes, I do Cresto dear, I love you, for you seem to be the soul of
honor. You are my ideal of a gentleman. I never have had a lover in all
my life. I don’t like the young men on earth. I do not know why.”
“You are only a child and are too young yet.”
“Cresto, I long to give up my life to good, instead of accepting the
attentions of admirers as other young women do. I don’t care for
society, it is only wasting my time away.”
“Please make me one promise, in answering this question, I know you will
not break your word. Which will you choose: Society and idleness, or
doing good and hard study? Please do not let me influence you, do as you
please. There is no sin in going into the social life if you do not
wrong any one.”
“I choose to do good. I long to develop my mind and help others.”
“Dear, if that is your choice, we will begin our good work now. My
darling doll if you will fast and pray for a few days I will take you to
Purgatory. I only take you so you can prevent others from going there.
Just so you can save lost souls. I take you only to show you how cruel,
wicked, heartless, souls suffer. My dear, pray sincerely and try to fast
until I see you again. There are no children in Purgatory, love. I will
protect you and keep you close to my side. Many saints will go with
us,—for it is not safe to go alone. Darling, if you see the underworld
as it is, you will be better able to do good and prevent others from
going there. First, my pet, promise to forgive me for taking your pure,
sweet soul to such a place? O! you don’t answer me? I will keep you here
in Mars until you do, love.”
“Yes, I forgive, I want to go. It will be a wonderful new lesson for me
to go. I can hardly wait for the time to come. Please take me now.”
“No, dear, you must fast and pray first. I will get angels to protect
us. I must make everything safe for our visit there. Please light all
your candles after I take you home. Pray, go into the silence; later I
will return for you.”
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[Illustration: chapter headpiece]
CHAPTER VII.
“Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken
Nor any sound or sight.
Nor wintry leaves or vernal
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.”
Ruth had fasted for three days. All she drank was a cup of warm milk
twice a day—and drank this very slowly. The third night after saying her
prayers she fell into a sound sleep. It was darkest midnight when
Cresto, with many of his friends, came to protect Ruth. All were dressed
in disguise—in long black robes. Ruth gradually felt her soul gently and
silently carried away in space to the underworld.
“Cresto, dear, were you ever in this awful, dismal, dark, place before?”
“Yes, dear, all souls from earth are taken here at death and judged. I
was here a few days until I was judged for every act I ever did. No soul
can escape this court. Darling girl, when you are taken here, I will
come with you. I beg you to live such a perfect Christian life that our
dear judges will not keep you long. Some stay thousands of years in this
one place, others, only a few days. Christ descended and remained here
two days Himself. He was perfect. The third day Our Lord ascended up to
Heaven. He rose in great power and glory. Dear Ruth, if you follow in
His footsteps, you need not fear to go where He has been. Jesus has
surveyed the narrow road that leads to the gates of Heaven. He is the
one who will light the way for us. Here our Lord and His hosts of
angels, judge the living and the dead. Christ and His own followers have
been judged here, so that they may be just to the wicked. He obeys and
keeps all laws that He commands us to keep. This is Divine justice to
all. Praise His Holy name. He is most Divine! We are one universal
family and every soul is treated alike. We all get our reward here,
whether it is good or evil. Hades is surrounded on all sides by awful,
grim, ghastly, rivers of woe. Millions upon millions of firm, silent
boatmen carry the dead here to be judged. They row you safely and
silently to the great wide gates of Sheol, these cold stone gates are
broad and high. Justice alone holds the keys. Souls at death cannot
fly—they gradually learn to later. Those living here are all
earth-bound. Sin has weakened their souls to such an extent that they
cannot fly, and have not life enough to try. Constant sin is slow death
to the soul. Here life has death for a neighbor. The great gates of
Purgatory are daily and nightly thronged with millions and millions of
angel guests. Just as the earthly prison should be thronged to see that
justice rules! It is our business to see that no innocent soul stays in
prison on earth. No one should be cast into prison on circumstantial
evidence; this is an awful crime. The prisons on earth should be as good
and just as the ones are in Purgatory, but they are not. You can change
the laws and make them so in time if the people of earth all work hard.
To understand Heaven and Hades we must study the last two chapters in
the Bible. Read Revelations 22:15. Study all of Revelations.”
They walked on deeper into the woods of lonely darkness. It was misty.
The angry dark gray clouds above them would not admit a ray of sunlight.
We saw great monsters among the cold gray rocks; in the wide crevices
were huge, long, green serpents, with mad, fiery red eyes. These snakes
were the companions of low men and women, of drunkards, gluttons, and
former prostitutes. Snakes and all ugly animals have ugly thoughts. They
are on a low mental plane.
“Ruth, dear, your sweet disposition, your constant prayers, have made
your face beautiful. Some of these poor, ill, low, ugly, fallen women
tried to console themselves with ugly dogs and cats on earth. There were
no babies, or children in Hades to pet, and as these poor, half clad,
half starved women would try to pet these dogs, they would growl and
snarl and bite them. All animals were cross; there was no love or
harmony there.”
“Cresto, why are these hungry dogs and snakes with these poor, sad, ugly
men and women?”
“Dear, like seeks like; love attracts love; enemies that hate each other
most, must live together. The wonderful power of gravitation draws them
together. Look well, dear, and remember the result of hate. It is as
strong to attract as love is. All animals have souls and thoughts the
same as we have, only they are undeveloped. Men and women having the
same thoughts as animals and snakes are attracted to each other; here is
another lesson on the law of gravitation. It develops the soul more to
adopt children instead of dogs or cats. The soul of a child is Divine.
Every one must live in the soul world or live in this underworld to
suffer with dangerous animals in Purgatory, until developed out of this
state. It takes intelligence, strength and energy to get out of
Purgatory. Science proves this. You see, dear, how easy it is to get
here? How hard to get out?”
As they went deeper and deeper into the lonely forest they saw a large,
filthy, dead sea covered over with green slime. The odor from this
stagnant water made them all ill.
“The only fish here is the ugly octopus. These poor, weary, tired men
and women catch them and cook them on the rocks and eat them.”
They did not see any fruit in the forest. These folks were too angry and
lazy to cultivate the ground or make the most of their punishment. All
they wanted was revenge and an excuse to get out of work. They all
seemed to be cowards and indolent. The awful rivers and lakes were green
and slimy. The air was cold, misty and damp all the time. No stars or
moon mingled in the dark gray clouds above. There were no flowers or
birds or lovers here. The land was full of muddy green swamps. They saw
them bare-footed, walking in the mud up to their knees. Some took on
each other’s conditions; all looked mean, blue, cross and ugly; they
would fight, groan, swear and curse one another. We could not find any
real love there. It was all cruel hate. Angels often came down when they
were fighting to part them. Then some would cling to their robes and
hold on like mad men. An electric shock from these high angels’ minds
would throw them onto the ground again. O! the power of mind or soul!
Every time they would hurt or abuse another, they were forced to stay
another day in Purgatory. Men or women who had tortured or helped in any
way to torture any prisoner or helpless child or insane person, or any
one in their power on earth, were tortured seven-fold there; their
innocent victims were permitted to come here and torture them. This is a
just law and is followed out to the letter in the underworld. One cannot
escape justice any more than they can escape life. We all live on and on
whether we go to Heaven or Hades.
“Ruth, here is another proof that the wicked are punished just as the
Bible teaches. Here in this underworld the souls of the wicked groan and
moan and are tormented day and night. Here the awful blackness seemed
touched and blended with green and blue fire, the air was poisoned with
awful furies. Ugly long, yellow and black, fiery-eyed, serpents are
everywhere driving the inhabitants here and there, ‘there was no rest
for the wicked.’”
The serpents were even climbing the trees. The trees all looked dead,
old and withered. All the men and women seemed lost; not one could find
their loved ones. All were parted! All lonely! Their only companions
were those they hated most. Many had been in this awful place for years
and years. Many would stay years longer, because they had made slaves of
lovely young girls. These poor, helpless girls had gone on to Heaven,
and the men that ruined them were still suffering here. They suffered
more than their former victims ever did. Ruth was so glad to see these
men suffering. Young girls have a right to honor and sacred love and
homes. These men and women that once sold sweet, lovely young girls for
money, prayed for death; but there is no death in Hades! It was awful to
see these souls live on and on to suffer and groan from remorse of
conscience. There would be no justice without this great mighty
underworld court, or Purgatory. The sins and crimes of darkness, of all
the universe, are concentrated here. This is a terrible and dismal
region of darkness, misery, despair and sorrow! Hades is a place in
space down in the opposite direction from Heaven. It is God’s mighty
Court of Justice. There is no money or bail given there. You cannot
bribe the Judge or jury. Their souls are laid bare! Their hearts and
very thoughts are judged. All their past acts are recorded. Justice
reigns supreme. Every act and thought is pictured in space. Every sound
ascends and is recorded by our angels. Science is a perfect
photographer. All acts and thoughts are retained on the lens of the
mind.
“Cresto, is that why these men and women seem so insane?”
“Yes, dear, their minds are all darkness from sin and ignorance.”
“Cresto, please take me home out into the fresh air, I cannot stand
their awful looks and misery.”
“Come, we will go at once. I should have taken you back sooner.”
“O! what happiness to fly from darkest Purgatory, out into God’s lovely
star light. To soar like a free bird in the sweet, pure fresh air. What
a contrast from that awful place!”
“Ruth, are you not glad you have chosen missionary work instead of
idleness?”
“Yes, dear, from now on I shall be perfectly happy in doing good. I must
commence my work at once. Now is the time. How lovely it is to float
like this among the stars. Away in space! To float like a bird among the
stars and clouds is perfect ecstacy! Each star looks like big, bright
double balls of light; one was blue, one was white. Cresto, this is a
heavenly sight!”
“My darling, I will hold you closer to my heart and fly on and on with
you just to please you. My greatest happiness is in seeing you happy.
All you need to do is to put your lovely head on my breast, and take
long, deep breaths.”
“Darling, how grateful I am to you, Cresto, dear, to be able to float as
the angels do with you, just for tonight. O! this lovely, perfect night.
Cresto, I love you!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: chapter headpiece]
CHAPTER VIII.
“All night she dreamed and wondered with the light
Her lover came—and then she understood
The purpose of her being. Life was good,
And all the world seemed bright
And nothing was, but right.”
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
The next morning, early at dawn, she saw this Indian prince
clairvoyantly. At first she could not believe her eyes! She thought the
trip to Mars and Purgatory only a dream.
“Cresto, are you a true, living soul? Was my awful dream last night all
true?”
“Yes, poor child, your dream was all more than true. Our souls often
travel together. It is a fact that our souls can travel, while our
bodies sleep. Love, there is no limit to the soul’s flight. Our souls
are made in the image of God. Doll, long ago I was once a real, live
Indian prince. I came from another star to watch over you and protect
you, dear. Dreams are often true. I have given you many facts in dreams.
I will also develop you to a higher degree clairvoyantly. You hear me
now, love, clairaudiently. True visions from the other world will often
be revealed to you. Ruth, please remember all that I reveal to you in
visions, dreams, or strong impressions will be real facts,—soul facts. I
develop you to help you make poor, sorrowing humanity happy and teach
you to help others to higher planes.”
“Cresto, why do you spend so much time with me?”
“Dear, I will always be with you. I am your twin-soul—your soul-mate. I
am your other half. Darling child, without you there is no life or
happiness. You are all my very own, my twin-soul. God has made us one. I
love you with all my heart and life! I will often take your soul away in
vision to visit and enjoy other planets. Souls from other stars will
come to teach you and reveal beautiful facts to you. We will help you to
keep busy, happy and content, dove. Ruth all things are dual—all souls
dual. My darling, do you love me?”
“Yes, dear, I love you. I do not know why this new love is so strange to
me, so different from anything I ever heard of or thought of. Cresto, am
I the first
|
manner in which
he does his work. He would scorn to steal your watch and is a man of
honor outside of bank-breaking hours,--"Honor among thieves." Often
enough he is a model husband and father. So, too, may be your forger,
gambler, swindler, burglar, highwayman, or thief,--any in fact except
the real moral pervert; and of course murder is entirely compatible
on occasion with a noble, dignified and generous character. "There
is nothing essentially incongruous between crime and culture." The
prosecutor who begins by loathing and despising the man sitting at the
bar may end by having a sincere admiration for his intellect, character
or capabilities. This by way of defence to crime in general.
Our forefathers contented themselves with a rough distinction
between crimes as _mala prohibita_ and _mala in se_. When they
sought to classify criminal acts under this arrangement they divided
them accordingly as the offence carried or did not carry with it a
suggestion of moral turpitude. Broadly speaking, all felonies were and
are regarded as _mala in se_. Murder, arson, burglary, theft, etc.,
in general indubitably imply a depraved mind, while infractions of
Sunday observance laws or of statutes governing the trade in liquor
do not. Yet it must be perfectly clear that any such distinction is
inconclusive.
There can be no general rule based merely on the name or kind of crime
committed which is going to tell us which offender is really the
worst. A misdemeanor may be very much more heinous than a felony. The
adulterator of drugs or the employer of illegal child labor may well
be regarded as vastly more reprehensible than the tramp who steals
part of the family wash. So far as that goes there are an alarming
multitude of acts and omissions not forbidden by statute or classed
as crimes which are to all intents and purposes fully as criminal as
those designated as such by law. This is the inevitable result of the
fact that crimes are not crimes merely because they are wrong, but
because the State has enjoined them. For example, to push a blind man
over the edge of a cliff so that he is killed upon the rocks below is
murder, but to permit him to walk over it, although by stretching out
your hand you might prevent him, is no crime at all. It is a crime to
defame a woman's character if you write your accusation upon a slip of
paper and pass it to another, but it is no crime in New York State to
arise in a crowded lecture hall and ruin her forever by word of mouth.
It is a crime to steal a banana off a fruit-stand, but it is no crime
to borrow ten thousand dollars from a man whose entire fortune it is,
although you have no expectation of returning it. You can be a swindler
all your life--the meanest sort of a mean swindler, but there is no
crime of being a swindler or of being a mean man. It is a crime to ruin
a girl of seventeen years and eleven months, but not to ruin a girl of
eighteen. The "age of consent" varies in the different States. It is a
crime to obtain a dollar by means of a false statement as to a past or
existing fact, but it is no crime to obtain as much money as you can by
any other sort of a lie. Lying is not a crime, but lying under oath is
a crime,--provided it be done in a legal proceeding and relates to a
_material_ matter. The most learned jurists habitually disagree as to
what is material and what is not.
Even when the acts to be contrasted are all crimes there is no way of
actually discriminating between them except by carefully scrutinizing
the circumstances of each. The so-called "degrees" mean little or
nothing. If you steal four hundred and ninety-nine dollars out of a
man's safe in the daytime it is grand larceny in the second degree. If
you pick the same man's pocket of a subway ticket after sunset it is
grand larceny in the first degree. You may get five years in the first
instance and ten in the second. If you steal twenty-five dollars out of
a bureau drawer you commit petty larceny and may be sent to prison for
only one year.
If the degree of any particular crime of which a defendant is found
guilty is no index to his real criminality or of his danger to society,
still less is the name of the crime he has committed an index to his
moral character, save in the case of certain offences which it is not
necessary to enumerate. Most men charged with homicide are indicted for
murder in the first degree. This may be a wise course for the grand
jury to pursue in view of the additional evidence which often comes
to light during a trial. But it frequently is discovered before the
case goes to the jury that in point of fact the killing was in hot
blood and under circumstances which evince no great moral turpitude
in the slayer. For example, two drunken men become involved in an
altercation and one strikes the other, who loses his equilibrium and
falls, hitting his head against a curbstone and fracturing his skull.
The striker is indicted and tried for murder. Now he is doubtless
guilty of manslaughter, but he is less dangerous to the community
than a professional thief who preys upon the public by impersonating
a gasman or telephone repairer and by thus gaining access to private
dwellings steals the owner's property. One is an accidental, the other
an intentional criminal. One is hostile to society as a whole and the
other is probably not really hostile to anybody. Yet the less guilty
is denominated a murderer, and the other is rarely held guilty of
more than petty larceny. A fellow who bumps into you on the street,
if he be accompanied by another, and grabs your cane, is guilty of
robbery in the first degree,--"highway" robbery,--and may get twenty
years for it, but the same man may publish a malicious libel about
you, and by accusing you of the foulest practices rob you of your good
name and be only guilty of a misdemeanor. Yet the reader should not
infer that definitions and grades of crime capable of corresponding
punishments are not proper, desirable, and necessary. Of course they
are. The practical use of such statutes is to fix a maximum sentence
of punishment. As a rule the minimum is anything the judge sees fit.
Hence you may deduce a general principle to the effect that the charge
against the prisoner, even assuming his guilt, indicates nothing
definite as to his moral turpitude, danger to the community, or general
undesirability.
But we may honestly go much further. Not only are the names and degrees
of the crimes which a defendant may have committed of very little
assistance in determining his real criminality, but the fact that
he has committed them by no means signifies that he is morally any
worse than some man who has committed no so-called crime at all. Many
criminals, even those guilty of homicide, are as white as snow compared
with others who have never transgressed the literal wording of a penal
statute.
"We used to have So and So for our lawyer," remarked the president
of a large street railway corporation. "He was always telling us what
we _couldn't_ do. Now we have Blank, and pay him one hundred thousand
dollars a year to tell us how we _can_ do the same things." The thief
who can have the advice of able counsel "how to do it" need never go to
jail.
Many of the things most abhorrent to our sense of right do not come
within the scope of the criminal law. _Omissions_, no matter how
reprehensible, are usually not regarded as criminal, because in most
cases there is no technical legal duty to perform the act omitted.
Thus, not to remove your neighbor's baby from the railroad track in
front of an on-rushing train, although it would cause you very little
trouble to do so, is no crime, even if the child's life be lost as a
result of your neglect. You can let your mother-in-law choke to death
without sending for a doctor, or permit a ruffian half your size to
kill an old and helpless man, or allow your neighbor's house to burn
down, he and his family peacefully sleeping inside it, while you play
on the pianola and refuse to ring up the fire department, and never
have to suffer for it--in this world.
Passing from felonies--_mala in se_--to misdemeanors--generally only
_mala prohibita_--almost anything becomes a crime, depending upon the
arbitrary act of the legislature.
It is a crime in New York State to run a horse race within a mile of
where a court is sitting; to advertise as a divorce lawyer; to go
fishing or "play" on the first day of the week; to set off fire-works
or make a "disbursing noise"[1] at a military funeral in a city on
Sunday; to arrest or attach a corpse for payment of debt; to keep a
"slot machine"; to do business under any name not actually your own
full name without filing a certificate with the county clerk (as, for
example, if, being a tailor, you call your shop "The P.D.Q. Tailoring
Establishment"); to ride in a long-distance bicycle race more than
twelve hours out of twenty-four; to shoe horses without complying
with certain articles of the Labor Law; to fail to supply seats for
female employés in a mercantile establishment; to steal a ride in a
freight car, or to board such a car or train while in motion; to set
fire negligently to one's own woods, by means of which the property of
another is endangered; to run a ferry without authority, or, having
contracted to run one, to fail to do so; to neglect to post ferry
rates (under certain conditions) in English; to induce the employé
of a railroad company to leave its service because it requires him
to wear a uniform; to wear a railroad uniform without authority;
to fish with a net in any part of the Hudson River (except where
permitted by statute); to secretly loiter about a building with intent
to overhear discourse therein, and to repeat the same to vex others
(eavesdropping); to sell skimmed milk without a label; to plant oysters
(if you are a non-resident) inside the State without the consent of the
owner of the water; to maintain an insane asylum without a license; to
enter an agricultural fair without paying the entrance fee; to assemble
with two or more other persons "disguised by having their faces
painted, discolored, colored or concealed," save at a fancy-dress ball
for which permission has been duly obtained from the police; or to wear
the badge of the "Patrons of Husbandry," or of certain other orders
without authority. These illustrations are selected at random from the
New York Penal Code.
Where every business, profession, and sport is hedged around by such
_chevaux-de-frise_ of criminal statutes, he must be an extraordinarily
careful as well as an exceptionally well-informed citizen who avoids
sooner or later crossing the dead-line. It is to be deprecated that our
law-makers can devise no other way of regulating our existences save by
threatening us with the shaved head and striped shirt.
The actual effect of such a multitude of statutes making anything and
everything crimes, punishable by imprisonment, instead of increasing
our respect for law, decreases it, unless they are intended to be and
actually are enforced. Acts _mala in se_ are lost in the shuffle among
the acts _mala prohibita_, and we have to become students to avoid
becoming criminals.
Year by year the legislature goes calmly on _creating_ all sorts of new
crimes, while failing to amplify or give effect to the various statutes
governing existing offences which to a far greater degree are a menace
to the community. For example, it is not a crime in New York State to
procure money by false pretences provided the person defrauded parts
with his money for an illegal purpose.[2]
In the McCord[3] case, in which the Court of Appeals established this
extraordinary doctrine, the defendant had falsely pretended to the
complainant, a man named Miller, that he was a police officer and held
a warrant for his arrest. By these means he had induced Miller to give
him a gold watch and a diamond ring as the price of his liberty. The
conviction in this case was reversed on the ground that Miller parted
with his property for an unlawful purpose; but there was a very strong
dissenting opinion from Mr. Justice Peckham, now a member of the bench
of the Supreme Court of the United States.
In a second case, that of Livingston,[4] the complainant had been
defrauded out of five hundred dollars by means of the "green-goods"
game; but this conviction was reversed by the Appellate Division of the
Second Department on the authority of the McCord case. The opinion was
written by Mr. Justice Cullen, now Chief Judge of the New York Court of
Appeals, who says in conclusion:
"We very much regret being compelled to reverse this conviction. Even
if the prosecutor intended to deal in counterfeit money, it is no
reason why the appellant should go unwhipped of justice. _We venture
to suggest that it might be well for the legislature to alter the rule
laid down in McCord vs. People._"
Well might the judges regret being compelled to set a rogue at liberty
simply because he had been ingenious enough to invent a fraud which
involved the additional turpitude of seducing another into a criminal
conspiracy. Livingston was turned loose upon the community, in spite
of the fact that he had swindled a man out of five hundred dollars,
because he had incidentally led the latter to believe that in return
he was to receive counterfeit money or "green goods" which might be
put into circulation. Yet, because, some years before, the judges
of the Court of Appeals had, in the McCord matter, adopted the rule
followed in civil cases, to wit, that as the complaining witness was
himself in fault and did not come into court with clean hands he could
have no standing before them, the Appellate Division in the next case
felt obliged to follow them and to rule tantamount to saying that two
wrongs could make a right and two knaves one honest man. It may seem
a trifle unfair to put it in just this way, but when one realizes
the iniquity of such a rule as applied to criminal cases, it is hard
to speak softly. Thus the broad and general doctrine seemed to be
established that so long as a thief could induce his victim to believe
that it was to his advantage to enter into a dishonest transaction, he
might defraud him to any extent in his power. Immediately there sprang
into being hordes of swindlers, who, aided by adroit shyster lawyers,
invented all sorts of schemes which involved some sort of dishonesty
upon the part of the person to be defrauded. The "wire-tappers,"
of whom "Larry" Summerfield was the Napoleon, the "gold-brick" and
"green-goods" men, and the "sick engineers" flocked to New York, which,
under the unwitting protection of the Court of Appeals, became a
veritable Mecca for persons of their ilk.
The "wire-tapping" game consisted in inducing the victim to put up
money for the purpose of betting upon a "sure thing," knowledge of
which the thief pretended to have secured by "tapping" a Western
Union wire of advance news of the races. He usually had a "lay out"
which included telegraph instruments connected with a dry battery in
an adjoining closet, and would merrily steal the supposed news off
an imaginary wire and then send his dupe to play his money upon the
"winner" in a pretended pool-room which in reality was nothing but a
den of thieves, who instantly absconded with the money.
In this way one John Felix was defrauded out of fifty thousand dollars
on a single occasion.[5] Now the simplest legislation could instantly
remedy this evil and put all the "wire-tappers" and similar swindlers
out of business, yet a bill framed and introduced in accordance with
the suggestion of the highest court in the State was defeated. Instead
the legislature passes scores of entirely innocuous and respectable
acts like the following, which became a law in 1890:
An Act for the Prevention of Blindness
Section 1. Should... _nurse having charge of an infant... notice_
that one or both eyes of such infant are inflamed or reddened at
any time within two weeks after its birth it shall be the duty of
such nurse... to report the fact in writing within six hours to the
health officer or some legally qualified practitioner of medicine...
Section 2. Any failure to comply with the provisions of this act
shall be punished by a fine not to exceed one hundred dollars, _or
imprisonment not to exceed six months_, _or both_.
The criminal law which had its origin when violence was rife is
admirably adapted to the prevention, prosecuting and punishment of
crude crimes, such as arson, rape, robbery, burglary, mayhem, assault,
homicide, and "common-law" larceny,--theft accompanied by a trespass.
In old times everything was against the man charged with crime--at
least that was the attitude of the court and jury. "Aha!" exclaims the
judge as the evidence goes in. "You thought you were stealing only
a horse! But you stole a _halter as well_!" And the spectators are
convulsed with merriment.
We take honest pride in the protection which our law affords to the
indicted prisoner. It is the natural expression of our disapproval
of a system which at the time of our severance from England ignored
the rights of the individual for those of the community. We touched
the lips of the defendant and gave him the right to speak in his own
behalf. We gave him an unlimited right of appeal on any imaginable
technicality.[6] But while we have been making it harder and harder to
convict our common criminals, we have to a very great extent failed
to recognize the fact that all sorts of new and ingenious crimes
have come into existence with which the law in its present state is
utterly unable to cope. The evolution of the modern corporation
has made possible larcenies to the punishment of which the law is
entirely inadequate. "Acts for the prevention of blindness" are perhaps
desirable, but how about a few statutes to prevent the officers of
insurance companies from arbitrarily diverting the funds of that vague
host commonly alluded to as "widows and orphans"? The careless nurse
is a criminal and may be confined in a penitentiary; while perhaps a
man who may be guilty of a great iniquity and known to be so drives
nonchalantly off in his coach and four.
What is crime? We may well ask the question, only eventually to be
confronted by that illuminating definition with which begins the Penal
Code--"A crime is an act or omission forbidden by law and punishable
upon conviction by... penal discipline." Let us put on our glasses
and find out what these acts or omissions are. When we have done that
we may begin to look around for the criminals. But it will be of
comparatively little assistance in finding the _sinners_.
So-called criminologists delight in measuring the width of the skulls
between the eyes, the height of the foreheads, the length of the ears,
and the angle of the noses of persons convicted of certain kinds of
crimes, and prepare for the edification of the simple-minded public
tables demonstrating that the burglar has this kind of a head, the
pickpocket that sort of an ear, and the swindler such and such a
variety of visage. Exhaustive treatises upon crime and criminals lay
down general principles supposed to assist in determining the kind of
crime for which any particular unfortunate may have a predilection. One
variety of criminal looks this way and another looks that way. One has
blue eyes, the other brown eyes.[7] Some look up, others look down. My
friend, if you examine into the question, you will probably discover
that the clerk who sells you your glass of soda water at the corner
drug store will qualify for some one of these classes, so will your
host at dinner this evening, so, very likely, will the family doctor or
the pastor of your church.
The writer is informed that there has recently been produced an
elaborate work on political criminals in which an attempt is made to
set forth the telltale characteristics of such. It is explained that
the tendency to commit such crimes may be inherited. You are about as
likely to inherit an inclination to commit a political crime as you are
to derive from a maiden aunt a tendency to violate a speed ordinance or
make a "disbursing" noise.
Let some one codify all the sins and meannesses of mankind, let the
legislatures make them crimes and affix appropriate penalties, then
those of us who still remain outside the bars may with more propriety
indulge ourselves in reflections at the expense of those who are not.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: New York Penal Code, Section 276.]
[Footnote 2: No longer the law of New York. After this book was
published the Court of Appeals reversed the conviction of Tracy for
his $50,000 fraud upon Felix by means of the "wire-tapping" game and
affirmed as law the doctrine of People _vs._ McCord. The author takes
satisfaction in recording that the Legislature thereupon awoke to its
duties and amended the penal code in such a fashion as to render such
offences criminal.]
[Footnote 3: 46 New York 470.]
[Footnote 4: 47 App. Div. 283.]
[Footnote 5: The operations of these swindlers recently became so
notorious that the District Attorney of New York County determined to
prosecute the perpetrators of the Felix swindle, in spite of the fact
that the offence appeared to come within the language of the Court of
Appeals in the McCord and Livingston cases. Accordingly Christopher
Tracy, alias Charles Tompkins, alias Topping, etc., etc., was indicted
(on the theory of "trick and device") for the "common-law" larceny of
Felix's fifty thousand dollars.
The trial came on before Judge Warren W. Foster in Part III of the
General Sessions on February 27, 1906. A special panel quickly supplied
a jury, which, after hearing the evidence, returned a verdict of guilty
in short order.
It now remains for the judges of the Court of Appeals to decide whether
they will extend the doctrine of the McCord and Livingston cases to a
fraud of this character, whether they will limit the doctrine strictly
to cases of precisely similar facts, or whether they will frankly
refuse to be bound by any such absurd and iniquitous theory and consign
the McCord case to the dust-heap of discarded and mistaken doctrines,
where it rightfully belongs. Their action will determine whether the
perpetrators of the most ingenious, elaborate and successful bunco game
in the history of New York County shall be punished for their offence
or instead be turned loose to prey at will upon the community at large.
(See "The Last of the Wire-Tappers" in the _American Magazine_ for
June, 1906; also incorporated in the author's "True Stories of Crime,"
pp. 103-121, published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 1908.)]
[Footnote 6: Cf. in general, references given _infra_, p. 339.]
[Footnote 7: The following appeared in the New York _Globe_ for April
25, 1905: "Criminal eyes--It is well known," says Dr. Beddoe, F.R.S.,
"that brown eyes and dark hair are particularly common among the
criminal classes. An American observer calls the brown the criminal
eye, etc., etc."]
CHAPTER II
WHO ARE THE REAL CRIMINALS?
Some reader of the preceding chapter may perhaps remark, "This is
all very well so far as it goes. It doubtless is entirely true from
a purely technical point of view. But that is only one side of the
matter. How about the _real_ criminals?" This is neither an unexpected
nor an uninvited criticism. Who _are_ the "_real_" criminals? Charles
Dudley Warner says: "Speaking technically, we put in that [the
criminal] class those whose sole occupation is crime, who live upon it
as a profession and who have no other permanent industry. They prey
upon society. They are by their acts at war upon it and are outlaws."
Now the class of professional criminals to which Mr. Warner refers as
contrasted with the great mass of criminal defendants as a whole is,
in point of fact, relatively so small, and so easily recognized and
handled, that it plays but an inconspicuous part in the administration
of criminal justice.
The criminals who conform accurately to childhood's tradition are
comparatively few in number. The masked highwayman, the safe-cracker
and even the armed house burglar have, with a few exceptions, long
since withdrawn from the actual pursuit of their romantic professions
and exist practically only in the eagerly devoured pages of Sherlock
Holmes and the "memoirs of great detectives." New and almost more
picturesque figures have taken their places,--the polite and elegant
swindler, the out-at-the-elbows but confidence-inspiring promoter
of assetless corporations, the dealer in worthless securities, and
the forger who drives in his own carriage to the bank he intends to
defraud. In some cases the individuals are the same, the safe-cracker
merely having doffed his mask in favor of the silk hat of Nassau
Street. Of yore he stole valuable securities which he was compelled to
dispose of at a tremendous discount; now he sells you worthless stocks
and bonds at a slight premium. Mr. J. Holt Schorling, writing in _The
Contemporary Review_ for June, 1902, points out that while all crimes
other than fraud decreased materially in England from 1885 to 1899, the
crime of fraud itself materially increased during the same period.[8]
The subject is a tempting one, but it is not essential to our thesis.
The devil is not dead; he has merely changed his clothes. Criminal
activity has not subsided; it has instead sought new ways to meet
modern conditions, and so favorable are these that while polite crime
may be said still to be in its infancy, it is nevertheless thriving
lustily.
While the degenerate criminal class is the subject of much elaborate
and minute analysis by our continental neighbors, its extent is
constantly exaggerated and its relation to the other criminal classes
not fully appreciated. To read some supposedly scientific works one
would imagine that every court of criminal justice was or should be
nothing but a sort of clinic. To these learned authors, civilization,
it is true, owes a debt for their demonstration that some crime is due
to insanity and should be prevented, and, where possible, cured in much
the same manner. But they have created an impression that practically
all crime is the result of abnormality.
Every great truth brings in its train a few falsehoods,--every great
reform a few abuses. The first penological movement was in the
direction of prison reform. While perhaps the psychological problem
was not entirely overlooked, it was completely subordinated to the
physical. It is a noble thing that the convict should have a warm cell
in winter and a cool one in summer, with electric light and running
water, wholesome and nutritious food, books, bathrooms, hospitals,
chapels, concerts, ball games and chaplains. "But it must be noted that
along with this movement has grown up a sickly sentimentality about
criminals which has gone altogether too far, and which, under the guise
of humanity and philanthropy, confounds all moral distinctions." To a
large number of well-meaning people every convict is a person to whom
the State has done an injury.
Then came the study of degeneracy, with the cranium of every criminal
as a subject of investigation. In 1881 or thereabouts Professor
Benedickt published his conclusion that "the brains of criminals
exhibit a deviation from the anthropological variety of their species,
at least among the cultured races." It was a commendable thing to point
out the relation of insanity to crime. It is an undeniable truth that
there are insane people who are predisposed to crime just as there are
those who are predisposed to dance.
The vicious criminal class contains many who are actually or
incipiently insane, and it numbers a great many more who are
physically and mentally normal, who yet by reason of their education
and environment are not much to be blamed for doing wrong. But it is
far from true that a majority of the "real" criminals are mentally
defective. Crime and insanity are no more closely related than sin
and insanity. Certain criminals are also perverts. But they would be
criminals even if they were not perverts. The fact that a man who
takes drugs is also a criminal does not prove that he is a criminal
because he takes drugs. We know many drug-takers who are otherwise
highly respectable. Go to the General Sessions and watch the various
defendants who are brought into court and you will discover little
more degeneracy or abnormality than you would find on the corner of
Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue among the same number of unaccused
citizens.
The point which the writer desires to make is that, leaving out the
accidental and experimental criminals, there is a much closer relation
between all law-breakers than the public and our legislators seem to
suppose. The man who adulterates his milk to make a little extra money
is in the same class with the financial swindler. One waters his milk,
the other his stock. The same underhanded desire to better one's self
at the expense of one's neighbor is the moving cause in each case. The
forger belongs to the class whose heads the criminologists delight to
measure, but they would not measure your milkman's. The man who steals
your purse is a felon and a subject of scientific investigation and
discussion; the man who forges a trade-mark commits only a misdemeanor
and excites no psychological interest. But they are criminals of
exactly the same type.
The "crime-is-a-disease" theory has been worked entirely too hard. It
is a penologic generality which does not need any truckling to popular
sentimentality to demonstrate its truth. But there are as many sorts of
this "disease" as there are kinds of crime, and some varieties would
be better described by other and less euphemistic names. Crime is no
more a disease than sin, and the sinners deserve a good share of the
sympathy that is at present wasted on the criminals. The poor fellow
who has merely done wrong gets but scant courtesy, but once jerk him
behind the bars and the women send him flowers. If crime is a disease,
sin is also a disease, and we have all got a case of it. It is strange
that there is not more "straight talk" on this subject. Every one of us
has criminal propensities,--that is to say, in every one of us lurks
the elemental and unlawful passions of sex and of acquirement. It is
but a play on words to say that the man who yields to his inclinations
to the extent of transgressing the criminal statutes is "diseased." Up
to a certain point it is his own business, beyond it becomes ours, and
he transgresses at his peril.
The ordinary criminal usually is such because he "wants the money";
he either does not like to work or wants more money than he can earn
honestly. He has no "irresistible impulse" to steal,--he steals because
he thinks he can "get away with it."
The so-called professional thief is usually one who has succeeded in so
doing or who, having been convicted of larceny, finds he cannot live
agreeably other than by thieving; but the man is no less a professional
thief who systematically puts money in his pocket by dishonest and
illegal methods in business. The fact that it is not, in the ordinary
sense, his "sole occupation" does not affect the question at all.
Indeed, it would be difficult for one whose business life was permeated
by graft to refute the general allegation that his "sole occupation"
was criminal. Granting this, your dishonest business man fulfils every
requirement of Mr. Warner's definition, for he "preys upon society and
is [secretly] at war upon it." He may not be an "outlaw," but he should
be one under any enlightened code of criminal laws.[9]
There is no practical distinction between a man who gets all of a
poor living dishonestly and one who gets part of an exceedingly good
living dishonestly. The thieving of the latter may be many times
more profitable than that of the former. So long as both keep at it
systematically there is little to choose between the thief who earns
his livelihood by picking pockets and the grocer or the financier who
swindles those who rely upon his representations. The man who steals
a trade-mark, counterfeits a label, or adulterates food or drugs, who
makes a fraudulent assignment of his property, who as a director of a
corporation declares an unearned dividend for the purpose of selling
the stock of himself and his associates at an inflated value, who
publishes false statements and reports, makes illegal loans, or who is
guilty of any of the thousand and one dishonest practices which are
being uncovered every day in the management of life insurance, banking,
trust, and railroad companies, is precisely as "real" a criminal as one
who lurks in an alley and steals from a passing wagon. _Each is guilty
of a deliberate violation of law implying conscious wrong_, and each
commits it for essentially the same reason.
Yet at the present time the law itself recognizes a fictitious
distinction between these crimes and those of a more elementary sort.
The adulteration of foods, the theft of trade-marks, stock-jobbing,
corporation frauds, and fraudulent assignments are as a rule only
misdemeanors. The trouble is that we have not yet adjusted ourselves to
the idea that the criminal who wears a clean collar is as dangerous as
one who does not. Of course, in point of fact he is a great deal worse,
for he has not the excuse of having a gnawing at his vitals.
If a rascally merchant makes a fraudulent conveyance of his property
and then "fails," although he may have secreted goods worth fifty
thousand dollars, the punishment of himself and his confederate is
limited to a year in the penitentiary and a thousand dollars fine,
while if a bank cashier should steal an equivalent amount and turn it
over to an accomplice for safe keeping he could receive ten years in
State's prison. Even in this last case the receiver's punishment could
not exceed _five_ years. Thus Robert A. Ammon, who was the sole person
to profit by the notorious "Franklyn Syndicate,"[10] when convicted
of receiving the proceeds of the fraud, could be sentenced to only
five years in Sing Sing, while his dupe, Miller, who sat at the desk
and received the money, although he acted throughout by the other's
advice and counsel, in fact did receive a sentence of ten years for
practically the same offence. However inequitable this may seem, what
inducements are offered in the field of fraudulent commercial activity
when a similar kind of theft is punishable by only a year in the
penitentiary?
One can hardly blame such picturesque swindlers as "Larry" Summerfield,
who saw gigantic financial and commercial frauds being perpetrated
on every side, while the thieves who had enriched themselves at the
expense of a gullible public went scot-free, for wanting to participate
in the feast. Almost every day sees some new corporation brought into
being, the only object of which is to enable its organizers to foist
its worthless stock among poorly paid clerks, stenographers, trained
nurses, elevator men and hard-working mechanics. The stock is disposed
of and the "corporation" (usually a copper or gold mining enterprise)
is never heard of again. Apparently if you do the thing correctly there
can be no "come back." Accordingly Summerfield and his gang of "sick
engineers" hawked through the town nearly eighty thousand dollars'
worth of the securities of the Horse Shoe Copper Mining Company, which
owned a hole in the ground in Arizona. It was all done under legal
advice and was undoubtedly believed to be within the letter of the
law. But there were a few unnecessary falsehoods, a few slips in the
schedule, a few complainants who would not be placated, and "Larry"
found himself in the toils. He was convicted of grand larc
|
?" having stumped his toe, exclaimed, "Jesus
Christ!" The guard, according to one version, said, "Advance and be
recognized!" According to another version, he called for the corporal to
turn out the chaplain! That seemed to him to be the appropriate thing to
do. On another occasion when an officer exclaimed, "the devil," a
similar call was made for the chaplain to turn out and meet his satanic
majesty, who had arrived in camp.
If you would find out what is going on in camp, go some time to the
guard house when a large crowd has been "run in," not for any very
heinous offense, but for something which they try to justify themselves
in, and say they would do again. The crowd will be lively and good
hearted, and will have nothing to do but to tell and hear stories. One
story on any particular phase of camp life will be a starter; then they
follow fast. And the boys will be glad you came if you have chatted with
them in a free and sociable way, and will give you a hearty invitation
back again.[A]
Last night I accompanied Capt. C----, the commanding officer of the
guard, around the sentry circuit of the camp. In the evening I was at
the guard house, where two prisoners were immured for a little
difficulty they had had, and the captain asked me if I would not like
to make this round with him. Wishing to know all about it, I met him at
10:30 and we went out through the dark. We were halted by every one of
the fifteen sentinels. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Friends," I would
answer, or, "Officers of the camp." "Advance one and be recognized,"
would be the sentry's response. Then I would advance, and at the
bayonet's point stand till he recognized me or said he could not, and I
told him who I was. Then I told my companion to advance, while the guard
held his gun at port. The sentries made a great many mistakes, as might
be expected. Sometimes they said simply, "Advance," instead of "Advance
one;" then we both advanced. The captain thereupon showed him the danger
of that. Sometimes I was permitted, when ordered to advance, to go right
up to the sentry without his drawing down his gun upon me. The captain
would then show him how he exposed himself by that error. Thus he
instructed each of the sentinels on duty. One of the "rookies" the other
day made a funny blunder. A general instruction to the sentinel is "to
walk his post in a military manner, and to salute all commissioned
officers and all standards and colors uncased." Wishing to get it fixed
firmly in his mind, this guard kept repeating it over and over to
himself. The result was that at last he got the word "millinery"
hopelessly substituted for "military" and in spite of himself would say
"colored officers" instead of "commissioned officers." The officer of
the guard found him in this confusion of words--and left him so.
The army is a good school. The average American youth, to render him a
good citizen, needs just the lessons of obedience and respect for
authority he gets here. My chief study is human nature under the
conditions of camp life and under the diverse manifestations inevitably
presented in military life. The guard house and the court room afford an
opportunity to become acquainted with some classes and specimens of
humanity. One evening last week I was retained as advocate for the
defense of two accused of cursing their officers. The trial is not
conducted as in a civil court, but according to the following manner in
the "field court." The lieutenant colonel constitutes the court, and,
having summoned the accused before him, reads the charges and proceeds
to the investigation. The advocate for the accused has but a limited
opportunity of displaying either his ability or smartness. He can ask
only such questions as his client requests shall be asked, and he
addresses them not to the witness directly, but to the judge, who puts
them to the witness.
In the first case in which I was advocate for the accused, the charge
was drawn up in the following prescribed and regular manner:
_Charge_--Disrespect toward his commanding officer, in violation of the
twentieth article of war.
_Specification_--In that A---- B----, Company ----, United States
Infantry, did use vile, abusive and threatening language toward his
captain. (Place and date.)
One of the boys was fined $1 and the other $2. The fines go to the
Soldiers' Home fund. Two days later I was called on to save one of these
boys from being tried on a charge of violating the twenty-second article
of war, which reads as follows:
"Any officer or soldier who begins, excites, causes or joins in any
meeting or sedition in any troop, etc., shall suffer death or such other
punishment as a court-martial may direct."
The colonel read the offender this article and gave him a warning he
will perhaps remember.
The lieutenant colonel's tent and mine are side by side, and the
proceedings of his court are, therefore, under my observation. The
cases, since pay-day especially, have been frequent, "two-step
moonshine" having been boot-legged into camp. Some of the boys on
outpost duty, thought it would be fun to have some fine spring chickens
they found at a farm house. The chickens cost them about $5 apiece. A
number of boys over-stayed their leave of absence in the city. They,
too, pay for their fun.
Human frailty and freakish love of liberty, more than wilful meanness,
appear in the conduct of those brought to trial. And, in most cases, the
ancient proverb is illustrated: "He that sinneth against me (says
wisdom) wrongeth his own soul."
Our first funeral occurred last Sunday. The circumstances of the case
rendered it pathetic in the extreme to whoever paused to reflect. The
contrast between the man's mournful career and his honored burial could
not have been greater. He died a drunkard's death. He was laid to rest
in the National Cemetery of Arlington, by nature one of the grandest, by
associations one of the most famous spots in our whole country. But
three days an enlisted man, he was buried with military honors. He was a
wrecked and ruined man; he had no relative, not a close friend near him
in the hour of his death, but the entire company of which he had so
lately become a member, marched ten miles through dust and extreme heat
to escort his body to his grave among the great of earth. The bugler,
who sounded "taps" for the battleship _Maine_ and for Gen. Grant, and
other illustrious dead, sounded the sweet and mellow notes above his
mournful tomb, bidding peace and repose to his spirit. What words could
be spoken for one of so sad a fate? How much of pathos in it all! How
much call for human sympathy, and what warning!
The feeling of comradeship and fraternity is more nobly and powerfully
manifested among soldiers than among any other class of men I know of.
Their spirit of generosity toward one another is not less strong than is
their sense of justice. These, I would say, are the most marked
characteristics of the soldier: Feeling of comradeship, spirit of
generosity and sense of justice. As for the last, being a fighter by
profession, he comes to entertain a high sense of honor, and is called
upon to maintain his rights and stand up for his cause. Of course, there
is code of laws for army life, which, although unwritten, are none the
less strict. There is, therefore, no school of character better than the
camp. It, indeed, ruins many. So does every occupation and every
environment. But those who set themselves strongly against the evils of
this way of life acquire a strength and nobleness which are not possible
under less strenuous and trying conditions. It is, therefore, a school
for character excelling any other. But greater tact and wisdom and
stronger personal influence are required here than elsewhere to direct
the sentiments and determine the character of those under training. Good
music, good literature, good addresses and entertainments, and good,
thoughtful treatment in general are influences that go far toward making
good soldiers and good men.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] The boys made merry over every situation and joked and jollied one
another under all circumstances. A lady visiting the camp at Fairmount
Park happened, in passing, to see a nice-looking boy in the guard house,
and with surprise stopped and asked, "Why, what have they put _you_ in
here for?" The poor boy blushed and began to stammer; a comrade standing
by took in the situation and promptly replied, "For playing baseball on
Sunday, madame!"
IV.
VARIOUS THINGS--ALL INTERESTING.
Huckleberries are ripe in the wilderness around Camp Alger, and many
boys from Missouri are getting their first taste of the berry
immortalized in the name of Tom Sawyer's adventurous friend. Dewberries
also find many a nook in the woods and the fallow fields, where of
mornings they gleam fresh and black on their low running vines. But most
abundant of all are the blackberries. The vines were in blossom when we
were at Jefferson Barracks, and we thought we should like to be
there--if not at Porto Rico or Manila--when the berries should be ripe;
but we find them more abundant around our present camp and of a fine,
large growth. Joaquin Miller advised the Virginians to "plow up their
dogs and plant vineyards." Were I a Virginian I should present to view
such a field as Solomon said belonged to the sluggard, "Lo, it was all
grown over with thorns."
There can hardly be a better berry-growing region anywhere than among
these old, yellow hills, in sight of the nation's capital. All kinds of
berries of a fine quality grow well here by nature, which proves that
soil and season are congenial. Under cultivation, as here and there you
may see them, the yield is large and the quality excellent. The boys on
their visits to the "ole swimmin' hole" usually get not only plenty of
good fresh country milk, but scatter through the woods and get a taste
of some kind of berries, or quickly buy out any vender they may chance
to meet.
The "ole swimmin' hole" is in Accotink Creek, above Tobin's mill. It is
just such a place as every one of us was familiar with in boyhood. At
the bend of the creek the water deepens, and the old sycamores, leaning
half-way across the stream, cast a cooling shade. One aged trunk, with
broad limbs, slants up from the water's edge to the deepest place, as
if it had at some time said to itself, "Now, I'll make this an ideal
swimming hole by furnishing the boys a place to plunge from." And so
here is where the "immortal boy," since before George Washington
surveyed the estate of Lord Fairfax, has spent such happy hours as live
in the memory of the man forever.
The most prolonged and thorough bath the boys have taken was when they
were out last week on their three days' march. Having pitched their
flies--small tents just large enough for two men to creep under and
sleep with their feet sticking out--officers and men make for the little
stream like thirsty oxen on the plains. After a long and dusty march
could they desire anything more delightful than what was offered by the
cool depths of "Difficult Run?" The bountiful heavens, doubtless with
the best intentions, sent them also a shower-bath. And such an one as it
was! We thought it could rain at Jefferson Barracks. It doesn't rain so
frequently here, but when it does rain it leaves nothing more to be
asked for in that line.
The little stream was lashed into a fury, and the boys had to dive to
keep from getting wet through. It rains on and on, and pours ever
harder. It doesn't matter if the bathers do think they have enough--they
get more. And where, meanwhile, are their clothes they would fain put on
dry? They are taking a swim, too, and the dust of the hills far away is
being thoroughly beaten out of them. Imagine the scene. The features of
the picture, if you were to sketch it with Hogarth lines, would be high
green hills rising steeply on either side; a narrow, winding valley,
through which wanders the little stream; on the west bank of this
rivulet, occupying the whole width of the vale and sloping up to meet
the low pines on the western hills, some 2,000 toy-like tents, known in
soldiers' parlance as "dog-tents" and "flies;" torrents of rain; in the
spray and mist of mingling waters an indefinite number of indistinct
forms appearing somewhat like the interminable line of royal ghosts in
Macbeth. There was no complaint in camp of dry weather for twenty-four
hours. D----, of Company C, had the opportunity of his life presented
him, for he is an expert with the pencil, his talent amounting almost to
genius.
Skirmishing in the woods and out-marches to the Potomac occupied the
following day. For discipline the troops behaved with such caution and
vigilance as they would observe in the enemy's country. And in the
enemy's country, indeed, they were. That night, just after call to
quarters had sounded and quiet had settled down upon the populous
village of nomads, the order was passed through camp for every man to be
ready to repel a sudden night attack, as a regiment of cavalry had been
discovered in the neighborhood by the scouts. You might then have heard
a hum of excitement and bustle of preparation, while a thousand bayonets
clanked in their sockets and the boys placed their guns by their sides.
As for the chaplain, he lay awake straining to catch every challenge and
response in the most distant sentry lines, and expecting every moment to
hear the blood-chilling yell of the on-rushing enemy as their horses
should dash into our camp. The first thing he realized was a quick jerk
given to his booted foot sticking from under his "fly," and then the
words, "Up, Chaplain, the cavalry's coming." A red streak lay along the
eastern sky above the hills; there was a low hum in camp, which was
gradually increasing. Lieut.-Col. W----'s good-natured laugh said that
it was all a joke, and the chaplain, without having to wait to dress,
went off grumbling to the creek to wash his face and get ready for 4
o'clock breakfast. The enemy, for reasons sufficient to themselves,
failed to carry out their programme.
Before sunrise the entire Third Regiment, leading the Third Brigade,
having broken camp, was formed along the winding road that trails up the
hillsides from the little valley, and was ready for the command
"Forward." Before the dew had yet wholly vanished from the clover, and
before the ripening blackberries had lost their morning coolness, we
marched into the old camp led by the band playing "Dixie." We had
marched about twelve miles in three hours and forty-five minutes, and
only three men had to be brought in in the ambulances. It was remarked
by some one that we went so fast we could not read the signs in Dunn
Loring. Capt. S----'s funny man said it was because the chaplain was in
front and he was leading them in "the straight and narrow way." Most of
the officers marched with the men, and all enjoyed their morning walk.
There is no monotony in camp life. There is routine, of course, but many
diversions and incidents, and something is continually happening. Last
night in the small hours an order came from corps headquarters for a
check-roll to be taken in every regiment instantly. For a few minutes
just before midnight the whole camp was in a stir. "What was it for?"
everybody was asking of everybody else. "Chesapeake Bay is full of
Spanish gunboats, and they want us at once," said one of the sergeants
to his men in hurrying them up. It became known this morning that a few
hundred soldiers had been raising Cain at Falls Church, and Gen. Graham
wanted to find out who they were. Hence this order for a check-roll. Two
cavalry regiments were sent out to run in the hilarious lads, but they
were only partially successful. The rest of the stampeders are reported
to be in Baltimore and Philadelphia, and no one knows where else. The
explanation is that the entire Sixth Pennsylvania took French leave for
the Fourth.
The other evening, while I was singing with Company E, where my friend
D---- belongs (whom, by the way, I wronged by intimating that the patch
on his face was there as the sign of a good time passed at the "farm
house," it being there, as he informs me, only to cover a boil), while
we were singing some sacred songs after D---- had executed a fine jig on
a foot-square board and the company's quartette has sung, "The bull-dog
on the bank and the bullfrog in the pool," etc., a quick command was
given for the company to "fall in" with their guns. They didn't wait for
the benediction, and I fell in with them to go "where duty or danger
called them." They were rushed in double-quick time into the officers'
lane and halted. Then the cause of it all was whispered about. An
obnoxious "shack" had been smashed into and the regiment was called out
to capture those committing the deed. What happened? We met a crowd,
surrounded by an armed posse, coming from that quarter and going rapidly
toward the guard house. An investigation there revealed the startling
fact that every one of the forty-odd boys surrounded and put under
arrest at the canteen was utterly innocent. Every wrong-doer, of course,
is innocent till proved guilty; but in the case of this crowd it soon
became evident that innocence was indeed injured. They were nearly all
"rookies"--that's the word for recruits. How could "rookies" be mixed up
so largely in such an affair? A mistake has been made, that is plain.
When the uproar occurred there had been a rush of the "rookies" to the
spot to see what was going on; the raiders had fled and escaped, of
course, and the "rookies" were hustled in. They learned a lesson early.
A picture of them lined up two-deep and frightened by the menacing
interrogatories of Col. Gross, while a flickering candle was thrust in
the face of each one to discover who he was, and bristling bayonets
stood around them; the disappointment of the officers as their mistake
and failure became more and more apparent, the fright of the "rookies"
as they stood there in the uncertain light and their old clothes, the
glad expression of relief when they were ordered to be dismissed--this,
too, would be a picture.
Evenings in camp, both among officers and men, are delightfully spent in
such amusements as I have already described, in various kinds of
farcical entertainments and in story-telling. The Irish element in the
regiment is sufficiently prominent to keep everybody happy. A lady
friend of our of Celtic stock visits us occasionally from Washington,
and makes her visits memorable by the good Irish stories she tells. The
other evening when she was here, and there was a lull in the
conversation, she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, do you remember the last time
I was out here?" "Why, of course, we do," everybody replied. "Well,"
said she, "forget that and remember the _Maine_!" Whereupon the laughing
and the story-telling began anew.
If a number of first-class romances do not grow out of the exchange of
compliments between the soldier boys and the girls who crowded to the
trains to see them on their way here, the postmaster of the Third will
be much disappointed. Half of the mail sometimes is addressed to or
comes from the numerous places where buttons were traded for bouquets,
and sigh was given for sigh, and names were hastily exchanged, as the
train sped away. All sorts of souvenirs are sent to Parkersburg, Athens,
Cincinnati, and other places, where the senders knew not a soul before
their journey through them. Unique methods of meeting the emergencies of
army life are sometimes devised. One lad, having no paper, but a clean,
white collar, for which he no longer has any use, fills it with a tender
message, folds it in an envelope, and so gratifies his wish to
communicate with the girl he left behind, while he gives her a souvenir
she will cherish long and tell the story of many years after the war is
over, and their grandchildren, perhaps, are gathered about their knees.
Another boy has neither paper nor envelope, so he writes upon his cuff,
links it together, stamps it, and so sends a message of romantic love to
one, it may be, whose fond eyes and fascinating face he saw in some
crowd in a strange place. If the chaplain does not have some work to do
growing out of all this romance, the postmaster is no prophet, and both
of them will be disappointed.
Rhymers and song-makers are not wanting. A letter left camp yesterday
directed in the following poetical style:
"Hurry me away at a furious rate
To Kansas City, Missouri State,
For Miss A---- R---- wants me there--
And I'm no humbug, here's my fare."
Another letter was addressed by means of the same jingle--the name only
being different. In this I regret to discover evidence that some young
man is richer in sweethearts than in poetic devices.
A hardtack was addressed and sent without any envelope, bearing this
rhymed message:
"I am a hard-tack that none can chew
Except a very brave boy in blue;
No time nor season can alter me,
I've been hard'ning since sixty-three;
Coffee made of clay and rain
Have tried to soften me in vain,
And salt-horse grease has sought to melt
Or touch my heart--it was not felt!"
The most difficult problem in camp, as the situation appears to one
concerned in the perpetual welfare of the men as citizen-soldiers, is to
provide for their mental needs. Let me make ample provision for them in
this respect and I will guarantee a good morality. Much of the time of
the soldier in camp is necessarily unemployed--how shall he occupy
himself? Idleness is the devil's great opportunity. The men of the Third
have generally been accustomed to books, magazines and papers--only one
man in the entire regiment could not sign his name and he is now dead.
The desire for mental employment is, therefore, strong. If it can be met
with good literature--as it must be met by some means--it will be far
less likely to go out in unprofitable and perilous ways. We have made a
good beginning in the way of ministering to the mental and moral needs
of the men, having erected a tent 40 feet square and furnished it with
tables and seats, and organ and song books, writing material, and
magazines and papers. Its capacity, however, is altogether inadequate;
it is not an uncommon thing to see it filled, and as many more sitting
on the logs around it. We had a dedicatory service last Sunday morning,
at which I spoke of the manifold and liberal uses to which it would be
put and led the minds of the attentive audience from the meaning of the
ceremony and of the ancient tabernacle in the wilderness to thoughts of
the dedication and high uses of the true temple of God, which is man
himself. Five enlisted men came forward to enlist under the banner of
the cross and dedicate themselves to the cause of Christ.
I know these soldiers, and I know that their action is the result of
sober thought and manly decision.
I have employed three or four details in building what they termed a
"meetin' house." The first time I used a guard-house gang--about twenty
boys in for over-staying their leave in Washington after pay-day. They
kept up their waggery while bearing logs and building seats and sang,
"There'll come a time, we pray, when we'll not have to build a church
each day."
There are a half-dozen fellows in the guard house to-day. I just now
promised them, to their delight, to take them out to-morrow and work
them. They were glad to get out of the "cooler" on any terms. Yesterday
I had a volunteer squad--not convicts--helping me "snake" logs with mule
teams to our new meeting grounds by the tabernacle. Many provocations,
of course, arose--mules, stumpy roads, contrary logs, pestiferous knots,
etc. But when I saw some fellow getting wrathy over a justly provoking
situation and struggling with his righteous indignation, I spoke a
timely word--sometimes too late--just to refresh his mind with the fact
that he was working on a "meetin' house," and with and for the parson.
Then we all had a laugh and worked on without cussin'.
These boys are now reading my letters. Half of them will read, or,
gathered about in their company lanes, will hear read, this letter. As
their friend who would not have them let this evil habit fix itself upon
them, I would entreat them to guard themselves against profanity.
V.
JOY AND SORROW.
Last Saturday I received an interesting packet of letters from someone
in St. Louis, who signed herself simply "R. S. M." The idea was so
unique and feminine, and the letters gave so much amusement to the boys
that I will tell you something about it. There were ten sealed envelopes
in the packet accompanied by a note to myself, explaining the object to
be to give a little amusement to the boys, and to help fill up a few
minutes with "something unusual." Each letter bore a different address,
some common name being selected, such as "Mr. Smith," "Mr. Jones," and
so on. The inscriptions on the backs of the envelopes were the
interesting exterior feature. One was addressed in this manner:
"When this you see, remember me."
"A valentine for a dyspeptic member of Company C."
Then on the back was the following:
"It is not a cent,
Yet it is sent;
It costs not a cent,
Yet it gives a scent."
"There's a conundrum
Sent to you;
The answer's SCENT with it--
'Tis 'lavender blue.'"
Another was addressed, "For a good boy who may open this July 26, '98."
On the back of this was written:
"From Illinois and California--A spray of the giant redwood tree, and a
spray of the old fashioned 'yarb' our grandmothers used."
Another said on the back: "Just to let you know that some one thinks of
the Missouri boys and wants to help them pass a minute away opening a
curious envelope."
So they ran. The merriment occasioned by the distribution of these
envelopes, as that addressed "to one who feels himself to be very
young," was delivered to a bald-headed fellow, and the one addressed "to
a good child," was delivered to one whom common acclamation pronounced
to be worse than Peck's Bad Boy, would have gratified the sender with a
vision such as she could hardly have expected.
A rhyme contained in the one addressed "to a dyspeptic," ran as follows:
"It is better to laugh than be sighing,
And sighing's no sign that you're sad,
'Tis often a _sine qua non_, sir,
That proves your digestion is bad.
"So smile at your previous groaning,
And rejoice that you're grown past that stage;
Help others to laugh and be happy
And you'll live to a jolly old age."
Thanks to this thoughtful, gracious lady! She may never know how much
good her little plan for cheering the boys has done and will do. She may
remain hidden under the initials "R. S. M." But be sure such kind hearts
and ingenious hands as hers make this old world brighter and better to
live in. It is such little, delicate, thoughtful, feminine acts that
bless our lives and do more good ofttimes than books and sermons.
The United Daughters of the Confederacy of St. Louis, the same day, sent
us three dozen night shirts for our boys in the hospital. This was a
most useful gift and amply supplies our regiment in this respect. We are
awaiting with delight the fulfillment of their promise, made through
their secretary, Mrs. W. P. Howard, to send us one hundred "sewing
kits." These are not the first gifts to prove their patriotism and
womanly sympathy for the soldier boys these Daughters of the Confederacy
have sent us. Their ministration to the needs of the regiment began at
Jefferson Barracks and has continued, with larger promises of future
help.
The Soldiers' Relief Society of Kansas City, of which Mrs. A. W. Childs
is president, has also sent many boxes of useful articles to be
distributed to the soldiers. I was enabled this afternoon, by the
provision of this society, to answer the call of the hospital steward
for sheets by taking them two dozen white, clean ones, that surely will
make the cot of pain more tolerable. At first, during even those days of
extreme heat, you might have seen many a sick fellow lying in the
hospital in his blue flannel field shirt. Now all is white and
delightful to see, relieving the eye that must needs look upon
suffering.
A few evenings ago, as I stood in front of headquarters with a reverend
old gentleman, who had served as chaplain in the Civil War, watching
together and commenting upon the varied scene before us, the galloping
orderlies as they bore messages this way and that; the jolting heavy
lumber wagons, drawn each by four mules, hauling rations for the
regiments; the manifold activities of the soldiers, some carrying water
in their large black buckets from the deep and excellent well the
government bored for us; some with large boxes of rubbish which they
were bearing, each box on two poles, toward the dumps; a crowd reading,
writing and playing games in the Y. M. C. A. tent, while a half dozen
boys on one side, among the logs under the great chestnut trees, were
pitching rubber rings at pegs in an inclined board, and a like number on
the other side were engaged in the old-fashioned farmers' Sunday game of
pitching horseshoes, and the band, down in the little plain beyond the
tents, was playing its beautiful strains while the guard was being
mounted; there passed across this scene of many activities, an object
frequently enough seen here, but never seen without its painful
suggestiveness--it was the ambulance with the Red Cross upon its ground
of blue. And the man of many years and large experience made a remark I
shall not forget. "The Red Cross," said he, "is the sign of the highest
outcome of our civilization. We had no such society as this in the Civil
War. We had no such hospital system as you have. There is nothing, I
repeat, that better represents the spirit of Christian civilization than
the Red Cross."
While, therefore, as the vehicle thus marked rolled hastily by, giving
its momentary pang of sympathy for some hurt or stricken comrade, its
triumphant suggestion was of the mission of mercy unexampled in ages
past, so supremely Christ-like.
That night, in one of the hospital tents, we sat by the bedside of his
dying son. Through the long, slow hours, he upon one side and I upon the
other, we watched the heaving breast of pain and the suffering face, and
inquired of each other by looks, in the dim light, if there was yet hope
for the strong, young soldier to win the battle he was contending in so
bravely.
In the still evening air, from twenty hillsides, the mellow notes of the
bugle bade good-night and peaceful sleep to the weary soldiers--and we
thought eternal rest to the soul of the one we were so anxiously
watching. Slowly the stars, however, went round in their courses and
looked down--how calm and distant and seemingly all indifferent, upon
the bowed head of the aged father as, toward morning, I could hear his
regular, though feeble tread up and down outside. And then, as the
bright sun rose, and the smoke from the campfires drifted off down the
vales, making such a scene of idyllic beauty; then all the hills and
valleys echoed with the sound of revéille calling to action, awakening
to new hope and the new day's new opportunities. But not for one soldier
was all this--his pulse of life beat too low. Till noon he lingered on
wrestling with the last enemy, and, as the sun began to slope toward the
west, his light on earth went out. In the prime of his years, one of the
strongest among his comrades, after ten days of suffering, he passed
away--Corporal John B. McNair, a soldier of his country, whose courage
was shown not upon the field of carnage where the trumpet and flag
inspire on to the deadly charge and heroic deed, but only in a battle
where he fought alone, with nothing to inspire, nothing but now and then
the kind look or word of comrades to cheer. But he died his country's
defender in the cause of humanity. His will be a soldier's reward in
heaven. It was last Saturday that, near the great and renowned, we laid
him to rest in the beautiful grounds of Arlington.
Sunday morning, the 24th of July, after the regular preaching service,
Company D, with a considerable number from other companies, met in the
Y. M. C. A. tent to hold memorial services for Richard Maloy, who died
two days before at Fort Myer, from where his remains were sent home for
burial. Circumstances made the services nobly impressive. When the
president's call for troops was first made, Richard and his brother
Charles were at home with their widowed mother in Kansas City. Dick--so
was he called by his friends--Dick said to his mother, "Mother, I will
go." She replied, "One cannot go, my son, without the other." "Then,"
said Charles, the younger of the two, "I will go also." So they joined
the Third Regiment and went out with their mother's blessing upon them.
The rigor of army duty was too severe for their immature bodies. One day
Charles, just after the return from the hard practice march, was
assigned to outpost duty. Dick said his brother couldn't stand it, and
applied to the sergeant to be put on in his place. The substitution was
made. It killed Dick.
At the conclusion of the memorial, one of his comrades came to me with
an open Testament in his hand, and, with breast choked with emotion,
pointed with his finger to the passage: "Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." That was enough; it
told everything.
As for the mother, some said the sudden news would kill her. It did not.
When her boys left home for the war it was then that she made her
sacrifice and proved her high-minded maternity that could let the larger
love of country and of mankind rise superior to the love of her own
flesh and blood. She keeps up the traditions of antiquity. Sparta had
not nobler women. Such mothers, who bless their parting sons and bid
them go, can receive them, living or dead, comforted and exalted with
pride that they were stirred by noble impulses and offered their lives
in the cause of humanity. We never know the celestial quantities our
every-day earth-born acquaintances possess until the hour of supreme
need comes to evoke them.
The problem of taking care of an army's sick is indeed no easy one. Our
army is still experimenting, or rather, it might be said, improving its
system with some phases of the matter yet under discussion. The
regimental hospital has been done away with, so that what was the
hospital of the regiment is now only a medical dispensary. Here, in
response to the sick call at 6:15 every morning, you may see a crowd of
soldiers, from 50 to 100 in number, lined up waiting to receive in turn
their capsules and pills. Two long pine trees in front of our
|
wish to see."
"You shall see them all, dear," I said. "You are excited. It is natural
enough. This is the drawing-room."
She glanced round it hastily.
"And now the others!" she exclaimed.
I took her to the dining-room, the library, and the various apartments
on the ground-floor.
She scarcely looked at them. When we had finished exploring, "Are these
all?" she asked, with a wavering accent of disappointment.
"All," I answered.
"Then--show me the rooms upstairs."
We ascended the shallow oak steps, and passed first into the apartment
in which my grandmother had died.
It had been done up since then, refurnished, and almost completely
altered. Only the wide fireplace, with its brass dogs and its heavy
oaken mantelpiece, had been left untouched.
Margot glanced hastily round. Then she walked up to the fireplace, and
drew a long breath.
"There ought to be a fire here," she said.
"But it is summer," I answered, wondering.
"And a chair there," she went on, in a curious low voice, indicating--I
think now, or is it my imagination?--the very spot where my grandmother
was wont to sit. "Yes--I seem to remember, and yet not to remember."
She looked at me, and her white brows were knit.
Suddenly she said: "Ronald, I don't think I like this room. There is
something--I don't know--I don't think I could sit here; and I seem to
remember--something about it, as I did about the terrace. What can it
mean?"
"It means that you are tired and overexcited, darling. Your nerves are
too highly strung, and nerves play us strange tricks. Come to your own
room and take off your things, and when you have had some tea, you will
be all right again."
Yes, I was fool enough to believe that tea was the panacea for an
undreamed-of, a then unimaginable, evil.
I thought Margot was simply an overtired and imaginative child that
evening. If I could believe so now!
We went up into her boudoir and had tea, and she grew more like
herself; but several times that night I observed her looking puzzled and
thoughtful, and a certain expression of anxiety shone in her blue eyes
that was new to them then.
But I thought nothing of it, and I was-happy. Two or three days
passed, and Mar-got did not again refer to her curious sensation of
pre-knowledge of the house and garden. I fancied there was a slight
alteration in her manner; that was all. She seemed a little restless.
Her vivacity flagged now and then. She was more willing to be alone than
she had been. But we were old married folk now, and could not be always
in each other's sight. I had a great many people connected with the
estate to see, and had to gather up the tangled threads of many affairs.
The honeymoon was over. Of course we could not always be together.
Still, I should have wished Margot to desire it, and I could not hide
from myself that now and then she scarcely concealed a slight impatience
to be left in solitude. This troubled me, but only a little, for she was
generally as fond as ever. That evening, however, an incident occurred
which rendered me decidedly uneasy, and made me wonder if my wife were
not inclined to that curse of highly-strung women--hysteria!
I had been riding over the moors to visit a tenant-farmer who lived at
some distance, and did not return until twilight. Dismounting, I let
myself into the house, traversed the hall, and ascended the stairs. As I
wore spurs, and the steps were of polished oak and uncarpeted, I walked
noisily enough to warn anyone of my approach. I was passing the door
of the room that had been my grandmother's sitting-room, when I noticed
that it stood open. The house was rather dark, and the interior was dim
enough, but I could see a figure in a white dress moving about inside.
I recognised Margot, and wondered what she was doing, but her movements
were so singular that, instead of speaking to her, I stood in the
doorway and watched her.
She was walking, with a very peculiar, stealthy step, around the room,
not as if she were looking for anything, but merely as if she were
restless or ill at ease. But what struck me forcibly was this, that
there was something curiously animal in her movements, seen thus in a
dim half-light that only partially revealed her to me. I had never
seen a woman walk in that strangely wild yet soft way before. There was
something uncanny about it, that rendered me extremely discomforted; yet
I was quite fascinated, and rooted to the ground.
I cannot tell how long I stood there. I was so completely absorbed in
the passion of the gazer that the passage of time did not concern me
in the least. I was as one assisting at a strange spectacle. This white
thing moving in the dark did not suggest my wife to me, although it
was she. I might have been watching an animal, vague, yet purposeful of
mind, tracing out some hidden thing, following out some instinct quite
foreign to humanity. I remember that presently I involuntarily clasped
my hands together, and felt that they were very cold. Perspiration broke
out on my face. I was painfully, unnaturally moved, and a violent desire
to be away from this white moving thing came over me. Walking as softly
as I could, I went to my dressing-room, shut the door, and sat down on a
chair. I never remember to have felt thoroughly unnerved before, but now
I found myself actually shaken, palsied. I could understand how deadly
a thing fear is. I lit a candle hastily, and as I did so a knock came to
the door.
Margot's voice said, "May I come in?" I felt unable to reply, so I got
up and admitted her.
She entered smiling, and looking such a child, so innocent, so tender,
that I almost laughed aloud. That I, a man, should have been frightened
by a child in a white dress, just because the twilight cast a phantom
atmosphere around her! I held her in my arms, and I gazed into her blue
eyes.
She looked down, but still smiled.
"Where have you been, and what have you been doing?" I asked gaily.
She answered that she had been in the drawing-room since tea-time.
"You came here straight from the drawing-room?" I said.
She replied, "Yes."
Then, with an indifferent air which hid real anxiety, I said:
"By the way, Margot, have you been into that room again--the room you
fancied you recollected?"
"No, never," she answered, withdrawing herself from my arms. "I
don't wish to go there. Make haste, Ronald, and dress. It is nearly
dinner-time, and I am ready." And she turned and left me.
She had told me a lie. All my feelings of uneasiness and discomfort
returned tenfold.
That evening was the most wretched one, the only wretched one, I had
ever spent with her.
*****
I am tired of writing. I will continue my task to-morrow. It takes me
longer than I anticipated. Yet even to tell everything to myself brings
me some comfort. Man must express himself; and despair must find a
voice.
III.
_Thursday Night, December 5th_.
That lie awoke in me suspicion of the child I had married. I began to
doubt her, yet never ceased to love her. She had all my heart, and must
have it till the end. But the calm of love was to be succeeded by love's
tumult and agony. A strangeness was creeping over Margot. It was as if
she took a thin veil in her hands, and drew it over and all around her,
till the outlines I had known were slightly blurred. Her disposition,
which had been so clear cut, so sharply, beautifully defined, standing
out in its innocent glory for all men to see, seemed to withdraw itself,
as if a dawning necessity for secrecy had arisen. A thin crust of
reserve began to subtly overspread her every act and expression. She
thought now before she spoke; she thought before she looked. It seemed
to me that she was becoming a slightly different person.
The change I mean to imply is very difficult to describe. It was not
abrupt enough to startle, but I could feel it, slight though it was.
Have you seen the first flat film of waveless water, sent by the
incoming tides of the sea, crawling silently up over the wrinkled brown
sand, and filling the tiny ruts, till diminutive hills and valleys are
all one smooth surface? So it was with Margot. A tide flowed over her
character, a waveless tide of reserve. The hills and valleys which I
loved disappeared from my ken. Behind the old sweet smile, the old frank
expression, my wife was shrinking down to hide herself, as one escaping
from pursuit hides behind a barrier. When one human being knows another
very intimately, and all the barricades that divide soul from soul have
been broken down, it is difficult to set them up again without noise and
dust, and the sound of thrust-in bolts, and the tap of the hammer that
drives in the nails. It is difficult, but not impossible. Barricades
can be raised noiselessly, soundless bolts--that keep out the soul--be
pushed home. The black gauze veil that blots out the scene drops, and
when it is raised--if ever--the scene is changed.
The real Margot was receding from me. I felt it with an impotence of
despair that was benumbing. Yet I could not speak of it, for at first I
could hardly tell if she knew of what was taking place. Indeed, at this
moment, in thinking it over, I do not believe that for some time she had
any definite cognisance of the fact that she was growing to love me
less passionately than of old. In acts she was not changed. That was the
strange part of the matter. Her kisses were warm, but I believed them
premeditated. She clasped my hand in hers, but now there was more
mechanism than magic in that act of tenderness. Impulse failed within
her; and she had been all impulse? Did she know it? At that time I
wondered. Believing that she did not know she was changing, I was at the
greatest pains to guard my conduct, lest I should implant the suspicion
that might hasten what I feared. I remained, desperately, the same as
ever, and so, of course, was not the same, for a deed done defiantly
bears little resemblance to a deed done naturally. I was always
considering what I should say, how I should act, even how I should
look. To live now was sedulous instead of easy. Effort took the place
of simplicity. My wife and I were gazing furtively at each other through
the eye-holes of masks. I knew it. Did she?
At that time I never ceased to wonder. Of one thing I was certain,
however--that Margot began to devise excuses for being left alone. When
we first came home she could hardly endure me out of her sight. Now she
grew to appreciate solitude. This was a terrible danger signal, and I
could not fail to so regard it.
Yet something within me held me back from speaking out. I made no
comment on the change that deepened day by day, but I watched my wife
furtively, with a concentration of attention that sometimes left me
physically exhausted. I felt, too, at length, that I was growing morbid,
that suspicion coloured my mind and caused me, perhaps, to put a wrong
interpretation on many of her actions, to exaggerate and misconstrue
the most simple things she did. I began to believe her every look
premeditated. Even if she kissed me, I thought she did it with a
purpose; if she smiled up at me as of old, I fancied the smile to be
only a concealment of its opposite. By degrees we became shy of each
other. We were like uncongenial intimates, forced to occupy the same
house, forced into a fearful knowledge of each other's personal habits,
while we knew nothing of the thoughts that make up the true lives of
individuals.
And then another incident occurred, a pendant to the incident of
Margot's strange denied visit to the room she affected to fear. It was
one night, one deep dark night of the autumn--a season to affect even a
cheerful mind and incline it towards melancholy. Margot and I were now
often silent when we were together. That evening, towards nine, a dull
steady rain set in. I remember I heard it on the window-panes as we sat
in the drawing-room after dinner, and remarked on it, saying to her that
if it continued for two or three days she might chance to see the floods
out, and that fishermen would descend upon us by the score.
I did not obtain much response from her. The dreariness of the weather
seemed to affect her spirits. She took up a book presently, and appeared
to read; but, once in glancing up suddenly from my newspaper, I thought
I caught her gaze fixed fearfully upon me. It seemed to me that she was
looking furtively at me with an absolute terror. I was so much affected
that I made some excuse for leaving the room, went down to my den, lit
a cigar, and walked uneasily up and down, listening to the rain on the
window. At ten Margot came in to tell me she was going to bed. I wished
her good-night tenderly, but as I held her slim body a moment in my arms
I felt that she began to tremble. I let her go, and she slipped from
the room with the soft, cushioned step that was habitual with her. And,
strangely enough, my thoughts recurred to the day, long ago, when I
first held the great white cat on my knees, and felt its body shrink
from my touch with a nameless horror. The uneasy movement of the woman
recalled to me so strongly and so strangely the uneasy movement of the
animal.
I lit a second cigar. It was near midnight when it was smoked out, and I
turned down the lamp and went softly up to bed. I undressed in the room
adjoining my wife's, and then stole into hers. She was sleeping in the
wide white bed rather uneasily, and as I leaned over her, shading the
candle flame with my outspread hand, she muttered some broken words that
I could not catch. I had never heard her talk in her dreams before. I
lay down gently at her side and extinguished the candle.
But sleep did not come to me. The dull, dead silence weighed upon
instead of soothing me. My mind was terribly alive, in a ferment;
and the contrast between my own excitement and the hushed peace of my
environment was painful, was almost unbearable. I wished that a wind
from the mountains were beating against the window-panes, and the
rain lashing the house in fury. The black calm around was horrible,
unnatural. The drizzling rain was now so small that I could not even
hear its patter when I strained my ears. Margot had ceased to mutter,
and lay perfectly still. How I longed to be able to read the soul hidden
in her sleeping body, to unravel the mystery of the mind which I had
once understood so perfectly! It is so horrible that we can never open
the human envelope, take out the letter, and seize with our eyes upon
its every word. Margot slept with all her secrets safeguarded, although
she was unconscious, no longer watchful, on the alert. She was so
silent, even her quiet breathing not reaching my ear, that I felt
impelled to stretch out my hand beneath the coverlet and touch hers ever
so softly. I did so.
Her hand was instantly and silently withdrawn. She was awake, then.
"Margot," I said, "did I disturb you?"
There was no answer.
The movement, followed by the silence, affected me very disagreeably.
I lit the candle and looked at her. She was lying on the extreme edge
of the bed, with her blue eyes closed. Her lips were slightly parted. I
could hear her steady breathing. Yet was she really sleeping?
I bent lower over her, and as I did so a slight, involuntary movement,
akin to what we call a shudder, ran through her body. I recoiled from
the bed. An impotent anger seized me. Could it be that my presence was
becoming so hateful to my wife that even in sleep her body trembled when
I drew near it? Or was this slumber feigned? I could not tell, but I
felt it impossible at that moment to remain in the room. I returned to
my own, dressed, and descended the stairs to the door opening on to the
terrace. I felt a longing to be out in the air. The atmosphere of the
house was stifling.
Was it coming to this, then? Did I, a man, shrink with a fantastic
cowardice from a woman I loved? The latent cruelty began to stir within
me, the tyrant spirit which a strong love sometimes evokes. I had been
Margot's slave almost. My affection had brought me to her feet, had
kept me there. So long as she loved me I was content to be her captive,
knowing she was mine. But a change in her attitude toward me might rouse
the master. In my nature there was a certain brutality, a savagery,
which I had never wholly slain, although Margot had softened me
wonderfully by her softness, had brought me to gentleness by her
tenderness. The boy of years ago had developed toward better things, but
he was not dead in me. I felt that as I walked up and down the terrace
through the night in a wild meditation. If my love could not hold
Margot, my strength should.
I drew in a long breath of the wet night air, and I opened my shoulders
as if shaking off an oppression. My passion for Margot had not yet drawn
me down to weakness; it had raised me up to strength. The faint fear
of her, which I had felt almost without knowing it more than once, died
within me. The desire of the conqueror elevated me. There was something
for me to win. My paralysis passed away, and I turned toward the house.
And now a strange thing happened. I walked into the dark hall, closed
the outer door, shutting out the dull murmur of the night, and felt in
my pocket for my matchbox. It was not there. I must inadvertently have
laid it down in my dressing-room and left it. I searched about in the
darkness on the hall table, but could find no light. There was nothing
for it, then, but to feel my way upstairs as best I could.
I started, keeping my hand against the wall to guide me. I gained the
top of the stairs, and began to traverse the landing, still with my hand
upon the wall. To reach my dressing-room I had to pass the apartment
which had been my grandmother's sitting-room.
When I reached it, instead of sliding along a closed door, as I had
anticipated, my hand dropped into vacancy.
The door was wide open. It had been shut, like all the other doors
in the house, when I had descended the stairs--shut and locked, as it
always was at night-time. Why was it open now?
I paused in the darkness. And then an impulse seized me to walk forward
into the room. I advanced a step; but, as I did so, a horrible low cry
broke upon my ears out of the darkness. It came from immediately in
front of me, and sounded like an expression of the most abject fear.
My feet rooted themselves to the ground.
"Who's there?" I asked.
There came no answer.
I listened for a moment, but did not hear the minutest sound. The desire
for light was overpowering. I generally did my writing in this room,
and knew the exact whereabouts of everything in it. I knew that on the
writing-table there was a silver box containing wax matches. It lay on
the left of my desk. I moved another step forward.
There was the sound of a slight rustle, as if someone shrank back as I
advanced.
I laid my hand quickly on the box, opened it, and struck a light. The
room was vaguely illuminated. I saw something white at the far end,
against the wall. I put the match to a candle.
The white thing was Margot. She was in her dressing-gown, and was
crouched up in an angle of the wall as far away from where I stood
as possible. Her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed upon me with an
expression of such intense and hideous fear in them that I almost cried
out.
"Margot, what is the matter?" I said. "Are you ill?"
She made no reply. Her face terrified me.
"What is it, Margot?" I cried in a loud, almost harsh voice, determined
to rouse her from this horrible, unnatural silence. "What are you doing
here?"
I moved towards her. I stretched out my hands and seized her. As I did
so, a sort of sob burst from her. Her hands were cold and trembling.
"What is it? What has frightened you?" I reiterated.
At last she spoke in a low voice.
"You--you looked so strange, so--so cruel as you came in," she said.
"Strange! Cruel! But you could not see me. It was dark," I answered.
"Dark!" she said.
"Yes, until I lit the candle. And you cried out when I was only in the
doorway. You could not see me there."
"Why not? What has that got to do with it?" she murmured, still
trembling violently.
"You can see me in the dark?"
"Of course," she said. "I don't understand what you mean. Of course I
can see you when you are there before my eyes."
"But----" I began; and then her obvious and complete surprise at my
questions stopped them. I still held her hands in mine, and their
extreme coldness roused me to the remembrance that she was unclothed.
"You will be ill if you stay here," I said. "Come back to your room."
She said nothing, and I led her back, waited while she got into bed, and
then, placing the candle on the dressing-table, sat down in a chair by
her side.
The strong determination to take prompt action, to come to an
explanation, to end these dreary mysteries of mind and conduct, was
still upon me.
I did not think of the strange hour; I did not care that the night was
gliding on towards dawn. I was self-absorbed. I was beyond ordinary
considerations.
Yet I did not speak immediately. I was trying to be quite calm, trying
to think of the best line for me to take. So much might depend upon our
mere words now. At length I said, laying my hand upon hers, which was
outside the coverlet:
"Margot, what were you doing in that room at such a strange hour? Why
were you there?"
She hesitated obviously. Then she answered, not looking at me:
"I missed you. I thought you might be there--writing."
"But you were in the dark."
"I thought you would have a light."
I knew by her manner that she was not telling me the truth, but I went
on quietly:
"If you expected me, why did you cry out when I came to the door?"
She tried to draw her hand away, but I held it fast, closing, my fingers
upon it with even brutal strength.
"Why did you cry out?"
"You--you looked so strange, so cruel."
"So cruel!"
"Yes. You frightened me--you frightened me horribly."
She began suddenly to sob, like one completely overstrained. I lifted
her up in the bed, put my arms round her, and made her lean against me.
I was strangely moved.
"I frightened you! How can that be?" I said, trying to control a passion
of mingled love and anger that filled my breast. "You know that I love
you. You must know that. In all our short married life have I ever been
even momentarily unkind to you? Let us be frank with one another. Our
lives have changed lately. One of us has altered. You cannot say that it
is I."
She only continued to sob bitterly in my arms. I held her closer.
"Let us be frank with one another," I went on. "For God's sake let us
have no barriers between us. Margot, look into my eyes and tell me--are
you growing tired of me?"
She turned her head away, but I spoke more sternly:
"You shall be truthful. I will have no more subterfuge. Look me in the
face. You did love me once?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered in a choked voice.
"What have I done, then, to alienate you? Have I ever hurt you, ever
shown a lack of sympathy, ever neglected you?"
"Never--never."
"Yet you have changed to me since--since----" I paused a moment, trying
to recall when I had first noticed her altered demeanour.
She interrupted me.
"It has all come upon me in this house," she sobbed. "Oh! what is it?
What does it all mean? If I could understand a little--only a little--it
would not be so bad. But this nightmare, this thing that seems such a
madness of the intellect----"
Her voice broke and ceased. Her tears burst forth afresh. Such mingled
fear, passion, and a sort of strange latent irritation, I had never seen
before.
"It is a madness indeed," I said, and a sense almost of outrage made my
voice hard and cold. "I have not deserved such treatment at your hands."
"I will not yield to it," she said, with a sort of desperation, suddenly
throwing her arms around me. "I will not--I will not!"
I was strangely puzzled. I was torn with conflicting feelings. Love and
anger grappled at my heart. But I only held her, and did not speak until
she grew obviously calmer. The paroxysm seemed passing away. Then I
said:
"I cannot understand."
"Nor I," she answered, with a directness that had been foreign to her
of late, but that was part and parcel of her real, beautiful nature. "I
cannot understand. I only know there is a change in me, or in you to
me, and that I cannot help it, or that I have not been able to help it.
Sometimes I feel--do not be angry, I will try to tell you--a physical
fear of you, of your touch, of your clasp, a fear such as an animal
might feel towards the master who had beaten it. I tremble then at
your approach. When you are near me I feel cold, oh! so cold and--and
anxious; perhaps I ought to say apprehensive. Oh, I am hurting you!"
I suppose I must have winced at her words, and she is quick to observe.
"Go on," I said; "do not spare me. Tell me everything. It is madness
indeed; but we may kill it, when we both know it."
"Oh, if we could!" she cried, with a poignancy which was heart-breaking
to hear. "If we could!"
"Do you doubt our ability?" I said, trying to be patient and calm. "You
are unreasoning, like all women. Be sensible for a moment. You do me a
wrong in cherishing these feelings. I have the capacity for cruelty in
me. I may have been--I have been--cruel in the past, but never to you.
You have no right to treat me as you have done lately. If you examine
your feelings, and compare them with facts, you will see their
absurdity."
"But," she interposed, with a woman's fatal quickness, "that will not do
away with their reality."
"It must. Look into their faces until they fade like ghosts, seen only
between light and darkness. They are founded upon nothing; they are bred
without father or mother; they are hysterical; they are wicked. Think a
little of me. You are not going to be conquered by a chimera, to allow a
phantom created by your imagination to ruin the happiness that has been
so beautiful. You will not do that! You dare not!"
She only answered:
"If I can help it."
A passionate anger seized me, a fury at my impotence against this child.
I pushed her almost roughly from my arms.
"And I have married this woman!" I cried bitterly. I got up.
Margot had ceased crying now, and her face was very white and calm; it
looked rigid in the faint candle-light that shone across the bed.
"Do not be angry," she said. "We are controlled by something inside of
us; there are powers in us that we cannot fight against."
"There is nothing we cannot fight against," I said passionately. "The
doctrine of predestination is the devil's own doctrine. It is the
doctrine set up by the sinner to excuse his sin; it is the coward's
doctrine. Understand me, Margot, I love you, but I am not a weak fool.
There must be an end of this folly. Perhaps you are playing with me,
acting like a girl, testing me. Let us have no more of it."
She said:
"I only do what I must."
Her tone turned me cold. Her set face frightened me, and angered me, for
there was a curious obstinacy in it. I left the room abruptly, and did
not return. That night I had no sleep.
I am not a coward, but I find that I am inclined to fear that which
fears me. I dread an animal that always avoids me silently more than an
animal that actually attacks me. The thing that runs from me makes me
shiver, the thing that creeps away when I come near wakes my uneasiness.
At this time there rose up in me a strange feeling towards Margot.
The white, fair child I had married was at moments--only at
moments--horrible to me. I felt disposed to shun her. Something within
cried out against her. Long ago, at the instant of our introduction, an
unreasoning sensation that could only be called dread had laid hold
upon me. That dread returned from the night of our explanation, returned
deepened and added to. It prompted me to a suggestion which I had no
sooner made than I regretted it. On the morning following I told
Margot that in future we had better occupy separate rooms. She assented
quietly, but I thought a furtive expression of relief stole for a moment
into her face.
I was deeply angered with her and with myself; yet, now that I knew
beyond question my wife's physical terror of me, I was-half afraid of
her. I felt as if I could not bring myself to lie long hours by her side
in the darkness, by the side of a woman who was shrinking from me, who
was watching me when I could not see her. The idea made my very flesh
creep.
Yet I hated myself for this shrinking of the body, and sometimes
hated her for rousing it. A hideous struggle was going on within me--a
struggle between love and impotent anger and despair, between the lover
and the master. For I am one of the old-fashioned men who think that a
husband ought to be master of his wife as well as of his house.
How could I be master of a woman I secretly feared? My knowledge of
myself spurred me through acute irritation almost to the verge of
madness.
All calm was gone. I was alternately gentle to my wife and almost
ferocious towards her, ready to fall at her feet and worship her or to
seize her and treat her with physical violence. I only restrained myself
by an effort.
My variations of manner did not seem to affect her. Indeed, it sometimes
struck me that she feared me more when I was kind to her than when I was
harsh.
And I knew, by a thousand furtive indications, that her horror of me was
deepening day by day. I believe she could hardly bring herself to be in
a room alone with me, especially after nightfall.
One evening, when we were dining, the butler, after placing dessert upon
the table, moved to leave us. She turned white, and, as he reached the
door, half rose, and called him back in a sharp voice.
"Symonds!" she said.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You are going?"
The fellow looked surprised.
"Can I get you anything, ma'am?"
She glanced at me with an indescribable uneasiness. Then she leaned back
in her chair with an effort, and pressed her lips together.
"No," she said.
As the man went out and shut the door, she looked at me again from
under her eyelids; and finally her eyes travelled from me to a small,
thin-bladed knife, used for cutting oranges, that lay near her plate,
and fixed themselves on it. She put out her hand stealthily, drew it
towards her, and kept her hand over it on the table. I took an orange
from a dish in front of me.
"Margot," I said, "will you pass me that fruit-knife?"
She obviously hesitated.
"Give me that knife," I repeated roughly, stretching out my hand.
She lifted her hand, left the knife upon the table, and at the same
time, springing up, glided softly out of the room and closed the door
behind her.
That evening I spent alone in the smoking-room, and, for the first time,
she did not come to bid me good-night.
I sat smoking my cigar in a tumult of furious despair and love. The
situation was becoming intolerable. It could not be en-dured. I longed
for a crisis, even for a violent one. I could have cried aloud that
night for a veritable tragedy. There were moments when I would almost
have killed the child who mysteriously eluded and defied me. I could
have wreaked a cruel vengeance upon the body for the sin of the mind. I
was terribly, mortally distressed.
After a long and painful self-communion, I resolved to make another wild
effort to set things right before it was too late; and when the clock
chimed the half-hour after ten I went upstairs softly to her bedroom and
turned the handle of the door, meaning to enter, to catch Margot in my
arms, tell her how deep my love for her was, how she injured me by her
base fears, and how she was driving me back from the gentleness she had
given me to the cruelty, to the brutality, of my first nature.
The door resisted me: it was locked. I paused a moment, and then tapped
gently. I heard a sudden rustle within, as if someone hurried across the
floor away from the door, and then Margot's voice cried sharply:
"Who's that? Who is there?" "Margot, it is I. I wish to speak to you--to
say good-night."
"Good-night," she said. "But let me in for a moment." There was a
silence--it seemed to me a long one; then she answered:
"Not now, dear; I--I am so tired." "Open the door for a moment." "I
am very tired. Good-night." The cold, level tone of her voice--for the
anxiety had left it after that first sudden cry--roused me to a sudden
fury of action. I seized the handle of the door and pressed with all my
strength. Physically I am a very powerful man--my anger and despair
gave me a giant's might. I burst the lock, and sprang into the room. My
impulse was to seize Margot in my arms and crush her to death, it might
be, in an embrace she could not struggle against. The blood coursed like
molten fire through my veins. The lust of love, the lust of murder even,
perhaps, was upon me. I sprang impetuously into the room.
No candles were alight in it. The blinds were up, and the chill
moonbeams filtered through the small lattice panes. By the farthest
window, in the yellowish radiance, was huddled a white thing.
A sudden cold took hold upon me. All the warmth in me froze up.
I stopped where I was and held my breath.
That white thing, seen thus uncertainly, had no semblance to humanity.
It was animal wholly. I could have believed for the moment that a white
cat crouched from me there by the curtain, waiting to spring.
What a strange illusion that was! I tried to laugh at it afterwards, but
at the moment horror stole through me--horror, and almost awe.
All desire of violence left me. Heat was dead; I felt cold as stone. I
could not even speak a word.
|
Gorgon, first communicated to me that my
Convention had been rejected by the Admiral, which I have reason to
believe he approved of in the first instance, but was overruled by the
authorities in Syria. Next morning the Princess Charlotte and
Bellerophon arrived from Beyrout. They had experienced the same gale we
did off Alexandria, and rode it out in St. George’s Bay; the
Bellerophon, driven from the anchorage at Beyrout, was obliged to cut
her cable and make sail, and after scraping the land as far down the
coast as Latakia, was saved by a miraculous shift of wind; great credit
is due to Captain Austin, and the officers and crew of the Bellerophon,
for saving the ship. The Pique was obliged to cut away her masts to
prevent her going on shore at Caiffa; and the Zebra parted and was
thrown on the beach, with the loss of two men only. The Austrian
squadron quitted the coast of Syria with the English, and the French
vessels of war remained.
On the Admiral’s arrival at Marmorice, letters from himself, Sir Charles
Smith, and Lord Ponsonby, were put into my hand. I insert them here,
together with the replies.
“Princess Charlotte, St. George’s Bay,
Beyrout, December 2, 1840.
“Sir,
“I have received, by the Prometheus, your letter and the Convention
which you have entered into with Boghos Bey, for the evacuation of
Syria.
“I am sorry to say that I cannot ratify, or approve of this measure:
setting aside the unauthorized manner and the unnecessary haste with
which so important a document was executed, with the Commander-in-Chief
within two days’ sail of you, the articles of that Convention, if
carried into execution, in the present state of affairs in Syria, would
be productive of much more evil than good, and occasion much
embarrassment. You will immediately stop the Egyptian transports from
coming to this coast; and should any arrive, I have given orders that
they should return to Alexandria.
“I am, &c.,
(Signed) “ROBERT STOPFORD, _Admiral_.
“Commodore Napier, C. B., H.M.S. Powerful,
Senior Officer off Alexandria.”
“H.M.S. Powerful, Marmorice Bay,
December 14, 1840.
“Sir,
“I have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 2nd of
December, disapproving of the Convention I had entered into with the
Egyptian Government for the evacuation of Syria and the surrender of the
fleet. I have only to regret, that what I did with the best intentions,
and believed to be in accordance with the views of the Allies, should
not have met your approbation.
“I beg to assure you that, it was not from any want of respect to you
that I did not communicate with you before signing it, but it was under
the impression that it was of the utmost importance to seize the
opportunity, when the Pacha was highly incensed against France, to bring
him, without loss of time, to terms without the mediation of that power.
“I have also to acknowledge the receipt of the copy of a letter you have
sent me from Lord Ponsonby, the original of which, I presume, is gone to
Alexandria, and I beg to inclose you a copy of my reply.
“I have &c.,
(Signed) “C. NAPIER, _Commodore_.”
“The Hon. Sir R. Stopford,
Commander-in-Chief, &c., &c., &c.”
“Head Quarters, Beyrout,
30th November, 1840.
“Sir,
“Had you fortunately abstained from honouring me with your letter of the
27th instant, I should have been spared the pain of replying to it. I am
not aware that you have been invested with special powers or authority
to treat with Mehemet Ali as to the evacuation of Syria by the Egyptian
troops; and if you have such special powers and authority, you have not
taken the trouble of acquainting me therewith.
“The Convention into which you have entered has been, as relates to the
advanced stage of military events in Syria, more than attained by the
retreat of Ibrahim Pacha. If therefore, you have unknown to me, had
authority to treat, I must decline to be a party to recommending the
ratification of the said Convention; and if unauthorised to treat, such
Convention is invalid, and is, by me, protested against as being highly
prejudicial to the Sultan’s cause, in as far as it has, or may have,
relation to the operations of the army under my command. It is needless
for me to add that a copy of this protest shall be forwarded to Her
Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
“I have, &c.,
“C. F. SMITH, _Major-General_,
“_Commanding the Forces in Syria_.”
“Commodore Napier, C.B.,
H.M.S. Powerful.”
“H.M.S. Powerful, Marmorice,
January 6, 1841.
“Sir,
“Had I unfortunately abstained from writing to you, and the Admiral had
quited the coast, you would have had just cause to have complained of my
want of courtesy.
“When I left Beyrout, Sir Robert Stopford was Commander-in-Chief of the
allied forces by sea and land, it was therefore unnecessary for me to
communicate to you what my powers were, as on him alone devolved the
duty of approving or disapproving of my Convention. He disapproved of
it, and Ibrahim Pacha returned to Damascus. I quite disagree with you
that the Convention was prejudicial to the interests of the Porte, and I
am happy to say it has been approved of (with the exception of the
guarantee) by Her Majesty’s Government, and I am now going to Alexandria
to see it carried into execution.
“I have, &c.,
“CHARLES NAPIER, _Commodore_.”
“To Sir Charles Smith, &c., &c.,
Gibraltar.”
“Sir, “Therapia, December 7, 1840.
“I had the honour last night to receive your communication of a
Convention, dated Medea steamer, Alexandria, 27th November, 1840, signed
Charles Napier, Commodore, and Boghos Bey.
“I immediately laid that Convention before the Sublime Porte, and
acquainted my colleagues, the Austrian Internuncio, the Prussian Envoy,
and the Russian Chargé d’Affaires, with it. It is my duty to acquaint
you that the Sublime Porte has made a formal protest against your acts,
declaring you have no power or authority whatever to justify what you
have done, and that the Convention is null and void.
“My colleagues above-mentioned, and myself, entirely concur with the
Sublime Porte, and declare that we are ignorant of your having the least
right to assume the powers you have exercised; and that we consider the
Convention null and void, _ab initio_.
“It is my duty to call upon you to abstain from every attempt to carry
your Convention into execution, in any degree whatever, and to state
that you are bound by your duty to Her Majesty, to continue to act with
the ships under your command, as you did act before you assumed the
right to make the aforesaid Convention, and as you would have acted in
conformity with your orders, if that Convention had never been made by
you.
“I have sent a copy of this dispatch to Admiral the Hon. Sir Robert
Stopford, and also to Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs.
“I have, &c.,
(Signed) “PONSONBY.”
“To Commodore Napier.”
“H.M.S. Powerful, Marmorice Bay,
Dec. 14, 1840.
“My Lord,
“The Commander-in-Chief has sent me a copy of a letter addressed to me
by your Lordship, the original of which I presume has been sent to
Alexandria; this letter states that the Porte has made a formal protest
against my acts, and that the Convention is null and void, in which your
Lordship and your colleagues entirely concur, and you call upon me to
abstain from carrying it into execution.
“In reply to which I beg leave to acquaint your Lordship that I never
had the least idea that the Convention could be carried into execution
without the authority of the Porte and the Commander-in-Chief, to whom
the whole correspondence was addressed; therefore I cannot see the
necessity of the formal protest of the Porte against my acts. The
Convention simply tied down Mehemet Ali to abandon Syria immediately,
and give up the Turkish fleet when the Porte acknowledged his hereditary
title to govern Egypt; and on these conditions I agreed to suspend
hostilities.
“I was led to believe from Lord Palmerston’s letter to your Lordship
that I had followed up the views of the Allied Powers; I was led to
believe, from letters I have received from different members of the
Government, that they were most anxious to settle the Eastern Question
speedily; I was led to believe, from your Lordship’s correspondence, _*
* * * *_ that Lord Palmerston was anxious to finish everything; that he
had not good information about Egypt; but that your Lordship thought if
I was at liberty to act, Alexandria would not long be in the possession
of Mehemet Ali; and this opinion your Lordship risked, though you had
never seen the place, and confessed yourself entirely ignorant of the
art of war. I saw clearly that your Lordship had an erroneous impression
about Alexandria, and I was convinced that nothing could be done against
it without a military force, and at a proper season, and my being driven
off the coast has confirmed that opinion.
“I further knew that the French Consul-General, and other French agents
at Alexandria, were doing all they could to prevent Mehemet Ali from
submitting, still holding out hopes of assistance from France.
“Under all these circumstances I thought I was serving my country, and
the cause of the Sultan, in tying down Mehemet Ali to immediately
evacuate Syria, and give up the Turkish fleet when acknowledged, and I
knew perfectly well that the Convention did not tie down the Sultan; and
I firmly believe that if Thiers’ ministry had not fallen, all I have
done would have been approved, and I think it still will be approved. I
have thought it necessary to make these explanations to your Lordship,
and I beg at the same time to observe, that it appears to me that your
Lordship has assumed a tone, in the latter part of your letter, that you
are by no means authorized to do. I know my duty to Her Majesty full as
well as your Lordship, and I have always done it, and it is the
Commander-in-Chief alone who has the right to point out to me how I am
to act, and I trust, should your Lordship have any further occasion to
address me, it will be done in a different style.
“I have sent a copy of this to Admiral Sir Robert Stopford, and I trust
your Lordship will send a copy to Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs.
“I have, &c.
(Signed) “CHAS. NAPIER, _Commodore_.”
“The Right Hon. Lord Ponsonby.”
I also insert the Admiral’s letter to Mehemet Ali, acquainting him that
he had disapproved the Convention, couched in no very measured terms. An
admiral may disapprove of the acts of a junior officer, even with
severity if he pleases, but I believe it is not usual in addressing a
foreign prince, to convey to him the opinion he has formed of his second
in command.
“Princess Charlotte, St. George’s Bay, Beyrout,
December 2, 1840.
“Highness,
“I am sorry to find that Commodore Napier should have entered into a
Convention with your Highness for the evacuation of Syria by the
Egyptian troops, which he had no authority to do, and which I cannot
approve of, or ratify.
“Your Highness’s Envoy, Abdel Amen Bey, has consulted with the General,
commanding the troops, as to his best manner of proceeding to Ibrahim
Pacha. The General having good reason to suppose that Ibrahim Pacha had
left Damascus, (a great part of his army having left it a few days since
going to the southward, upon the Mecca road,) could not guarantee a safe
conduct for your Highness’s Envoy further than Damascus. He therefore
returns to Alexandria, having done all in his power to execute your
Highness’s instructions.
“I hope this letter will reach your Highness in time to stop the
transports which Commodore Napier writes me are coming to the coast of
Syria for the purpose of embarking part of the Egyptian army. Should any
of them arrive here, they will be ordered to return to Alexandria.
“I hope this hasty and unauthorized Convention will not occasion any
embarrassment to your Highness. It was no doubt done from an amicable
motive, though under a limited view of the state of affairs in Syria;
but it will not lessen my earnest desire most readily to adopt any
measure which may tend to a renewal of that amity and good feeling which
I trust hereafter may subsist between England and your Highness, the
terms of which I am happy to hear are now in a state of progress with
the Allied Powers.
“ROBERT STOPFORD, _Admiral_.”
“To his Highness Mehemet Ali Pacha.”
The Ambassador wrote also to the Admiral and to the different
authorities in Syria and Egypt, calling upon them to repudiate my
Convention, and in fact no means were neglected by him to prevent the
settlement of the Eastern Question, and do as much mischief to Mehemet
Ali as possible.
The reader will allow this was tremendous odds against me: the
Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Forces, the General commanding in
Syria, Lord Ponsonby, and the four Ambassadors, the Sultan and all the
Divan, against an Old Commodore. The whole corps diplomatique, (for on
this point even the French minister agreed,) were up in arms—they
thought their trade was gone—nevertheless I was not dismayed. I felt
satisfied at Alexandria I was right, and I felt still more satisfied at
Marmorice, when I found our squadron, with the exception of the
steamers, had abandoned the coast, and left Ibrahim to himself. Why he
did not take advantage of it is not my affair—he ought to have done it.
In the fleet we had conventionalists and non-conventionalists: the
Captains who were off Alexandria were satisfied I was right; those who
were not, with few exceptions, were satisfied I was wrong. For my part I
had only to wait patiently the first arrival from England, to announce
either that I was a blockhead, or that I had taken a more correct view
of the affairs of the East, than either Admirals, Generals, Ambassadors,
Sultans, or Divans.
The letter of Sir Robert Stopford to the Admiralty, acquainting their
Lordships that he had rejected my Convention, clearly shows that he was
not aware of Ibrahim’s movements. The Admiral writes under date of the
1st of December, from Beyrout.
“Sir,
“I beg to transmit for their Lordships’ information the copy of a
Convention which Commodore Napier has entered into with Mehemet Ali, the
correspondence leading thereto having been transmitted by him from
Alexandria.
I beg you will further acquaint their Lordships that I do not feel
myself authorized to enter into this Convention; and the Egyptian troops
being already on their retreat by the Mecca road to Egypt, I cannot
consider this as a concession from Mehemet, but the consequence of their
late discomfitures, and the inimical state of the country towards them.
“I have, &c.,
“ROBERT STOPFORD.”
“R. More O’Ferrall, Esq.”
Now, it is well known that Ibrahim did not finally leave Damascus till
the 29th of December; so that it appears by the Admiral’s letter, that
nothing was known at Beyrout of Ibrahim’s movements; and, after the
squadron left the coast, there was nothing to hinder him falling upon
Beyrout; I know that there were strong fears there that he would do so,
and General Michell, as will hereafter appear, requested the Admiral
would send some ships of war back.
Before the Admiral arrived at Marmorice, he fell in with the Megæra,
bringing the Instruction of the 14th of November, which was given to
satisfy Austrian etiquette, Prince Metternich not entirely approving of
the instruction of the 15th of October, his reasons for which he
afterwards explained.
“Foreign Office, Nov. 14, 1840.
“The instruction addressed to Lord Ponsonby on the 15th of October last,
in consequence of a deliberation which had taken place between the
Plenipotentiaries of Austria, Great Britain, Prussia, and Russia,
recorded the propriety of the Representatives of the Four Courts at
Constantinople being authorized to announce to the Sublime Porte, ‘that
their respective Governments, in conformity with the stipulations of the
seventh paragraph of the Separate Act annexed to the Convention of July
15, deem it their duty strongly to recommend to the Government of his
Highness, that, in case Mehemet Ali should submit without delay, and
should consent to restore the Ottoman fleet, to withdraw his troops from
the whole of Syria, from Adana, Candia, Arabia, and the Holy Cities, his
Highness should be pleased not only to reinstate Mehemet Ali in his
functions as Pacha of Egypt, but at the same time to grant him the
hereditary investiture of the said pachalic, according to the conditions
laid down in the Convention of July 15, it being well understood that
this hereditary title should be liable to revocation, if Mehemet Ali, or
one of his successors, should infringe the aforesaid conditions.’
“The advantage of addressing the Sublime Porte a communication couched
in the sense above-mentioned, was unanimously admitted by the Four
Courts.
“Nevertheless, in order to make still more apparent the just respect
which is due to the rights of his Highness, the Cabinet of Vienna was of
opinion that the advice which the Representatives of the Four Powers
should be called upon to address to the Divan, relative to the
reinstatement of Mehemet Ali in the pachalic of Egypt, ought not to be
put forth at Constantinople, until after Mehemet Ali should have taken
the preliminary step of applying to his Sovereign for pardon, submitting
himself to the determination of his Highness.
“Taking into consideration that this opinion of the Cabinet of Vienna
serves as a fresh proof of the respect which the Courts, parties to the
Convention of July 15, entertain for the inviolability of the Sultan’s
rights of sovereignty and independence; considering, moreover, the
necessity of speedily bringing the existing crisis in the Levant to a
pacific solution, in conformity with the true interests, as likewise
with the dignity of the Porte; the Plenipotentiaries of the said Courts
have unanimously resolved to adopt the course above pointed out, in
order that Mehemet Air’s application for pardon and his submission
should precede the friendly measures which the Allied Representatives
will be instructed to adopt, in order to incline the Porte to grant its
pardon to Mehemet Ali.
“With this view, the Plenipotentiaries of the Four Powers being desirous
of hastening as much as possible the moment when it will be possible for
those measures to take place at Constantinople, have judged it fitting
to cause to be pointed out without the least delay to Mehemet Ali, the
way which is still open to him to regain the pardon of his Sovereign,
and to obtain his reinstatement in the pachalic of Egypt,
notwithstanding the decisive events which have declared themselves
against him.
“In consequence it was further agreed to communicate to the Ambassador
of the Sublime Porte, Chekib Effendi, the present Memorandum, as
likewise the instruction thereunto annexed.
(Initialed) N.
P.
B.
B.
Upon the receipt of this document, and a special instruction of the same
date, the Admiral immediately dispatched Captain Fanshawe, with the
following letter, to communicate with the Pacha. His orders were, to
proceed to Alexandria and demand an interview with Mehemet Ali, in the
presence of Boghos Bey, and communicate the instructions of Her
Majesty’s Government. He was not to refuse Mehemet Ali’s answer even if
he expressed a desire to obtain the hereditary government of Egypt.
“Princess Charlotte, at Sea, off Cyprus,
December 6, 1840.
“Highness,
“I have now the honour to transmit to your Highness, by Captain
Fanshawe, the Captain of my flag-ship, the official authority from the
British Government, in the name of the four Allied Powers, to maintain
your Highness in the pachalic of Egypt, upon condition, that within
three days after the communication made to you by Captain Fanshawe, you
agree to restore the Turkish fleet to the Sultan, and finally evacuate
Syria.
“Let me beseech your Highness to take these terms into your serious
consideration; and I implore the Almighty God to impress upon your mind
the benefit you will bestow on a distracted country by an early
compliance with the decision of the four Allied Powers.
“Captain Fanshawe is fully authorized to receive your Highness’s final
decision.
“I have, &c.,
(Signed) “ROBERT STOPFORD, _Admiral_.”
“To his Highness Mehemet Ali Pacha.”
The further conduct of the Admiral was to be guided by the following
instruction, of November 14, from Lord Palmerston to the Admiralty.
“With further reference to my letters of this day, I am to signify to
your Lordships the Queen’s commands that Admiral Sir Robert Stopford
should be informed that he is not in any degree to suspend his
operations, or to relax his efforts, on account of the communication
which he is instructed to make to Mehemet Ali; but, on the contrary, he
should continue to push on with vigour his operations for the purpose of
expelling the Egyptians from the whole of Syria, and he should not
slacken in his exertions, till he learns from Constantinople that an
arrangement has been made with Mehemet Ali.”
The reader must bear in mind that, at the date of these instructions,
the capture of Acre was not known at the Foreign Office, nor was my
Convention signed.
CHAPTER II.
Captain Fanshawe’s proceedings at Alexandria—Letter from Mehemet Ali to
the Admiral—Official Report of Captain Fanshawe—Letter of Mehemet
Ali to the Grand Vizier—English Ships again ordered to the Coast of
Syria—Part of the Convention carried into effect by the Admiral.
The mode in which this new negotiation of points which he naturally
considered as already settled, was received by the Pacha, will best
appear from his own letter, and Captain Fanshawe’s report.
“Most Honourable Admiral Sir Robert Stopford,
“I have received the two letters which you addressed to me, the first by
the channel of Hamid Bey, who had been entrusted with a despatch for my
son Ibrahim Pacha, and the second by Captain Fanshawe, of your
flag-ship. I am delighted with the friendship which you evince towards
me, and I hasten to act in the sense which you point out in your
official dispatch. I consequently address a petition to the Sublime
Porte under flying seal, and in order that the contents thereof may be
known to you, I add a French translation to it. I hope that my
compliance will be appreciated by the Allied Powers, and in asking a
continuance of your friendship, I flatter myself that your good offices
will ensure me their good will.
(Signed) “MEHEMET ALI.”
“H.M. Steam-vessel Megæra, at Sea,
December 12, 1840.
“Sir,
“I have the honour to report to you my proceedings in the service on
which you ordered me.
“I arrived off Alexandria in this vessel early on the morning of the
8th, and finding no English man-of-war off the place, proceeded into the
port, and sent for Mr. Larking, Her Majesty’s Consul, whom I requested
to inform Mehemet Ali that I was charged by you to make a communication
to him from Her Majesty’s Government, and for which purpose I demanded
an interview with him in the presence of Boghos Bey.
“At noon I went to the palace with Mr. Larking, and had an audience with
Mehemet Ali: after delivering your letter to him and passing a few
compliments, I read to him my extract from Lord Palmerston’s
instructions, which was interpreted to him by his Dragoman, and then
presented to him, expressing my hope that his compliance with what it
required, would restore a good understanding between the Sultan and
himself. He alluded to the recent Convention, and said he had promised
all this before to Commodore Napier, if Egypt was guaranteed to him, and
that he never departed from his word.
“I replied, I had no guarantee to offer; but he would perceive that,
though you had not been able to ratify that Convention, you had lost no
time in communicating the instructions received from your Government,
and in expressing your own disposition to conciliate; and that I hoped
he would merit the wish which I knew you had expressed, and take some
immediate steps for the restitution of the Turkish fleet, which I
regretted to observe was making no preparation for sea; that the words
in my note with reference to the fleet were ‘immediate,’ and ‘without
delay;’ and I was sure his giving directions for that part of it which
could be most expeditiously equipped proceeding to you at Marmorice,
would be regarded in a favourable light, both at London and at
Constantinople.
“Mehemet Ali said earnestly, he had always wished to give the fleet up
to his master; that I might pledge myself that it should be ready to
deliver to me, or to any officer that might be sent by the Porte to take
charge of it, and that he would send his own officers and men to assist
in navigating it, if he was reinstated in Egypt; adding, ‘If I give up
the fleet, what security have I, having already given orders for the
evacuation of all the places referred to?’
“I told him he must look for his security in the good faith and friendly
disposition of the English Government, and in the influence it might
have with the Sultan and the Allied Powers. He seemed rather disposed to
yield on this point, but gave no positive answer. I then stated that my
time was limited; he said he had no wish for delay; the documents which
I had given him should be forthwith translated, and brought again under
his consideration, and that I should have his answer in French to take
to you as soon as possible. I replied, I was authorized to take his
final answer to Constantinople, and that I must be furnished with his
written engagement to convey thither; and as I concluded it would be
written in Turkish, I must have a translation of it also, that I might
be satisfied it contained all that was required. This was immediately
assented to, Mehemet Ali saying, he was always ready to make his
submission to the Sultan, and that he would promise all that was asked,
if he was allowed to remain quiet in Egypt. This ended the conference.
“In the evening, Mr. Larking and myself had an interview by appointment
with Boghos Bey, who said it was Mehemet Ali’s desire to meet the views
of the Allied Powers, and that he was pleased with the English
mediation, but that he considered that he had already the promise of the
hereditary government of Egypt, and he was afraid there would be
difficulties raised at Constantinople, and that there was one Power
(Russia) not so well disposed to see such a termination to the question.
I told Boghos Bey, that he must be aware the Allied Powers could not
regard Mehemet Ali since his deposition by the Sultan in the same light
as before, and that he must make his submission; and that I was sure, if
he would without delay send such part of the Turkish fleet as could be
got ready to Marmorice, it must tend to conciliate all parties, and be a
proof of the entire sincerity of his intentions.
“I then called his attention to the limit of my stay at Alexandria, and
to the necessity that the written engagement I was to receive should be
so worded that I could not hesitate to convey it. Boghos assured me he
would use his influence to prevent any obstacle; that he was to attend a
Council with Mehemet Ali directly, at which the translated copies would
be discussed and the answer decided upon, which he thought would be
quite satisfactory. This Council, however, I learnt was not so
harmonious as Boghos Bey expected, and nothing was then decided. On the
following morning (Wednesday) Mr. Larking received a summons, and had an
interview with Mehemet Ali and Boghos Bey, which was more favourable;
and I was informed I might expect a translation of the engagement early
on the following day, and that it would contain all that was asked; but
Mr. Larking did not find Mehemet Ali disposed to let any part of the
fleet go first,—a point which I had requested him to urge again,—saying,
they all came, and should all go together. I did not, however, receive
the translations of the letters to the Vizier and yourself, which I now
inclose, until ten o’clock yesterday morning, but then accompanied by a
notice that Mehemet Ali was ready to receive me. On perusing the letter
to the Vizier, it appeared to me to be so complete an engagement, in all
points required, without any especial stipulation about Egypt, and that
though the terms of submission might be somewhat equivocal, it came
within the view of Lord Palmerston’s instructions, and that I could not
hesitate to be the bearer of it. I therefore repaired to the palace with
Mr. Larking, and had, I consider, a satisfactory interview with Mehemet
Ali. I pointed out to him that I did not feel that the expressions in
his letter to the Vizier, relating to the fleet, came up to the promise
which he had made me the other day, and that I saw no appearance yet of
preparation, and that I or some one else might return very soon to claim
the fulfilment of that pledge. Mehemet Ali said he had given orders
already on the subject, and repeated earnestly that the fleet should be
ready to quit the port, as far as he was concerned, five days after the
arrival of the officer to whom the Sultan wished it to be delivered.
“I then remarked that on the subject of Candia there might be some
delay, as I understood the Pacha there had not submitted to the Sultan;
and as I thought it probable the Porte might be prepared to send troops
immediately to take possession of that island, I proposed that I should
be the bearer of a letter to the Pacha of Candia, directing him to yield
it to the Turkish authorities; to which Mehemet Ali immediately
assented, and ordered one to be written. I hope these points, therefore,
may be taken as an earnest of his sincerity, though I am quite of
opinion, that unless the Sultan gives him the hereditary pashalic of
Egypt, he will be very much disposed to fight for it—or, at any rate, to
give further trouble. This letter to the Pacha of Candia being ready, I
received it with those to the Vizier and yourself (all which I herewith
transmit), all under flying seals, from Mehemet Ali’s hands, and took my
leave of him. Boghos Bey then requested to speak with me on one or two
subjects, by Mehemet Ali’s desire, which were—1st. His wish to be
allowed to send some of his steam-vessels to Gaza or El-Arish to receive
the sick, wounded, women and children, of Ibrahim Pacha’s army who might
be entering Egypt by that route, and who would be thus spared a painful
and tedious march, saying that Commodore Napier’s Treaty embraced that
subject. I replied, that though you had not been able to confirm the
Commodore’s Convention, you would, I was sure, for the cause of
humanity, be now ready to meet Mehemet Ali’s wish, and that I would
communicate with the senior officer of our ships off the port on the
subject, who would allow vessels, going strictly for that purpose, to
pass freely. 2ndly. That in case of any of our ships of war coming to
the port, the commanders should be desired to conform rigidly to the
quarantine regulations. I told him they always had, and always would do
so, and reminded him of the quarantine you had passed yourself in
August, and said that whatever our Consul told the captains was required
by the regulations of the port would be abided by; for Mr. Larking had
an idea that they might contemplate some new regulations which might
affect the ships or officers to be sent down for the Turkish fleet.
“At 1 P.M. yesterday we sailed from Alexandria, and off the port
communicated with Her Majesty’s ship Carysfort, and I delivered to
Captain Martin two letters (copies of which I inclose) which I had
thought it right to address to the senior officer of Her Majesty’s ships
off Alexandria, and of which I hope you will approve; we are now
proceeding to join your flag at Marmorice.
“I cannot close this report, without expressing how much I benefited by
Mr. Larking’s ready and cordial assistance, and by the information I was
able to obtain from him, and also from the zeal and attention of Mr.
John Chumarian, the Dragoman.
“I have, &c.,
(Signed) “ARTHUR FANSHAWE, _Captain_.
“P.S.—We left the Ambuscade, small French frigate, a corvette, and
steam-vessel at Alexandria; the latter, I understand, was to start for
France to-day; the Bourgainville, brig, sailed for Beyrout, the day of
our arrival.”
“The Hon. Sir R. Stopford, G.C.B.”
On the 13th of December Captain Fanshawe returned from Alexandria, and
after delivering the Pacha’s reply to the Admiral, proceeded to
Constantinople with his answer to the Vizier, which, like a clever
diplomatist, he had taken care to base on the Convention, and it does
appear to me quite astonishing that so determined a man as the Pacha
certainly is, and as he had shown himself, should have listened at all
to the Instruction of the 14th of November, which had the material
difference from that of the 15th of October, of not containing the
hereditary title; the very fact of our appearing to have changed our
mind in so short a period, ought to have awakened his suspicion, because
he could not know that that change originated with Austria, who however,
as will presently be seen, got alarmed at the rejection of the
Convention, and distinctly stated that Mehemet Ali should be confirmed,
and that she would have nothing to do with any attack that might be
meditated on Alexandria.
“17 Chewal, 1256.
(Dec. 11, 1840.)
“After the usual Titles.
“Commodore Napier, of the British fleet, informed me by a despatch dated
from before Alexandria, the 22nd of November, N.S., that the Great
Allied Powers have requested the Sublime Porte to grant me the
hereditary Government of Egypt, on the conditions laid down by them;
that is, that I shall give up the Imperial fleet which is in the Port of
Alexandria, and that the Egyptian troops shall retire from Syria, and
re-enter Egypt.
“The Commodore required that diligence should be used in preparing the
fleet, in order to its being delivered up, and in withdrawing the troops
from Syria.
“After some correspondence and some discussions with the Commodore on
this matter, these conditions were accepted, and an authentic Act,
manifesting that it is expected that the favour of him who is the shadow
of God should be granted, and serving as a document to both parties, was
concluded and signed.
“In consequence, I wrote to my son, Ibrahim Pacha, your servant, to
|
everything, my precious Eleanor was poor, very poor. She had no
relatives near enough to count, and her guardian sent her to school
with what little money she had. I'm afraid it did not teach her very
well how to support herself! She married the year she left school; she
has never spoken of him at all, but I don't believe her husband
was--was all she had believed. When he died, she brought little Bob to
New York.
"I heard dear old Mrs. Harley say, only a day or two ago, that there
are thousands of Southern girls, dear, sweet girls who have never done
any work at all, who come to New York every year to try to earn a
living. Sometimes they think they can sing, sometimes they want to
become artists, sometimes they just come; and Eleanor was one of them.
Only, with her, it was worse, for she had Bob.
"I don't know how they got along. I was in Europe, and she would only
write when I had sent Bob something. I never dreamed that people,
people of my own sort, my own friends even, might be hungry, and not
have money enough to buy anything to eat."
"You ought not to know it now," Flood said. But she only shook her
head.
"I believe Eleanor has been hungry. And if you could only see her--she
is so lovely, as lovely as a white lily!"
"Oh, but surely, Miss Randall, she could have got help! There are no
end of places----"
"Yes. But a woman like Eleanor can't seek just any kind of help, you
know, and--well, as darling Mrs. Harley says, charity doesn't help
much, when it is only charity. Even from me, Eleanor says she cannot.
"When I came to New York to live with Cecilia, I went at once to see
her. She let me do all I could for little Bob, but it was too late.
He died. And now she will not let me do anything for her. I ask her
what good my money is to me, if she will not let me use it as I want
to! She would not even let me take her to an oculist until she saw
that I was just breaking my heart over her! And now----"
Again her head was bent over her clasped hands; again she was too
moved, for the moment, to speak. Flood seized his opportunity.
"Believe me, it can be arranged," he said. "You have taken me into
your confidence--you will let me--advise, won't you?" She looked up
eagerly, and he went quickly on. "See your friend, Mrs.----"
"Mrs. Reeves."
"See your friend, Mrs. Reeves, and tell her about Ogilvie. Tell her
that he is looking for someone--a lady--to help with his work down in
those mountains. Prepare her to accept his offer. I will telegraph
him."
She looked at him blankly. "But--would it be true? I don't think I
understand!"
He smiled reassuringly. "It would not be true that I am going to
Europe to-morrow--but we could make it true! If we get her away from
the city, and near Ogilvie, we can leave everything else to him. He's
really a good deal of a man, you know."
Rosamund sprang to her feet. "Cecilia," she said, across the room, to
her sister, "I am going back to Eleanor's."
III
In her enthusiasm at the chance of finding a way out for Eleanor,
Rosamund seemingly forgot that it was Flood who helped her. As a
matter of fact, she considered him so little that she was quite willing
to make use of his assistance in so good a cause and then to ignore
him. She had always found someone at hand to help her in anything she
wanted to do; she could not remember a time when there was not someone
ready and willing to gratify her least whim. It was only in her
efforts on Eleanor's behalf that she was baffled for the first time, as
much by Eleanor's own pride as by not knowing to whom to turn, or where
help was to be found. It was a new experience for her to find that her
money could do nothing; for it was precisely her money that her
cherished Eleanor refused. If she was to do anything, it must be by
some other means.
Flood was not as entirely unconscious of her attitude as he appeared.
He had no intention of pressing himself upon her through making himself
of use. He beheld her suffering in sympathy with this unknown friend
of hers, and her suffering so worked upon his love for her that he
would have done much more to lessen it. But he knew humanity; and
while he took more pleasure in being generous than in any other of the
powers his wealth had brought him, he gave without thought of benefits
returned, save in the satisfaction of giving.
His first move was a letter to the mountain doctor.
MY DEAR DR. OGILVIE: [he wrote] Since my visit with you a matter has
been brought to my attention in which I do not hesitate to ask your
assistance. Two ladies whom I hold in highest esteem are in great
anxiety over a friend of theirs whom they have known from childhood.
This friend is a widow who has lately lost her son, having come to New
York from the South a few years ago in the hope of supporting herself
and the child, and being now alone here except for the ladies who are
my friends and hers. Her situation, you will perceive, is common
enough; but what adds to the distress in this instance is that Mrs.
Reeves' eyes are affected, to what extent I do not know. I have not
had the pleasure of meeting the lady myself; but I am told that her
vision is not entirely to be despaired of; and my friend Doctor Hiram
Wilson has great confidence in your power. It would be impossible to
offer charity to Mrs. Reeves; and it would be equally impossible for
her to go to the Summit to be near you without assistance; indeed, it
has been impossible for her to consult an oculist here until the
entreaties of my friends prevailed upon her to do so with them. But it
occurs to me that you might find use for an assistant in your work in
the mountains--a capable lady who has suffered enough to have sympathy
with the sufferings of others, and that sort of thing. Now would you
be willing to lend yourself to a mild deception for the sake of
conferring a great benefit? If you can make use of Mrs. Reeves'
assistance, I shall be very glad to remit to you whatever remuneration
you might offer her. I should also expect to pay the usual fees for
your attention to Mrs. Reeves' eyes. You will know best how to take up
that matter with her, so as not to arouse her suspicions of its having
been suggested to you. I should suggest that you write to me, asking
whether I can advise you of a suitable person to fill the office
of--whatever is the medical equivalent of parochial assistant. I am
sure I may count upon your help; as I understand it, this is one of
those cases whose claim cannot be denied by any one of us.
A few days later Flood went to Miss Randall with Ogilvie's reply:
Curiously enough, I have the very place for Mrs. Reeves. One of my
patients, who has taken a cottage at the Summit for the summer, is
looking for a companion. I am writing her by this mail to apply
through you to Mrs. Reeves. We will see what we can do for those
troublesome eyes; but I can manage it better if I don't have the
haunting feeling that I am to be paid--you will understand that. Your
parochial assistant plan sounded very tempting, but that sort of thing
would be too good to be true.
Flood laughed when Rosamund looked up from reading it. "My friend
Ogilvie seems to be as shy of possible charity as your Mrs. Reeves," he
said.
"What do you mean?" she asked. Then he remembered that she could not
know what he had written.
She saw his hesitancy and laughed. "Oh! So you've been offering
charity, have you? I wish you'd let me see a copy of your letter!"
"Now what for?" he asked. "Ogilvie's idea beats mine."
"But I'd like to see your literary style," she said, still laughing at
him.
"Oh, please!" he protested.
"Well, I think you are very good, Mr. Flood. The role of rescuer of
dames is very becoming to you! If you could see my Eleanor you'd feel
repaid. She is the loveliest and the dearest----"
"But I haven't done anything at all, I assure you. I'm sure I hope
your friend will find this Mrs. Hetherbee a comfortable person to live
with."
"Mrs. Hetherbee! Is that Doctor Ogilvie's patient?"
Flood nodded. "She telephoned me before I'd had my breakfast for Mrs.
Reeves' address. That was my excuse for bothering you in the morning."
"You are good," she said. Then she added, a little ruefully, "I wish
you could help me to break the news to Eleanor!"
For to persuade her Eleanor, as she had foreseen, was not as easy as to
persuade Flood and the unknown doctor and his patient.
She knew the lunch-room that Eleanor liked best, and sought her there
at the noon hour. They chatted across the small intervening table,
until Eleanor arose.
"You are not going back to the office," Rosamund declared, when they
were together on the street. "Now, Eleanor, please don't be difficult!"
"My dearest child!" Mrs. Reeves began; but Rosamund took her friend's
arm through her own, and poured forth the story of how she had heard,
through a Mr. Flood, that Mrs. Hetherbee wanted a companion.
"Who is Mrs. Hetherbee?" Eleanor asked, suspiciously.
"I haven't the least idea," Rosamund frankly admitted. "But she wants
a companion, and she is going to spend the summer at Bluemont Summit,
and----"
She paused, and Eleanor turned to her. "Rose, tell it all!" she said.
"You wouldn't be suggesting my leaving one situation for another,
unless you----"
"No, I wouldn't! I know it! I confess! I am! But you are so
peculiar, Eleanor!"
They laughed together, and Rosamund took courage to tell her. "There
is a man there who, they say, does wonders for the eyes. That is why I
want you to go, Eleanor. I don't know what Mrs. Hetherbee will pay
you; and I will not offer to--to--I will not offer anything at all!
But oh, Eleanor, please, please go!"
They walked in silence to the vestibule of the towering building where
Eleanor worked. At the elevator she turned to Rosamund.
"I will go to see Mrs. Hetherbee to-night," she said. "And I do love
you!"
Some weeks thereafter Rosamund came home from bidding Mrs. Reeves
farewell at the station, to find Cecilia once more dispensing tea to
Pendleton and Flood; and she sent Flood into a state of speechless
happiness with her thanks. Eleanor had promised to see Doctor Ogilvie
about her eyes at once, and Mrs. Hetherbee had taken a tremendous fancy
to Eleanor, and it was good of Mr. Flood to have sent those lovely
flowers to the train. Eleanor had introduced her as a friend of Mr.
Benson Flood, and was he willing that she should shine in his reflected
glory? Because it had tremendously impressed Mrs. Hetherbee!
When the men had left, Cecilia turned to her sister. "He's in love
with you, you know!" she said.
"Nonsense! I've known him all my life, Cissy, and you don't fall in
love with a person you've seen spanked!"
"You know very well I'm not talking about Marshall," said Mrs. Maxwell.
"And you know very well that Mr. Flood is tremendously in love with
you."
"I think you're disgusting," said Rosamund. "For heaven's sake, don't
try to follow the fashion of the women of our set in that respect,
Cissy! Every man they know has to be in love with somebody--half the
time with somebody else's wife! Oh, I loathe it!"
Cecilia remained calm. "I hope you don't loathe Mr. Flood," she said,
"because he is."
Rosamund threw herself back in a deep chair, and looked at her sister
in the exasperation one feels towards the sweetly stubborn.
"Oh, very well! He is! But that's nothing to me!"
"Isn't it? He probably thinks it is! You've taken his help for your
precious Eleanor, you know, and you're going to Oakleigh next month."
"I am not going to do anything of the kind!"
That moved Cecilia. "But my dear child, you certainly are! He has
asked me to be hostess for his first house-party, and I have accepted,
and said you'd go with me."
"Cecilia!"
"Now don't say you've forgotten it! Why, it was the very day you told
him about Eleanor."
Cecilia remained provokingly silent; and Rosamund jumped up
impatiently, only to throw herself down upon another chair.
"Oh, I wish I had never seen the man!" she cried. "I did tell him
about Eleanor, and I did let him do something for her. I would have
taken help for Eleanor from anybody--from a street-sweeper, or the
furnace man! That doesn't give your Mr. Flood any claim on me!"
"Yours, dear!" said Cecilia, smiling.
"He is not! Why, he is--nobody!"
"Well, that's not his fault. He wants to be somebody! He is doing his
best to marry into our family, love!"
At that Rosamund had to laugh. "Oh, Cissy! Don't be such a goose!
Mr. Flood is perfectly odious to me, and you know it. I don't see why
you ever let Marshall introduce him! I don't see why you ever allowed
him to so much as dare to invite us to Oakleigh!"
"But, my dear, Oakleigh is--Oakleigh!"
"What if it is? He ought to have known better than to ask us there,
and I don't see why you accepted."
Mrs. Maxwell smiled. "Pity, my dear!" she explained. "Pity--the crumb
to a starving dog--the farthing to a beggar! Besides, he will let me
invite whom I please and--well, Benson Flood may be a suppliant for one
thing, Rose, but he has, after all, more money than he can count!"
"Then why don't you marry him yourself?"
Mrs. Maxwell shrugged. "'Nobody asked me, sir, she said!' And
besides, when poor dear Tommy died--oh, well, he did actually die, poor
darling, so there never was any question of divorce or anything horrid,
like that--you know how old-fashioned I am in my ideas, Rosamund! But
still, there is such a thing as tempting Providence a little too often.
My hopes are distinctly not matrimonial. Not that I think Mr. Flood is
the least bit like Tommy. If I did, of course I couldn't
conscientiously--you know! As it is, I think he'd do very well--in the
family!"
"You show great respect for the family!"
"Oh, well, Rosamund, the family can stand it! You must admit that! I
am sure the Stanfields and the Berkleys and the Randalls need not mind
a--a--an alliance with--with the millions of a Benson Flood!"
Rosamund sighed impatiently. "Oh, dear, Cecilia," she said, "I do wish
it were in my power to give you half my money!"
Mrs. Maxwell smiled with pursed lips. "So do I," she declared. "I'd
take it in a minute! But you can't! You can't do one single thing
with it until you're twenty-five, except spend the income; and you've
got six months more before your birthday. And even then you won't want
to give me half of it, because now you don't even want me to spend the
income! Gracious! I wish I had a chance at it!"
"I do give you half of my income, Cecilia!"
"No, you don't," Mrs. Maxwell contradicted, in a voice that echoed an
old complaint. "You only give me half of the sum you think two people
ought to spend! As if it isn't right and one's duty to spend all one
can! I know there's something about keeping money in circulation, and
all that, if only I could remember it! But nothing would move you!
Poor dear Mamma used to say that Colonel Randall was obstinate--most
obstinate, Rosamund; and I must say that you don't take after the
Stanfields at all, not at all!"
Mrs. Maxwell's grievances, thus expressed, began to be too much for
her; she spoke through tears. "I am sure I have tried to do my very
best by you, Rosamund, since Mamma died! The accounts the Trust
Company made me keep all those years were dreadful, perfectly dreadful!
But I used to struggle through them somehow, because I was sustained by
the thought that when you were twenty-five we could just spend and
spend and spend and never have to bother about keeping accounts or
being economical or anything! But it will be just the same then! I
know it will! Why, you haven't even one automobile!"
Her sister's tears and the fatuity of her arguments were as unfailing
an appeal to Rosamund as they would have been to a man; she got up and
put her arms around Cecilia.
"You silly old darling!" she laughed. "You shall have an automobile!
You may have two if you want them, and I will give you every penny of
my income that we haven't spent in the last three years! But for
goodness sake, don't cry!"
Mrs. Maxwell followed up her victory. "Will you go to Oakleigh?" she
asked.
Rosamund capitulated. "Oh, I suppose so!" she said, and shrugged.
Then she added, with a somewhat malicious little smile, "It goes
without saying that Marshall goes, too?"
Mrs. Maxwell lifted her chin. The line of her throat was still very
pretty. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror over the mantel.
"Don't be absurd," she said. "Why shouldn't he?"
IV
"The Battlefield Hotel," Marshall Pendleton said, when the question of
luncheon was brought up, "is a wonderful place, Benny; better take us
there. Stopped there with the Willings last summer, and had eleven
kinds of jam and about a hundred kinds of cake on the table at the same
time. Great!"
"Heavens, Marshall!" Mrs. Maxwell exclaimed. "You know I can't eat
sweets! I'd put on half a pound after such a meal as that!"
Pendleton grinned. "That was not all, Cecilia," he said. "I'd meant
to keep it a secret, and surprise Benny with it. He's always out for
gastronomic rarities. They give you cold cucumbers, cut thick, with
warmish cream poured over them--real cream, lumpy, kind you used to
have on grandfather's farm, and all that, you know! You feel green
when you first see it. Then you wonder what it's like, but remember
that your cousin somebody-or-other, the one you're not on speaking
terms with, would inherit all you'd leave if you died. Then you begin
to reason that other people must have dared and survived, and then you
taste it and--consume! It's truly wonderful, Benny; better take us
there!"
"Are you inviting us to a suicide pact, Marshall?" Flood asked.
The others laughed, and Flood and Mrs. Maxwell exchanged memories of
queer dishes while Pendleton pointed out to the chauffeur the intricate
way through the narrow streets. Only Rosamund was silent, leaning back
in the cushioned corner, looking abstractedly at the quaint doorways
and gardens they passed. During the preceding fortnight, with Oakleigh
crowded with guests, it had been easy enough to avoid Flood's
companionship, which was beginning to make her more and more uneasy, in
spite of his earnest effort to keep it for the present on the level of
the commonplace. But, now that they were alone there, a party of four,
and with Cecilia and Marshall in one of their intervals of mutual
absorption, there was nothing to do but submit to the situation. She
had welcomed Flood's suggestion of the day before that they should
motor up to Bluemont; with Eleanor at the Summit, and with the others
in the motor car, Flood's company could be endured for the day. So
they had left Oakleigh early, and in Flood's big shining car swung down
through the mountains, out upon the plain, and into the quaint little
town of Battlesburg. Rosamund's imagination peopled again the streets
and fields with soldiers in blue and gray. She knew where her father
had fought and lain wounded. As they passed swiftly between the
innumerable monuments her heart throbbed. From the vast field of
graves the spirit of the past arose and spoke to her--spoke of the men
who had fought and died there, spoke of the greater man who had led and
forgiven.
But during all the journey she had been intensely bored; more, she was
deeply provoked, and in that state of mind where everything jars and
trifles loom as mountains. Pendleton's silly chatter seemed
unendurable; she resented his nonsense almost as if it were an insult
thrown at the sacredness of the battlefield. She hated his story of
the cucumbers and cream. When the landlord told them they would have
half an hour to wait before luncheon, she walked to the farthest end of
the veranda, and stood, looking down the little narrow street. Mrs.
Maxwell threw herself into a large yellow rocking chair, and Flood
leaned against the veranda railing, facing her. Pendleton was entering
their names in the office, and wonderingly inspecting the landlord's
showcase of battlefield relics. Flood lighted a cigarette, and as he
blew out the smoke, turned towards the end of the veranda where
Rosamund stood. Cecilia watched his face for a moment or two; then she
said:
"You must not be offended with Rosamund's ways, you know! She is not
like anybody else."
Flood turned his head and smiled into her eyes. He waited a full
half-minute before he replied. "No," he said, slowly. "No, she is not
like anyone else!" He took several deep breaths of his cigarette, then
spoke with little pauses between each phrase, as if he were thinking
out what he had to say. "She's--she's a dream-woman come true! She's
the lady of one's imagination!"
"Dear me!" Mrs. Maxwell remarked, with sisterly lack of enthusiasm.
Flood threw back his head with a little laugh.
"I wonder which surprises you most," he said, "to hear that said of
your sister, or to find out that I have an imagination?"
Mrs. Maxwell had had time to become an adept at begging the question.
"Well," she said, "one doesn't usually associate imagination
and--dream-women, you know, with your type. I mean, with business men!"
"Oh, pray don't mind saying'my type'! It's good for me to hear it,
because it is just there that I lose. I _am_ of a different type--or
class--from you and your sister; even from our friend Pendleton. Miss
Randall sees that, and she will not try to look beyond it. She will
not let herself know me better, because she doesn't want to; and she
doesn't want to because I am not--I suppose she'd call it her'sort.'"
He spoke without a trace of bitterness, and smiled again at Mrs.
Maxwell's well-executed manner of protest.
"Why, no one knows that better than I do," he went on. "She's five or
six generations ahead of me in civilization, you know; her grandmother
left off where my grand-daughter would have to begin. That's why I
want her. I'm naturally impatient, and I want to see my wife doing and
feeling and thinking a lot of things that are quite beyond my
apprehension. She's just what I've always imagined a woman ought to
be, and I want her."
"I don't think she'd credit you with any such imagination," Mrs.
Maxwell said, adding, somewhat dryly, "with any imagination at all!"
"That is just my difficulty," Flood replied. "She will not give
herself a chance to find me out." He smiled as he met her puzzled
look. "You know--I am only stating the fact--I have--er--accumulated a
great deal of money--a great deal, more than I know myself!"
Mrs. Maxwell's fingers curled a little more closely about the arms of
her chair, and she nodded.
"Well, there are only two ways of doing that. There used to be three.
There was a time when a man could accumulate a fortune by saving; but
in this day and generation no accumulation of savings amounts to what
we call a fortune. Nowadays a man can dig up a fortune; or he can so
follow the daring of his imagination as to make a reality of what only
existed, before, in his own ambitious dreams. I think it is safe to
say that all but one per cent. of the great fortunes that are got
together nowadays are done so by the exercising and ordering of a man's
imagination. Well, I've made such use of mine that I'm a rich man, as
far as money goes, at forty-three. Now my imagination is busy along
new lines. Money is only the key: I want to enter the garden. I
believe she'd realize every ideal I have! You are quite right.
There's nobody like her!"
His face flushed deeply as he spoke, but Mrs. Maxwell was not looking
at him. "Oh, dear," she sighed, "I do wish she were not quite so--odd!"
"Not odd," Flood contradicted, though pleasantly enough, "but supreme!"
Mrs. Maxwell's eyebrows went up. Ordinarily she was too conscious of
what might be expected of her breeding to be disloyal to her sister;
but Cecilia was not an angel.
"She is supremely full of notions," she remarked. "How any girl with
her money can prefer--actually prefer--to dress as she does, and to
live as she does, and to go about with one maid between us--I cannot
understand it! She doesn't spend a thousand a year on her clothes, and
she doesn't own so much as one motor car! You may call that sort of
thing supreme; I call it odd!"
Pendleton had come out and joined Rosamund. They were obviously
unaware of Flood's gaze, but Mrs. Maxwell rather disdainfully noticed
that his look had softened as she spoke.
"Yes," he said, "that is unusual, as far as my experience goes; but I
rather think she is quite capable of doing the unexpected. That's
another part of her charm for me. I can only guess at what she would
do or think, you know. And she's so far beyond me that while money is
almost the whole show to me, it doesn't count at all, with her! Jove!
I wish she might have the spending of mine!"
Mrs. Maxwell fairly shivered at the thought of Flood's millions going
to waste, as she expressed it to herself; but fortunately for her peace
of mind luncheon was announced, and they went into the little Dutch
dining-room to investigate the cucumbers and cream.
At the table Rosamund lost some of her pensiveness; and when they came
out again to the sight of the fields where the armies had fought and
died, and were once more in the car, she bent towards Flood with eyes
burning with excitement, lips parted and hands clasped.
"Oh," she cried, "I am glad, so glad I came, Mr. Flood! It is going to
be a wonderful afternoon! I am thrilling even now! The suffering and
the sacrifice and the glory! They have left their marks everywhere,
haven't they?"
Flood looked at her with admiration so engrossing as to make him
scarcely aware of what she said; Pendleton was discussing roads with
the chauffeur, but Mrs. Maxwell turned in her seat.
"What on earth are you talking about, Rosamund?" she demanded.
"The battlefield!" the girl explained. "The field and the marking
stones, the orchard where Father was wounded--all, all of it! I am
going over it bit by bit, every inch of it, and I'm going to thrill,
thrill, thrill! Probably cry, too!" she added. "I hope you brought
your vanity-box along, Cecilia!"
"But, my dear child, we are going to the Summit! We are going to see
Eleanor!"
For once Cecilia welcomed the thought of Eleanor, but Rosamund only
laughed.
"Mr. Flood will bring us another day to see Eleanor," she said, "won't
you, Mr. Flood? To-day, Cissy darling, I am going to see
Battlesburg--just as if I were a tourist!"
Mrs. Maxwell looked at her in amazement. "Rosamund!" she cried. "Mr.
Flood! Marshall! Marshall! Please! Mr. Flood, you certainly did not
bring us on this trip to go sight-seeing, did you? Marshall, did you
ever hear anything so absurd? Rosamund wants to go paddling about in
this--this graveyard!"
Rosamund was unabashed. "Yes, of course I do!" she said. "So do you,
don't you, Mr. Flood? And, Marshall, you know you've wanted to fight a
battle over again ever since the last one we had at my ninth birthday
party, when I pulled your hair and you were too polite to smack me!"
"I never wanted to fight in all my life, Rosamund," Pendleton drawled.
"Certainly not on a day like this, and after a Dutch midday dinner."
Flood was embarrassed, and looked it; but Mrs. Maxwell gave him no
chance to reply. "Rosamund, I hate to speak so plainly," she said,
"but there are times when you go too far with your absurdities. Nobody
goes sight-seeing; we are Mr. Flood's guests, and we have miles of
steep road to get over this afternoon; you cannot upset his plans in
this way. Besides, it's altogether too warm for exertion--and emotion.
You'll have to get your thrills in some less strenuous way. I simply
refuse to be dragged over any battlefield in existence."
Mrs. Maxwell sank back in her corner, and resolutely looked away;
Rosamund, still smiling, turned towards Flood.
"We'll leave her in the car to amuse Marshall, and we'll take one of
those funny little carriages, won't we, Mr. Flood?"
Her smile and little air of confidence brought color to Flood's face;
he opened and closed his hands nervously. His boasted imagination
failed him. The lady of his dreams was doing the unexpected. His
voice showed his perplexity.
"My dear Miss Randall, I'd do anything in the world to please you!
There are some miles of mountain roads to be gone over, if we are to
get back to-night, but"--he leaned towards her--"when you ask me, you
know I could not refuse you anything in the world, even at the risk of
Mrs. Maxwell's displeasure!"
His words and manner instantly accomplished all that Cecilia's
insistence had failed to do. Immediately Rosamund's face lost its
bright eagerness for the same indifferent coldness that she usually
showed him.
"Oh, by all means, let us remember the mountain roads, Mr. Flood," she
said, leaning back upon the yielding cushion, turning her head to look
listlessly out of the car.
"Oh, please!" poor Flood exclaimed.
Cecilia began to chatter gaily, and Marshall bent over his road maps.
The car flew out of the town, noiselessly except for the faint humming
of its swift onrush, the modern song of the road. But, to Rosamund,
there was no melody in the song; she was out of tune with the day, with
her companions, with the ride itself.
V
Perhaps, if the events of the next few hours had come to pass at any
other time, they would not have left the same mark upon her life. As
it was, Rosamund had come to that state of moral restlessness which is
bound either to open the windows of the soul to fresher air and wider
fields of vision, or else to induce the peevish discontent which so
often falls to the lot of the idle woman. Although she consciously
longed for happiness, she knew that she was not sentimentally unhappy;
neither was she fatuously so, like her sister. Cecilia was only one of
many women of her age and class, who imagine that possession brings
enjoyment. She often declared that if she had as much as her
acquaintances she could make herself content, but that if she had more
than they she could be supremely happy. Rosamund had no such
illusions; her clear mind had never been perverted to the futility of
such ambitions, although there was nothing in her environment to
suggest a satisfying substitute for them. If she was restless, it was
not for something she might not have. It pleased her pride to think
that she valued neither wealth nor social eminence, but accepted them
only as her birthright; but, as in the case of the infatuated Flood,
she resented any sign of invasion upon the sacred precincts which for
generations had respected their Berkleys and their Stanfields and
Randalls. It was her pride which had induced her to neglect, as
unimportant, the things Cecilia yearned for; Rosamund Randall was to be
above manifestations of wealth--although Rosamund Randall was not above
occasional haughty stubbornness.
The charitable pastimes in which some of her friends indulged held no
appeal for her; she was too impatient for immediate results to be
successful in them. She vaguely felt that some fault must lie with the
unfortunate, and she could not imagine that the individual might be
interesting. Even Eleanor's experience, although it had stirred her
heart to pity, brought her no closer to the mass of suffering. She had
no particular talents, no pet enthusiasms; yet her intelligence was too
keen to be satisfied with the round of days that constituted life for
Cecilia, as well as for most of their friends. Nothing suggested
itself as a substitute for them, and to-day not even the charms of
nature satisfied her, however beautiful the country through which the
big car carried them. But insensibly it made its effect upon her.
Away from the scars of battle, through orchard and grass-land, between
fields of ripening corn and pastures where drowsy cattle were
ruminating in shady fence-corners; past little white farmhouses with
red barns at their backs, and tangled gardens where bees feasted in
front of them; up towards the hills, through stretches of cool
woodland, where little spring-fed brooklets crossed the road, and where
the turns were so narrow that the call of the horn had often to pierce
the stillness; out again upon cleared spaces, and at last far up on the
mountain-tops--so they traveled, Rosamund alone seeming to notice the
beauties they passed so swiftly
|
scarf, and topped the whole with the greasy and battered grey felt
hat, The Gander softly left the den, locking the door after him and
taking the key with him. It was between three and four o’clock in the
afternoon, but not nearly dark. The Gander got down to Leith Street
in his strange disguise, and when near the foot, at that part where
Low Calton branches off towards Leith Wynd, he stopped a suitable
gentleman and asked the time by the clock. Quite unsuspicious in the
broad daylight, the gentleman took out his watch, and in a moment it
had changed hands. The grasp had been made at it with such force by
The Gander, that the gold Albert attached to the watch was snapped,
and half of it left dangling at the owner’s button-hole.
The moment the grasp was made, The Gander ran like the wind, and got
clear away by Low Calton and the Back Canongate, and never halted
till he landed breathless but triumphant at the bedside of the
sleeping Yorky. His first business was to resume his own clothing,
clean the paint from his nose, and take the wig from his head. Then
he took the watch, with the fragment of gold chain still attached,
and thrust it as far as his arm could reach in under the mattress
on which lay the virtuous form of the sleeping Yorky. This done,
he pocketed the red wig, laid Yorky’s clothes at the bedside beside
his muddy boots, in some confusion, as if they had been taken off
somewhat hurriedly, and then left the house, with the pleasing
consciousness of having done all he could to help Fate to do the
right thing to a great rascal.
While this was being done, the robbed man had made his way to the
Central Office to report his loss. He had got a full view of the
robber’s face and dress—or at least imagined he had—and went over the
details with such minuteness and fidelity that I turned to some one
and said in surprise—
“Surely it can’t be Yorky at his old games already, and he was only
let out this morning? It’s just his style.”
I then went over one or two of Yorky’s peculiar features, to all of
which the gentleman so eagerly responded in the affirmative that I
thought it could do no harm at least to look for Yorky, with a view
to bringing him face to face with the victim. I should have found
him at once if I had gone to his den, but that was the very last
place I thought he would go near when in danger of being taken. I
therefore went over all his haunts, but in vain. No one had seen him,
and several told me of the flight of his wife, which gave me the
idea that Yorky, finding himself “on the rocks,” and deserted, had
committed the robbery with great audacity, and then left the city for
good with the proceeds in the wake of his partner. It was quite late
at night when I thought of his garret in the Canongate. I believe it
was M^cSweeny’s suggestion that I should go there—at least he always
insists that it was, and possibly he is right, for the way in which
Yorky had grinned at his damaged face had made my chum certain that
the hands which inflicted the injuries were before him, and M^cSweeny
was now eager for revenge.
There was no answer but snores to our knock, so we opened the door
and entered.
“How sound the divil sleeps,” said M^cSweeny, with a sceptical grin,
as he struck a light. “Sure a fox himself couldn’t do it better.”
Yorky refused to wake with a word, and even when violently shaken
by both of us only half opened his eyes, and uttered some sleepy
imprecations. At length, getting impatient, M^cSweeny lifted a dish
containing water and emptied it over Yorky’s face, which startled him
into a wakefulness and some vigorous protests.
“What do you want now?” he growled at last, when he was able to
recognise us.
“I want to know where you were at half-past three o’clock to-day?”
was my significant reply. “On with your things and trudge. You’ve got
drunk too soon—you’ve overdone it. Man, see, there’s the slush off
your boots all over the floor.”
“I haven’t been across the door since morning,” he solemnly
protested, on which M^cSweeny somewhat savagely remarked that “we
believed him every word.”
While M^cSweeny was helping him to put on his clothes, and replying
to his protests, I made a search through the room, and finally drew
out from under the mattress the stolen watch and fragment of gold
chain.
Yorky stared as it was held up before his eyes, and became very sober
indeed.
“I never saw that in my life before; somebody must have put it
there,” he cried, with the most vigorous swearing, all of which we
listened to with great merriment and marked derision.
“I thought we should sober you before long,” I said to him, as I
fastened his wrist to my own. “We’ll see what the owner of the watch
says to it.”
The owner of the watch had a great deal to say, all of which
astonished Yorky beyond description. The watch and fragment of
chain he identified at a glance, and Yorky as well. He swore most
positively that Yorky was the man who attacked him—he had had too
good a view of the rascal’s features and dress to have a moment’s
doubt on the matter. Yorky, as he listened to it, was a picture to
behold. He scratched his head in the most solemn manner imaginable,
and muttered to himself—
“I _was_ very tight, but I never yet did anything in drink that I
couldn’t remember when sober. I can’t make it out at all; but I know
I’m as innocent as a lamb.”
A grin ran round the room as he uttered the words, and, after a word
with the superintendent, the “lamb” was led off to the cells. He was
next day remitted to the High Court of Justiciary. I strongly advised
him to plead guilty, but the wilful man would have his own way, and
took the opposite course.
Then the Fiscal pointed out that Yorky had been often convicted of
the same crime, and produced a list of these, and demanded the
heaviest penalty. The judge promptly responded to the appeal by
sentencing Yorky to fourteen years’ penal servitude. As he was being
removed, a voice among the audience behind exclaimed—
“Ah, Yorky, what a time it’ll be before you can make me lose another
race!”
The voice came from The Gander. So elated was that worthy over the
success of his scheme that he took to boasting of the feat, and
giving details to his companions, and thus the story eventually
reached my ears. Shortly after, when taking The Gander for helping
himself to a bank-note out of a coat pocket in one of the actors’
dressing-rooms, I twitted him about depriving the sporting world of
such a treasure as Yorky. He denied the whole, but with a twinkle of
superlative cunning and delight in his eyes.
“I never before believed it possible to overreach a Yorkshire man,” I
suggestively remarked.
“A Yorkshire man?” cried The Gander, with great contempt; “if he’d
been twenty Yorkshire men rolled into one, I could have done him.”
I think he spoke the truth.
BILLY’S BITE.
The boy whose name I have put at the head of this paper was looked
upon as a timid simpleton, perfectly under the power of the two men
to whom his fate was linked. If Billy had been a dog they could not
have looked upon him with more indifference—he was so small, and
thin, and insignificant, and above all so quiet and submissive, that
they felt that they could have crushed him at any moment with a mere
finger’s weight.
Rodie M^cKendrick, the first of his masters, was a big fellow with an
arm like a giant, whose standing boast was that it never needed more
than one drive of his fist to knock the strongest man down. Rodie was
a housebreaker, who filled up his spare time by counterfeit coining
and “smashing,” or passing, the same. The other, his companion
and partner, Joss Brown by name, I can best describe as a comical
fiend—that is, he always did the most cruel acts with a grin or a
smile, joking away all the while about the wriggles or agony of
his victim, as if it was the best fun in the world to him. Joss, I
believe, fairly delighted in the sufferings of others, and would have
reached the height of happiness had he been appointed chief torturer
in an inquisition. He was an insignificant-looking wretch, but an
extraordinarily swift runner. These two had settled in Glasgow, for
the benefit of that city, and Billy Sloan was their spaniel and
slave. There was another spaniel and slave in the person of Kate,
Billy’s sister, but as she was in bad health she did not count for
much. The two children had been left to Rodie by their mother, a
Manchester shop-lifter, whom he had brought to Scotland with him, and
managed to hurry out of the world shortly after.
They were not his own children, therefore, and that fact encouraged
him to deal with them as he pleased. Kate was ten, and Billy
nearly nine, and both were small and weakly, so Rodie’s treatment
of them was not the kindest in the world. Kate’s ill health had
arisen from that treatment. She had bungled in the passing of some
pewter florins made by Rodie and Joss, and not only nearly got
captured—which could have been forgiven—but had almost got these two
worthies into trouble as well. It was a narrow escape, and Rodie
thought best to impress it on her memory by first knocking her down
with one tap of his big fist, and then kicking her ribs till she
fainted. Billy crouched in a corner, clasping his hands, and looking
on pale as death, and with his eyes fixed steadily on Rodie’s face.
Joss, who was looking on in exuberant delight, noticed the peculiar
look, and said—
“Look at the other whelp; he looks as if he could bite, if he’d only
teeth in his head.”
“Oh, him? Poh!” grunted Rodie in supreme contempt, as he rested from
his task; but Joss could not resist the temptation, and reproved
Billy’s look by sinking his nails into the boy’s ear, and then
shaking him about till Billy thought that either the ear or the head
must come off.
Joss made jokes all the while, and then went back to his supper and
his whisky-drinking with fresh zest. Billy crouched in the corner,
watching the slow breathing of his senseless sister till he saw that
Rodie and Joss were considerably mollified by eating and drinking.
Then he crept forward and lifted Kate from the floor, and bore her
into a little closet off the room, in which they both slept. Kate
moaned a little on being moved, but it took an hour’s persistent
efforts on Billy’s part to bring her back to consciousness, and then
he was almost sorry he had restored her, for she suffered dreadful
agony where Rodie’s iron-toed boots had been at work.
It is possible that some of her ribs were broken,—the dreadful pains
and the after-effects all point to that conclusion,—but, though the
whole night was spent in sleepless agony by Kate, she was forced to
rise next day and attend to her two masters. Kate was the housewife;
and though Billy would willingly have undertaken her duties for a
time, the comical fiend Joss would not allow it, and insisted, with
many jokes, on pulling her out of bed by the ear, with his nails,
as usual, and then goading her on to every task which his ingenious
brain could suggest as likely to aggravate her trouble.
The children had no idea of resenting this treatment, or of running
away, or of anything but their own utter dependence upon these men;
and they longed with all the strength of their young minds for the
happy moment which should see Rodie and Joss either senseless with
drink or out of the house. It happened, however, that the men were
alarmed at their narrow escape of the day before, and had decided to
keep out of sight for a day or two; so the children had a weary time
of agony and secret tears. At night, when clasped in each other’s
arms in the hole under the slates which was their sleeping place,
they sympathised and communed, and mingled their bitter tears; but
Kate’s dreadful sufferings did not abate much. As weeks passed away
she grew shadowy and pale, and a bad cough afflicted her incessantly,
so much so that Joss was often compelled to rise out of bed in the
night-time and sink his nails into her ears, or stick a long pin
into her arm, or wrench a handful of hair out of her head by the
roots to induce her to desist, and give him some chance of enjoying
his much-needed repose. And the jokes he showered on her and Billy
on these occasions would have filled a book. One day both men were
providentially out of the house, and Kate, sitting by the fire with
her face looking strangely pinched, and her eyes big and shiny, while
Billy cooked the dinner by her directions, pressed her hand on her
breast, and said to the boy—
“Oh, Billy, is there nothing that would take away this awful pain?”
Billy stopped his stirring at the pot and reflected. His knowledge
was exceedingly limited, and his ideas did not come fast at any time;
but after a little his face brightened, and he said briefly—
“Yes—I know—medicine.”
“Are you sure?”
Billy scratched his head. He wasn’t sure, but he thought so.
“Then where could we get some?” was Kate’s next query.
They both knew of the chemists’ shops, but to go to them required
money. At length they remembered of some one in the rookery getting
medicine and doctor’s advice at the dispensary, and, setting the
dinner aside, they decided to slip out of the house, and see what
could be done at that blessing to the ailing poor. When they got to
the place, and their turn came, Kate went in with great trepidation
before a couple of doctors and some students, and explained that she
was troubled with a cough and pains in her breast and side. Dozens
more were waiting, so there was little time to spare upon each.
“What brought it on?” the doctor asked when he had hastily sounded
her lungs. “Caught cold, I suppose?”
Kate blushed and nodded. She did not care to reveal all she had
suffered at the hands and feet of Rodie, or she would have told the
doctor that far from having caught cold she had caught it very hot
indeed. A bottle of medicine was quickly put up and labelled, and
Kate was free to depart.
Billy was in high spirits, and danced and pranced all the way home,
quite sure that the magic elixir which was to banish all pain from
Kate’s poor breast was in the bottle she carried. When they got home
they found to their great relief that the house was still empty, and
after Kate had taken a spoonful of the medicine they hid the bottle
away under their bed, lest the comical fiend should jokingly throw it
out at the window. The medicine thus applied for and taken in stealth
had the effect of soothing the pain somewhat and easing the cough,
but it did not stop the decay of Kate’s lungs. She got weaker and
thinner, till at last even the comical fiend confessed his ingenuity
and skill in forcing her out of bed quite exhausted and at fault.
Kate spent most of her time in bed in the hole under the slates,
while Billy became housewife and nurse combined. Strange thoughts
came into her head, and half of the time she was in a hazy dream,
through which she saw little but Billy’s eager face as he tended, and
nursed, and soothed, and consoled, and tried every device for keeping
the comical fiend out of the hole. One morning, while Rodie and Joss
were still snoring in bed, Kate was more wide awake than she had
seemed for a long time, and startled Billy, as she had often done of
late, with one of her odd questions—
“Wouldn’t it be nice, Billy, if I was to fall asleep, and sleep on
and never wake?”
Billy stared at her and tried to realise the thought.
“It wouldn’t be nice for me,” he said at last, “for I couldn’t get
speaking to you. You’d be the same as dead.”
“Well, what becomes of folks when they’re dead?” pursued Kate. “I
heard a man say once that there’s another world they go to, all
bright and beautiful, where there’s no pain. I’d like to be there, if
there’s such a place.”
Billy didn’t think there was such a place—at least, he had never
heard of it, and anyhow he did not wish Kate to die. His heart gave
a great pang as he thought for the first time of what it would be to
be left in the world—alone—without Kate, and he choked and gulped and
would have cried, if it had not been that he did not wish to excite
or alarm her.
“But, Billy, I sometimes in my dreams see a hole in the ground, with
a light shining through from the other side,” persisted Kate. “I see
it often, and always want to go into it.”
“There ain’t no such hole,” said Billy, sturdily and determinedly.
“There may be if I die and am put in the ground,” said Kate, wearily.
“Sometimes I’m so tired that I can hardly wake up again. But, Billy,
how would I find the road to the other place if I should fall asleep
and not wake again? I’ve heard it’s not easy found, and I think it’s
only a place for good folks, and we’re not that, you know.”
“That’s true,” said Billy, “so you needn’t bother your head about
going to that place; you’re better beside me. You’d never find it; I
know you wouldn’t.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Kate, with dreadful earnestness.
“I’m afraid I’ll be left wandering about in the dark at the other
side. I’ve heard that there’s a man with a light shining out of his
head walking about ready to take folks’ hands and guide them, but
he’s a kind of an angel, and would never look at me. Isn’t it a pity
that Rodie kicked so hard? That’s what has done it all. And now I’m
always sinking. I often catch myself up when I’ve sunk about half-way
through the world, and grip on to your hand just to keep myself here,
but if I get much weaker I’ll not be able to do that.”
Billy clenched his teeth and hands, and said—
“Yes, Rodie did it all. He called me a dog the other day, and maybe I
am, for I feel like biting him. Yes, I’ll bite him some day, when I’m
big enough.”
“Could you not help me, Billy?” said Kate, after a long silence. “I’m
afraid to go there without knowing something of the road. Couldn’t
you get some one to tell me how to do when I get through the hole?”
“I tell you there ain’t no such hole; and don’t you speak about it,
for I do-o-o-n’t like it,” sobbed Billy, almost in anger; “but if
there was, I’d be willing glad to go into it to find the road for
you,” he added, more lovingly, as he noted the distressed look which
gathered on her pinched face. “Maybe you need a new kind of medicine.
I’ll ask them to-day when I’m at the dispensary.”
Billy did ask, and in such a way that the doctor’s attention was
roused, and he whispered a few words to one of the students, who put
on his hat and kindly told Billy that he was going home with him. The
student was a tall man, and had difficulty in getting into the hole
where Kate lay, but when he did, and looked into her pinched face
and brilliant eyes, and listened to her quick, gasping breath, he
merely gave his head a slight shake, and knelt down by the bedside to
take her thin hand tenderly in his own. He had been very merry and
chatty with Billy on the way, but now he was grave and solemn, and
scarcely spoke a word.
“Will she be better soon?” asked Billy at last, when the silence had
almost sickened him.
The student looked down on the white features of the sick girl, and
said softly—
“Yes—very soon.”
There was another painful silence, and then Kate dropped off into
slumber, with her hand resting trustfully in that of the student.
Then the gentleman softly disengaged his hand, and motioned Billy out
of the hole.
“Where’s your father or mother?” he gravely asked, for the room was
empty.
“Not got any—mother’s dead,” said Billy. “Rodie looks after us,” and
his hands and teeth clenched, as they generally did now when Rodie
was in his thoughts, or at his tongue’s end.
“Then I should like to see Rodie for a minute,” said the student with
the same pitying look in his eyes, which Billy could not understand
at all. “Could you find him now?”
No, no, Billy could not do that; and did not know when Rodie would be
at home, or where he was likely to be found. The student looked round
the miserable hovel, and sighed and shook his head, and then left. He
had ordered no medicine, he had said nothing about Kate, except that
she was to be better very soon, yet Billy felt a vague uneasiness and
distrust. The house seemed oppressively quiet, and Kate’s slumber
unusually deep. What if she should sleep on and never wake?
Billy crept into the hole again, and sat down on the floor beside the
bed to listen intently to every breath Kate drew, holding her hand
softly the while to make sure that she did not slip away from him as
she slept.
“Oh, if Rodie had only kicked me instead!” he thought for the
hundredth time. “A boy is more able to stand kicks, and Rodie’s so
strong—he’d kick anybody right through the world, whether there was a
hole or not.”
Late in the afternoon Rodie and the comical fiend came in boisterous
and gleeful to dinner. They had been unusually successful in passing
some bad florins, and had invested some of the proceeds in drink,
part of which they had brought home with them to make a night of it,
and laughed consumedly over the manner in which they had cheated one
of their victims.
Billy served them passively, and then, unable to taste food himself,
he crept quietly back to watch Kate. The comical fiend made some
splendid jokes, having Billy for their subject, but for once Billy
was undisturbed, for he did not hear them. He sat on the floor
holding Kate’s hand, and sometimes he put his other arm softly round
her neck, lest his hold should not be strong enough to keep her by
him.
The men got very noisy and uproarious; Rodie banged the table with
tumblers and the bottle, and shouted and stamped his feet, and then
the comical fiend, at his own request, favoured the company with
several songs.
One smash rather louder than the rest caused Kate to start and open
her eyes. She looked up in Billy’s face steadily for some moments
without moving, and the expression was so strange that in alarm he
cried—
“Kate, Kate! don’t you know me?”
There was no immediate answer. There was in the slates immediately
above them a single pane of glass, which gave light to the closet,
and that pane now showed a deep red square of the crimson sky. Kate’s
eyes wandered to the pane, and became fixed for some moments.
“What’s—that?” she whispered at last, with a strange trembling
eagerness.
“It’s only the winder,” answered Billy, a little scared.
“No, it isn’t; it’s the hole you go through into the other world,”
said Kate joyfully. “Billy, dear, I can’t stay any longer. I’m going
through!”
Billy threw both his arms around her slight form, and rained his
tears upon her face. At the same moment there was a chorus of gleeful
shouts and table-smashing like thunder in the adjoining room. It was
the comical fiend applauding his own song. Kate continued to gaze
steadily at the crimson pane in the roof with a smile brightening on
her face.
“I wish—oh, I wish there had been somebody to tell me what to do at
the other side,” she said at last in a whisper so low that Billy
could scarce catch it. “But maybe somebody will hold out a hand to
me. I’ll keep feeling about for it. It’s growing darker. Am I going
through? and is the light only at the door?”
“No, its almost night, and Rodie’s lit the candle,” said Billy. “Do
you hear me, Kate? You’re awful dreamy and queer—I’m saying it’s
almost night.”
“Night! night!” feebly and hazily breathed Kate. “Good-night.”
Her lips stood still, and her eyes, though fixed on the crimson pane,
were strange and big and unearthly. Billy stared at them in awe, and
then moved a hand quickly before them to break the steady stare and
draw it to himself. There was no response. Her eyes remained fixed on
the pane.
“Kate! Kate!” he cried in a scream of alarm.
A slight spasm—almost shaping into a smile—crossed the pinched
features; the eyes gazed unwinkingly at the pane—the breath came and
went in long-drawn sighs—paused—came again—then paused for ever.
Kate had slipped through to another world, where her feeble and
groping hand would surely be gently taken by a Guide who Himself knew
all suffering and temptation and weakness that can afflict frail
humanity, and who will surely be as pitiful to the benighted savages
of our land as of any other.
Billy screamed and wept, and threw himself on the still form; and
at length even the comical fiend, who had got up on the table to
execute a flourishing hornpipe, became annoyed and got down to put a
stop to the unseemly disturbance. Rodie, too, who became stupid and
sullen with drink just as his partner became lively, roused himself
sufficiently to stagger across the room towards the hole, vowing that
if he could only trust himself to the support of one foot he would
use the other in stopping Billy’s howling.
“Kate stares up, and won’t move or speak to me,” cried Billy in
gasps, as soon as he was conscious of the nails of the comical fiend
almost meeting in his ear.
“Maybe she’s croaked at last,” suggested Rodie. “See if she breathes.”
Joss hopped in, and soon answered in a gleeful negative.
“It’s a good job,” said Rodie, “for she’d never have been of any more
use.”
“Three cheers for her death!” cried the comical fiend, and as there
was nobody to laugh at his joke, Rodie being too sullen, Joss laughed
the required quantity for a dozen people himself.
Rodie tried to kick Billy, but, finding himself unable to stand
on one leg, he contented himself with some horrible threats, and
then they went back comfortably to their drinking. Billy cried and
cried—softly, so that the men should not hear him—with his arms
round the still form, till he fell asleep, and there they lay all
night, the living and the dead. Next day Rodie and Joss put all their
implements and money out of sight, and sent word to the poorhouse,
and a medical inspector came and glanced at the wasted body, and
asked a few questions, and signed a paper, which Billy took to the
undertaker, who brought a coffin the next day, and placed Kate’s form
in it, and then asked if they wished it screwed down. Rodie and Joss
were too drunk to reply, but Billy, never tired of looking at the
wide open eyes, and fancying they were looking at him, said he should
like it kept open as long as possible.
The funeral took place the day after, and there was only one mourner
to follow the coffin to the grave—Billy himself, in his ragged jacket
and bare feet. The only mournings he had to put on were the tears
which flowed down his cheeks all the way. Even when the coffin was
hid in the ground, and the earth tumbled in, and the turf spread
over the top, he could not put off his mournings, or leave the place
chatting gaily about business matters, as is the custom at funerals.
He still seemed to see Kate’s open eyes shining up at him through
earth and turf, and he had a firm idea that she could still hear him
speak, though herself unable to reply. He loitered long after the
gravediggers were gone, and stuck a little twig in the ground so that
he should know the spot again, and then, when no one was near to see,
he lay down on the grass and whispered to Kate through the openings
in the turf. He had but two thoughts to reiterate—the regret that
Rodie had not kicked him out of the world instead of Kate, and the
wish that he might live to “bite Rodie” for what he had done to Kate.
Whenever Billy was in trouble after that he came to the graveyard
to whisper his griefs to Kate through the turf. He told her of all
his adventures and the tortures of the comical fiend and the kicks
of Rodie; and though he got no reply, he felt quite certain that
he had Kate’s sympathy in every word he uttered. Billy’s was not a
large mind, or a very acute one, but when an idea did get fairly in,
it stuck there firmly. When Kate had been some months in the grave,
Rodie and Joss prepared a lot of florins—their most successful effort
in base coining—and informed Billy that they were going through to
Edinburgh to attend the Musselburgh Races, on business, and that
he was to accompany them, and have the honour of carrying their
luggage—an old leather valise containing the base florins. Joss and
Rodie, for prudential reasons, went by different trains, and Billy,
though he accompanied Rodie, had strict orders to sit at the other
end of the carriage, and take no more notice of Rodie than of any
stranger.
It chanced, however, that by the time the train drew up at the
Waverley Station platform, that particular carriage was empty of
all but Billy and Rodie, and the base coiner had no sooner glanced
along the platform than he uttered an oath and drew in his head with
surprising quickness.
“Do you see that ugly brute standing over there, near the cabman with
the white hat?” he observed to Billy.
“That ugly brute” was I, the writer of these experiences, on the look
out for any of my “bairns” who might be drawn thither by the race
meeting, and Billy quickly signified that he did see me.
“Well, keep clear of him, or we’re done for. That’s M^cGovan, and
he’s a perfect bloodhound,” and Rodie cursed the bloodhound with
great heartiness. “If he gets his teeth on us, we’ll feel the bite, I
tell ye.”
“Ah!” it was all Billy said, and it was uttered with a start, for
Rodie’s words had suggested a strange idea to him.
“Yes, if he gets us at it it’ll mean twenty years to us if it means
a day,” continued Rodie, still wasting a deal of breath on me. “Now
you get out first, and go straight to the place I told ye of, while I
jink him and get round by the other.”
Billy obeyed, and was soon lost in the crowd, while Rodie—who
mistakenly believed that his face was as familiar to me as mine was
to him—cut round by another outlet, and escaped to the appointed
rendezvous.
Meantime Billy had only gone far enough with the crowd to get behind
one of the waiting cabs, whence he watched Rodie leave the station.
Then he crept out of his hiding-place, and walked back to the spot
where I stood, and touched me lightly on the arm.
“I’m Rodie’s boy,” he said, while I stared at him in astonishment.
“I’ve come from Glasgow with him, and we’re to go ‘smashing’ at the
races to-morrow. Would it be twenty years to him if you caught us at
it?”
“What Rodie do you mean?” I asked at length. “Is his other name
M^cKendrick?”
“That’s it; and Joss Brown is with him,” said Billy with animation.
“He says you’re a bloodhound, and can bite. Twenty years would be a
good bite, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, I see, he has injured you, and you want to pay him back,” I
said, not admiring Billy much, though his treachery was to bring
grist to my mill.
“He kicked Kate, my sister, and she died, and I’ve told her often
since then that I would bite him for it, and now I’ve got the chance
I must keep my word.”
I took Billy into one of the waiting-rooms and drew from him his
story. Billy told the story much better than I could put it down
though I were to spend months on the task. He showed me also the
piles of base florins put up in screws ready for use, and offered
them to me. But while he had been telling the story I had been
studying the position. I had perfect faith in Billy’s truthfulness.
The tears he shed over the narrative of Kate’s death would have
convinced the most sceptical. I therefore explained to him that
in order to secure Rodie the full strength of a good bite it was
necessary that I should take him and Joss in the act, and if possible
with the supply of base coin in their possession. To that end I
arranged to see the three next day at the race-course, and explained
to Billy how he was to act when he got from me the required signal.
I had the idea that Billy was densely stupid—almost idiotic—and that
therefore the scheme would be sure to be bungled, but in this I
misjudged the boy sadly. If Billy had been the most acute of trained
detectives he could not have gone through his part with more coolness
or precision. When I had my men ready and dropped my handkerchief,
Billy quickly wriggled himself out of a crowd and hastily thrust
the valise containing the reserve of base florins into the hands of
Rodie, who hid the same under his jacket and looked nervously round.
The comical fiend helped him. They had not long to look. We were on
them like bloodhounds the next moment. Joss was easily managed, but
Rodie fought hard, and struggled, and kicked, and finally threw away
the valise of base coin in the direction of Billy, with a shout to
him to pick it up and run. Billy looked at him, but never moved.
“You kicked Kate, and she died. It’s Billy’s Bite,” he calmly
answered, when Rodie worked himself black in the face, and the
comical fiend nearly choked himself with hastily concocted jokes.
The two got due reward in the shape of fifteen and twenty years
respectively, but Billy was sent to the Industrial School, and is now
an honest working man.
THE MURDERED TAILOR’S WATCH.
(A CURIOSITY IN CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.)
The case of the tailor, Peter Anderson, who was beaten to death near
the Royal Terrace, on the Calton Hill, may not yet be quite forgotten
by some, but, as the after-results are not so well known, it will
bear repeating.
Some working men, hurrying along a little before six in the morning,
found Anderson’s body in a very steep path on the hill, and in a
short time a stretcher was got and it was conveyed to the Head
Office. The first thing I noticed when I saw the body was
|
street with about as
much ceremony as might attend the delivery of a bale of goods at one's
door. He disappeared, declaring he would have justice; at which a smile
widened the faces of the sophisticated officers, several of whom were
lounging about the room.
“He'll have justice!” repeated the captain with a chuckle. “Say! he
aought to put that in the Joe Miller Joke-book.” Then to the red-faced
man, who still leaned against the desk, the image of autocracy sure of
itself: “What is it to be, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Why,” quoth the red-faced one, “you must lock this boy up. Yes, an' the
girl, too; she had better go in for the night. I'll take a look into th'
business, an' let the judge know in the mornin'.”
“I don't think, captain,” interposed the officer who brought us from the
docks, “there's any use locking up these people. It was nothin' but a
cheap muss on the pier.”
“Say! I don't stand that!” broke in Sheeny Joe. “This party smashed me
with a bar of iron. The girl was in the play; an' I say they're both to
go in.”
“You'say,'” mocked the captain, in high scorn. “An' who are you? Who is
this fellow?” he demanded, looking about him.
“He's one of my people,” said the red-faced man, still coolly by the
desk.
“No more out of you!” snarled the captain to the kindly officer, as the
latter again tried to speak; “you get back to your beat!”
“An' say!” cried the red-faced man, slowly rousing from his position
by the desk; “before you go, let me give you a word. You're a sight too
gabby; you had better think more and say less, or you won't last long
enough as a copper to wear out that new uniform. An' if anybody asks,
tell him it was Big Kennedy that told you.”
They led me to a cell, while poor Apple Cheek, almost fainting, was
carried to another. As I was being taken away, Anne came rushing in. Bad
news is a creature of wings, and Anne had been told my adventures by
a small urchin who ran himself nearly to death in defeating two fellow
urchins for the privilege before I had reached the station.
Anne did not observe me as she came in, for I stood somewhat to the
rear, with several turnkeys and officers between. I could see the white
face of her, and how the lamps of a great alarm were lighted in her
eyes. Her voice was so low with terror I could not hear her words.
Evidently she was pleading, girl-fashion, for my liberty. The tones of
the captain, however, rose clear and high.
“That'll do ye now,” said he in a manner of lordly insolence, looking
up from the desk to which he had returned. “If we put a prisoner on
the pavement every time a good-looking girl rushed in with a yarn about
bein' his sister, we wouldn't need no cells at all. This boy stays till
the judge takes a look at him in the mornin'. Meanwhile, you had better
get back to your window, or all the men will have left the street.”
At this, a mighty anger flamed up in my heart. I tore away from the
officer who had me by the shoulders, and, save that three others as
practiced in the sleight of it as football players instantly seized me,
I should have gone straight at the captain's neck like a bulldog.
“I'll have his life!” I foamed.
The next moment I was thrown into a cell. The door slammed; the lock
shot home; with that, my heart seemed to turn to water in my bosom and I
sank upon the stone floor of my cage.
CHAPTER III--THE BOSS SEES THE POWER OF TAMMANY
THAT night under lock and key was a night of laughed and screamed like
bedlam. Once I heard the low click of sobs, and thought it might be poor
unhappy Apple Cheek. The surmise went wide, for she was held in another
part of the prison.
It was in the first streaks of the morning before I slept. My slumbers
did not last long; it seemed as though I had but shut my eyes when a
loud rap of iron on iron brought me up, and there stood one armed of a
key so large it might have done for the gate of a giant's castle. It was
this man hammering with his weapon on the grate of my cell that roused
me.
“Now then, young gallows-bird,” said the functionary, “be you ready for
court?”
The man, while rough, gave me no hard impression, for he wore a tolerant
grin and had eyes of friendly brown. These amiable signs endowed me with
courage to ask a question.
“What will they do with me?” I queried. I was long delirium. Drunken men
babbled and cursed and shouted; while a lunatic creature anxious, for I
had no experience to be my guide. “What will they do? Will they let me
go?”
“Sure! they'll let you go.” My hopes gained their feet. “To
Blackwell's.” My hopes lay prone again.
The turnkey, for such was the man's station, had but humored me with
one of the stock jokes of the place. On seeing my distress, and perhaps
remembering that I should be something tender if years were to count,
and no frequent tenant of the cells with sensibilities trained to the
safe consistency of leather, he made me further reply.
“No, I'll tell you the truth, youngster. If you plead guilty, an'
there's no one there but the cop, it'll be about ten dollars or twenty
days on the Island. But if Sheeny Joe comes 'round to exhibit his nose,
or Big Kennedy shows up to stall ag'inst you, why I should say you might
take six months and call yourself in luck.”
There was nothing to brighten the eye in the story, and my ribs seemed
to inclose a heart of wood.
With a vile dozen to be my companions, frowsy, bleary creatures, some
shaking with the dumb ague of drink whose fires had died out, I was
driven along a narrow corridor, up a pair of stairs, and into a room of
respectable size! Its dimensions, however, would be its only claim to
respectability, for the walls and ceiling were smoke-blackened, while
the floor might have come the better off for a pailful of soap and
water.
Once within the room I found myself in a railed pen. Against the wall,
with a desk before him and raised above the herd by a platform, sat the
magistrate. There was a fence which divided the big room, and beyond and
leaning on it lolled the public, leering and listening, as hard an array
as one might wish to see. One might have sentenced the entire roomful to
the workhouse and made few mistakes.
Inside this fence, and gathered for the most part about the magistrate,
were those who had business with the court; officers, witnesses, friends
and enemies of the accused, with last although not least a collection of
the talent of the bar. Many of these latter were brisk Jews, and all of
them were marked by soiled linen, frayed elbows, greasy collars, and an
evident carelessness as to the state of their hands and faces. There
were boys to wait on these folk of law, a boy to each I should say. None
of these urchins was older than was I, and some no more than twelve.
They carried baize bags, chatted gravely while waiting the call of their
masters, and gave themselves strutting airs and brows of consequence.
These engaging children, in a spirit of loyalty, doubtless, showed
themselves as untainted of water as were their betters.
While I rehearse these sordid appearances as developed in the dim lights
which through the grimy windows fell across the scene, you are not to
suppose the notice of them preyed upon me. I was, in that hour, neither
so squeamish nor so observant as to make particular note of them, nor
was I to that degree the slave of soap in my own roving person, as to
justify the risk of strictures which might provoke retort. Besides, I
was thinking dolefully on that trip to Blackwell's Island whereof the
future seemed so full, and my eyes scanned the judge on the bench rather
than lesser folk who were not so important in my affairs.
While in the mills of great misery, still I was steady enough. I turned
my gaze upon the magistrate, and sought in his looks and words, as he
went about the sorry destinies of other delinquents, some slant of what
I might look forward to for myself. The dignitary in question showed
lean and sallow and bald, with a sly face and an eye whereof the great
expression was one of sleepless self-interest. He did not come upon you
as either brave or good, but he had nothing brutal or vindictive, and
his timid mealy voice was shaken by a quaver that seemed a perpetual
apology for what judgments he from time to time would pass. His
sentences were invariably light, except in instances where some strong
influence from the outside, generally a politician or the agent of a big
company, arose to demand severity.
While within the railed pen with those other unfortunates whom the
dragnets of the police had brought to these mean shores, and in an
interval when my fascinated eyes were off the magistrate, I caught sight
of Anne and my father. They had seats inside the fence. The latter's
face was clouded with simple trouble; he wore his Sunday coat, and
his hands, hard and showing the stains of his forge, roved in uneasy
alternation from his pockets to his lapels and back again. Anne's young
eyes were worn and tired, for she had slept as little as had I and wept
much more the night before. I could not discover Apple Cheek, although I
looked about the room for her more than once. I had it in my hopes
that they had given Apple Cheek her freedom, and the thought was a
half-relief. Nothing of such decent sort had come to pass, however;
Apple Cheek was waiting with two or three harridans, her comrades of the
cells, in an adjoining room.
When my name was called, an officer of the court opened a gate in the
prisoner's pen and motioned me to come forth.
“Hurry up!” said the officer, who was for expedition. “W'at's the
trouble with your heels? You aint got no ball an' chain on yet, you
know.”
Then he gave me a chair in front of the magistrate, where the man of
power might run me up and down with his shifty deprecatory eye.
“There was a girl brought in with him, your honor,” remarked the officer
at the gate.
“Have her out, then,” said the magistrate; whereupon Apple Cheek, a bit
disheveled and cheeks redder than ever with the tears she had shed, was
produced and given a seat by my side.
“Who complains of these defendants?” asked the magistrate in a mild
non-committal voice, glancing about the room.
“I do, your honor.”
It was Sheeny Joe who came pushing to the fore from a far corner. His
head had received the benefit of several bandages, and it gave me a
dullish joy to think it was I to furnish the reason of them.
The magistrate appeared to know Sheeny Joe, and to hold him in regard
at that. The moment my enemy declared himself as the complainant, and
no one springing up to take my part, the magistrate bent upon me a
stony glance that spoke plainly of those six months concerning which the
turnkey told. I gave up everything, myself and Apple Cheek, as surely
lost.
“Tell your story,” said the magistrate to Sheeny Joe. His manner was
full of commiseration for that unworthy. “What did he assault you with?”
“With a blackjack, your honor, or a piece of lead pipe,” replied Sheeny
Joe. “He struck me when I wasn't lookin'. I'm busy trying to tell the
girl there w'at hotel she wants. He gives it to me over the head from
behind; then as I wheels, he smashes me across the nose. I couldn't see
with w'at, but it was a bar of some kind, mebby iron, mebby lead. As I
goes down, I hears the sketch--the girl, I mean--sing out, 'Kill him!'
The girl was eggin' him on, your honor.”
Sheeny Joe unwound this string of lies without hitch or pause, and
withal so rapidly it fair stole my breath away. I felt the eyes of the
magistrate upon me; I knew my danger and yet could come by no words
for my own defense. I make no doubt, had it not been for a diversion
as unlooked-for as it was welcome, I would have been marked for prison
where I stood.
“I demand to be heard,” came suddenly, in a high angry voice. “What that
rogue has just uttered is all a pack of lies together!”
It was the reputable old gentleman of the evening before who thus
threw himself in the way of events. Being escorted through the press of
onlookers by an officer, the reputable old gentleman stood squarely in
front of the magistrate.
“I demand justice for that boy,” fumed the reputable old gentleman,
glaring at the magistrate, and growing crimson in the face; “I demand
a jury. As for the girl, she wasn't ten minutes off the boat; her only
part in the offense would seem to be that this scoundrel,” pointing to
Sheeny Joe, “was striving to lure her to a low resort.”
“The Dead Rabbit a low resort!” cried Sheeny
Joe indignantly. “The place is as straight as a gun.”
“Will you please tell me who you are?” asked the magistrate of the
reputable old gentleman. He had resumed his non-committal look. The
confident vigor of the reputable old gentleman disconcerted him and made
him wary.
“I am a taxpayer,” said the reputable old gentleman; “yes,” donning an
air as though the thunders and lightnings of politics dwelt in the word,
“yes, your honor, a taxpayer. I do not know this boy, but here are his
father and sister to speak for him.” Then, as he caught sight of the
captain who had ordered him out of the station: “There is a man, your
honor, who by the hands of his minions drove me from a public police
office--me, a taxpayer!”
The captain grinned easily to find himself thus distinguished. The grin
irritated the reputable old gentleman, who was even more peppery than
reputable.
“Smile, sir!” cried the reputable old gentleman, shaking his wrathful
finger at the captain. “I shall have you before your superiors on
charges before I'm done!”
“That's what they all say,” remarked the captain, stifling a yawn.
“One thing at a time, sir,” said the magistrate to the reputable
old gentleman. His attitude was wheedling and propitiatory. “Did I
understand you to say that the gentleman and the lady at your back are
the father and sister of this boy?”
My father and Anne had taken their stations to the rear of the reputable
old gentleman. The latter, looking around as if to identify them,
replied:
“If the court please, I'm told so.”
“Your honor,” broke in Sheeny Joe with a front of injury, “w'at's that
got to do with his sandbaggin' me? Am I to be murdered w'en peacefully
about me business, just 'cause a guy's got a father?”
“What were you saying to this girl?” asked the magistrate mildly of
Sheeny Joe, and indicating Apple Cheek with his eye where she sat
tearful and frightened by my side. “This gentleman”--the reputable old
gentleman snorted fiercely--“declares that you were about to lure her to
a low resort.”
“Your honor, it was the Dead Rabbit,” said Sheeny Joe.
“Is the Dead Rabbit,” observed the magistrate, to the captain, who was
still lounging about, “is the Dead Rabbit a place of good repute?”
“It aint no Astor House,” replied the captain, “but no one expects an
Astor House in Water Street.”
“Is it a resort for thieves?”
The magistrate still advanced his queries in a fashion apologetic and
subdued. The reputable old gentleman impressed him as one he would not
like to offend. Then, too, there was my father--an honest working-man by
plain testimony of his face. On the other hand stood Sheeny Joe, broken
of nose, bandaged, implacable. Here were three forces of politics,
according to our magistrate, who was thinking on a re-election; he would
prefer to please them all. Obviously, he in no sort delighted in his
present position, since whichever way he turned it might be a turn
toward future disaster for himself.
“Is the Dead Rabbit a resort for thieves?” again asked the magistrate.
“Well,” replied the captain judgmatically, “even a crook has got to go
somewhere. That is,” he added, “when he aint in hock.”
Where this criss-cross colloquy of justice or injustice might have left
me, and whether free or captive, I may only guess. The proceedings were
to gain another and a final interruption. This time it was the red-faced
man, he who had called himself “Big Kennedy,” to come panting into the
presence of the court. The red-faced man had hurried up the stairs,
three steps at a time, and it told upon his breathing.
The magistrate made a most profound bow to the red-faced man.
Remembering the somber prophecy of him with the big key, should “Big
Kennedy show up to Stall ag'inst me,” my hope, which had revived with
the stand taken by the reputable old gentleman, sunk now to lowest
marks.
“What will you have, Mr. Kennedy?” purred the magistrate obsequiously.
“Is the court going to dispose of the cases of this boy and this girl?”
interrupted the reputable old gentleman warmly. “I demand a jury trial
for both of them. I am a taxpayer and propose to have justice.”
“Hold up, old sport, hold up!” exclaimed the redfaced man in cheerful
tones. He was addressing the reputable old gentleman. “Let me get to
work. I'll settle this thing like throwin' dice.”
“What do you mean, sir, by calling me an old sport?” demanded the
reputable old gentleman.
The red-faced man did not heed the question, but wheeled briskly on the
magistrate.
“Your honor,” said the red-faced man, “there's nothin' to this. Sheeny
Joe there has made a misdeal, that's all. I've looked the case over,
your honor; there's nothin' in it; you can let the girl an' the boy go.”
“But he said the Dead Rabbit was a drum for crooks!” protested Sheeny
Joe, speaking to the redfaced man.
“S'ppose he did,” retorted the other, “that don't take a dollar out of
the drawer.”
“An' he's to break my nose an' get away?” complained Sheeny Joe.
“Well, you oughter to take care of your nose,” said the red-faced man,
“an' not go leavin' it lyin' around where a kid can break it.”
Sheeny Joe was not to be shaken off; he engaged in violent argument with
the red-faced man. Their tones, however, were now more guarded, and no
one might hear their words beyond themselves. While this went forward,
the magistrate, to save his dignity, perhaps, and not to have it look as
though he were waiting for orders, pretended to be writing in his book
of cases which lay open on his desk.
It was Sheeny Joe to bring the discussion between himself and the
red-faced man to an end. Throughout the whispered differences between
them, differences as to what should be my fate, Sheeny Joe showed hot
with fury, while the red-faced man was cool and conciliatory; his voice
when one caught some sound of it was coaxing.
“There's been enough said!” cried Sheeny Joe, suddenly walking away from
the red-faced man. “No duck is goin' to break my nose for fun.”
“The boy's goin' loose,” observed the red-faced man in placid
contradiction. “An' the girl goes to her friends, wherever they be, an'
they aint at the Dead Rabbit.” Then in a blink the countenance of
the redfaced man went from calm to rage. He whirled Sheeny Joe by the
shoulder. “See here!” he growled, “one more roar out of you, an' I'll
stand you up right now, an' it's you who will take sixty days, or
my name aint Big John Kennedy. If you think that's a bluff, call it.
Another yeep, an' the boat's waitin' for you! You've been due at the
Island for some time.”
“That's all right, Mr. Kennedy!” replied Sheeny Joe, his crest falling,
and the sharpest terror in his face, “that's all right! You know me? Of
course it goes as you say! Did you ever know me to buck ag'inst you?”
The red-faced man smiled ferociously. The anger faded from his brow,
and leaving Sheeny Joe without further word, he again spoke to the
magistrate.
“The charges ag'inst these two children, your honor, are withdrawn.” He
spoke in his old cool tones. “Captain,” he continued, addressing that
dignitary, “send one of your plain-clothes people with this girl to find
her friends for her. Tell him he mustn't make any mistakes.”
“The cases are dismissed,” said the magistrate, making an entry in his
book. He appeared relieved with the change in the situation; almost as
much, if that were possible, as myself. “The cases are dismissed; no
costs to be taxed. I think that is what you desire, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Yes, your honor.” Then coming over to where I sat, the red-faced man
continued: “You hunt me up to-morrow--Big John Kennedy--that's my name.
Any cop can tell you where to find me.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered faintly.
“There's two things about you,” said the red-faced man, rubbing my
stubble of hair with his big paw, “that's great in a boy. You can hit
like the kick of a pony; an' you can keep your mouth shut. I aint heard
a yelp out of you, mor'n if you was a Boston terrier.” This, admiringly.
As we left the magistrate's office--the red-faced man, the reputable old
gentleman, my father, Apple Cheek, and myself, with Anne holding my
hand as though I were some treasure lost and regained--the reputable old
gentleman spoke up pompously to the red-faced man.
“I commend what you have done, sir; but in that connection, and as
a taxpayer, let me tell you that I resent your attitude towards the
magistrate. You issued your orders, sir, and conducted yourself toward
that officer of justice as though you owned him.”
“Well, what of it?” returned the red-faced man composedly. “I put him
there. What do you think I put him there for? To give me the worst of
it?”
“Sir, I do not understand your expressions!” said the reputable old
gentleman. “And I resent them! Yes, sir, I resent them as a taxpayer of
this town!”
“Say,” observed the red-faced man benignantly, “there's nothin' wrong
about you but your head. You had better take a term or two at night
school an' get it put on straight. You say you're a taxpayer; you've
already fired the fact at me about five times. An' now I ask you:
Suppose you be?”
“Taxpayer; yes, sir, taxpayer!” repeated the reputable old gentleman,
in a mighty fume. “Do you intend to tell me there's no meaning to the
word?”
“It means,” said the red-faced man in the slow manner of one who gives
instruction; “it means that if you're nothin' but a taxpayer--an' I
don't think you be or you'd have told us--you might as well sit down.
You're a taxpayer, eh? All right; I'm a ward-leader of Tammany Hall.
You're a taxpayer; good! I'm the man that settles how much you pay, d'ye
see!” Then, as though sympathy and disgust were blended: “Old man, you
go home and take a hard look at the map, and locate yourself. You don't
know it, but all the same you're in New York.”
CHAPTER IV--THE BOSS ENTERS THE PRIMARY GRADE OF POLITICS
PERHAPS you will say I waste space and lay too much of foolish stress
upon my quarrel with Sheeny Joe and its police-cell consequences. And
yet you should be mindful of the incident's importance to me as the
starting point of my career. For I read in what took place the power of
the machine as you will read this printed page. I went behind the bars
by the word of Big John Kennedy; and it was by his word that I emerged
and took my liberty again. And yet who was Big John Kennedy? He was the
machine; the fragment of its power which molded history in the little
region where I lived. As mere John Kennedy he would be nothing. Or at
the most no more than other men about him. But as “Big John Kennedy,”
an underchief of Tammany Hall, I myself stood witness while a captain of
police accepted his commands without a question, and a magistrate found
folk guilty or innocent at the lifting of his finger. Also, that sweat
of terror to sprinkle the forehead of Sheeny Joe, when in his moment of
rebellion he found himself beneath the wrathful shadow of the machine,
was not the least impressive element of my experience; and the tolerant
smile, that was half pity, half amusement, as Big Kennedy set forth
to the reputable old gentleman--who was only “a taxpayer”--the little
limits of his insignificance, deepened the effect upon my mind of what
had gone before.
True, I indulged in no such analysis as the above, and made no study of
the picture in its detail; but I could receive an impression just as
I might receive a blow, and in the innocence of my ignorance began
instantly to model myself upon the proven fact of a power that was above
law, above justice, and which must be consulted and agreed with, even
in its caprice, before existence could be profitable or even safe. From
that moment the machine to me was as obviously and indomitably abroad as
the pavement under foot, and must have its account in every equation
of life to the solution whereof I was set. To hold otherwise, and
particularly to act otherwise, would be to play the fool, with failure
or something worse for a reward.
Big Kennedy owned a drinking place. His barroom was his headquarters;
although he himself never served among his casks and bottles, having
barmen for that work. He poured no whisky, tapped no beer, donned no
apron, but sat at tables with his customers and laid out his campaigns
of politics or jubilated over victory, and seemed rather the visitor
than the proprietor in his own saloon. He owned shrewdness, force,
courage, enterprise, and was one of those who carry a pleasant
atmosphere that is like hypnotism, and which makes men like them. His
manner was one of rude frankness, and folk held him for a bluff, blunt,
genial soul, who made up in generosity what he lacked of truth.
And yet I have thought folk mistaken in Big Kennedy. For all his loud
openness and friendly roar, which would seem to tell his every thought,
the man could be the soul of cunning and turn secret as a mole. He was
for his own interest; he came and went a cold calculating trader of
politics; he never wasted his favors, but must get as much as he gave,
and indulged in no revenges except when revenge was needed for a lesson.
He did what men call good, too, and spent money and lost sleep in its
accomplishment. To the ill he sent doctors and drugs; he found work and
wages for idle men; he paid landlords and kept the roofs above the heads
of the penniless; where folk were hungry he sent food, and where they
were cold came fuel.
For all that, it was neither humanity nor any milk of kindness which
put him to these labors of grace; it was but his method of politics and
meant to bind men to him. They must do his word; they must carry out his
will; then it was he took them beneath the wing of his power and would
spare neither time nor money to protect and prosper them.
And on the other side, he who raised his head in opposition to Big
Kennedy was crushed; not in anger, but in caution. He weeded out
rebellion, and the very seed of it, with as little scruple and for the
same reason a farmer weeds a field.
It took me years to collect these truths of Big Kennedy. Nor was their
arrival when they did come one by one, to make a shade of change in my
regard for him. I liked him in the beginning; I liked him in the end;
he became that headland on the coasts of politics by which I steered my
course. I studied Big Kennedy as one might study a science; by the lines
of his conduct I laid down lines for my own; in all things I was his
disciple and his imitator.
Big Kennedy is dead now; and I will say no worse nor better of him than
this: He was a natural captain of men. Had he been born to a higher
station, he might have lighted a wick in history that would require
those ten thicknesses of darkness which belong with ten centuries, to
obscure. But no such thing could come in the instance of Big Kennedy;
his possibilities of eminence, like my own, were confined to Tammany and
its politics, since he had no more of education than have I. The time
has gone by in the world at large, and had in Big Kennedy's day, when
the ignorant man can be the first man.
Upon the day following my release, as he had bid me.
I sought Big Kennedy. He was in his barroom, and the hour being
mid-morning I was so far lucky as to find him quite alone. He was quick
to see me, too, and seemed as full of a pleasant interest in me as
though my simple looks were of themselves good news. He did most of the
talking, for I sat backward and bashful, the more since I could feel his
sharp eyes upon me, taking my measure. Never was I so looked over and
so questioned, and not many minutes had come and gone before Big Kennedy
knew as much of me and my belongings as did I myself. Mayhap more; for
he weighed me in the scales of his experience with all the care of gold,
considering meanwhile to what uses I should be put, and how far I might
be expected to advance his ends.
One of his words I recall, for it gave me a glow of relief at the time;
at that it was no true word. It was when he heard how slightly I had
been taught of books.
“Never mind,” said he, “books as often as not get between a party's legs
and trip him up. Better know men than books. There's my library.” Here
he pointed to a group about a beer table. “I can learn more by studyin'
them than was ever found between the covers of a book, and make more out
of it.”
Big Kennedy told me I must go to work.
“You've got to work, d'ye see,” said he, “if it's only to have an excuse
for livin'.”
Then he asked me what I could do. On making nothing clear by my
replies--for I knew of nothing--he descended to particulars.
“What do you know of horses? Can you drive one?”
My eye brightened; I might be trusted to handle a horse.
“An' I'll gamble you know your way about the East Side,” said he
confidently; “I'll answer for that.” Then getting up he started for the
door, for no grass grew between decision and action with Big Kennedy.
“Come with me,” he said.
We had made no mighty journey when we stopped before a grocery. It was
a two-store front, and of a prosperous look, with a wealth of vegetables
and fruits in crates, and baskets, and barrels, covering half the
sidewalk. The proprietor was a rubicund German, who bustled forth at
sight of my companion.
“How is Mr. Kennedy?” This with exuberance. “It makes me prout that you
pay me a wisit.”
“Yes?” said the other dryly. Then, going directly to the point: “Here's
a boy I've brought you, Nick. Let him drive one of your wagons. Give him
six dollars a week.”
“But, Mr. Kennedy,” replied the grocer dubiously, looking me over with
the tail of his eye, “I haf yet no wacancy. My wagons is all full.”
“I'm goin' to get him new duds,” said Big Kennedy, “if that's what
you're thinkin' about.”
Still, the grocer, though not without some show of respectful alarm,
insisted on a first position.
“If he was so well dressed even as you, Mr. Kennedy, yet I haf no
wacancy,” said he.
“Then make one,” responded Big Kennedy coolly. “Dismiss one of the boys
you have, d'ye see? At least two who work for you don't belong in my
ward.” As the other continued doubtful Big Kennedy became sharp. “Come,
come, come!” he cried in a manner peremptory rather than fierce; “I
can't wait all day. Don't you feed your horses in the street? Don't you
obstruct the sidewalks with your stuff? Don't you sell liquor in your
rear room without a license? Don't you violate a dozen ordinances? Don't
the police stand it an' pass you up? An' yet you hold me here fiddlin'
and foolin' away time!”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Kennedy,” cried the grocer, who from the first had sought
to stem the torrent of the other's eloquence, “I was only try in' to
think up w'ich horse I will let him drive alreatty. That's honest! sure
as my name is Nick Fogel!”
Clothed in what was to me the splendors of a king, being indeed a full
new suit bought with Big Kennedy's money, I began rattling about the
streets with a delivery wagon the very next day. As well as I could, I
tried to tell my thanks for the clothes.
“That's all right,” said Big Kennedy. “I owe you that much for havin'
you chucked into a cell.”
While Grocer Fogel might have been a trifle slow in hiring me, once I
was engaged he proved amiable enough. I did my work well too, missing
few of the customers and losing none of the baskets and sacks. Grocer
Fogel was free with his praise and conceded my value. Still, since he
instantly built a platform in the street on the strength of my being
employed, and so violated a new and further ordinance upon which he
for long had had an eye, I have sometimes thought that in forming his
opinion of my worth he included this misdemeanor in his calculations.
However, I worked with my worthy German four years; laying down the
reins of that delivery wagon of my own will at the age of nineteen.
Nor was I without a profit in this trade of delivering potatoes and
cabbages and kindred grocery forage. It broadened the frontiers of my
acquaintance, and made known to me many of a solvent middle class, and
of rather a higher respectability than I might otherwise have met. It
served to clean up my manners, if nothing more, and before I was done,
that acquaintance became with me an asset of politics.
While I drove wagon for Grocer Fogel, my work of the day was over with
six o'clock. I had nothing to do with the care of the horses; I threw
the reins to a stable hand when at evening I went to the barn, and left
for my home without pausing to see the animals out of the straps or
their noses into the corn. Now, had I been formed with a genius for it,
I might have put in a deal of time at study. But nothing could have been
more distant from my taste
|
ive persecution that followed which continued in the Republican
party against Marshal Lamon to the end of his life.
Colonel Lamon was a strong Union man but was greatly disliked by the
Abolitionists; was considered proslavery by them for permitting his
subordinates to execute the old Maryland laws in reference to negroes,
which had been in force since the District was ceded to the Federal
Government. After an unjust attack upon him in the Senate, they at last
reached the point where they should have begun, introduced a bill to
repeal the obnoxious laws which the Marshal was bound by his oath of
office to execute. When the fight on the Marshal was the strongest in
the Senate, he sent in the following resignation to Mr. Lincoln:
WASHINGTON, D. C., Jany. 31, 1862.
HON. A. LINCOLN, President, United States:
SIR,--I hereby resign my office as Marshal for the District of
Columbia. Your invariable friendship and kindness for a long course
of years which you have ever extended to me impel me to give the
reasons for this course. There appears to be a studious effort upon
the part of the more radical portion of that party which placed you
in power to pursue me with a relentless persecution, and I am now
under condemnation by the United States Senate for doing what I am
sure meets your approval, but by the course pursued by that
honorable body I fear you will be driven to the necessity of either
sustaining the action of that body, or breaking with them and
sustaining me, which you cannot afford to do under the
circumstances.
I appreciate your embarrassing position in the matter, and feel as
unselfish in the premises as you have ever felt and acted towards
me in the course of fourteen years of uninterrupted friendship; now
when our country is in danger, I deem it but proper, having your
successful administration of this Government more at heart than my
own pecuniary interests, to relieve you of this embarrassment by
resigning that office which you were kind enough to confide to my
charge, and in doing so allow me to assure you that you have my
best wishes for your health and happiness, for your successful
administration of this Government, the speedy restoration to peace,
and a long and useful life in the enjoyment of your present high
and responsible office.
I have the honor to be
Your friend and obedient servant,
WARD H. LAMON.
Mr. Lincoln refused to accept this resignation for reasons which he
partly expressed to Hon. William Kellogg, Member of Congress from
Illinois, at a Presidential reception about this time. When Judge
Kellogg was about to pass on after shaking the President's hand Mr.
Lincoln said, "Kellogg, I want you to stay here. I want to talk to you
when I have a chance. While you are waiting watch Lamon (Lamon was
making the presentations at the time). He is most remarkable. He knows
more people and can call more by name than any man I ever saw."
After the reception Kellogg said, "I don't know but you are mistaken in
your estimate of Lamon; there are many of our associates in Congress who
don't place so high an estimate on his character and have little or no
faith in him whatever." "Kellogg," said Lincoln, "you fellows at the
other end of the Avenue seem determined to deprive me of every friend I
have who is near me and whom I can trust. Now, let me tell you, sir, he
is the most unselfish man I ever saw; is discreet, powerful, and the
most desperate man in emergency I have ever seen or ever expect to see.
He is my friend and I am his and as long as I have these great
responsibilities on me I intend to insist on his being with me, and I
will stick by him at all hazards." Kellogg, seeing he had aroused the
President more than he expected, said, "Hold on, Lincoln; what I said of
our mutual friend Lamon was in jest. I am also his friend and believe
with you about him. I only intended to draw you out so that I might be
able to say something further in his favor with your endorsement. In the
House today I defended him and will continue to do so. I know Lamon
clear through." "Well, Judge," said Lincoln, "I thank you. You can say
to your friends in the House and elsewhere that they will have to bring
stronger proof than any I have seen yet to make me think that Hill Lamon
is not the most important man to me I have around me."
* * * * *
Every charge preferred against the Marshal was proven groundless, but
the Senators and Representatives who had joined in this inexcusable
persecution ever remained his enemies as did also the radical press.[C]
[C] At this time the Grand Jury of Washington County, District of
Columbia, found a bill of indictment against Horace Greeley, of the New
York "Tribune," for malicious libel of a public officer, the U. S.
Marshal. The Marshal was averse to this procedure, but the jury having
the facts before them regarded the offence as so flagrant that the case
was vigorously prosecuted.
The following is a sample of many letters received by Colonel Lamon
about this time:--
March, 23, 1862.
...--I was rather sorry that you should have thought that I
needed to see any evidence in regard to the war Grimes & Company
were making on you to satisfy me as to what were the facts. No one,
however, had any doubt but that they made the attack on you for
doing your duty under the law. Such men as he and his coadjutors
think every man ought to be willing to commit perjury or any other
crime in pursuit of their abolition notions.
We suppose, however, that they mostly designed the attack on you as
a blow at Lincoln and as an attempt to reach him through his
friends. I do not doubt but they would be glad to drive every
personal friend to Lincoln out of Washington.
I ought to let you know, however, that you have risen more than an
hundred per cent in the estimation of my wife on account of your
having so acted as to acquire the enmity of the Abolitionists. I
believe firmly that if we had not got the Republican nomination for
him (Lincoln) the Country would have been gone. I don't know
whether it can be saved yet, but I hope so....
Write whenever you have leisure.
Yours respectfully,
S. T. LOGAN.
Mr. Lincoln had become very unpopular with the politicians--not so with
the masses, however. Members of Congress gave him a wide berth and
eloquently "left him alone with his Martial Cloak around him." It pained
him that he could not please everybody, but he said it was impossible.
In a conversation with Lamon about his personal safety Lincoln said, "I
have more reason today to apprehend danger to myself personally from my
own partisan friends than I have from all other sources put together."
This estrangement between him and his former friends at such a time no
doubt brought him to a more confidential relation with Colonel Lamon
than would have been otherwise.
In May, 1861, Lamon was authorized to organize and command a regiment of
volunteer Infantry, and subsequently his command was increased to a
brigade.[D]
[Illustration: Hand written letter]
[D] WASHINGTON, D. C.,
June 25, 1861.
COL. W. H. LAMON:
MY DEAR SIR,--I spoke to the Secretary of War yesterday, and he
consents, and so do I, that as fast as you get Companies, you may
procure a U. S. officer, and have them mustered in. Have this done
quietly; because we can not do the labor of adopting it as a general
practice.
Yours as ever,
A. LINCOLN.
Raising troops at the commencement of the war cost Colonel Lamon
$22,000, for which he never asked the Government to reimburse a dollar.
Mr. Lincoln urged him to put in his vouchers and receive it back, but
Lamon did not want to place himself in the position that any
evil-disposed person could question his integrity or charge him with
having wrongfully received from the Government one dollar.
His military service in the field, however, was of short duration--from
May, 1861, to December of that year--for his services were in greater
demand at the Nation's Capital. He held the commission of Colonel during
the war.
Colonel Lamon was charged with several important missions for Mr.
Lincoln, one of the most delicate and dangerous being a confidential
mission to Charleston, S. C., less than three weeks before the firing on
Sumter.
At the time of the death of Mr. Lincoln, Lamon was in Richmond. It was
believed by many who were familiar with Washington affairs, including
Mr. Seward, Secretary of State, that had Lamon been in the city on the
14th of April, 1865, that appalling tragedy at Ford's Theatre would have
been averted.
From the time of the arrival of the President-elect at Washington until
just before his assassination, Lamon watched over his friend and Chief
with exceeding intelligence and a fidelity that knew no rest. It has
been said of Lamon that, "The faithful watch and vigil long with which
he guarded Lincoln's person during those four years was seldom, if ever,
equalled by the fidelity of man to man." Lamon is perhaps best known for
the courage and watchful devotion with which he guarded Lincoln during
the stormy days of the Civil War.
After Lincoln's death it was always distasteful to Lamon to go to the
White House. He resigned his position in June following Mr. Lincoln's
death in the face of the remonstrance of the Administration.
[Illustration: Hand written note]
The following is a copy of a letter of Mr. Seward accepting his
resignation:--
DEPARTMENT OF STATE,
WASHINGTON, June 10, 1865.
To WARD H. LAMON, Esq.,
Marshal of the United States
for the District of Columbia,
Washington, D. C.
MY DEAR SIR,--The President directs me to acknowledge the receipt
of your letter of the 8th instant, in which you tender your
resignation as Marshal of the United States for the District of
Columbia.
He accepts your resignation, as you desire, to take effect on
Monday, the 12th instant, but in so doing deems it no more than
right to say that he regrets that you should have asked him to do
so. Since his advent here, he has heard from those well qualified
to speak of your unwavering loyalty and of your constant personal
fidelity to the late President. These are qualities which have
obtained for you the reputation of a faithful and fearless public
officer, and they are just such qualities as the Government can ill
afford to lose in any of its Departments. They will, I doubt not,
gain for you in any new occupation which you may undertake the same
reputation and the same success you have obtained in the position
of United States Marshal of this District.
Very truly yours,
(Signed) WILLIAM H. SEWARD.
Colonel Lamon was never just to himself. He cared little for either fame
or fortune. He regarded social fidelity as one of the highest virtues.
When President Johnson wished to make him a Member of his Cabinet and
offered him the position of Postmaster-General, Lamon pleaded the cause
of the incumbent so effectually that the President was compelled to
abandon the purpose.
Judge David Davis, many years on the U. S. Supreme Bench, and
administrator of Mr. Lincoln's estate, wrote the following under date of
May 23, 1865, to Hon. Wm. H. Seward, Secretary of State.
There is one matter of a personal nature which I wish to suggest to
you. Mr. Lincoln was greatly attached to our friend Col. Ward H.
Lamon. I doubt whether he had a warmer attachment to anybody, and I
know that it was reciprocated. Col. Lamon has for a long time
wanted to resign his office and had only held it at the earnest
request of Mr. Lincoln.
Mr. Lincoln would have given him the position of Governor of Idaho.
Col. Lamon is well qualified for that place. He would be popular
there. He understands Western people and few men have more friends.
I should esteem it as a great favor personally if you could secure
the place for him. If you can't succeed nobody else can. Col. Lamon
will make no effort and will use no solicitation.
He is one of the dearest friends I have in the world. He may have
faults, and few of us are without them, but he is as true as steel,
honorable, high minded, and never did a mean thing in his life.
Excuse the freedom with which I have written.
May I beg to be remembered to your son and to your family.
Yours most truly,
DAVID DAVIS.
The faithfulness till death of this noble man's friendship is shown in
the following letter written for him when he was dying, twenty-one years
later.
BLOOMINGTON, ILL.,
June 22, 1886.
COL. W. H. LAMON:
DEAR SIR,--On my return from Washington about a month since Judge
Davis said to me that he had a long letter from you which he
intended to answer as soon as he was able to do so. Since that time
the Judge has been declining in health until he is now beyond all
capability of writing. I have not seen him for three weeks until
yesterday morning when I found him in lowest condition of life.
Rational when aroused but almost unconscious of his surroundings
except when aroused.
He spoke in the kindest terms of you and was much annoyed because
an answer to your letter was postponed. He requested me this
morning through Mrs. Davis to write you, while Mrs. Davis handed me
the letter. I have not read it as it is a personal letter to the
Judge. I don't know that I can say any more. It was one of the
saddest sights of my life to see the best and truest friend I ever
had emaciated with disease, lingering between life and death.
Before this reaches you the world may know of his death. I
understood Mrs. Davis has written you.
Very truly,
LAWRENCE WELDON.
In striking contrast to this beautiful friendship is another which one
would pronounce equally strong were he to judge the man who professed it
from his letters to Lamon, covering a period of twenty-five years,
letters filled throughout with expressions of the deepest trust, love,
admiration, and even gratitude; but in a book published last November
[1910] there appear letters from this same man to one of Lamon's
_bitterest_ enemies. In one he says, "Lamon was no solid firm friend of
Lincoln." Let us _hope_ he was sincere when he expressed just the
opposite sentiment to Lamon, for may it not have been his poverty and
not his will which consented to be thus "interviewed." He alludes twice
in this same correspondence to his poverty, once when he gives as his
reason for selling something he regretted to have sold that "I was a
poor devil and had to sell to live," and again, "---- are you getting
rich? I am as poor as Job's turkey."
One of Lamon's friends describes him:--
"Of herculean proportions and almost fabulous strength and agility,
Lamon never knew what fear was and in the darkest days of the war
he never permitted discouragement to affect his courage or weaken
his faith in the final success of the Nation. Big-hearted, genial,
generous, and chivalrous, his memory will live long in the land
which he served so well."
Leonard Swett wrote in the "North American Review":--
"Lamon was all over a Virginian, strong, stout and athletic--a
Hercules in stature, tapering from his broad shoulders to his
heels, and the handsomest man physically I ever saw. He was six
feet high and although prudent and cautious, was thoroughly
courageous and bold. He wore that night [when he accompanied
Lincoln from Harrisburg to Washington] two ordinary pistols, two
derringers and two large knives. You could put no more elements of
attack or defence in a human skin than were in Lamon and his armory
on that occasion.... Mr. Lincoln knew the shedding the last drop of
blood in his defence would be the most delightful act of Lamon's
life, and that in him he had a regiment armed and drilled for the
most efficient service."
The four or five thousand letters left by Colonel Lamon show that his
influence was asked on almost every question, and show that Mr. Lincoln
was more easily reached through Colonel Lamon than by any other one man;
even Mrs. Lincoln herself asked Lamon's influence with her husband.
Extracts from some of these letters may be found at the end of this
volume. They breathe the real atmosphere of other days.
After his resignation as Marshal, he resumed the practice of law in
company with Hon. Jeremiah S. Black and his son, Chauncey F. Black.
Broken in health and in fortune, he went to Colorado in 1879, where he
remained seven years. It was here that the beautiful friendship began
between Colonel Lamon and Eugene Field. This friendship meant much to
both of them. To Eugene Field, then one of the editors of the Denver
"Tribune," who had only a boyhood recollection of Lincoln, it meant much
to study the history of the War and the martyred President with one who
had seen much of both. To Colonel Lamon it was a solace and a tonic,
this association with one in whom sentiment and humor were so delicately
blended.
One little incident of this friendship is worth the telling because of
the pathetic beauty of the verses which it occasioned.
One day when Field dropped in to see Lamon he found him asleep on the
floor. (To take a nap on the floor was a habit of both Lamon and
Lincoln, perhaps because they both experienced difficulty in finding
lounges suited to their length--Lamon was six feet two inches, Lincoln
two inches taller.) Field waited some time thinking Lamon would wake up,
but he did not; so finally Field penciled the following verses on a
piece of paper, pinned it to the lapel of Lamon's coat, and quietly
left:--
As you, dear Lamon, soundly slept
And dreamed sweet dreams upon the floor,
Into your hiding place I crept
And heard the music of your snore.
A man who sleeps as now you sleep,
Who pipes as music'ly as thou--
Who loses self in slumbers deep
As you, O happy man, do now,
Must have a conscience clear and free
From troublous pangs and vain ado;
So ever may thy slumbers be--
So ever be thy conscience too!
And when the last sweet sleep of all
Shall smooth the wrinkles from thy brow,
May God on high as gently guard
Thy slumbering soul as I do now.
This incident occurred in the summer of 1882. Eleven years after Colonel
Lamon lay dying. He was conscious to the last moment, but for the last
sixteen hours he had lost the power of speech. His daughter watched him
for those sixteen hours, hoping every moment he would be able to speak.
She was so stunned during this long watch that she could not utter a
prayer to comfort her father's soul, but just before the end came, the
last lines of the little poem came to her like an inspiration which she
repeated aloud to her dying father:
"And when the last sweet sleep of all
Shall smooth the wrinkles from thy brow,
May God on high as gently guard
Thy slumbering soul as I do now."
These were the last words Colonel Lamon ever heard on earth. He died at
eleven o'clock on the night of May 7th, 1893; and many most interesting
chapters of Lincoln's history have perished with him.
[Illustration: Letter page 1]
[Illustration: Letter page 2]
RECOLLECTIONS
OF
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY ACQUAINTANCE.
When Mr. Lincoln was nominated for the Presidency in 1860, a campaign
book-maker asked him to give the prominent features of his life. He
replied in the language of Gray's "Elegy," that his life presented
nothing but
"The short and simple annals of the poor."
He had, however, a few months previously, written for his friend Jesse
W. Fell the following:--
I was born Feb. 12, 1809, in Harden County, Kentucky. My parents
were both born in Virginia, of undistinguished families--second
families, perhaps I should say. My mother, who died in my tenth
year, was of a family of the name of Hanks, some of whom now reside
in Adams, some others in Macon counties, Illinois--My paternal
grandfather, Abraham Lincoln, emigrated from Rockingham County,
Virginia, to Kentucky, about 1781 or 2, where, a year or two
later, he was killed by indians,--not in battle, but by stealth,
when he was laboring to open a farm in the forest--His ancestors,
who were quakers, went to Virginia from Berks County,
Pennsylvania--An effort to identify them with the New England
family of the same name ended in nothing more definite, than a
similarity of Christian names in both families, such as Enoch,
Levi, Mordecai, Solomon, Abraham, and the like--
My father, at the death of his father, was but six years of age;
and he grew up, literally without education--He removed from
Kentucky to what is now Spencer county, Indiana, in my eighth
year--We reached our new home about the time the State came into
the Union--It was a wild region, with many bears and other wild
animals still in the woods--There I grew up--There were some
schools, so called; but no qualification was ever required of a
teacher, beyond "_readin, writin, and cipherin_" to the Rule of
Three--If a straggler supposed to understand latin happened to
sojourn in the neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizzard--There
was absolutely nothing to excite ambition for education. Of course
when I came of age I did not know much--Still, somehow, I could
read, write, and cipher to the Rule of Three; but that was all--I
have not been to school since--The little advance I now have upon
this store of education, I have picked up from time to time under
the pressure of necessity--
I was raised to farm work, which I continued till I was twenty
two--At twenty one I came to Illinois, and passed the first year in
Macon county--Then I got to New-Salem at that time in Sangamon, now
in Menard county, where I remained a year as a sort of Clerk in a
store--Then came the Black Hawk war; and I was elected a Captain of
Volunteers--a success which gave me more pleasure than any I have
had since--I went the campaign, was elected, ran for the
Legislature the same year (1832) and was beaten--the only time I
ever have been beaten by the people--The next, and three succeeding
biennial elections, I was elected to the Legislature--I was not a
candidate afterwards. During this Legislative period I had studied
law, and removed to Springfield to practice it--In 1846 I was once
elected to the lower House of Congress--Was not a candidate for
re-election--From 1849 to 1854, both inclusive, practiced law more
assiduously than ever before--Always a whig in politics; and
generally on the whig electoral tickets, making active canvasses--I
was losing interest in politics, when the repeal of the Missouri
Compromise aroused me again--What I have done since then is pretty
well known--
If any personal description of me is thought desirable, it may be
said, I am, in height, six feet, four inches, nearly; lean in
flesh, weighing, on an average, one hundred and eighty pounds; dark
complexion, with coarse black hair, and grey eyes--No other marks
or brands recollected--
Yours very truly
A. LINCOLN.
J. W. Fell, Esq.
WASHINGTON, D. C., March 20, 1872.
We the undersigned hereby certify that the foregoing statement is
in the hand-writing of Abraham Lincoln.
DAVID DAVIS.
LYMAN TRUMBULL.
CHARLES SUMNER.[E]
[E] The circumstances under which the original preceding sketch was
written are explained in the following letter:--
NATIONAL HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D. C.,
Feb. 19, 1872.
COLONEL WARD H. LAMON:
DEAR SIR,--In compliance with your request, I place in your hands
a copy of a manuscript in my possession written by Abraham Lincoln,
giving a brief account of his early history, and the commencement of
that political career which terminated in his election to the
presidency.
It may not be inappropriate to say, that some time preceding the
writing of the enclosed, finding, in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, a
laudable curiosity in the public mind to know more about the early
history of Mr. Lincoln, and looking, too, to the possibilities of
his being an available candidate for the presidency in 1860, I had
on several occasions requested of him this information, and that it
was not without some hesitation he placed in my hands even this very
modest account of himself, which he did in the month of December,
1859.
To this were added, by myself, other facts bearing upon his
legislative and political history, and the whole forwarded to a
friend residing in my native county (Chester, Pa.),--the Hon. Joseph
J. Lewis, former commissioner of internal revenue,--who made them
the basis of an ably-written and somewhat elaborate memoir of the
late president, which appeared in the Pennsylvania and other papers
of the country in January, 1860, and which contributed to prepare
the way for the subsequent nomination at Chicago the following June.
Believing this brief and unpretending narrative, written by himself
in his own peculiar vein,--and in justice to him I should add,
without the remotest expectation of its ever appearing in
public,--with the attending circumstances, may be of interest to the
numerous admirers of that historic and truly great man, I place it
at your disposal.
I am truly yours,
JESSE W. FELL.
Were I to say in this polite age that Abraham Lincoln was born in a
condition of life most humble and obscure, and that he was surrounded by
circumstances most unfavorable to culture and to the development of that
nobility and purity which his wonderful character afterward displayed,
it would shock the fastidious and super-fine sensibilities of the
average reader, would be regarded as _prima facie_ evidence of felonious
intent, and would subject me to the charge of being inspired by an
antagonistic animus. In justice to the truth of history, however, it
must be acknowledged that such are the facts concerning this great man,
regarding whom nothing should be concealed from public scrutiny, either
in the surroundings of his birth, his youth, his manhood, or his private
and public life and character. Let all the facts concerning him be
known, and he will appear brighter and purer by the test.
It may well be said of him that he is probably the only man, dead or
living, whose _true_ and _faithful_ life could be written and leave the
subject more ennobled by the minutiæ of the record. His faults are but
"the shadows which his virtues cast." It is my purpose in these
recollections to give the reader a closer view of the great war
President than is afforded by current biographies, which deal mainly
with the outward phases of his life; and in carrying out this purpose I
will endeavor to present that many-sided man in those relations where
his distinguishing traits manifest themselves most strongly.
With the grandeur of his figure in history, with his genius and his
achievements as the model statesman and chief magistrate, all men are
now familiar; but there yet remain to be sketched many phases of his
inner life. Many of the incidents related in these sketches came to my
knowledge through my long-continued association with him both in his
private and public life; therefore, if the _Ego_ shall seem at times
pushed forward to undue prominence, it will be because of its
convenience, or rather necessity, certainly not from any motive of
self-adulation.
My personal acquaintance with Mr. Lincoln dates back to the autumn of
1847. In that year, attracted by glowing accounts of material growth and
progress in that part of the West, I left my home in what was then
Berkeley County, Virginia, and settled at Danville, Vermillion County,
Illinois. That county and Sangamon, including Springfield, the new
capital of the State, were embraced in the Eighth Judicial Circuit,
which at that early day consisted of fourteen counties. It was then the
custom of lawyers, like their brethren of England, "to ride the
circuit." By that circumstance the people came in contact with all the
lawyers in the circuit, and were enabled to note their distinguishing
traits. I soon learned that the man most celebrated, even in those
pioneer days, for oddity, originality, wit, ability, and eloquence in
that region of the State was Abraham Lincoln. My great curiosity to see
him was gratified soon after I took up my residence at Danville.
I was introduced to Mr. Lincoln by the Hon. John T. Stuart, for some
years his partner at Springfield. After a comical survey of my
fashionable toggery,--my swallow-tail coat, white neck-cloth, and
ruffled shirt (an astonishing outfit for a young limb of the law in that
settlement),--Mr. Lincoln said: "And so you are a cousin of our friend
John J. Brown; he told me you were coming. Going to try your hand at the
law, are you? I should know at a glance that you were a Virginian; but
I don't think you would succeed at splitting rails. That was my
occupation at your age, and I don't think I have taken as much pleasure
in anything else from that day to this."
I assured him, perhaps as a sort of defence against the eloquent
condemnation implied in my fashionable clawhammer, that I had done a
deal of hard manual labor in my time. Much amused at this solemn
declaration, Mr. Lincoln said: "Oh, yes; you Virginians shed barrels of
perspiration while standing off at a distance and superintending the
work your slaves do for you. It is different with us. Here it is every
fellow for himself, or he doesn't get there."
Mr. Lincoln soon learned, however, that my detestation of slave labor
was quite as pronounced as his own, and from that hour we were friends.
Until the day of his death it was my pleasure and good fortune to retain
his confidence unshaken, as he retained my affection unbroken.
I was his local partner, first at Danville, and afterward at
Bloomington. We rode the circuit together, traveling by buggy in the dry
seasons and on horse-back in bad weather, there being no railroads then
in that part of the State. Mr. Lincoln had defeated that redoubtable
champion of pioneer Methodism, the Rev. Peter Cartwright, in the last
race for Congress. Cartwright was an oddity in his way, quite as
original as Lincoln himself. He was a foeman worthy of Spartan steel,
and Mr. Lincoln's fame was greatly enhanced by his victory over the
famous preacher. Whenever it was known that Lincoln was to make a
speech or argue a case, there was a general rush and a crowded house. It
mattered little what subject he was discussing,--Lincoln was subject
enough for the people. It was Lincoln they wanted to hear and see; and
his progress round the circuit was marked by a constantly recurring
series of ovations.
Mr. Lincoln was from the beginning of his circuit-riding the light and
life of the court. The most trivial circumstance furnished a back-ground
for his wit. The following incident, which illustrates his love of a
joke, occurred in the early days of our acquaintance. I, being at the
time on the infant side of twenty-one, took particular pleasure in
athletic sports. One day when we were attending the circuit court which
met at Bloomington, Ill., I was wrestling near the court house with some
one who had challenged me to a trial, and in the scuffle made a large
rent in the rear of my trousers. Before I had time to make any change, I
was called into court to take up a case. The evidence was finished. I,
being the Prosecuting Attorney at the time, got up to address the jury.
Having on a somewhat short coat, my misfortune was rather apparent. One
of the lawyers, for a joke, started a subscription paper which was
passed from one member of the bar to another as they sat by a long table
fronting the bench, to buy a pair of pantaloons for Lamon,--"he being,"
the paper said, "a poor but worthy young man." Several put down their
names with some ludicrous subscription, and finally the paper was laid
by some one in front of Mr. Lincoln, he being engaged in writing at the
time. He quietly glanced over the paper, and, immediately taking up his
pen, wrote after his name, "I can contribute nothing to the end in
view."
Although Mr. Lincoln was my senior by eighteen years, in one important
particular I certainly was in a marvelous degree his acknowledged
superior. One of the first things I learned after getting fairly under
way as a lawyer was to charge well for legal services,--a branch of the
practice that Mr. Lincoln never could learn. In fact, the lawyers of the
circuit often complained that his fees were not at all commensurate with
the service rendered. He at length left that branch of the business
wholly to me; and to my tender mercy clients were turned over, to be
slaughtered according to my popular and more advanced ideas of the
dignity of our profession. This soon led to serious and shocking
embarrassment.
Early in our practice a gentleman named Scott placed in my hands a case
of some importance. He had a demented sister who possessed property to
the amount of $10,000, mostly in cash. A "conservator," as he was
called, had been appointed to take charge of the estate, and we were
employed to resist a motion to remove the conservator. A designing
adventurer had become acquainted with the unfortunate girl, and knowing
that she had money, sought to marry her; hence the motion. Scott, the
brother and conservator, before we entered upon the case, insisted that
I should fix the amount of the fee. I told him that it would be $250,
adding, however, that he had better wait; it might not give us much
trouble, and in that event a less amount would do. He agreed at once to
pay $250, as he expected a hard contest over the motion.
The case was tried inside of twenty minutes; our success was complete.
Scott was satisfied, and cheerfully paid over the money to me inside the
bar, Mr. Lincoln looking on. Scott then went out, and Mr. Lincoln asked,
"What did you charge that man?" I told him $250. Said he: "Lamon, that
is all wrong. The service was not worth that sum. Give him back at least
half of it."
I protested that the fee was fixed in advance; that Scott was perfectly
satisfied, and had so expressed himself. "That may be," retorted Mr.
Lincoln, with a look of distress and of undisguised displeasure, "but
_I_ am not satisfied. This is positively wrong. Go, call him back and
return half the money at least, or I will not
|
Russias
these boys would have taken it as a matter of course. They merely
opened their eyes and said "Weel?" Yaspard had rather expected to
surprise them, and was a little disconcerted by the way his startling
intention was received.
"I've told you heaps about Vikinger," he said; "you know just what I
mean, eh?"
"Weren't they pirates?" Gibbie asked.
"No--at least they would be called that now, but it was different when
they lived. There was no way of discovering new lands and getting lots
of riches, being great men and doing all sorts of grand things, except
by becoming Vikings. It was the only way."
"But they killed people, and robbed, and made slaves. Everybody was
frightened when a Viking ship hove in sight," said Lowrie, who was
rather reflective for his age and station.
"So they did; but it could not be helped. Besides, every one tried to
do the same. And for the matter of that, don't people do the same now?
Don't they fight still, and in a worse way? for the Vikinger only laid
on man for man, but now any nation who invents the most murderous
machine for shooting can mow down armies of men miles off. As for the
stealing--what is half the trade of the world but a kind of civil
picking of somebody's pocket--a 'doing' of some one. And slavery; bah!
slaves enough in Britain while the pressgang can carry off any man it
likes. But there--what's the good of such talk? I'm not going to be a
Viking in a bad way, so you need not be afraid. It will all be for
adventure, and glory and daring, and jolly good fun, I tell you."
"All right; we're game for whatever you please," answered the Harrisons.
After that Yaspard entered into some details of his scheme, and
explained portions in which he specially required their co-operation.
They were soon as enamoured of the project as he, and eager to begin a
career which promised such scope for wild adventure. Some time slipped
past while the confabulation lasted, and the dusk of a Shetland summer
evening--the poetic "dim"--had fallen upon Boden before the lads
separated.
"I'll be over again to-morrow early," said Yaspard, as he pulled out
from the shore; "mind you have some armour ready by the time I come."
The light breeze which had wafted him to Noostigard had fallen to a
calm, therefore the sail was of no use; but a pair of oars in his
muscular hands soon carried the little _Osprey_ to her quay, and there
Signy was waiting.
"I've been longer than I meant to be, Mootie," he called out; "I am
afraid it is too late to take you off."
"Never mind," she answered; "I don't want to go now. There has been
such a disturbance in the house--such a terrific upset. It has made me
laugh and cry--I hardly know which I ought to do now about it."
"An upset!" Yaspard exclaimed. "Praise the powers, as Mam Kirsty says.
I'm glad the humdrum has had a break. What was it, Signy?"
"It was a letter."
"A letter! Was that all?"
"All!" exclaimed the girl; "you won't say a letter is a little 'all'
when you hear what it did. The mailbag came across this afternoon when
we were sitting at the Teng, never thinking!--and uncle got a letter
from the young Laird of Lunda which made him furious. You know what
happens when Uncle Brüs is angry."
"I know. I'm glad it does not happen often, poor old man! Well, what
next?"
"He rampaged, and set Aunt Osla off crying. Then he began experiments
with that new chemical machine, and nearly blew up the house. The
windows of his Den are smashed, and you never saw anything like the
mess there is in it--broken glass, books, methylated spirits,
specimens, everything."
"Hurrah!" shouted Yaspard, cutting short Signy's story; "don't tell me
more. Let's go and see."
He fastened up his boat, took his sister's hand, and ran quickly up the
brae to his home.
There indeed was a scene of devastation, as far as the scientist's
study was concerned. It looked as though a volcano had irrupted there:
bookshelves were overturned, chairs and tables were sprawling legs in
air, liquids were oozing in rainbow hues over manuscripts, odours of
the most objectionable kind filled the air. A tame raven was hopping
among the debris, with an eye to choice "remains" dropping from broken
jars; a strange-looking fish was gasping its last breath on the sofa,
among broken fragments of its crystal tank. A huge grey cat was
standing, with her back arched, on the mantelpiece--the only place she
deemed secure--surveying the scene, and ready for instant flight, or
fight, if another explosion seemed imminent.
Pirate was lying at the open door, watching the movements of Thor (the
raven), whose depredatory proclivities were well known to the dog.
Thor, perfectly aware that a detective's eye was upon him, did not
venture to abstract any of the wreckage, but assumed an air of careless
curiosity as he hopped about among Mr. Adiesen's demoralised treasures.
Mr. Adiesen himself had disappeared. He had been stunned for a few
moments by the explosion; but on recovering he only waited to realise
the ruin he had wrought, and then, seizing a favourite geological
hammer, he raced away to the rocks to practise what stood him in place
of strong language.
No one had dared to attempt restoring order in the Den; the maids would
not have set foot within its door for their lives. Miss Adiesen was
soothing her nerves with tea, which Mam Kirsty was administering with
loud and voluble speech.
"My! what a sight!" Yaspard exclaimed, as he looked into the study.
"And what a smell! It's enough to frighten the French," and he turned
into the parlour, where his aunt was comforting her nerves after her
favourite manner, as I said.
"You've been having a high old time, auntie," he cried, laughing. "I
never saw such a rare turn-out in Moolapund before."
"You may say so," sobbed Aunt Osla. "It is a 'turn-out' and a 'high
old' business. We were near going high enough, let alone your uncle,
whose escape is nothing short of a miracle. I always said there would
be mischief done with those mixtures and glass tubes, and machines for
heating dangerous coloured stuff. A rare turn-out! Yes; there is not
much left in his room to turn out--it's all turned. But it isn't the
specimens and all that I mind so very much, after all, though that is
bad enough, considering all the time and money he has spent on them.
It is the--the cause of all this that--that breaks my heart. Oh dear!"
and she broke out a-weeping again.
CHAPTER III.
"WIDE TOLD OF IS THIS."
"What had young Garson said to make Uncle Brüs so angry?" asked Yaspard.
"He did not say much that was unpleasant--even from our point of view.
It is the letter of a gentleman anyway; and I know very well that his
mother's son could not say or do or think anything that was not like a
gentleman. I knew her, poor dear, when we were both young. See, here
is the letter. You may read it. It was flung to me. Your uncle did
not care who saw it, or who knows about his 'feud'--oh, I'm sick of the
word."
Yaspard smoothed out the letter, which his uncle had crushed up in his
rage, and read--
"DEAR MR. ADIESEN,--I very much regret being obliged to remind you once
more that Havnholme is part of the Lunda property, and that it was my
dear father's wish that the sea-birds on the island should not be
molested.
"I shall always be very pleased to give you, or any other naturalist,
every facility for studying the birds in their haunts, but I cannot
(knowing as I do so well the mind of my late father in this matter)
permit innocent creatures to be disturbed and distressed as they have
been of late. You know the circumstances to which I allude.
"I do wish (as my father so long wished) that you would meet me and
have a friendly talk, when I have no doubt we could smooth this
matter--I mean your grievance regarding Havnholme. It seems so
unneighbourly, not to say unchristian, to keep up a quarrel from
generation to generation.
"Pardon me if it seems presumptuous of a young fellow like me to write
thus to you; but I feel as it I were only the medium through which my
good noble father were making his wishes known. If you will allow me,
I will call upon you at some early time.--Yours sincerely, FRED GARSON."
"It's a very decent letter," said Yaspard, "and everybody who knows the
young Laird says he is a brick; but I know how Uncle Brüs would flare
up over this. One has only to utter 'holme' or 'Lunda' in uncle's
hearing if one wants to bring the whole feud about one's ears."
Here Signy put in her soft little voice. "But it really was a shame
about the birds, Yaspard. You said so, you know; and oh, I have dreamt
about them ever so often, poor things!"
"That's true. Still, uncle persists that the holme is his property;
and the Lairds of Lunda have always got the name of land-grabbers."
Miss Osla looked up at the boy with a kind of terror in her eyes. "O
Yaspard," she cried, "don't you begin that way too. Don't you believe
all that's told you. Don't you take up that miserable, wicked--yes,
wicked--quarrel."
"Easy, easy, Aunt Osla! I haven't dug up the hatchet yet. But can you
tell me what was the true origin of that affair?"
"I don't believe anybody ever knew what it began about, or why. The
Garsons and Adiesens were born quarrelling with one another, I think."
"But surely you know about the particular part of the family feud which
had to do with Havnholme?"
"Even _that_ began before I was born, and it was about some land that
was exchanged. Your great-grandfather wanted all this island to
himself, and he offered the Laird of Lunda some small outlying islands
instead of the piece of Boden which belonged to _him_. Mr. Garson
agreed, so they 'turned turf'[1] and settled the bargain; and a body
would have thought that was enough. But no! By-and-by they got
debating that the bargain had not been a fair one, then that Havnholme
was not included with the other skerries, and so it went as long as
they lived. After that their sons took it up, and disputed, and
fought, and never got nearer the truth, for there were no papers to be
found to prove who was right; and the tenants who had witnessed the
'turning of turf' would only speak as pleased their master. They
wrangled all their lives about it. One would put his sheep on the
holme, and the other would promptly go and shove the poor beasts into
the sea. One would build a skeö,[2] and the other would pull it down.
These were lawless days, and men might do as they pleased."
"Just like Vikinger," said Yaspard, who quite enjoyed the story.
"Well?"
"They never would speak to each other, even if they met at the church
door, or at a neighbour's funeral. It was very sinful; and they would
not let their children become acquainted. My father made me drop
acquaintance with my school friend when she married Mr. Garson, for no
reason but because she married the son of his enemy. It has been the
same since your uncle came to be Laird. If your father had lived it
would have been different, for _he_ bore ill-feeling to no one; but he
was so much away with his ship, he never got a chance to put things
right; which I _know_ he could have done, for the Laird of Lunda--who
died two years ago--was one of the best of men. A land-grabber! My
friend's husband. He was as good a man as Shetland ere saw. He tried
again and again to be friends with Brüs, but it was no use, and it will
be of no use his boy trying. I know."
"_Something_ shall be of use," muttered Yaspard; then aloud he asked,
"Will uncle answer this letter?"
"My dear, he's done it. There is his answer on the table. He read it
to me, and I felt as if I were listening to a clap of thunder."
"What did he say?"
"He said that Havnholme was his, and that he meant to do with his own
as he pleased. And he said, 'If you set foot in Boden you will receive
the thrashing which such a coxcomb deserves.' He told me to send the
Harrison boys across the sound in your little boat early to-morrow, and
they were to leave the letter at the post-office. They were not to go
to the Ha' for their lives. Brüs never told me to do a harder thing
than to send such a letter to the son of my friend--to the poor lad who
is trying to live like his true-hearted father, and to be at peace with
all men! It is a cruel thing." And here Miss Osla began to weep again.
Yaspard went to the table and picked up the letter, read the address,
and put it in his pocket. "Leave this affair to me, auntie," he said;
"I'll see that Fred Garson gets the letter, and gets it right properly."
Poor Miss Adiesen was too much troubled to notice anything peculiar in
Yaspard's words or expression, but Signy did, and as he left the room
she followed and asked in a whisper--
"Is it going to fit into your idea, brodhor?"
"Fits like the skin to a sealkie," said he.
Yaspard went up the stairs four steps at every stride until he reached
the attics. One of these was used for lumber, and into it he went.
There was a marvellous collection of things in that room, but Yaspard
knew what he had come for, and where to find it. He pulled some broken
chairs from off an old chest which had no lid, and was piled full of
curious swords, cutlasses, horse-pistols, battle-axes, some foils and
masks, and a battered old shield. Not one of all these implements had
been in use for a century--some were of far more ancient date. They
had neither edge, nor point, nor power of any sort beyond what might
lie in their weight if it were brought into play. Yaspard gathered up
as many of these weapons as he could carry, and bore them off to his
own room, where he proceeded to scrub the rust from them with some
sandpaper and a pair of woollen socks. He whistled at his task, and
was infinitely pleased with his own thoughts, which ran something like
this:--
"Oh yes! I'll make it work. I'll turn this old feud into a rare old
lark, I will. How nicely it all fits in for to-morrow--the Harrison
boys to go with the letter in my boat, and the Manse boys spending the
night on Havnholme! What times those boys have, to be sure. They go
everywhere, and stay just as long as they please. I could not count
how many times this summer they have camped out for the night on
Havnholme, and the Grün holme, and the Ootskerries. Guess they'll be
surprised at the waking up they'll get tomorrow!"
When he had cleaned up the armour to his satisfaction, he sat down to
his desk and wrote a letter, which pleased him so much that he read it
twice aloud, and ended by saying--
"Prime! I didn't know that I could express myself so well on paper.
It's as good as Garson's own. I wonder what he will say!"
Then Yaspard went down to supper, and while demolishing his porridge he
said, "Will you make me up a bit of ferdimet,[3] auntie? I am going
off early to-morrow to fish. (It's true," he added to himself, "for
I'll take a rod and fish a fish to make it true.")
"I suppose the Harrisons go with you?" said Aunt Osla. "Don't forget
about your uncle's message to Lunda."
"No, I won't forget."
"You could run across to the post-office before going to fish, and get
it over," she added.
Yaspard often went on such expeditions, therefore there was nothing
unusual in his proceedings on the present occasion, but Signy detected
a new fire in his eyes, and a twitching of the mouth that suggested
ideas! Moreover, she had been on the stair when he came out of the
lumber-room with his arms full of weapons, and Signy's soul was
troubled about its hero.
[1] The old Shetland way of taking possession of land.
[2] "Skeö," a shed for drying fish in.
[3] "Ferdimet," food for a journey.
CHAPTER IV.
"HAPPY WAS HE IN HIS WARRING."
When the sun was well up next morning, which meant about three o'clock,
Yaspard came downstairs, carrying his armour, and treading softly, as
he did not wish to disturb anybody. Pirate was dozing in the porch,
but when the lad appeared he got up and followed him to the quay.
Signy's eyes too followed--for she had heard her brother leave his
room--and again her heart was troubled when she saw the weapons of
warfare. All unconscious of her gaze, he proceeded to stow these into
his boat, where Pirate had stepped gravely, and Signy's soul was
comforted as she returned to her bed murmuring, "Any way, he has Pirate
with him, and Pirate is more than a match for anything!"
Yaspard was soon across the voe, and he soon had the Harrisons out of
their beds. When they reached the beach Lowrie pulled out of a
fish-chest two neatly made wooden swords, two slings, two bows, and a
sheaf of arrows. As he handed some to his brother he said to Yaspard,
"We made the swords last night, and most of the arrows. I think they
are a great improvement on the last."
"Yes, certain!" was the ready answer; but Yaspard's eyes gleamed as he
pointed to his ancestral old iron, and said, "What think you of mine?"
"Oh, grand! splendid!" they cried.
"You are going to have a share--a loan of them, I mean." And then he
rapidly explained what he purposed doing, and what he wished them to
do. As the boat slipped rapidly along, the lads rigged themselves for
action. Playing at "Robinson Crusoe" and "Hawk eye" had been favourite
games, therefore they were provided with all sorts of belts and pouches
for holding every conceivable kind of weapon; and queer figures they
looked when their war toilet was complete, and they sat down to talk
over their scheme and project a great many more.
Once outside of Boden voe, it did not take long to reach Havnholme.
The _Laulie_ was lying along the crags safely moored there, and her
crew were asleep in the old shed, where they had spent many a night
before. They had had a long day of exciting sport, and were wrapped in
sleep more profound than usual.
But when the _Osprey_ came within hailing distance, Yaspard ran up a
black flag and raised a shout of "A Viking! a Viking!" His companions
took up the cry, and Pirate, setting his fore-paws on the bow, barked
and howled like mad. Such a hullaballoo was enough to waken anybody,
and the Lunda boys--half-awake--rushed out of the shed, and stood
staring in dumb-foundered amazement at the foe!
The Harrisons burst out laughing at the ludicrous spectacle of four
lads rubbing their eyes, scratching their heads, shaking themselves
straight in their clothes, and looking as if there never had been half
an idea in one of their minds. But Yaspard shouted in grandiloquent
style--
"You, lads of Lunda there, listen! We are Vikinger in search of glory
and spoil, and all the rest of it. But we do not take our enemy
unawares. We would not assail slumberers. We are nineteenth century
enough to fight fair. So now, look to yourselves!"
During these few minutes the _Osprey_ had reached the crags, and was
alongside of the _Laulie_. As he finished speaking the young marauder,
leaning over to the other boat, undid her painter, and hitching it to
his own boat, shouted to his companions to row off again. They pulled
out from the shore, and the _Laulie_ was captured before her crew had
waked up enough to comprehend what was going on.
"It's Yaspard Adiesen masquerading like an ass," said Harry Mitchell at
last.
"It will only be a bit of fun," Gloy Winwick ventured to say, for by
that time he had recognised Lowrie and Gibbie. They were his cousins,
and he had often met them, and heard of the curious games which young
Adiesen invented for their amusement and his own. "There will be nae
harm in it. It's just his way. He's queer."
The last half of his remarks was given in an aside to Tom Holtum, but
Tom only growled, "Bother the fellow! What does he mean by such
preposterous impudence?"
Tom's temper was easily roused; and, followed by the others, he ran to
the crag and shouted, "Give us none of your humbug! Bring back the
boat, or it will be the worse for you!"
A mocking laugh was all the answer he got; and this so exasperated Tom
that he was about to fling a volley of abuse to the enemy, but Harry
checked him. Harry was always the first to look at a thing from more
points than one, and now he said in an undertone, "I expect it is only
some nonsensical make-believe. Yaspard is a baby in some ways, I am
told; and he never exchanges a word with gentlemen's sons--lives
horribly alone, you know. Let's humour him a bit, and see what it will
come to."
Tom grunted, but Bill and Gloy seconded Harry, so Harry called out, "I
say, you might as well come on shore first and tell us what's up, and
then let us start fair all round."
"I'd like to," burst from Yaspard in his natural and impulsive manner,
"but I mustn't. Uncle Brüs has forbidden me to be friends with _any_
of you Lunda fellows, because of the family feud, you know. But I'm
tired of having no chums, and living as I do, so I'm resolved to be a
Viking; and as you are all my enemies, I shall, of course, try to
harass you in every way I can, to fight you, and carry off your
property, and conquer you, and--and--have some good fun!"
Tom and Harry instantly got the right kind of inspiration about the
matter, and replied, "All right, we're your men! strongest fend off!"
but Gloy exclaimed, "I think he must be going off his head," and Bill
called out furiously, "Conquer us! come and try, if you dare."
"I'll dare another day, youngster," answered the Viking loftily; "but
listen now" (addressing the others): "I've got your boat, and you must
agree to what I ask before I will let you have her again."
"Impudence!" shouted Tom.
"Tuts, man, let him haver," said Harry; then to Yaspard, "Well, go on."
"Are you captain of that crew?" Yaspard asked.
"In the absence of my elders and betters, yes!"
"Well, I want you to take a letter (it is really two letters, one
inside the other) to the young Laird of Lunda. He is captain, chief,
yarl, and all the rest of it, over you and your island."
"If it's a proper letter I'll take it," Harry answered promptly.
"One of the letters is quite proper; but, proper or no proper, uncle's
note must also reach Mr. Garson, and you must promise to give it
faithfully before I give you the _Laulie_. She's a splendid little
craft. She would make a glorious Viking's bark! I am tempted to keep
my spoil."
While they were talking Bill said to Gloy very loudly, "Never mind the
jabber, boy. Come for a swim before breakfast! I'm off." They
stripped and went in, and as they did so they whispered together and
winked knowingly, then began to race and splash in the water as if they
had no thought in their heads but the enjoyment of the moment, while
the rival captains continued the engrossing debate.
Harry was not unwilling to carry the letter, but he did not like to be
threatened into doing it.
"Suppose I refuse?" he said.
"Then I go off with your boat, and you remain prisoned on Havnholme."
"You could be severely punished if you did so."
"If you are mean enough to tell, and bring grown people and lawyers
into the business," retorted Yaspard.
"I see no harm in taking the letter to Fred," said Tom then.
Tom strongly objected to telling tales. He also scented some rare
shindies in the game Yaspard was playing, and Harry, seeing that the
situation was an awkward one, agreed.
"Is that all?" he asked. But before the enemy could reply there came a
shout from Tom, a howl from Yaspard, a screech from the Harrisons, and
loud laughter from Gloy in the water.
Gloy and Bill had taken advantage of the attention of the others being
chiefly directed to those on shore, and had, as if by accident, swam
nearer to the boats. Then Gloy had held the Harrisons in talk while
Bill quietly contrived to swim to that side of the _Laulie_ which was
farthest from the other boat. No one was aware of his movements until
he had swiftly crawled into the _Laulie_. Leaning over the side, he
slipped the painter from the thole-pin round which it hung, and then
shoving with all his might, he sent the skiffs a good way apart at once.
"After him, boys!" Yaspard cried; but the boys were not ready. Gloy
had come alongside and had caught hold of Gibbie, Lowrie was laughing
like to split his sides at the sight of Bill, nude and dripping, gaping
like a fresh caught cod, rowing for his life. The _Laulie_ was safe
back at her favourite crag in a minute more, and Yaspard could only
comfort himself for being so outwitted by making a captive of Gloy.
"He isn't worth much without his clothes," Harry told all who cared to
hear.
"We'll paint him," retorted Yaspard, and Gloy began to think that his
position was awkward, to say the least of it; but Tom, whose
good-humour had been completely restored by Bill's clever manoeuvre,
said--
"You might just as well come along and have some breakfast with us, and
then we can arrange the campaign, and settle about ransom for the
captive."
There was no resisting such a suggestion, especially as it did not hint
at compromise of the "position."
The _Osprey_ came to land, and Gloy was permitted to go and resume his
garments, after giving his word of honour to respect the parole.
A white handkerchief was tied to a fishing-rod, which was planted in
the skeö wall, and under that flag of truce the rival parties made
merry in lighting a fire, boiling water, and feasting heartily on the
good things which the Manse boys never failed to find in their ferdimet
basket.
CHAPTER V.
"THOU ART YOUNG AND OVER-BOLD."
As they ate they talked, you may be sure. The Lunda boys were
decidedly in favour of Yaspard's scheme--was there ever a boy who would
have objected to any such prank? They saw no harm in it whatever, only
Harry said--
"We must consult Fred Garson; we never go in for any big thing without
consulting Fred."
"Of course," Yaspard answered cheerfully. "He will let you read my
letter, and you will see by it that I expect he will have a finger in
the pie--not to take part in the war, but just to look on and kind of
see fair-play, you know, and umpire us when we fall out. He is a nice
fellow, people say."
"There is no one like him," said Harry, with that hearty enthusiasm
which all the lads of Lunda displayed when their chief was mentioned.
"What a pity it is," Bill chimed in, "that Eric and Svein are away,
and--too old now for this kind of thing."
"I am glad they are too old," replied Yaspard, "for that leaves our
number about equal."
"Four to three! you are in a minority," said Tom.
"There is Pirate," Yaspard answered, with a smile, and Pirate wagged
his tail, as much as to say, "I'm ready for any or all of you."
"Oh, if dogs are to be in it," laughed Tom, "there's Watchie, that
Svein rescued off a skerry; and there's old toothless Tory at the
Manse. But now, what about the hapless captive? What do you price him
at, Mr. Viking?"
"Twenty pebbles wet with the waves of Westervoe," was the instant
reply, at which the lads roared.
"We don't carry our beach about in our pockets," one of them said, as
soon as the laugh subsided.
"Then I must keep my captive till you bring his price." And Yaspard
stuck to that, and urged his arguments so well that finally it was
agreed that he should hold Gloy till his friends produced the
stipulated ransom.
The prisoner did not seem very distressed. He had never been to Boden,
and he anticipated having a good time during his captivity. He took
for granted that his prison would be Noostigard, the home of his
cousins--so little did he understand the mind and method of a Viking
boy!
It is no part of my intention to tell you just now what those boys
arranged. They hugely enjoyed laying plans, and we shall hear
presently how these were carried out.
Before parting they engaged in a preliminary combat--we might be nearer
the right term for it if we called it a knightly joust.
Gloy and Pirate were not in the tournament, for Yaspard had said the
magic words "On guard" to his dog, and pointed out Gloy, who did not
from that moment dare to move from the spot. The wooden swords were
given to Bill and Gibbie; Tom and Lowrie had two huge broadswords which
had been rendered harmless by chopping sticks. The rival captains
chose two rapiers rusted to their sheaths.
It was a famous joust. The old iron clashed and sounded very terrible.
The young heroes fought valiantly. Presently Bill's wooden sword broke
in two, and he ought to have owned himself beaten, but he didn't. He
caught Gibbie in a true wrestler's grip, and soon they were rolling
together on the sandy seashore.
Tom very soon settled Lowrie by striking his mighty heavy weapon from
his hand; but this victory was of no account in the general action when
Harry's rapier went spinning over his head, and he went down on his
back before the vigorous fencing of Yaspard. He was on his feet,
however, in time to witness the final roll over of Bill and Gibbie.
They had reached the water's edge, and the incoming tide washed over
them, putting a most effectual stop to their wrestling-match. Choking
with sand, and wet with spray, they let go of each other and jumped to
their feet, panting, but happy, and declaring that "it wasn't a bad
round, that."
All agreed that the joust had ended in a draw between the two parties,
so--highly pleased with themselves and their new acquaintances--both
crews got into the boats, and were soon sailing in opposite directions
away from Havnholme.
When the _Osprey_ reached Boden, Yaspard ran her into a small geo
(creek) near the mouth of the voe. The cliffs which formed the geo
were lofty, and overhung a strip of dry white sand. The place looked
almost like a cave. There was no way out of the geo by land, and
Yaspard said, as the boat grounded, "This will be a splendid place for
a prison."
"Gracious! you're never going to leave me here?" exclaimed Gloy in a
kind of comical dismay.
"Yes, here! what could be better? It is a very nice place. I've spent
many a happy hour in this geo reading and fishing. Now, don't be
frightened. I won't leave you long;--only till I see if the coast is
clear, so that we can carry you to a real prison. We'll call this the
Viking's Had,[1] and in his Had he means to keep you for a little
while."
"Oh, come, this is too much," Lowrie remonstrated.
"Not at all. You know very well that Uncle Brüs will not let anybody
from Lunda set foot on the island. If he chanced to see Gloy he would
make us take him straight away again; and he would ask so many
questions that I should be obliged to tell the whole affair. Now, if
we keep him here till the evening, we can then bring him without fear
of discovery to a safe place. I know of a splendid place for his
prison--so comfortable, and under a roof too! And see, here is a lot
of ferdimet left; and" (pulling a small book from his coat pocket)
"here is 'Marmion' to amuse you, Gloy. I'll leave you my
fishing-rod--lots of sillacks about the geo. Oh, you won't think the
time long till we come again."
Gibbie and Gloy exchanged rueful glances, and Lowrie, scratching his
head, said, "I'm no' just sure that my faither will like our having a
hand in ony such prank, sir."
The Harrisons were very much in earnest when they addressed Yaspard as
"Sir," and he did not like it, for it usually meant that they were
going to oppose some darling project of his. He did not suggest
concealment; he knew that these boys always recounted all their
adventures to their parents; but he rather counted on James Harrison
seeing no harm in what he proposed, and therefore "winking" at it.
"Your father
|
a close, and the flames were slowly
but perceptibly extending, Colonel Fearon and Captain Cobb evinced an
increasing anxiety to relieve the remainder of the gallant men under
their charge.
To facilitate this object a rope was suspended from the extremity of the
spanker-boom, along which the men were recommended to proceed, and
thence slide down by the rope into the boats. But as, from the great
swell of the sea, and the constant heaving of the ship, it was
impossible for the boats to preserve their station for a moment, those
who adopted this course incurred so great a risk of swinging for some
time in the air, and of being repeatedly plunged under water, or dashed
against the sides of the boats underneath, that many of the landsmen
continued to throw themselves out of the stern window on the upper deck,
preferring what appeared to me the more precarious chance of reaching
the boats by swimming. Rafts made of spars, hencoops, etc., were also
ordered to be constructed, for the twofold purpose of forming an
intermediate communication with the boats--a purpose, by the bye, which
they very imperfectly answered--and of serving as a last point of
retreat, should the further extension of the flames compel us at once to
desert the vessel. Directions were at the same time given that every man
should tie a rope round his waist, by which he might afterwards attach
himself to the rafts, should he be suddenly forced to take to the water.
While the people were busily occupied in adopting this recommendation, I
was surprised, I had almost said amused, by the singular delicacy of one
of the Irish recruits, who, in searching for a rope in one of the
cabins, called out to me that he could find none except the cordage
belonging to an officer's cot, and wished to know whether there would be
any harm in his appropriating it to his own use.
The gradual removal of the officers was at the same time commenced, and
was marked by a discipline the most rigid, and an intrepidity the most
exemplary; none appearing to be influenced by a vain and ostentatious
bravery, which, in cases of extreme peril, affords rather a presumptive
proof of secret timidity than of fortitude; nor any betraying an unmanly
or unsoldierlike impatience to quit the ship; but, with the becoming
deportment of men neither paralyzed by, nor profanely insensible to, the
accumulating dangers that encompassed them, they progressively departed
in the different boats with their soldiers; those who happened to
proceed first leaving behind them an example of coolness that could not
be unprofitable to those who followed.
But the finest illustration of their conduct was displayed in that of
their chief, whose ability and presence of mind, under the complicated
responsibility and anxiety of a commander, husband, and father, were
eminently calculated, throughout this dismal day, to inspire all others
with composure and fortitude. Never for one moment did Colonel Fearon
seem to forget the authority with which his sovereign had invested him,
nor did any of his officers--as far as my observation went--cease to
remember the relative situations in which they were severally placed.
Even in the gloomiest moments of that dark season, when the dissolution
of every earthly distinction seemed near at hand, the decision and
confidence with which orders were issued on the one hand, and the
promptitude and respect with which they were obeyed on the other,
offered the best proofs of the stability of the well-connected system of
discipline established in the 31st regiment, and the most unquestionable
ground for the high and flattering commendation which his Royal
Highness, the Commander-in-chief, has been pleased to bestow upon it.
I should, however, be guilty of injustice and unkindness if I here
omitted to bear my humble testimony to the manly behaviour of the East
India Company's cadets, and other private passengers on board, who
emulated the best conduct of the officers of the ship and of the troops,
and equally participated with them in all the hardships and exertions of
the day.
As an agreeable proof, too, of the subordination and good feeling that
governed the poor soldiers in the midst of their sufferings, I ought to
state that towards evening, when the melancholy groups who were
passively seated on the poop, exhausted by previous fatigue, anxiety,
and fasting, were beginning to experience the pain of intolerable
thirst, a box of oranges was accidentally discovered by some of the men,
who, with a degree of mingled consideration, respect, and affection,
that could hardly have been expected at such a moment, refused to
partake of the grateful beverage until they had offered a share of it to
their officers.
I regret that the circumstances under which I write do not allow me
sufficient time for recalling to my recollection all the busy thoughts
that engaged my own mind on that eventful day, or the various
conjectures which I ventured to form of what was passing in the minds of
others.
But one idea was forcibly suggested to me,--that instead of being able
to trace amongst my numerous associates that diversity of fortitude
which I should have expected would mark their conduct--forming, as it
were, a descending series, from the decided heroism exhibited by some,
down to the lowest degree of pusillanimity and frenzy discoverable in
others,--I remarked that the mental condition of my fellow-sufferers was
rather divided by a broad but, as it afterwards appeared, not impassable
line; on the one side of which were ranged all whose minds were greatly
elevated by the excitement above their ordinary standard; and on the
other was to be seen the incalculably smaller but more conspicuous
group, whose powers of acting and thinking became absolutely paralyzed,
or were driven into delirium, by the unusual character and pressure of
the danger.
Nor was it uninteresting to observe the curious interchange, at least
externally, of strength and weakness that obtained between those two
discordant parties, during the day. Some whose agitation and timidity
had, in the earlier part of it, rendered them objects of pity or
contempt, afterwards rose, by some great internal effort, into positive
distinction for the opposite qualities; while others, remarkable at
first for calmness and courage, suddenly giving way, without any fresh
cause of despair, seemed afterwards to cast their minds as they did
their bodies, prostrate before the danger.
It would not, perhaps, be difficult to account for these apparent
anomalies; but I shall content myself with simply stating the facts,
adding to them one of a similar description that sensibly affected my
own mind.
Some of the soldiers near me having casually remarked that the sun was
setting, I looked round, and never can I forget the intensity with which
I regarded his declining rays. I had previously felt deeply impressed
with the conviction that that night the ocean was to be my bed; and had,
I imagined, sufficiently realized to my mind, both the last struggles
and the consequences of death. But as I continued solemnly watching the
departing beams of the sun, the thought that that was really the very
last I should ever behold, gradually expanded into reflections the most
tremendous in their import. It was not, I am persuaded, either the
retrospect of a past life, or the direct fear of death or of judgment,
that occupied my mind at the period I allude to; but a broad,
illimitable view of eternity itself, altogether abstracted from the
misery or felicity that flows through it--a sort of painless,
pleasureless, sleepless eternity. I know not whither the overwhelming
thought would have hurried me, had I not speedily seized, as with the
grasp of death, on some of those sweet promises of the gospel which give
to an immortal existence its only charms; and that naturally enough led
back my thoughts, by means of the brilliant object before me, to the
contemplation of that blessed city, "which hath no need of the sun,
neither of the moon to shine in it; for the glory of God doth lighten
it, and the Lamb is the light thereof."
I have been the more particular in recording my precise feelings at the
period in question, because they tend to confirm an opinion which I have
long entertained--in common, I believe, with others,--that we very
rarely realize even those objects that seem, in our every-day
speculations, to be the most interesting to our hearts. We are so much
in the habit of uttering the awful words 'Almighty,' 'heaven,' 'hell,'
'eternity,' 'divine justice,' 'holiness,' etc., without attaching to
them, in all their magnitude, the ideas of which such words are the
symbols, that we become overwhelmed with much of the astonishment that
accompanies a new and alarming discovery if, at any time, the ideas
themselves are suddenly and forcibly impressed upon us; and it is,
probably, this vagueness of conception, experienced even by those whose
minds are not altogether unexercised on the subject of religion, that
enables others, devoid of all reflection whatever, to stand on the very
brink of that precipice which divides the world of time from the regions
of eternity, not only with apparent, but frequently, I am persuaded,
with real tranquillity. How much it is to be lamented that we do not
keep in mind a truth which no one can pretend to dispute, that our
indifference or blindness to danger, whether it be temporal or eternal,
cannot possibly remove or diminish the extent of that danger.
Some time after the shades of night had enveloped us, I descended to the
cuddy, in quest of a blanket to shelter me from the increasing cold; and
the scene of desolation that there presented itself was melancholy in
the extreme. The place which, only a few short hours before, had been
the seat of kindly intercourse and of social gaiety, was now entirely
deserted, save by a few miserable wretches, who were either stretched in
irrecoverable intoxication on the floor, or prowling about, like beasts
of prey, in search of plunder. The sofas, drawers, and other articles
of furniture, the due arrangement of which had cost so much thought and
pains, were now broken into a thousand pieces, and scattered in
confusion around me. Some of the geese and other poultry, escaped from
their confinement, were cackling in the cuddy; while a solitary pig,
wandering from its sty in the forecastle, was ranging at large in
undisturbed possession of the Brussels carpet that covered one of the
cabins. Glad to retire from a scene so cheerless and affecting, and
rendered more dismal by the smoke which was oozing up from below, I
returned to the poop, where I again found, amongst the few officers that
remained, Capt. Cobb, Colonel Fearon, Lieuts. Ruxton, Booth, and Evans,
superintending, with unabated zeal, the removal of the rapidly
diminishing sufferers, as the boats successively arrived to carry them
off.
The alarm and impatience of the people increased in a high ratio as the
night advanced; and our fears, amid the surrounding darkness, were fed
as much by the groundless or exaggerated reports of the timid as by the
real and evident approach of the fatal crisis itself. With a view to
ensure a greater probability of being discovered by those in the boats,
some of the more collected and hardy soldiers (for I think almost all
the sailors had already effected their escape) took the precaution to
tie towels and such like articles round their heads, previously to their
committing themselves to the water.
As the boats were nearly three-quarters of an hour absent between each
trip--which period was necessarily spent by those in the wreck in a
state of fearful inactivity--abundant opportunity was afforded for
collecting the sentiments of many of the unhappy men around me; some of
whom, after remaining perhaps for a while in silent abstraction, would
suddenly burst forth, as if awakened from some terrible dream to a still
more frightful reality, into a long train of loud and desponding
lamentation, that gradually subsided into its former stillness.
It was during those trying intervals of rest that religious instruction
and consolation appeared to be the most required and the most
acceptable. Some there were who endeavoured to dispense it agreeably to
the visible wants and feelings of the earnest hearers. On one of those
occasions, especially, the officer to whom I have already alluded was
entreated to pray. His prayer was short, but was frequently broken by
the exclamations of assent to some of its confessions, that were wrung
from the afflicted hearts of his auditors.
I know not in what manner, under those circumstances, spiritual hope or
comfort could have been ministered to my afflicted companions by those
who regard works, either wholly or partly, as the means of propitiating
divine justice, rather than the evidence and fruits of that faith which
pacifies the conscience and purifies the heart. But in some few cases,
at least, where the individuals deplored the want of time for repentance
and good works, I well remember that no arguments tended to soothe their
troubled minds but those which went directly to assure them of the
freeness and fulness of that grace which is not refused, even in the
eleventh hour, to the very chief of sinners. And if any of those to whom
I now allude have been spared to read this record of their feelings in
the prospect of death, it will be well for them to keep solemnly in mind
the vows they then took upon them, and to seek to improve that season of
probation which they so earnestly besought, and which has been so
mercifully extended to them,--by humbly and incessantly applying for
accessions of that faith which they are sensible removed the terrors of
their awakened consciences, and can alone enable them henceforward to
live in a sober, righteous, and godly manner, and thereby give the only
unquestionable proof of their love to God, and their interest in the
great salvation of His Son Jesus Christ.
If, on reading this imperfect narrative,[7] any persons beyond the
immediate circle of my companions in misery (for within it I can safely
declare that there were no indications of ridicule) should affect to
despise, as contemptible or unsoldierlike, the humble devotional
exercises to which I have now referred, I should like to assure them,
that although they were undoubtedly commenced and prosecuted much more
with an eternal than a temporal object in view, yet they also subserved
the important purpose of restoring order and composure amongst a certain
limited class of soldiers, at moments when mere military appeals had
ceased to operate.
I must state that, in general, it was not those most remarkable for
their fortitude who evinced either a precipitancy to depart, or a desire
to remain very long behind--the older and cooler soldiers appearing to
possess too much regard for their officers, as well as for their
individual credit, to take their hasty departure at a very early period
of the day, and too much wisdom and resolution to hesitate to the very
last.
But it was not till the close of this mournful tragedy that
backwardness, rather than impatience, to adopt the perilous and only
means of escape that offered, became generally discernible on the part
of the unhappy remnant still on board, and that made it not only
imperative on Captain Cobb to reiterate his threats, as well as his
entreaties, that not an instant should be lost, but seemed to render it
expedient for one of the officers of the troops, who had expressed his
intention of remaining to the last, to limit, in the hearing of those
around him, the period of his own stay. Seeing, however, between nine
and ten o'clock, that some individuals were consuming the precious
moments by obstinately hesitating to proceed, while others were making
the inadmissible request to be lowered down as the women had been,
learning from the boatmen that the wreck, which was already nine or ten
feet below the ordinary water mark, had sunk two feet lower since their
last trip; and calculating, besides, that the two boats then under the
stern, with that which was in sight on its return from the brig, would
suffice for the conveyance of all who seemed in a condition to remove;
the three remaining officers of the 31st regiment seriously prepared to
take their departure.
As I cannot perhaps convey to you so correct an idea of the condition of
others as by describing my own feelings and situation under the same
circumstances, I shall make no apology for detailing the manner of my
individual escape, which will sufficiently mark that of many hundreds
that preceded it. The spanker-boom of so large a ship as the _Kent_,
which projects, I should think, 16 or 18 feet over the stern, rests on
ordinary occasions about 19 or 20 feet above the water; but in the
position in which we were placed, from the great height of the sea, and
the consequent pitching of the ship, it was frequently lifted to a
height not less than 30 or 40 feet from the surface.
To reach the rope, therefore, that hung from its extremity was an
operation that seemed to require the aid of as much dexterity of hand as
steadiness of head. For it was not only the nervousness of creeping
along the boom itself, or the extreme difficulty of afterwards seizing
on and sliding down by the rope that we had to dread, and that had
occasioned the loss of some valuable lives by deterring men from
adopting this mode of escape; but as the boat, which one moment was
probably close under the boom, might be carried the next, by the force
of the waves, 15 or 20 yards away from it, the unhappy individual, whose
best calculations were thus defeated, was generally left swinging for
some time in mid-air, if he was not repeatedly plunged several feet
under water, or dashed with dangerous violence against the sides of the
returning boat--or, what not unfrequently happened, was forced to let go
his hold of the rope altogether. As there seemed, however, no
alternative, I did not hesitate, notwithstanding my comparative
inexperience and awkwardness in such a situation, to throw my legs
across the perilous spar; and with a heart extremely grateful that such
means of deliverance, dangerous as they appeared, were still extended to
me; and more grateful still that I had been enabled, in common with
others, to discharge my honest duty to my sovereign and to my
fellow-soldiers, I proceeded,--after confidently committing my spirit,
the great object of my solicitude, into the keeping of Him who had
formed and redeemed it,--to creep slowly forward, feeling at every step
the increasing difficulty of my situation. On getting nearly to the end
of the boom, the young officer whom I followed and myself were met with
a squall of wind and rain so violent as to make us fain to embrace
closely the slippery stick (without attempting for some minutes to make
any progress), and to excite our apprehension that we must relinquish
all hope of reaching the rope. But our fears were disappointed; and
after resting for a little while at the boom end, while my companion was
descending to the boat, which he did not find until he had been plunged
once or twice over head in the water, I prepared to follow; and instead
of lowering myself, as many had imprudently done, at the moment when the
boat was inclining towards us--and consequently being unable to descend
the whole distance before it again receded,--I calculated that while the
boat was retiring I ought to commence my descent, which would probably
be completed by the time the returning wave brought it underneath; by
which means I was, I believe, almost the only officer or soldier who
reached the boat without being either severely bruised or immersed in
the water.
But my good friend Colonel Fearon had not been so fortunate; for after
swinging for some time, and being repeatedly struck against the side of
the boat, and at one time drawn completely under it, he was at last so
utterly exhausted that he must instantly have let go his hold of the
rope and perished, had not some one in the boat seized him by the hair
of the head, and dragged him into it, almost senseless and alarmingly
bruised.
Captain Cobb, in his resolution to be the last, if possible, to quit his
ship, and in his generous anxiety for the preservation of every life
entrusted to his charge, refused to seek the boat until he again
endeavoured to urge onward the few still around him, who seemed struck
dumb and powerless with dismay.[8] But finding all his entreaties
fruitless, and hearing the guns, whose tackle was burst asunder by the
advancing flames, successively exploding in the hold into which they had
fallen, this gallant officer, after having nobly pursued, for the
preservation of others, a course of exertion that has been rarely
equalled either in its duration or difficulty, at last felt it right to
provide for his own safety by laying hold on the topping-lift or rope
that connects the driver boom with the mizen-top, and thereby getting
over the heads of the infatuated men who occupied the boom, unable to go
either backward or forward, and ultimately dropping himself into the
water.
The means of escape, however, did not cease to be presented to the
unfortunate individuals above referred to, long after Captain Cobb took
his departure; since one of the boats persevered in keeping its station
under the _Kent's_ stern, not only after all expostulation and entreaty
with those on board had foiled, but until the flames, bursting forth
from the cabin windows, rendered it impossible to remain without
inflicting the greatest cruelty on the individuals that manned it. But
even on the return of the boat in question to the _Cambria_, with the
single soldier who availed himself of it, did Captain Cook, with
characteristic jealousy, refuse to allow it to come alongside until he
learned that it was commanded by the spirited young officer, Mr.
Thomson,[9] whose indefatigable exertions during the whole day were to
him a sufficient proof that all had been done that could be done for the
deliverance of those individuals.
[Illustration: THE MAGAZINE EXPLODED.]
The same beneficent Providence which had been so wonderfully exerted for
the preservation of hundreds, was pleased, by a still more striking and
unquestionable display of power and goodness, to avert the fate of a
portion of those few who, we had all too much reason to fear, were
doomed to destruction. It would appear--for the poor men themselves give
an extremely confused, though I am persuaded not a wilfully false
account of themselves--that shortly after the departure of the last boat
they were driven by the flames to seek shelter on the chains, where they
stood until the masts fell overboard, to which they then clung for some
hours, in a state of horror that no language can describe; until they
were, most providentially, I may say miraculously, discovered and picked
up by Captain Bibbey, the humane commander of the _Caroline_, a vessel
on its passage from Egypt to Liverpool, who happened, to see the
explosion at a great distance, and instantly made all sail in the
direction whence it proceeded. Along with the fourteen men thus
miraculously preserved were three others, who had expired before the
arrival of the _Caroline_ to their rescue.[10]
The men on their return to their regiment expressed themselves in terms
of the liveliest gratitude for the affectionate attentions they received
on board the _Caroline_, from Captain Bibbey, who considerately remained
till daylight close to the wreck, in the hope that some others might
still be found clinging to it--an act of humanity which, it will appear
on the slightest reflection, would have been madness in Captain Cook, in
the peculiar situation of the _Cambria_, to have attempted.
But when I recollect the lamentable state of exhaustion to which that
portion of the crew were reduced, who unshrinkingly performed to the
last their arduous and perilous duties,--and that out of the three boats
that remained afloat, one was only prevented from sinking, towards the
close of the night, by having the hole in its bottom repeatedly stuffed
with soldiers' jackets, while the other two were rendered inefficient,
the one by having its bow completely stove, and the second by being half
filled with water, and the thwarts so torn as to make it necessary to
lash the oars to the boat's ribs,--I must believe that, by those who
thus laboured, all was done that humanity could possibly demand, or
intrepidity effect, for the preservation of every individual.
Quitting, for a moment, the subject of the wreck, I would advert to what
was in the meantime taking place on board the _Cambria_. I cannot,
however, pretend to give you any adequate idea of the feelings of hope
or despair that alternately flowed, like a tide, in the breasts of the
unhappy females on board the brig, during the many hours of torturing
suspense in which several of them were unavoidably held respecting the
fate of their husbands,--feelings which were inconceivably excited,
rather than soothed, by the idle and erroneous rumours occasionally
conveyed to them regarding the state of the _Kent_. But still less can I
attempt to portray the alternate pictures of awful joy and of wild
distraction exhibited by the sufferers (for both parties for the moment
seemed equally to suffer), as the terrible truth was communicated that
they and their children were indeed left husbandless and fatherless;
or as the objects from whom they had feared they were for ever severed,
suddenly rushed into their arms. But these feelings of delight, whatever
may have been their intensity, were speedily chastened, and the
attention of all arrested, by the last tremendous spectacle of
destruction.
After the arrival of the last boat the flames, which had spread along
the upper deck and poop, ascended with the rapidity of lightning to the
masts and rigging, forming one general conflagration, that illumined the
heavens to an immense distance, and was strongly reflected by several
objects on board the brig. The flags of distress, hoisted in the
morning, were seen for a considerable time waving amid the flames, until
the masts to which they were suspended successively fell like stately
steeples over the ship's side. At last, about half-past one o'clock in
the morning, the devouring element having communicated to the magazine,
the explosion was seen, and the blazing fragments of the once
magnificent _Kent_ were instantly hurried, like so many rockets, high
into the air;[11] leaving, in the comparative darkness that succeeded,
the deathful scene of that disastrous day floating before the mind like
some feverish dream.
Shortly afterwards, the brig, which had been gradually making sail, was
running at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour towards the nearest
port. I would here endeavour to render my humble tribute of admiration
and gratitude to that gallant and excellent individual, who, under God,
was undoubtedly the chief instrument of our deliverance; if I were not
sensible that testimony has been already borne to his heroic and humane
efforts, in a manner much more commensurate with, and from quarters
reflecting infinitely greater honour upon his merits, than the feeble
expressions of them which I should be able to record.[12] I trust you
will keep in mind that Captain Cook's generous intentions and exertions
must have proved utterly unavailing for the preservation of so many
lives, had they not been most nobly and unremittingly supported by those
of his mate and crew, as well as of the numerous passengers on board his
brig. While the former, only eight in number, were usefully and
necessarily employed in working the vessel, the sturdy Cornish miners
and Yorkshire smelters, on the approach of the different boats, took
their perilous stations on the chains, where they put forth the great
muscular strength with which Heaven had endowed them, in dexterously
seizing, at each successive heave of the sea, on some of the exhausted
people, and dragging them up on deck.
Nor did their kind assistance terminate there. They and the gentlemen
connected with them cheerfully opened their ample stores of clothes and
provisions, which they liberally dispensed to the naked and famished
sufferers; they surrendered their beds to the helpless women and
children, and seemed, in short, during the whole of our passage to
England, to take no other delight than in ministering to all our wants.
Although, after the first burst of mutual gratulation, and of becoming
acknowledgment of the divine mercy for our unlooked-for deliverance, had
subsided, none of us felt disposed to much interchange of thought, each
being rather inclined to wrap himself up in his own reflections; yet we
did not, during the first night, view with the alarm it warranted, the
extreme misery and danger to which we were still exposed, by being
crowded together, in a gale of wind, with upwards of 600 human beings,
in a small brig of 200 tons, at a distance, too, of several hundred
miles from any accessible port. Our little cabin, which was only
calculated, under ordinary circumstances, for the accommodation of eight
or ten persons, was now made to contain nearly eighty individuals, many
of whom had no sitting room, and even some of the ladies no room to lie
down. Owing to the continued violence of the gale, and to the bulwarks
on one side of the brig having been driven in, the sea beat so
incessantly over our deck as to render it necessary that the hatches
should only be lifted up between the returning waves, to prevent
absolute suffocation below, where the men were so closely packed
together that the steam arising from their respiration excited at one
time an apprehension that the vessel was on fire; while the impurity of
the air they were inhaling became so marked, that the lights
occasionally carried down amongst them were almost instantly
extinguished. Nor was the condition of the hundreds who covered the deck
less wretched than that of their comrades below; since they were
obliged night and day to stand shivering, in their wet and nearly naked
state, ankle deep in water:[13]--some of the older children and females
were thrown into fits, while the infants were piteously crying for that
nourishment which their nursing mothers were no longer able to give
them.[14]
Our only hope amid these great and accumulating miseries was that the
same compassionate Providence which had already so marvellously
interposed in our behalf would not permit the favourable wind to abate
or change until we reached some friendly port; for we were all convinced
that a delay of a very few days longer at sea must inevitably involve us
in famine, pestilence, and a complication of the most dreadful evils.
Our hopes were not disappointed. The gale continued with even increasing
violence; and our able captain, crowding all sail, at the risk of
carrying away his masts, so nobly urged his vessel onward, that in the
afternoon of Thursday, the 3rd, the delightful exclamation from aloft
was heard, "Land ahead!" In the evening we descried the Scilly lights;
and running rapidly along the Cornish coast, we joyfully cast anchor in
Falmouth harbour, at about half-past twelve o'clock at night.
On reviewing the various proximate causes to which so many human beings
owed their deliverance from a combination of dangers as remarkable for
their duration as they were appalling in their aspect, it is impossible,
I think, not to discover and gratefully acknowledge, in the beneficence
of their arrangement, the overruling providence of that blessed Being,
who is sometimes pleased, in His mysterious operations, to produce the
same effect from causes apparently different; and on the other hand, as
in our own case, to bring forth results the most opposite, from one and
the same cause. For there is no doubt that the heavy rolling of our
ship, occasioned by the violent gale, which was the real origin of all
our disasters, contributed also most essentially to our subsequent
preservation; since, had not Captain Cobb been enabled, by the
greatness of the swell, to introduce speedily through the gun ports the
immense quantity of water that inundated the hold, and thereby checked
for so long a time the fury of the flames, the _Kent_ must
unquestionably have been consumed before many, perhaps before any, of
those on board could have found shelter in the _Cambria_.[15]
But it is unnecessary to dwell on an insulated fact like this, amidst a
concatenation of circumstances, all leading to the same conclusion, and
so closely bound together as to force us to confess, that if a single
link in the chain had been withdrawn or withheld, we must all most
probably have perished.
The _Cambria_, which had been, it seems, unaccountably detained in port
nearly a month after the period assigned for her departure, was early on
the morning of the fatal calamity pursuing at a great distance ahead of
us the same course with ourselves; but her bulwarks on the weather side
having been suddenly driven in, by a heavy sea breaking over her
quarter, Captain Cook, in his anxiety to give ease to his labouring
vessel, was induced to go completely out of his course by throwing the
brig on the opposite tack, by which means alone he was brought in sight
of us. Not to dwell on the unexpected, but not unimportant facts of the
flames having been mercifully prevented, for eleven hours, from either
communicating with the magazine forward, or the great spirit room abaft,
or even coming into contact with the tiller ropes--any of which
circumstances would evidently have been fatal,--I would remark that,
until the _Cambria_ hove in sight, we had not discovered any vessel
whatever for several days previous; nor did we afterwards see another
until we entered the chops of the Channel. It is to be remembered, too,
that had the _Cambria_, with her small crew, been homeward instead of
outward bound, her scanty remainder of provisions, under such
circumstances, would hardly have sufficed to form a single meal for our
vast assemblage; or if, instead of having her lower deck completely
clear, she had been carrying out a full cargo, there would not have been
time, under the pressure of the danger and the violence of the gale, to
throw the cargo overboard, and certainly, with it, not sufficient space
in the brig to contain one-half of our number.
When I reflect, besides, on the disastrous consequences that must have
followed if, during our passage home, which was performed in a period
most unusually short, the wind had either veered round a few points, or
even partially subsided--which must have produced a scene of horror on
board more terrible if possible than that from which we had escaped; and
above all, when I recollect the extraordinary fact, and that which seems
to have the most forcibly struck the whole of us, that we had not been
above an hour in Falmouth harbour, when the wind, which had all along
been blowing from the south-west, suddenly chopped round to the opposite
quarter of the compass, and continued uninterruptedly for several days
afterwards to blow strongly from the north-east,--one cannot help
concluding that he who sees nothing of a Divine Providence in our
preservation must be lamentably and wilfully blind to "the majesty of
the Lord."
In the course of the morning we all prepared, with thankful and joyful
hearts, to place our feet on the shores of Old England.
The ladies, always destined to form our vanguard, were the first to
disembark, and were met on the beach by immense crowds of the
inhabitants, who appeared to have been attracted thither less by idle
curiosity than from the sincerest desire to alleviate in every possible
manner their manifest sufferings.
The sailors and soldiers, cold, wet, and almost naked, quickly followed;
the whole forming, in their haggard looks and the endless variety of
their costume, an assemblage at once as melancholy and grotesque as it
is possible to conceive. So eager did the people appear to be to pour
out upon us the full current of their sympathies, that shoes, hats, and
other articles of urgent necessity were presented to several of the
officers and men before they had even quitted the point of
disembarkation. And in the course of the day, many of the officers and
soldiers, and almost all of the females, were partaking, in the private
houses of individuals, of the most liberal and needful hospitality.
But this flow of compassion and kindness did not cease with the impulse
of the
|
that the true uses of
education will be perceived and attained long before the end of the
period contemplated when we speak of the new age. And then, one very
great factor in the servant question will have been satisfactorily
solved, even if other conditions have not conducted us nearly all
the way to the solution beforehand.
For, while making every allowance for the evil effects of education,
wrongly conceived and improperly administered, on the character
of women destined to become servants, it must be allowed that
much of what we call the servant difficulty could be cured now,
and will unquestionably be cured before long, by inventions capable
of abolishing the grievances which lead to it. These grievances are
real and remediable. I do not refer to the confinement, restraint and
gross lack of consideration on the part of employers which lead young
women of the class from which servants are drawn to prefer labour in
factories and elsewhere, in conditions far less comfortable, before
domestic service; but to our utter lack of ingenuity in removing the
irksomeness and degradation of much domestic labour. Some coming
inventions calculated to improve the lot of Mary Jane will now be
described.
In the first place (as Mr H. G. Wells has pointed out, without
apparently being aware that buildings already exist in which some of
his ideas have been anticipated), modern rooms, equally with those of
all time, seem to have been constructed so as to make it as difficult
as possible to keep them clean. Square corners and rectangular
junctions of wall and floor, wall and ceiling, will certainly before
long be replaced everywhere by curves. But the work of house cleaning
will be rendered easy and unlaborious by another invention, already
indeed in existence on a large scale, but eventually capable of being
rendered portable. I mean a contrivance for applying a vacuum to any
desired spot. There is a very ingenious but rather noisy engine already
in use for pumping the dust out of carpets, curtains and furniture. In
the houses of the future handy contrivances of various shapes, all
independent of any engine, will be found, furnished with elastic
nozzles on the outside and with some sort of appliance capable of
instantly exhausting the air within. Such a utensil wheeled over the
floor will remove instantly every particle of dust from the surface
and below the surface of the carpet, at the same time picking up
any such débris as scraps of paper, pins, and other decidua of the
previous day. A similar instrument, differently shaped, will clean the
curtains, supposing curtains to be still in use at the time, and will
dust the chairs and tables--though there will not be anything like
so much dust as there is now, nearly all kinds of combustion being
abolished. The kitchen fire will of course be an electric furnace:
"o' my word we'll not carry coals." Lighting will all be electric,
and no doubt wireless. The abolition of horse traffic in cities, and
the use of the vacuum apparatus which will be continuously at work
in all streets, keeping them dry and free from mud, will practically
remove the necessity for boot brushing, even supposing that we shall
still wear boots: every man and woman in dressing will pass a vacuum
instrument over his and her clothes and get rid of even the little dust
existing--for we shall be more and more intolerant of dirt in any form,
having by that time fully realised how dangerous dirt is. The new age
will be a clean age. A lady of the year 2000 who could be miraculously
transported back to London at the present moment would probably faint
(they will not have ceased fainting) at the intolerable disgustingness
of what is, I suppose, now one of the cleanest cities in the world,
even if the cruelty of employing horses for traction, and the frightful
recklessness of allowing them to soil the streets in which people walk,
did not overpower her susceptibilities in another way.
Cooking will perhaps not be done at all on any large scale at
home, in flat-homes at all events; and in any case, for reasons
which will hereafter become apparent, cooking will be a much less
disgusting process than it is to-day. In no case will the domestic
servant of a hundred years hence be called upon to stand over a
roaring fire, laid by herself, and to be cleaned up by herself
when done with, in order to cook the family dinner. Every measure
of heat--controllable in gradations of ten degrees or so--will be
furnished in electrically-fitted receptacles, with or without water
jackets or steam jackets: and unquestionably all cooking will be done
in hermetically-closed vessels. We shall not much longer do most of our
cooking by such a wasteful and unwholesome method as boiling, whereby
the important soluble salts of nearly all food are callously thrown
away. As, for reasons to be developed hereafter, it is quite certain
that animal food will have been wholly abandoned before the end of this
century, the débris of the kitchen will be much more manageable than
at present, and the kitchen sink will cease to be, during a great
part of the day, a place of unapproachable loathsomeness. On the
other hand, its conveniences will have been greatly increased. It is
difficult to understand how the old-world fashion of (for instance)
"washing up" plates and dishes can have endured so long. Of course,
in the new age, these utensils will be simply dropped one by one into
an automatic receptacle; swilled clean by water delivered with force
and charged with nascent oxygen; dried by electric heat; and polished
by electric force; being finally oxygen-bathed as a superfluous act
of sanitary cleanliness before being sent to table again. And all
that has come off the plates will drop through the scullery floor
into the destructor beneath to be oxygenated and made away with.
Here we have most of the distasteful elements of domestic service got
rid of. Naturally lifts of various kinds, driven by the same force
(whatever it is) which lights and warms the house, will be everywhere
in evidence. The plan of attaining the upper part of a small house by
climbing, on every occasion, a sort of wooden hill, covered with carpet
of questionable cleanliness, will of course have been abandoned: it
is doubtful whether staircases will be built at all after the next two
or three decades. And it is likely that the more refined sentiment of
the new age will recoil before the spectacle of menial service at the
table. Not because they will despise, but because they will respect,
their domestic assistants, hostesses will dislike to have their guests
waited upon in a servile manner during meals by plush-breeched flunkeys
of the male, or neat-handed Phyllises of the female, sex. Well-arranged
houses will have the kitchen on a level with the dining-room, and
the dividing wall will be so contrived that a table, ready laid at
each course, can be made to slide through it into the presence of the
seated guests. An immense amount of running to and fro between kitchen
and dining-room, and of lifting food and table-ware into and out of
elevators, will thus be obviated, to the vast gastronomic improvement
of the meal and the salvation of servants' time.
Naturally the bedrooms of the new age will have many amenities lacking
to our own. It is not too much to anticipate that we shall have learned
enough of plumbing to be able to connect baths, wash-basins and other
necessary fittings with the drains without poisoning ourselves, and
the inconvenient modern "wash-stand" with its unreticent adjuncts will
decently disappear. It cannot be very long--probably it will only be
a few years--before some kind of reasonable control is exercised over
the technical education of plumbers. [1]
Thus the bedroom of the new age will be a much more convenient
and satisfactory apartment than the one we slept in last night,
and another irksome and unelevating part of the domestic work of our
servants will be eliminated. But the sleeping-apartments, and indeed
all apartments in city homes, will contain yet another very valuable
and necessary article of furniture--the oxygenator. Nearly all the
unhealthiness and the pinched, weary greyness of town-dwellers to-day
could be cured by fresh air. Everyone is familiar with the improvement
which can be effected in the health and appearance of a city family
by even a short visit to the seaside or the country--an improvement
which it happens to be fashionable just now to attribute, in the
former case, to the presence of ozone in the sea air. The fact that
holiday-makers are able to endure the smell of slowly-decaying seaweed
with a dash of putrescent fish about it, which is called "sea-air,"
without injury, and even to pick up health in the presence of it,
is more due to the absence of carbon dioxide and other deleterious
gases of the towns than to anything else. The beneficent effects of
country air are practically all due to the power possessed by green
vegetation of superoxygenating the surrounding air. The atmosphere
of cities, or at all events of city homes, will presently be freed
from the products of combustion and respiration, and endowed with
a slightly-increased proportion of oxygen, by artificial means. And
especially in bedrooms, rendered to-day stuffy and unhealthy by the
idiotic fear of night air which an effete tradition has handed down
to us, will this reform be in evidence. Prudent people to-day insist
on large bedroom windows--preferably of the French-door pattern--and
keep them wide open all night. But this is attended by inconveniences
in cold and wet weather; and while our grandchildren will still keep
their windows open all night in all weathers, they will not be content
with this alone. There will be a chemical apparatus hidden away in some
corner, or built into the wall, which will absorb carbon dioxide and at
the same time slowly give off a certain amount of oxygen--just enough
to raise the oxygenation of the air to the standard of the best country
places. And similar appliances will be at work in the streets of our
cities, so that town air will be just as wholesome, just as tonic and
invigorating, as country air. If the theory that the presence of ozone
(that is, allotropic oxygen) in the sea air is beneficent stand the
test of time, no doubt ozonators will form part of these appliances:
but in any case, as the high buildings of the new age will keep out the
sunlight, electric light, carrying all the ray-activity of sunlight,
and just as capable of fostering life and vegetation, will serve the
streets. Thus, so far as hygiene goes, town life will be on a par with
country life: but many people will prefer the country, and means will
have to be provided to render homes in the country compatible with
work in the cities. This brings us to the question of transport.
I do not think that people will, within the next hundred years at all
events, travel to and from work in flying-machines. But no doubt the
system of railway transport will be revolutionised. What makes suburban
travel so slow is, not so much lack of speed on the part of the trains,
as the necessity for frequent stoppage. You cannot satisfactorily run a
train at sixty miles an hour and stop it every minute or so: otherwise
sixty miles an hour would be quite fast enough, for some decades at
least, to satisfy all requirements of suburban traffic, though it
would be, and indeed is, ridiculously inadequate for long-distance
travelling. The expense of increased permanent-way hampers railway
management, and as there is no possibility of getting more land to
increase the number of available tracks, some method will have to
be devised for running one train over the top of another--perhaps
to the height of several storeys, not necessarily provided with
supporting rails: for we may very conceivably have discovered means
by which vehicles can be propelled above the ground in some kind of
guide-ways, doing away with the great loss of power caused by wheel
friction; that is to say, the guides will direct, but not support,
the carriages. The clumsy device of locomotive engines will have
been dispensed with. Whatever power is employed to drive the trains
of the next century will certainly be conveyed to them from central
power-houses.
But, as the reader has been already reminded, it is the stoppages
which are so wasteful of time on a suburban railway: and they are
also wasteful of force. Now in all respects the new age will be
economical. One thing that will have to be perfected is the art of
getting up speed. Look, as you go home to-night, at the way your train
gathers speed on leaving a station. Observe what a long time it is
before it can attain its full velocity. A large part of the total
time you require in order to reach the suburbs is consumed in this
manner. A hundred years hence trains will almost jump to full speed,
somewhat as a motor-car jumps to-day. In collecting passengers at
suburban stations, the train, a hundred years hence, will perhaps not
stop at all. It will only slacken speed a little; but the platform
will begin to move as the train approaches, and will run along beside
it, at the same speed as the train itself, so that passengers can get
in and out as if the train were standing still. When all are aboard,
the doors will be closed all together by the guard, and the platform
will reverse its motion, and return to its original position ready
for the next train.
With trains travelling at quite 200 miles an hour--and certainly
nothing less will satisfy the remoter suburbanites of next
century--frightful accidents would occur if precautions were not
taken. The moment two trains are in the same section of line they will
be automatically cut off from the source of power, and their brakes
will at the same time bring them to a standstill. A passenger who put
his head out of the window of a train travelling at this speed would be
blinded and suffocated; so the windows will be glazed, the oxygenators
and carbon-dioxide absorbers in each carriage keeping the air sweet,
and other suitable appliances adjusting its temperature. There will be
no such thing as level crossings; wherever the road crosses the line
there will be bridges, provided with an endless moving track (like
the automatic staircase at the Crystal Palace), to carry passengers
and vehicles across. Of course horses will long since have vanished
from the land, except as instruments of the pleasure of a few cranks
who affect the manners of that effete period, the year 1900.
And the omnipresence of high-speed vehicles will in itself have
eliminated much danger of accident. It is not to be supposed that
the unresting march of mechanical improvement will have failed to
have its effect on the people. Man himself will have progressed. He
will be cleverer in avoiding accidents. Cities will be provided
with moving street-ways, always in action at two or more speeds;
and we shall have learned to hop on and off the lowest speed from the
stationary pavement, and from the lower speeds to the higher, without
danger. When streets cross, one rolling roadway will rise in a curve
over the other. There will be no vehicular traffic at all in cities
of any size; all the transportation will be done by the roads' own
motion. In smaller towns, and for getting from one town to another,
automatic motor-cars will exist, coin-worked. A man who wishes to
travel will step into a motor-car, drop into a slot-machine the coin
which represents the hire of the car for the distance he wants to
travel, and assume control. Here again the progress of man will come
into play. Everyone will know how to drive a motor-car safely. If
you doubt it, consider for a moment the position of a man of 1800
suddenly transported into a street of modern London. He would never
be able to cross it; the rush of omnibuses, motors and bicycles
would confuse and frighten him. Imagine the same man trying to use
the underground railways of to-day, or to get up to town from a busy
suburb in the morning. He would either be killed out of hand or left
behind altogether from sheer inability to enter the train.
We may safely suppose that the ocean ships of a hundred years hence
will be driven by energy of some kind transmitted from the shores on
either side. It is absolutely unquestionable that no marine engine in
the least resembling what we know to-day can meet the requirements
of the new age. The expense of driving a steamship increases in
such a ratio to its size and speed that the economic limits of steam
propulsion are foreseen. Probably the ships of A.D. 2000 will differ
entirely in appearance from those we know. Just as road friction
is the bugbear of the railway engineer, so water-resistance is the
bugbear of the marine engineer. The ships of a hundred years hence
will not lie in the water. They will tower above the surface, merely
skimming it with their keels, and the only engines they will carry
will be those which receive and utilise the energy transmitted to
them from the power-houses ashore--perhaps worked by the force of
the very tides of the conquered ocean itself.
The housing problem is so intimately and visibly connected in our
minds with the growth of population that the more vital entanglement
of the latter with the food question is hardly perceptible except
to economic experts. The ordinary newspaper reader is not in a
position to trace the intimate significance of prices; indeed, he
often regards it as rather a good thing that wheat should fetch a
good price per quarter, forgetting that low prices for commodities
mean increased purchasing power for money, and a better standard of
life for the people. When such elementary implications as this are
overlooked, it is hardly remarkable that the more obscure connection
of population with prices is never thought of. Yet it is obvious that
unless the sources of supply increase more rapidly than the consuming
population, prices must rise--in other words, the purchasing power of
money must diminish. Wages, to some extent, will no doubt rise also,
but as competition seriously affects the markets for manufactured goods
and machinery, and the increase of population not only tends to raise
prices of commodities, but also restricts the rise of wages, relief
will have to be found in economies of various sorts. The standard
of comfort in working families must improve considerably; partly
because the demand for improvement, taking the shape of industrial
combination and trade-unionism developed to a high degree, will
be more and more clamorous; partly because of public feeling. What
is currently called the growth of sentimentalism in modern life is
really the development of modern conscience. No doubt the abolition
of judicial torture was at one time regarded as a mark of absurd
sentimentality; and the opinion has already been expressed that a
vast amelioration of public morality is in store for the new age. A
great element in the conflict between comfort on the one hand and
competition on the other will be economy of means. That is why the
new age will, among other things, be an age of economy.
In the matter of food, chiefly, a great saving can be effected. Nothing
is more painfully ludicrous--I use the incongruous collocution
advisedly--than the spectacle every winter of money being laboriously
accumulated for the provision of free meals for the poor, and spent,
to a great extent, so wastefully as on meat soups and white bread. The
crass ignorance of the poor, who will not touch wholemeal bread,
and indeed regard the offer of it as something in the nature of
an insult; and who cannot be induced to believe that meat is one
of the least satisfactory and most expensive forms of nourishment,
is of course responsible in great part for this error. If we would
get our nitrogen from pulses, nuts, and use vegetable fats derived
from nuts, and bread made from entire wheat-kernels finely ground
(instead of being only half ground as in most "brown breads") [2]
our "free dinner" charities would be able to feed at least twice
or three times as many people for every pound collected as they do
at present. But the proposal would probably excite an outcry and we
should hear that the poor were being treated as animals and that we
fain would fill their bellies with the husks that the swine do eat. But
all kinds of influences will tend to eliminate flesh from the dietary
of the new age. "Growing sentimentalism," already in arms against
the use of animals for highly necessary scientific investigations,
will, as it develops, be revolted by the idea of killing for food;
and the refinement of the future will come to regard the eating of dead
bodies as very little better than cannibalism. Moreover, the constantly
increasing demand of the new age upon bodily and nervous energies will
call for nourishment suited to their supply. This, and the wastefulness
of second-hand food, will banish all flesh from the bill of fare. Fish
will be eaten longer than meat. But more than anything else, the need
for economy will reform our dinner-tables, and eventually all food
will have to be obtained directly from the soil, if we are to have
food enough to nourish our overgrown population at all. We shall not
be able to afford to waste the ground on pasturage. We must use it
to produce cereals, nuts and fruits, which are not only a much more
remunerative crop, but will also use up in their assimilation far
less nervous and peptic energy--energy which we shall need to make
the most of. The cereal foods--products of wheat, barley, maize, and
perhaps still (to a certain extent) oats--which will form the staple
of our diet, will be partially cooked at the granaries by dry heat;
they will need very little treatment at home. Vegetables, cooked,
not in the wasteful manner now in vogue, but by conservative methods
which will preserve their valuable saline constituents, will have to
be prepared in our own kitchens; but pulse in various forms (as pease,
lentil flour, etc.) will be supplied to us almost wholly cooked. A
cheap, nourishing and delicious dietary will thus be made available.
Finally, the reader will not be unprepared for the opinion that
alcohol, as a beverage, must inevitably disappear. Not only because the
price of intoxicants is an unproductive expenditure (and we shall have
to be more and more thrifty as time goes on) but because the nerves of
the new age would never stand them, must all alcoholic beverages be
regarded as destined to obsolescence: and the legislative aspect of
this question must presently be touched upon. Already a considerable
part of the people, in no way influenced by the illogical idea that
the abuse of a commodity by one class calls for the abstention from
it of another, refrains from alcohol simply because its use inflicts
too great a strain on the system. A good many people even now find it
necessary to abstain from tea or from coffee for precisely similar
reasons; while the highly-organised nervous systems of others find
in the latter a stimulant capable of all the advantages of alcohol
(and they are many) and not without some of its penalties. I think
it quite likely that when alcohol is gone, the nerves of the future
may find it necessary to place the sale of tea and of coffee under
restrictions similar to those at present inflicted upon the trade
in alcohol: and it is quite certain that morphia, cocaine, chloral,
perhaps ether, and similar products, will have to be very jealously
safeguarded within the next few years.
Differing from many writers, I do not regard this development of
the nervous system as a mark of degeneration. On the contrary, it
is a part of the great and rapid adaptation which is bound to take
place in the constitution of man himself [3] to the rapidly-changing
conditions of his environment, his life, and the duties he will
have to fulfil. To overlook the certainty of such adaptations is to
be blind to all history, and especially to all recent history. The
men and women of the new age will differ from ourselves in much the
same sort of way as we differ from our great-grandfathers. They will
differ more only because the progress of the century which we have
lately begun will be so much more rapid and various than those of the
century before--itself the period of enormously the greatest changes
since the world began to be civilised.
CHAPTER III
THE MAN OF BUSINESS
Whatever changes may take place in the organisation of society during
the present century, we may regard it as certain that the folk who
"Rise up to buy and sell again"
will be always with us. The man of business will possess many
conveniences denied to the city man of to-day. It is, for instance,
to be supposed that the inordinate defects of even the best
telephone systems will be eliminated. When wireless communication
of ideas has been perfected, of course the telephone exchange
will disappear. Differential "tuning"--the process by which any
wireless telephone will be able to be brought, as transmitter, into
correspondence with any other wireless telephone, as receiver--will
enable every merchant to "call up" every other merchant. Instead of,
as at present, looking up his associate's number in the directory,
and getting connected by the clumsy junction of wires at an exchange
office, the merchant will look up the tuning-formula, adjust his
own telephone to it, and ring a bell, or otherwise employ means
for attracting the attention of the man he wants to speak to. As
a great proportion of all the business transacted will be done
by telephones the frequent occurrence of disputes as to what has
or has not been said in a given conversation will have rendered
safeguards necessary. Consequently, every telephone will be attached
to an instrument, developed from the phonograph, which will record
whatever is said at both ends of the line. Precautions will have to
be devised against eavesdropping. After communication is established,
probably both parties to a conversation will retune their instruments
to a fresh pitch, which, in cases requiring special secrecy, could
be privately agreed upon beforehand.
The form which the records above suggested will ultimately assume
must be a matter of conjecture. It is quite possible that the written
word may in all departments of life lose some of its present vital
importance. We may imagine, if we choose, that instead of creating
records which can be read, we may find it advisable to create records
that can be listened to: and some of the apparent inconveniences of
this substitution may easily be supposed to be dispensed with. The
handiness of a written memorandum is largely a matter of habit. A
practised eye can "skim" a long document, and either through the
use of black-type headlines, or by pure skill, alight upon exactly
the passage required; and if it were necessary, in order to find
a given passage, to listen to the whole document being read over
by the recording phonograph, no doubt much time would be lost. We
shall not be so extremely intolerant of loss of time, perhaps, in
the new age, as some people imagine: but in any case, if the speed
of the phonograph be imagined as adjustable, it will be perceived
that we could then make it gabble parrotwise over the inessential,
and let it linger with more deliberation over what we wanted to
assure ourselves of. We could even "skip" useless portions--one can
do this with phonographs already in use. Probably such aural records
may be made capable of acceptance in courts of law, and the maxim
verbum auditum manet will take the place of a well-known proverb
of our day. Very likely business letters may some day take the form
of conveniently-shaped tablets, made of some plastic material, and
capable of being utilised by means of a talking machine.
Or if these changes seem too chimerical, we may essay the more
difficult task of conceiving a means by which the spoken word may be
directly translatable into print or typewriting. The waste of time and
energy entailed by the present plan of dictating what we want to say
to a stenographer or into a phonograph, for subsequent transcription,
renders some sort of improvement urgently needful; nor are these wastes
the only grievance, as the introduction of a second personality into
the operation of recording speech introduces a simultaneous possibility
of error, and an outrageous waste of time is caused by the necessity
of reading over what one has dictated laboriously to a stenographer or
into a phonograph, to make sure that it is correctly transcribed. It
is obviously a much more difficult matter to translate speech directly
into printed words than to translate it into something which may again
produce the sounds of speech. The first step would be the invention of
something which would print a phonetic representation of speech--as,
for instance, shorthand of the kind invented by Sir Isaac Pitman. Even
this requires us to imagine machinery of a kind whose very rudiments do
not at present exist. Indeed, we can only conceive such an instrument
by the use of the supposition that some entirely new manipulation
of sound-waves will be discovered; and if we conceive that, there
is no particular reason why we should hesitate before the notion of
speech directly translated into print such as we use in everyday
life. If we are going to limit the possibilities of the future by
the actual achievements of the present, we shall certainly fall short
of any adequate notion of what a hundred years' accelerated progress
may be capable of: and I do not see wherein the direct reproduction
suggested is any more inconceivable than, for example, telephony, or
even photography, must have been to a man of a hundred years ago. The
greatest danger attending our attempt to preconceive the amenities
of the next century is that we may limit our expectations too narrowly.
On this ground, perhaps, I may be thought too cautious in assuming
that the present form of alphabetical writing and printing will
survive at all. But there are two things which seem likely to give
it permanence. The first, of course, is literature. If we adopt an
entirely new form of writing and printing for general use, we must
either set to work to translate all our literature into it, thereby
probably losing some formal beauties which the culture of the world
will not consent to sacrifice; or we must make up our minds to use
(as the Japanese do at present) two kinds of writing concurrently;
and the difficulty of overcoming the vast inertia of the human mind
(which alone still suffices to exclude from English commerce so
obviously convenient an innovation as decimal coinage) will probably
negative this. This inertia is the second consideration likely to
give permanence to our present form of English alphabetical writing.
However this may be, the convenience of direct wireless telephony
will certainly, when supplemented by records of whatever kind, greatly
facilitate commerce. The tedious process of writing a letter, posting
it, and awaiting the reply, at present persisted in chiefly because it
is so necessary to have some sort of documentary evidence of what has
passed, will be largely dispensed with when we can secure an automatic
record of what we say. Nearly everything will be done by word of mouth.
The great inconvenience, apart from the absence of record, which
attaches to transactions or negotiations by telephone at the present
day, is that a telephonic conversation is not nearly so satisfactory
as a personal interview face to face. Gesture, attitude, the language
of face and eyes, all do so much to elucidate communication in the
latter way, that we lose a great deal when we meet an associate at
the other end of a telephone wire. Well, the telephone of the new
age will remove this drawback, or rather it will be supplemented by
something which will do so. This invention, not at all difficult
to imagine, I will call provisionally the teleautoscope. It will
no doubt have some name equally barbarous. The teleautoscope can be
explained in a single sentence. It will be an instrument for seeing by
electricity. Whatever is before the transmitting teleautoscope will be
visible before the receiving teleautoscope wirelessly en rapport with
the former. Thus by telephone, by phonograph, and by teleautoscope,
a wireless conversation will combine all the advantages of a personal
interview and a written correspondence.
No doubt the post-office system of this country, despite occasional
lapses, is as nearly perfect as any human institution, in the present
state of society, can be reasonably expected to be. But it is equally
certain that in so far as postal communication is required at all in
the new age it will have to be vastly improved both as to speed and
precision, compared with what we now, sometimes rather thanklessly,
enjoy. For instance, that impatient age will certainly not tolerate the
inconvenience of having to send out to post its letters and parcels,
or the tardiness of having these articles sorted and passed on for
delivery only at intervals of half an hour or so. We may take it for
granted that every well-equipped business office will be in direct
communication, by means of large-calibred pneumatic tubes, with the
nearest post-office. And however rapidly and however frequently the
trains or airships of the period may travel, the process of making
up van loads of mail matter for despatch to remote centres, and
redistribution there, is far too clumsy for what commerce will demand
a hundred years hence. No doubt the soil of every civilised country
will be permeated by vast networks of pneumatic tubes: and all letters
and parcels will be thus distributed at a speed hardly credible to-day.
Already every bank of any importance probably uses calculating
machines. It is not likely that the fatiguing and uncertain process of
having arithmetical calculations of any sort performed in the brains
of clerks will survive the improvements of which these machines
are capable. Account books, invoices, and all similar documents
will doubtless be written by a convenient and compendious form of
combined calculating machine and typewriter, which we may suppose to be
called the numeroscriptor. It will, of course, be capable of writing
anywhere--on a book or on a loose sheet, on a flat surface or on an
irregular one. It will make any kind of calculation required. Even such
operations as the weighing and measurement of goods will all be done by
automatic machinery, [4] capable of recording without any possibility
of error the quantity and values of goods submitted to its operation.
Naturally transport will be the subject of something like
a renascence. So far as inland communication goes, the chief
difficulties to be overcome already call loudly for amendment. We
cannot for more than a decade or so make do with the present railway
tracks, and either (as already hinted) by means of some invention
to enable trains to run one above another, or by some entirely new
carrying device such as I will now try to suggest, the new age will
certainly supersede or supplement the transport of to-day.
The device most likely to be adopted, in the near future at all
events, is something in the nature of elevated trottoirs roulants
for goods. If we can conceive all the cities of a country to be
linked-up by a system of great overways, we have at all events a
feasible solution of the difficulty. There could be a double row of
tall, massive pillars, between which could run a wide track, always in
motion at considerable speed. It need not be a lightning speed. Most
of the tardiness of railway transportation does not, in this country
at all events, arise from slowness of trains, but from congestion at
goods stations, and this in turn is due, partly to insufficiency of
rolling stock, but much more to insufficiency of permanent way. The
latter evil is very difficult to cope with. But the system of moving
ways, providing a rolling stock equal in length to the line itself,
will be a great saving. Returning upon itself the endless track will
continuously transport merchandise in both directions. Elevators,
suitably placed, will give access to it wherever needed. Probably the
motive power will be electrical: and we may confidently anticipate
entirely new sources of electricity. It is obviously clumsy to
create power in the first instance, convert power into electricity
(I use popular language), and then convert electricity back again into
power. Much more hopeful than any idea of developing that method would
be the conception of new ways of creating and applying motive-power
directly. But, almost certainly, electricity, obtained in some new
way, will do the work of the world for many generations yet--until,
in fact, we devise or discover something more convenient.
It will have been perceived that nearly every improvement and
innovation above sketched out involves, and will be indeed designed
to effect, great saving of labour. With such economies, and an
increased population, there is evidently going to be a difficulty
about employment.
Moreover, the great facilities enjoyed by commerce will tend to make
commerce extremely powerful. Already great organisers of business begin
to evade competition by combining in vast "trusts," whose tendency
is to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. There is a further
|
hides, and would have prayed over him if
Jethro had waited; dear Aunt Lucy did pray, but in private. In six days
orthodox Coniston came to the conclusion that this ninety and ninth soul
were better left to her who had snatched it, Cynthia Ware.
As for Cynthia, nothing was farther from her mind. Unchristian as was
the thought, if this thing she had awakened could only have been put
back to sleep again, she would have thought herself happy. But would
she have been happy? When Moses Hatch congratulated her, with more humor
than sincerity, he received the greatest scare of his life. Yet in those
days she welcomed Moses's society as she never had before; and Coniston,
including Moses himself, began thinking of a wedding.
Another Saturday came, and no Cynthia went to Brampton. Jethro may or
may not have been on the road. Sunday, and there was Jethro on the
back seat in the meetinghouse: Sunday noon, over his frugal dinner, the
minister mildly remonstrates with Cynthia for neglecting one who
has shown signs of grace, citing certain failures of others of his
congregation: Cynthia turns scarlet, leaving the minister puzzled and
a little uneasy: Monday, Miss Lucretia Penniman, alarmed, comes to
Coniston to inquire after Cynthia's health: Cynthia drives back with her
as far as Four Corners, talking literature and the advancement of woman;
returns on foot, thinking of something else, when she discerns a figure
seated on a log by the roadside, bent as in meditation. There was no
going back the thing to do was to come on, as unconcernedly as possible,
not noticing anything,--which Cynthia did, not without a little inward
palpitating and curiosity, for which she hated herself and looked the
sterner. The figure unfolded itself, like a Jack from a box.
“You say the woman wahn't any to blame--wahn't any to blame?”
The poke bonnet turned away. The shoulders under it began to shake, and
presently the astonished Jethro heard what seemed to be faint peals of
laughter. Suddenly she turned around to him, all trace of laughter gone.
“Why don't you read the book?”
“So I am,” said Jethro, “so I am. Hain't come to this casting-off yet.”
“And you didn't look ahead to find out?” This with scorn.
“Never heard of readin' a book in that fashion. I'll come to it in
time--g-guess it won't run away.”
Cynthia stared at him, perhaps with a new interest at this plodding
determination. She was not quite sure that she ought to stand talking
to him a third time in these woods, especially if the subject of
conversation were not, as Coniston thought, the salvation of his soul.
But she stayed. Here was a woman who could be dealt with by no known
rules, who did not even deign to notice a week of marked coldness.
“Jethro,” she said, with a terrifying sternness, “I am going to ask you
a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”
“G-guess I won't find any trouble about that,” said Jethro, apparently
not in the least terrified.
“I want you to tell me why you are going to meeting.”
“To see you,” said Jethro, promptly, “to see you.”
“Don't you know that that is wrong?”
“H-hadn't thought much about it,” answered Jethro.
“Well, you should think about it. People don't go to meeting to--to look
at other people.”
“Thought they did,” said Jethro. “W-why do they wear their best
clothes--why do they wear their best clothes?”
“To honor God,” said Cynthia, with a shade lacking in the conviction,
for she added hurriedly: “It isn't right for you to go to church to
see--anybody. You go there to hear the Scriptures expounded, and to
have your sins forgiven. Because I lent you that book, and you come to
meeting, people think I'm converting you.”
“So you be,” replied Jethro, and this time it was he who smiled, “so you
be.”
Cynthia turned away, her lips pressed together: How to deal with such a
man! Wondrous notes broke on the stillness, the thrush was singing
his hymn again, only now it seemed a paean. High in the azure a hawk
wheeled, and floated.
“Couldn't you see I was very angry with you?”
“S-saw you was goin' with Moses Hatch more than common.”
Cynthia drew breath sharply. This was audacity--and yet she liked it.
“I am very fond of Moses,” she said quickly.
“You always was charitable, Cynthy,” said he.
“Haven't I been charitable to you?” she retorted.
“G-guess it has be'n charity,” said Jethro. He looked down at her
solemnly, thoughtfully, no trace of anger in his face, turned, and
without another word strode off in the direction of Coniston Flat.
He left a tumultuous Cynthia, amazement and repentance struggling with
anger, which forbade her calling him back: pride in her answering to
pride in him, and she rejoicing fiercely that he had pride. Had he but
known it, every step he took away from her that evening was a step in
advance, and she gloried in the fact that he did not once look back. As
she walked toward Coniston, the thought came to her that she was rid of
the thing she had stirred up, perhaps forever, and the thrush burst into
his song once more.
That night, after Cynthia's candle had gone out, when the minister
sat on his doorsteps looking at the glory of the moon on the mountain
forest, he was startled by the sight of a figure slowly climbing toward
him up the slope. A second glance told him that it was Jethro's. Vaguely
troubled, he watched his approach; for good Priest Ware, while able
to obey one-half the scriptural injunction, had not the wisdom of the
serpent, and women, as typified by Cynthia, were a continual puzzle to
him. That very evening, Moses Hatch had called, had been received with
more favor than usual, and suddenly packed off about his business.
Seated in the moonlight, the minister wondered vaguely whether Jethro
Bass were troubling the girl. And now Jethro stood before him,
holding out a book. Rising, Mr. Ware bade him good evening, mildly and
cordially.
“C-come to leave this book for Cynthy,” said Jethro.
Mr. Ware took it, mechanically.
“Have you finished it?” he asked kindly.
“All I want,” replied Jethro, “all I want.”
He turned, and went down the slope. Twice the words rose to the
minister's lips to call him back, and were suppressed. Yet what to say
to him if he came? Mr. Ware sat down again, sadly wondering why Jethro
Bass should be so difficult to talk to.
The parsonage was of only one story, with a steep, sloping roof. On the
left of the doorway was Cynthia's room, and the minister imagined he
heard a faint, rustling noise at her window. Presently he arose, barred
the door; could be heard moving around in his room for a while,
and after that all was silence save for the mournful crying of a
whippoorwill in the woods. Then a door opened softly, a white vision
stole into the little entry lighted by the fan-window, above, seized
the book and stole back. Had the minister been a prying man about his
household, he would have noticed next day that Cynthia's candle was
burned down to the socket. He saw nothing of the kind: he saw, in fact,
that his daughter flitted about the house singing, and he went out into
the sun to drop potatoes.
No sooner had he reached the barn than this singing ceased. But how was
Mr. Ware to know that?
Twice Cynthia, during the week that followed, got halfway down the
slope of the parsonage hill, the book under her arm, on her way to the
tannery; twice went back, tears of humiliation and self-pity in her eyes
at the thought that she should make advances to a man, and that man
the tanner's son. Her household work done, a longing for further motion
seized her, and she walked out under the maples of the village street.
Let it be understood that Coniston was a village, by courtesy, and its
shaded road a street. Suddenly, there was the tannery, Jethro standing
in front of it, contemplative. Did he see her? Would he come to her?
Cynthia, seized by a panic of shame, flew into Aunt Lucy Prescott's, sat
through half an hour of torture while Aunt Lucy talked of redemption of
sinners, during ten minutes of which Jethro stood, still contemplative.
What tumult was in his breast, or whether there was any tumult, Cynthia
knew not. He went into the tannery again, and though she saw him twice
later in the week, he gave no sign of seeing her.
On Saturday Cynthia bought a new bonnet in Brampton; Sunday morning put
it on, suddenly remembered that one went to church to honor God, and
wore her old one; walked to meeting in a flutter of expectancy not to be
denied, and would have looked around had that not been a cardinal sin
in Coniston. No Jethro! General opinion (had she waited to hear it among
the horse sheds or on the green), that Jethro's soul had slid back into
the murky regions, from which it were folly for even Cynthia to try to
drag it.
CHAPTER III
To prove that Jethro's soul had not slid back into the murky regions,
and that it was still indulging in flights, it is necessary to follow
him (for a very short space) to Boston. Jethro himself went in Lyman
Hull's six-horse team with a load of his own merchandise--hides that he
had tanned, and other country produce. And they did not go by the way of
Truro Pass to the Capital, but took the state turnpike over the ranges,
where you can see for miles and miles and miles on a clear summer
day across the trembling floors of the forest tops to lonely sentinel
mountains fourscore miles away.
No one takes the state turnpike nowadays except crazy tourists who
are willing to risk their necks and their horses' legs for the sake of
scenery. The tough little Morgans of that time, which kept their feet
like cats, have all but disappeared, but there were places on that road
where Lyman Hull put the shoes under his wheels for four miles at a
stretch. He was not a companion many people would have chosen with whom
to enjoy the beauties of such a trip, and nearly everybody in Coniston
was afraid of him. Jethro Bass would sit silent on the seat for hours
and--it is a fact to be noted that when he told Lyman to do a thing,
Lyman did it; not, perhaps, without cursing and grumbling. Lyman was a
profane and wicked man--drover, farmer, trader, anything. He had a cider
mill on his farm on the south slopes of Coniston which Mr. Ware had
mentioned in his sermons, and which was the resort of the ungodly. The
cider was not so good as Squire Northcutt's, but cheaper. Jethro was not
afraid of Lyman, and he had a mortgage on the six-horse team, and on the
farm and the cider mill.
After six days, Jethro and Lyman drove over Charlestown bridge and
into the crooked streets of Boston, and at length arrived at a drover's
hotel, or lodging-house that did not, we may be sure, front on Mount
Vernon Street or face the Mall. Lyman proceeded to get drunk, and Jethro
to sell the hides and other merchandise which Lyman had hauled for him.
There was a young man in Boston, when Jethro arrived in Lyman Hull's
team, named William Wetherell. By extraordinary circumstances he and
another connected with him are to take no small part in this story,
which is a sufficient excuse for his introduction. His father had been
a prosperous Portsmouth merchant in the West India trade, a man of many
attainments, who had failed and died of a broken heart; and William, at
two and twenty, was a clerk in the little jewellery shop of Mr. Judson
in Cornhill.
William Wetherell had literary aspirations, and sat from morning till
night behind the counter, reading and dreaming: dreaming that he was to
be an Irving or a Walter Scott, and yet the sum total of his works in
after years consisted of some letters to the Newcastle Guardian, and a
beginning of the Town History of Coniston!
William had a contempt for the awkward young countryman who suddenly
loomed up before him that summer's morning across the counter. But a
moment before the clerk had been in a place where he would fain have
lingered--a city where blue waters flow swiftly between white palaces
toward the sunrise.
“And I have fitted up some chambers there
Looking toward the golden Eastern air,
And level with the living winds, which flow
Like waves above the living waves below.”
Little did William Wetherell guess, when he glanced up at the intruder,
that he was looking upon one of the forces of his own life! The
countryman wore a blue swallow tail coat (fashioned by the hand of
Speedy Bates), a neck-cloth, a coonskin cap, and his trousers were
tucked into rawhide boots. He did not seem a promising customer for
expensive jewellery, and the literary clerk did not rise, but merely
closed his book with his thumb in it.
“S-sell things here,” asked the countryman, “s-sell things here?”
“Occasionally, when folks have money to buy them.”
“My name's Jethro Bass,” said the countryman, “Jethro Bass from
Coniston. Ever hear of Coniston?”
Young Mr. Wetherell never had, but many years afterward he remembered
his name, heaven knows why. Jethro Bass! Perhaps it had a strange ring
to it.
“F-folks told me to be careful,” was Jethro's next remark. He did not
look at the clerk, but kept his eyes fixed on the things within the
counter.
“Somebody ought to have come with you,” said the clerk, with a smile of
superiority.
“D-don't know much about city ways.”
“Well,” said the clerk, beginning to be amused, “a man has to keep his
wits about him.”
Even then Jethro spared him a look, but continued to study the contents
of the case.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Bass? We have some really good things here.
For example, this Swiss watch, which I will sell you cheap, for one
hundred and fifty dollars.”
“One hundred and fifty dollars--er--one hundred and fifty?”
Wetherell nodded. Still the countryman did not look up.
“F-folks told me to be careful,” he repeated without a smile. He was
looking at the lockets, and finally pointed a large finger at one of
them--the most expensive, by the way. “W-what d'ye get for that?” he
asked.
“Twenty dollars,” the clerk promptly replied. Thirty was nearer the
price, but what did it matter.
“H-how much for that?” he said, pointing to another. The clerk told him.
He inquired about them all, deliberately repeating the sums, considering
with so well-feigned an air of a purchaser that Mr. Wetherell began to
take a real joy in the situation. For trade was slack in August, and
diversion scarce. Finally he commanded that the case be put on the top
of the counter, and Wetherell humored him. Whereupon he picked up the
locket he had first chosen. It looked very delicate in his huge, rough
hand, and Wetherell was surprised that the eyes of Mr. Bass had been
caught by the most expensive, for it was far from being the showiest.
“T-twenty dollars?” he asked.
“We may as well call it that,” laughed Wetherell.
“It's not too good for Cynthy,” he said.
“Nothing's too good for Cynthy,” answered Mr. Wetherell, mockingly,
little knowing how he might come to mean it.
Jethro Bass paid no attention to this speech. Pulling a great cowhide
wallet from his pocket, still holding the locket in his hand, to the
amazement of the clerk he counted out twenty dollars and laid them down.
“G-guess I'll take that one, g-guess I'll take that one,” he said.
Then he looked at Mr. Wetherell for the first time.
“Hold!” cried the clerk, more alarmed than he cared to show, “that's not
the price. Did you think I could sell it for that price?”
“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?”
“You simpleton!” retorted Wetherell, with a conviction now that he was
calling him the wrong name. “Give me back the locket, and you shall have
your money, again.”
“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?”
“Yes, but--”
“G-guess I'll keep the locket--g-guess I'll keep the locket.”
Wetherell looked at him aghast, and there was no doubt about his
determination. With a sinking heart the clerk realized that he should
have to make good to Mr. Judson the seven odd dollars of difference,
and then he lost his head. Slipping round the counter to the door of
the shop, he turned the key, thrust it in his pocket, and faced Mr. Bass
again--from behind the counter.
“You don't leave this shop,” cried the clerk, “until you give me back
that locket.”
Jethro Bass turned. A bench ran along the farther wall, and there he
planted himself without a word, while the clerk stared at him,--with
what feelings of uneasiness I shall not attempt to describe,--for the
customer was plainly determined to wait until hunger should drive one
of them forth. The minutes passed, and Wetherell began to hate him. Then
some one tried the door, peered in through the glass, perceived Jethro,
shook the knob, knocked violently, all to no purpose. Jethro seemed lost
in a reverie.
“This has gone far enough,” said the clerk, trying to keep his voice
from shaking “it is beyond a joke. Give me back the locket.” And he
tendered Jethro the money again.
“W-wahn't that the price you fixed?” asked Jethro, innocently.
Wetherell choked. The man outside shook the door again, and people on
the sidewalk stopped, and presently against the window panes a sea of
curious faces gazed in upon them. Mr. Bass's thoughts apparently were
fixed on Eternity--he looked neither at the people nor at Wetherell. And
then, the crowd parting as for one in authority, as in a bad dream
the clerk saw his employer, Mr. Judson, courteously pushing away the
customer at the door who would not be denied. Another moment, and Mr.
Judson had gained admittance with his private key, and stood on the
threshold staring at clerk and customer. Jethro gave no sign that the
situation had changed.
“William,” said Mr. Judson, in a dangerously quiet voice, “perhaps you
can explain this extraordinary state of affairs.”
“I can, sir,” William cried. “This gentleman” (the word stuck in his
throat), “this gentleman came in here to examine lockets which I had
no reason to believe he would buy. I admit my fault, sir. He asked the
price of the most expensive, and I told him twenty dollars, merely for a
jest, sir.” William hesitated.
“Well?” said Mr. Judson.
“After pricing every locket in the case, he seized the first one, handed
me twenty dollars, and now refuses to give it up, although he knows the
price is twenty-seven.”
“Then?”
“Then I locked the door, sir. He sat down there, and hasn't moved
since.”
Mr. Judson looked again at Mr. Bass; this time with unmistakable
interest. The other customer began to laugh, and the crowd was pressing
in, and Mr. Judson turned and shut the door in their faces. All this
time Mr. Bass had not moved, not so much as to lift his head or shift
one of his great cowhide boots.
“Well, sir,” demanded Mr. Judson, “what have you to say?”
“N-nothin'. G-guess I'll keep the locket. I've, paid for it--I've paid
for it.”
“And you are aware, my friend,” said Mr. Judson, “that my clerk has
given you the wrong price?”
“Guess that's his lookout.” He still sat there, doggedly unconcerned.
A bull would have seemed more at home in a china shop than Jethro
Bass in a jewellery store. But Mr. Judson himself was a man out of the
ordinary, and instead of getting angry he began to be more interested.
“Took you for a greenhorn, did he?” he remarked.
“F-folks told me to be careful--to be careful,” said Mr. Bass.
Then Mr. Judson laughed. It was all the more disconcerting to William
Wetherell, because his employer laughed rarely. He laid his hand on
Jethro's shoulder.
“He might have spared himself the trouble, my young friend,” he said.
“You didn't expect to find a greenhorn behind a jewellery counter, did
you?”
“S-surprised me some,” said Jethro.
Mr. Judson laughed again, all the while looking at him.
“I am going to let you keep the locket,” he said, “because it will teach
my greenhorn a lesson. William, do you hear that?”
“Yes, sir,” William said, and his face was very red.
Mr. Bass rose solemnly, apparently unmoved by his triumph in a somewhat
remarkable transaction, and William long remembered how he towered over
all of them. He held the locket out to Mr. Judson, who stared at it,
astonished.
“What's this?” said that gentleman; “you don't want it?”
“Guess I'll have it marked,” said Jethro, “ef it don't cost extry.”
“Marked!” gasped Mr. Judson, “marked!”
“Ef it don't cost extry,” Jethro repeated.
“Well, I'll--” exclaimed Mr. Judson, and suddenly recalled the fact that
he was a church member. “What inscription do you wish put into it?” he
asked, recovering himself with an effort.
Jethro thrust his hand into his pocket, and again the cowhide wallet
came out. He tendered Mr. Judson a somewhat soiled piece of paper, and
Mr. Judson read:--
“Cynthy, from Jethro”
“Cynthy,” Mr. Judson repeated, in a tremulous voice, “Cynthy, not
Cynthia.”
“H-how is it written,” said Jethro, leaning over it, “h-how is it
written?”
“Cynthy,” answered Mr. Judson, involuntarily.
“Then make it Cynthy--make it Cynthy.”
“Cynthy it shall be,” said Mr. Judson, with conviction.
“When'll you have it done?”
“To-night,” replied Mr. Judson, with a twinkle in his eye, “to-night, as
a special favor.”
“What time--w-what time?”
“Seven o'clock, sir. May I send it to your hotel? The Tremont House, I
suppose?”
“I-I'll call,” said Jethro, so solemnly that Mr. Judson kept his
laughter until he was gone.
From the door they watched him silently as he strode across the street
and turned the corner. Then Mr. Judson turned. “That man will make his
mark, William,” he said; and added thoughtfully, “but whether for good
or evil, I know not.”
CHAPTER IV
What Cynthia may have thought or felt during Jethro's absence in Boston,
and for some months thereafter, she kept to herself. Honest Moses Hatch
pursued his courting untroubled, and never knew that he had a rival.
Moses would as soon have questioned the seasons or the weather as
Cynthia's changes of moods,--which were indeed the weather for him, and
when storms came he sat with his back to them, waiting for the sunshine.
He had long ceased proposing marriage, in the firm belief that Cynthia
would set the day in her own good time. Thereby he was saved much
suffering.
The summer flew on apace, for Coniston. Fragrant hay was cut on
hillsides won from rock and forest, and Coniston Water sang a gentler
melody--save when the clouds floated among the spruces on the mountain
and the rain beat on the shingles. During the still days before the turn
of the year,--days of bending fruit boughs, crab-apples glistening red
in the soft sunlight,--rumor came from Brampton to wrinkle the forehead
of Moses Hatch as he worked among his father's orchards.
The rumor was of a Mr. Isaac Dudley Worthington, a name destined to
make much rumor before it was to be carved on the marble. Isaac D.
Worthington, indeed, might by a stretch of the imagination be called the
pioneer of all the genus to be known in the future as City Folks, who
were, two generations later, to invade the country like a devouring army
of locusts.
At that time a stranger in Brampton was enough to set the town agog.
But a young man of three and twenty, with an independent income of four
hundred dollars a year!--or any income at all not derived from his own
labor--was unheard of. It is said that when the stage from over Truro
Gap arrived in Brampton Street a hundred eyes gazed at him unseen, from
various ambushes, and followed him up the walk to Silas Wheelock's,
where he was to board. In half an hour Brampton knew the essentials
of Isaac Worthington's story, and Sam Price was on his way with it to
Coniston for distribution at Jonah Winch's store.
Young Mr. Worthington was from Boston--no less; slim, pale, medium
height, but with an alert look, and a high-bridged nose. But his
clothes! Sam Price's vocabulary was insufficient here, they were cut
in such a way, and Mr. Worthington was downright distinguished-looking
under his gray beaver. Why had he come to Brampton? demanded Deacon
Ira Perkins. Sam had saved this for the last. Young Mr. Worthington was
threatened with consumption, and had been sent to live with his distant
relative, Silas Wheelock.
The presence of a gentleman of leisure--although threatened with
consumption--became an all-absorbing topic in two villages and three
hamlets, and more than one swain, hitherto successful, felt the wind
blow colder. But in a fortnight it was known that a petticoat did not
make Isaac Worthington even turn his head. Curiosity centred on Silas
Wheelock's barn, where Mr. Worthington had fitted up a shop, and,
presently various strange models of contrivances began to take shape
there. What these were, Silas himself knew not; and the gentleman of
leisure was, alas! close-mouthed. When he was not sawing and hammering
and planing, he took long walks up and down Coniston Water, and was
surprised deep in thought at several places.
Nathan Bass's story-and-a-half house, devoid of paint, faced the road,
and behind it was the shed, or barn, that served as the tannery, and
between the tannery and Coniston Water were the vats. The rain flew in
silvery spray, and the drops shone like jewels on the coat of a young
man who stood looking in at the tannery door. Young Jake Wheeler, son of
the village spendthrift, was driving a lean white horse round in a ring:
to the horse was attached a beam, and on the beam a huge round stone
rolled on a circular oak platform. Jethro Bass, who was engaged in
pushing hemlock bark under the stone to be crushed, straightened. Of the
three, the horse had seen the visitor first, and stopped in his tracks.
“Jethro!” whispered Jake, tingling with an excitement that was but
natural. Jethro had begun to sweep the finer pieces of bark toward the
centre. “It's the city man, walked up here from Brampton.”
It was indeed Mr. Worthington, slightly more sunburned and less
citified-looking than on his arrival, and he wore a woollen cap of
Brampton make. Even then, despite his wavy hair and delicate appearance,
Isaac Worthington had the hawk-like look which became famous in later
years, and at length he approached Jethro and fixed his eye upon him.
“Kind of slow work, isn't it?” remarked Mr. Worthington.
The white horse was the only one to break the silence that followed, by
sneezing with all his might.
“How is the tannery business in these parts?” essayed Mr. Worthington
again.
“Thinkin' of it?” said Jethro. “T-thinkin' of it, be you?”
“No,” answered Mr. Worthington, hastily. “If I were,” he added, “I'd put
in new machinery. That horse and stone is primitive.”
“What kind of machinery would you put in?” asked Jethro.
“Ah,” answered Worthington, “that will interest you. All New Englanders
are naturally progressive, I take it.”
“W-what was it you took?”
“I was merely remarking on the enterprise of New Englanders,” said
Worthington, flushing. “On my journey up here, beside the Merrimac, I
had the opportunity to inspect the new steam-boiler, the falling-mill,
the splitting machine, and other remarkable improvements. In fact, these
suggested one or two little things to me, which might be of interest to
you.”
“Well,” said Jethro, “they might, and then again they mightn't. Guess it
depends.”
“Depends!” exclaimed the man of leisure, “depends on what?”
“H-how much you know about it.”
Young Mr. Worthington, instead of being justly indignant, laughed and
settled himself comfortably on a pile of bark. He thought Jethro a
character, and he was not mistaken. On the other hand, Mr. Worthington
displayed a knowledge of the falling-mill and splitting-machine and the
process of tanneries in general that was surprising. Jethro, had Mr.
Worthington but known it, was more interested in animate machines: more
interested in Mr. Worthington than the falling-mill or, indeed, the
tannery business.
At length the visitor fell silent, his sense of superiority suddenly
gone. Others had had this same feeling with Jethro, even the minister;
but the man of leisure (who was nothing of the sort) merely felt a kind
of bewilderment.
“Callatin' to live in Brampton--be you?” asked Jethro.
“I am living there now.”
“C-callatin' to set up a mill some day?”
Mr. Worthington fairly leaped off the bark pile.
“What makes you say that?” he demanded.
“G-guesswork,” said Jethro, starting to shovel again, “g-guesswork.”
To take a walk in the wild, to come upon a bumpkin in cowhide boots
crushing bark, to have him read within twenty minutes a cherished and
well-hidden ambition which Brampton had not discovered in a month (and
did not discover for many years) was sufficiently startling. Well might
Mr. Worthington tremble for his other ambitions, and they were many.
Jethro stepped out, passing Mr. Worthington as though he had already
forgotten that gentleman's existence, and seized an armful of bark that
lay under cover of a lean-to. Just then, heralded by a brightening of
the western sky, a girl appeared down the road, her head bent a little
as in thought, and if she saw the group by the tannery house she gave
no sign. Two of them stared at her--Jake Wheeler and Mr. Worthington.
Suddenly Jake, implike, turned and stared at Worthington.
“Cynthy Ware, the minister's daughter,” he said.
“Haven't I seen her in Brampton?” inquired Mr. Worthington, little
thinking of the consequences of the question.
“Guess you have,” answered Jake. “Cynthy goes to the Social Library, to
git books. She knows more'n the minister himself, a sight more.”
“Where does the minister live?” asked Mr. Worthington.
Jake pulled him by the sleeve toward the road, and pointed to the low
gable of the little parsonage under the elms on the hill beyond the
meeting-house. The visitor gave a short glance at it, swung around and
gave a longer glance at the figure disappearing in the other direction.
He did not suspect that Jake was what is now called a news agency. Then
Mr. Worthington turned to Jethro, who was stooping over the bark.
“If you come to Brampton, call and see me,” he said. “You'll find me at
Silas Wheelock's.”
He got no answer, but apparently expected none, and he started off down
the Brampton road in the direction Cynthia had taken.
“That makes another,” said Jake, significantly, “and Speedy Bates says
he never looks at wimmen. Godfrey, I wish I could see Moses now.”
Mr. Worthington had not been quite ingenuous with Jake. To tell the
truth, he had made the acquaintance of the Social Library and Miss
Lucretia, and that lady had sung the praises of her favorite. Once out
of sight of Jethro, Mr. Worthington quickened his steps, passed the
store, where he was remarked by two of Jonah's customers, and his blood
leaped when he saw the girl in front of him, walking faster now. Yes,
it is a fact that Isaac Worthington's blood once leaped. He kept on, but
when near her had a spasm of fright to make his teeth fairly chatter,
and than another spasm followed, for Cynthia had turned around.
“How do you do Mr. Worthington?” she said, dropping him a little
courtesy. Mr. Worthington stopped in his tracks, and it was some time
before he remembered to take off his woollen cap and sweep the mud with
it.
“You know my name!” he exclaimed.
“It is known from Tarleton Four Corners to Harwich,” said Cynthia, “all
that distance. To tell the truth,” she added, “those are the boundaries
of my world.” And Mr. Worthington being still silent, “How do you like
being a big frog in a little pond?”
“If it were your pond, Miss Cynthia,” he responded gallantly, “I should
be content to be a little frog.”
“Would you?” she said; “I don't believe you.”
This was not subtle flattery, but the truth--Mr. Worthington would never
be content to be a little anything. So he had been judged twice in an
afternoon, once by Jethro and again by Cynthia.
“Why don't you believe me?” he asked ecstatically.
“A woman's instinct, Mr. Worthington, has very little reason in it.”
“I hear, Miss Cynthia,” he said gallantly, “that your instinct is
fortified by learning, since Miss Penniman tells me that you are quite
capable of taking a school in Boston.”
“Then I should be doubly sure of your character,” she retorted with a
twinkle.
“Will you tell my fortune?” he said gayly.
“Not on such a slight acquaintance,” she replied. “Good-by, Mr.
Worthington.”
“I shall see you in Brampton,” he cried, “I--I have seen you in
Brampton.”
She did not answer this confession, but left him, and presently
disappeared beyond the triangle of the green, while Mr. Worthington
pursued his way to Brampton by the road,--his thoughts that evening not
on waterfalls or machinery. As for Cynthia's conduct, I do not defend or
explain it, for I have found out that the best and wisest of women can
at times be coquettish.
It was that meeting which shook the serenity of poor Moses, and
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